The Remnant

by Laura Liddell Nolen

Something was burning, and I had a hard time remembering where I was and what I was doing. “I want West,” I said, too loudly. My voice sounded less clear in my ears than it did in my head. When my eyes were open, everything was too sharp. When they were closed, everything was fuzzy.

  Oh, and it hurt to talk. A lot.

  “Charlotte Turner. I will take you to West if it’s the last thing I do,” she hissed. “But you are heavy. So if you don’t listen to me, right now, we won’t make it. That cloud is coming back.”

  “Cloud.”

  “Yes. Cloud. You just got struck by lightning. Now run.”

  I must have tried to run, but it didn’t last long. The next thing I knew, we were slumped against a bin a few feet away. Well, I was slumped. Marcela was kneeling next to me, and yanking something out of a hip-pack. It was a needle, an ugly, sharp one, and she stabbed me with it.

  That absolute cow.

  “West,” I mumbled, and she gave me a look that told me it wasn’t my first time to say it. The pain of the shot blossomed through my thigh, and a brush of bright red hair swished against my face. Marcela pressed her head to my chest, then placed a finger under my chin while staring into space, jaw tight.

  Wait. I knew that look.

  “You’re a doctor,” I tried to say, but it came out, “Wwwweeeest.” The pain in my leg—and all the rest of my body—evaporated. The room wobbled. Not shook. Wobbled. Like the lines of the walls were made of gelatin.

  I hated gelatin. Reminded me of prison Christmas.

  The bin was waving, too. I squinted, and Marcela’s hair waved back.

  “West.”

  “For the love of tiny gophers,” Marcela said through clenched teeth, “could you please stop saying West.”

  “I could not,” I slurred stubbornly. “You don’t understand. He’s my brother, and I love him, and you’re just a giant red paintbrush.”

  She directed an exasperated look at the ceiling.

  I stuck my lip out. “A giant angry red paintbrush, and you stung me.”

  “It’s psychaline. Enough to restart you. It’s disorienting, a bit like alcohol. You’ll feel dizzy, and slightly anxious, until the first phase wears off. You might hallucinate. Then you’ll be in pain again. We have to be gone by then. I don’t think the cloud can see us, but—this is strange, but I think it’s targeting you.”

  “My foot. I can’t.”

  She directed an angry look at my ankle, then knelt in surprise.

  “Yeah, it’s sprained. Okay. Okay.” She reached back into her bag, frantically searching for something. “The psychaline will make the swelling go down. Brace it like this,” she said, ripping off my shoe and pressing my joint into place. “And don’t move. Now shut up while I do a field wrap.”

  “Ooh, look who’s had combat training.”

  “I’m a doctor, Char. This will work.”

  I made a grand gesture toward her face. “And medical school!”

  She looked supremely annoyed, but finished wrapping up my ankle with quick, sure moves.

  I bit my lip. “Hey, not bad. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said icily.

  I looked deep into her eyes, since she was about an inch from my nose, and I didn’t have much of a choice. To my utter shock, I didn’t see the one thing I expected.

  “You don’t hate me!” I said, trying a little too hard not to slur. A hint of a smile stole across my face. “You really, really don’t.”

  She looked at me like someone who came home from a long day at work and discovered that her dog had made a mess all over the couch. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “We should talk about this! We’re making a connection here.”

  She placed her hands on my shoulders and opened her eyes wide. “Big gun BANG.” She waved her hands around her ears for a moment, then mimicked a wild “Aahh!” beneath her voice. Her gun hit her hip, and she finished off the performance by miming sprinting away in slow motion. “We run now,” she said, in a drawn-out accent.

  I watched her leave. “Yeah. Good talk.”

  We ran, and my feet wobbled into the floor, one after the other, until we’d put some distance between us and the cloud. Marcela was right; it was definitely following us. For whatever reason—probably the drug—I found that my thoughts were isolated behind some kind of steel wall that separated them from my emotions. I knew I should be afraid, or even angry, but instead, I felt my mind ticking away.

