Freewalker (33 page)

“One problem,” says Lumpy. “I'm not exactly what you'd call trained in the mental focus and discipline department.”

The Gunther slips the other pair of wings over Lumpy's shoulders. “We have anticipated that inequity. Roan's wings have been recalibrated to control yours as well.”

“Here I go, putting my life in your hands again,” mutters Lumpy, with a sideways glance at Roan. He gives the wings a little flap. “So now what?” he asks Number Six.

“Just jump off the ridge. The wings will find the wind. Once they've adjusted to your size and weight, you'll feel a slight quiver. That means they await a direction. Give it and they will seek out the correct thermal current.”

“Thank you,” says Roan.

“The Gunthers wish you good fortune, Roan of Longlight.” And with that, the Gunther steps onto the platform that held the wings and disappears into the ground.

Careful not to drag their wings, Roan and Lumpy cautiously make their way toward the cliff. Peering over the edge, Lumpy squeaks, “Seems pretty high, doesn't it?”

“Yeh,” says Roan. “Good thing you trust me.” And without another thought, he catapults himself into freefall. Just as he's about to lose his stomach, Roan feels the wings catch the wind. He looks up at Lumpy still staring anxiously over the side.

“Are you focused?” yells Lumpy.

“Last call!” shouts Roan as he's drawn along the flow of warm air.

Lumpy shakes his fist and Roan laughs, knowing full well the terror his friend has of heights.

Closing his eyes, Lumpy steps off the cliff. He bellows when he drops like a stone, but moments later, soaring beside Roan, he manages an offhand look. “So exactly what direction are we headed in?”

Roan calls up Willum's map. He marvels as it superimposes itself onto the landscape. Whoever this Willum is, he's got a few tricks up his sleeve that Roan wouldn't mind knowing.

“Northwest,” Roan yells, focusing in that direction. The wings instantly respond, tilting slightly and going into a quick ascent.

Roan has flown in the Dreamfield, but there the wind does not scream through his senses, the cool breeze catch in his breath, nor the sun unite him with the air and the earth under its light. Nothing compares to this, the pure exhilaration and freedom of flight in the real world. He glances back at an ecstatic Lumpy, illuminated in the sunrise, its rays emblazing his diaphanous wings. Like the angels he once read about, they're flying.

STOWAWAYS

TRANSPORT VEHICLE EVALUATION. CONCLUSION: DESPITE POOR ASSESSMENTS IN VEHICLE MANEUVERABILITY AND ENERGY CONSUMPTION, THE EFFICACY OF THE JABBERWOCK FLEET REMAINS UNPARALLELED. REPLACEMENT AT THIS JUNCTURE IS DEEMED INADVISABLE.

—ECCLESIASTICAL REPORTS

M
EN... THE SOUND OF MEN'S VOICES.
Stowe draws herself up slowly, silently. How long has she been sleeping? What are they saying? The words aren't clear, something about the Farlands, picking up a shipment. Something is jangling. Keys? To this truck? Slipping down to the floor, she creeps to the cabinet where the blankets are stored, crawls in, and closes the door. Huddled in the darkness, she reaches under her robe and touches the doll. The door of the cab opens, then slams shut. The truck shudders as the engine turns over. It rolls slowly forward, then pauses. The gate, they're opening the gate. It moves again, with more speed now. They're on one of the service roads; she can feel every bump.

The smell of filthy water tells her they are traveling by the inlet, through the old industrial section of the City. Willum showed her this place, the way lined with giant rusting silos, while he was instructing her on the history of the City. He explained how mountains of grain or sugar brought in from the east on “trains” were held here until they were taken on huge “freighters” across the Great Ocean. An ocean no one's traveled since the Abominations.

This road leads to the highway that will take them to the Farlands. Good. As far away from Darius and the Masters as she can get sounds like the right destination.

The truck's on a steep incline, so they must be at the bridge. She knows this place—there's a major barricade, where all who come and go are investigated. Will the truck be searched? The guards seem to be waving them through. They must know the driver. Of course, he takes this route all the time. They must have been told to keep watch for her, but it would be unthinkable to search for Our Stowe in such a vehicle. She's too pampered and soft to climb into a truck and head to the Farlands alone. Fools! What better place than an ice cream truck such as this one to hide in, with its blankets and pillows and sweets. It is made for shipping people. Little people. Children who, if they do not pass the tests, will be dismantled and redistributed for the exclusive use of the Masters.

