Enders(77)

As he was brought closer, onto the stage, I knew who he was.

A Middle I had not seen in over a year. A Middle I thought I’d never, ever see again because I was told he was dead. A Middle that I shared a lifetime of memories with. And our own special code.

My father. I ran to his side.

“Daddy!”

“Callie,” my father said, his voice weak.

His eyes looked worse than in the video. He was gaunt and frail compared to the dad I knew.

“In case you didn’t hear that, this is Callie’s father,” Brockman said into his mike.

“What have you done to him?” I whipped around and glared at Brockman.

“The question is, what are you going to do to him?” he said with a wicked grin.

I felt sick at the thought of what was to come.

My body felt flushed as Brockman took control. He made me walk away from my father, about ten feet. A guard came to me, holding a tray with a gun on it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this girl is about to shoot her own father, in a final demonstration of how powerful this process is,” Brockman said. “If we can make her do this, the person who walks away with this package I offer tonight will be able to use her to assassinate anyone.”

My body broke out in a damp sweat. He couldn’t really mean what he was saying. My father had expertise Brockman could use.

No, no, he can’t, he can’t want to really do this.

As the audience buzzed with anticipation, only one Ender, a woman, got up and left. Brockman turned off his mike and leaned over to me.

“All we needed was his research. Thank you for delivering the z-drive. We’ve started the decryption process. In a few hours, we’ll have your father’s technology.”

They’d found Hyden’s car. Now they had everything they needed from my father. And we had brought it to them.

Brockman switched his mike back on. “Watch carefully,” he said to the audience.

My hand picked up the gun.

My father looked at me.

There was so much I wanted to say to him, how I’d been mother and father to Tyler, how I tried to do everything he’d taught me to protect my brother. How I did my best but it ended up making everything worse. I just wanted to be his little girl again and curl up on his lap and be told everything would be all right.

Then the worst thing possible happened. My arm began to tingle. It rose—not of my doing—until the gun in my hand aimed directly at my father’s head.

My father hadn’t seen me in a year, had probably thought he’d never see me again. And now here I was, pointing a gun at him. It was the last thing on earth he’d ever see.

I’m inside. Controlling you. And it feels so good.

Hearing Brockman’s voice inside my head, I wanted to crawl out of my own body. I tried to force myself to take control again, tried to move my arms or legs—anything—to drop the gun, to not do this horrible thing.

But the only thing I was responsible for were the tears streaming down my face.

Please don’t make me shoot my father.

Brockman’s voice came into my head.

A perfect test. And ironic, since he’s the one who taught you to shoot so well.

“It’s all right, Callie. It’s not your fault,” my father said. His sad eyes were still soft and kind. “No matter what, I love you,” he said. “I know this isn’t you. It’s not your fault.”

I heard Hyden shout out, “Callie, fight back now!”

In the trauma, I had forgotten. I had to try. I remembered what Hyden tried to teach me, my father’s method. Picture the cord with a light. … What color was it? Blue. A blue light running from Brockman to me. Then a gold light going from me to him. Make the blue light turn to gold.

I’m still in control, Callie. Brockman’s voice boomed in my head.

My poor father stood rigid, the agonizing threat looming, my gun still pointed at him. I tried to focus my mind, visualizing the cord, blue to gold, then pushing Brockman out. I pictured him as I saw him last, standing there, so smug, and I saw myself, with my arms pushing him away as far as I could push him.

My gun hand began to tremble.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I had to maintain complete control. If I faltered for a second, my hand steadied. I had to forget about the gun, forget about my father, forget about everything but the cord. I kept at it even though it was like holding your breath forever, longer than is humanly possible, and my hand shook wildly.

Callie … Brockman’s voice in my head now sounded desperate. That gave me strength.

I visualized myself pushing so hard that Brockman fell backward, until he got smaller and smaller.

My hand came back to my control. I was able to drop the gun, and it fell to the floor. The audience gasped. Brockman glared at me.