by Vic James
Gavar remembered that part of his father’s reminiscences, and tasted bile in his mouth. He wondered sometimes if Lord Jardine was not a bit cracked. Wondered, too, if it was from him that he had inherited his own tendency to lose control.
To hurt people.
In fact, he sometimes wondered if he could blame every single thing that had gone wrong in his life on his father. Was that cowardly? Maybe. But it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
The Equals around the table had fallen silent. The commoner woman was looking at Lord Jardine as if he was some kind of god, her mouth agape. Gavar had himself seen that look on women’s faces and occasionally used it to his advantage, but mostly it just repulsed him.
‘So what exactly are you proposing, Whittam?’ asked the Chancellor. ‘Are you volunteering to go to Millmoor and see what can be obtained from this suspect?’
Zelston motioned to the photograph, but his eyes were on Lord Jardine. Bouda’s gaze was darting eagerly between the pair of them. Even Rix was frowning.
‘Oh no,’ said Father, that smile slashing a little wider. ‘I’m volunteering my son and heir, Gavar.’
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur.
The Millmoor Overseer transferred her hungry expression to Gavar. Rix won his gratitude by reiterating his opinion that Equals shouldn’t lower themselves by going to a slavetown. But Father’s intervention ensured the decision was a foregone conclusion. When the vote came, the use of special measures on the prisoner detained in Millmoor was approved. The result was eleven to one, with only Armeria Tresco dissenting.
Bouda Matravers’s hand had been the first to go up.
Afterwards, as Gavar followed his father down the corridor, he heard the dull tear of high heels through deep carpet as Bouda hurried after them. She placed herself in front of Father, blocking their path.
‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’
Father’s face was unreadable, while Gavar experienced a fleeting moment of hope that she would volunteer to go to the slavetown in his place. As if. Bouda had the true politician’s disinclination to get her own hands dirty.
‘Very well.’
Father reached past her and opened the door to a side room. Bouda started talking the minute the handle clicked shut behind them.
‘How did this happen?’ she said, addressing herself entirely to Father as though Gavar were not even there. ‘The observers are under the Silence, and we’ve all accepted the Quiet. How can word have got out? Zelston must have messed up. Performed the acts wrong, or just not been powerful enough.’
She paused. What she’d said was so obvious, it couldn’t possibly be why she had pulled Lord Jardine and his heir into a deserted room for a private conversation.
Father just watched and waited. Gavar had observed, over the years, that this often made people talk, no matter how reluctant they were to share what was in their head. Sadly, he doubted it would work if he tried it on the Millmoor prisoner.
His stomach churned again at the thought of the task he’d been assigned. What would it feel like to carry it out?
What would it feel like to fail?
He’d lived nearly two and a half decades as Lord Whittam Jardine’s eldest son. They left him in no doubt as to which of those options should be more feared.
‘It makes me think Zelston’s not fit to be Chancellor.’
Gavar stared at Bouda as her pent-up thoughts spilled out in a rush.
‘This Proposal should never have been made. Zelston ought to have foreseen something like this. Even if the trouble in Millmoor ends here, it could be Portisbury next, or Auld Reekie the week after. The word is out and we can’t Silence the entire country. Today, until you intervened, he didn’t even have the stomach to take the necessary steps.’
She paused, and drew in a rapid breath.
‘He has another three years left in office. Right now, I’m not convinced that’s in Britain’s best interests.’
Father watched her.
‘What are you suggesting, Bouda?’
‘Suggesting?’
And now that she’d spoken the unsayable, Gavar saw Bouda regain her composure, wrapping it back around her as elegantly as a designer coat.
‘I’m not suggesting anything. Merely sharing my little notions.’ She moved towards the door; opened it. ‘I’d better go after Daddy before he finds his way to the cake trolley. That’s never pretty. Oh, and Gavar? Good luck.’
The bitch!
Except he must have said that aloud, because Father rounded on him. His expression was so fierce that Gavar took a step back.
