“You did it,” I whisper in amazement, then shake my head. “You already knew our mission wasn’t done.”
He nods, trying and failing to keep the pride from his face. “It didn’t make sense that Papa would put us through all of this to figure out something he already knew. After all, he knew your last name, said how important you were. He must have known what Terminus is, only didn’t tell us for the same reason he didn’t mention the portal. So after you went to bed, I worked on the computer all night. And,” he takes a deep breath, eyes glittering, “you’re not going to believe what I found.”
* * * * *
“All right,” Tate says, rubbing her eyes and sipping from a canteen. She’s holding a crumbly old pastry, wrapped in plastic. “We’re ready.”
“Hold on,” Enoch says, fiddling with something under the desk. “Power cord keeps falling out of the monitor.” He jimmies it around, and suddenly the big screen flares to life, a paused video filling the frame. Tate flicks off the nearest light, and we sit to watch.
Music filters in, showing a world buzzing happily with productive, smiling people. Scenes flash quickly between cheerful mothers serving supper, families in public squares, laden food lorries arriving at City walls.
“This is the world of tomorrow,” a voice announces, trustworthy and manly and deep. “A world we could all live in, and will someday. With the advances in modern science, we need no longer worry about population decline, about shrinking Cities, about a Nation without a future.”
The screen flips, showing now a factory. In it work vacant-looking men and women who move quickly, with practiced hands and dead eyes. Recognition fills me with dread.
“It takes a lot to keep a big world running,” the narrator explains cheerfully, “but that’s not a problem anymore. These manlike automatons can do anything a real person can do.”
Its assertion coincides perfectly with the switch to a laboratory setting in which doctors walk around in lab coats holding clip boards, checking things off officiously as they gaze into water baths containing grisly, half-grown bodies or full-grown adults staring at walls with placid disinterest. The voice, meanwhile, delights in vague scientific-sounding descriptions of these birthless miracles.
“The genetic material of just one person can be converted to hundreds or even thousands of willing workers,” it predicts genially. “With the goodwill of just a few volunteers, our world can be as it once was, with all the manpower it will ever need. Happy, docile workers who can give us the lives we used to know. We can get those lives back again. Let us join together in ensuring that this becomes tomorrow’s reality instead of merely today’s dream.”
The reel fizzes and cuts to static. Unable to move, we sit dumbfounded until it restarts itself a moment later, then watch again. And again.
“The Hollow,” I finally whisper. “They were trying to make bodies without souls to solve the … shortage. They still are.”
“So that’s what the second war was about,” Enoch says dully. “I take it this advertisement didn’t have the effect the Party was looking for.”
“No,” Tate whispers. “They showed their hand, and people rebelled.”
“Ugh,” is all I say. Some of the journal’s more esoteric references clunk into place.
“Well, that’s not all I found,” Enoch says.
“What else?” It’s Tate again.
“This,” he says, clicking to minimize the video. In its place is a desktop background showing an ankh, the Egyptian symbol for life. He ignores it, selecting an icon in the upper left corner of the screen.
“Naiya,” Pip interrupts unexpectedly.
“Hold on.”
“No, now.” He tugs my arm and I look at him, his hand rubbing against the back of his neck. And then I feel it too, though softly, as if the danger is still far away.
“Oh, no. Guards.” I look at Enoch fearfully. “We still have time to get away.”
“They can’t get in,” he argues.
“Can’t they?” I ask. “How do you know?”
He shrugs. “We barely could.”
“But we’ve been here too long, three days already, including the night up above. What if we’ve reappeared on their map? What if they can get in? We’re sitting ducks.”
“They kept everyone out for more than a hundred years,” Enoch says, gesturing to the dried-out dead men in the corner. He grimaces. “Although they weren’t alive for most of it.”
I shake my head, unconvinced. “But we might have led them right to this place. If we don’t leave now, they could find us and everything here!”
