Reached Read online

  ALSO BY

  Matched

  Crossed

  DUTTON BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. | Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) | Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England | Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) | Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) | Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India | Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) | Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Ave, Parktown North 2193, South Africa | Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China | Penguin Books Ltd,

  Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Allyson Braithwaite Condie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  “Poem in October”—By Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright © 1945 by The Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas, first published in POETRY. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

  “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”—By Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright © 1952 by Dylan Thomas. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

  “They Dropped Like Flakes”—By Emily Dickinson, reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

  “I Did Not Reach Thee”—By Emily Dickinson, from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

  “The Single Hound”—By Emily Dickinson, reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

  “In Time of Pestilence, 1593”—By Thomas Nashe

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Condie, Allyson Braithwaite

  Reached / Ally Condie.—First edition.

  pages cm

  Sequel to: Crossed.

  Summary: “In search of a better life, Cassia joins a widespread rebellion against Society, where she is tasked with finding a cure to the threat of survival and must choose between Xander and Ky”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-525-42366-9 (hardcover)

  [1. Government, Resistance to—Fiction. 2. Fantasy.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C7586Rd 2012

  [Fic]—dc23 2012031916

  Published in the United States by Dutton Books,

  an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  www.penguin.com/teen

  Version_3

  for Calvin,

  who has never been afraid to dream of places Other

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY ALLY CONDIE

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  THE STORY OF THE PILOT

  PART ONE: PILOT

  CHAPTER 1: XANDER

  CHAPTER 2: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 3: KY

  CHAPTER 4: XANDER

  CHAPTER 5: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 6: KY

  CHAPTER 7: XANDER

  CHAPTER 8: CASSIA

  PART TWO: POET

  CHAPTER 9: XANDER

  CHAPTER 10: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 11: KY

  CHAPTER 12: XANDER

  CHAPTER 13: CASSIA

  PART THREE: PHYSIC

  CHAPTER 14: XANDER

  CHAPTER 15: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 16: KY

  CHAPTER 17: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 18: XANDER

  PART FOUR: PLAGUE

  CHAPTER 19: KY

  CHAPTER 20: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 21: XANDER

  CHAPTER 22: KY

  CHAPTER 23: CASSIA

  PART FIVE: PRISONER’S DILEMMA

  CHAPTER 24: XANDER

  CHAPTER 25: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 26: KY

  CHAPTER 27: XANDER

  CHAPTER 28: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 29: KY

  CHAPTER 30: XANDER

  CHAPTER 31: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 32: KY

  CHAPTER 33: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 34: XANDER

  CHAPTER 35: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 36: KY

  CHAPTER 37: XANDER

  CHAPTER 38: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 39: KY

  CHAPTER 40: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 41: XANDER

  CHAPTER 42: KY

  CHAPTER 43: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 44: KY

  CHAPTER 45: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 46: XANDER

  CHAPTER 47: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 48: KY

  CHAPTER 49: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 50: XANDER

  CHAPTER 51: >CASSIA

  CHAPTER 52: KY

  CHAPTER 53: XANDER

  CHAPTER 54: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 55: XANDER

  CHAPTER 56: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 57: KY

  CHAPTER 58: XANDER

  CHAPTER 59: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 60: KY

  CHAPTER 61: CASSIA

  CHAPTER 62: XANDER

  CHAPTER 63: CASSIA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  READERS GUIDE

  AN EXCERPT FROM ATLANTIA

  THE STORY OF THE PILOT

  A man pushed a rock up the hill. When he reached the top, the stone rolled down to the bottom of the hill and he began again. In the village nearby, the people took note. “A judgment,” they said. They never joined him or tried to help because they feared those who issued the punishment. He pushed. They watched.

  Years later, a new generation noticed that the man and his stone were sinking into the hill, like the setting of the sun and moon. They could only see part of the rock and part of the man as he rolled the stone along to the top of the hill.

  One of the children became curious. So, one day, the child walked up the hill. As she drew closer, she was su
rprised to see that the stone was carved with names and dates and places.

  “What are all these words?” the child asked.

