Broken Wide Read online

  She smiles more. “Do I have a reason to be jealous?”

  “None whatsoever.” I’m desperate to link into her head, but I need an invitation. Not strictly speaking—the most powerful jackers in Jackertown can’t keep me out, and Tessa’s just a reader—but I would never do anything without her permission. And besides, I need more than just her thoughts. I want an invite into her life. Now, and if the world doesn’t break completely, for the long haul. “But admit it. You’re jealous. That’s why you don’t want me to link in.”

  The smile dims. “I’m worried about you, Zeph.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me.” But I know it’s a mistake when I say it.

  I can feel her the sudden tension in her hand. “You promised no more lies.” Lying isn’t something mindreaders do—most, anyway. Although Juliette’s becoming a pro at deceiving her father. But in general, the art of lying washed away with the advent of mindreading a hundred years ago, and now even the tiniest white lie is unnatural. Immoral. At the very least, suspect.

  “No, you’re right. No more lies.” I swallow. Even now, I haven’t told Tessa everything—just what was safe for her to know. “The truth is that it’s dangerous to go back to Tiller. He’s a powerful man, and he’s got a special torture chamber just for jackers.”

  The alarm shoots up on her face.

  “But…I’m not going to get caught,” I rush out. “And I know more powerful people than him, surprisingly enough. Plus getting in with Tiller again may be the only way to find my dad.”

  “I know.” Her panicked expression has subsided a little. “I just don’t want you to go off and… disappear. Or end up in some alley in Chicago.”

  A purity killing. “Hey.” I squeeze her hand. “It’ll take a lot more than some jackhole Fronters to take me out.” Which, strictly speaking, is not true. I’m as susceptible to bullets as the next guy. “And once Juliette and I bring down her father, or at least find my dad, I fully plan to come home again.”

  A whisper of that smile is back. “Home?”

  “With you.” This is the real pitch. The one I’m praying she won’t say no to. “If you want a jacker for a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t.”

  My heart is legit having an attack. But she’s smiling and reaching up to hold my cheek, so I’m frozen in confusion.

  “Link in, you dork,” she says.

  “Only my sister gets to call me that,” I breathe. Then I link into her mind. Her light wildflower mindscent fills the back of my throat, and her thoughts swirl with happiness, tinged with sour worry.

  There’s only one jacker I want for a boyfriend, she thinks with a smirk.

  Tell me who it is. I’ll take them out so I can be next in line. I pull her close.

  I don’t believe in violence. She scowls, but her thoughts are glowing. This… this is what I love about loving a reader. You don’t have to wonder. It’s all right there. Tessa has always been an open book, even for a reader—starry-eyed and altruistic and just shining brighter than anyone around her. Feeling that glow aimed at me… if I were a reader, the touch of our hands would show exactly how that makes me feel. No clumsy words. No misunderstandings. Just my love for her, and how it keeps catching me off guard, like an untrammeled daisy in a war zone.

  Instead, I link the most honest thought I have. When this is all settled, I don’t want to be anywhere but with you.

  Her surge of emotion—an electric wave of hope—pulls me right into her kiss. The feel of her lips, the hot burn of her thoughts… even if I’m not a reader, even if I can’t share that touch intimacy with her… this is who we are. This is how we fit together. Tessa pressed against me, my mind linked into hers. It’s everything I want in this world. If it were up to me, we’d spend all our time tangling thoughts and lips and other body parts.

  No one has a right to tell us we can’t have this.

  A murmur rises in the Mediation Center outside the closet door.

  I ignore it, but it grabs Tessa’s attention. She pulls back and twists, then frowns. Then I see it, too, through the cracked-open door—someone has put a tru-cast up on the screen behind the stage. Kira, Anna, and everyone else in the room are staring at a giant, animated image of President Torquin.

  Tessa’s already halfway out the door, so I join her on the floor, where everyone is keeping quiet, eyes glued to the screen. Someone jacks in to turn up the volume—Torquin’s speaking out loud, not using a thought-wave mic.

