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Archer
TROIKA
From: L_N_3/19.1.1
To: A_P_5/23.43.2
Subject: Poem, Among Other Things
I didn’t fail with her, puppy, I cleared the way for you. There’s a difference. Want to succeed? Learn it.
Expect a Shell at 0800. Just don’t expect yours. I’ve selected one from GenPop. And before you reply with your typical flare—General Population? Are you kidding me (dramatic pause for effect), sir?—save your fingers the trouble of typing. I’m not sending what you want. I’m sending what you need. You may thank me later.
Also, in regards to the poem. Miss Lockwood understands there are two sides to every story. Why don’t you? Do yourself a favor and read the poem again. This time, start at the bottom and work your way up.
And, Mr. Prince, the fact that I have to tell you what’s so special about this girl means I need to schedule you for an emergency jackhammer to the brain. Do yourself a favor and pay attention to the pearls I’m about to throw. Light. Conduit. Loss...darkness.
Oh, and here’s a good one: Moron. Again, offense intended.
TROIKA
From: A_P_5/23.43.2
To: L_N_3/19.1.1
Subject: Four Things
1) Sir Dude. I don’t want to point out your obvious lack of intelligence, but Tenley Lockwood can’t be a Conduit. Given your advanced age, you’ve clearly forgotten Conduits are raised by Troikan parents. They are the most loyal among us, from beginning to end.
2) And okay, okay. I read the poem from bottom to top, so I get your “two sides” theory. That doesn’t mean the poem is any good. It doesn’t rhyme.
3) The Shell arrived, and I honestly I think hate you. I’m pure male aggression, and you expect me to pass for a chick? As if anyone will be dumb enough to believe such a farce.
4) Myriad sent Killian. I’ve seen him skulking around in the shadows, watching the girl. Permission to slaughter?
TROIKA
From: L_N_3/19.1.1
To: A_P_5/23.43.2
Subject: Permission Gr... Denied! (Admit it. Your little-girl heart skipped a beat.)
You know our laws as well as I do. And what is at the heart of our second-most-important decree? Personal vendettas must be set aside for the good of the people. You are one of our people.
Do your job. Nothing else matters.
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: My New Assignment
Hot and crazy, just the way I like ’em. Consider Tenley Lockwood bagged and tagged.
Might Equals Right!
Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: Show Some Respect!
You will speak of the girl with deference, or you won’t speak of her at all.
I’m already close to pulling you from this assignment, Mr. Flynn. In fact, I have no idea why I allowed the Generals to convince me you can do what no one else has managed to do. You’re too young, and your methods for success have always been inappropriate. But not this time! Persuade the girl to make covenant with us, but keep your pants zipped while you do it. And do not fail. We need her.
Might Equals Right!
Madame Pearl Bennett
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: Fail? Not in This Lifetime <—See What I Did There?
You’ve never cared about my methods before, only the end result. What’s changed? What’s so important about this girl? If you’ve got inside info, do me a solid and share with the rest of the class.
And just so you know, we don’t need anyone. We’ve never been stronger, and we outnumber the Troikans two to one. Also, this girl is basically an “it.” When she dies, she’ll just be one more cog in our wheel. But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll sign her—my way. I always do.
In other news, Troika sent Archer. I’m going to cut off his limbs and beat him to Second-death with them.
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: NO!
Control your temper until you’ve signed the girl. Afterward, I’ll use my highest pair of heels to pin Archer down, and you can flay his skin to wear as a coat, if that’s what you desire. Have I made myself clear? Do not engage. Not yet!
And the girl is so much more than an “it” and a “cog.” Everyone is! But this girl...one day, she’ll be your boss. She’ll be both our bosses. If I were you, I’d be careful how I treated her.
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: Sorry, but You’re NOT Me
What you are? Too cute. Imagine me wincing in embarrassment for you as I say: I don’t actually care about your permission. Consider my last message an FYI.
And you know better than most I treat my bosses the same way I treat everyone else. If you don’t like it, Madame, you can absolutely reassign me. I have nothing to lose. I’m guessing you have plenty.
