A crackle of static startles the crowd, and then a thrum of eagerness winds through us, raising voices and packing us closer together as people surge forward. The screen has come to life. It displays a scarlet-red float sweeping through a busy civilian-and-Official-lined street. On the back of it is a large box of glass encircled by ten Officials with gold stripes down their sleeves and a tapestry of medals decorating their lapels. Presidential military. The worst of them all.
Inside the glass, a man is visible, draped in purple velvet and golden robes. Underneath, a plum-coloured waistcoat is visible, with every military badge possible pinned to it. He lounges in a high-backed gold chair, holding a jewel-encrusted staff. He looks absolutely ridiculous, a cross between a General and a wizard, but I guess I should give gossip some credit, because it actually is States’s President. Here in F.L.
For two hours, we watch the float go through all of the zones of Forgotten London, the President occasionally lifting his hand to acknowledge the citizens but mostly just sitting in his chair looking bored.
Horatia grips my arm, her nails scratching the denim of my jacket. “Oh my God.” I can’t work out her angry expression.
On the screen, the float has made its way into Shepherd’s Bush, gliding down the main street. I’ve seen that road so many times but it looks alien to me now. It takes ten minutes for the float to get to Hammersmith, and by this point people in Lyric Square are screaming, hyperventilating, and Horatia is holding onto the barrier so hard her knuckles are white.
The Official she was watching earlier has moved closer to us but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s focused on the red float just coming through the square, her eyes wide and raging.
It’s surreal, seeing the President here in the flesh when I’ve only ever seen him on a screen. He looks plastic, or leathery, or something else that isn’t human. He looks pissed off in real life—that’s the main thing I notice about him. He looks really pissed off.
For a brief moment, I look up to the screen and see us in the front row. This is being broadcast to everyone, in every Forgotten Town; the whole damn world will see Horatia and me looking stunned and others smiling and jumping up and down.
I blink and the President has passed Hammersmith, and we watch the last of the journey on the big screen. By the time the float gets to Watford Zone, the President looks like he wants to jump off the float and never come back. He stands, though, finally, and gives a practised wave to the cameras. And then the screen goes black.
A few minutes later a high pitched ringing goes out and everyone covers their ears, a chorus of groans echoing through the area. As usual, the film starts late because of technical errors. I rest my arms on one of the metal barriers that keep us in place and wait. Horatia doesn’t bother watching the screen; she’s transfixed on the Official again. I roll my eyes. What goes on inside girls’ brains, I’ll never know. I’ve seen a few good looking girls today, but I wouldn’t spend an hour staring at them.
The screen blinks and the film starts, transforming huffs and puffs and tuts to cheers and whoops and pure noise. The elation is short lived, though; the novelty wears off and everyone’s bored again. I ignore the narration of the film, just watching the images flicker by. I pay more attention to eye witness accounts of the solar flares, pointlessly hoping to hear something that tells me why John was so interested in them. After that there’s more narration, shockingly bad reconstructions, and finally what I’ve been waiting for. The Sixteen Strains.
I don’t know what I expect—for something to jump out at me and confirm what I know? But of course it’s the same old information from the same old film. I block out everything about the Unnamed and the rebellion. I couldn’t care less about some reckless rebel that thought he could take down States.
A laugh forces its way into my throat and I choke on it.
If I try to get even one person away from Forgotten London, doesn’t that make me some reckless rebel who thinks he can take down States? Maybe I should be listening. Maybe I could take tips.
I glance at Horatia and see she’s fixed her eyes on the floor. I search for the Official she was staring at but I can’t find him. She’s disappointed. I roll my eyes. He was just some guy that was kind of alright looking. There’ll be plenty more of them.
The film ends and I pull myself off the barrier, rubbing the back of my sore neck. Horatia looks almost sick with excitement now. I wish I had the energy to feel excited, but I’m exhausted. I almost fall asleep upright while I wait for the President’s speech.