  “—and we have to realize that our way of life is under attack.” The president is tall with tru-cast-ready good looks. His brown hair is stylish even under his anti-jacker helmet. He doesn’t look like someone who would assassinate his own running mate, but Wright is taking directions from someone. Not that I have any evidence, but I don’t think it stops with the Secretary of Defense. Torquin’s certainly making the most of it.

  He straightens behind his podium and taps his helmet. “There was a time when the President of the United States didn’t have to wear a helmet just to appear before the good people of this country. A time when we knew everyone’s mind because our minds were open. Honest. There was no lying. No secrets. Now we don’t know who we can trust.” He gives a grave look straight into the camera. “As I mentioned last week, I’m working on a partnership between the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and manufacturers to produce free helmets for every mindreading citizen in the country.”

  DARPA. Just hearing him say the name is making me flinch.

  Torquin keeps talking. “My paramount concern is keeping every reader safe from the predations of the jackers among us. But that’s only a temporary measure. Forcing everyone into a helmet is imprisoning the wrong people. You know what I mean. You never have to worry about readers, do you? They’re not the ones terrorizing the populace. Attacking our leaders. Infiltrating our families. They’re putting more inhibitors in the water every day, just to increase their numbers.”

  My mouth hangs open, and I flick a look to Major John Scott, but he’s busy giving stony looks to the screen. I know for a fact that DARPA is the one putting inhibitors in the water—because Scott was the one putting them there.

  “Soon, they’re going to overrun us,” Torquin is saying. “We have to do something about the jacker problem before it’s too late. And as long as jackers are hunting readers, there can be no peace in our country.”

  Hunting readers? Unbelievable. If anything, jackers are the ones being hunted. The angry muttering around the room muffles the next few words. Then the crowd quickly settles.

  Torquin continues, “—so I’m offering my support for the protestors today at Jackertown. They’re good people who understand the stakes. The newly elected Senator of Illinois, Mac Simpson, and I are both calling on the Governor to do something about Jackertown. That menace on your streets should not be tolerated. And, sir, if you do not do something, I promise you—I will.”

  A chorus of curses rises up. Someone mutes the screen. Torquin jabbers on silently. Tessa’s hands are clenched at her sides.

  Kira’s hands are up, trying to quiet the crowd. “Everyone, please. There’s no need to panic.”

  “He’s talking about the National Guard!” someone in the crowd shouts.

  “I know.” Kira lowers her hands as people quiet down. “But the last time Governor Rancin deployed the National Guard, he was under the jack control of Senator Vellus—and he’s dead now. The governor has increased his security. He’s not going to deploy the National Guard just because Torquin wants him to.”

  A muttering rises up again.

  “Then Torquin will do it for him,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the noise. I step forward, in front of Tessa and out into the crowd. Scott’s giving me a wary look from the middle of the room, but Hinckley’s nodding encouragement my way. “Look, I don’t want the National Guard to get called out, but if we don’t show some resistance to this “protest” by the Fronters, Torquin will happily roll out the troops.” If I’m right about
him—that he had a hand in the assassination of the president—he won’t hesitate to deploy troops against jackers. Not when his entire rise to power is about the “jacker threat.”

  I swing my gaze back to Tessa and reach out a hand. She quickly comes forward. With her by my side, I turn back to Kira, who’s scowling at me from across the room. “The Free Thinkers are our best hope. We need to show that it’s not just jackers against readers—that some readers want peace just as much as we do. If the Free Thinkers are willing to stand up to the jackholes at the edge of Jackertown, we should have their backs. It’s not right for the JFA to stand by and let them get hurt.” Tessa’s beaming at me, which makes this all the easier. To the assembled military strength of the JFA, I say, “I’m going. Who’s with me?”

  There’s a breakout of chatter, but it’s not really a question. I can see it in their eyes. Hinckley gets a nod from Anna up on stage, and he immediately sets to work, calling out names and organizing. Kira glares at me then marches off stage, disappearing out the rear door. I probably just made an enemy—but this is the best hope we have.

  Tessa’s smile is half question. “Do you really think this will work?”

