“You made it back.” She sounds like she doesn’t believe her own words.
The rest of the team spins around, and their faces light up. Sammy embraces me the way Blaine often does, one hand clasping mine, the other smacking my back.
“The second Bleak shoved us in here, I thought you’d chosen the wrong guy to trust,” he says, “but it looks like he saved your skin after all. Although dammit, Weathersby, you really cut it close.”
“Close?”
“Marco’s countdown,” Clipper says from near the computers.
“Sammy nearly wet himself with relief when Marco stopped at two,” Jackson says.
I force a smile but can’t bring myself to tell them the truth. If they heard the countdown, they must have also heard Emma confirm that Xavier and Bo are dead. But Sammy still seems relieved, the Forgery is cracking jokes, and Bree is scowling only semifiercely so she might as well be smiling, all of which means that they couldn’t possibly have heard the gunshot. They think Emma’s still alive, and that small victory seems to have rendered them hopeful. I can’t ruin that by telling them I was too slow, that I am the reason Emma is dead like the others. I need their hope to fuel us all, because I’ve run dry.
“I sent out a distress call,” Clipper announces. “I couldn’t reach Xavier and Bo and then when we got locked in here, I started thinking: about these computers, all the AmWest rumors, that message from Ryder to engage.”
“What are you saying, Clipper?”
“You were up there with Marco and we didn’t know if you’d make it back. The Order had us surrounded. Still do, actually.” Clipper’s eyes move from the keyboard, to the computer screen, and finally back to me. “I thought they’d be our best shot. I couldn’t reach them directly, so I just . . . I sent out a broad call. Addressing the Expats. Hailing them for help.”
“What?” A wave of panic rushes through me. “I thought you said the computers were only networked with Franconian technology.”
“They are. But the Rebels had spies at the source. Remember Christie, who helped you and Harvey get the vaccine? Who’s to say there aren’t Expats in important places? With access to Franconian information?”
“But if you sent a call in the open, doesn’t that mean that the Order could pick it up, too?”
He frowns. “Well, yeah. It was always a risk.”
“A risk?” I shout. “Could you have done anything more stupid, Clipper? If the Order hadn’t called for backup already, some will definitely be sent after they hear your ‘distress’ call. And why would the Expats even think of helping us now? We’re surrounded, with more Order forces likely on their way. Aiding us would be like walking to their deaths!”
“Screw you,” Clipper says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Excuse me?”
“Screw you!” He stands, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “You gave me an order and I took a chance. Just like you did when you went above to face off with Marco. That’s what happens when stuff doesn’t go as planned. You take chances and hope they pay off. Harvey would have done what I did. He would have made this same call—I know it—and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be yelling at him the way you’re yelling at me. I might be young, but I’m not stupid.”
He stops, out of breath, and I’m so startled by his outburst that I have absolutely no idea what to say. For the first time since setting out I see him not as an almost-thirteen-year-old boy, but as a member of our team. Ageless. Titleless. And he’s right. There are risks to every action and sometimes the actions we think are best backfire. After all, I did what I thought was necessary just earlier, and it got Emma killed.
“I guess we’ll just hope your call gets to the right people,” I say.
Clipper doesn’t look as sure of himself anymore, but I would love for him to prove me wrong. To go aboveground and find allies waiting to usher us to safety would be a dream come true.
“Puck’s rallyin’ the others,” Bleak says from the doorway. “They’re gonna sneak above and spread out on the opposite side of town, try and create a distraction. That’ll give yer team a chance to run fer it. I’ll get ya to the Wall and then I’ll lead my people after when the fightin’s o’er. It ain’t gonna be safe for us here no more.”
“You know you’re outmatched, right, Bleak? The weapons these people have . . . We’re grateful and all, but—”
“We know what we’re up against from the stories of our grandparents,” he says to me. “And it ain’t like no one here don’t want a little revenge.”
The stairwell we take above dumps us at the edge of town, right where the overrun livestock fields begin. Glancing over my shoulder, I can make out the lights of the Order helicopters near the gallows. I cringe at the thought of what awaits the Burg citizens. Half of me wants to stand with them, but I have to make a decision, and as ugly as it is, I’m putting the lives of my four remaining team members above the hundreds who will fight as we run. Maybe this makes me horrible. I don’t know. And I don’t have time to assess it.
Bleak points ahead. “We’ll run, and once we start we ain’t stoppin’ ’til we reach the Wall.”
Bree groans. “How can you even see?”
She has a point. It’s pitch-black.
“I can’t,” Bleak admits. “But there ain’t no trees, and the land is mostly level. Just keep yer feet movin’ and trust yer balance. We take off soon as we hear the signal.”
Just then, there’s an outburst behind us. Order members shouting in confusion. Flashlight beams bouncing off the buildings, the snow, the cloud-socked sky overhead. The citizens of Burg have sprung to action.
“Now!” Bleak whispers, and we all break into a sprint.
We’re clumsy in the snow, and loud. I can hear the Order fighting Burg’s people in the distance, but I swear some of their voices grow nearer. And that the beams of their flashlights are flicking against the snow around us.
“There!” someone shouts, and my suspicions are confirmed. We’ve been spotted.
“Call the others. Give the order.”
“Now! Hit the lights now!”
A wall of light appears ahead. Helicopters, so many more than the three that were originally in Burg’s center. I think I can hear a distant roar, too, and I know in an instant that the Order called for reinforcements. After finding Marco, maybe. Regardless, we are trapped, surrounded with nowhere to run. We skid to a halt.
When the first Order member leaps down from one of the helicopters, I feel like someone has shoved a knife between my ribs.
He has the same broad shoulders and lean build. Same dark hair and quiet gait. Same chin and nose and ears and mouth and deep-set, colorless eyes.
It seems impossible, even when I’m staring at the proof.
But it’s not.
This is my one operational model, just like Frank’s records said, and he’s standing before me.
THIRTY-TWO
BLOOD POUNDS IN MY EARS.
I take back everything I thought about wanting to save the small piece of Blaine that was in his Forged version. Because a Forgery is not the real thing. This replica, this reflection—it is not me. I want it dead. I want it gone. I want it to have never existed.
It motions, a fist in the air, and a small army of what I assume to be more Forgeries emerges from the helicopters to join him in the snow. They are a diverse group. Varying heights and builds, hair and skin color. Some are female, but most male.