by Sarah Govett
‘What the…!’ Jack’s yell of outrage.
‘She’s all yours, mate. She’s all yours.’
Sometimes doing the right thing sucks. It sucks so bad.
Raf didn’t ignore me for the rest of the day. Being ignored would have been better. Shown that he actually cared. Instead he addressed me with perfect courtesy. Deferred to my judgment when we were making decisions. Suggested that I partnered up with Jack.
There was no one to talk to about it all. To spill my heart out to. Nell was barely with it, a nervous mess surgically attached to Jack’s arm. I’d never talked about that sort of stuff with Lee, and Ella was gone. Ella. It freaked me out that I could go for a couple of hours without thinking about her. What did this say about me? I’d seen my cousin killed and I could forget about it. Could still function. After Daisy, I’d been messed up for days. Is death like love? The first time knocks you out and then you start to get used to it. Can you get used to death?
There was one thing we could all agree on. Our next destination.
The First City.
Home.
To hack the uploads we needed the private digital key and the man, Fred – there I did it, I made myself say his name – had said that it was in the Ministry. There was no reason to doubt him and it made sense, too, that the Ministry would retain control over such critical information. There were Ministry branches in all the Cities of course, but the main one, the headquarters, was in the First City. A tall, white building, a flight of steps up to stone columns, a rip off of the Parthenon. No resources to save a few Norms, but enough time and money to give a building an imposing facelift? Sure, why not?
We also knew that if we were going to actually take on the Ministry, enter the lair of the beast if you like, we couldn’t do it alone. We needed some help. And the Opposition was based in the First City too. Yin and Yang. Keep your enemy closer.
‘You’re sure you know how to make contact?’ I asked Lee.
‘Yes, Megan was really clear about it. She told me the location of one of their safe houses. Corner of 14th and 7th.’
The north of the City. Not an area I knew well. Our flat, Mum and Dad’s rather, was in the west.
‘The password’s Icarus 34.’
‘What?’
‘“Cos sometimes you’ve got to fly too close to the sun”,’ Lee explained with a wry smile. ‘Not sure where the “34” bit came from, though. Anyway, we say the password then we ask for Simon, her brother. He’ll help us.’
Everyone started talking about the Opposition. What they knew. How they’d help us.
‘…a network of underground tunnels so they can get round the City undetected…’
‘… all the latest tech stuff…’
‘…a weapons stash…’
It came to me as snippets. I didn’t really concentrate on it, past thinking that if the Opposition really was this powerful, how come they haven’t already taken down the Ministry? And how come they ever get caught? How did the Ministry find Jack’s dad when he was high up in it and eliminate him? My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about home. About Mum and Dad. About whether I could risk trying to visit them and whether they’d even be there. Whether … whether they’d been taken. How I’d tell them about Ella.
Jack had turned on the TV in the corner of the Server building and my eyes drifted over to my first glimpse of life in the Cities for months. Nothing seemed to have changed. There was some bullshitty propaganda piece about the Head Minister himself visiting the school that had secured the best TAA results last year and meeting (carefully selected) pupils who’d be sitting it next. All the shots were from the front. No back of necks, no Nodes. The message was clear: these pupils work hard, these pupils behave well, these pupils respect the Ministry and that’s why they’ll pass. A space in the Territory is open to all – all who deserve it. The Head Minister’s face stared out at us from the screen. A close-up, designed to impress and reassure. The lighting emphasised his height, his strong jaw, green eyes, grey-flecked brown hair and pronounced chin-dimple. If you didn’t know he was an evil autocrat, you might have thought he was a professional rugby player or maybe the charismatic leader of a cult.
Something about him made me shiver, it always had. It was hard to put your finger on it. Objectively he was handsome, in an old-man handsome kind of way, and he looked strong, like he could look after the country. Rower’s shoulders Dad used to say. He had no stereotypically cruel features. His mouth was generous, his nose largish but not bulbous, his eyes wide set and often twinkling. But there was something lacking. Some warmth absent. Something that made you suspect the twinkling was electrical, turned on and off by a flick switch rather than by emotion. Not that everyone felt the same way. Lots of people revered him. Genuinely saw him as a kind of Messiah figure. After all, he’d formed the Ministry and led us out of the Dark Days, the horrific violence that had reigned as people fought for land before the building of the Fence and the creation of the TAA. If you didn’t have a kid or if you only had Childes, odds on you’d think he was pretty great. If you didn’t, and you valued your life and that of your family, odds on you’d be far too scared to tell anyone otherwise or do anything about it.
