The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2)

by Saruuh Kelsey

  I give him a confused look.

  “John thought the President had a building where a whole room jumped. He couldn’t think of another way. He said it was probably armoured, impossible to enter, and controlled by a team of States scientists. But if your friend got here with just a bracelet, John has it all wrong. That’s what he’s doing now. He hasn’t told me that, of course—he’s being cryptic—but I’m sure he’s looking for the building.”

  “Does the President have a bracelet? I haven’t paid any attention.”

  “No.” Wes scratches his chin—a familiar habit that makes my heart hurt. “It would be something he’d carry at all times. He wouldn’t want to risk being without it if he needed to jump. I think he’s a very paranoid man, the President.”

  “Paranoid’s not exactly the word I’d use,” I spit, “for a man who beat his own son, sentences whole towns to death, and let loose sixteen diseases to kill everyone but himself.”

  Wes frowns, appraising me. “You have a lot of animosity for him. More than John.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t harbour it, Honour,” he says urgently. “Don’t hold on to hate. It’s not good for you. You love your sister and your friends and us. Hold on to that. It’s healthier.”

  “I don’t know how to let go of hate.”

  Wes squeezes my arm. “Promise me you’ll try.”

  “I’ll try,” I say. “Stop worrying about me. I’m gonna be fine.”

  He gives me a smile for my words even though they’re weightless.

  ***

  Horatia

  13:01. 08.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  There’s a traitor amongst the Guardians. I’ve been silently watching everyone for weeks now and nobody notices me. I should have seen the betrayal in their eyes, the intention in their fake smiles. But instead I’ve been too wrapped up in my haze of loss and grief and guilt.

  I should have known Marrin would stay behind.

  I should have known.

  I might have only had a few precious weeks with him but I spent every minute of every day by his side, and I know each expression that crosses his face. I should have seen and known that he would turn his Official trick on me, make me sleep, while he stayed behind in a falling building in a falling world. It was suicidal and heroic and one hundred percent Marrin.

  I should have stopped him. But I didn’t. And now he’s dead. It suffocates me every time that thought strikes through my mind, so severe I can’t focus on anything else. That was how my silence started—I couldn’t think of anything but the pain in my heart, couldn’t string together words that made sense, so I kept quiet. And it helped, for a time. But I think the time for silences and secret pains is over.

  Honour’s hand seeks mine, clutching hard, echoing my own fear. I can feel my pulse spiking in my wrist, a muscle in my leg twitching from how tense I’m holding myself. There’s no hint of remorse in the traitor’s expression, no suggestion that she feels even the slightest guilt for bringing down a swarm of Officials on us.

  “Where are they attacking the town?” Timofei demands, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, making sure they’re straight and even and meticulous. He’s a perfectionist in everything else; he’ll be a perfectionist in dealing with this traitor.

  We should leave but my feet are planted to the floor.

  “What’s he doing?” Wes asks. His face is red and splotchy and afraid.

  “He’s torturing her,” I say plainly.

  Behind my eyelids I see black figures dropping from the sky, crawling all over this hate-free place, turning the pretty sea side into a war zone with their electric guns and grenade pulses. I know all about their weapons, and I know that when Forgotten London fell they weren’t using even half of their armoury—orders courtesy of the President. All their biggest weapons were taken from the town on a ship across the seas a month before the Fall. Wouldn’t want to waste them on a hopeless cause, would he? He didn’t need to. He was burying the problem under a mountain of dirt and collapsed buildings.

  But the Officials coming? They’ll be armed to their teeth. They’ll have everything to throw at us because there are no machines planted around this town, and there is no fail safe plan to murder us all. I pull a breath through my nose and hold it until the haze of red violence has passed over me. I want to kill every single one of them but that’s not rational, or sensible. If I act on those thoughts, I’ll be killed for sure. I need sense to rule me, not vengeance.

  Vengeance can wait for when I have Augustus Beaulieu two feet away from me, when I’ll take the dainty little knife I’ve had hidden in my pocket for weeks and carve his heart out. That’s if he even has one. How can he have a heart when he let his own son die in a town collapse he ordered?

