The Lumis War

by Lisa Jade

  “You decided to come back, then. Honestly.”

  She huffs loudly, and I can tell she’s trying to be angry, but it comes across half-hearted. She lowers the pencil and pushes the journal aside before slowly pacing the room. She comes to a stop in front of me and places her hands on her hips. I think it’s an attempt to seem menacing, but it just appears out of place. He face is too soft, too sympathetic, and when she speaks, her voice is too kind.

  “You don’t really believe what that old kook said, do you?” she mutters, “you don’t really think they’d just leave you here?”

  I shake my head, but her eyes trace my face and I can tell she sees the lines on my cheeks where the tears have washed away the dirt.

  “Sure you don’t. Listen, don’t let him get to you. Clearly the old bastard is bitter and seriously screwed up. If they wanted to get rid of you, then that boss guy wouldn’t be so desperate to get you back.”

  I nod, and she reaches up with a small, pale hand and wipes at my cheek. Her fingers come away dirtier than before and she frowns.

  “Ugh. You need a bath, bad.”

  I feign a laugh. I know I do. In Fairground we don’t exactly have bubble baths, but we have large showers that we share and it helps keep us somewhat clean. Of course there’s only so much we can do, but it keeps the stench bearable. Here, they have nothing. They can tip some water over themselves and hope for the best, but that’s all. And even that is a massive waste of supplies.

  “Go to bed.” Minni orders. She raises one hand and points violently towards my little patch of concrete. I shake my head, but I can almost see it as her irritation flares.

  “Just… do it.”

  I sigh. I suppose she’s right. My stomach still isn’t quite right, and my eyes are so heavy that they’re threatening to slide shut of their own accord. I slump to the floor and pull a scrap of cloth over me, tucking it around my shoulders and nestling my face so deep into the pillow that I can nearly feel the floor beneath my nose.

  The next week flies by. My days are spent in the hospital. Minni keeps asking me questions, keeping me on my toes, and I realise for the first time how difficult it is to teach medicine. Every day I feel a newfound rush of respect for Dr Newton.

  I get to hear him a few more times. Someone contacts me every night, just before sunset, and I hear everything. I get messages from Sparrow, Brick, Kicker. Bree buzzes through to talk to me, but becomes upset partway through. Dr Newton is the most common one. He speaks to me as often as he can, often giving me updates on the others’ recovery.

  Kicker remained unconscious for nearly two days after the attack. His head injury seemed pretty severe, but somehow he pulled through and is now suffering the effects of a nasty concussion. Adam broke a leg and a wrist and now has both in cast, much to his annoyance. He also had to have stitches; and now he’s a little disturbed, plagued by guilt at what happened. Kicker didn’t sustain any new injuries; but he did tear open the ones that had just started to heal. Sparrow herself is more shaken than anything, though she dislocated one arm. Dr Newton tells me she’s less sure of herself now, more doubtful. She second guesses every decision she makes and can’t face up to her memories of what happened. I can’t say I blame her.

  I dream about the city nearly every night. Usually it’s the same – I’ll be running away from some bots, desperately sprinting through the ruins, and something will stop me. Sometimes the scene is interrupted by the memory of that accident back at Fairground. Adam’s concerned face will flash at me from the shadows, panic flitting across those sharp, infuriating eyes. I’ll feel the floor underneath me, the pounding in my head as I strain to see him.

  It’s a memory I’d rather not have. Somehow in moving the structure, nobody had noticed I was there. I had tried to move as it fell but had only a moment; and by the time anyone realised it had already pinned me. As chaos broke out around me, I had barely been awake enough to remember Adam running over. Lifting the structure a little. Placing himself between it and me. Holding himself up, mere inches from my body, to give me a momentary break from the pressure. It was an act born of stupidity and arrogance; thinking that a single man could hold what took six men to lift. He was bruised for weeks afterwards, and so was I, though in my case the real bruises were to my ego.

