Truth
Authors: Julia Karr
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #General, #Social Issues, #Adolescence, #Girls & Women
The NonCon
Storming out of the elport, I raced into the apartment. Gran was on the couch, her arm around Dee, the two of them wet-faced and sniffling. Harriet was next to Gran, murmuring sympathy. The apartment had been torn apart, things everywhere, but one thing was obviously missing.
My voice trembled. “Pops?”
“B.O.S.S. took him.” Dee’s voice cracked, fresh tears streaming down her face.
“The scrambler ran out of time. That silly old fool kept on talking. It’s my fault. I should have stayed in here with him. Kept an eye on him.” Gran twisted her hanky, her voice shaking. “He’s so sick. He won’t survive reassimilation.”
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XVI
Julia Karr
TRUTH
Julia Karr
SPEAK
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012
Copyright © Julia Karr, 2012
All rights reserved
CIP Data Is Available
ISBN 978-1-101-56689-3
Text set in Bulmer MT
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
This book is dedicated to Amy, because . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a lot of people who helped to make this book happen, but two in particular who should be named. My awesome editor, Jen Bonnell, who made sure that there was no sophomore slump for me. And Justin Vollmar, without whom I would’ve starved. Thank you both!
I
I
was contemplating what would happen to me if anyone discovered that I’d killed Ed when Mr. Haldewick’s voice broke through my brooding. “Miss Oberon, if you please!”
“Yes, sir?” Hopefully my expression and manner were sufficiently contrite to reach Mr. H’s soft side, which he did have—no matter what most of the other students thought.
His forehead wrinkled in a frown, but he repeated the question. “What is the importance of the XVI tattoo? And you should know this, since I see you now have yours.”
I twisted my right hand around my inked wrist, glancing across the aisle at my best friend, Wei. Thistles encircled her XVI, snaking around her hand and up her fingers, completely overshadowing the obligatory government brand. She was a Creative, and her ultra tat was legal. I reminded myself that I’d recently gotten my Creative designation and I could get something similar, if I ever got enough credits to afford—
“This century, Miss Oberon?”
Snapping back to reality, I opened my mouth to give the rote text-chip answer, but what came out was, “The XVI tattoo is a government-mandated brand designed for easy identification of females who are sixteen and legally old enough to be sexually active. Even though it fades away in about six years, when girls get it they become immediately vulnerable to unwanted sexual advances and easy targets for rape. A crime that is rarely, if ever, prosecuted because—”
Mr. H’s mouth dropped open; his glasses flew off his pointy nose and dangled from their silver chain. Slamming his pointer on the desk, he roared, “That is NOT an acceptable answer, Miss Oberon!” Even from my seat in the back, I could see little beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
Skivs! I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was I thinking? Actually, I wasn’t thinking. Because of everything that had happened to me in the past few months, my real feelings were finding their voice—which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wei grinning. Various titters erupted around the room.
No sooner had I started to breathe again, figuring my outburst had gone unnoticed outside the classroom, than Hal, the robotic hall access limiter, marched into the room with a request for my presence in Mrs. Marchant’s office. Caught! Mr. H waved me out with one hand, mopping his brow with the hanky in his other. Wei squeezed my arm as I headed for my self-made disaster.
***
Hal ushered me into the principal’s office and withdrew into the corner, silent as death, which might have been preferable to the unknown that awaited me. I’d never been in trouble at school, ever. A sick feeling burbled in my stomach, and I swallowed, attempting to keep my fears down.
Mrs. Marchant sat behind a gleaming acrylamite desk. Its transparency allowed a full view of her—transchair and all. Like everyone else at Daley High, I knew her story. She and her husband had been low-tier college students. There had been a horrible multitrans accident: her husband had been killed outright, and she had been partially paralyzed. Expensive restoration surgery had not been an option. Rumor was that she preferred the aluminoid shell encasing her from the waist down, even though she could now easily afford a reconstructed spine and bionic legs. I averted my eyes, focusing on her face instead.
“You are aware that classes are observed, Miss Oberon?” Mrs. Marchant pointed to a bank of AV screens mounted on the wall like pictures, one for each classroom.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hands clasped in front of me, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, until I became ultra-aware of the fact that I was standing and she couldn’t. I froze.
