Suddenly a stick snaps through the stillness, loud and sharp. Against my will, I jump, thinking of that second aircar. But then I notice that the guards also look startled. Could it be Enoch? I bite my tongue, resist the urge to shout out. If it’s one of the boys, I don’t want him any closer.
“Who’s there?” the third guard asks. His nose chuffs the air wolfishly.
For a moment all is silent. Then another stick snaps with frightening clarity in the still autumn air. In the close space the sound is still reverberating, coming from nowhere and many places all at once. When it too fades, the guards begin to look suspicious.
“Where is that brother of yours, Naiya? Come back to save you and the little one?” the woman asks silkily. Her nose twitches too. Despite the feeling of danger that beats through my veins, I’m a little surprised when a third footstep cuts the silence; if it’s Enoch, he isn’t being very stealthy.
“Leave him out of this,” I pant, my breath coming in gasps.
She shrugs, touching her earpiece. “Do you still see Phillip?” she murmurs, waiting a beat. “Is the older boy near?” She looks to the third guard, obviously their leader, and shakes her head slightly.
It’s not Enoch. I’m simultaneously crushed and relieved, happy he’s safe, but terrified that no one is coming for Pip – and if I’m honest, for me.
“Bad news for you,” the female says, turning to me. “Your kid brother’s still pretty close to here. It might take us a second, but we’ll find him.”
I wonder why they haven’t gone after him already; it wouldn’t take much to keep me here, now that they’ve caught me. But they are most effective in pairs, and Pip won’t be the easiest quarry, not with his Mark to aid him. Plus they won’t want to leave me with just one guard. So the only question is why they aren’t making shorter work of me.
The third guard, obviously their leader, answers my question by asking his own.
“Where is Enoch Barrigan?”
They won’t do anything to me until they’re sure I don’t know where he is. They want all of us at once.
I say nothing.
“You’ll tell us,” he says calmly, “or you’ll assure your brothers the longest deaths imaginable. You’re all going to die anyway, you know. The only question is how. We could make your father’s execution look … pleasant by contrast.”
Furious, I spit on the ground at his feet. “I will never tell you.”
The third guard sighs. “Have it your way.” And before I know what’s happening, my jaw seems to explode and I fall to the ground, hard. I lay for a minute, ears ringing and vision clouded, then pull myself painfully to my feet, casting about for the knife I’ve dropped. At least I still have the rebar. Looking up, I see the guard who hit me standing exactly where he was before. I hadn’t even seen him move.
“It will only get worse,” he promises. “Now, where’s your brother?”
I wipe blood from my chin. “Which one?”
This time the blow sweeps my feet out from under me and I land in a tumbled heap, my elbow screaming. I scramble back up. The other two guards circle the perimeter, peering into the gloom with their weapons out.
“Next time it’s a knife, girl. Where is he?”
“You’ll have to kill me,” I assure him, “and you won’t all survive it. So come on.”
Again, there’s a blur, but this time I’m ready. Time seems to slow as the guard comes at me. Spinning deftly to my left, I watch as he approaches, then flies by, receiving a sound blow to the temple. But he leaves in his wake a sharp sting in my side. Gasping, I reach down, pressing into the flesh just above my hipbone. My palm comes away sticky with blood.
“I warned you,” the guard snarls, one claw rubbing the side of his face. Under his hand the skin knits back together, the blood melting away as though it never was. Despite this he now seems truly angry, his body bending oddly, his torso elongating and his eyes burning a fierce crimson, brighter than I’ve ever seen. The other two watch with a macabre delight as I stumble, raise the piece of rusty steel above my shoulder once more, waist screaming in protest.
“And I warned you,” I retort. Then, drawing a huge breath, I scream as long and loud as I can. “Run!” This time the first guard is on me almost immediately, pulling my arms behind my back even as I fight wildly. I manage to plant a foot between his legs and he goes down for a moment, but is back up instantaneously, growling savagely. I swing the rusty weapon at his head, but he’s too quick, stepping out of the way. Before I can get in for another blow, he’s pulled out his pistol again and has it aimed directly at my chest.