“We need to see this first,” he insists stubbornly. “Look,” he gestures to a small window that’s popped up on the screen. On it is a strange graphic: a picture of the Earth, dark continents visible on its round face, and a semi-circle arcing over the top half of it. Linking the two is a small bridge, across which walk tiny ghostly avatars.
“The portal,” I whisper. “This must track its movements. What is it?”
“A program. A file, maybe,” Tate breathes, shoving me aside unceremoniously and sitting down at the desk. I bite my tongue, forced to admit she’s far more qualified. “There has to be a password.”
Watching Tate work, I take deep breaths to control my nerves. Her fingers move like lightning across the old-fashioned keyboard, but after poking around for several minutes, the small window remains unchanged. She sighs.
“It’s encrypted,” she says, looking almost frustrated. “We’re not going to be able to do or see anything without the encryption key, and there’s no way to tell what it might be.”
“What does that mean?” I demand, antsy.
“It means we’ve hit a wall. We could look for the key, but that’s it. I have no idea where we’d even start.”
My eyes sting with disappointment. Pip has started yanking insistently on my arm, repeating my name over and over again in a low, frightened voice. It makes it hard to think. “Well, can we take it with us?”
Tate shrugs, reaching into her bag. “We should be able to move it onto a drive, if it’s small enough.” She produces a small card, then grimaces, searching for a matching slot in the computer’s tower.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything that works. Your technology is too new,” Enoch says, brushing her lightly aside. He goes down on his knees, fitting an old-fashioned jump drive in easily. The two of them bend inward toward the screen once more.
Tired of waiting, I turn and drag Pip with me over to the bunks. “Go to the bathroom,” I tell him shortly, dragging my pack out from underneath a bed and throwing clothes, a hairbrush, a towel, a few books and various packets of food into it. After some hesitation I grab the log, placing it inside with more reverence.
“Ready?” I call to Pip. He reappears, nodding and shrugging into his coat.
“I’m scared,” he says.
“I know.” I fill a canteen at the sink, then another. I pack Enoch’s knapsack too, then retrace my steps, handing it to him. He is just straightening up.
“Get it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go then. We have to be careful.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay down – ”
“Enoch,” I interrupt. “If they can see us, they won’t need some magical password to get in. They’ll barge through that wall using whatever means necessary. We stand a better chance up above, where we can at least run. Now let’s go.”
“Where?”
The answer, when it comes, seems obvious. “The University. Tate has her father’s pass. We still need to find out what’s in that lab, 5HRP217. That’s part of our mission too, remember? And to do that, we need to figure out where it is.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then bows his head. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We turn and head up the ladder. As soon as Enoch pushes the trapdoor open, the corresponding scrape of stone on stone echoes down of the passageway. Sure enough, I see d
aylight as soon as I pull myself up onto the hot stone landing. Ganesh has opened for us once again.
We scurry down the hall, heads bent and knives out. My neck is screaming with the need to be away, moving, running. Enoch peers around the side of the door, then motions us through. A minute later the wall has resealed itself, the fantastic blue glow fading to a normal, paint-chipped façade. I have less than a second to feel grateful before the guard appears.
He stops in his tracks, seeming almost as surprised by us as we are by him. Pip cringes back against me, and I shove him behind.
“So,” the guard says, recovering quickly, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Tate Black. Who knew I’d be lucky enough to find you and the Barrigan children all in one place?”
“Luck is not the emotion you will soon be feeling,” she tells him, pulling out her baton. “There are four of us and one of you.”
I swallow a gasp at her spunk, at the same time realizing what this means: The guards did not see us on the map. If they had, there would be at least two of them. We could have stayed safely below.
Damn.
“But if you come with me willingly, all will be forgiven,” the guard continues, as though he has not heard Tate’s sass. “Your father has promised it.”
“I have a feeling you want more than me,” she says evenly.
