Page 38

Arden shrugs. “Yeah maybe. But he’s got the kind of anger we can channel. Next, there’s Liora Chen. She runs a free clinic in the lower districts. Half her patients are old resistance fighters from the last rebellion, and she’s patched them up without asking questions.”

“She’s got a family,” I say, glancing at the dataport. “People with something to lose are less likely to take the plunge.”

Arden shoots me a look that’s almost hurt. “We all have something to lose, Myall. That doesn’t make us any less committed.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. She’s right, of course, but it’s easier to believe we’re different, that our sacrifice will mean something.

“Go on,” says Elara, her voice cutting through the tension. She has been silent so far, but when she speaks, it’s like the calm before a storm.

“Right,” Arden says, glancing down at the dataport to check her list. “Jorel Simmons is one of our best bets. He’s a maintenance worker from Sector 7 with access to the maintenance tunnels. If we get him, we’ll have movement through the city, unseen.”

Ziva perks up at the mention of Jorel. “Access to the maintenance tunnels would come in handy.”

I nod in agreement. The maintenance tunnels are a labyrinthine network beneath the city, used for utilities and maintenance. If we had someone with access to those tunnels—it would be invaluable.

“Last one,” Arden says, though her enthusiasm has dimmed. “Tariq Al-Masri. He’s a journalist—well, was a journalist about twenty years ago before The Authority shut down the press. He’s likely got connections and would know how to spread a message.”

“Can we even trust him?” Marcus asks, crossing his arms. “He could be an informant.”

“Everyone could be an informant,” Arden snaps. “These are the people who have already stuck their necks out. They’re the most likely to join us.”

“Or the most likely to be under surveillance,” I say, trying to inject some pragmatism into the increasingly heated debate. “If one of them gets picked up, they could lead The Authority straight to us.”

Elara finally speaks, her voice the calm center of our growing maelstrom. “Every revolution is a gamble. The question is whether we play it safe and accomplish nothing, or take the risks and go all in.”

All eyes turn to me. As the de-facto leader, it’s my call, but the lines of fracture are forming. We’re not even in the thick of it yet, and already we’re divided.

“I think we start by feeling them out,” I say slowly. “See where their loyalties lie, how much they’re willing to risk. We don’t rush this.”

“We need people who are already discontent,” Ziva adds, her eyes sharp and calculating. “Recruiting non believers will be easier and less risky.”

“But non believers are more likely to act rashly,” Marcus counters, tapping his fingers on the table. “We can’t afford hotheads who might blow our cover like that Jarek fellow.”

Arden, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, shrugs. “Every person’s a risk. But sometimes, those risks are what get us the edge we need. If we sit back, we won’t make any progress.”

The room falls silent for a moment as we all absorb her words. I break the silence, my voice steady with the idea that’s forming.

“What if we start by setting up a secure communication network? We could recruit people anonymously, assess their loyalties before bringing them in. Encrypted channels, hidden locations—things that will keep us safer.”

Ziva’s eyes flicker with interest. “I can set that up. I already have an encrypted channel—it just needs some tweaking.”

Marcus leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “How long would it take?”

“A few days, could be less if I can get the right materials,” Ziva replies, her mind already calculating the steps she’ll need to take.

“Encryption is tricky,” I say, cutting in. “The Harmonization Authority has tech light-years ahead of ours. We need to perfect it before we even consider using it.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “What about using old tech? Analog methods? They’re less likely to monitor those.”

“Like what? Carrier pigeons?” Arden scoffs, but I see a hint of interest in her eyes. She’s not entirely dismissive.

“Handwritten notes, perhaps,” Marcus continues, unfazed. “Or landlines, if we can find any still operational. Even runners—people we trust to carry messages directly.”

The room falls silent as we weigh the options. Each method carries its own risks and potential for disaster.

Elara, who has been quietly observing our exchange, leans forward. “You know,” she begins, her voice soft but commanding, “this isn’t the first time people have had to communicate in secret. During the early days of The Authority, we faced similar challenges.”

All eyes turn to her. Even Marcus, who tends to bristle at her nostalgic interjections, listens with a grudging respect.

“We used a mix of methods,” she continues. “Some as simple as code words in public conversations, others as complex as hidden compartments in everyday objects. The key was always trust—in the people delivering the messages and in the methods we used.”

I think about the trust she’s placed in us by letting us meet in her home now that we’ve lost the tech lab. It’s a fragile thing, easily shattered, and yet it’s the foundation of everything we’re trying to build.

