Among the Brave

Chapter Twenty-Six

Getting back to the Grants’ old house took only a fraction of the time it’d taken to get to the truck. But the whole time, Trey worried about the noise of the engine; he worried about another mob swamping him. He worried every time he accidentally killed the engine trying to shift gears and had to struggle to restart it. Every time that happened, he knew he was a sitting duck, a perfect target for anyone who might happen along. But nobody appeared.

Maybe the truck noise scares them off Trey tried to tell himself. Maybe it’s good I’m making so much racket.

Between the mob, the smugglers, and the easily fooled Population Police patrol, nothing seemed to fit with the strictly regimented world his parents had always described.

Has everything changed? Trey wondered. Is everything still changing?

He peered into the area illuminated by his headlights as if the air itself might suddenly become different.

Hey, Dad? he thought. There’s no way you could have prepared me for all of this. I know you did the best you could.

The sky was still blessedly dark when Trey pulled up to the gates of the Population Police headquarters. The sentry guarding the gates yawned over Trey’s authorization forms, and barely glanced at Trey.

“Permission granted to proceed,” he mumbled.

Trey drove around to the back, hoping that he could manage not to kill the engine yet again right in front of headquarters. The truck did die a few feet away from the servants’ door, but Trey decided to pretend that he’d parked there on purpose. The guard Mark and Trey had bargained with came rushing over immediately.

“Great!” he said. “Help me get the cage.”

Trey followed him through the door and down a dark hallway toward the basement stairs.

“Why don’t you just unlock the cage and let Mark walk?” Trey asked.

The guard shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said. “Bring me back my friend, and then I’ll give you the key to your friend’s cage.”

“That’s mighty manipulative of you, isn’t it?” Trey joked, though he’d already agreed to that part of the deal.

The guard gave Trey a warning look as they came up to another guard sitting at a desk.

“Hey, Stan,” the first guard said to the second one. “This guy just showed up with authorization to transfer our prisoner out to Nezeree.”

“Huh?” the other guard — Stan? — said. “I thought he was going to be executed at dawn.” He, didn’t sound like he cared. He sounded like Mark’s life didn’t matter any more than a gnat’s or a flea’s.

“Maybe they’re doing the execution out there,” the first guard said with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter to him either.

Stan peered carefully at the authorization papers.

“‘Should we call Commander Bresin and double-check?” he asked.

The first guard shrugged.

“You can if you want. I don’t feel like getting in trouble for waking him up.”

Stan seemed to be deliberating. He looked at the papers again. Trey sincerely hoped that every forged signature looked authentic. Then Stan looked at Trey.

“They let guards dress that sloppy out at Nezeree?” he asked.

Trey was suddenly conscious of the rips in his uniform, the dirt caked on his shoes, the mud streaked across his pants. And when had he lost his cap?

‘Aw, Stan, they’ve got a rough crowd out there in Nezeree. He was trying to subdue one of their prisoners and. .” The first guard shrugged, as if the rest of the explanation should be obvious.

“Remind me not to get transferred out there,” Stan said. He handed two of the papers back to Trey and laid the others down on his desk. “if the documents say our prisoner’s going to be transferred instead of executed, I guess he’s got to go. Need help loading?”

“Thanks, but the two of us can handle it,” the first guard said smoothly.

Trey followed him down the stairs. This time the guard hit the light switch. Mark gasped at first, then grinned when he saw Trey.

“Act like you still think you’re about to die,” the guard whispered.

Mark nodded, then began to flail about in his cage.

“No, no,” he screamed.

“Quietly,” the guard commanded.

Mark switched to making a horrified expression and tugging uselessly on his bars.

“That’s better,” the guard said. He picked up one end of the cage, and Trey took the other. It was a strain, but together they managed to carry the cage up the stairs. The other guard, Stan, stood aside and let them pass.

“You’re signing off on the paperwork on this,” he told the first guard. “I don’t want nobody blaming me for nothing.”

“No problem,” the first guard said. “Why would anybody blame anybody for anything? All the documents are right there."

He and Trey continued carrying Mark on out to the truck. With great effort, they managed to hoist the cage into the truck bed. Too late, Trey thought that he should have faked weakness, forced the guard to let Mark out. But the guard probably wouldn’t have. He probably would have just gotten Stan to help.

The guard handed Trey even more papers.

“These’ll let you pick up my friend. Once the warden at Nezeree signs them, you’ll be authorized to pick up your other friends, too. They’re at the holding camp in Slahood. But I arranged these documents so you can’t get your friends without picking up my friend first If — if you try to double-cross me, in any way, I’ll find out You’ll both be on the most-wanted list. You’ll be shot on sight by any Population Police officer in the country”

“I understand,” Trey said, trying not to think about it.

The guard looked at his watch.

“It’s five thirty-three. The transfer order for picking up your friends expires at ten. Just like we agreed.”

Trey wanted to bargain for another hour or two. What if the officials at Nezeree were slow delivering their prisoner? What if he couldn’t drive fast enough?

“One more thing,” the guard said. “Just to make it look legitimate, I wrote on these documents that all the prisoners you’re transporting are being sent to Churko — the worst prison of all. So… don’t let anyone else take over your delivery job.” He laughed, but without any humor.

“Okay,” Trey said. He slid back into the driver’s seat. His knees were shaking, but he somehow managed to start the truck and shift it into reverse.

“Good luck,” the guard said. He tilted his head to look up at the truck, and his cap slid back on his head. For the first time, Trey got a good look at the guard’s face in the glow from a security light overhead. The guard had kindly eyes that somehow looked familiar. And he was older than Trey had thought. Short gray hair spiked out from under his cap.

“Liber,” Trey whispered.

He thought he’d spoken too softly to be heard over the engine noise. But the guard answered him.

“Free,” he whispered back. “God free us all.”