Behind him stood some lesser ministers. They always seemed to be short, as if chosen to emphasise the Head Minister’s height, his superiority. I could just make out Scott, the Minister for Education, squat and bald as if too much learning had stunted his growth and burnt the hair off the top of his head. Next to him stood Cartwright, the Minister for Allocation: small, thin, with glasses, the stereotype of an accountant. Another lackey, all of them the same. Mum said some of them used to be more liberal at the start. That there was lots of heated debate around the TAA. If that was ever true, it no longer is now. Thompson, Khan, Riley, Heywood. It was hardly worth learning their names. Same opinions, same disguised cruelty, same total disregard for teenage life.
I couldn’t take it any more so I switched the TV off and turned my attention to Raf and Lee who were now discussing our route.
‘If we retrace our steps through the Solar Fields, keeping close to the Fence, we’ll minimise our chances of being seen.’
‘Then cut inland through the Woods?’
‘But that will add about two days of walking.’
‘It’s better than being spotted.’
Jack joined in, ‘And what about when we get to the First City? We look like vagrants. I mean look at us?’
I looked from face to face, scanning head to toe. Trying to view us objectively rather than relatively. Like a random passer-by who lived in the Territory and had daily access to showers might. God, we looked awful! Dirty in a way that a good wash in a stream couldn’t sort out. Knees and elbows peered out of ripped clothes, the guys’ stubble had sprouted into proto beards, and everyone’s hair was an out-of-control matted mess. We were a walking Have You Seen Anything Suspicious? poster. And there was Nell. Nell was another thing entirely. Her gleaming white skin and white hair would freak people out immediately. We’d got used to it but I remember when me and Raf first saw Cara, the Cell at the Peak. We couldn’t help but remark on it, share the news about the strange-looking bleached girl.
‘Jack’s right,’ I said, defeat lowering and flattening my voice. ‘We’ll be spotted immediately. Arrested immediately. If we even get that far. There are soldiers patrolling the edges, the Woods, probably even the Solar Fields. When they find out someone’s attacked the Server then patrols will double, triple. Everyone will be looking for us. We can’t count on getting past them all, whatever route we take.’
‘So, we arm ourselves and take our chances?’ Lee’s tone was grim. He didn’t reckon on our chances either but what choice did we have?
I scanned my brain for ideas. There must be something. Scan scan – Nothing – I’m really hungry. Scan scan – Nothing – Scan scan – Ping! There it was. There was something we could do.
‘The uniforms! That’s it. Remember the cupboard I got the tarpaulin from? Yes? Well, above
it were spare uniforms. Uniforms for the workers here. Not like the casual dress-down ones we saw them in but real hard-core soldier uniforms! Probably for inspections or high-up visitors or something. People won’t stop us if they think we’re soldiers. Not if we walk straight enough, yell loud enough. Not if we style it out right.’
My speech was a garbled mess but it didn’t matter, everyone started nodding anyway. We’d do it. It was ballsy. Confidence was key. We were going to be like the guys in a heist film who walk into a building wearing hi-vis jackets claiming they are there to test the alarm. I blocked the fact that now in Ministry-allowed films those guys always got caught. Anyone who tried anything remotely against the system, even on celluloid, got caught. And killed.
I bounded over to the cupboard and started chucking out uniforms – biggest to Jack, smallest to Nell. We undressed and pulled them on, smoothing down creases, tightening belts, tucking hair into berets. Nell had to roll the bottom of her trousers up a couple of times and there was a gap between the top of Jack’s socks and the trouser hem but apart from that they fitted OK. The shirt, trousers, beret combo meant that Nell’s hair was tucked out of sight and only her face and neck were exposed so she could probably pass as a girl who just happened to have very pale skin. There was a triumphant yell from the bathroom and Lee ushered us in to reveal a stash of toiletries, soap, toothbrushes, razors he’d found in a drawer. We set to work – washing, scrubbing, the guys shaving – their newly smooth chins looking strangely naked and vulnerable. The skin there was paler than on the rest of their faces, having been hidden from the sun for a couple of months.
