“You’re a perceptive girl.” He nods. “Our security says we have been compromised. The … authorities here in Bharat have found our location and are planning a raid in the hopes of finding our cure. Or perhaps our weapon—it’s hard to tell what the men with power want these days. I want you to take it to a safer place, to keep it away from these people.”
A dim buzz sounds when he again pushes the button on the glass wall, and this time I notice small black boxes inside the room, mounted at the top of the room. They rotate at his command. “Speakers,” Vast says as if I’m supposed to understand the word. I fail to see how those boxes speak. Unless … they mean Jaya could hear us speak. I wonder if she understood the conversation, and what she makes of Vast bringing me to gawp at her like a circus attraction.
“Until we know exactly what people will do with it,” Vast goes on, “these formulas have to stay within the Guardians.”
“And you want me to take it? You trust me with that task?”
“I would be indebted to you if you did. The Bharatian Independent Police know most of the Guardians we have here, but they don’t know you. If I were to send someone away, unless it was someone of low ranking, they would notice. But you could disappear without a fuss, and I trust you with the Miracle.”
“And your disease.”
“Yes. I trust you with that, too. Will you take them? I know I’ve already asked so much from you, and I promise to help you find who you’re looking for when everything is done and the world is safe—but I have to ask this too. I couldn’t live with myself if I let this cure fall into unworthy hands.”
I look at the woman inside the glass room, frowning. There’s a weight on my chest and I know, despite any argument I might make, that though Vast is trying to manipulate me, he’s also right. This cure could save hundreds of people. I knew that when I became involved; it was part of the reason I did. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll take whatever you want to your safe place. But I want your word that you’ll help me as soon as you can. Not later, not a year after. As soon as you can.”
Vast bows his head. “The world will owe you a debt and I’m happy to pay it. You’ll leave in two weeks’ time, a full week ahead of the scheduled raid.”
But what happens, I think, if in the coming war you speak of so often, you don’t survive? Who will pay it then? Who will help me find my brother?
It is so tempting to abandon ship and carve out my own path. So why don’t I? What’s stopping me?
***
Miya
11:45. 24.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.
Yosiah couldn’t find his sister when he went looking last night, so we asked Timofei who asked a guy who sent us to a white building covered in different coloured words that make no sense to me—Odeon is the one word that stands out. I’ve seen it before, on a building in Holloway, Camden Zone. Siah said it was a place you could watch films like the one on Victory Day. Well, back before the Flares wrecked the Earth you could. Maybe this place is the same. At the top of the building is a cracked clock-face with the word PRINTWORKS underneath it.
Yosiah and I share a look as we enter.
Inside, the building is surreal. Electric lights illuminate the area in red, blue, and gold. Shops are built into the wall, made of brick and glass. It’s like being outside on an ordinary street, but with a roof. I’ve never been in a place like this before. It puts me on edge.
We head to the end of the arcade—street—corridor—whatever it is. Two people are stood close together, talking quietly. One of them is Kari. She stops dead when she sees Yosiah. The other, the albino Guardian, follows her gaze to us with a neutral expression.
“Kari,” Siah whispers. His breath hitches and I look between him and his sister, not knowing what to do. Kari rushes towards him and grabs him into her arms.
“I have been looking so long,” she says.
He leans against her, his legs giving out. I’m about to reach out for him but Kari doesn’t let him fall. She holds him securely as he clutches the back of her shirt. I move to the side, giving then what little privacy my paranoid, suspecting mind will allow. I trust Yosiah to look after himself, that’s not the issue here. I don’t trust Kari; she might try to turn him against me, like Timofei did when he and Siah were first reunited in the Guardians’ base.
“Miya,” says a thick voice. “I’m Brig, the Guardians’—”
“Leader guy, yeah I know.” I look at him from the side of my eye. “It’s kinda hard to miss you when you stand up front all the time and tell us what to do.”
His smile is thin and, I think, amused. “I’m a counsellor. I don’t give orders, I give advice.”
“Same thing.” Up close Brig isn’t as odd-looking as he is from a distance. His skin is textured with scars and imperfections like any other person, and his silver eyes are a storm of grey and black, nothing like the flat colour they are from afar. “So, what do you want?” He frowns. “You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t want something.”
“I make a point of introducing myself to influential people,” he says.
“Right.” I glance back to Siah and his sister. He looks close to tears. Something grips my heart and an irrational protectiveness rises in me. I want to go to him, but he needs this time to be with his sister. “What do you know about her?” I ask Brig, nodding to Kari.
“Not much.” He watches her thoughtfully. “She’s the head of the civilian guard who protect Manchester and its civilians.”
“From Officials?”
“From themselves, if what I’ve heard is right.”
I frown at him. “So they attack each other? That’s great.”
“Not desirable is it, living in a place with a lot of conflict? I suppose Forgotten London was worse but we rarely fought each other.”
“You’ve clearly never been to Hounslow.”
We watch Yosiah and Kari hugging in silence for a few minutes until Brig says, “She seems fine to me. Honourable, from what I’ve heard.”