“Of course.” He is holding his baton as well, and in the other hand, I note with a chill, is a throwing knife. One airy flip proves his proficiency with a blade. Catching it, he puts his other hand up to his ear, pressing a finger to his communicator. After a moment of silence he looks puzzled, and then unsure. Still, he recovers quickly. “But who are they to you anyway? Just runaways.”
“They’re my friends.”
I blink, but Tate seems not to notice.
“Well, tell them to come willingly, then. It’s the only way to save their lives. You must know that.”
“Somehow that’s not terribly convincing,” I say.
The guard’s eyes dart to mine. “I can see your point. Fine, then, help me bring Black in and you and your family will go free today. A trade, if you will.”
“Not interested.”
“No?” he says softly. “And how about this?” He shows me the knife, flips it once more. “There’s a reward on all your heads, you know, even the little one. I’m not leaving here alone.”
“How did you find us?” I ask, stalling, trying and failing to formulate a plan through the buzz of fear that clouds my thinking. I glance around desperately, expecting more guards at any moment.
“Lucky chance,” he sneers, and I can’t tell whether or not to believe him. He is alone, though; he was surprised. “Now, what’s it going to be?”
“Leave, and we’ll let you live,” Enoch says.
“Ah, but I have a secret weapon,” the guard says smugly.
Before I have time to wonder what he means, Pip pops around from behind my legs and whirls to face us, raising his small sharp knife. His eyes are glowing brighter than I’ve ever seen them, his fangs are long and white, and his Mark seems to stand out with frightening clarity in the weak morning sunlight. He takes a step toward us, a growl beginning low in his throat.
“Pip,” I gasp, backing up several feet. “No.”
Pip follows us, his steps jerky, as though someone else is controlling them. Through the confusion I have time to see the guard trying his communicator, dropping his hand in disappointment once more. But then Pip snarls, and my eye is drawn back down.
He pounces, but before he can reach us I summon every ounce of will I possess and throw it at him. Though he’s too far away to touch, he halts mid-leap as though hitting a wall of air. The knife leaves his hand on impact with the invisible barrier, disappearing under him as he comes down. I hear a small oomph, nothing else.
The guard makes a sudden movement, startling me. Instinctively my fist comes down, still clenching my knife. Rather than obstructing the fierce sizzle of power, the blade acts as a conduit, and this time I see the purple bolt of electricity as it leaves my hand, concentrated and deadly. A small black hole appears in the guard’s upper abdomen, its edges fringed with crackled black fabric and skin. He screams, shattering the stillness, dropping his weapons and pawing at the wound over his heart.
Nothing moves, and everything. Suddenly dizzy, I stumble back a few feet, gazing stupidly at the guard. Slowly, he keels over into the grass.
Whirling, I turn to Pip, curled up on the ground, arms clenched around his abdomen. His eyes stare up at me, big and green and registering no pain. His mouth is pursed, as though he wants to exclaim but cannot.
Buried in his stomach is the silver handle of his own small knife.
NINETEEN
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
Enoch looks paralyzed, staring at his little brother in horror. Tate drops to her knees, pulling Pip’s arms gently apart, feeling his pulse, checking his pupils.
“Help him.” My voice is almost too faint for my own ears.
“This is beyond me,” Tate says slowly. “There’s no way I can heal him. A hospital could – ”
“No hospitals,” says Enoch roughly. “We’d never get him back.”
“It may be your only choice,” Tate says. “He doesn’t have long.”
“What do you mean?” I demand, my voice choked with sobs. “That’s exactly what happened to me, a – a knife, right there. You healed me just fine.” I tap my stomach for emphasis.
“This is different, Naiya. That was a small wound. Painful,” she insists, when I open my mouth to argue, “but not nearly as deep. This is all the way in, and I can’t risk taking it out. He needs real medical attention.”
“What will we do?” Enoch looks hopeless.
I shake my head, tears of frustration and despair gathering in the corner of my eyes. There is a moment of silence, broken only by Pip’s shallow, labored breathing. His cheeks are flushed and sweaty.