  I’ve never considered myself to be egotistical; though I suppose nobody would ever admit to being so, even if they were. But after that, I found myself unable to face Adam again. Something about having to be saved, being the helpless damsel rescued by a handsome prince, felt so sickening to me. He had been ignoring me anyway, but from then on I think it just cemented the idea in his mind that I’m weak. It took a long time to get over that.

  Max usually lets me go up onto the roof garden to listen to the messages from home. Every night near sunset I’ll sit on the wall with my legs dangling off the side, seven stories up, my hands clutched tightly around the HT as I eagerly await any news from Fairground. But with each day, though I continue to yearn and crave that life, I actually manage a little better. Max shows me his collections; things he’s gathered from ruins and victims out in the city. I spy a number of discharged pulse mines amongst the mess and spread them out in the sunlight to recharge. It’s more instinct than anything, but there’s something about it that makes me feel at home.

  I don’t cry anymore. Even though Nicholas continues to rave at me anytime he wakes, telling me I’ll soon be a forgotten relic, I don’t tear up. I can’t pretend that his words don’t upset me; they hit a nerve that I didn’t even know I had. But I don’t break down anymore. I simply smile and walk away.

  It’s not so bad here in Street. I’d be lying if I said it was as good as Fairground – but it is good, in its own strange little way. There are parties every few days. I hear music for the first time. Not just that piped crap that we sometimes get at Fairground, but real, actual music. Softly sung carols around a campfire. Merry tunes sung in rounds, accompanied by drunken clapping. Gentle lullabies that echo through the hospital at night. I wake more than once to see Minni standing at the window, shutters pulled back, singing quietly into the night air.

  Her voice is high and nearly squeaky. She sounds like a bird. I find myself sleeping and waking to the sound, the gentle chirping from the window sill. After only a few days, I find myself adapting. The tinned food isn’t much worse than the fresh, and my little slab of cold concrete is no less comfortable than the worn old bunk at Fairground. Though the dreams continue, forcing through the darkness, I find that my waking life is growing easier every day.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  I’m jerked awake by Marcus’ gentle nudging. I growl and push him away, and he laughs. Marcus is sometimes sent to get me in the morning, but I’m simply not a morning person. My limbs are still heavy, my eyes still shut, my mind still wandering in that dreamy realm between sleeping and waking.

  “Oi,” he mutters, presumably to Minni, “Mind doing the honours?”

  Minni hesitates for a moment before delivering a swift kick to my leg. I let out a silent yelp and clamber to my knees, scowling. She chuckles, then helps me to my feet. Marcus roars with laughter, and I feel a flicker of something terrible.

  Over the passing days, I’ve noticed he’s a hard man. When someone falls everyone might laugh, but Marcus laughs harder and longer than anyone else. When there’s work to be done, everyone complains, but Marcus will seek an excuse to avoid it altogether. Though nobody else seems to have noticed it, and while I can’t outright say he’s a bad person, each time I meet his eyes I feel a cold chill up my spine and a building feeling of dread and dislike. That feeling has never been wrong before.

  “You’re supposed to be on watch today,” Marcus tells me, and again I see that glint in his eye. No, I’m not. It’s clearly his turn on watch and he’s trying to pass it off to me. Street have rules about what women can and can’t do – and I don’t know how Max would react if I grabbed a gun and started firing.

  I cross my arms, raise
an eyebrow and wait, giving him a chance to reconsider. If I had the words, I’d call him out immediately. As it is, several long seconds go by before he shrugs and passes me a firearm.

  “Have fun out there.”

  He winks and strides from the room, hands in his pockets, a smug look on his face. Minni’s gaze follows him as he leaves the room, and her expression shifts. On her face I see a combination of bemusement and interest – but when I meet her eyes she looks away.

  “I guess I’m on my own today,” she shrugs. I shake my head, wishing I could explain. I don’t have to go. I’m not meant to. Max will probably be more annoyed if he thinks I’m ignoring his orders. My hands lift and I begin to sign, but the movement falters. Why even bother? She won’t understand.