“Enough.” His leering humor is gone.
The scene seems to freeze as the third guard gives the first a look of deadly warning. Then he turns back to me.
“You’re coming with us.”
“Like hell I am.” Unmoving, I clutch my side.
“Don’t kill her,” the leader instructs, looking at the man with the gun. “Just make it so she can’t run.”
The first guard aims his pistol carefully at one of my knees.
“Stop!”
Despite the threat of the gun, I whirl toward the sound at the same time the guards do, squinting in the half-light. Gunfire fills the air, and I hit the ground hard once again. Dazed, I wait for the pain to claim me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I see the man from the clearing, the Hollow, falling slowly to his knees, clutching his belly. Openmouthed, I stare at him.
So do three burning pairs of eyes. Then, slowly and softly, a deep, satisfied laughter bubbles up from one of them, impossible to tell which. I sense, almost as though feeling it myself, their perverse pleasure in hunting, taunting, maiming. It’s all a game, and they always win.
The man seems to ignore this. “Don’t hurt her,” he says softly, moving slowly to position himself in front of me.
What is he doing?
“Don’t worry, 3145,” the first guard says. “We wouldn’t do anything … permanent.”
“Don’t hurt her,” the man repeats calmly, childishly. He looks at the blood on his hands, almost as though he can’t figure out where it came from. “Please.”
“This is charming,” the woman says. “You’re protecting her. Why?”
“Because she’s a good person,” the man insists, “and I can’t watch any more people get hurt. Let her go for now and I’ll come willingly.”
“Unfortunately,” the leader says, “we only need her alive. Not you.”
And he raises his own gun, once, and fires squarely into the man’s chest. The force of it knocks him backwards onto the cracked pavement, and I see his glassy eyes glint in the light from a faraway gas lamp. I can’t help it; I scream. Staggering to my feet for what feels like the millionth time, I try to run.
When I’m knocked down with a hot, slamming force to my shoulder, it is almost unsurprising.
Almost.
“Naiya!”
Pip’s shout fills me with horror, but immediately spurs the guards into action. One steps over me, leveling a gun at my head, while other two move toward the noise, their muzzles tracking across the breeze. Pip screams again, but it’s hard to tell which direction it is coming from with all the commotion. And then he is there, running to my side. His wide green eyes and helpless hands look every bit as panicked as his trembling mouth. He seems not to notice the guards.
“Naiya! Are you all right?”
I’m not all right at all, I realize dimly, feeling an ache and a throb begin to work its way through the numbness and the heat buzzing through my shoulder. As each second passes, the feeling grows stronger. Not pain, really, just waves of pure sensation. Pip’s appearance intensifies the feeling a thousandfold. I can’t lose him too; the thought makes me want to vomit.
So I do, turning and retching into the withered grass by my head.
“Naiya,” Pip gasps again, totally at a loss. The world begins once more to coalesce, the ringing in my head to cease, and real fear, temporarily banished by the shot and fall, b
egins to reappear. Now the other guards are approaching, staring down at me, reaching in. I struggle to move, but can’t.
“You leave her alone!” Pip screams, doing his best to shield me with his body. His eyes glow red and his words end in a deep bark, but the guards, if anything, are amused by this turn of events. Perhaps they’ve seen it before. One of them leans down and grabs Pip firmly by the neck, lacing a baton across his throat. At that moment molten rage overcomes me and I feel my body spasm from head to toe, my hands catching fire with a sickening pain. A burst of violet light lances from them and rocks the ruined space, and for one moment it is bright as day. Then the light fades, and all goes black.
* * * * *
It is painful to open my eyes.
The guards are gone, replaced with a frightened but unharmed Pip. We are alone in the dim gloom. I try to sit up, but cannot. Raising my good hand to my face, I stare at it, trying to remember something I’ve forgotten. Something about my palms. My eyebrows knit.
“What – ”
“You’re hurt,” Pip says tearfully. “I don’t know what to do.”