It crackles to life slowly; a corner of the screen shows the leg of a mahogany table before eventually the full screen shows some fancy office in Underground London Zone. I don’t know why they bother with these old screens. If they really wanted us to watch this crap, they should put up ones that actually work. God knows they have enough money for it.
The President proclaims, “Good evening, citizens of Forgotten London.” His voice is scratchy. It makes me feel weird, like a shudder wants to rip down my spine, poised right at the top of my back, waiting. A hush falls over Lyric Square. “And good evening citizens of the Cities, and the Forgotten Lands. We’re gathered here on this Victory Day to pay tribute to all that was lost during the rebellion, to celebrate our victory over the solar flares and the Unnamed, and to share our hope for the future elimination of The Sixteen Strains.”
He squints at something behind the camera, reading words from paper as usual. I doubt he even wrote them. I bet he has people to do that so he doesn’t have to waste his time. I wonder what his words would say if he wrote them himself.
“Thank you for your time and presence—”
I choke down a laugh. We don’t have a choice. It’s mandatory to be here, to stay here until it’s all done. That’s why we’re fenced in, why Officials are surrounding us.
“—and your continued support and cooperation. I will keep it short—I know how cold it is in the streets and how you want to return to your homes.”
And how bored The President is of having to associate with us commoners. I try to smooth the glare from my face but don’t quite manage it.
“As always, we’ll have a moment of silence for the loved ones unfairly taken from us by the solar flares and The Sixteen Strains.”
It’s already silent. Nobody dares talk over the President—not even a projection of him. It’s not worth getting shot.
“And now a moment of jubilation for those who have survived another catastrophic year.”
A deafening roar shudders through the square and all across Forgotten London. We are well-handled puppets.
“Thank you.” He smiles. Too tight in the corners, too false. “I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about the development and progress we have made outside the borders. Our brave and selfless military,” —I smother a laugh; Horatia jabs me in the ribs— “has been working outside the safety barriers, conducting experiments and collecting samples of the other Strains. While battling death and illness, against all odds, there has been a breakthrough.”
I didn’t expect that. The crowd presses forward in their eagerness. The barrier groans as I’m pressed into it, discomfort spreading through my ribs, close to pain. It’s completely silent. The town itself has stopped to hear what he says.
Nobody wants out of the borders more than us.
“I’m afraid,” he pauses, sighs, “that things are worse than we feared. The Strains we found in the past were more advanced, more lethal than those inside our borders, but a new, much worse Strain has emerged. A Strain that has killed over a hundred of our men within a single hour. A vicious, unrelenting Strain. We had thought, we had hoped, that we’d be able to conquer those Strains in the diseased lands and emerge from our borders. However … with this new Strain, as deadly as it is, we would pay the price of our lives to attempt to go out.”
My stomach flips. My heart seizes, tight, and I stumble through a breath. We can’t leave F.L. when there’s a Strain that can kill us t
hat quickly. There’d be no way to fight it. I can’t save my sister. I’d lose her, kill her.
We’re dead if we stay, and we’re dead if we run.
I need to read the letter again. I need to be sure—but how could he have known this would happen, that a worse Strain would be born out there? We can’t stay here—we can’t leave.
We’re dead.
“And now,” the President says, “to move from this morbid subject to a hopeful one—I will now announce the civilian who has been granted life in our City.”
My chest gets tight, as it always does. I panic even when the citizen comes from another Forgotten Town. Last year in Forgotten Jakarta, the President took so long announcing the name that I felt certain Horatia’s, Thalia’s, John’s, Wes’s, or my own name would be called. Even though he wasn’t anywhere near this town, even though the citizen came from Jakarta, I still felt scared.
This year is so much worse.
Horatia holds my hand, though, and a little of the panic seeps out of me. My chest eases up the tiniest bit. It’s not enough.