‘She’s twice the politician you’ll ever be,’ said Whittam. ‘As is your brother. I always knew Silyen was the most Skillful of my sons, but I must account him the abler strategist, too. He has the Chancellor doing his bidding, while you and I must scurry around tidying up the consequences.’
And really, had anything changed since he was five years old, Gavar wondered? Anything at all? But he was a man now – and a father himself. When would Father treat him like one? He met Whittam’s eye. The man had to look up slightly at his taller son.
‘Rix is right,’ Gavar said. ‘Why should we scurry? We are Equals, of the Founding Family, not common policemen. Why should I go?’
That wasn’t the right question.
‘You go because the information from this slave is needful,’ said Whittam, stepping nearer, closing the gap Gavar had made between them.
‘You go because I tell you to. Because people are still gossiping about that slavegirl’s death in your supposed “hunting accident”. Doing this may be your rehabilitation. And you go because as head of this family I have the power to decide whether that bastard brat of yours is raised at Kyneston or sent to an UMUS home. At least that way your mother and I wouldn’t have to look at it and be reminded each day of what a disappointment you are.’
His father’s face was only a few inches from his own, yet Gavar found he could barely see it. His vision swam red and black. He was five years old again. But what flowed from him now, hot and stinking, wasn’t a trickle of fear and shame. It was a gush of hatred.
That wasn’t the right answer, Father.
Not the right answer at all.
12
Luke
Ever since Oz’s capture two days before, Luke had been waiting for the tap on his shoulder, the grip round his arm. Or, just possibly, the baton to his skull.
But even when you were expecting it, your heart still half fell out of your chest when it came.
He’d just finished his shift, and had exchanged the searing heat of the components shed for the freezing streets. It was already dark, and dense flurries of sleet reduced visibility to almost nothing. He was only a few blocks from the Zone D gates when a hand tugged his sleeve. Luke’s pulse exploded and he bolted.
But not so fast that he didn’t hear a hissed ‘It’s me!’ behind him.
He skidded on the wet pavement and turned.
‘We’re getting ’im out tonight,’ Renie said. She was standing in the alleyway, the sleet curdling around her in the yellow lamplight. ‘Oz. We need a ride. One of them shuttles to the outside. I’ve found us one. It’s in the depot for repairs. You’ve gotta make sure it’s okay and kill its GPS tracker.’
Luke boggled at her. Helping your dad fix up a vintage car didn’t exactly give you the skills for that sort of thing.
‘We’ve gotta do it,’ Renie said. ‘For ’im.’
So they did.
The van was exactly like the one that had carted Luke off to Millmoor. It triggered awful memories, of both that first day and of Kessler in the storeroom. He was momentarily paralyzed with fear that they’d be caught in here.
He screwed his eyes shut and willed his hands to stop trembling. Told himself he could trust Renie to keep lookout, just as she’d trusted him to anchor the rope on the MADhouse roof.
With that realization, something inside him sparked. A small but crucial connection tha
t sent the engine of his courage sputtering into life. Then revving and roaring.
Trust was what made everything possible. Trust lent you someone else’s eyes, someone else’s strong arms, or quick brain. Made you bigger than just yourself. Trust was how the club worked. How this whole, crazy dream of abolition could work, if people could just come together and hold their nerve. Not even the Equals – not even their Skill – would be more powerful than that.
Fixing the van itself was almost easy. Details of the repairs needed were on a clipboard hung on the wall. The vehicle’s key dangled from a row of hooks. The security seemed pretty lax – just a few CCTV cameras, which Renie had either navigated them past or disabled.
‘Hah,’ she said, when he pointed this out. ‘It’s not getting these wheels out of the depot that’s the difficult bit. It’s going to be getting ’em out of Millmoor. Three rings of Security and two chip-checks like what you have in Zone D.’
Which made it sound impossible.