  “I’m leaving,” Wes says, shaking me back to the present.

  Honour tightens his grip on my arm. “Wait outside,” he tells Wes.

  Before the Fall I wouldn’t have thought my brother strong enough to stay and watch this—Timofei pressing the end of an electric rod to Anna’s stomach—I still find it hard to believe the woman the Guardian council trusted enough to train us in self-defence and weapons handling has betrayed us—but now I know Honour is strong enough to withstand anything. I am so proud of him for carrying on, for living, when I could not.

  Wes has gone, Dalmar with him, though Hele has stayed. She lingers beside us with a pained smile. We could all be dead by the end of this afternoon.

  The crackle of electricity draws my eyes back to Timofei and Anna. “When are they coming?”

  Nothing.

  “Fine, don’t tell me. I’m turning the output to double.”

  This time when he presses the rod to her skin, she howls, “An hour!” Anna takes big, gulping breaths and repeats, “You have an hour.”

  “Where are they landing?” Timofei brandishes the rod like a sword and I flinch. I grit my teeth and tense my body even more. I won’t flinch again. I won’t.

  “Everywhere,” Anna gasps. “They’re going to cover every inch of this town.”

  “How many?”

  “Four airships.”

  Timofei turns his back on her. He waves half the Guardian council over and tells them, “That’s four hundred Officials. All coming here, from every direction. What’s our plan?”

  Honour’s breathing is jagged as he pulls on my hand, urging us outside. I rub the pad of my thumb over the back of his hand, knowing even I can’t comfort Honour now.

  There’s no point waiting to hear what else Timofei learns from the traitor. We know all we need—an impossible number of Officials and an impossible chance of survival. I breathe in the cold whip of air as we leave the building.

  Honour stops walking in the middle of the road, staring at the sun-cracked tarmac. “We’ll be okay,” he says. “We lived through F.L. and we’ll live through this.”

  I touch his cheek. “We have to fight them first.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I draw him into my arms and he feels so fragile as he drops his forehead onto my shoulder. His arms encase me so tightly that his desperation is a raw exhibition for everyone running past. I rub my brother’s back with gentle hands, willing him to pull himself together, willing him to be as strong as I know he can be.

  I whisper, “Then we have to hide.”

  “No.” He detaches himself from me, wiping the back of a hand over his eyes. “Dalmar will never agree to that. I think Bran might, and Hele but—Dal will fight. And Miya and Yosiah, too.”

  “And Wes?”

  “I’m with you.” Wes startles me with a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know he was following us. I feel sick. If Wes could creep up on us, Officials could without a problem. We’d be dead if they were already here. Oblivious to my horror, he puts an arm around Honour and forms a protective cage around me and my twin. He says, “No matter what, I stay with you. You want to hide, I’ll find you the best hiding place. Somewhere underground maybe.”
/>   I leave it to Honour to decide, waiting for him to come to his own conclusion: there will be no hiding in this battle. This is the beginning of the war, right here in Plymouth. Forgotten London Falling was just the match that lit the torch of war. This is the real thing and it’s going to be bloody and brutal and while I’m terrified of it, some part of me leans toward it like a flower seeking sunlight.

  I never thought I’d have the stomach for violence but now I know I do. I’ve already killed someone and my conscience isn’t tainted by remorse for it. I know I can do it again, for the people I love. Maybe even for the thrill of it, that rush of adrenaline that erases everything in my past and future, narrowing my entire life to one second in the present.

  I worry what that means for my soul, whether I’m a bad person, but I can’t care about that right now.

  You have an hour. Everywhere. Four airships.

  The only thing that exists to me now is protecting my family.

  “We have to fight,” Honour finally decides. There’s a note in his voice that is pure resignation. He adds bitterly, “Who knows, maybe I’ll carry a Strain and kill a hundred Officials in one go.”

  It’s a joke but neither Wes nor I laugh. If this battle is as bad as I think it’s going to be, Honour’s status as a carrier may be a blessing.

