by Natasha Ngan
And then he said, ‘Well, I thought you might wanna know. Anyway, I just needed to talk about it,’ and she realised she was wrong.
Of course she was. She, the daughter of the very man who had the power to take Seven’s life, was the last person on earth he’d want to be friends with.
‘Can I surf the memory?’ Alba asked after a long, tense pause. ‘I’d like to see for myself what was going on.’
Seven pointed to his memory-machine. ‘Butler would have a heart attack. Look. He’s halfway there already.’
He was right. The machine was still shaking, making wobbly, whiny noises, like a dog whimpering.
‘All right,’ Alba said, sitting up straighter. She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Run me through it again, then. There was a laboratory filled with babies in incubators who were having some kind of experiment done on them. And this Dr Merriweather person showed Father around, getting updates about each baby, which they referred to as … Candidates, was it?’
‘Yup,’ Seven said, letting out a grunting laugh and pointing at himself. ‘One of which is right here, ladies and gents.’
She ignored him. Her brow furrowed. ‘Candidates – that’s what Father and Pearson were talking about the other day. Do you remember what they said? It sounded like these Candidates are having some kind of medical problem that is causing them to die from neuro-haemorrhages during memory-surfing.’ She nodded to herself, then looked up. ‘Was there anything else you noticed in the memory?’
‘Just what I already told you – your dad and the doc kept referring to TMK,’ Seven said.
Alba bit her lip. ‘Do you have any idea what TMK stands for?’
Seven raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t have a clue what any of this is about, Alba.’ He kicked the floor absent-mindedly. ‘Oh, and there was a sign on the lab. All I got to see was the last bit – KEEPERS.’
‘Keepers? Keepers of what?’
‘No idea.’ Seven thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘But what I really don’t get is that the Candidates are just surfing memories. Do you remember what that guy said to your dad? The Candidates were involved in Phase Nine training – but it sounded like that was just skid-surfing. What’s so special about that? Why all this secrecy if that’s all they’re doing?’
‘And why do they keep dying because of it?’ Alba went on. ‘People do it all the time.’
Seven stopped suddenly. ‘Maybe – maybe they’re not just surfing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if they’re dying during surfing,’ he explained, ‘then maybe that’s not all they’re doing in the skids. Maybe they – we – can do something else in memories.’
Alba took a deep breath. Her eyes were wide. ‘Can you do anything else in memories?’
Seven shrugged. ‘Dunno. I just surf how I surf, and you do it your way. We can’t go into a skid together to see if I’m doing it any different.’
They fell silent at that.
‘Seven … ’ Alba started tentatively after a while. ‘If you are a Candidate, then how come you’re here? How come you’re free? TMK is all so secret, and from what we overheard the other night it sounds as though there is a shortage of Candidates. So if you really are one, then why did they let you go?’
Seven stopped pacing. ‘I don’t know.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. They’re trying so hard to keep it a secret – your dad practically threatened to kill Merriweather if there was another incident which might expose the whole thing.’
‘And it’s not like my father to just let someone walk free,’ Alba added quietly.
She remembered her father’s cold laugh the night before. His mocking tone as he’d talked about the raid. How he’d discussed Candidates dying as though it were nothing, as though their lives being lost didn’t bother him in the slightest. He sentenced people to death every day but she hadn’t ever thought badly of him for it because she thought it was about justice, that he was protecting London – protecting her – from criminals.
Alba didn’t know who the criminals were any more.
A shiver of fear ran down her spine. Why was Seven here, being allowed to live, even though he’d been involved in such a top-secret project?
Had he somehow escaped? she wondered.
And if he had –
Was her father looking for him?
‘Hey,’ Seven said. ‘What’s the time? That was a pretty long memory.’
Alba scrambled up as she looked at her watch. ‘Three thirty!’ she groaned. ‘I have to get back.’ She grabbed her coat and hurriedly did up the buttons, then stopped just as suddenly.