  “Adam either locked Isaiah up, or he killed him. Otherwise, this wouldn’t still be happening.” I tried to picture Isaiah in another cell. The image made my chest feel tight, like I was caught in a vice.

  “Char. So help me. You need to keep running. I can’t leave you, and I can’t carry you, and West will never forgive me if—”

  “Your monkey brain is panicking. You have to calm down to engage your higher thinking.”

  She grabbed my collar, and her angry red hair zoomed toward my face. “You. Will. Keep. Running.”

  “No, I didn’t mean you’re a monkey,” I gave a little laugh. She was actually kinda scary up close like that. Not that I could really feel fear at the moment. “I mean, it’s just instinct to freak out, but that’s a good way to lose the ga—”

  “You run, or I don’t take you to West.”

  “I really thought you hated me. Hey, I’m wearing a copper wire.”

  “What?”

  “Copper wire. Around my waist. That’s why the cloud is following us. Lightning needs a conduc—a conducive—”

  “A conductor.”

  “That’s the one. A conductor. All aboard.”

  She stopped trying to run for about one full hair-wobble. “Of all the absolute—a copper wire? In a thunderstorm. Of course you are. Get it off. Keep running.”

  I unspooled myself as we ran past the final few rows of bins and came back to the door to the hangar. The last several loops of wire were tangled, and I had to stop. Marcela swiped her hand around the door.

  “Wait, what is that? What are you doing? Is there some kind of invisible keypad here too?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Adam installed it. Links to a chip implant in my wrist.”

  I stared at her. “You let him. Put a chip. Under your—”

  “It was all very futury, sciency—you know what? It made sense at the time.”

  I thought about that. “Yeah, yeah.” I gave her an understanding nod. “I get it. I mean, we are on a spaceship.”

  “Right?”

  “Still creepy though.”

  She gave a sigh that could have been a laugh and turned back. I scanned the area, especially the ceiling. Tiny gray puffs of clouds swept around above us. They didn’t drift, like real clouds. They flew, like hawks.

  “He’s almost certainly deactivated it, but I can’t think of anything else to try,” she said. “Do you hear screaming?”

  I cocked my head. “Lockies, maybe? They’re stuck out here, too.”

  An explosion rocked the cargo hold—no, the entire ship, I reminded myself—and I fell into the wall. It didn’t stop Marcela from continuing to try to open the door, and I admired her ability to stay cool in a panic. It was probably something she’d learned as a doctor. Or maybe combat training.

  I, on the other hand, had to will my hands not to shake. Stupid psychaline. This was why I didn’t do drugs: the thought of losing control of my body, even for a second, was terrifying. A slow tingle built its way up my back, like someone was walking their fingers up my spine.

  I just needed some space from the noise in my brain. I needed to think. “Isaiah’s not out here. We’d have seen him,” I said quietly.

  “That’s—we can’t be sure about that,” she said, aiming her sidearm at the wall.

  “The bullets won’t penetrate the ship, Mars. Just skin, remember?”

  “What?” Marcela stopped swiping long enough to study me.

  “He would have thought of that. Adam built it. Adam blocked you out. Adam has Isaiah. It’s all ove
r.”

  “Calm down. That’s the adrenaline in the psychaline. It makes you panic, once it kicks in, which helps block the pain.”

  “I’m not panicking. I mean, I am, but that’s just because I’m right.”

  The comm crackled, and some of the tension drained from her shoulders. “West? Thank goodness. West? I didn’t hear that.”

  “It’s not West,” said a young voice. “It’s Amiel. He’s here. He’s sick.”

  Amiel, Adam’s younger sister? What was she doing in the cargo hold? I yanked the comm from Marcela. “Amiel? You’re with West? Why? Where are you?”

  Marcela leaned over the comm. “Are you in the Remnant?”

  “No. We’re in the hold. West came for us when Adam moved on the cargo hold, before he sealed the door to the Rift. He got out, but he says he was one of the last. Adam was going to seal the doors. Lots of people stayed in on purpose, to fight.” She paused, her voice small. “For both sides.”

