Khaki and white figures pass around me, gradually lessening in number until only a handful of people remain. I don’t know how long it takes but eventually the police lower their guns and take our Miracle. The building is surrendered back to the Guardians.
Why did you let them take it? I want to wail but I can’t find my voice. At least my breathing is steady again.
Garima is suddenly in front of me, frowning. She shares a whisper with a Guardian boy whose name I don’t know. He tears down the corridor, sliding across the dusty flooring tiles to complete whatever task Garima sent him off to.
Garima says to me, “Come,” and the warmth of her hand on my elbow guides me to my bedroom. We’re not stopped at any point despite several others being told to return to the common areas. Garima has a certain level of influence among the Guardians, I realise. They might question her but they don’t argue. I stop dead at the sight of two men dressed in black and silver, my stomach roiling in an echo of the panic I’ve barely surfaced from the depths of. Dark Soldiers … here?
“It’s alright,” Garima murmurs. “Black Cats. They’re here to help.”
Her words are a balm to the anxiety that flared in me. My chest eases up as we slip into my room. It has become home to me now, carrying the same weight of security as my chambers in the past. I sink onto the foam mattress and I am safe.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I lost control of myself.”
Garima waves it away, the bed dipping under her weight as she presses a cool cloth to my forehead. “It was scary. You’d be strange if you didn’t panic.”
The sight of her warm, endless eyes settles the last of my nerves. I wonder what I will do when I leave this place and go in search of Bran, how I’ll survive without the genuine comfort of a true friend. “Did you panic?” I ask.
She nods at the speckled floor. “I hid. They took everything I worked on … and I just hid.”
I rest a hand on her arm. “Better to hide than be hurt or taken.”
“That’s what Vast said.”
“Then he was right. Who were those men?”
“Bharatian Independent Police. They work for the government, making sure nobody is doing crime or killing anybody.”
“I thought as much,” I say. “But why did they come here? I thought the Guardians were part of the government as well …”
“We’re sanctioned by them but it’s not the same. They let us plan our attack on States because they want them gone as much as we do. But they don’t really like us, and they don’t trust us much. Vast says they want our experiments. They’ve done this before.” She shrugs, the hem of her green head scarf slipping forward. She pushes it back into place impatiently. “They think we’ve got secret weapons, big ones, not just the disease. A bomb—that’s what they say we’ve got. But we don’t have anything like that. I don’t even know how to get the materials to make one. They’re just paranoid.”
“It sounded like they broke a lot of things.” I get up to check my own drawers and possessions but everything is the same, my knife wrapped up in a scarlet and gold dress that went out of fashion over a century ago.
“They took it, Bennet,” she says. “They took our Miracle.”
“I know.”
Will Vast still give me the technology I need even though I can no longer take the Miracle to safety? I hope so. I think so. Something about him suggests he’s honourable, that he keeps his word. Either way, I cannot let my faith in myself slip even an inch.
I have things I need to accomplish—impossible things—and I need every ounce of myself to believe in it.
I turn away from the chest of drawers and give my friend a smile. “Let’s go help them clean up, shall we?”
“I want to talk to Vast first,” she says.
The same two men are waiting outside my room, the Black Cats as Garima called them. I look at them with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. One of them, a mousy haired man some twenty years old, nods at Garima as we pass. I direct silent questions at her but she doesn’t notice, too caught up watching the steps her small feet make along the floor. The Black Cats follow us.
Their close presence raises the hair along my arms. I tense, preparing for an attack I’m not skilled enough to fight. I know a little from watching Guardians lessons, enough to maybe slow a man down but not to defend my life should one of these dark figures strike. Still, I call up the lesson I saw last week about bringing the top of my knee to a man’s crotch. The guide said it would incapacitate any man but I don’t particularly want to try it.
The Black Cats don’t hurt us. They follow us silently to Vast’s office without incident and I relax at that, figuring they wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack us with the Guardians’ leader here.