Seven looked so lost, so broken, standing there in the middle of the room, his clothes rumpled and damp, his dark hair flopping into those strangely attractive eyes. Even though he’d told her they weren’t friends, she felt guilty leaving him like this.
‘Don’t worry ’bout me,’ he said, seeming to read her mind. He grinned, though it looked strained. ‘Done all right without you all these years, haven’t I? I’ll manage just fine for a few more.’
Alba forced herself to ignore how much that comment stung. ‘But don’t you want to find out what all this is about?’ she urged.
Seven rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, yeah. Why don’t you just waltz in and ask dear Daddy what on earth TMK is, and why all these Candidates keep dying, and could he pretty please explain why I’m not still locked up in some lab being forced to surf until my brain fries, thank you very much?’ His voice was hard and cold. ‘That’s how things work in your world, isn’t it? All you have to do is ask, and everything gets handed to you on an effing silver plate.’
Lips tightening, Alba glared at him. No wonder he has no friends, she thought acidly. Every time I try to be nice, he throws something like that back in my face.
Well, let’s see how he likes it when someone throws back.
‘Yes,’ she said coolly, tossing her hair back from her face. ‘That’s exactly what happens, Seven. That’s why I’ve never been allowed to memory-surf, or make proper friends, or do anything that my parents haven’t approved first. That’s why I’m being married off to someone of their choosing and will probably spend the rest of my life stuck in North pretending to be happy next to some horrible man, even though really I’m dying inside. That’s why I was so grateful to finally meet someone who actually did something nice for me for once, and just perhaps might want to be my friend. Of course, I see how wrong about that I was now,’ she finished icily.
Everything went silent. Even the noise of the storm outside seemed muffled. Alba’s face was flushed, and she could feel her hands trembling at her sides where she’d curled them into fists.
Seven blinked. ‘You’re getting married?’
Alba gave a frustrated sigh.
‘What? It’s kinda big news!’ He let out a huff of air. ‘Congratulations, I guess.’
‘Seven!’
‘All right!’ he half shouted, throwing out his hands. ‘What d’you want me to say? I’m so sorry to hear that? Come here, let’s hold hands and talk about our feelings over a cup of tea? I’m no good at all this – this friends stuff.’
Alba blushed, something warm flaring inside of her.
He’d said friends.
‘Look, this TMK crap has just thrown me,’ Seven went on. ‘After last night, I didn’t think things could get any worse. Then this happened.’
His eyes dropped to the floor. For once, there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm on his features, no mocking expression on his lips. His face was just soft. Open.
Alba knew exactly how he was feeling because it was how she felt too: that they’d lost control of their own lives. Though perhaps neither of them had any to begin with.
But here was a chance for them to take that control back.
‘We need to find out what TMK is,’ she said firmly.
Seven looked up. ‘How?’
‘Well, you’re a skid-thief, aren’t you?’ Alba’s eyes flash
ed. ‘Maybe it’s time you stole another memory.’
39
SEVEN
It wasn’t going to be easy. Thieving jobs usually took weeks of planning, and that was with Carpenter’s direction (Seven still couldn’t get over the fact that his crew leader wasn’t around any more). And after the raid, the London Guard was on higher alert. It would be even more dangerous than usual. But it’s not like he had any other ideas, and what Alba suggested did make a lot of sense. Stealing memories was what Seven did. It was pretty much the only thing he was good at.
There was just one big problem –
How did you find a memory when you didn’t even know if it existed in the first place?
Seven and Alba arranged to meet again in a week to give him enough time to hunt down a skid about TMK.
So far, Seven had wasted a day panicking and grumbling and moaning about how the eff he was gonna do it. He’d wasted a further day catching up on sleep; meaning, he collapsed from exhaustion and was pretty much dead to the world for twenty-four hours. But once he’d had some rest he was able to come up with a plan.