“As always, States will be granting a civilian from the Forgotten Lands life in our City. This year is the turn of Forgotten London. The lucky person will be embellished with whatever they desire—food, clothing, houses, water, books, electricity, entertainment. We take this time to remember that not everybody in the world has the things we Statesmen depend upon, that there are always people who need our help and support. We take this time to say we support you, Forgotten Lands, and we commend you for surviving another shattering year.”
I’m seething. I hate him.
“And now I will announce the fortunate civilian rescued from the tragic existence of the Forgotten Lands.”
The President’s second-in-command—a high ranking Official woman with more medals than fingers—brings a silvery-glass box to the table and leaves it in front of the leader of States. The President smiles at the camera, papery and weak and full of thinly-veiled contempt as he dips his hand inside the box. He snaps up a strip of paper.
I’ve always thought there weren’t enough slips of paper in the box for all the citizens of whatever Forgotten Land he was in at the time, but I never really knew ‘cause I’ve never been anywhere but here. Now I can tell there definitely isn’t enough paper in the box for all our names. Maybe they eliminate the least desirable citizens first. Maybe the box is full of empty slips. Nothing would surprise me.
“The civilian of Forgotten London granted access to life in States is—”
He pauses, breathes deeply, and my heart is yearning to get out of my body.
“—Horatia Frie.”
People in the square cheer. People everywhere in the world cheer. It’s not their family, it’s not their loved one. It’s mine. The President claps demurely. I have to grip the metal barrier to stay upright.
“It’s alright. Honour, it’s okay,” Horatia is whispering. “It’s okay. Calm down.”
“No,” I gasp, forcing the word out. I fight against everything. There’s water in my eyes and ice in my veins. My mind floats somewhere above me, racing through the night sky, but my body is sucked down by the terrible force of gravity, of horror, of grief.
My sister holds me up, slender fingers digging into my waist, her warmth less of a comfort than a reminder that I’m losing her, I’ve already lost her.
I’m going to be sick.
“No. Tia. No.”
“Would the young lady step forward so we can escort her to her new life?” the President asks in a cheerful voice. How did he know Horatia was a girl’s name? It’s rare, unique, like her.
“No,” I repeat. My voice isn’t my own. I have nothing left. Nothing left. She’s all I have. They can’t—I won’t let them take her. I have nothing. She’s not going. I won’t let her. Not my sister. Not Horatia. Never.
Horatia leans me against the barrier—I grip the cold metal with numb hands—and she grabs my chin, making me meet her clear, shining eyes. Holding that gaze, she whispers, “Honour, it’ll be okay. Trust me.” Fierce—she sounds determined. I can’t do this. I can’t lose her. She squeezes my chin, pain chasing away the ice for a second, and there’s something different in her voice when she repeats, “Trust me.” Secrets.
I don’t understand.
She kisses my forehead, hugs me close, and then she’s jumping over the barrier, evading my hands as they reach for her and—
And the Official she was staring at earlier is catching her around the waist and lowering her safely to the ground.
It’ll be okay.
No, it won’t.
Trust me.
I don’t know if I can.
You knew.
You knew you were going to be chosen. That’s what I heard in your voice, that’s the secret in your eyes. That’s why you’ve been giving me guilty looks when you think I’m not watching, and it’s why you’ve been acting weird these past weeks.
You knew.
***
Bennet
20:14. 01.10.1878. London.
When I return to Branwell’s room hours later, I’m wearing two dresses—a pale yellow, my favourite, and a dark scarlet that makes me feel like a princess with its gold trimmings and bronze lace—and underneath the two is my nightdress. My corsets are loosened to accommodate the three but it’s still an effort to walk and breathe. I can’t take a case of clothes because Carolina would know in a second that I was leaving. So, for the time being, I am a walking closet.
I do feel a little bit bad about leaving Carolina and Jeremy behind, but there are only two bracelets, and I want as few people walking into danger in this unknown Olympiae building as possible. I hid a dagger up my sleeve should anything happen and my soft leather boots mean I can run if the situation calls for it.