We stood in front of the bathroom mirror and surveyed the results.
It was weird. Stomach-flip level weird seeing us like this. Dressed as the enemy. Like pretending to be a witch at Halloween if witches were actually real and actually built candy houses to lure kids in to eat them. The disguise wasn’t perfect. Not by any means but maybe good enough. And, as we weren’t planning to get too up close to anyone, good enough would have to do.
As a final measure we raided their food store and filled packs with Mucor bars and bottles of water.
I was almost beginning to enjoy myself when Raf came over.
‘Good idea of yours, Noa.’
And that was it. A compliment. Genuine. But nothing more. No compliment plus joke. No compliment plus grin. And the missing plus, the difference between Noa and Raf, girlfriend and boyfriend, partners in crime, and Noa and Raf, polite acquaintances, was a stab to the chest. A knife left in the ribcage and twisted.
I reckon we’re about another two days’ walk from the First City. Three days down, two to go. We’re covering ground faster than ever. Out of the Solar Fields, through the Woods and skirting the edge of the Third City. We’re not stopping much. Short, efficient breaks but no long group chats. Raf occasionally needs to stop for longer if he gets one of his headaches but he won’t let me comfort him, check on him even. His flat eyes a ‘no-entry’ sign. I’ll sometimes see him huddled with Lee. Telling him stuff. Me, no, never.
Everyone’s still in their own heads a lot. Thinking about what has been and what is lying ahead. Thinking about Ella. Mourning her. I hadn’t realised what a stabilising influence she’d been on the group. She was friends with everyone (well, apart from Raf) and she’d been a kind of centre point between me and Raf on one side and Jack on the other. The pivot in a moment’s calculation gone.
Everything’s still really awkward between me, Raf and Jack. This morning Jack kept trying to walk next to me, like I was some bone that Raf had dropped and was now his to claim, whereas Raf couldn’t bear being next to me and would slow down or speed up to make sure it never happened.
We’re also sticking to the paths and roads which makes marching easier. One stride on tarmac/intentionally flattened and cleared dirt track equals about three little steps over brambles or five hops from stone to stone across a stream. Lee’s still worried about our hiding in plain sight plan. He’d have preferred us to try to stay properly hidden. To stick to ditches, to head deeper into the Woods amongst the shrubs and brambles. But I figured that in the army uniforms that would only increase our suspicious rating. Five soldiers marching purposefully along a marked path looks like a small planned manoeuvre. Soldiers moving base. Soldiers chasing a fugitive. Soldiers relaying an important message. Something people could register, accept and then walk away from. Whereas five people in uniform creeping around the undergrowth, bobbing up and down and popping out from behind trees was something to notice. Something to report.
Lunch started off well but turned sour.
We stopped near a stream to refill our water bottles and rest our legs.
Not knowing where we’d get our next supplies from, we had to ration what we had, so lunch was a single Mucor bar. Raf took his and wandered off, probably in search of his ever-needed ‘space’.
The Mucor bars were ‘Pork’ flavour. Yeah right. A few spliced pig cells does not a sausage make. Nell’s expression as she took her first bite was hilarious. Her face twisted and her lips puckered like a closing drawstring bag. You could see the battle between her taste buds and her brain as it instructed her oesophagus to swallow. Peristalisise goddamit! Or whatever the verb for do peristalsis is. Maybe there isn’t even a verb.
‘What is this stuff?!’ she spluttered as soon as her mouth was empty of the offending bite. ‘People in the Territory actually like this stuff?!’
If you had a school project to record an example of someone acting incredulous, that would have got a hundred per cent.
‘No one likes it,’ I replied, trying to get my laughter under control. ‘But it’s good for you. And efficiently produced,’ I added, mimicking the catchphrase of the biggest Mucor producer. You know something is going to taste super grim if the best thing they can say about it is that the production is pretty damn efficient.
‘But what is it?’ Nell still couldn’t get over it.
‘Fungus.’
‘So mushrooms?’