I tear my eyes from Siah to raise an eyebrow at Brig. “You hear a lot?”
“I do.”
Deciding I’ve been away from my best friend for long enough, I leave Brig to take my usual spot at Yosiah’s side. His hand subtly seeks my wrist and I bite down on a smile.
The conversation isn’t anything important, just Kari telling Siah what she’s been doing since they last saw each other—searching safe towns for Yosiah, making connections and friends to ask about her lost brother, travelling the island until she found this ‘colony’ in Manchester. Yosiah is quiet mostly, his eyes fixed on his sister, memorising her. I know him well enough to recognise the happiness in the half-moons of his eyes, in the restlessness of his fingers on the pulse in my wrist.
His bright mood is infectious. When Kari has to leave to do important stuff in the ‘guard room’, Siah and I wander the town centre, lazy and content. For once we just walk, not in a rush to get anywhere, not running from anyone. The sun even shows its face for a few minutes. Yosiah’s fingers never leave my wrist. I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.
It’s harder than normal to dampen my wants. And—I damn myself for even admitting it in my head—I want him. I want more than friendship and it’s ridiculous. It can’t happen. It’d screw up our friendship, the bond that’s grown over years into something stronger than normal friends have. He’s my family.
If I’m admitting to myself that I want him, I have to admit it’ll never work.
By the time we make it back to the Station, where Hele and Horatia are watching over Tom and Olive, my emotions are all tangled up and snarling. Wanting Siah isn’t worth the way it hurts.
I pull my arm out of his grip and dive headlong onto the mattress.
***
Branwell
15:11. 24.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.
A short walk away from the Station is the city library, a dome that stands as a shining white beacon in the middle of
a dull city. It has four towering columns at its front and a number of statues, tributes, and obelisks dotted around the entrance, some with decayed flowers at their bases. A majestic atmosphere hangs around the whole area, as if this library has been undisturbed by the flares and disease and commands respect and admiration because of it.
The town around it is shrouded in silver mist, fingers of the fog brushing moisture across my face as I cross the road. The tracks of some obsolete train service press through the soles of my shoes and wires flap in the wind above my head. A tram ran through this town, I think, once upon a time. I try to remember if Manchester had a tram in my own era but I can’t recall anything about the city.
The library entrance is closed but unlocked. Taking a breath of damp air, I push it open and follow echoing voices to an airy room. The scent of aging books overwhelms my senses and for a second I am home, curled up in my basement amongst shelves and shelves of paperbacks. But the pleasant heat of this room is too far removed from my arctic basement to be anything like home.
I put my bedroom out of my mind and step into a bright, wide room of curved walls and faded spines, a shining brass gallery above my head. Sunlight streams through a glass roof, painting mahogany bookshelves and solid tables a warm golden colour. In the middle of the marble floor tables with mostly empty chairs have been evenly spaced. At one of them sits Yosiah, talking to the blonde Manchester leader with unease in his posture. I pull out the chair opposite him with a weary smile.
“I’m Dagné,” says the woman. “We haven’t met.”
As I remove my jacket, heat leaks through my shirtsleeves, a rare warmth I cherish after these long days of cold. “Branwell Ravel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I glance at Yosiah. It takes him several moments to notice my attention; he appears miles away from this library. “Found anything?”
“A lot of information I’ve not had access to before, but nothing useful.”
Dagné smiles. She’s too cheerful, too bright for the darkness and despair I’m used to. “Looking for something in particular? I could help.”
“The history of London,” Yosiah supplies. “We were curious about the similarities of our different homes.”
I nod, confirming his lie.
“You’re looking in the wrong section,” Dagné says with a laugh, promptly going to what I assume is the history section. Yosiah gives me a furtive look to say he hasn’t found anything about the projects. My guess is the clues to biological alteration can’t be found within a dusty library book, but this is as close as we come to information.
Marc, the soldier I despise for no sound reason, marches into the room, his boots slapping the floor. He has a hushed conversation with Dagné, blatantly watching Yosiah and me out of the corner of his eye. With an apologetic smile Dagné excuses herself, pointing us in the right direction of the library.
“So,” Yosiah says when she’s gone. “Where do we start?”
“I have no idea.”
“Biology or psychology?” I give him a frantic look. “Okay. Biology. You think his brain is what was altered?”
“I think so, yes.” I rub my eyes, worried and exhausted. “But it’s just a theory. I have no proof.”
“Run with it.” He strides to the science section, me right on his heels, and bends down to a collection of shelves labelled biology. “All your other theories have been right.”
“Most of them. Not all.” I sink to the floor, scanning titles. Most of these are about the human body, which is useless. The only part of Honour capable of making him a carrier, of altering something so profound, is his brain. Or his DNA—but it is impossible to alter someone’s genetics. Thus, his brain has been changed, and I’m going to find out how and why. If possible, we can get the information to someone capable of reversing it.
That is my hope, anyway.
