The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Page 14

  “I know all this,” the woman says. “What do you need of me?”

  “To take this weapon and give it to one of our Guardians in States.”

  “That’s all?”

  I pause, thinking of how exactly Garima worded her explanation. “It’s a biological weapon. There is much danger to you in transporting it alone, but if you’re found in possession of it—”

  “Officials will kill me,” she finishes.

  “It’s not only that. They will certainly kill you, but they’ll also be in possession of a disease capable of reducing the world’s population to nothing. We can’t have that happen. There is already too much sickness, too much suffering.”

  I know that first hand. Vast keeps making me watch their videos of Strains victims in the Forgotten Lands. I can’t stand it but I have little choice. I must make myself aware of the terrors this world has in store for me. I must harden myself to armoured ivory. If that means watching a hundred people die, I’ll do it. To heal the world, I must be intimately acquainted with its illness, and what I’ve found is its illness is little more than pure greed.

  I suspected this already but now I have the proof. I’ve heard my brother and cousin’s accounts of what transpired in that house in the past, with the man who bragged, threatened, and vanished. I know he spoke of a new world, about changing history, about being Gods. That is who leads this States, I’m sure of it. I never saw his face personally—I was too busy grieving and sulking—so I can’t verify my suspicions. But I’d be willing to stake my life on him being the President of States in this day and age. It’s his greed that has left the world in this ravaged state.

  It will be me and a hundred score Guardians’ honour and selflessness that saves it. I know this for certain but I’m not sure how to get to that point. I know I possess everything I need to bring down the President—the man who, if I’m correct, killed my father. I know the Guardians have a plan and that, if it succeeds, will wrestle control away from those unworthy of having it. I know all the different elements of our strategy but I can’t for the life of me put them together to form a path to reach my end destination.

  It seems impossible.

  But despite that, I have to go on. No matter how bleak or unfeasible it seems, we have to try. I have to try to free these people, to follow the Guardians’ wishes, because they are the only people with the technology capable of getting me to Branwell.

  I have to stop these doubts. They do no good, serve no purpose. I serve a purpose—that’s all I need to know.

  Sucking in clammy air, I say, “If you agree to transport this weapon of ours, to get it safely to men and women who can do good with it, you’ll be rewarded with a position on the council of the new world.”

  I keep being hit, over and over, by the hypocrisy and the irony of what I’m preaching. A weapon to save the world? Weapons only wreak destruction—I know this personally and it makes me nauseous to think of it happening again. But what other choice do I have? The Guardians have tried everything else: isolating themselves, growing a great influence over States, building an army, funding peace keepers. Nothing so far has worked. We need this. We need to tear down the Ordering Body. Only then can the Guardians put a stop to this for good. Only then can they inject growth and health and development into the remaining lands and people.

  I bite down on my tongue, tasting the tang of my own blood. Stop doubting.

  Before I can speak, she says, “If I’m going to do this, I want insurance.”

  “Insurance?” I glance automatically to my left, seeking Rasmi’s opinion but she’s not here. I’m on my own. “Insurance for what?”

  “For my life, of course.” The woman smiles. She doesn’t have a name, or at least doesn’t tell people her given name. The Guardians call her V, but it feels odd to call a woman by a letter. What does it stand for? Victoria? Veronica? I’m so given to my preoccupation that I’m slow to process her words.

  Peering at V, I ask, “What do you require?”

  Her face doesn’t twitch a single millimetre but there is something about the angle of her head, the wideness of her eyes, that indicates eagerness. She wants something from me—needs it. She says, “I want to know the Guardians won’t dismiss me as collateral. I know these people. They’re ruthless. They don’t care who’s hurt or killed as long as it serves the greater good. I want to know extra care will be taken with my life, that I won’t be put in more danger than is really necessary, and I want to have the utmost level of protection. I’m very attached to the idea of living, Bennet.”

  “I understand.” More than I’m willing to admit. “What do you want me to tell the Guardians?” I produce a notebook and a pencil from my bag, and take down her exact words. I’ve written a whole sentence before I realise what it means. “You want what?”

  “I want you to come with me,” she repeats. “The Guardians value your life. Their superiors say you’re not to be harmed. If you come with me they won’t be careless with my task, or my life, because it will directly affect yours.”

  “No,” I say instantly. “I haven’t the slightest idea who you are. You don’t even have a name. I don’t trust you one bit, and I do not want to travel across the world with you in possession of a deadly weapon deigned to kill men. Thank you, but no.”

  V shrugs. “Then my answer is also no. You’ll have to find someone else to get your weapon into States.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, feeling frustration and anger so pure it burns a hole through me, loosing words I should have censored. “Listen here, woman. I need you to do this for the Guardians, I need you to get that infernal weapon into the City and I need you to be secretive and successful about it. If you do it well, the Guardians will give you as much power and money as your tiny mind can imagine—but if you refuse, an unfathomable number of lives will be lost. Can you honestly say you want to be responsible for innocent lives lost?”

  “What makes you think I’m not already?”