I shake my head, at a loss. Without a means of contacting Enoch, I have no idea what to do either. I had so hoped the footsteps were his. But if they had been, he might lie dead like …
3145. It seems so wrong to call a person that. I shudder, tearing my gaze away from the man’s body. He lies awkwardly in the gritty dust, and from this angle I can just see the whites of his open eyes. Turning my head to the side once more, I empty my stomach onto the ground.
“Water,” I gag after a minute. Pip obliges quietly, and I almost choke again trying to get it down. Then a third time, as yet another tall, thin shadow steps from its hiding place. Desperately I try to call Enoch’s name, but nothing comes out.
“Naiya?” says a voice. A girl’s, flat and tired-sounding. I can’t respond, even if I wanted to, and now my vision is fading as well. “Don’t fall asleep,” she commands, coming to kneel at my side. “Stay here.”
I struggle to obey the voice, uncaring whether it belongs to an enemy or a friend. And before I can think another thought, blink another lazy blink, Enoch is above, blocking what light there is, crouching animal-like, his blade drawn and his teeth bared in a snarl.
“Leave her alone,” he spits. “Get away.”
“I’m just trying to help her,” says the voice calmly, rising once more.
“You can help her by backing off,” Enoch repeats, still holding his knife up and outward in an unmistakable gesture of menace. Whoever he’s talking to seems to take the hint. “Are you all right?” he says then, moving to look down on me, reaching behind to lift my head. He pulls my jacket aside and reveals a small hole in my shoulder. It doesn’t look so bad against the black fabric of my shirt, but it feels wet. Really wet.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I manage. “I mean, I guess not. It feels – ”
“Shh,” Enoch says, putting a hand lightly on my chest. “Don’t talk. Save your energy.” It seems like the right thing to say, and I comply. He stares around as though hoping for help from the dirt or metal that is all that’s left of the fiery scene, then glances fearfully back at the ragged hole in my shoulder. Blood is seeping from the wound. A lot of it. I can’t see it, but I can tell.
“Your arm,” he whispers pointlessly, leaning very, very close. My heart, traitorously, starts to beat even harder. Pumping out blood I can’t afford to lose.
“I know.” And by that I mean, I don’t care. Suddenly I don’t care at all. Not about the wounds, not about the strange girl who’s sitting just out of vision, not about the dead guards. Not about anything.
Hesitantly, sucking in his breath and holding it, Enoch reaches out and touches the hot, red patch on my waist. He exhales slowly, leaning closer, looking at me. I can smell sour apple on his breath, and past the fear and panic in his eyes, I swear I see something else. Something bigger. Something I’ve longed for.
“We’ve got to get you cleaned up,” he says, banishing the illusion.
“I can help,” says the girl. And in an instant I finally place her voice. I know it well, in fact.
Tate Black.
Doctor Black’s daughter.
FOURTEEN
What is she doing here?
I realize I’ve passed out briefly, and when I come to once more, the adrenaline coursing through my veins has taken a different form. I cannot voice the questions in my head, so I lay there dumbly, numbly, waiting for something to happen.
“What do you want, Tate?” Enoch asks roughly, still bending over me.
“Enoch,” Tate says placatingly, palms up, standing a few feet away. She’s dressed much as we are: soft boots, thick pants, a well-padded black leather coat. Actually, she’s dressed much better than we are. Despite everything, I feel suddenly self-conscious about my filthy, bloodstained clothes. My hair is a smelly, wild, black tangle. Tate’s is sleek and white-blond. At her side hangs a baton, belted to the same black strap the Home Guard wear. The sight makes me shiver.
I have plenty of memories of her, none of them good, and in my wretched state they come flooding back with almost perfect clarity. The hunger and confusion and rebellion following my mother’s death, the amalgam of emotions that led to running away from home, stealing from the food dispensaries. I remember that fateful wedge of cheese, the one that got me caught and punished in the factories.
The one that Tate reported me stealing, pulling a guard by the hand into the alley in which I has hidden, pointing me out. I can see her dispassionate eyes as though it was yesterday, staring at me with a mixture of disinterest and mild disgust, so cold and clinical for a girl of eight. How I hated her in that moment.
