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HIS LATTE WAS COOLING off, but Connor knew better than to drink while riding on a travelator. The problem wasn’t with the travelators—the moving sidewalks had been designed with meticulous attention to detail.
No, the problem was other Citizens jostling each another as they crowded on and off. The most annoying were those who insisted on using their wrist-coms, more focused on their petty chats than their fellow Citizens.
His conversation with the students had thrown him off balance, more than he wanted to admit. It had been a mistake to visit the former Café Espresso—the memories were too raw.
He needed a neutral space to think, to sort out this “alliance” with the savages. And Megan—
His eyes felt hot, and he realized tears were welling up. He ducked his head, drawing one deep breath after another until his emotions were under control.
The people around him didn’t seem to notice. They were too absorbed in their own private worlds.
Connor edged his way to the travelator’s outside boundary, eager to remove himself from the moving thread of humanity. He was still several blocks from his destination—the Museum of Science, Technology and History—but walking the remaining distance was more appealing.
He stepped off the travelator, adjusting his gait as he made the transition from the moving surface to stationary concrete. The Museum was within sight, its massive walls as impressive as a mini-Enclave.
He quickened his pace, anticipating some peace and quiet in the familiar surroundings. He could lose himself among the exhibits, finish his latte, and think.
Memories of his last meeting with Darcy crowded into his conscious thought. It hadn’t been much of a conversation.
Over the years, Connor learned to view Darcy with a complicated mixture of respect, admiration, and fear. He was grateful Darcy adopted him after the savages slaughtered his family, and nothing would ever change that.
At the same time, Darcy’s chronic outbursts of rage were getting worse. The pressure of leading their clandestine rebellion against the alien invaders and their human stooges was taking its toll.
And Darcy’s streak of ruthlessness was no longer confined to the collaborators. Connor learned his lesson the hard way after his foster father decided Madison was a liability and ordered her execution.
Darcy pulled no punches when he threatened Connor with a similar fate if he jeopardized their cause with another careless mistake.
Connor jogged up the Museum’s front staircase. His hand was on the door handle when he read the words etched into the tempered glass: “No Food or Drink.” He looked from the door’s prohibition to his latte, thwarted.
He retraced his steps to the sidewalk, choosing a bench at the foot of the staircase. He sat down, his back to the Museum, and sipped his lukewarm beverage.
There had been nothing lukewarm about his argument with Darcy earlier that morning. Connor respected his adoptive father, feared him at times, but this business about an alliance with the savages was driving a wedge between them.
Normally, Connor kept his opinion to himself, but ever since he’d seen Megan—alive but under the savages’ control—he seemed unable to control his emotions. Or his mouth.
You want us to play nice with savages? Connor winced as he recalled his impetuous outburst. Lure them inside the Enclave so we can Implant them? Fine. That doesn’t mean we have to pretend they’re our equals.
Darcy gave him a strange look, unaccustomed to Connor contradicting him, let alone with such hostility. His hesitation didn’t last long.
Use your head, Connor. Darcy’s rebuke had been swift and withering. We’ve just acquired two new Implants, but we need more. A lot more.
These savages aren’t going to waltz back to their ghetto and herd the rest of their group into the Enclave out of the goodness of their hearts. We need them to trust us, to see us as their allies.
Connor closed his eyes, resting the disposable cup on his knee, its half-empty contents sloshing. He was right, of course—Darcy was always right. His analytical mind could assess data and strategize faster than anyone Connor knew.
Darcy wasn’t swayed by Connor’s contempt for the savages. Their long-range strategy was more important. They couldn’t allow emotion to contaminate their resolve.
Until the Givers are destroyed, Darcy had answered when Connor demanded to know how long he’d be required to play his part in deceiving the savages. The Enclave belongs to us—to humans. Nothing will change until the aliens are gone. The savages share our common goal. We can use that to our advantage.
Connor opened his eyes, gazing across the wide pedestrian boulevard. The Arts and Culture Gallery dominated his view, directly opposite the Museum. Its unorthodox design was a dazzling counterpoint to the dignified columns adorning the edifice behind him.
A sizable crowd had gathered in front of the Gallery, milling around in the artificial amphitheater. Waiting for an outdoor performance of some kind, Connor supposed.
He downed the last of his tepid latte in one prolonged gulp, wishing he could drown out the memory of his foolhardy response to Darcy as easily. These savages are smarter than you think, Darcy. What happens if they realize you’re targeting the collaborators, not the Givers?
He grimaced at his own folly. Nobody talked to Darcy like that. Darcy wasn’t a warm person, even in his best moods, but Connor had felt his blood freeze at his foster father’s patronizing expression.
Are you that stupid? Have I raised an idiot? To get to the Givers, we have to remove the collaborators. It’s as simple as that. The Givers have Trackers as bodyguards, but their real protection is the Councilors who shield them. Please, tell me that’s not too difficult for you to grasp.
Tony’s arrival brought a merciful end to their verbal sparring. The chauffeur lingered just inside the door, looking uncomfortable as he picked up on the tension in the room. He kept his place, saying only what was necessary. Implants Twenty-seven and Twenty-eight are ready, sir.
Darcy had held his position, his icy gaze drilling into his adopted son. Their standoff ended when Darcy spun on his heel and strode to their front door. He paused to look over his shoulder, addressing Connor on the threshold of their villa.
By the time we return with our new Implants, Connor, you will have thought long and hard about your commitment to our cause.
And then he was gone. Tony hastened to catch the door before it closed, ducking out on Darcy’s heels. Connor didn’t miss the shrewd smirk Tony shot his way as he exited.
Connor sighed and set his empty cup on the bench. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The crowd across the street was growing larger. The imminent performance, whatever it might be, must be close to curtain time.
He reached inside his shirt, pulling out the archaic locket on its silver chain. The tiny picture inside smiled back at him. Megan in happier days, her wavy hair tousled by the breeze on the day the picture was taken.
A cold, hollow rage washed over him, a bottomless pit which threatened to engulf him. And Darcy expects me to ignore what the savages did to my sister. For the “good of the Enclave.”
A commotion across the boulevard caught his attention. Connor roused himself, annoyed by the intrusion, and was puzzled by the scene unfolding outside the Gallery. Curious pedestrians trotted past him, chattering as they crossed the boulevard to gawk at the developing spectacle.
A confrontation appeared to be brewing between a small group on the front terrace of the Gallery, and a much larger crowd gathered in the amphitheater below.
Connor snapped the locket shut and stowed it inside his shirt. Additional people streamed past his bench, intent on learning what the noisy disturbance was about.
He jogged across the boulevard, halting at the edge of the sidewalk. The outdoor amphitheater boasted an assortment of tables and benches, rapidly filling with curious onlookers.
A block-wide concrete staircase descended below street level, providing public access and additional seating. Connor chose to remain on the sidewalk, gazing over the crowd to the terrace in front of the Gallery.
A small cluster of people had gathered there, some waving placards. Others were distributing leaflets, but judging by the crowd’s growing hostility, their message was not well-received.
The hair on the back of Connor’s neck bristled. Trouble was brewing.