by Lucas Bale
Jordi knew the Peacekeepers would be searching for them. The Praetor now knew of their heresy: they had allowed a preacher into their village, and they had been persuaded by his words. In fact, from that first day, when the preacher arrived and began to tell his story, Jordi had been immediately entranced. There were those who spoke against the preacher, fear driving their objections, but the tall, quiet man had been calm and insistent. Slowly, the truth behind the Republic had become obvious and compelling—and the events that had led to the relinquishing of freedom in return for the ‘protection’ of the Magistratus had been unveiled.
While he listened to the preacher’s words, Jordi had realised the reality: there had been no choice. Citizens embraced the Concessions or faced banishment beyond the Wall.
As a young child, Jordi had been indoctrinated into a very different dogma. Schoolteachers from the Core came to Herse, to instruct the residents in the history of humanity—while Peacekeepers stood over the children, watching. As part of their curriculum, these teachers warned tersely that beyond the Wall lay a madness, one which corrupted the minds of men and had led to a war that almost destroyed humanity.
But those had been lies.
When the preacher first came to the village, they’d all understood the danger they put themselves in by even listening to what he had to say, were anyone ever to reveal their perfidy. But at the same time, they needed—yearned—to know what it could mean to be free.
How the Praetor had discovered their betrayal, Jordi couldn’t say. But the preacher had been certain that discovery would come, and that they would need to run. And when the preacher didn’t come for them as he’d promised, the camp became rife with terrified speculation. Perhaps Ishmael had not reached him in time, or perhaps the preacher had already been murdered in his bed before the Peacekeepers got to the village. Some shouted that he had abandoned them. Nevertheless, the preacher’s instructions had been clear—if the Praetor ever sent Peacekeepers to the village, they should run and hide and wait for the preacher to come for them. They were to use the device to mask the signal emitted by their implants, and there were to stay close together. He would find them. They were his flock. Believers seeking freedom.
Jordi’s father cradled the device in his hands like a newborn infant, treating it with equal parts reverence and fear. Jordi wondered whether the humming could be heard above the wind. Whether the Peacekeepers might even catch it as their machines tore the forest apart in their search for them. It was absurd, of course—the noise was far too gentle—but the fretfulness inside Jordi festered and nothing he did would quieten it. Over the last few hours, gunships had been scanning the forest from above, and there had been argument about whether they could afford to light a fire at all. But in the end the cold, seeping into every bone, had won, and the small fire had been lit. Jordi fidgeted as he stared at the eyes of the people around him—his neighbours and friends, people he had grown up with and known all his life—and saw the same fear fermenting within each of them.
He shivered as much from that fear as from the cold, and drew the blanket more tightly around him. He had handed out as much as he could spare from the burlap sack he had filled before he ran, receiving grateful smiles in return. A few had found no time to snatch even the most essential items before they fled their homes. Others had been more fortunate. Helping those in need gave him a small measure of hope in this desperate place.
A crack echoed somewhere in the forest and he froze instantly.
It was a harsh and unnatural sound, and he knew immediately it couldn’t have come from an animal. Fear bloomed inside him. He scanned the darkness between the trees, watching the shadows sway in the light thrown by the fire. Around him, the villagers rose to their feet, uncertain and afraid. Choked whispers fell from their panicked lips. Jordi looked to his father, who had also stood, still clutching the device. His eyes stared long into the gloom.
‘Papa?’ Jordi whispered, but his father didn’t move. Jordi tried to swallow, but found his throat was too dry. Instead, he followed his father’s gaze into the shadows; he could see nothing moving. He picked out another sound drifting towards them—a rustling which he couldn’t quite place, punctuated by more sharp cracks. Almost like wood splintering.
‘Papa,’ he whispered again, more urgently this time. ‘Shouldn’t we run?’
The villagers grew more unnerved. Some picked up blankets and began to leave. Others stared deep into the bleakness of the forest, horror carved into their sunken faces and wide eyes.
‘Everyone stay still,’ Jordi’s father finally said. He spoke the words quietly, but with a calm authority that made the rest turn to look at him.
‘We don’t know what’s coming, Josiah,’ one of them said. Mr Ingmarrson, who held his wife close. Behind their fear, Jordi could see a familiar determination. He had always been a man unwilling to lie down and accept an ill wind.
‘I do,’ Josiah replied.
‘How can you possibly know?’ another hissed.
Josiah glanced down at the device and then back at all of them. ‘I know.’
Whether his father’s confidence might have been enough to persuade them, Jordi would never know, because the rustling and cracking—punctuated now by a gentle squeal—floated steadily closer, and he knew it was already too late to run. He reached down and took up a thick branch. A futile act which momentarily buoyed his heart before his brain could latch onto its senselessness.
Mr Ingmarrson turned to face the oncoming noise and clutched his wife to his chest, nestling her face to his neck so she didn’t have to see.
Seconds passed and the sounds drifted closer.
