But all she says is, “You can’t save the whole world, Naiya.”
“Isn’t that kind of the point?” I ask sarcastically. My cheeks flush at the grandiosity of the statement, but I push forward. “Isn’t that what I am supposed to be doing?”
“Naiya,” Enoch echoes, “that kind of thinking will just make you crazy. Just focus on this.” He gestures vaguely to the covered bridge over which we walk, its shiny airmetal struts gleaming in the semidarkness. “One thing at a time.”
One thing at a time.
That’s easy for him to say, when he knows he won’t be the one to talk to Amy, try to convince her and her family to leave the City now that things are finally going right for them. He isn’t the one who has to call whether or not our mission is done; he isn’t the one for whom strangers are waiting in some hidden City. A surge of homesickness overcomes me. Not only for the cozy apartment and father I’ve lost; not only for Pip, who may be dead, and Amy, who may refuse to come. I mourn my friendship with Enoch, and I mourn the loss of the possibility I’d always hoped was there.
The image of him taking Tate’s hand floods my mind, and I’m too tired to even bother batting it away. Instead I focus on our surroundings, the dark underbelly of Deck 3 rising thirty feet above us, scattered here and there with exposed piping, huge tubes in which a person could stand, light but diamond-strong airmetal catwalks, and blue gaslamps. Even this far under the City, the evening air is moist with impending rain.
“We should take a train,” I say quietly.
“Are you sure?” Enoch asks me. He looks surprised.
“It makes sense,” Tate says. “The lab is in the very center of the Tech District.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “It’s one of the most heavily monitored sectors in the whole City. Better to arrive right in the middle than hike for hours through its streets.”
He protests. “But the trains are – ”
“Everything is dangerous,” I say shortly.
Enoch purses his lips, and doesn’t argue.
An hour later and much closer to the outer edge of the City, a Level 3 train station comes into sight. At this time of day it is crowded with men getting done with their shifts in the field. Several of the local factories have let out too, and tired-looking women cluster in groups, some of them attended by children and teenagers.
We pause at the end of the street, under the protective overhang of a fetid paper mill. The endless steam smells like overcooked broccoli.
“Your packs are hard to explain,” Tate whispers, nodding her head at the bulky, old-fashioned knapsacks Enoch and I both carry. Hers is small and sleek. “You should ditch them.”
Enoch jimmies open a commuter locker from a crummy, disused bank along one end of the station. I glance around nervously, but no one takes any notice of us. Opening my pack, I quickly pull out the old stuffed rabbit and the Bible, jamming them into Tate’s bag. She says nothing, so I add a few cereal bars.
Enoch shuts the lockers. “Take your hair down, girls.”
Tate pulls hers out of its braid, the golden strands now attractively rippled down to the middle of her back. I sweep my dark, heavy hair sideways so that my right eye is covered, and let it swing down to hide my cheeks. Enoch turns his jacket inside out so that the green lining shows, while Tate winds a blue scarf around her neck, handing me a small hat. I put it on. As disguises go, it isn’t much.
We slip among the travelers, spreading out a few feet but keeping each other in sight. I rub the token Tate has given me between my thumb and forefinger, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the next train. Glancing right, I see Tate looking as composed as ever, her elegant pack sitting inconspicuously between her feet. Enoch, to my left, stands with his hands in his pocket, his collar turned up and his head down. A fierce longing courses through me, and I turn my eyes back to the platform, where a train is pulling into the station with sinuous grace.
We board in the flood of other passengers, plugging our tokens into the box by the door and nonchalantly finding seats close to one another. The car begins to move smoothly, transitioning from a standstill to over eighty miles an hour in less than five seconds.
I keep my face steadfastly pointed toward the ground, but I can’t help looking out the window across from me. Outside streets and buildings fly past at breathtaking speed, blurring instantly into one another and making me dizzy. We whizz steadily southward, stopping frequently to let better-dressed passengers off near their homes at the edge of the City. The majority of workers remain seated; they will ride until the end, then transfer to a commuter shuttle that will take them to the Upper City and home. I wish desperately I were going with them.
Eventually the train finishes its circuit of the wall and turns sharply inward, heading up toward Level 4 and the center of the City. Tate gives us a significant look from underneath her lashes. Enoch and I acknowledge her with the barest of nods. When the train stops once more, we stand fluidly and disembark with a few others. I force myself not to look over my shoulder as we move down the street, finally seeking shelter in an old warehouse.
“How are we doing?” I ask breathlessly, pulling the knife from my belt. It’s beginning to feel more familiar.
Tate and Enoch both check their power packs. Mine’s in my pocket, but I don’t bother, instead looking expectantly from face to face.
Finally, Tate looks up. “I think we’re fine,” she exhales, putting the pack away. “Let’s go.”
We follow her down a maze of darkened side-streets. Here, underneath the Tech District, the structures that surround us predominantly serve as basements to the fancy buildings up above. Even so, they are still nicer than most of the others on Level 4. We move quickly, sticking to the shadows.