“Ah, Rasendra, Amil, I’m glad you’re here.” Vast’s eyes sweep over Garima and me, apparently satisfied that we’re in one piece, then fix on the Black Cats. “Close the door, would you? I have an appeal to make to you.”
I follow Garima’s example and sink into one of the burgundy chairs facing Vast’s desk. I get the distinct impression that what is said in this room will affect my life drastically. I only hope Vast hasn’t deemed me a waste of time and is going to ask these men to throw me out. Or kill me.
I press my palms against my skirt, wishing they would cease their trembling.
“You’re aware of what we’re working towards here,” Vast says to the men, the mousy haired Black Cat translating his English to Hindi for the other, “and I trust the both of you, so you are, in my opinion, perfect to accompany Bennet here to Nanda Devi.”
What?
“Our Miracle has been stolen and the Guardians can’t advance in our plan to reform States without it. We need more of it and fast—much faster than the BIP can complete our formulas. I don’t trust many people with this task, but you two I do trust.”
“Nanda Devi?” I don’t turn around to see who spoke—I’m much too wrought up to make a single movement, lest I fall out of the chair—but it must be the younger of the two men. He has a warm, accented voice. “What is in Nanda Devi?”
“The base of the Miracle. It’s a reflective metal solution—Bennet knows what it looks like. I need you to go with her and a small team of our scientists to retrieve this base and take it safely to a hidden Guardians site in Lucknow. Our mission and the fate of our City, of all the Forgotten Lands, depends upon it.”
The Black Cat speaks to his partner, quick and hushed. After what sounds like strong disagreement, he says, “Okay. We will help you.”
Finding my voice now I know I’m not headed for the chopping block, I ask, “What do they want with it? Your police?” I look up at Vast, standing over his desk, his shoulders hunched.
“We don’t know,” he answers honestly. “But if our rulers are anything like the Ordering Body … they would use it to destroy States.”
“But,” I say, “isn’t that what you want to do?”
“A good question,” adds the Black Cat. I turn to him then, and find him looking steadily back at me, his eyes almost black as coal. I expected him to look harsh, intimidating, but he looks very young, his mouth a wry twist of amusement. His eyes are exceptionally dark, his hair a rumpled mess that reminds me of my brother, and his skin is golden-brown and flushed. He has the tall, lithe body of a runner, though I daren’t dwell on who he runs from … or who he chases.
“No,” Vast argues, and I’d almost forgotten I asked a question. I return my attention to him “We would only unseat their government, but our police are an unknown force. We can’t know what they will do, so we have to presume the worst. The BIP could use our disease to destroy the entire City of States, every innocent included. We should be very thankful they found it half completed.”
“Let’s hope they never finish it.” Again I’m struck by the irony of the Guardians using a weapon to save a world. But what other choice do we have? Armies will march on States, will secure every individual state, will remove the Dark Soldiers from pow
er and ensure the people’s safety, while we, the Guardians, take care of the Earth’s oppressors. This is the best we can do. But if that weapon got into the wrong hands, if it was given to the President and his council … “God help us,” I say aloud.
“If only there were Gods,” Vast murmurs.
I sit up straighter. “But … I thought …”
“We cling to our old Gods,” he says with a smile, “because they are familiar and comforting. We hope that if we remain steadfast in our faith, our Gods will intervene and save us. But if the Gods were going to save us, they would have come years ago. They’re clearly disgusted by what we have done to ourselves, and I cannot find fault with them for that. Humanity has become despicable. If I were one of them, I would turn my head too.” His dark eyes are glazed over. It makes me uncomfortable to see so much emotion in him after so many weeks of Vast being without feeling. “The Gods forsook us when we turned on each other. If humanity is to be saved, humanity will have to do the saving.”
I can’t think of a profound enough response so I hold my tongue. If even the Gods won’t save us, who will? Not us, surely. We’re only human: fragile, corrupted, wayward. The triumph of man—I read that once in my father’s journals but I think it must have been a joke now. How can man possibly triumph when mankind is forever warring with itself?
