The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [111]
“Callum!” Stephen said weakly.
“You can let him die,” Newman said, “or you can save him, right now.”
“Let me see it,” Callum said. “Let me see the syringe.”
“I can’t do that,” Newman said. “Not until you each set your terminus down and kick it over to me.”
“You could be lying.”
“But you know my history now. You know why I killed. You know what I want. I want you to save him. I want to protect those with the sight. I just also want to protect myself. There is absolutely no reason we can’t all walk away from this.”
Then he looked right at me.
“Aurora,” he said. “You’ve been exceptionally brave, and you’re not even on the squad. You’ve risked your life to save others. I swear to you—if you set that down and kick it to me, I will be as good as my word. Give it to me.”
Stephen put his head down. I think he knew what I was about to do and he couldn’t watch. I couldn’t watch him die. I slowly put the terminus on the filthy floor and gave it a kick. It landed more or less by Newman.
Now that I’d surrendered, the entire burden was on Callum. He looked as sick as Stephen. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if preparing to make a dash. His body was ready, but his mind was not.
“Now you, son,” Newman said.
“Don’t call me son! Don’t you speak to me.”
Newman closed his mouth and raised his arms to the side, making himself a wide and open target.
“You decide,” he said. “I accept my fate. If you can live with the death of your friend, I can accept my end here. It’s been a noble fight for all concerned.”
Stephen could no longer plead. He had slumped against the wall and his eyes were half closed. Callum raised himself up on the balls of his feet, knees flexed. He was going to do it. I was sure of it.
And then he just opened his hands and let the terminus go.
“Kick it here,” Newman said quietly.
Callum delivered a perfect side-of-the-foot kick, sending it right to Newman. I’d never seen anyone that agonized. He rubbed his hands over his face and held them there in a prayer formation.
“Give us the medicine,” he said.
“When I get the third one,” Newman said.
His demeanor had changed also. His eyes had widened and there was an energy about him—he looked alive.
“The third one isn’t here,” Callum replied.
“Liar!”
It was a piercing yell, with an echo.
“It’s not here,” Callum said again, pulling his hands away from his face and sighing. “But if you save him, I’ll take you to it.”
“Oh no,” Newman said. He began to pace. “He will die, do you understand? And it will be your fault. Do you hear me? Your fault!”
Newman was yelling to the third person he still believed was crouching in the darkness—maybe in the stairs, maybe in the tunnels. He snatched up the two termini at his feet and began to pace, looking through the archways, looking up the steps, searching for the last Shade. Stephen was going to die for nothing unless . . .
Unless someone could talk Newman down, someone he could believe. Someone who held no threat. Someone he’d talked to before. Someone like me.
“I’ll take you,” I said.
35
THERE WAS A SOUND FROM THE STEPS, ONE SMALL groan from Stephen as he heard me say these words. Newman stopped pacing and stared at me, a wild look in his eye. He went back to the ticket counter and smacked both of the termini down, hard, then cracked open their cheap casing like two plastic Easter eggs. He ripped out the wiry innards, plucking the diamonds from each one, and pushed the empty, broken phones to the floor. Once this was done, he retrieved his knife, which was sitting there on the counter. He crossed the room in a few long strides and came