My heart is tight when I descend the stone steps, a leftover ache from my conversation with Joel, but I keep my head high and don’t let it show.
I find my brother dressed in decent clothing for once—not just in shirtsleeves and trousers, but with a tweed waistcoat, a blazer, and a long overcoat. And unlike me, Bran has a leather satchel on his shoulder. I assume it holds the wooden box with my father’s secrets and answers. No room for spare clothes, though, I notice.
“You don’t have a coat,” he says when he sees me.
“I didn’t want to raise suspicion,” I explain. “It would be obvious I was going out. And I didn’t really want to be met with the full force of Carolina trying to hold me back. Joel was … difficult enough.”
His brow furrows as his eyes fill with concern. “Bad?”
I almost shrug but something makes me nod. “Bad.”
He sighs, hefting his bag strap higher on his shoulder. “Carolina would be furious,” he says mournfully.
I don’t want to think about how she’ll react when we get back from our escapade. If we get back. “Everyone will be furious.”
He smiles at that for some mad reason. “You’re really coming with me then?”
“Of course I am.” As if I would let my brother walk into this alone.
He takes a breath to collect himself, turning serious as his eyes flit to the silver box containing the bracelets that will apparently enable us to travel from place to place—instantly, like pure, wild magic. “Hold out your wrist.”
I must be as crazy as my brother because I do as he says. He unclasps one of the bracelets, watching me the whole time. There’s a hidden hinge in the metal and the whole thing folds outwards. He settles it around my wrist but doesn’t clasp it. I catch his meaning.
“Give me the other,” I say and he puts the circle of cold, heavy metal in my hand. I manage to open it with one hand and follow his example, settling it open around his wrist. My heart tripping, I lock eyes with my brother, worrying for the thousandth time about where we’ll end up. I hope these things will take us to America, to the Olympiae’s location there, but I don’t have much faith in these things working. How can I—it’s absurd, beyond the realm o
f possibility. Isn’t it?
Bran locks eyes with me and I gaze into him, my reflection. I’m not sure I can breathe. “On the count of three?”
I take a deep breath as he counts. When he whispers three I snap the bracelet around his wrist, and he does the same with mine. It’s a sudden clasp, violent, loud. I definitely can’t breathe now, as I wait. I convince myself that the bracelets are just another of my father’s failed inventions, but a second after I sigh and shift my hand as if to remove the bracelet, the room begins to shimmer. My heart jumps into my throat, my stomach clenching as the room shivers and then, all at once, it’s gone.
There’s a suspended moment of blackness. I gasp for air, holding tight to Bran’s wrist but I can’t tell if it’s still in my hand or if he’s been ripped from me. Stuttering cries fall from my lips—and then as fast as the room disappeared, it is back again.
My eyes blur, focussing as slowly as my mind processes a sudden wave of sound and my body reacquaints itself with the force holding it to the ground. When my eyes clear, I’m surrounded by colour and light and heat.
It takes me a second to realise I’m not in Branwell’s bedroom anymore. I’m in the middle of a road and there are people buzzing around me—people nothing like those of London. Where my London is subdued and washed with grey like a delicate watercolour painting, this place is daring and bold in its use of colour. Red scarves, yellow buildings, piled of bright ochre sand on a vendor’s stall nearby, every shade of colour imaginable woven into the clothes of the people around me. Those people—so alien, so new—rush and bustle like they do at home in the busier neighbourhoods, but they speak a language I do not recognise.
I stumble out of the road out of the path of a … I don’t know. I have no words. An automobile but … not. Smaller, open, much faster and quieter. I shake as I recover, my heart trying to beat its way out of my body. Wrapping my arms around myself, fingers on the familiar lace of my dress—the only thing I know in this place—I crane my neck back and look up, seeking the sky. There are buildings around me—so many buildings—most blocking out the sun, narrowing the sky to a small patch when it should spread freely from horizon to horizon. My eyes stray to the high, towering buildings made of glass and metal.
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