If today has taught me one thing, it is that there is absolutely no hope. None whatsoever. But what choice do I have, really? Hope or not, I need to try. If I don’t try, I’ll never know what I’m capable of, and I’ll never find Branwell.
Nothing has changed but this: from this day forward hope has deserted me and I have abandoned it.
***
Honour
05:14. 01.11.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Leeds.
I cover my mouth with my hand as the plane hurtles nose-first to the ground, begging my stomach not to tip itself inside out. Branwell is breathing ragged, gripping my hand in white fingers. Hele is trying to soothe Dalmar, who looks physically sick. Tia bears this all with silence and calm. Nothing fazes her.
We touch the ground in Leeds with a giant bump and a shudder but the nose of the thing hasn’t crumpled in like I expected it to have done. We must have landed properly. A quick glance around the room tells me everyone is fine. No one hurt. That’s a good start.
As soon as the door hisses, a whole portion of the wall sliding up to reveal an opening, Guardians jump out, both eager to be free of this machine and ready to defend our position.
Outside, there’s a small crowd of strangers pooled in the middle of a stone courtyard, forty sets of eyes watching us clamber into the early morning darkness. I jump down first and hold out a hand to help Tia and then Branwell to the ground while the Guardians fan out around us. Cheery and civil as ever, Saga goes forward to greet yet another town leader.
A crisp wind blows across the back of my neck, the fresh air a relief, as I study the Leeds people around us. I don’t see anyone with guns or knives, no one stood alert or ready for a fight. They look curious but tired. Normal.
“You alright, Bran?” I ask, steadying him with a hand. He leans against me, his gaze roaming around the grey buildings, the new people, seeing everything he can in the purple darkness. Eventually he rests a glare on the shiny wing of the aircraft.
“Not particularly,” he says, “but I’m glad to be free of that thing.”
I smile, amused as he continues to scowl at the machine.
Timofei hops to the ground last and brushes off his jeans—they’re as dirty as mine. I hope we can find some new clothes in this place since the ones we gathered from Harwich are holey and disgusting now and the stuff we were given in Manchester is the wrong size. Timofei’s eyes search the gathered Guardians, looking for someone who isn’t here. My eyes lower to the floor; I don’t want to watch him remember that Alba’s dead.
Tia leans against my left shoulder and I wrap an arm around her. I manage to stop my other arm curling around Bran reflexively, but only just. I roll my eyes at myself—the tiredness is getting to me—and, with complete disinterest, I watch Saga and Cell talk to a tall, thin man in his fifties. His hair is greasy and dirty, like the rest of ours, but he’s slicked it back in an attempt to style it. His clothes are the same—worn, old, but well presented in an effort to look like someone from the world before the flares. He’s introduced to us as Samuel Colla. Beside him is a girl Dalmar’s age with burgundy hair as long as her arms. It curls in a thousand directions and is fascinating to watch when it’s caught in the breeze, like a living creature struggling to get free.
“My daughter, Miranda,” Samuel Colla says. Miranda doesn’t look at us. She’s too busy studying tree branches twitching in the wind at the edge of the courtyard, her body swaying from side to side. I hear snickering behind me and turn to see Marie whispering laughter to Priya who replies with a raised eyebrow.
“Pure meanness, that one,” Bran whispers to me. We share a smile.
“Stay in Leeds as long as you need,” Samuel is saying when I tune back in. “But we’re ready to leave, soon as you give the word.” Echoes of agreement come from his people. Looking at the aircraft, he asks, “Is there enough room on that for all of us?”
“More than.” Cell sounds harsh compared to the smooth voice of Samuel Colla. “This aircraft’ll hold more than a hundred and there’s only twenty of us.”
