arbitrate (daynight) (25 page)

She doesn’t miss a beat. “But one that we will solve.”

He smiles and kisses her on the forehead. “I do believe we need to settle you someplace with loads of fresh air. It does you wonders.” He then claps his hands loudly. “Time to work. Love, can you show Ethan the way to the museum? He’ll help you get everyone checked in as they arrive.”

Kira laughs. To Jax, “Surely,
love.”
 
To me, she hooks her arm through mine and drags me along. “Come on, handsome. We must go search for our children.”

I turn around to Jax and mouth, “What did you give her?” Jax shrugs and holds his hand in a “0” to indicate nothing. Kira continues to pull me towards the museum. “Ah, so today I’m
handsome
?”

“You’ve never been anything less than drop dead gorgeous. And today, I don’t even want you to drop dead. Isn’t that fabulous?”
She’s telling jokes
.

I stop in my tracks, which causes her to jerk back against me. “Seriously, what did Jax give you?”

She peers up at me with her beautiful light-green eyes and scrunches her nose. “Do you know how long I have been stuck in that dreadful apartment of yours? The only time I saw fresh air, a guy tried to kill me. So I’m a little excited about being far, far away from that evil place. I’m even more excited about the prospect of seeing some of my friends—and our…I mean their…babies. If I have to spend several nights back to back with my cranky ex-Cleave to do this, I’ll happily do it.”

I can’t help it. I lick my lips and stare at hers. I want to kiss her so badly.
This
is the girl I fell madly and deeply in love with. “Why do you think I’m cranky?”

“The only words you have spoken to me since you found out about Evvie were ‘What happened to you?’ That would indicate to me that you are a little bit upset with me. I thought that we’d made progress that night at dinner, but…”

I push her back against the railing and trap her by putting an arm on either side. I’m having trouble formulating words. She looks absolutely
edible
aglow in the last remnants of the setting sun. “It was a lot to process, Kira. But it’s not like you had a choice in the matter. I was there when they implanted the embryos, remember?”

A momentary grimace appears on her face and then vanishes. “That was terrible, but I’m not sorry they were born and never will be.”

“I know, Kira. I know.” I lean forward and can hear her breathing get ragged. If I placed my hand over her heart, I’m positive it would be racing. At the last second, I plant a feather light kiss at the very edge of her mouth. She turns beet red and ducks under my arm and takes off in a light run.

“To the museum I go. Catch me if you can.” She yells back to me.

“I plan to do just that,” I whisper and then follow behind like the lovesick puppy I am.

“That was the last
of them. I’m so sorry, love.” Jax whispers to a very exhausted Kira who, to my dismay, is currently collapsed in his arms. We had quickly given up on doing the check-in by ourselves. Instead, everyone with babies was put through our line. Despite checking people in for fifty solid hours, there has been no sign of Kira’s friends or the babies. Kira got distraught and “needed Jax” to comfort her. I was distraught by the tedious process. Take their info. Take their picture. Hand them one of the hideous rainbow Art City uniforms that had been left behind. Brad had probably watched the whole thing, feeling triumphant with every groan of Art City’s new inhabitants.

I double-check my tablet. “The final tally was 49,753. That’s over ten thousand less than the camps started with.”

Jax doesn’t look at me as he rocks Kira to sleep. He’s staring at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world to him. I know because that’s how I look at her. “From what I hear from the hospital, I’d expect that number to go down further before the week is done.”

He stands with Kira still in his arms. “I need to go get the babies. Take her home for me?” Leaning over, he whispers something in her ear and kisses her cheek. Then he gently transfers her to me.

“Gladly.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Blake

I knew Brad had moles in the camp—he told me as much before I showed up here, but I would have guessed it anyway.
Of course, he didn’t tell me how many or who they were. I may be his “assistant,” but he doesn’t trust me at all, particularly where the Exilers are concerned. He made me his assistant for his personal amusement.

“Listening devices aren’t sufficient when the subjects know they are being listened to,” he’d said. “So know this, Blake. I’m allowing you to go—but you will be watched at all times. You get caught helping the enemy in any way and you will be taken out. Understand me?”