‘That’s where Angel comes in. She runs the Riverhead railroad. Smugglin’ people outta places is her speciality. She don’t normally do it like this, though. It’s usually lorries, hidden compartments, trusted drivers, that sort of thing. But our pal Oz is special delivery, so Angel’s comin’ here herself. Tonight.’
‘Angel? Not an entirely reassuring name.’
Renie cocked her head, amused.
‘It’s not her real name. None of us know that. But we call her our Angel of the North. You know, like that big sculpture with wings up by Riverhead. And also – well, you’ll see.’ The kid cackled. ‘Anyway, are we done here?’
They were. Luke pocketed the keys.
Renie navigated them across town to the rendezvous point – a dusty storeroom where long-dead paperwork lay coffined in archive boxes. There they found only Jackson, still and calm, and Jessie, pacing like she wanted to wear a hole in the ground that Oz could crawl through to Australia.
‘Why are we still waiting, Jack? Who knows what they’re doing to him?’
Jess dashed at the tears spilling from her eyes with a violence that was half fury, half despair. Guilt, too, Luke suspected, given that she had escaped while Oz had been captured. The sight of her wrung his heart.
‘We all know the drill, Jessica,’ the Doc said. ‘No rescue attempts for the first forty-eight hours. Prisoners are too closely guarded and there’s insufficient time to establish Security routines. Hilda’s been monitoring the camera feed from the cell, so we know Oz is okay. Not great – they’ve been beating on him pretty hard – but nothing that won’t mend. Plus, we’ve had to work out how to get him out. Angel will be here any minute, and then we go.’
‘You think she’ll manage it?’ sniffed Jess, her voice as raw as if she’d done a few shifts back to back in the Zone D stokeholes.
Something unreadable flashed across Jackson’s face.
‘She’s never failed anyone yet. I’ve not been in Millmoor a year, but she’s been doing this sort of thing far longer than that. I trust her with my life, and – which is saying rather more – with the lives of all of you. Luke’s sorted the vehicle, now I need you to get Angel to it. You can’t stay here and I’m not going to risk you coming with us.’
‘I can’t believe you’re taking those kids and not me,’ Jessica burst out. ‘I swear, if those Security bastards have done anything to him . . .’
‘Which is exactly why I’m not taking you. Sit down, Jessie. Deep breaths. This rescue is happening and we’re going to get Oz out.’
Squatting on the floor, listening, Luke’s brain caught up with what Jessica had just said. Taking those kids.
The only kids in the room were Renie and Luke himself. They were the only other people in the room, full stop. Renie had told him that Asif and the ditcher sisters were doing their techno-whizzy things at separate locations, monitoring the detention centre remotely. The Doc wore some kind of earpiece that crackled occasionally as they spoke to him.
Jessie slumped against a stack of boxes, head down. Apart from her uneven breathing, the room was quiet. Jackson walked over to Luke, who was suddenly hyper-aware of Renie watching them both.
‘I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t want to go,’ Jackson said. ‘But Jess is right. I’d like you to come with me and Renie. Oz is a big guy, and he may need help getting on his feet and moving.’
Jessica stifled a sob.
‘We’ve got to get in and out as fast as possible. I’m not going to be able to give him any medical assistance until we’re away from the building. If we encounter anyone, I’ll need to deal with them. Hopefully we won’t, because Asif and the girls will be following the whole thing and telling us when it’s clear. But this all means you’ll need to look after Oz.’
‘Won’t it look suspect, you being in there with kids – I mean, someone as young as Renie?’ Luke said.
‘Renie will wait at the entrance, to alert us to anything outside that the others don’t catch on the cameras and comms. You’re big enough to pass for Security. Renie’s been clothes shopping and has a uniform that’ll fit you. Luke, I won’t let this go wrong.’
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ Jess said bitterly.
‘Oh, it’s not a promise,’ said a low, unfamiliar voice with just a hint of a Newcastle accent. ‘It’s a fact. Hello, Doctor Jackson.’
The Angel of the North.
As she joined them under the flickering strip light, Luke immediately understood the other reason for her nickname.