  My back slaps the orange seat as I jerk away from her.

  “No woman gets to my position without being responsible for lives lost.” Her smile is wry. “If you were trying to convince me to help you, you’ve failed.”

  I blow a breath through my nose. If we didn’t desperately need this woman, I’d walk out right now. “Fine,” I say. “Then I’m done convincing you. You need something from The Guardians and it’s clear as day. Agree to this and I’ll see about getting you what you want. You’re right when you say the Guardians value me. For some reason or other, I’m important to them, which lends me a say in what they do. They listen to me, and they’re more likely than not to agree to your terms when I present them. Now tell me—what do you want of me?”

  The precise lack of emotion on V’s face falters. Her eyes become glossy hunger. She’s not only interested in what the Guardians can offer her. She’s desperate for it. “There’s a twenty year old man in one of States’s prisons. He’s being held for spreading propaganda, due for release never. I want the Guardians to free him.”

  Oh. That’s not exactly what I expected. I thought she’d say something along the lines of ‘You have a thousand years old jewel I covet’ or ‘there’s a scroll that dates back to the dawn of time and I desire it’. Not a man in a cell she wants us to release.

  “Is he guilty?” I ask.

  “Yes.” V’s smile makes me nervous. I think this woman is very dangerous. “But isn’t that exactly what you’re doing with the Guardians? Spreading propaganda?”

  I nod, conceding her point.

  She runs a hand over her brown hair, flattening several wayward strands as she ponders me. “What do you want with the Guardians? You don’t strike me as agreeing with their guerrilla ways. They want to kill people to remove the Ordering Body. Are you okay with that?”

  “I do what I have to.”

  “You’re guarded. Good. You’ll need to be.”

  “Enough.” I put my things back in my satchel, annoyed. “I’m leaving in exac
tly one minute, so tell me—are you going to help us or not?”

  “I’ll help you. But I still want my insurance.”

  “Why?” I count numbers in my head until I’ve stopped wanting to wring this woman’s neck. I’m not sure whether it’s the heat, the despicable location, or the frantic need to be back with my family that’s stripping me of my composure. I’m supposed to be cool and restrained, but right now I’d love to spit a hundred threats in this woman’s face until she agrees to comply.

  Who am I becoming?

  What am I becoming?

  “Why,” I say slowly, “do you need me to come with you? Why not someone else? There’s more than one person in the Guardians’ base marked for ‘great things’. Why not take one of them with you? They’re more experienced with things such as this and, for one thing, they’ll be trained in any number of defensive moves. They could be the security you asked for. It makes no sense to take me along with you. I’m nothing but a girl.”

  V’s deliberate smile doesn’t waver. “You know, I was nothing but a girl once. But now I’m the mayor of the biggest state in the City. You ask me why, but I’m not really sure. You remind me of myself. With guidance I think you could be very remarkable.”

  I get to my feet, a disgusting peeling noise alerting me to a sweaty back. Wonderful. Adjusting the material over my stomach, I say, “I am already quite remarkable, thank you very much.” I have journeyed through time itself. Who does this woman think she is to reduce me to a common girl? And while we’re at it, what in the world is wrong with being ordinary? I’d give anything to be unremarkable, to have a husband and children and a menial life.

  With a forced smile I add, “I will tell the Guardians of your request and acceptance. I’ll convince them to free your prisoner. But I won’t accompany you.”

  I begin making my way between the grimy booths, my slippers squelching against the floor with every step.

  “They aren’t the only ones who can help you, you know?”

  I throw a heated glance over my shoulder. “I do not need your help.”

  “You will.” V catches up to me and presses a note into my palm. “Everyone needs my help eventually.”

  ***

  Honour

  07:48. 23.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

  I slept for hours last night so I feel more awake today than I have all week. Unfortunately, it means my mind is clear enough to drag up all the crap in my life. My body feels weird, like my bones are made of liquid, so I take this as proof of being the President’s weapon, a carrier. Heat slides through my veins, from my chest down through my body, and I imagine it’s the Strains I’m carrying, just waiting for me to pass them on and murder someone. Did the vaccine have any effect at all?

  How many people have been infected because of me?

  How many people have I killed?

  I stumble through the massive communal room, around tents made of fabric and plastic lean-tos, until I find the way out. The blustering air cools my face, brings back the clear state of mind I woke up with, and I breathe in the smell of wood burning and food cooking. I follow the scent of food.

  A woman stops me on the path that runs along a small river, a Guardian judging by the fact she knows my name. “What’s the assignment for today?” she asks. It takes me a second to realise she’s serious. She genuinely thinks that I, Honour Frie, colossal fuck up, have answers.

  As if I would know anything. I’m a teenager. Practically a child, and a clueless one at that. There are some kids out there who are more intelligent than most adults but I’m sure as hell not one of them. “Dunno,” I answer with a shrug. I don’t even apologise. I guess I’m rude as well as incompetent.

