By Stewards standards, I’m not all that skilled, but I’ve learned enough in the last few weeks that I am certain I can put on a decent demonstration. “Fine. If you back up, Atlas and I can spar for you,” I say, pulling off my hat.
“I don’t want you to fight him.” The kid smiles. “I want to see you fight her.” He points to a woman in her early twenties standing in the back of the room. She is solidly built and only an inch or two over my height, but holds herself as if she is at least a foot taller. Her brown-and-blond-streaked hair is pulled into a high ponytail. Long gold hoops dangle at her ears. Anger gleams bright in her eyes.
“We’re not here to fight,” Atlas says.
“Because Stewards don’t fight,” Hooped-Earring Girl snaps, weaving around the couches until she comes to stand in front of me. Now that she is up close and personal, I’m certain she could kick my ass, and her predatory smile says she knows it, too. “Stewards hide.”
Atlas shifts, but I shake my head. “I’ve got to do this,” I whisper. Atlas is bigger. Stronger. The one they expect to fight.
For a heartbeat of a moment, I’m transported deep in the Lyceum standing in front of Spine. She mopped the floor with me, and didn’t give me warning before doing it. With her in my mind, I jab at Hoop Girl’s face. Everyone gasps. As I’d hoped, instinct causes her to jerk back. Her balance shifts just enough that when I hook my leg around hers and pull, I send her to the ground in a less-than-graceful heap.
“She took down Joy!” rings above the other shouts of outrage, excitement, or both.
The girl’s name is Joy? The girl scrambling to her feet doesn’t look all that joyful to me. In fact, she looks seriously pissed. She faces me again, then snarls and curls her hands into fists.
Atlas and Dewey have drilled me on a lot of fighting techniques. The first is never be where your attacker thinks you’ll be. Which is why when Joy puts all her weight behind her punch, I dart out of the way. She yelps and sails through the empty space I vacated, then crashes into the wall next to the stairs. If Joy were a Marshal, I’d use the opportunity to do the smart thing and run. But there’s no running now. Instead, I shift my weight to the balls of my feet while Joy grunts, shoves away from the wall, and comes at me again.
I dive to the side, but not before Joy’s attack glances off my ear. Head ringing, I dive to the cold, hard concrete floor.
“Enough!” Stef calls. “This isn’t playtime.”
There are snickers. A few mentions of Joy being in trouble before a pair of scuffed running shoes come into view, followed by Atlas’s hand. I take it, let him haul me to my feet. Joy has retreated to the far side of the basement, alone. Face flushed, she stands with her arms crossed over her chest, watching me with narrowed eyes.
“This is a waste of time,” Atlas says into my ear. “Come on.” He takes my hand and turns toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” the girl with the long braids demands. One by one the others in the room fall silent. “Stef said you wanted our help.”
Atlas grabs the stair rail. “We made a mistake.”
“Why?” the girl yells. “Because Joy doesn’t like you?”
“Joy doesn’t worry me,” Atlas says.
“Then why are you leaving?”
Atlas runs a hand over his short-cropped hair and turns. “How old are you?”
She lifts her chin. “Fifteen.”
“And you?” He looks down at a wisp of a girl with almost colorless hair and skin that I am certain would turn an angry crimson if she ever spent more than a few minutes in direct sunlight.
“Thirteen.”
He shakes his head and looks at me. “That’s why we’re leaving.”
“We’re not good enough for the Stewards?” one of the twins asks.
“They think we’re too young,” the other sneers.
“No,” Atlas shoots back, then sighs. “Look, it’s just . . . your age means we can’t in good conscience ask for your help. It’s too dangerous.”
“And what we’ve been doing is safe?” the girl with the braids snaps. “Tell that to my uncle. Or to Ari’s cousin. Or Stef’s boyfriend.”
When I blink my surprise the girl looks over at Stef and asks, “Do the Stewards even know what we’ve been doing? Do they even care?”
Stef waits as bands of silence stretch tighter with each passing second.
Finally, I break the silence. “I don’t think most of the Stewards do know who you are or what you have been doing. Do you?” I look to Atlas.
Ari turns to Stef. “You said they knew about our hacking into government systems and the code we’ve been working on to keep them from locating people who are discussing the truth online. You said they had a plan that could help stop the government from taking our friends and family.”
“We do have a plan,” I say. “And we are going to stop them.”
“Merriam.” Atlas places a hand on my arm. “This isn’t what we expected.”
“No, it isn’t,” I admit. “But I wasn’t what you thought I would be, either.”
I turn back to look at the faces scattered throughout the room as something clicks into place.
Yes, a bunch of them are younger than me. Yes, I hate the idea that what I’m asking will put them directly in harm’s way. But I was being watched by the Marshals before I saw the faded ink of the word “verify” on the Stewards’ rain-soaked page. I was already in harm’s way long before Atlas decided to give me the “train ticket” and take me to the Lyceum. I just didn’t know it. My mother never told me the truth. No doubt she believed she was protecting me, but I never had the chance to learn what she knew. Because it was too late. She died. Murdered by the government I was taught to put my faith in.
Being unaware of the truth didn’t mean I was unaffected by the consequences of the lies that surrounded me. It simply kept me from making my own decisions about how I wanted to deal with it.
“I didn’t know about the missing words—the parts of history they took away—until a few days before I saw the Marshals go after Stef. Atlas taught me the meaning of the word ‘verify’ and introduced me to the Stewards. If you asked most of them, I doubt any would say I belonged with them. They thought I was like you.” I turn toward Atlas. “The Stewards believed I was too young, too.”
He steps to the floor beside me. “Meri. You can’t be okay with putting these kids in danger.”
“I’m not,” I snap. Whispers echo through the basement. “I had the same reaction you did when I came down those stairs. But they’ll be in danger whether they help us or not. So, if they want to fight with us to change the world for the better, who are we to tell them no?”
Atlas looks from me to the faces scattered throughout the basement. His eyes shine dark and hot. Desperate for an answer of glistening white. One that absolves him. But the truth is never that clean. As far as I can tell it’s always made of shades of gray.
“The Stewards weren’t wrong to want to keep me safe,” I say quietly. “They were just mistaken to think I was ever safe in the first place. Or that they had the right to choose whether I should have the chance to fight for my future.”