Jordi realised suddenly that it was a cart, picking its way through the forest. The rustle and cracking was the noise of the wheels on the forest floor, and the squeal was probably a joint in need of oil. Peacekeepers don’t use carts.
The mist shifted and swirled, and through it came a horse moving slowly across the uneven snowy ground. Behind it, a cart stumbled over gnarled roots and fallen branches. It was driven by a hunched figure with a hood drawn over its head. Someone else might be looking for us. There might be a reward for finding us.
Jordi’s hand tightened around the branch.
The cart drew to a halt; the figure lifted its head and pulled down the hood.
Jordi recognised the preacher, and the fear drained away from him. His legs felt suddenly hollow and he found he needed to sit. The branch dropped from his hand into the snow. He watched his father walk up to the cart and help the preacher down with one hand, the device still clasped in the other. A short, whispered conversation passed between them and the preacher nodded.
Some of the villagers moved slowly to the back of the cart and began removing what looked like sacks from it. Jordi watched them for a moment until the preacher spoke.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not here. There’s something we must do first. Then I must ask you to walk again. For only a little while, I promise.’
Josiah shuffled towards his son and sat next to him.
‘You need to be brave,’ he said quietly.
‘I will, Papa,’ Jordi replied, nodding slowly. ‘Of course, I will. Where’s Ishmael?’
‘The preacher doesn’t know. He never made it to him.’
The words hung in the air as if Jordi could almost touch them.
‘Where is he?’ he whispered, already knowing the absurdity of his question, but unable to stop himself.
His father shook his head. ‘We have work to do.’
‘We can’t just leave him,’ Jordi insisted. ‘We need to go look for him. I can go—no one will see me, I promise.’
‘No, little man,’ his father said. ‘First we must protect those we know are here. Then we can think about looking for others.’
Jordi glanced towards his mother. She was speaking to Mrs Ingmarrson, one hand raised to her mouth, her back to him and her head bowed. Her shoulder shook. Jordi could see the grief in Mrs Ingmarrson’s eyes, and knew th
ey mirrored his mother’s.
‘He’s not dead,’ Jordi said. ‘I know it.’
‘You must be brave,’ his father replied. He picked up a small piece of wood and gave it to Jordi. ‘Put this between your teeth and pull up your shirt.’
Jordi stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘Please, little man.’
Jordi relented and pulled his shirt from where he’d tucked it into his trousers. The cold clawed his skin and he shivered again. He placed the wood in his mouth. It was rough and cold and tiny splinters cut his lips. His father nodded towards the preacher and Jordi watched as the man strode towards them. The preacher leaned down and tried to smile, but it looked thin, unreal. He had always looked ageless to Jordi; his face appeared worn because of the scars but, behind his grey eyes, there was always vibrance. He had once told them that he had found an understanding, and that it had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. ‘Freedom exists,’ he had told them, ‘and there will come a time when you must all fight for it. No one will give it to you. The Magistratus holds the First Concession as its highest law. What you believe in, you are told, is not your choice to make. The moment you refuse the First Concession—the moment you choose to believe in something greater than the Magistratus and its New Republic—you will be hunted forever. You must be ready to take your freedom.’
Jordi wasn’t sure he believed everything the preacher said—for instance, the story about a divine being who was responsible for all creation—but what the preacher told them about the past, about the lies they had been told for generations, had led him to believe he could be free. Free to choose, free to hunt for food, free to roam the land as he pleased. Free of the Praetor, the Peacekeepers and the Magistratus.
‘This will hurt,’ the preacher said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Look away and think of something that makes you happy. Try to focus on it and bite down hard.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Jordi asked, suddenly afraid. He wanted to look at his father, but the preacher’s eyes held him.
The preacher smiled again and glanced to one side. Jordi followed his gaze and understood. He closed his eyes and thought of Ishmael. Strong hands took his shoulders and leaned him to one side. More hands curled around his torso.
The pain that followed was more intense than anything he had ever experienced. It was exquisite and unrelenting. His body began to shake, and he bit so hard into the wood, he feared he might carve right through it. His skin was on fire, burning and peeling away from his flesh. He refused to scream, but gasps knotted in his throat behind the wood in his mouth.
Please, I want it to stop!
Something jerked inside him—something alien and unknown. It surged towards the pain and ripped through muscle and sinew. His legs weakened and gave way beneath him, but the arms held him and gently lowered him to the cool ground. The pain subsided, faded to a distant ache. The wood dropped from his mouth. Something pressed against his side and he felt wetness on his skin. He was weak and tired, like he imagined he must have been as a newborn—when the implant was first placed inside him.
But now it was gone. Torn from his body, leaving a grisly wound.
‘Well done,’ his father whispered into his ear. ‘It’s over.’
The rest was a blur in his memory. He remembered someone—Mrs Ingmarrson, he supposed, for she was an apothecary—dressing the wound. He remembered muffled gasps and screams around him, as others had their own implants removed. Once he could see clearly again, and the ground around him ceased churning, he realised he was on the cart as it bumped and rocked through the forest.