  I shrug. “Non-violence, right? That’s what you want.” I don’t want her giving up on her ideals—not now. Not when she needs them most.

  She nods.

  “Then I’m going to make sure it stays that way.” I catch Scott’s eye, and he lifts his chin for me to come over. I’m sure the military arm of the JFA can hook me up with weapons.

  I’ll need something besides my mental skills to keep the peace.

  I slip a Second Skin mask over my face.

  The black fabric is breathable and weightless but one-way in a visual sense. Which is necessary if I don’t want to show up on a tru-cast. Several of the JFA are likewise wearing masks, so I don’t stand out. The Free Thinkers are all bare-faced for the cameras.

  “I can’t see your features at all,” Tessa confirms as she slides her white armband over her long-sleeved black t-shirt. We’re marching in a loose formation, jackers in front and flanking both sides, Free Thinkers in the protected middle. Tessa’s keeping pace with me toward the front of the group.

  I nod. “Stick close to me.” Then I link into her head. Don’t want to lose you to some other black-masked jacker.

  She flashes a grin and replays our hot kiss in the closet. Three of the closest Free Thinkers slide us sideways glances and snicker.

  Tessa can’t see the look I’m giving her, so I just link, We need to discuss the meaning of the word private.

  No such thing. She smirks and then turns forward, attempting to get serious. But I’m staying in her head through this whole thing, so I’m privy to her thoughts. They’re a weird mix of pride and embarrassment—as if she can’t contain her feelings for me and doesn’t want to. Which in turn makes my insides feel somewhat liquefied.

  I would do anything for this girl.

  Which is why I’m marching out to meet a bunch of hostile Fronters—something that’s probably not wise, but definitely necessary. At least, if I want there to be a future for readers and jackers, like Tessa and me.

  We’re almost to the perimeter of Jackertown. All the jackers who live at the edges have already relocated. At the end of the street, still a couple hundred feet away, the Fronters are clad in black body armor and camouflage, waving their hate above their heads—a small, sign-carrying army. I can’t read the words at this distance except for the holo signs projected from their headbands, which drench their faces in red light with the word PURITY stamped across in black. The holo signs leave their hands free for weapons, including clubs that look like raw lumber.

  “No purity, no peace!” Their chants aren’t just for us—they’re for the camera drones. The Fronters have helmets, so the cameras must be using regular mics, not the thought-wave kind. And the Fronters want to be heard—their whole objective is to instill fear. Behind the scenes, they’re killing jackers outright, but on the tru-casts, they’re all about terrorizing the public with the “jacker menace.” Which is why we’re bringing a bunch of peace-and-love college students to the protest—with jacker bodyguards to keep everyone safe.

  Other than the hate parade we will meet, it’s a beautiful day. Sun high in the sky, not a cloud, just the wisp of haze that settles over the city when the humidity picks up. It’s not even hot under my mask, but there’s a faint smell of smoke that keeps drifting by.

  The plan is we march up, the JFA holds the line, the Free Thinkers chant their slogans for the cameras, and we leave. Short, sweet, peaceful and done. I worked several concessions out of both the JFA and the Free Thinkers. 1—I get to bodyguard Tessa personally. She’s their leader, and that just wasn’t negotiable for me. 2—JFA comes armed with only dart guns. No sense in making it easy for people to get killed. And 3—We keep it short. My concession was letting the Free Thinkers go without helmets. The Fronters are anti-jacker after all, and the risk of the Free Thinkers getting jacked is admittedly small. But the guy who assassinated Julian was a jacker, so who knows. He was completely demens, but he was both a jacker and a Fronter. Major John Scott said he’d known Jackson—they were in the same unspecified military program together—so it seems like the Fronters are targeting ex-military jackers. Again, makes no sense but there it is.

  Neglecting something strange popping up, all should go well. The Free Thinkers will get their message across—that there are readers who support jackers—and we all go home. Well, the Fronters can stay if they like, and I’m going undercover with Juliette, trying to get back into her father’s estate, but the rest of them can return to the safety of Jackertown. Or in Tessa’s case, Aaliyah’s house or back to school. Northwestern is out for the summer, but she’s still taking classes. Democracy and Its Critics and Modern Political Theory: Mindreading and Second Wave Liberty. Because my girl is crazy smart besides being an activist for jackers and a seriously excellent kisser.