I miss Samuel’s response. I’m distracted by Kari weaving closer to us, her eyes narrowed at a girl in the back of the Leeds crowd. I watch the girl but she doesn’t seem threatening or suspicious. I write off Kari’s attention with a shrug. I thought my friends were weird—especially since one of them is a time traveller—but Kari is weirder. I don’t get her at all, and the only conversation we’ve had made me uneasy. Her words are still with me now, creepier every time I think about them. And there’s the bird tattoo on her face.
From the next two minutes of droning conversation, I pick up that we’ll be sleeping in buildings deeper in the town while everyone packs up and prepares to leave. It shouldn’t take more than two days.
It’s like déjà vu, being led through an unknown town by an unknown group of people who blindly follow an unknown leader. It’s Manchester all over again. I just hope these people don’t die. There’s been enough death in the past two months to last me a lifetime. I wish Manchester would be the last of it but I’m not stupid. I know we’ll lose more people before we reach States.
A row of old shops have been converted into houses along a wide main road—our next home. The civilians guiding us split up and go to their respective homes, though some of the younger ones linger in doorways to watch us. We’re given three glass-fronted ‘houses’ to share between us and me and my family pile wordlessly into one.
I worry about the glass front, about people seeing me sleeping, washing, and shirtless—but the building goes far enough back that the house area is concealed by a sea of clothing rails and display tables.
I’m excited to see that most of the clothes that were once for sale are still here, undamaged and completely wearable. Before we leave, I want to pack a bag with T-shirts, jumpers, underwear, and jeans. I would’ve lost all my old stuff if I hadn’t grown obsessive about keeping some things in my pockets—my father’s letter, John’s research, a knife, the letter Tia left when she went away with Marrin that I still haven’t read. I’m grateful to still have those with me, and my sister still has our old stuffed bear, the one that kept the Unnamed’s letter safe all those years. I know they’re only possessions, but I wouldn’t feel like myself if I didn’t have them.
I lost my bag, though, the one with all the things I stole from Harwich—all my water bottles and other weapons and the first aid kit I was so happy to have. I’ll have to find another, and build up another backpack of supplies. At least I’ll have things to wear.
I watch Hele snag a cardigan from a shiny, white table and know she’s thinking the same. Sleeping, walking, living every day in the same grubby clothes ha
s a weird way of getting you down, but new clothes make you feel like a different person. A cleaner, less disgusting person. A person who hasn’t trekked halfway across the island to escape Officials who want them dead because their dad was a famous rebel, who want them captive because they’re a murderous tool they created.
Dalmar sets down his backpack of computer stuff—thank God he didn’t leave it in the Station—and throws himself onto a brown sofa that looks almost new. His groan of satisfaction breaks the tension around us. Hele instantly goes into mothering mode, moving Dal’s pack out of the way, fluffing up the pillows of a second, green sofa. When the area is arranged and tidy to her standards, she lowers herself gracefully to the floor beneath Dal and tips her head back, her eyes fluttering closed when Dalmar winds a lock of her hair around his finger.
My heart aches.
I hear the tell-tale sound of things falling over and lope over to Branwell to distract myself. He’s rummaging through the cupboards that make up the kitchen, hunting for something.
I could have this keeps running through my head. I could have this. We’re so close. I could have a family, a real one, and we can be safe.
“Aha!”
“What is it?” I lean against the counter beside Bran, my eyes heavy now we’re out of immediate danger. I force them open.
“Food,” Bran says reverently. “Here, eat some of this and go to sleep.”
“No, I’m alright.”
“I didn’t ask for your compliance.” He puts an energy bar in my hands. “I don’t know what this is but it looks like food, and you appear to need it.”
He won’t back down. I eat the energy bar.
“Eat one yourself,” I say, crumpling the wrapper.
“Is it any good? Absolutely awful?”
“It’s alright.”
“Well then.” He puts an arm around me in a half-embrace. He’s so warm that I almost fall asleep right there and then, stood up. “I’ll eat this, and you go to sleep.”
The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Page 23