“So you’re sending me to
help
with the transfer, but if I
help,
then I get killed? Sounds like a fabulous use of my time. Thank you for the assignment.” I might be his assistant, but I wasn’t a willing one and didn’t hold back my sarcasm.

He’d removed his glasses and swiped his brow. “You are grating on my nerves, Sundry. You know what I mean. You go to Art City…help the Exilers get moved in and keep me out of trouble with the Arbiters…then you use the trust you have with them to find out everything about their new temporary government. But you do
not
aid them in plotting against the SCI. Clear enough for you?”

I’ve never been great about following rules to the letter of the law. I consider the line between helping keep Brad out of trouble with the Arbiters and aiding the Exilers to be rather fluid. I wasn’t at the “game-changing” meeting with the Arbiters, but I still can’t fathom Brad ever agreeing to abandon a full city and gift it to the Exilers with no catch. Which is why I’m currently in a makeshift harness about to descend below the main plaza platform, so I can follow a gut instinct.
 

“What are you doing?” The guy talking to me screams “ex-military,” and I’m going to assume he’s one of Brad’s goons.

I hold up a basketball-sized net. “Fishing. I don’t know about you, but I’m beyond sick of that gruel for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Need any help?” he asks. I get the feeling he doesn’t want me down there, which rings another bell on my Brad-is-up-to-something alarm.

Shrugging, I respond. “I’ve only got one rope and harness, but if you can find another, then I’d love the help.” I figure that he’ll be too lazy to go look, and the mere fact that I’m inviting him will make him less suspicious.
 

“Bring me back some.” His words sound more like a warning:
Bring proof or die.

I smile at him. “Sure thing…if the gators don’t get me.”

Lowering myself down my self-made pulley system, I pause to look below the main plaza platform. I notice that there are crisscrossing ropes below the platform. I’m being watched, so I keep going until I’m hovering above the marshy grasses that grow in the shallow water. I run my hand along the top of the grass, causing it to sway—to check for any hidden surprises, like gators, underneath. When I confirm there are no snapping reptiles underfoot, I put a handful of grain in the net and lower the net into the water.
 

It doesn’t take long for the fishes to swarm. I pull the net up, move the couple larger fishes to a bag at my waist, and then repeat the process until I’ve got a bag full of fish. When a gator moves my way and snaps his sharp teeth-filled mouth at me, I decide to bail. If I had some sort of spear I’d take him out…gator meat would feed a lot of people. Of course, he looks like he weighs more than me so getting him back up would be quite the trick.

My journey back up takes longer since I’ve got a lot more weight on me, straining my muscles. I realize that I’ve been so busy that my exercise regimen has suffered. For the first time in years, I’m in less than peak physical condition. I pledge to change that even if I have to sacrifice more sleep than I have been. The sun’s now out in full force, and the city supplies left didn’t include sunscreen. I’ve got a hat shading my face, but that’s about it.

I study the rope system below the platform again as I pass it. It looks sturdy. I tug on the closest rope and confirm I’m right. Then I continue to the top and hoist myself over the rail. Brad’s hired help gives me a hand.

“Good news,” I say as I show him my full bag. “Now, if only I had a place to cook them.” Since I’m not a permanent resident, I’ve been crashing on the upper floor of the museum.

A normal person would question
why
I didn’t have a kitchen. The fact he didn’t ask confirms he knows exactly who I am and was assigned to watch me. “You can cook at my place. I know my buddies would appreciate some fried fish. By the way, my name’s Rick.” Again, he doesn’t ask me mine.

“Blake Sundry. Nice to meet you. Lead the way. I’m hungry.” We have to maneuver through the throngs of people. The city’s so overcrowded that it takes a while to get to his place, the rope bridges being quite the bottleneck in the busy evening hours.

Rick lives in a compound with his twenty “buddies,” aka Brad-plants. I clean and fry up the fish while listening to them tell tales of life in the camps—tales that don’t match anything I saw while I visited. Brad is so confident that he makes stupid mistakes. If he wanted to credibly infiltrate, his plants needed to be bona fide Exilers who suffered through the camps with the rest of the people, gaining their confidence and trust along the way. I’m sure he figured no one would notice since people were coming from six camps. But their cover stories are crap, and people
will
notice.