  Now that we’re nearing the perimeter, the Fronters break their chant to throw taunts down the broken-pavement street. Long ago, this part of the city was abandoned—everyone was searching for an escape from their mindreading neighbors, so Chicago sprawled out and became Chicago New Metro. I don’t know how long it took for jackers to pop up, but Julian drew them in, building Jackertown and his revolution in the abandoned ring between downtown and the suburbs. When Kira put the inhibitors in the water and created new super jackers, the population grew, taking over neglected apartments, resurrecting old shops, bringing a dead part of the city back to life. Which is not okay with the Fronters—jackers merely existing is an affront to them.

  As we get closer, the words on their signs make that clear. Abomination! Quarantine Jackers Now! Jackers out of our families! Purity and Truth! Jackers are a disease… We’re the cure. The curses they’re hurling are less eloquent. And the guns they’ve got strapped to their sides whisper a more serious threat. Pretty sure they’re not packing darts. There’s a couple dozen Fronters pacing the intersection—in the middle is a pile of scrap that looks like broken off pieces from the surrounding run-down buildings. The heap is on fire with flames that reach far over the heads of everyone present—no doubt a fate they hope for all of Jackertown. Past the crackle of the fire, stand a half-dozen Chicago Jack Police. They’re lounging around, watching the spectacle. I didn’t count on the CJPD to keep the Free Thinkers safe—that’s why the JFA is here—but it’s one thing to know the police prefer to incarcerate jackers not protect them, and another thing to see them jeering at a bonfire of pieces of Jackertown.

  A ripple of cursing sloshes through the minds of the Free Thinkers.

  Anna and Hinckley are in the lead of the JFA guard, and they call a halt to the group. Major John Scott isn’t a jacker, but he’s got more military experience than anyone else here, plus he’s got an impenetrable mind, so he’s flanking the group opposite of me. Kira refused to come, but I count that as a good thing—she’s the face of the JFA and a temporar
ily defeated politician. If—and I hope when—all this settles out, and the world is normal again, we need someone who can run for office.

  The Fronters are screaming at us with rage-red faces. They’re bare-faced, just like the Free Thinkers—no Second Skin masks like mine to hide their bigotry. Which is the core of it, really. Bare-faced hatred and bare-faced love. Readers are used to having all their thoughts and emotions out on full display—the good and the ugly. That’s part of why readers fear jackers—not just because we control minds. Because we’re a mystery. Hidden. Untrustworthy. It doesn’t matter how law-abiding or peaceful you are…if you’re a jacker, you’re the boogeyman who haunts readers’ dreams.

  And the Fronters traffick in that nightmare.

  They’re all men with the rough look of those accustomed to violence. I’ve seen it in the Clans—the younger ones are gripped with a lust for it, while the Clan leaders have the stone-cold expressions of those who understand the power violence brings. Both kinds are here—wild-eyed young guns and dead-eyed older ones—and it sends a shiver down my back.

  I know why the Free Thinkers are here—to make a point. That’s all. To protest for the cameras. But these guys… they want more. The wild-eyed ones are eager for a fight, but the more cunning ones…

  I’m starting to regret that we only have dart guns. Anna argued that the JFA should have snipers in place, but I convinced her that would send the wrong message. But getting slaughtered by Fronters would be a non-optimum outcome as well.

  My stomach churns. Being wrong about this isn’t something I can think about right now.

  Both sides have squared off, facing each other across a gulf of about twenty feet of pavement. Camera drones are buzzing so thick, I can hear their steady hum over the one-sided insults. The JFA are silent, and the Free Thinkers are mindtalking—the chatter is close to synching up in Tessa’s mind. Synchrony is a weird thing readers do where they hit some kind of resonance with their thoughts—sort of like singing in harmony, only with thought waves. It’s a democratic thing where every thought gets a vote, but eventually all are subsumed into the final thought-consensus.