  “West came for you?” I asked, confused.

  Marcela took her finger off the comm, muting us. “He takes care of the lockies. Brings them food and stuff. Makes sense he’d go looking for them when this all went down. You know the Remnant. Everybody’s gotta work.” She said the last part in a disgusted tone, and I understood why. Amiel was young. Way too young to have a job this dangerous.

  Marcela pulled at the comm again. “Can you confirm that Isaiah was captured?” she said. “Amiel, where are you?”

  “He’s not moving. Maybe twenty bins out from the door, and ten to the left. There are clouds. The Nowhere Men haven’t found us yet. No one has.”

  “Hold tight,” said Marcela. “We’re coming.”

  Twenty-three

  The drive is long, even for me, an impatient teenager, but anything beats juvy. It’s Thursday, early morning, and West is probably still asleep.

  Not for long.

  I’ve been away for four months this time. I’ve missed Christmas, West’s birthday. There’s a lot to catch up on. I measure the trip in monotonous clusters of trees and forced sighs.

  I fiddle with the gift in my hands. My mother picked it out, bought it, wrapped it. West loves presents.

  I’m up the stairs before my mom even reaches the front door. “West! West, I’m back!”

  No response.

  Undeterred, I slam open his door and leap the entire space between it and the bed in a single bound. “Uuuuup! C’mon. You didn’t forget about today, did you?”

  I stop, breathless. West isn’t sleeping. As far as I can tell, West isn’t even in the house. I look around, suddenly confused.

  “Charlotte.” My father is standing at the door. He hasn’t changed, of course, but he doesn’t seem as angry as usual. Even his tone is lighter, somehow.

  But I can only frown. “Hey, Dad. Where’s West?”

  “School,” he says.

  I brush past him and into the hallway. Only my father could sound smug in one syllable. It’s not like I was expecting some kind of welcome home party, but he doesn’t have to be so condescending all the time.

  I’m not allowed back at school. Not that it matters. Everything will be blown to bits in four more years.

  My father clears his throat. “What are you doing? You are not to leave this house.”

  “Heeey,” I say. “Good to see you too, Dad. Yes, of course I missed you.”

  “Charlotte, honey—” my mother begins, but cuts herself off with a helpless look at my father.

  He physically blocks the top of the staircase.

  I snort. “You have to be kidding.”

  “Go to your room. We’re not going to start this nonsense again. Not when your mother’s been up half the night driving.”

  “Get some rest, Charlotte,” my mother says. “I’ll call you down for lunch, okay?”

  I look at her. She really is tired. My father, too. I close the door to my room without slamming it.

  “I am glad you’re here, Charlotte,” my father calls out from the hallway.

  I do not respond. Instead, I look down at the gift in my hands. It was a stupid idea, anyway. I wish she’d never thought of it.

  When I finally do see West, he is bright and full of chatter. And although his words sound the same, there’s something missing behind them. I chew my dinner slowly.

  No, nothing is missing. He really is happy to see me. But there’s something else, too.

  I know he will sneak into my room tonight, so I don’t let it bother me.

  And so hours later, when my door creaks open, I’m up. I’m waiting.

  “Shh. Not so much noise.”

  “I don’t think they care, Tarry.” West is the only one who calls me that, and only rarely in the years since he learned to pronounce Charlotte. It rhymes with starry. It is a happy sound, a safe, closed-up place in my heart. “They know we’re going to talk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that they probably assume.”

  We sit there for the space of five slow breaths. It is a comfortable silence, but neither of us expects it to last. There are things to be said.

  “How was school?” I say.

  “No recess this year, but we have an actual lab in science class, so that’s good.”

  School is no longer mandatory, but if you want to apply for the lottery, you can’t stop going. From what I heard, it’s a lot harder than it used to be. But West is smart. Way smarter than me. I bet he loves it. “Dad’s going to get me back in.”

  “That’s good,” he says. He chews his cheek. “That’s good, Tar.”

  “I know,” I say, taken aback by the serious tone. “Hey, I got you something. Mom said you’re into this game now.”