Even though Carpenter had been the one who’d handled the trading and planning side of things, Seven had a few contacts of his own from his years working as part of Carpenter’s crew. It took him two days to track down Mac, one of the skid-thieves from another crew he’d chatted to a few times who seemed friendly enough to give help, then another day before Mac’s crew leader Finch agreed to meet with him. In exchange for five skids, Finch arranged a meeting for Seven with the Librarian the next day.
Seven had never met the Librarian before, never even caught a glimpse of him. He was like some kind of mythical creature or god. The crew leaders were usually the only ones who had any contact with the Librarian, and their relationships with him were one of the most important aspects of their jobs. Seven had seen crews fall apart because their leader had fallen out of his favour.
He wasn’t sure how exactly the Librarian did it, or how he’d been doing it this long without getting caught (Carpenter had mentioned something about him being so skilled at hacking he could access the data of every single memory-machine in the world). All he knew was that the Librarian was exactly what his name suggested: a catalogue, a directory of every skid that had ever been recorded.
If there was another memory about TMK somewhere out there, he’d be the one who could find it.
Seven stepped out into the dusky grey morning. The sun was only just rising behind the thick bank of clouds, and the South streets were pooled with litter-filled water from the previous night’s rain. The air bit with the chill of oncoming winter. Shivering, he rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and hurried towards the river. It was going to be a long walk. He may as well enjoy the view of North as he went.
Finch had given Seven directions to the Librarian’s base in Richmond. Seven had never gone so far west before. The city was mostly urban farms and energy plants out that way, and he had been wondering how the Librarian was living in such a London Guard-controlled area when he arrived three hours later at an overgrown marshland close to the river and realised where he was.
Like Battersea Power Station, Kew Gardens was another renovation project North had abandoned after the floods. Too close to the river to develop into useful land, the gardens were now a sprawling expanse of tangled vegetation and water-logged forest. Derelict buildings hid among the greenery, wreathed in vines and broken apart by the burrowing roots and trunks of trees.
Following Finch’s directions, Seven headed across the grounds towards a large, glass-shelled building. It was mid-morning by now; the sun glinted out from behind shifting clouds, catching on the glass, flashes of purple and amber lighting the broken panes covering the greenhouse. Birds flitted across the sky. Their sharp cries cut through the clicks and buzz of insects that filled the abandoned gardens with a constant hum.
‘Effing bugs,’ Seven muttered, swatting dancing clouds of gnats away (of all the things to be attracted to his face. This was probably as close to kissing as he’d ever get).
By the time he reached the greenhouse his skin itched raw with bites. His boots were soaked, trousers soggy to the knees from squelching through the mud. Leafy trees towered high above, broken through the building’s casing. Seven peered through one of the broken panes of glass into the steamy, shadowy (and extremely smelly) interior. The place was bursting with greenery: ferns with leaves the size of his head; fragrant lilies; twisted vines like rope winding round the steel pillars of the building’s frame.
‘Er … hello?’ he called.
No answer.
Feeling stupid, Seven knocked on a pane of glass, but again there was no answer.
Annoyed now – it had been a long walk, and he was tired and fed up of being a walking lunchbox for the insects – he made his way inside, flinging aside the leaves blocking his path. Sweat slicked his forehead; the greenhouse was muggy with steam.
‘I’m here to see the Librarian!’ Seven shouted. ‘We’ve got a meeting – argh!’
He let out a strangled cry as the floor gave way underneath him.
Seven plunged face-first into a hidden pond. Stinking, stagnant water closed around him. It went up his nose, filled his mouth as he gasped for air. Kicking frantically, he threw out his arms, feeling vines and roots hidden in the depths of the murky water. They twisted round his limbs. The more he thrashed the tighter they became, until Seven realised he was going to die here in the rotten water (of course this was the way he’d go, the most effing undignified death there ever was), and for some mad reason Alba’s face came to him then and he wondered if she’d miss him, if she’d even notice he was gone –
There was a tug as something hooked round his waist. Seven let out a grunt as he was yanked upwards. Seconds later he broke the surface of the water, spluttering and retching, and was dragged up onto muddy ground.