After several minutes, Enoch draws a sharp breath, putting his arms out to forestall both Tate and me. He points down the street, and in the dim bluish light I can just make out a camera. It is pointing away from us, but as we watch swivels slowly in our direction. We evade it by dodging into a narrow alley, its mesh walkway offering harrowing glimpses of the drop to Level 3. Stepping soundlessly, we pop out the other end and resume walking.
“Just a few more blocks,” Tate murmurs. Though I am once more hopelessly lost, she takes each turn confidently without once referencing her pack, as though she’s been here a hundred times before.
She remembers everything, I realize. She can see the map in her head.
My time with the medical encyclopedia supplies the name for this: eidetic memory. Impressed, I watch the slight form in front of me, finally realizing what Enoch meant when he said: We haven’t got a chance without her.
I search for the words to tell her this, but nothing comes. I open my mouth several times, closing it in frustration again and again. Enoch looks at me strangely, and I give up.
“Here.” Tate stops abruptly before a nondescript building with corrugated metal siding.
“This is it?” I ask, puzzled by its chintzy construction. I’d thought the laboratory’s construction would be of higher quality.
“No,” she shakes her head. “But this is how we’re going to get into the storm drain.”
She gestures to Enoch, who obediently pulls out a few tools and pries open the lock. We step inside, moving only a few yards down the hall before Tate falls to her knees, pointing down at the metal floor. The faint outline of a hatch peeks squarely up from the ground. Enoch too kneels, again forcing open the lock in a matter of seconds. Carefully he lowers himself through, dropping with a small splash.
“Safe,” he calls up in a low voice, his face lit blue by the power pack in his hand.
I gesture with the knife toward the hole, and Tate too goes through. Sticking the blade back in its holster, I follow, landing lightly on my feet in a few inches of rancid water.
“This way,” Tate says, jerking her chin for us to follow. We slosh through the ooze, the faint light glinting dully off the ridges of the huge culvert through which we walk. It must be at least ten
feet high, periodically joined by smaller drains that feed slimy waterfalls into the main stream. The pipe slants downward, down, down toward the City floor. As we walk, the water picks up: it’s raining fairly hard outside. Periodically the storm drain’s sides cut away, revealing cement doorsteps that lead to buildings.
Eventually Tate slows, squinting onto one such landing. It looks completely nondescript; whatever identifier she’s looking for escapes me. She nods, though, gesturing once more to Enoch. He steps over, hefting the old combination lock in his hand experimentally. Once again pulling out his tools and, bending down, goes to work.
He first examines the lock’s construction, trying to tell if he’ll be able to break it with the small hammer we carry. But he quickly shakes his head.
“It’s still in good condition,” he says. “Trying to break it will only make noise.”
“You can crack it?” I ask.
“Easy.”
I hold the light, as I have so many times before, while he tugs gently on the lock, twisting the dial back and forth. Periodically he stops, jotting down a number on a pad of paper. After five minutes, he has a list. He abandons the lock and begins to scribble new numbers and cross out old ones on the sheet. After another few minutes, he’s figured out the combination. Returning to the lock, he spins the dial a few times to clear it, then hands me the piece of paper. He bends down, carefully entering the combination as I read it off. The lock opens with a soft snick.
Tate looks impressed. “I need to learn how to do that.”
Enoch shrugs modestly. “There’s a trick to it.”
Under the pretense of inspecting the door, I step between them.
“All right,” Tate says, without batting an eyelash. “I’ve programmed both your power packs to the same frequency as mine.” She inserts an earbud, its slim cord trailing down to her pocket. “I’m going to leave mine on the entire time, so you should be able to hear everything I do. My communicator has a pretty strong signal booster, but if you lose the connection, wait here. Don’t come after me.” She looks at me as she says this.
Yeah, right, I think.
“Naiya.”
I incline my head agreeably.
“Take my pack,” she instructs, handing it to me. “Oh, wait.” Reaching for it once more, she digs around in the front pocket, eventually producing a capped syringe and a small bottle.
“What’s that?”
“Useful,” Tate answers shortly. “It will induce retrograde amnesia in a matter of seconds. A small dose can wipe out hours, a larger one whole days.”
“Strong stuff,” Enoch says quietly.
“Yes,” she says, then takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
In that one word, for the first time today, she reveals all her anxiety and fear. I am suddenly, impulsively grateful to her.
“Good luck, Tate,” I whisper, yanking the door open. “And – ”
She nods steadfastly, rising from her crouch and ducking through it before we can say anything else. It closes behind her.
“I was going to tell her thank you,” I say softly.
Enoch shrugs. “She knows. She doesn’t want to hear it.”
Strangely, I understand.
TWENTY-TWO
Enoch and I bunch together on the low cement step, crossing our legs underneath us to keep them out of the water. My boots are soaked through and my legs are beginning to go numb, but I remain still, listening. Tate narrates every turn she takes, and I watch as Enoch carefully jots each direction down. If push comes to shove, I realize, he’s ready to go in after her.
I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not.
“There’s a set of stairs just inside the door,” Tate informs us quietly. “I’m halfway to Level 5 now.”
“What do you see?” I whisper.
“Nothing yet. There are a few more flights before I reach the main floor. Wait … this door is locked. I’m going to have to go around.”