  He opens the gift more slowly than I expect. He really is older. I smile in anticipation.

  “The expansion pack. Yeah, this is great. Thanks,” he says. He’s not smiling.

  “West. I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”

  He does not respond. And it’s either my imagination, or he’s inching toward the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning.”

  “I’m not going to miss them anymore. I’m not—”

  “Just stop. Stop it, okay? You said that last time.”

  I freeze, unable to breathe. West has never been so tall, so distant.

  “All I’ve wanted is to see you again,” I say. My voice has a pleading tone I haven’t planned on.

  But West is leaving, and I understand—really understand—that he hadn’t wanted to see me that morning. And I think that maybe he had wanted to hurt me. That I had hurt him. His dark eyes flash. He puts a hand on the door, high above the knob, and stops. “You can’t… Look. This is it. You can’t do it anymore.”

  “I’m out. Seriously, West. I know about the age cut-off.” If you commit a felony after you turn fourteen, you’re no longer eligible for the lottery to get on an Ark. That’s when it hits me that West probably hated missing my birthday, too.

  To my horror, he does not respond. And another thought hits me, heavy: my brother is crying.

  “West,” I say. “Hey.”

  “You have to stop. You really—you can’t. Please,” he stutters, sniffing.

  “I’m stopped.”

  West looks at me, face red. “I can’t go up there without you. I can’t leave you here when the meteor comes. So you have to promise me. You’ll never go back in there. Promise me, Tarry.”

  I open my eyes wide. I’ve never meant anything so honestly in my life. But neither has he. My heart pounds nearly out of my chest. “I promise, West.”

  He stares at me, and I do not look away. He is satisfied.

  “Hey,” he says at last, and tosses me the game pack. “Turn the board on. You gotta see this game.”

  I take a breath. “Sure hope you’ve been practicing. You needed it, if I’m remembering right.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll take it easy on you. Since you’re a girl.”

  I laugh, relieved. My brother is back. He lo
cates the handhelds, and we play side by side, throwing insults and talking about the stupidest things that pop into our minds, and as the hours wear on, the grayest knots around my heart begin to untangle.

  We’re still sitting like that when the sun invades the bedroom, and when my mother ascends the stairs to wake West for school, she passes his room without a pause and comes straight into mine.

  West. After that day, we’d been best friends right up until my final stint in juvy, when everything had changed. West was here, somewhere in the cargo hold, same as me. I’d explained to him a thousand times that I hadn’t broken my promise, that I hadn’t set a finger out of line, but nothing was ever the same after that. In the days leading up to my ill-fated trial, he’d barely looked me in the eyes. I did not know whether I was forgiven.

  The bins blurred past.

  My heart pressed into my chest and throat, threatening to spill out from my eyes. The psychaline fueled me onward, and my lungs felt like they were in competition with my legs to use the most resources.

  I was about to see my brother.

  I felt cold all over.

  Surely, I was dreaming. But the ground was hard beneath my feet.

  West was here.

  The bins burned past.

  My lungs were tight.

  I felt no pain, only burning.

  West.

  “West!” I screamed, over and over. “West! Amiel!”

  “Shh!” Marcela hissed. “Left here. Stop screaming. They’ll find us.”

  I didn’t think the cloud could hear us, but it occurred to me that we couldn’t be sure of that, so I stayed quiet.

  We turned a corner as if in a dream, and there, lying on the ground, curled into a ball, was my brother, West.

  “West.” I dropped to the ground, placed a hand on his head. He did not respond. I found I could not speak above a whisper. “West. Wake up.”

  He shifted, but his eyes were closed. I looked at Amiel, my eyes wide. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

  “It’s the Lightness,” said Marcela. She placed a hand on my shoulder, but I flinched without meaning to, and she pulled it back quickly.

  I looked up at her, then back to West. “Can you fix it?”

  She pulled in a breath and gave me an odd look. “It’s a form of psychosis. It causes paralysis, shortness of breath. Like a panic attack, but with worse potential complications. It didn’t exist on Earth. We haven’t had time to study it yet.”