“Those feeds are periodically reviewed by the government.” She raised one eyebrow, giving me a sharp look. “Understand?”
“Yes.” Prickles of fear raised goose bumps on my arms.
“Based on your outburst, it would appear you have an inclination toward the ideas of your father.” Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk, and she pushed, the transchair gliding backward. “I know all about Alan Oberon.”
There was a subtle but distinct whirr as she skimmed across the floor, then stopped in front of me. Even though the chair placed her a good foot shorter than me, the intensity of her gaze made me feel as if we were eye to eye. “Should you plan on spouting any more antigovernment rhetoric,” she said, “join the debate club. That’s what he did.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She was right. My father had won several citywide debates. Media had even wanted to make him a star broadcaster, that is, until he began actively speaking out against the Governing Council beyond the safety of sanctioned debating. Eventually, he had faked his own death. A fact I’d discovered only when my mother lay dying in an Infinity machine after a brutal attack. Now I knew for sure he was alive. We’d even talked once. We just hadn’t met, yet.
Mrs. Marchant grasped my arm, her slender fingers warm and surprisingly strong. She turned my wrist over to reveal the XVI tattoo. Our eyes met. Something in her expression made me pretty sure she didn’t approve of the government’s branding either.
“Your permanent records indicate you’re no longer a candidate for FeLS.” She let go of my wrist.
An odd statement. “My contract was bought out.” My mom had saved for ages to be able to buy my contract back from the government so I wouldn’t have to be a part of the Female Liaison Specialist program. They said FeLS was diplomatic service: a good way, practically the only way, for low-tier girls to work themselves up a few tiers. But only a few knew the truth. Was one of them Mrs. Marchant? I studied her face.
No, she couldn’t know. Really, no one who wasn’t in the Governing Council knew the truth—the horrible things they really did. No one except for a few of my friends and me. But now the proof of its nefarious dealings—which had cost my mother her life—was safely in the hands of my father, and the Resistance. I’d risked my own life to get it from Ed, and Wei’s father had delivered it, along with my little sister Dee’s baby book, to my dad just a few weeks ago. He’d know when and how to reveal it to the world.
“You were recently awarded your Creative designation, and you’ve taken a part-time job at the Art Institute. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She maneuvered her chair in a circle around me, before skimming back behind her desk. “I suppose you’ll get a fancy tattoo like Miss Jenkins did. Perfectly understandable. I’ve heard you are quite the artist.” She waved her fingers toward Hal. “Escort Miss Oberon back to class. Miss Oberon, keep that contract safe. I’d prefer you remained a student here. I’m sure your grandparents would, too.”
I followed Hal, puzzling over Mrs. Marchant’s veiled warning to watch my back. I wasn’t planning on causing any trouble, at least not me personally. If my father’s revelations about FeLS caused an uproar . . . well, that would be a good thing. It couldn’t be traced back to me. Could it?
Maybe she was concerned that I’d quit school to work full-time at the Institute. A lot of kids in my tier didn’t make it to graduation. And even with the survivor benefits from my mother’s death, Gran and Pops were struggling to support Dee and me on their meager retirement credits. That must be it. Or maybe she was worried that I’d mouth off about the Governing Council again and that B.O.S.S., the Bureau of Safety and Security, would come and take me away from the only family I had left.
Bile crept up my throat. B.O.S.S. The GC’s security force scared me—galactically. People who were arrested by B.O.S.S. were either never heard of again, or were reassimilated—turned into shells of their former selves. B.O.S.S. did whatever it wanted, and no one could stop it. No one.
My worrisome contemplations were diverted by a slight catch in Hal’s step every time his left foot made contact with the ground. Step, hitch, step, hitch, step, hitch . . . It was hypnotic. A little Lube-All in the hip socket would fix that, I thought. My ruminations on robot maintenance came to a halt when Hal stopped, abruptly, in front of my classroom. Several students cast furtive glances at me as I took my seat, probably wondering what tortures I’d been subjected to.
For the remainder of the period, Mr. H divided us into small discussion groups on gender-specific roles in society and, more specifically, in tiers. I kept quiet, surreptitiously doodling tattoo ideas for my wrist.