  ***

  Yosiah

  13:37. 08.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  “We have twenty three minutes, everybody. Listen closely.” Dalmar’s voice bounces off the grim Guardian silence. The breeze blows his words so they reach even the Plymouth residents crammed into the park, supposedly listening to their ambassador’s instructions. They seem more interested in us.

  “There are four hundred States Officials coming for us, from all directions, and we have to assume some are coming in from the water. I need five teams of seventy to cover the town, Guardians and weapons-trained civilians both. Cell, Hush, Peggy, Natalia, and Kyle put together teams. Jayn, I want you to take fifty Guardians down to the dock and stop anyone from coming inland. We’ve got long range guns that should help you.”

  “I don’t think I have to say,” he goes on after a pause, “that if we let them into the town, we won’t be leaving it.”

  As everyone gets put into teams for their assignments, Dalmar and Hele join us, waving over Miranda and a couple other safe town authorities. “You did well,” I hear Hele murmur. “You sounded very confident.”

  “If only I was.” Dalmar runs a hand through his hair, standing straighter. He directs his attention to us and raises his voice. “Miya, Yosiah, I want you to go with the civilians. They’ve been told to get to Bharat’s aircrafts before the Officials arrive but they’ll have trouble. I need you to cover them. Be merciless—take out any Officials that might come your way.”

  “Will we have guns?” Miya is wearing a composed mask. Is she worried underneath it, or is she as calm as she looks? I don’t see how she can be anything but scared. Being in a battle is one thing, having to react to the enemy coming at you—but knowing it’s coming, with breaking down not an option? Practically impossible. Miya’s only experience with battle is the Fall of Forgotten London, and that was mostly running. How will she cope with true, bloody combat?

  “Some,” Dalmar answers. I forgot Miya had asked about guns until he adds, “We don’t have any electric but I’ll be able to get you each a handgun and ammunition. Maybe even some fire power, but no promises. Brig’s making sure everyone who needs a weapon gets one, so it’ll be up to him.”

  “I’ll convince him,” Miya says self-assuredly.

  Dalmar lowers his voice, leaning closer. “Get your family on the crafts first. Guardians and family are what’s important. These Plymouth people can take care of themselves—they’re different to us. They’ve prepared for this.”

  “I’m okay with leaving them behind.”

  Dalmar turns to Miranda, giving her instructions to defend a small team transporting our possessions to the crafts. Our bags have been piled in front of the information centre along with everyone else’s, waiting for a van to move them. Miranda is apparently a decent sniper, which doesn’t sit completely well with me.

  Dalmar in turn gives orders to assist and accompany other teams to the rest of the safe town leaders—mostly people from the little villages around Forgotten London, since everyone from Manchester is dead, Birmingham refused to leave, and Cardiff is run by a lazy old woman already sitting on a craft. Kari is singled out, though. Dalmar plays to her strengths and tells her to go with the team of strategists and technologists aiming to bring down the enemy crafts. I don’t like the idea of her being in the thick of the planning, but Miya and I will be in the thick of the fighting so I keep my mouth tight on any complaints. My sister gives me a sharp nod before she walks off, her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

  Miya takes my wrist.

  “Everyone else,” Dalmar shouts, “run for the aircrafts. They’re the only place that’ll be safe.” When nobody moves, he roars, “Go! Now!”

  People burst into motion, civilians and Guardians alike. Miya and I hurry to go with them, her siblings running with us. Miya stops for a second to scoop Thomas into her arms. In the moment I debate picking up Livy she spits, “Don’t even think about it.” I hold my hands up in surrender, a smile fading from my mouth when I realise how little time we have until we’re under attack.

  “Where’s Brig, Miya? Do you know him?”

  “Yeah.” She looks at me and the urgency pushing my blood to boil slows for a second, allowing me to think up a rough map of Plymouth, plotting the quickest route to the aircraft field. “Over here.”

  “What about the civilians? We’re meant to go with them.”