  “The sorrows of the world,” the man told her. “I pilot them up the hill over and over again.”

  “You are using them to wear out the hill,” the child said, noticing the long deep groove worn where the stone had turned.

  “I am making something,” the man said. “When I am finished, it will be your turn to take my place.”

  The child was not afraid. “What are you making?”

  “A river,” the man said.

  The child went back down the hill, puzzling at how one could make a river. But not long after, when the rains came and the flood flashed through the long trough and washed the man somewhere far away, the child saw that the man had been right, and she took her place pushing the stone and piloting the sorrows of the world.

  This is how the Pilot came to be.

  The Pilot is a man who pushed a stone and washed away in the water. It is a woman who crossed the river and looked to the sky. The Pilot is old and young and has eyes of every color and hair of every shade; lives in deserts, islands, forests, mountains, and plains.

  The Pilot leads the Rising—the rebellion against the Society—and the Pilot never dies. When one Pilot’s time has finished, another comes to lead.

  And so it goes on, over and over like a stone rolling.

  In a place past the edge of the Society’s map, the Pilot will always live and move.

  PART ONE

  PILOT

  CHAPTER 1

  XANDER

  Every morning, the sun comes up and turns the earth red, and I think: This could be the day when everything changes. Maybe today the Society will fall. Then night comes again and we’re all still waiting. But I know the Pilot’s real.

  Three Officials walk up to the door of a little house at sunset. The house looks like all of the others on the street: two shutters on each of its three forward-facing windows, five steps up to the door, and one small, spiky bush planted to the right of the path.

  The oldest of the Officials, a man with gray hair, raises his hand to knock.

  One. Two. Three.

  The Officials stand close enough to the glass that I can see the circle-shaped insignia sewn on the right pocket of the youngest Official’s uniform. The circle is bright red and looks like a drop of blood.

  I smile and he does, too. Because the Official: is me.

  In the past, the Official Ceremony was a big occasion at City Hall. The Society held a formal dinner and you could bring your parents and your Match with you. But the Official Ceremony isn’t one of the three big ceremonies—Welcoming Day, the Match Banquet, and the Final Celebration—and so it’s not what it used to be. The Society has started to cut corners where they can, and they assume Officials are loyal enough not to complain about their ceremony losing some of its trimmings.

  I stood there with four others, all of us in new white uniforms. The head Official pinned the insignia on my pocket: the red circle representing the Medical Department. And then, with our voices echoing under the dome of the mostly empty Hall, we all committed to the Society and pledged to achieve our Society-designated potential. That was all. I didn’t care that the ceremony wasn’t anything special. Because I’m not really an Official. I mean, I am, but my true loyalty is to the Rising.

  A girl wearing a violet dress hurries along the sidewalk behind us. I see her reflection in the window. She’s got her head down like she’s hoping we won’t notice her. Her parents follow behind, all three of them heading toward the nearest air-train stop. It’s the fifteenth, so the Match Banquet is tonight. It hasn’t even been a year since I walked up the stairs of City Hall with Cassia. We’re both far away from Oria now.

  A woman opens the door of the house. She’s holding her new baby, the one we’re here to name. “Please come in,” she tells us. “We’ve been expecting you.” She looks tired, even on what should be one of the happiest days of her life. The Society doesn’t talk about it much, but things are harder in the Border Provinces. The resources seem to start in Central and then bleed outward. Everything here in Camas Province is kind of dirty and worn out.

  After the door closes behind us, the mother holds out the baby for us to see. “Seven days old today,” she tells us, but of course we already know. That’s why we’re here. Welcoming Day celebrations are always held a week after the baby’s birth.

  The baby’s eyes are closed, but we know from our data that the color is deep blue. His hair: brown. We also know that he arrived on his due date and that under the tightly wrapped blanket he has ten fingers and ten toes. His initial tissue sample taken at the medical center looked excellent.

  “Are you all ready to begin?” Official Brewer asks. As the senior Official in our Committee, he’s in charge. His voice has exactly the right balance of benevolence and authority. He’s done this hundreds of times. I’ve wondered before if Official Brewer could be the Pilot. He certainly looks the part. And he’s very organized and efficient.