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: Nothing to Lose?
How about something to gain? Sign the girl, and I’ll give you what you’ve always wanted. Your mother’s name and where to find her.
I’ve been told history is written by survivors,
but I know that isn’t always true.
My name is Tenley Lockwood and very soon, I’ll be dead.
This is my story—but my end is only the beginning.
chapter one (#ulink_9350215c-9cb9-5562-8e45-9ecc70e115a5)
“You are better off Unsigned than a slave to Troikan law.”
—Myriad
I’ve been locked inside the Prynne Asylum—where happiness comes to die—for three hundred and seventy-eight days. (Or nine thousand and seventy-two hours.) I know the exact time frame, not because I watched the sun rise and set in the sky, but because I mark my walls in blood every time the lights in the good-girls-gone-bad wing of the facility turn on.
There are no windows in the building. At least, none that I’ve found. And I’ve never been allowed outside. None of the inmates have. To be honest, I don’t even know what country we’re in, or if we’re buried far underground. Before being flown, driven, shipped or dropped here, we were heavily sedated. Wherever we are, though, it’s bone-deep cold beyond the walls. Every day, hour, second, our air is heated.
I’ve heard friends and enemies alike ask the staff for details, but the response has always been the same. Answers have to be earned.
No, thanks. For me, the price—cooperation—is simply too high.
With a wince, I rise from bed and make my way to the far corner of my cell. Every step is agony. My back hates me, but the muscles are too sore to go on strike. Last night I was caned just because.
I stop in front of my pride and joy. My calendar. A new day means a new mark.
I have no chalk, no pen or marker, so I drive the tip of an index finger over a jagged stone protruding from the floor, slicing through the flesh and drawing a well of blood.
I hate the sting, but if I’m honest, I’ll love the scar it leaves behind. My scars give me something to count.
Counting is my passion, and numerology my favorite addiction. Maybe because every breath we take is another tick on our clock, putting us one step closer to death...and a new beginning. Maybe because my name is Tenley—Ten to my friends.
Ten, a representation of completion.
We have ten fingers and ten toes. Ten is the standard beginning for any countdown.
I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m. And, okay. All right. Maybe I’m obsessed with numbers because they always tell a story and unlike people, they never lie.
Here’s my story in a nutshell:
Seventeen—the number of years I’ve existed. In my case, lived is too strong a word.
One—the number of boys I’ve dated.
Two—the number of friends I’ve made and lost since my incarceration.
Two—the number of lives I’ll live. The number of lives we’ll all live.
Our Firstlife, then our Everlife.
Two—the number of choices I have for my eternal future.
(1) Do as my parents command or (2) suffer.
I’ve chosen to suffer.
I use the blood to create another mark on the stones. Satisfied, I head to the “bathroom.” There are no doors to provide even a modicum of privacy, just a small, open shower stall next to a toilet. For our safety, we’re told. For the amusement of others, I suspect. All cells are monitored 24/7, which means at any given time during any given day, staff members are allowed and even encouraged to watch live camera feed.
Dr. Vans, the head of the asylum, likes to taunt us. I see and know everything.
A good portion of teachers scold us. Time waster!
Orderlies belittle us. Put on a little weight, haven’t we?
Most of the guards leer at us. They hail from all over the world, and though their language varies, their sentiment is always the same. You are begging for it and one day I’ll give it.
Just some of the many perks offered chez Prynne.
Not everyone is horrible, I admit. A small handful even strive to keep the others from going too far. But it’s no secret every staff member is paid to make us hate our stay, to make us want to leave more than anything. Because, the more we want to leave, the more likely we are to do whatever our parents sent us here to do.
My friend Marlowe dared to pawn her mother’s jewelry to buy groceries, and she needed help with her “kleptomania.” My friend Clay, a drug addict, needed to get clean.
The institution failed them both. A few months ago, Marlowe killed herself, and Clay... I don’t know what happened to him. He planned an escape, and I haven’t heard from him since.