  Minni looks at me hard, and then purses her lips.

  “Hey. You’ve clearly got something to say. Why not just write it?”

  She pauses.

  “You can read and write, can’t you?”

  I shoot her an unimpressed look and nod emphatically. She grunts her acknowledgement and walks over to the desk. Once she reaches it she pulls open the lower drawer, reaching deep into it and pulling out that same old journal she’s always writing in. She reaches for a pencil too and passes both objects to me.

  “Jot something in the back of that.”

  I nod and sit down cross-legged on the dusty floor. I pull open the journal to what seems to be a blank page – but it’s not. I flick through. I can see pages and pages of handwriting, sketches, plans. This looks less like a young woman’s doodles and more like a formal, thought-out scientific reference book.

  “H-Hey!”

  She leans down and reaches to take the journal from me, but I’m faster than her. I move it away and stand up, pacing the room. She chases after me, desperately trying to grab it back, but I simply step and twirl around her, my eyes focussed on the words on the page.

  Finally the game has gone on long enough, and I stop. She grabs the book and snatches it back, pulling it against her chest with an anguished cry.

  “That wasn’t funny!” she snaps, “How much did you read? Are you angry? Please don’t tell Max!”

  My heart sinks. I hadn’t actually read the words, more stared blankly at the page, but I can see why she might think that I did. I shake my head, and she grasps my wrist, pulling me towards her. Her eyes roll in her head – nerves and fear and confusion in one.

  “I mean it. I know Max is a nice guy, but if he sees the kind of thing I’ve put in here…”

  Guilt overwhelms her and I can see something sparkling in the corner of her eyes – so I place a hand on her shoulder in what I hope is a somewhat comforting motion. She stares for a moment before her face finally calms.

  “I know you won’t exactly tell anyone. But I need you to promise you won’t look in this book again – and you especially have to promise not to show Max.”

  She leans forward, her eyes pleading, and I nod. Fine. I don’t get it. But fine.

  She heaves a relieved sigh and pushes her hair back from her face.

  “Thanks. Now then, you’re on the wall today, so I suppose you’d best head out. Go on, get.”

  She smirks and waves me away – I pause for a moment, remembering that I had actually intended to explain why I shouldn’t be on watch, but decide better of it. What could a day on the wall hurt?

  Chapter Sixteen

  I climb up on top of the wall, and someone grabs my hand. Max tugs me up next to him and for a moment we’re a little too close; I can smell his skin.

  “Hey. Marcus told me you really wanted to come on watch for a bit. I thought it was a bit dodgy – you know him – but since you’re here, I assume you agreed to it. ”

  I lift my hands to explain, but decide better of it and simply nod. No point making this into another lassie moment.

  He pushes his hair back from his face, reaches down to his belt and passes me a handgun. I take it gingerly and pass it from one hand to the other, examining it. The metal is dull and the edges are worn and rough; I don’t know if it’s safe to fire or even if it will. He sees my expression and shrugs.

  “I know it’s not up to your normal standard, but it’s all we’ve got. It’ll do the job.”

  He leads me up and down the wall, pointing into the ruins. For some reason, he hasn’t noticed. Hasn’t commented that I’m breaking their rules. Did he mean what he said about my not being one of them? I follow his gaze and pause.

  This is the first time in days I’ve seen the city. I’ve never been so long without it. Even at Fairground, I’d stand at the infirmary door and look out past the gates, or I’d sit on watch and stare into the distance, marvelling at the ruins, the shells of skyscrapers and homes and businesses. But for what seems like far too long, I’ve been staring at the inside of walls and growing used to being surrounded on all sides. While I was there and it was temporary it didn’t bother me, but now I see the ruins again. The paths marked out by years of people, many gone. The remains of walls and floors and the countless ivory skeletons that lie broken and shattered around Street. The last time I was out there, I nearly died. My reaction – the only sensible reaction – should be fear. So why do I still hunger for it?