‘Kind of. A single-celled fungus grown in a vat that’s had lots of other creatures’ genes spliced into it so it generates more protein and vitamins than normal and tastes a bit like meat.’
‘What’s spliced?’
I hadn’t realised how little Nell knew about the Territory, about life here. Not that it should have surprised me. She’d always lived in the Wetlands and hadn’t been around this sort of technology.
I tried to explain simply but not patronisingly. ‘Splicing involves taking a gene from one organism and inserting it into another organism’s DNA.’
‘What’s a gene?’
‘It’s a little bit of your DNA – the code that makes you you, or a big brown horse a big brown horse. It has instructions in it that determine what a bit of you looks like, or what your body can do. So you have a gene for eye colour, a gene for making a particular hormone, a gene for being tall. Stuff like that.’
‘And they can stick that into a different person or some completely different animal?’
‘Yup.’
‘Freaky.’ Nell shivered.
‘Freaky,’ I agreed.
Nell’s extreme reaction to Mucor managed to lighten the mood a bit so everyone was finally talking and de-stressing slightly as we went to refill our water bottles.
‘Noa?’ Jack nudged my arm and nodded to the left. He started to walk upstream, away from the others, and I followed him. He didn’t stop until we’d passed a boulder and were semi-screened from the others. Together we peered into the stream. Together. A sensation that was both alien and familiar. Like stumbling across your home in a parallel universe.
The water in the stream was still clear and, judging by the number of creatures skating its surface and hiding in its depths, disease free. I saw a flash of silver and as I leaned forward to see if there really was a fish in the reeds, I lost my footing. Feet skidding down the muddy bank, arms windmilling, my fall was stopped just in time by Jack scooping his arm round my waist. My
hands grabbed round his neck for safety. We must have looked like some weird dance partners going for a dramatic finale to their routine. Jack stared down at me with this new kind of intensity.
‘Now, how are you going to thank me?’ he said, his skin reddening slightly.
I tried to keep things light. Tried to ignore the feeling of his arms.
‘Um, how about, “Thanks, kind Sir”?’
‘Nope, that’s not what I’m looking for,’ he replied and dangled me back over the river, upside down so the ends of my hair were trailing in the water.
‘Put me down!’ I yelled, well, laugh-yelled.
He lowered me further. The base of my skull cradling the water’s surface. The cold stung and made me break into giggles again.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, Jack began to pull me upright again, towards him. The water from my wet hair was seeping into my shirt, making it cling to my skin, and I suddenly felt exposed.
He was moving towards me as well as pulling me towards him. Leaning in. He was going to kiss me again. Oh God, Jack was going to kiss me again.
Crack, snap.
A twig, breaking. I looked up, away from Jack’s eyes and towards the sound. There, just higher up the hill, next to a fallen tree was Raf. Starting to move away but staring. That was where he’d disappeared to. I hadn’t seen him. We’d focused on the others. Screening ourselves from them. Raf must have been there the whole time. Must have seen us, seen everything. I froze, pliant to rigid in one second.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jack’s eyes followed mine and landed on Raf. The three of us, frozen, staring, trapped in the moment.
‘Time to go!’ came Lee’s voice from upstream. The spell was broken but nothing was fixed. We walked back to join the others in silence, our boots clinking along the flint path.
I’ve always been malc at acting. Shockingly terrible. I was probably the only kid who was pleased when they dropped drama from the syllabus in Year 8. Well, to be fair Jack was pretty happy too. He sucked almost as much as me. Improvisation was the worst. There was this one exercise we had to do in the first year of Hollets. You had to stand in a circle. It would start off with two people in the middle acting out a scene ‘of their choice’ and then every time Mrs Aster, the drama teacher, rang a bell, they’d freeze and some other poor sucker would have to enter the circle and take the improvisation in a different direction, based on the position in which the central peeps had frozen. I used to stand there, at the edge, deliberately avoiding the teacher’s eye, studying windows, the grain and knots of the wooden floor, hoping to God she wouldn’t pick me. I remember once when she rang the bell; she called out my name and I was jostled into the centre and just froze. My mind went blank and I couldn’t think of anything. There were seven people by now in the centre, all frozen in weird rigid robot poses and I was just standing there opening and closing my mouth and willing my brain to turn on.