For several long minutes there is nothing but breathing. A faint tinge of blood fills my mouth, and I realize I’ve chewed another cuticle off. I suck the finger and close my eyes, thinking of the training floor. I see Papa’s smiling face, focus on breathing slowly in and out. An odd, wistful peace flows through me.
“Okay,” Tate’s voice interrupts me. “Level 5. I can see the labs now. There are windows on the doors.”
“What’s in them?” I ask eagerly.
“I don’t want to look,” Tate says slowly, sounding almost unhappy. I realize how well I’m learning to read her moods, despite her lack of emotion. “Don’t make me.”
“Don’t look. Probably for the best anyway,” Enoch says, chastening me with a glance. I want to argue that the whole purpose of her being there is to look, figure out what’s going on, but I don’t.
Tate seems to have moved on. “I’m in the 200 block,” she says, sounding normal. “204 … 205 … 206 … ”
I lace my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to pepper her with questions.
“I’m almost there,” Tate reports after a few more minutes. Then, in nearly the same breath, she utters a muted curse.
“What is it? Tate?” Enoch looks scared.
She doesn’t answer.
“Miss Black,” a man’s voice says in surprise. I sit up straight, heart pounding.
“Hello,” Tate says easily. Her icy serenity has returned in full force.
“Er, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing at all. I’m headed for a routine check of Lab 217. How’s duty this evening?”
I look at Enoch. It must be a night sentry.
“Fine, miss. Thank you.”
From his respectful tone, I take it he doesn’t know her, but rather recognizes her from Party broadcasts.
“All right then. Have a good one.”
“Wait,” the man says uncertainly. I hear fingers tapping on a screen. “I don’t show that you’re cleared to be here tonight.”
“I have this,” Tate says, presumably waving the keycard. “Isn’t that clearance enough?”
“Your father has very strict rules about who’s allowed in these labs,” the man replies doubtfully. “I wouldn’t want him to be … disappointed.”
“You think my father wouldn’t approve of me being here?” I hear the raised eyebrows. Tate is clearly making an effort to inject inflection into her voice; it’s convincing.
“No, it isn’t that … ”
“Well,” Tate says evenly, “if you want, you can call him up and check. But I’m pretty sure interrupting him in the middle of his charity banquet would lead to disappointment. Or worse.”
I can almost feel the man’s anxiety. Tate waits silently.
“Of course I’m being silly,” the sentry says eventually. “Go on.”
“Thank you,” she says politely. “Everything for everyone.”
“And nothing for ourselves,” he completes the phrase, somewhat grudgingly. I hear the soft sound of Tate’s footsteps heading down the hallway once more.
“Is Doctor Black really at a charity banquet?” I ask her curiously.
“Probably. Appearances are important to him.”
“Right.”
We fall silent. Finally, I hear a deep breath hiss through the speaker in Enoch’s power pack.
“I’m here.”
I wait, filled with an almost overwhelming urge to get up and run through the door, join her and see what she sees. It feels like a small betrayal to Papa to sit here in this moldy drainpipe while Tate does the legwork.
Turning, I see Enoch looking at me. As ever, he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. For proof, he shakes his head slowly from side to side, putting a light hand on my forearm. The skin burns beneath my jacket, and I pull gently away.
The metallic sound of an opening door distracts me, and I cock my head back toward the power pack. A silky wheeze follows, the noise reminiscent of an airlock. Which is probably what it is.
I hold my breath. This time I can’t st
op myself from blurting, “What is it? What’s there?”
“People,” Tate says. “But they all look asleep. It’s a long room. I can hardly see the back, but I’d estimate about sixty beds. They all have these big machines next to them. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What do you think the machines do?”
“I couldn’t even begin to theorize.”
My fingers tap frantically against my thigh. “Well, what are the people doing? Are they really asleep?”
Jostling static fills the air as Tate begins to walk once more. “I don’t know. They look like it, some of them. Some of the others look a little strange. Not dead, precisely, but – ”
“What are you doing here?” a woman’s voice demands.
No, I despair. Not again.
“Quality control check,” Tate says, not missing a beat. “You?”
“I’m the lead scientist in this lab,” the woman sneers. “And I’ve never heard of a quality control check.”
“I’m Doctor Black’s daughter and I’m here on his behalf.”
“I know who you are and that’s bull,” the woman says. “Doctor Black has given express instructions that his family is never to be allowed in here. Ever.”
“Interesting,” Tate says. There is a long, long pause, followed by a small rustling noise. Then a gasp.
“Is that a gun?” the scientist asks in disbelief.
“What does it look like?”
Enoch and I look at each other incredulously.
Tate has a gun? I mouth.
He looks as mystified as I do.
So much for you searching her, I think acridly, glaring at him. He looks a little embarrassed.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” the woman says, sounding less certain now.
“How do you know?” Tate asks coolly. “I’m clearly prepared to do a lot of things I’m not supposed to do.” Her subtle emphasis is perfect; even I’m afraid of her right now.
“I – what do you want?” the woman asks instead. I can hear her rapid breathing.
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