‘Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance.’
The voice was gruff and wheezy. Swiping a hand across his face to clear the mucky water from his eyes, Seven looked up into a pale, lined face with chapped lips and long white beard plaited with coloured ribbons. The man was tall, his dirty brown shirt – at least five sizes too big for him – hanging off a willowy frame. Thick glasses magnified his intense blue eyes.
So this was the Librarian. Seven wondered why he’d been so intimidated at the thought of meeting him. The man was even more of a mess than he was.
‘Didn’t you hear me knock?’ grumbled Seven with a scowl. He stumbled onto his feet, untangling himself from the metal hook round his waist.
The Librarian’s smile was wide. ‘Course I did. But this was so much more fun. Now, come on. Show me your marking.’
It was pretty much visible through his wet shirt already, but Seven unbuttoned his top anyway to reveal the saw tattoo on his chest. The man’s smile widened. He reached out and traced its outline with a long, dirty fingernail.
‘So you’re Carpenter’s boy.’
Seven flinched away from his touch. ‘Yeah,’ he said, buttoning his shirt back up.
‘Sad news, that. He was always my favourite. He had such beautiful arms.’ The Librarian let out a puff of air, eyes glittering. ‘So, boy. Finch said you were after a skid. Let’s see if we can find it.’
He moved surprisingly fast for an old man. Seven stumbled after him through the dense foliage. He swatted the blade-like leaves of a fern out of his way: they slapped back into his face with a snap.
‘So how does this work?’ he called, words almost lost under the incessant buzzing of the mosquitos.
‘You tell me the skid you want. I find it. In exchange for something I want too, of course.’
‘Which is?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
They reached the far side of the greenhouse and stopped by a cluster of towering palms.
Seven doubled over, spitting out a fly that had flown into his mouth. ‘I kind of expected there to be computers or something,’ he sai
d, and when he straightened back up the Librarian was grinning at him, crouched beside an open trap-door in the floor that revealed a set of steps disappearing into a cool, blue glow.
‘What? Like the ones that are down here?’ He let out a croaking laugh. ‘I’d have thought a skid-thief would know how deceiving looks can be. Now get in and close that pretty mouth of yours before another fly decides it looks inviting.’
Throwing the Librarian another scowl, Seven hurried down the steps, hearing the thud of the trap-door shutting behind them. Instantly, the frantic noise of the greenhouse was silenced. The air was cool here, filled with a low, electric hum. Everything was bathed in blue light. The steps were steep, and it took a while to get to the bottom. When they did, Seven bit his lip, not wanting to give the Librarian another chance to gloat, but he couldn’t help but be impressed.
They were in a large, underground room filled with computers and sleek machinery. Blue lines of text scrolled dizzyingly fast across the black screens of the computers, making the room flicker as though they were underwater. Wires crawled over the floors and walls in organised tracks. To one side of the room was a small bed and kitchen; the only messy part of the space. A row of memory-machines were lined up against the opposite wall.
Seven’s heart started beating excitedly just at the sight of them.
‘Go on, boy. You can admit it. Pretty slick, huh?’
The Librarian walked past, chuckling. Wheeling out a leather-backed chair, he rolled over to one of the computers.
Seven shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’
The man smirked. ‘Stubborn, aren’t you? Just like Carpenter. Well, tell me.’ He stroked the keyboard, long nails clicking. ‘What’re we looking for?’
Seven hesitated before answering. Could he really trust this weirdo? But then he thought of Carpenter, the only person he’d ever truly trusted (before Alba, that was, though he still wasn’t one hundred per cent certain about her, even if something in his gut made him want to be). If Carpenter had trusted the Librarian, so could he.