The feeling has not much faded. Not then, through the years of schooling we shared together, her usually friendless and alone, our classmates put off by her strange tics and flat voice. And not now, as she begs Enoch to let her help.
“She’s in shock. I have medical supplies.”
“How the hell can we trust you?” Enoch snaps tightly. “How do I know you aren’t going to do something awful to her? Your father killed ours, and now he’s looking for us!”
“I know,” she responds, still infuriatingly calm. “But I want to help you, not him. I swear it, Enoch.”
I listen with confusion, one of my ears ringing and my shoulder pulsing hotly. What can Tate mean she wants to help us? She’s always been her father’s cherished oldest child: a prodigy, an ace student, an excellent physician, several surgeries under her belt by the age of fourteen. Doctor Black’s pride is the only reason I even know her, his insistence that she attend the same shabby school as us for his own obscure political reasons. The nobility of poverty, he’d once called it. Certainly nobility has nothing to do with why Tate is here now. I crane my head helplessly, looking for the trap, then collapse.
“Keep her still,” Tate orders.
Enoch complies instantly, pressing gentle hands into my collarbone and good shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here, Tate.” He says it a little dully, clearly trying to find reasons to keep up his protest.
“To the contrary, I need to be here,” Tate says smoothly, her eyes resting on the hole in my shoulder. “Unless you know how to treat a bullet wound and abdominal trauma, she’ll die without me. She’s lost a lot of blood already.”
“No,” I whisper faintly, seeing Tate’s face on the viewscreen, smiling awkwardly during one of her father’s speeches. And then I see Papa, his face dirty, his body crumpling to the ground in Execution Square. “Enoch, no. Not her.”
“We don’t – ” he begins, then falters. I can read his face: despite his paranoia, his mistrust, the lack of another option is quickly wearing him down. We do need help.
“Besides,” Tate cuts in, still unruffled, “I have nowhere else to go.”
“Nowhere,” Enoch repeats. “What do you mean? Tate, you have everywhere to go.”
It’s true. She has nothing to worry about. Ever. No factory work, no shortag
e of food or clothes or privilege. After school she can do whatever she wants, attend the University or join the Party or become a scientist in the Tech District. If she cannot conceive, she will be given a child as soon as she asks for one. The world, for her, is a long series of open doors.
“I don’t,” Tate corrects. “I’m wanted. The same as you.”
“Wanted? You? What could you possibly have done?”
Tate shrugs, cataloguing the list of her offenses with seeming disinterest. “Hacked the tracking system, installed a bug, stole medical supplies, stole an aircar, stole food, deserted my post, killed a Home Guard, aided and abetted criminals … ”
Enoch stares at her, his hands still pressed to my chest and arm. “Criminals?” he repeats blankly, stuttering slightly.
“You,” she says, as though he’s an idiot. “Oh, and stole one of my father’s spare University passes. It’ll open pretty much every door in every Party-run institution in the City, you’ll be happy to know. And he doesn’t even know it’s gone.”
For a moment, all three of us – Pip, Enoch and I – are so stunned that no one moves. The scene begins to take on the trappings of a dream, misty and artificial. I feel the world wobbling slightly around my head, though from this information, pain or more blood loss I cannot tell. Tate uses the moment to her advantage, kneeling and removing her pack, pulling from its depths a clean, white cloth. She folds it neatly into a smaller square, then reaches forward very, very slowly.
“I’m just going to put this cloth over the wound,” she says conversationally, still moving at a measured pace. She presses it to my shoulder, then lightly moves Enoch’s hand from my chest to the square, pressing it down. I grit my teeth and whimper, but she does nothing more than glance at me. She holds it a moment before releasing her hand, and he maintains the pressure, exhaling in frustration.
“How did you get here, Tate?”
“I thought I told you that. I stole my father’s aircar.”
“And it’s down here?” He looks around feverishly, as though the aircar itself is about to jump him.
Broken Moon Page 13