  Of course, the Pilot could be anyone.

  The parents nod.

  “According to the data, we’re missing an older sibling,” the second in command, Official Lei, says in her gentle voice. “Did you want him to be present for the ceremony?”

  “He was tired after dinner,” the mother says, sounding apologetic. “He could barely keep his eyes open. I put him to bed early.”

  “That’s fine, of course,” Official Lei says. Since the little boy is just over two years old—nearly perfect spacing between siblings—he’s not required to be in attendance. This isn’t something he’d likely remember anyway.

  “What name have you chosen?” Official Brewer moves closer to the port in the foyer.

  “Ory,” the mother says.

  Official Brewer taps the name into the port and the mother shifts the baby a little. “Ory,” Official Brewer repeats. “And for his middle name?”

  “Burton,” the father says. “A family name.”

  Official Lei smiles. “That’s a lovely name.”

  “Come and see how it looks,” Official Brewer says. The parents come closer to the port to see the baby’s name: ORY BURTON FARNSWORTH. Underneath the letters runs the bar code the Society has assigned for the baby. If he leads an ideal life, the Society plans to use the same bar code to mark his tissue preservation sample at his Final Celebration.

  But the Society won’t last that long.

  “I’ll submit it now,” Official Brewer says, “if there are no changes or corrections you want to make.”

  The mother and father move closer to check the name one last time. The mother smiles and holds the baby near the portscreen, as if the baby can read his own name.

  Official Brewer looks at me. “Official Carrow,” he says, “it’s time for the tablet.”

  My turn. “We have to give the tablet in front of the port,” I remind the parents. The mother shifts Ory even higher so that the baby’s head and face are clearly visible for the portscreen to record.

  I’ve always liked the look of the little disease-proofing tablets we give at the Welcoming Day ceremonies. These tablets are round and made up of what looks like three tiny pie wedges: one-third blue, one-third green, and one-third red. Though the contents of this tablet are entirely different from the three tablets the baby will carry later, the use of the same colors represents the life he will have in the Society. The disease-proofing tablet looks childish and colorful. They always remind me of the paint palettes on our screens back in First School.

  The Society gives the tablet to all babies to keep them safe from illness and infection. The disease-proofing tablet is easy for babies to take. It dissolves instantly. It’s all much more humane than the inoculations previous societies used to give, where they put a needle ri
ght into a baby’s skin. Even the Rising plans to keep giving the disease-proofing tablets when they come to power, but with a few modifications.

  The baby stirs when I unwrap the tablet. “Would you mind opening his mouth for me?” I ask the baby’s mother.

  When she tries to open his mouth, the baby turns his head, looking for food and trying to suck. We all laugh, and while his mouth is open I drop the tablet inside. It dissolves completely on his tongue. Now we have to wait for him to swallow, which he does: right on cue.

  “Ory Burton Farnsworth,” Official Brewer says, “we welcome you to the Society.”

  “Thank you,” the parents say in unison.

  The substitution has gone perfectly, as usual.

  Official Lei glances at me and smiles. Her long sweep of black hair slides over her shoulder. Sometimes I wonder if she’s part of the rebellion, too, and knows what I’m doing—replacing the disease-proofing tablets with the ones the Rising gave to me. Almost every child born in the Provinces within the past two years has had one of the Rising immunizations instead of the Society’s. Other Rising workers like me have been making the switch.

  Thanks to the Rising, this baby won’t only be immune to most illnesses. He’ll also be immune to the red tablet, so the Society can’t take his memories. Someone did this for me when I was a baby. They did the same for Ky. And, probably, for Cassia.

  Years ago, the Rising infiltrated the dispensaries where the Society makes the disease-proofing tablets. So, in addition to the tablets made according to the Society’s formula, there are others made for the Rising. Our tablets include everything the Society uses, plus the immunity to the red tablet, plus something more.

  When we were born, the Rising didn’t have enough resources to make new tablets for everyone. They had to choose only some of us, based on who they thought might turn out to be useful to them later. Now they finally have enough for everyone.