‘Papa,’ he whispered.
‘He’s not here.’ It was the preacher’s voice, and Jordi turned to see him seated at the front of the cart, driving the horse. Two other figures, he could not say who, were laid out flat beside him; another was seated, head bowed. Beside them, piled high in the cart, were dozens of burlap sacks of all sizes.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Some find the process of removing the implant harder than others,’ the preacher said, watching the way ahead of him. ‘It was easier to lay you in the cart and let the others walk.’
‘Where are they?’
‘A little way behind. We’re going to make camp up ahead.’
‘We don’t have shelters.’
‘We have enough,’ the preacher said. ‘Can you come and sit up here? I want to speak to you.’
Jordi nodded and pulled himself up. Between his ribs, on his right side, he could feel the wound. Yet the pain was distant now, like an echo. ‘I don’t feel much,’ he said.
‘I gave you something to eat for the pain. It won’t last for long though, and you’ll need to keep the wound clean and dressed. Someone will show you how.’
The forest ahead of them was veiled in snow, hued in grey and crimson. The trees looked tall, bleak and haggard, and appeared black in the dusky half-light shed by the moons.
‘What happens now?’ Jordi asked.
‘I need to talk to you about Ishmael.’
Jordi felt his stomach pitch. He took in a deep breath and held it.
‘You have a part to play now, Jordi,’ the preacher said, still watching the forest ahead. ‘Everyone in this group must work together if we are to survive. If you go and look for your brother, you’ll risk all of us.’
‘We can’t leave him,’ Jordi said quietly.
‘We must, at least for now.’
‘I can’t.’
‘These people are relying on you. I have tasks I can entrust only to you. If you leave and search for your brother, you will be found. And as soon as that happens, the Praetor will find us. It would be inevitable.’
‘But you’ve removed the implants. How can they track us?’
‘There are ways, and I must remain ahead of them at all times. Which means I need you to do as I say. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have to go into town, and when I do, I will look for your brother. I promise. You must trust me.’
‘I do trust you,’ Jordi said. He studied the preacher for a moment. Questions surged inside him. Questions he had been too afraid to ask before, preferring instead to leave the important decisions to his father and the other elders in the village. Now, he knew he could not wait. ‘Why does the Magistratus hate the preachers? Why is the First Concession so important?’
If the question had surprised the preacher, he didn’t show it. Instead, he appeared not to even hear it, and continued to drive the cart through the forest. Too nervous to repeat his question, Jordi waited. His heart thumped in his chest and he played with the threads on the wool blanket. The preacher closed his eyes for a moment, then began to speak, softly and slowly.
‘The First Preacher tells us that belief in something beyond humanity and the Magistratus allows each of us to see with clarity—to realise who we truly are. Without being open to that belief—that more exists than that which the Magistratus tells us—we cannot be the architects of our own destiny.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The Magistratus wants control above all else,’ he said quietly. ‘Control of everything humanity is, everything it does, and its future. By conceding our freedom in return for protection, each citizen of the Republic permits that control. That is the truth of the Concessions, and we are told that refusing them is a crime that would endanger the rest of humanity—and is therefore punishable by banishment. Citizens in the Core do not question that control, because they have everything they need to live their pampered lives; everything except the freedom to believe in something more than the Republic. But out here, the truth of what the Magistratus thinks of the border systems is more apparent.’
‘They say the Core is made of gold,’ Jordi said. ‘That it’s warm and safe and food is plentiful.’
‘Not quite gold,’ the preacher said.
Jordi pressed him. ’Why does the Magistratus not allow us to believe what we want to believe?’
‘They t
ell us they were twice the saviours of humanity,’ the preacher said. ‘That they are the only divinity that humanity needs. Faith in any other divinity undermines their power.’
‘I want to be free, but I’m not sure I believe that the universe was created by someone or something I cannot see and touch.’
‘That is your choice,’ the preacher said. ‘You have the freedom to believe whatever you wish to believe. That is true freedom, because everything else flows from it. That’s what they are keeping from you, and what they will kill to protect.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Flight Plan
SHEPHERD PUSHED through the door of the supply store. The air smelled musty, and the only light within came from the sallow gloom shed by the storm clouds gathering above Herse. A girl in a frayed blouse and stained apron regarded him warily as he approached.
‘We’re closed,’ she said. Around her, apart from a stack of rusted tins and a few crumpled packets of dried food, the low shelves were bare. Hunting equipment and tools in a corner looked worn and battered, maybe even dangerous. On one counter was a pile of neatly folded old coats, gloves and hats, as if someone had once taken a pride in the place, but they were now covered in dust. Behind the girl, in front of a window, lay a few dry loaves. There was no fresh food. Where once there might have been vegetables and cereals, the baskets were empty. He could see no meat anywhere. The debris of a store that hadn’t been supplied in a long while, and a township with no coin to buy what it did have.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ he said.