I can’t stop staring at the massive New America flag inked onto my forearm. It’s a reminder of many things, none of which are good.
The flag I knew growing up is no more. It’s been replaced by a flag that represents authoritarianism, patriarchy, and destruction. I did nothing to stop any of it. The regime this flag belongs to forced Briar into a marriage where she was sexuallyassaulted repeatedly, and then they branded her hands with blackXmarks to tell the world she defied them.
Her tattoos are nothing to be ashamed of. They show she refused to be used. And even though I had to get the fresh ink on my left forearm, I don’t like what it shows. Even if it is a lie.
“It looks great on you,” Tyrone says for the third time in the past hour.
“Thanks.”
He made small talk with the tattooist, Moses. It saved me from having to do it, but left me with nothing to do but watch in silent horror as Whitman’s flag was permanently drawn on my skin.
That was on the heels of meeting a version of myself who looks like a baby, but is actually much older. 6D17 has dark hair and was just ... off. He was listless and seemed unaware of his surroundings.
At least now I can get the fuck out of here. Tyrone is driving me back to my sub at the dry docks.
“I want to show you our statue of the president,” Tyrone says, turning down a narrow lane.
I’d love to piss all over that statue, but instead I smile and say, “Great.”
The lane turns into a narrow alleyway between two buildings, and Tyrone makes a sudden, sharp turn into an opening in one of the buildings. When I look at him, he has a finger over his lips, telling me to stay quiet.
We’re in an empty room with a concrete floor. There are floor cabinets lining the large space, some with toolboxes on the counters. New tires of all sizes line shelves and there are several vehicle lifts. It must be a vehicle maintenance area.
He puts the vehicle in park and a woman approaches us, passing him something and then leaving quickly. It looks metaland it’s about the size of an ink pen. Tyrone looks at his watch and pushes a button on top of the pen thing.
“This is a jammer,” he says softly. “We have about three minutes. Olin contacted me when you were on the way here. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to break my cover until now. I’m ILF. Olin said I can trust you. Can I?”
I nod, floored. Tyrone played the role of Whitman disciple so convincingly that I never doubted him.
“We have people undercover on all the islands but one,” Tyrone says. “Olin has never contacted any of us, but he asked me to keep you safe. You didn’t really need me, though. What questions can I answer for you?”
It’s already been thirty seconds, and I have dozens of questions. I spit out the first one that comes to mind.
“How many islands are there?”
“There were originally nine. One island was contaminated, so it’s quarantined now.”
“Is the ILF winning the fight?”
He pinches his brows together. “From what I know, it’s more of a draw. We get a win, they get a win. But we deliberately keep intelligence only within certain cells. The fewer of us who know everything, the better.”
“I need to get people off my island. There are a lot of us.”
“How many people are on your island in total?”
“Ballpark, like four hundred. And more than a hundred to evacuate.”
“You’re on Island Seven. We hardly know anything about that one, just that there was a rebellion and the New America leadership is letting it play out to see what happens.”
My lips part with surprise. “They know?”
“They want to see if the experimental subjects can take over on their own before they send anyone in. What else can you tell me quickly?”
“Uh ... there are children. A lot of them. Aromium makes people want to fuck, and then they have children whose aromium is inherent and can never be turned off. It makes it more powerful.”
“What else does aromium do?”
“It makes people a lot stronger and faster. Increases irritability in lots of people. Makes them need less food and sleep.”
