Free Violet by Rae Thomas

seen fear in David’s eyes before last night. My
curiosity, my insistence to find the truth, has killed my father,
and has probably killed David as well.
    I followed the agent to the field behind my
house, where a transport was waiting. As transports go, it was
rather small, probably only a six-person ship. However, it was a
thing to behold. Black at the time because it was night, but
equipped with cloaking abilities to camouflage it in any
circumstance. Obviously designed for speed, the transport was
aerodynamic, with grooves to allow the air to move around it more
freely. A large windshield in the front could be transparent or
opaque, depending on the necessity of the mission. And, of course,
a large logo on the side: the blood red capital V with the orbiting
moons. The Vox.
    We boarded the ship and were cuffed immediately.
I did not have a plan. I expected us to be executed immediately
upon our arrival. David managed to make eye contact with me and
mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I shook my head. David has nothing
to apologize for. He would not even be here were it not for me. One
of the officers had seen David speak to me, and responded by
slamming the butt of the weapon into his head saying, “Keep your
mouth shut.” David winced, and a small trickle of blood slid down
from his hairline. I looked away.
    When we reached Summus, our transport was put
down on a landing pad located on the top of the main Vox
headquarters. This building must be the tallest in the area,
because nothing but sky could be seen from my position on the roof.
David and I were led to a door. The pilot keyed in an access code.
Though there were two people between myself and the keypad, I saw
the access point before we arrived, so I had time to position
myself within view without seeming suspicious. 291150. There were
no retina scans or even fingerprint recognition pads; security was
somewhat lax here. The Vox had grown overconfident. After entering
through the doorway, we took a sharp right turn and walked down a
dark hall. Lights on the ceiling glowed to illuminate our path just
before we passed under them, and extinguished themselves as we
moved on. I counted my steps. When I had reached 36 strides, we
took another right and stopped at the first door on the right. The
same officer keyed in his access code; I recognized it from its
tones. 291150. Codes must be assigned by person, not by door. The
officer followed me into the room, motioned for me to sit, and then
attached my cuffs to a link on the table. He left without a word. I
heard him enter his code as the door slid shut behind him.
    Now I wait. I pass the time by rubbing my wrists
onto the inside of the cuffs. My skin has been rubbed raw all the
way around; in some places it has broken and small streaks of blood
have begun to appear. I stop moving when I hear a code being
entered outside of the door. I drop my head and look down at the
surface of the table in front of me. I look up timidly and view the
man through the strands of hair that have fallen into my face.
    This man is not so tall. He is not so muscular,
but his uniform and haircut identify him as a high-ranking member
of The Vox. Though he is not physically impressive, he emanates a
sense of authority. This is a very powerful man. I will not
underestimate him. He takes a seat across from me and begins to
arrange some papers on the table in front of himself. I take this
opportunity to observe him more closely. His hair was once a light
brown, but has now begun to grey, though there is so little of it
that it hardly matters. His eyes are small and beady, his nose is
not unlike a large beak spread wide across his face and coming to a
sharp point at the tip. His mouth turns down at the corners in a
permanent frown.
    My eyes travel from his face to his chest. Here,
there is another patch; this one sets him far above any ordinary
member of The Vox. In the place where a soldier’s name would
usually be, this man’s patch is adorned