She was tall and blonde and utterly gorgeous. Like something out of a magazine – those pictures teachers always told you were airbrushed, so normal girls shouldn’t feel inadequate trying to match them. But this woman was perfect just as she was. Perfect like an angel in a church window, or a lingerie advert. A single immaculate snowflake fallen into Millmoor’s filthy streets.
‘Hi, Renie,’ said Angel, with a nod of acknowledgement. ‘And you must be Jessica. I know you’re awfully worried about Oswald, but he’s going to be safe now. And you’ll be Luke. I’ve heard all about you.’
‘You’re . . . Angel,’ Luke said, offering his hand for her to shake. And really, who knew it was possible for his palm to perspire that much in just ten seconds flat? Her touch tingled across it like electricity. ‘I asked . . .’ He laughed nervously. ‘I asked Renie why they call you that. But I guess now I know.’
She smiled. Luke didn’t think there could be anything in the world more magical than that smile, not even Skill itself. His face heated as if he stood in the components shed. She was older than him. But not by much. Surely not by much?
No point wondering, Luke Hadley. Angel was out of his league by every measure he could possibly imagine.
If this rescue mission succeeded, would she be impressed?
If it failed, would she come and break him out?
‘I was just telling the Doc that I’m ready,’ he told her. ‘And I’ve fixed the vehicle. For you. It’ll give you no problems.’
He really, really hoped that was true.
Jackson’s earpiece was hissing, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling as he concentrated on what Asif was saying. Then he looked up.
‘There’s a low-footfall window in twenty-eight minutes. So here’s what we’re going to do.’
It was nearly nine o’clock when they reached the detention centre. Oz was being held separately from the others on the high-security corridor of the remand wing. That was good, because there’d be less general traffic to notice them; but also bad, because anyone they did encounter would be there for the same reason they were – to see Oz.
Renie slipped into the darkness as they reached the entrance.
‘Good luck,’ she muttered. ‘See ya soon.’
Then they were in – just him and Jackson.
Security, like the Administration workers, weren’t slaves. The architects of the system had been careful to ensure there’d be no common cause between the slaves and those keeping them in line. Tha
t meant there wasn’t a gate registering the chips of those passing through. Instead, an entry team used handheld devices to check either the wrist cuffs that stored Security IDs, or the flesh-embedded chips of slaves brought in as prisoners.
‘There are two different scanners,’ Jackson had explained. ‘They’ll see the Security uniform and use the one for the cuffs.’
Luke’s legs were as wobbly as that time he’d taken Daisy to an ice rink and made a tit of himself falling over. As though they might shoot in opposite directions and dump him on his backside with no warning at all. Keep it together, he thought, tensing his muscles to remind himself they were still there.
‘We’re here for Walcott G-2159,’ the Doc told the guard at the entrance, holding out his right arm for scanning. Worn by all Millmoor’s free workers, wrist cuffs were attached at the slavetown’s outermost entry stations as workers arrived, and removed as they left. Luke wondered how the club had acquired the two he and Jackson were wearing.
‘Didn’t think you looked familiar,’ said the guard. ‘You’re specials from the MADhouse. What’s it like servicing the glorious leader herself? Nah, don’t answer that. Don’t want to know.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘We had word someone was coming for Walcott. Didn’t know exactly when, though. Don’t reckon the Overbitch’ll get much joy from him tonight, the state he’s in.’
The man laughed again, as if this observation was equally amusing. Did they deliberately recruit people who’d had compassion bypasses, or did doing this sort of job make you that way?
Luke obediently held up his wrist to be scanned too. So they’d been expecting someone to come for Oz. Was the club so good that they’d already planted false authorizations in Security’s system?
But it didn’t seem so, because as they passed into the detention centre’s corridors, Jackson’s face was drawn tight with concern. Luke heard him cup his hand and mutter a few words that would reach his earpiece. The crackling response had him shaking his head in frustration.