  I catch a flash of colour in the corner of my eye and spot a woman with black hair and a serious expression striding towards me. I can’t deal with more Guardians wanting things I can’t give them. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  I veer off from the river, walking fast. I need to get away from the Guardians and Manchester residents, all of them indistinguishable from each other in their dirty clothes. We were given a pack of things when we got here, clothes included, so even I blend into the anonymous crowd of people. I could be anyone, ally or enemy. Nobody can tell the difference anymore.

  Back home it was easy—normal colours meant friend, black uniforms meant enemy, and the Guardians in their pure white uniforms didn’t even exist to most of us.

  But here? Everyone’s in civilian colours. There’s no way to know who is a guard and who’s just a regular person. Well, until I turn down a road I’m apparently forbidden from taking. Three guys my age with beaten up guns step out of nowhere and block me off.

  “Where are you going?” a burly, dark skinned boy asks unkindly.

  “I’m just walking.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Not really going anywhere. I just needed to get away from my family.” Forcing a laugh, I add, “You know how it is.”

  “Not really. All my family are dead.”

  That went well. “Sorry about that. I’ll just turn around and go back, then?”

  A lanky Hispanic kid gestures at the muscular guy I presume is the ringleader of their little trio. The other doesn’t speak or move, just watches me with obvious boredom.

  “That’s the saviour kid, isn’t it? The one everyone’s always going on about? Courage or something?”

  “Honour.” The dark guy smirks. “I know who he is. The goody two shoes who thinks he’s better than everyone.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. Me? I think I’m better than everyone else? If you were inside my head with all my self-loathing you wouldn’t be saying that.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” I say instead. “I’m leaving.” I turn on my heel, skin pricking at having my back to them. I shove my fists into my jacket pockets and walk quickly back down the road. I should have stayed in the town centre. But how was I supposed to know they’d be lurking around here, acting all superior with their old guns? We haven’t been told which roads are restricted, haven’t even been told that roads are restricted.

  “Mote, don’t!”

  Before I can question what ‘Mote’ is doing, a bolt of pain hits the back of my neck, searing and intense, shards of it echoing down my nerves. My knees buckle with the shock of it and I drop to the floor. With my hands still stuffed in my pockets, the gravel bites into my cheek, scraping skin and blood from my face.

  I can smell scorched flesh, which I guess must be from the burning at the back of my head. Pain vibrates in my veins.

  I spit stones and dirt, my blood boiling. I’m about to drag myself to my feet and lay into this Mote guy—screw the consequences—but a different heat surges through my body, separate and much more powerful than the first wave. The first was pain but this is agony, consuming and complete.

  “Get up,” the guy spits from above me.

  “He doesn’t look good, Mote. He should be back up by now. Maybe he’s having some kind of reaction.”

  “Good for him. Grab his arms. We’ll take him to the cells.”

  “For what? All he did was walk.”

  It’s not possible for me to burn any hotter but the heat builds anyway. My chest is full of fire, rib cage straining to fit even more scorching pain inside me.

  “Breaking the rules,” Mote says. His voice is muffled, distant. “He tried to leave Manchester.”

  I attempt to speak. My words evaporate on my swollen tongue.

  Rough hands dig into my armpits and haul me up, my pumps dragging on the gritty floor. There’s rain falling, which soothes the heat on my neck but does nothing to quell the furnace inside me. I’m going to die—God knows where, with three assholes I don’t even know.

  Screw this, I think. Screw everything. I don’t want to die.

  My body doesn’t listen to me.

  I burn. All goes dark.

  ***

  Branwell

  09:07. 23.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.


  The light that streams through the half-moon window is cool and silver, the sky outside a grey so pale it appears white against the metallic veins of the glass. High above me strips of glass spread out from the main window like rays of the sun. They interrupt the dimness of the communal bedroom with bright beams; inside them dust motes twirl hand in hand in an elaborate waltz. For somewhere so bleak it’s very pretty. I’ve noticed that about Manchester, more than I did in Forgotten London—the architecture around the town is as fanciful and elegant as it was in my home, my London.

  And much like home it’s forever raining.

  Raindrops splatter my face as I step outside, firmly closing the door behind me. I tip my head down against it as I cross the lifeless road and squeeze into a back street only wide enough for two people to fit side by side. Making my way to the inner centre, the town quiet and lazy around me, there’s nothing to hear but the pounding of the rain as it hits my coat, my boots, the ground.

  Hunching down further against the raindrops, now pounding the top of my head hard enough to leave a sting, I cross a square of grey bricks and wilting grass to duck under a dry awning. Blissfully guarded against the worst of the weather, I lower myself to the paving stones beside a gutted storefront. I heroically overlook the smell of rain, wet grass, and urine. Public places are so lovely, these days.

  My jeans don’t budge from where they are now glued to my legs as I spread them out in front of me. I close my eyes. Every day has been so hectic lately that I’ve hardly had time to stop and catch my thoughts—let alone process them. The only time I have a moment to think is at night, and most days I’m so exhausted I fall instantly into nightmare-plagued sleep.