“So you’re saying that even if Clarke is innocent, it’d be worth it to let her die in order to keep democracy alive?”
The Chancellor fixed Wells with a stare that, a few days ago, would’ve made him sink into his chair. “I believe innocent is a relative term here. There’s no denying she knew about the experiments.”
“Rhodes forced them to conduct those experiments. He’s the one who should be punished!”
“That’s enough,” the Chancellor said in a voice so cold, it almost extinguished Wells’s rage. “I refuse to listen to this heresy in my own home.”
Wells was about to launch an angry retort, but he was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. His father silenced him with a final look as he opened the door and ushered in the Vice Chancellor himself.
Wells could barely contain his hatred as Rhodes gave him a curt nod in greeting. The Vice Chancellor wore his usual self-satisfied look as he followed the Chancellor into his study. After they closed the door firmly behind them, Wells stood up from the table. He knew he should go to his room and shut the door, like he always did when his father took meetings in their home.
A few days ago, he might have. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have dared to eavesdrop on a private conversation. But now he didn’t care. He crept toward the door and pressed himself against the wall. “The dropships are ready,” Rhodes began. “There’s no reason to wait.”
“There are plenty of reasons to wait.” There was a note of irritation in his father’s voice, as if they’d already had this discussion many times. “We’re still not sure if the radiation levels are safe.”
Wells inhaled sharply, then froze to keep his breath from disturbing the silence outside the study door.
“That’s why we’re emptying the detention center. Why not put the convicts to good use?”
“Even Confined children deserve a chance at life, Rhodes. That’s why they’re given a retrial on their eighteenth birthday.”
The Vice Chancellor scoffed. “You know none of them are going to be pardoned. We can’t afford to waste the resources. We’re running out of time as it is.”
What does he mean, running out of time? Wells wondered, but before he had a chance to think it through, his father broke in.
“Those reports are grossly exaggerated. We have enough oxygen for another few years at least.”
“And then what? You’ll order the entire Colony onto the dropships and just hope for the best?”
“We’ll send the Confined juveniles in the detention center, like you suggested. But not yet. Not until it’s our last resort. Unless the breach in sector C14 worsens, we’ve got a little time left still. The first prisoners will be sent in a year.”
“If that’s what you think is best.”
Wells heard the Vice Chancellor rise from his chair, and in a flash, he ran silently into his room and collapsed onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he’d heard. The Colony was on its last breath. They had only a few years left up in space.
It all clicked into place, why everyone was being found guilty: There weren’t enough resources on the ship to support i t s population. It was a horrifying thought, but an even more terrible realization was making its way to the front of his brain. Clarke’s birthday was in six months. Wells knew he’d never convince his father to pardon her. Being sent to Earth would give her a second chance. But they weren’t going to start the mission for another year. Unless he did something, Clarke was going to die.
His only chance was to speed up the mission, to have the first group sent right away.
A terrifying plan began to take shape, and his chest tightened in fear as he realized what he would have to do. But Wells knew there was no other way. To save the girl he loved, he’d have to endanger the entire human race.
33
Bellamy
Bellamy slid down the trunk of the tree and sank to the ground, feeling as hollow as the burned-out shell of the dropship. He’d been searching for Octavia for hours, tearing through the forest and screaming her name until his throat was raw, but the woods had answered him with nothing but maddening silence.
“Hey.” A weary voice interrupted his thoughts. Bellamy turned to see Wells walking slowly toward him. Soot was smeared across his face, and the skin on his left forearm was badly scratched. “Any luck?”
Bellamy shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” Wells pressed his lips together and stared at a spot on the ground just beyond Bellamy for a long moment. “If it’s any consolation, I really don’t think she was here. We just searched the clearing pretty thoroughly. Everyone made it out in time except…” His voice trailed off.
“I know,” Bellamy said quietly. “I’m really sorry, man. I’m sure you did your best.”
Wells winced. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.” Bellamy looked at him in confusion, but before he had time to say anything, Wells gave him a small smile. “Octavia will turn up soon. Don’t worry.” Then he turned and trudged back into the clearing, where a few people were sifting through the ashes, looking for anything that had survived the blaze.
In the rosy dawn light, Bellamy could almost make himself believe that the horrors of the last few hours were nothing but a nightmare. The flames had long since died out, and while much of the grass had been burned away, the soil underfoot was damp. The fire hadn’t reached the trees, whose flowers stretched out to greet the light, blissfully unaware of—or unconcerned with—the tragedy below. But that was the thing about grief, Bellamy knew. You couldn’t expect anyone else to share your suffering. You had to carry your pain alone.
He heard a few of the kids arguing over what they thought had started the fire: whether the wind had carried a spark from their campfire to scorch the tents, or if someone had done something stupid.
But Bellamy didn’t give a shit what had caused it. All he cared about was Octavia. Had she gotten lost while running for safety, or had she left camp before the fire even started? And if so, why?
He rose shakily to his feet, holding on to the tree trunk for balance. He couldn’t stop to rest, not now, when every hour meant Octavia might be in danger. Now that it was light, he could search again. Farther this time. It didn’t matter how long it took. He wouldn’t stop moving until he found her.
As Bellamy moved deeper into the shade, he exhaled, relieved to be away from the insultingly bright sunlight. Relieved to be alone. But then his eyes landed on a figure winding its way toward him. He paused and squinted through the green-shadowed gloom. It was Clarke.
“Hey,” he asked hoarsely, his stomach twisting uneasily at the sight of her pale, drawn face. “Are you okay?”
“Thalia’s dead?” She said it more like a question, as though hoping he would assure her that it wasn’t true.
Bellamy nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.” She started to tremble, and he instinctively pulled her into his arms. For a long moment they just stood there, Bellamy holding Clarke’s shaking form tight against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair.
Finally, Clarke straightened up and stepped back with a sigh. Although tears were running down her face, the brightness had returned to her eyes, and a hint of color hat of cold snuck back into her cheeks. “Where’s your sister?” she asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.