Noam couldn’t believe he was hearing this. His whole life he’d lived in tenement housing. He knew all the people who came to the Migrant Center by name. This was his home every bit as much as that burned-out hole that used to be his neighborhood. Brennan had been, if not a father, then like an uncle to him. He came to Shabbat dinner every Friday night. He gave Noam handmade birthday presents. Noam had organized the cyberattack on the Central News Bureau servers; he’d gone toeveryfucking protest. And now—now that he actually had a chance to make a real difference—Brennan wanted nothing to do with him?
He now recognized that look on Brennan’s face. It was the same look he used to give the government witchings who accompanied Immigration on its raids, the same look they had given him in return: a twist of the lips and a narrowed gaze.
Contempt.
“You aren’t getting it,” Noam said, trying to be calm. “That’s the point. I’m Level IV. Fuck DDOS attacks; I can do somethingreal. We can stop the deportations. I’m a technopath now—I can get you anything you want off the government servers. We could prove what Sacha’s up to. We can prove there’s norealcontamination threat from the refugees. If I can find a way onto Sacha’s computer—”
“That’s illegal,” Brennan said.
“You didn’t care about that when I was taking down CNB,” Noam retorted. His hands were in fists again, tight enough his nails dug into his palms. “You didn’t care when I went to fucking juvie. Back then it was all, ‘Oh, I’ll talk to your public defender, don’t worry Noam, you’re doing the right thing.’”
A threatening heat prickled at his eyes. God. If he started crying he would never forgive himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the tears away, sucking in an uneven breath. He sensed Brennan still there, watching.
“And we are grateful,” Brennan said at last, voice soft and nearly paternalistic, “but we never asked you to do any of that.”
“Right. Because you couldn’t ask me. You had to keep your distance from it. But you knew what I was planning, and you didn’t try to stop me.”
When Noam opened his eyes again, Brennan looked tired, dragging one hand back through his hair and avoiding Noam’s gaze. “If you regret what you did...”
“That’s not what I said. I don’t regret it.” Only that wasn’t true, not entirely. Noam had done it for the cause, but he’d also done it to prove to his father—and to Brennan—that he could help, that he was good for something. And now being a witching erased all that.
Noam’s legs ached with the need to get to his feet. To pace around this tiny office. He stayed where he was.
“I’m telling you I want to do more. I’m telling you Icando more, and all you can say is that you don’t want my help anymore now that I’m not working two jobs and practically living on the street.”
“You do have certain privileges now—”
“My father isdead!”
And Noam was on his feet after all, dizzy with the rush of blood away from his head and his veins burning. It was hard to breathe, like he’d plunged underwater and given up on air.
Brennan watched him in silence, eyes dark and unreadable even in the office fluorescence.
Whatever else Noam had planned to say was gone. All his thoughts were white noise. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the office chair and slung it over his arm, stalking past Brennan and slamming the door behind him.
Out on the street he only felt worse, anger exposed under the bright sunlight and impossible to avoid. This had been his life. This had been his life, his father’s life, and now it meant nothing.
Noam had magic. He was one ofthemnow.
Noam meant to go back to the government complex, but in his foggy rage, that wasn’t where he ended up.
He found himself ducking under red quarantine tape instead, stepping off the sidewalk and onto a softer ground of black ash. Soot plumed underfoot, a cloud of it that tasted like charcoal and made him cough. Once upon a time, this street had teemed with people, street carts selling candied plums and pulled-pork sandwiches, kids playing, families on their way to church.
All those buildings, the street carts, the children and families—all just dust in Noam’s mouth.
It didn’t matter what Brennan said.
Noam thought about his father, draped over that useless chair and refusing to speak. There was medicine that might have made him better if they’d been able to consistently afford it.
Noam could still see the sign in the pharmacy.NOPAPERS,NOPILLS!!
When they were rounding up people to take to refugee camps, his father had fit perfectly into the cabinet beneath the sink, thin and frail as a moth.
Noam looked out at his ruined neighborhood. He exhaled soot and bone.
He’d break into the government complex. He’d find out what Chancellor Sacha was planning next, and he’d bring it to Brennan. He’d prove what side he was really on. And then.
And then.