  “We’re also meant to be armed.” She pushes her pace to a run, throwing me a look over her shoulder. I follow as fast as my body will allow, a throb of pain going through my right leg, promising to get worse the harder I drive myself. But there isn’t time for me to be kind to my injury. If we don’t get those weapons, if we don’t run, if we don’t reach the aircraft, we’re dead.

  I’m not ready to die. I won’t be ready to die in a year, or ten, or twenty. I’ve always clung desperately to life but never so hard as I do now, rushing down a cobbled street that smells of old rubbish and dirt, with the thought of losing Miya and Miya losing me throbbing through my mind like an ache all of its own.

  Brig turns out to be the skinny albino Guardian. He inhabits a lopsided grey tent, a line of bare wood tables separating him from frantic Guardians, desperate questions, and angry demands. A wall of plastic boxes sit behind him, full, I’m guessing, of guns and knives and whatever else the Guardians have been able to get their hands on. The store of weapons Miya and Honour found in Hull should mean everyone has something to defend themselves with, so why is it taking so long?

  Miya breaks away from us, hassling Thomas to stay with me before she shoves her way through the crush of shouting Guardians waiting to be armed. She’s soon hidden by men and women much taller than she is, swallowed by the buzz of complaints and crying.

  Miya emerges a minute later with her arms full.

  “How did you get those so fast? Did you threaten him?”

  “Only a bit.”

  She gives me an assault rifle and a box of cartridges. The gun is heavy in my hand and takes an equally damaging toll on my heart. Holding a gun in Manchester when we were training was one thing, but being fully armed with the intent to kill. My heart pounds.

  “We have to, Siah,” Miya says. Quiet. Just for me.

  “I know.” Kill or die—those are my options. I watch the way Miya holds the handgun she’s got for herself, making absolutely sure that her grip is flawless. “You remember how to load it?”

  “Yeah.” But then she says, “Show me again. Just to be safe.”

  I take the gun from her, moving out of the way of the crowding Guardians, gesturing for Miya and her siblings to follow. Being slow, I show Miya how to detach the magazine, how
to load the rounds and put the whole thing back together. Olive watches too, rapt. “How many more have you got?” I ask, nodding at the box of cartridges when she’s safely tucked the loaded gun in her pocket.

  “Ten. You?”

  I inspect the battered cardboard housing the ammunition. “About the same.” With a sinking stone in my gut, I meet Miya’s eyes. “We’re ready. We have to go.”

  “What about us? Do we get one?” Thomas’s childish voice clashes chillingly with the serious way he’s asking for weapons. It’s wrong. So, so wrong. He’s not even thirteen years old.

  “No.” Miya’s voice is cold as the gun in my hand. “You stay close to me and Siah.”

  “But—”

  “No,” she repeats, though a softness has crept into her tone. “But I need you to do something for me. It’s important. I need you to look for men and women dressed in black, remember like the Officials from home? If you see an Official, you tell me or Yosiah. You too, Olive.”

  “But why are Officials coming here?” Thomas frowns. “It’s not Forgotten London.”

  “They’re not just from Forgotten London,” Olive says nastily. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her body shaking. Her fear manifests in the same way as her sister’s—callousness and trembling. Miya takes Olive’s small hand and they tremor together. “They’re everywhere,” Livy says. “Don’t you know that, Thomas? Why else do you think we’ve been running?”

  “We’re not … we’re not running.”

  Olive sucks in a breath. “We are now. Miya.” Her arm wavers badly when she extends it, pointing at a figure darting around the corner of the street.

  A handful of Guardians open fire, shooting the Official down, but even with that threat gone the message is clear: they’re here.

  It starts with a wind whipped up by aircraft blades, and then a ground-rattling boom jumps through the town. Cracks open up the road, buildings lean back and fold in on themselves, their corners standing for a suspended moment before they fall too. A sinister cloud of smoke and dust swallows the skyline. Newer buildings careen straight to the ground in an eruption of dust and screaming glass. The earth quakes. It doesn’t seem real, that sturdy buildings and solid brick could be destroyed so easily.