Page 65

Some part of me thought that nothing would come up. That I’d wasted my time, risked everything for nothing, and that my hunch—that this archive held all military records for all connected compounds—would prove to be incorrect.

But a second later, the computer populated a long list of mentions of my father’s name, across hundreds of documents. A quick scroll through the top fifty or so told me they were useless. My father had been a general, so his name appeared often in documents during his career with no relevance to the subject at hand. Frustrated again, I navigated back to the main page and stared at the screen, willing it to show me where to go or what to do.

I decided to explore idly for a few minutes, just learning where various links took me. I ended up finding a page called Penalties, which linked to people’s sentencing documents for various crimes. They were petty things like minor theft or vandalism, for the most part, as most crimes more serious than that came with the risk of the death penalty in the compounds, and our lives were carefully controlled to eliminate the temptations of criminality…or so we were told.

And then I saw it.

A link near the bottom that read Executions. My stomach dipped, and bile burned my throat as I navigated down the page.

When I opened it, a database appeared with dozens of video files.

They filmed them, I thought, dread pooling in my belly. So many of them.

At the top of the page, there was a search bar, along with filters for the year, for the type of execution—firing squad, lethal injection, and more—and for the crime committed. The files themselves were labeled with the date, the location, and what seemed to be the surname of the deceased; I passed over a video titled 10.10.2091, Site 11, Mason.

This goes back decades, I realized with horror. And the ‘sites’ are the compounds. This is a central database with executions from all the compounds, not just the Delta. That’s why there are so many.

My heart was pounding in my ears, and my hands trembled as I navigated to the search bar and typed in ‘Ainsley.’ Part of me didn’t believe he would be there. Part of me still desperately wanted to believe he’d died out on patrol, killed by Wastelanders, like I’d always been told.

But of course, he was there. 21.08.2084, Site 2, Ainsley. The type of execution was simply labeled as X, and I suddenly recalled the strange X that Neil claimed he discovered on my father’s death certificate, along with dozens of others just like it. A symbol he could find no explanation for.

For a moment, I just stared at the screen, unable to process that they’d filmed my father’s death and preserved it here, in their archives, for fifteen years. For the first time, I was looking at proof of the ugly, agonizing truth I’d always known, deep down: he didn’t die out there in the Wasteland. This video was perhaps the only surviving evidence.

How could I watch it? How could I not?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the file, my heart pounding in my ears. Immediately, a video player popped up and started playing. My father, hair and beard the same red as mine, immediately came into frame, and I frowned.

I’d been expecting that he’d be standing against a wall for a firing squad, or lying on a table for a lethal injection. Instead, he was standing, hands bound in front of him, in a sterile-looking white laboratory, next to a silver pod. The pod was about the length of a person, with a viewing window on top, and there was a second, identical pod across from it, facing the opposite direction. A wide, floor-to-ceiling post stood between the two pods, with a touchscreen on its face and, below that, a hollow space that held four empty syringes, all connected to the strange machine. Both pods had a mass of wires leading from them to a desk that held several different consoles, the screens not visible to the camera.

There were two people—a man and a woman—monitoring the consoles, wearing white coats. Two men in military uniform stood on either side of my father, guns in hand, presumably guarding him. My father stood there silently between them, but his green eyes were full of fire. I’d never seen that expression on his face: pure rage and anguish…but no fear.

I couldn’t say I felt the same, seeing him there. Even knowing the outcome, I was terrified for him. What had these people done to him? What was this strange place, and why was he killed there?

A door on the far wall opened, and my stomach twisted as Julius, looking exactly as he had on the day I’d met him, strolled in holding a clipboard. His gait was leisurely, unhurried, and his face pulled back into a grim, malicious little smile when he met my father’s eye. To his credit, my father didn’t flinch. He pinned Julius with a seething anger that would’ve certainly cowed me, but Julius merely quirked an eyebrow.

Julius’s previous words came back to me all of a sudden, haunting and horrifying: I only met him once.

He’d met my father for the first time at his execution. He didn’t know my father and never had. That was something he’d said to string me along. In truth, Julius was only there to see to his death.

“Major-General Brandon Ainsley,” Julius said silkily, his voice deceptively amiable as he lowered his eyes to his clipboard. I recognized now how he spoke softly when he was at his most dangerous. “You’re here because you’ve been accused of high treason, fomenting insurrection, and the theft of highly classified information.”

“I suppose this is what passes for a trial in this hellhole,” my father replied, his voice dripping with derision. Nothing like the warm, kind father I’d known. “You must be Julius.”

Julius raised an eyebrow at his name. “Do you deny the charges, Major-General?”

My father gave a harsh, angry laugh. “When every person in this compound knows what you’ve done—what you’ve all done, all this time—remember that it was me who discovered your secret. Who exposed you.”

My blood chilled. What was he referring to?

Julius smiled coldly. “Ah, yes, about that. We’ve discovered your little underground network—Starlings, I believe you call them?—and have eliminated them. Each and every one. You’re the last left alive.”

For the first time, my father paled, and my heart hurt as despair seeped into the cracks of his furious façade.

“So, I’m your last loose end,” my father said, and he suddenly sounded very tired. “Enough, then. Do what we both know you will.”

Julius chuckled.

“No grand final speech, Major-General?” he taunted, and I’d never hated anyone so much in my entire life—not even Jim J. “No last stand? I’m surprised. You have a wife and two little girls to be worried about.”