  I’m overwhelmed by a sudden and unending desire to throw myself from the wall, grab a firearm and start running. It’s a ridiculous thought that somehow makes my throat ache. I don’t know where I’d go and I certainly know I wouldn’t survive alone, but the want is still there, as much as I try to deny it.

  Max is still talking, and I snap out of it only when he looks at me expectantly. He sees my blank expression and laughs.

  “Okay, I get it. It’s boring, right? I won’t repeat myself – you know how to use a gun. Two rules. Number one, shoot on sight. Number two, if it’s one of those big fuckers…”

  His expression falters a little and I know he’s remembering his brother.

  “…Well, if it’s one of them then alert someone. We’ll all shoot together and hopefully bring the bastard down before it reaches the wall.”

  I nod, lift my handgun and go where he tells me. That won’t work. If a mecha comes barging down here, then plain old bullets won’t stop it. Once there, at the far end of the wall, I crouch down with my arms outstretched, gun poised, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  It takes about an hour for me to realise that the wall isn’t the most exciting job. The other people laugh and play card games, even jokingly try to push one another off the wall. Only Max and I remain vigilant, both of us pacing up and down, staring into the distance. Once or twice he catches my eye and I look away, unnerved.

  This is completely different from anything I’ve done before – and yet somehow, it feels a bit like being on the tower. It’s not the same at all; that was high and lonely and dark and cold. This is the opposite. I can feel the sun beating down on us, and behind me I can hear the general bustling of Street. People chatter and laugh around me. It’s nothing like the tower. I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders. This is so much better.

  But then I spy someone with dark curls in the crowd and Bree comes to mind. Immediately my chest fills with guilt. How could I even be thinking that this is better? How could I even stop to compare the two? Those nights on that watchtower, reading by candlelight and sitting in a relaxed silence with Bree really helped to make me who I am. Objectively this might be more interesting, sure, but it’s wrong to compare them. This simply isn’t the same.

  Then, something shifts in the distance. The movement catches my eye and I watch it for a moment, looking for any clue as to what it might be. I strain my ears to hear better, but Street is too loud.

  Max sees me staring and steps up beside me, silently signaling to the others. All chatter ceases. All cards are lowered to the ground and they gather their weapons, and then aim them into the distance. Street falls silent too, everyone poised, ready and waiting to hear their brave protectors destroy another enemy. For a moment, nothing happens.

 
Then, I hear it. The steady thunk-thunk of mechanical limbs. Far louder, far heavier than anything else I’ve heard. It’s a sound that sends chills through me. A sound I’ve heard in my nightmares. Max lets out a small sound that’s halfway between a snarl and a whimper.

  Then it’s in sight, the massive mecha, heading towards Street, summoned by the general chaos there.

  I flinch back, and panic licks through me. I’ve never seen a mecha like this before – on level ground, within reach or detection. I’ve seen them pacing the edges of the city and I’ve seen the wounds they can leave, but never before have I seen them so close.

  They’re massive, rumbling blocks of metal. Two enormous treads, like those of tanks, sit underneath it, allowing it to glide over the rubble by crushing anything in its path. A number of guns and other artillery take pride of place on top of it, and large eye-like scanners fill its small, armoured head. It’s dark and metallic and glints in the afternoon sun – and it sets my heart hammering like nothing else.

  Max shifts next to me, and for a moment I could swear he whispers something. But then he raises his gun, aims squarely at the mecha, and shouts.

  “Open fire!”

  Round after round collide with the bot’s body. All of them fire non-stop, every bullet striking the massive target with ease. Behind us, Street begins to panic. Someone seems to have realised it must be a mecha, and now they’re all crying out, forcing each other back, pinning people in the folds of the crowd. I shake my head hard in an attempt to ignore them, cock my gun and pull the trigger.

  We fire until we run out of ammo. Max yells back for someone to bring us more and the others try to catch their breath, but my eyes are fixed on the bot.