“But working on the theory that his mind’s been changed, to make him forget …”
He’s right about that at least. Honour has lost all memory of his time spent in Underground London Zone and his brain is the only organ capable of changing that. But besides that obvious fact, we’re working on nothing but a hunch. Yosiah agrees with me at least and he’s a medic, which makes me inclined to trust his judgement on these matters.
“Here.” He hands me a book titled simply The Brain. “That’s as good as we’re gonna get.”
I leaf through but I don’t know what to look for.
“Give me it.” Yosiah secretes the book inside his coat. It’s large but not bulky so our theft shouldn’t be obvious. “We’ll read it away from here.”
As we leave, I ask, “Do you really think we’ll be able to help him?”
“Something bad happened to Honour in that zone, in the time he’s forgotten, and he needs to remember. He needs to understand what he’s become, so he can control it.” Yosiah’s hands are trembling very slightly. He doesn’t notice. “No,” he adds after a pause. “I don’t really think we can help him—but we have to try.”
18:03. 25.10.2040. The Free Lands, Manchester.
The Guardians have rounded us up and brought us to a square named Piccadilly Gardens some minutes away from the library. We inch our way to the front, passing residents of Manchester, soldiers only identifiable by their alert expressions and rigid backs, Dagné, the petite ice-haired leader of this rebel city, and her two constant companions—Marc and the woman I now know is Yosiah’s sister. Some of the faces are distantly familiar, most are not. Strangers or no, everyone is gathered here.
Children are bursts of energy among the nervous crowd, running between adults’ legs and chasing each other over the slippery grass with sharp peals of laughter. I step out of the way of a girl of ten who barrels past me into Horatia. She shouts back an apology and carries on running, followed a second later by a boy the same age. At least the young ones are carefree, unaffected by the way their parents and guardians appear scared of what’s to come from this congregation.
We stop walking once we reach the front where Dagné and her people are watching a cluster of people at the base of a weather-worn statue of Queen Victoria. Seeing the Queen of my home, impressive and regal even in her carved form, sends a throb through my heart—yet at the same time it gives me a trill of happiness to see my home and this unfamiliar world tied together.
All emotion is replaced by surprise when I spot who stands among those around the statue—Honour. He’s with Saga, Timofei, and two others on the council. This is a Guardian speech, then, not a Manchester one. I frown.
I haven’t been as engaging with Honour as I should have been. Since the horrid way I spoke to him when we walked into this town, when I said our friendship was non-existent, I’ve been staying clear of him. Pretending the noxious combination of guilt and dread in my stomach didn’t exist.
If I speak to Honour, if I broach the subject of how badly I treated him when he was only trying to be a friend to me, I stand to lose him.
But continuing like this, an outsider in his life, may well kill me. He is my friend and I will consider him so for the rest of my life. I was wrong to say otherwise when it’s so plainly true. I can’t bear being ignorant of why Honour is here, before this many people, when he hates talking to strangers.
I feel a sudden sickness.
The thought of Honour, my closest friend, being caught up in yet more misery haunts me throughout Dagné’s introduction, which I hear nothing of. Saga replaces her after a while, the dirt colour of his robe scraping the steps. He spins a tale of a rebel who fought for the people during a dark time in Forgotten London, when the town was barely formed. He finishes by telling us about the rebel’s children, Honour and Horatia.
“These children represent the Unnamed. They remain as evidence of what he stood for when he was alive, when he incited our town into fierce determination to take back our freedom.”
He doesn’t mention what we all know—that the Unnamed’s campaign resulted in his death. Neither does he mention the hesitation I know at least o
ne of his children possesses to take up the Unnamed’s mantel. I suppose he is trying to keep the rebellion alive but the rebellion is of little concern to me. I care more about the ‘children’ he is speaking for.
I watch Honour throughout Saga’s monologue, watch the dread play across his face. I want to comfort him, to take this responsibility from his shoulders, but I don’t know how.
Saga steps down from the statue with a gesture to Honour to take his place. The Guardians, I see, are watching closely, curious and expectant. I wonder what they expect from Honour and if it matches up with my own expectations. The Manchester residents are expressionless by comparison. Talk of keeping the fire of Forgotten London alight is meaningless to the free people of this town. I wish I could be as disinterested as them, but I’m captivated.
My heart is in my throat as Honour puts a hesitant foot forward. I want to know how he got to this, what reason he has for conducting such a public display to so many people. Did he choose this, or did someone make him?
“Hi,” he says. I’m close enough to see him swallow. He looks at a spot in front of him and then bravely raises his head to look across the crowd of two hundred or so people. “So some of you know who I am, and some of you don’t, but I’m Honour Frie. What Saga said sets you up for someone important and inspirational but I’m—” He stops abruptly, shakes his head. “I’m here to ruin all your expectations. The Unnamed was my father, and everyone says he did amazing things for us but all I see is a guy that tried and failed.”
He shrugs, canvas jacket moving stiffly with his shoulders. “I’m supposed to inspire you, to make you remember why you fought in F.L. and why you’re still fighting. But I think that’s pointless, to be honest.”
The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Page 17