“Your parents were masters of this,” Elara says, her gaze flicking between Ziva and me. “They knew how to balance caution with boldness. It’s a dangerous dance, but it can be done.”

The mention of our parents hits like a punch to the gut. They were taken when we were young, leaving us to navigate this world alone. I wonder what they would think of our little rebellion.

“So we do it the old-fashioned way,” Ziva says, breaking the silence. “We build the network slowly, person by person. We use every trick in the book and then some.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Marcus says, though his tone has shifted. There’s a note of resolve, of acceptance.

“No,” I agree. “But nothing worth doing ever is.”

The tension in the room shifts, taking on a new form—less about fear and more about the daunting tasks ahead.

“So, we build the network first,” I say, looking around the room. “No rushing into recruitment until we’re ready.”

“Agreed,” they answer, each with their own tone—Ziva and Arden determined, Marcus reluctantly on board.

“Alright,” I say, taking the dataport from Arden. “Let’s assign tasks. Ziva, you handle the tech. We need those encrypted channels up and running as soon as possible.”

Ziva nods, already lost in thoughts of the algorithms she’ll write and the hardware she’ll need to scavenge.

“Arden,” I continue, “start mapping out potential safe houses. We need places where we can meet these new recruits and where people can lay low if things go south.”

“Got it,” she says.

“Marcus and I will work on identifying potential recruits. Quietly,” I add, glancing at Arden. “We’ll make a list and approach them only when we’re sure it’s safe to do so.

A murmur of agreement rises before the room falls silent again.

Ziva’s voice slices through the silence, her hazel eyes sharp with determination. “Screening potential allies is one thing, but how do we convince them to take the risk?”

Nodding, I consider her words.

“What if,” Ziva continues, leaning forward, her long hair falling across the table, “we left them information? Something concrete they could review in private before we approach them?”

My pulse quickens. It’s a bold idea, exactly the kind of creative thinking we need.

“You mean like a data chip?” Arden asks, a spark of excitement in her eyes.

Ziva nods. “Yeah. We could include details about the NeuroMod implants. Show them what The Authority really has planned. It will help sway them to our cause.”

“That’s a big risk,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “If the wrong person found that chip—”

Marcus cuts in, his voice low and measured. “The risk might be worth it. People need to know what’s coming.”

“Alright,” I concede. “Let’s talk about how we make this happen.”

Arden leans forward, her green eyes sparkling with intensity. “The data chips can’t be too obvious, or they’ll raise suspicion.”

“Yeah. They need to blend in with everyday items.” I add with a quick nod.

Ziva’s quick mind is already at work. “What about disguising them as credit chips? Everyone carries those.”

Marcus frowns, his dark eyes narrowing. “No. If someone accidentally tries to use it that would be a disaster.”

Disappointment ripples through the room, my own pulse quickening with it.

“What about hiding them in common household items?” I suggest. “Things people wouldn’t think twice about, like Grandma suggested.”

Ziva snaps her fingers. “Yes. We could use anything from keychains to styluses.”

I can’t help but smile at Ziva’s enthusiasm.

Marcus clears his throat. “I can work on creating the chips. I have access to the necessary equipment from parts I’ve already taken from the tech lab.”

Elara, who’s been quietly observing, speaks up. “Once you’ve vetted a recruit, you should find a suitable drop point. Somewhere they frequent but isn’t too conspicuous.”

I nod, impressed by her strategic thinking before I remember that she’s done this before. “And we’ll need to monitor their reaction. See if they take the bait.”

Ziva leans forward, her eyes gleaming with intensity. “Once we’re sure they’re ready to join us, we’ll reach out with the encrypted channel I’ll make.” Her fingers drum a restless rhythm on the table.

Nodding, I feel a spark of excitement despite the danger. “Yeah, but we’d need to be careful about the meetup locations.”

Arden speaks up. “Leave that to me. I can scout some safe spots around the city while I’m looking for new hideouts for us.”

Looking around the table, I take in the determined faces of my friends—my family. We’re in this together, for better or worse.

“Same time next week?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

A chorus of affirmatives follows, and as we start to disperse, I catch Ziva’s eye. For a brief second, something shifts in her—an emotion I can’t quite place. Her gaze softens, a fleeting crack in the armor she wears so tightly.

Hope? Longing? I want to ask, but before I can, her mask slides back into place, leaving me questioning whether I imagined it. As I step out into the night, the weight of our plans settles on my shoulders. But beneath the fear, there’s a glimmer of hope. We might just pull this off.