Still, it doesn’t quite add up. Ethan told me that the Ten had planted agents from Information City in the camps a couple months ago. So there are undoubtedly two sets of people to worry about here—Brad’s cronies and the Ten’s more sophisticated insertions.

I excuse myself when it gets late and head back to the museum, knowing I’ll be followed. My tail waits to make sure that I went where I said I was going and then takes off. I’m exhausted and decide a nap’s in order, so I curl up by a modern art atrocity and nod off.

My watch vibrates a couple hours later—at 1100 hours. I grab what I need and stuff the rest of my belongings under the blanket to approximate a person to someone not paying too close attention. And then I head down the back stairway and out a seldom-used door. I peek out and make sure it is clear. It’s middle-of-the-day, and most people will be sound asleep. But not all, and in the bright sun there’s no hiding, so I’m not going to take any chances. I don’t see anyone.

The building backs up to the edge of the platform with only a narrow walkway before the rail. I put on a pair of gloves and my harness. Since I can’t risk leaving a rope up, I scan for any kind of abnormality along the platform that I can use as a foothold or grip. It doesn’t take long to find one—in fact, there are several rope ties built in that the previous residents likely used for fishing. I slip over the rail, use the grip to lower myself down, and then grab hold of the closest rope under the platform and clip myself to it.

I slowly move from rope to rope, investigating the underside of the platform. There are some thin fault lines of concern. I wonder if the platforms can truly support the weight atop them. Much more concerning is what I find at each pylon. Each bearing has a six inch hole carved out—and placed within each crevice is an explosive device. There are no timers associated with them, so they must be remote activated. They appear to be fairly simple. I’m sure they could be deactivated, but I’m not going to attempt it. There could be a trip wire that would cause detonation or set off a remote alarm.

It takes me thirty minutes to get back to my starting point. My arms are spent, but I use what little energy I have left to get back over the rail after I confirm the walkway’s clear. I go back inside for another nap. A quick glance at my watch tells me that I’ve been gone for nearly three hours. I collapse onto my bedroll. Any thoughts of how I’ll break the news to Doc and Bailey will have to wait until evening.

Dr. Christo once told me that he was using Bailey and I to help facilitate a “minor” course correction with the SCI. Well, it’s not working. The SCI respond tit-for-tat to every attempt to persuade them to return to their original charter, with every move taking them further in the opposite direction.

I surely hope the Arbiters have a plan B in the queue.
 

Nine months prior: Heart, Thera

“Welcome, Blake. Welcome back,
Bailey.” Dr. Christo greeted us. “I see that Paul found and got you here.” Dr. Christo had sent Paul to find us at the Exiler camp, and then we’d been transported here by a most unusual method. It appeared the Arbiters could create their own portals. If Kira was with Dr. Christo’s son—then they could be
anywhere
. Did the SCI know about their capabilities?

Dr. Christo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The Arbiters have not interfered in SCI business for centuries. But we feel compelled to at this time. The current administration of the SCI is not aware of what we are capable of…and I expect that the two of you will not change that fact. Understood?”
What, can they read minds, too?

“Yes, yes we can read minds.”
Great.
“Getting right down to business… The SCI is exercising unrighteous dominion over the Second Chancers. Because the Second Chancers don’t remember their time previous to Thera or their arrival here, they are at a disadvantage. They don’t know they are being manipulated.”

Bailey interjected. “And you want us to help shift the balance of power. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. Otherwise, you would have erased my memories.”

“In a sense,” Dr. Christo responded. “The Arbiters would like to give the SCI the opportunity to right their wrongs and return to the original conditions of their charter…without our involvement. It would be…better for them that way.”

If the Arbiters had the power to fix things, why didn’t they? “Why wait? Why not involve yourselves now?”

Dr. Christo contemplated how to respond for quite some time. He looked tired. “The SCI has all the rules they need to operate. They’ve had them from the beginning. They must be given the opportunity to make mistakes, realize they have done so, and fix them. If we were to intercede at every turn, how would they ever learn?” He paused to let it sink in. Apparently, Dr. Christo never met or counseled my father. My father never failed to get in my business.