The jet finally accelerates, and my heart nearly gives out as the plane begins to move forward. I’m breathing so hard my lungs are tired, but a whisper of relief moves through me as I reach for the nose wheel, ready to maneuver the plane out of the hangar and onto the runway.
It’s going to be okay—I’m going to get out of here—
I flinch as a fresh round of shots ricochet off the steel body, a few more making contact with the windows. A final shot shatters the windshield entirely, and I duck almost too late, the bullet grazing my shoulder, burying itself in the seat behind me. I stifle a cry as the pain takes my breath away, cold winds sweeping rain into the cockpit as an alarm blares, a flashing indicator informing me that the pressurization system has malfunctioned.
Without a perfect seal, the jet won’t be able to maintain cabin pressure once I’m in the air; but I’m not concerned about maintaining oxygen levels at high altitude. I don’t need to ascend that far in order to escape. I might freeze to death, but at least I’ll be able to breathe.
They think I’m trying to fly all the way home.
I just need to get far enough away.
The jet is picking up speed, the nose pushing farther out the hangar as I drive forward, granting me better cover for gunfire. With a shaking hand I unzip the neck of my costume, retrieving what’s left of the slim chocolate bar stillstashed against my sternum. It’s broken in several places and at least partly melted—but the wrapper is still managing to hold most of the pieces together.
I place this tattered miracle on the interface.
If I can manage to get this plane above ten thousand feet I’ll be thrilled. I’ll grab the emergency kit before I eject; and then I’ll find time to reset my bones, stitch up my wounds, bring down this fever. I’ll be fine. I’ll find somewhere safer to hide. I’ll have time to heal while I regroup. I’ll get home in one piece. I’ll save Clara. I’ll bring her chocolate.
I’ll burn the Ark to the ground.
I comfort myself with these lies the way a corrupt government comforts its people: tending a wound by tying the bandage so tight you don’t realize you’re being killed by the same hands promising to save you.
I realize I’m likely sentencing myself to death.
But I’d rather go to my grave knowing I gave everything in the effort to get to Clara. I won’t give up now, not for the pretense of survival, not to chain myself to a new master in The New Republic, not for a lifetime of wondering whether I could’ve tried harder to save my sister, to annihilate an oppressor.
My priorities have never been so clear.
The plane moves smoothly as we exit the mouth of the hangar, the rattle of the engine quieting, and hope begins to unfurl dangerously in my chest even as the sound of gunfire scores my desperate exit.
Nearly there.
Blood drips off my chin onto the aircraft interface with a steadypatpat, and the spatter is soon distracting; I wipe haphazardly at my cheek, guessing at the source of the wound, then wipe the blood off the screens only to smear everything in red.
My hands are trembling badly.
I’m not sure what will be left of me by the end of this, but I am the monster they made me. If I manage to survive I will destroy The Reestablishment for doing this to me—for lying to me, for torturing my sister—for thinking they could use and discard me without suffering the consequences.
Ten years they spent slowly disassembling my soul, and I was stupid enough to believe that after they’d annihilated my humanity I might be rewarded with freedom. It’s the promise of retribution that keeps my heart beating, my broken body moving. There’s no use feeling anything other than anger right now. I refuse to succumb to fear. I’ll die before I ever surrender my mind again.
And when I go down, I’ll take them down with me.
Bullets continue to riddle the aircraft body at steady intervals, my frayed nerves recoiling at every sound, my ears ringing in pain.
I grip the nose wheel tighter.
I navigate the aircraft onto the tarmac, using my one good foot to manipulate the rudder pedals, aligning the nose wheel with the center of the runway.
I take a deep, steadying breath.
“ROSABELLE—”
15
Rosabelle
I go painfully solid.
The unchecked scream of his voice inspires in me a fear so great I can hardly move. In fact I have to summon the courage to turn around, my heart hammering, as I brace for the sight of him.