“If you don’t have a better idea,” Tate says finally, “I should really take him now. Nothing will happen to me. And at least he’ll be alive.”
Enoch nods hopelessly. “I guess that’s our only choice.”
“Wait!” I exclaim. “Achilles!”
“Where’s the communicator?” Enoch says, immediately in motion, searching through his pockets. “Do you have it still?”
I paw through my pants, then my jacket, finally producing the small metal gadget from the front pocket of my pack. “Here,” I gasp, pushing strands of hair out of my eyes. “How do you work it?”
“Give it to Tate,” Enoch says. “She’ll figure it out fastest.”
Before I can respond, Tate reaches over and takes it from my hand. She examines the wires, the gears, the small speaker. She flips open a panel, fiddles with a few knobs, and holds it up to her ear. “Who’s Achilles?” she asks, eyes still on the device.
“A friend,” I say shortly. “Can you get it to work?”
She doesn’t reply, but thirty seconds later I hear a soft crackle. “Hello?” she says, but there is no answer. She frowns, adjusting the frequency and trying again. After another minute she looks up, eyes lidded. “He doesn’t have time for this.”
“If we take him to a hospital, they’ll heal him, but then what?” Enoch says. “He’ll wake up a monster and spend his life hating himself. And we’ll never get him back.”
At least we’re in agreement there.
“What should we do?” I whisper. The elation following my idea is faded and panic is setting in once more. At least Enoch looks level.
“Naiya,” he says quietly. “Do you think we should take him to a hospital?”
I shake my head, looking skyward to forestall fresh tears. “Not unless the only other choice is watching him die.”
“That is the only other choice!” Tate says.
“Now?” He looks at her frankly.
She hesitates. “Soon.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to head back the way we came, toward the Libra
ry, where we met Achilles. Maybe he’ll come in range. When you can’t wait any longer, send him to the hospital with Tate.”
“I should come with you.”
“No,” Tate says. “I’ll need you here in case he wakes up. There’s no telling what might happen.”
“How long does he have?” I ask brokenly.
She shrugs. “Impossible to say. Maybe hours. Maybe not.”
“All right,” I say to Enoch, stepping forward and hugging him impulsively, tightly. “Be careful, then. Come back soon.”
He hugs me back, then gently disengages. He turns to walk away and then, as if on second thought, spins on his heel and comes back. A small hope flares in my chest, then quickly dies as he walks past me and puts his arms around Tate instead. He holds her for a second, then releases her. “Thank you,” he says.
She nods carefully, a small flush betraying her. I direct my gaze at the ground, dropping to my knees next to Pip, taking his hand and closing my eyes until Enoch’s footsteps fade into the background.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
“Hold this,” Tate says softly, bending to her knees next to me. She hands me a bundle of gauze, some cleaning supplies and tubes of medicine, then gently reaches forward to unzip Pip’s coat. Only one side falls away. The other, pinned in place by the knife, she carefully removes with a pair of curved medical scissors. She drops the filthy, bloody clothing in a pile behind her, then reaches into my lap, retrieving a small bottle of solution. This she uncaps and pours directly onto the wound, which froths furiously for a few seconds. Pip moans, twitching slightly. She then removes the cloth of his tee shirt, putting gauze down to stanch the blood. The wound shines red and bright.
I watch for several minutes, the guilt mounting higher every second. If we’d stayed below like Enoch wanted to, Pip would never have fallen on his knife. Not only that, now we’re keeping him from real medical attention. If he dies, I will always feel like it was my fault. And after all, I’m the one that stopped him, that sent him to the ground.
“We should have let you take him to the hospital,” I say, when I can no longer stand it.
“Maybe,” Tate says. “But then they’d have him. You did what you thought was right. If he dies” – here she looks at me carefully, like she’s trying to judge if I might snap – “then at least he isn’t a pawn.”
Broken Moon Page 18