Stowe opens the cabinet and inches back out. The truck will be empty until the first shipment is picked up. Until then, she's safe—unless the driver comes back here to eat or sleep. But if he does, the truck will stop first and she will have time to hide. And if she is discovered, there are other options. Lethal options.

Looking down at her hands, Stowe breathes deeply and watches as the amber aura of her shield fades with each exhalation. Prying open the icebox, her still-tingling fingers poke around until they find her favorite: an ice cream sandwich. Pleased with herself, she relaxes on a bench to enjoy it. For the first time since she came to the City, she is free of responsibilities and cares. Our Stowe does not exist in this cabin, Darius cannot reach her here, no one knows where she is. She has finally found freedom.

You will never be free.

“Well, well. Ferrell,” she says, with the utmost care. “That is your name, is it not?”

You have no life outside the City. You won't survive for a week. If you want to live, you should go back.

“Why would you want me to do that, Ferrell?”

As long as you survive, I survive.

“Yes. To spy on Darius and the Masters and try to force me to kill all his new recruits. You fear them. Why?”

Ask Darius.

“What good would that do me, Ferrell? Darius is a liar. It's over, parasite. Your mission has failed. Go back to where you came from.”

If only I could, my little house, but alas, I am part of you now.

“You are nothing but a virus. Willum says there's a way to get rid of you. I will find it and destroy you if you do not leave willingly.”

I'm afraid death is the only way out.

“You are wrong. If I go back to the Dreamfield, back inside the Wall, I could open myself up again and shove you out.”

How are you to do that without Dirt? Even if you were bright enough to know how, what you so blithely call the Wall is being watched by both Turned and Dirt Eater. You wouldn't stand a chance. There is only one way.

“How?”

I've lived long and loved well, but now that Lania is gone my life has lost all meaning. So it would not trouble me if you were to take your own life. You'd be rid of me then.

Stowe stifles her emotions. She will not believe him. “Willum said—”

Willum! What does he know? Nothing. I accepted this mission with no hope of return. It was worthwhile, when you consider the benefit. Think of it: inhabiting Our Stowe in the center of the City. Traveling the barricades and barriers Darius constructed on the Turned side of the Field. A wealth of information to be gleaned for the Dirt Eaters.
And I wouldn't be alone for long. Lania was to join me.

“What!”

An unconventional marriage, to be sure, but at least we would have been together. Our love was strong. Strong enough to survive even you.

“I'm glad she's dead. The two of you—inhabiting me!” Stowe shudders with disgust at the thought. “You Dirt Eaters really are the vermin Darius claims.”

Ah, Darius. When he catches you, he will want to conduct more of his own tests. He will discover me. He is a very inventive man. My interrogation will be a slow, difficult process. By the end of it we will both be praying for death, but he will not grant our wish. And then, Stowe, my perfect little hostess, you will have wished you'd ended it all now, when you had the chance.

“You're presuming a lot, Ferrell. I will not be caught. I'm going to escape. Willum will find me and rid me of you forever.”

Oh? And then what? Where can he take you? You might hide from Darius for a while, but you can't hide from yourself. Stowe, it's true that you hate the Masters, but most especially you hate yourself. You despise what you've become: a diseased, unstable, child-monster. On top of which, your power is waning, I sense its ebb. Oh, you are so weak.

“Shut up.”

I'll prove it to you.

Stowe feels her arm rising against her will. Her legs quiver, shaking spasmodically. Her hands and legs thrust forward. “I... won't...” she says, resisting the force inside her that bangs her against the sides of the truck, footsteps echoing on the bare metal floor. She strains to control her muscles—the driver will surely hear—but they refuse to obey.

Surrender.

Propelled down the aisle toward the doors, she realizes that Ferrell might force her to open them, then she'd fall, fly and spin over the hard ground, crack her bones, snap her neck.

The truck brakes and she reels back from the doors. Tumbling with the momentum, she crashes into the cabinet and lands on the floor.

As it slows to a stop, she finds her body is hers again.

Don't let him find you.

“Why would I? Idiot!”

Bruised from the fall, she opens the cabinet and buries herself in the blankets. The driver's getting out. Six heavy steps and the back door opens. He's moving through the aisle, coming closer. She hears the man's breathing as he bends over. The blanket was left out. And the wrappers.

Stupid child!

Quiet, quiet.

The man is muttering to himself. “He's done it again, sneaking naps, stealing food. I'm gonna report him this time.”

His hands appear, holding the blanket. He shoves it beside Stowe's head, then slams the cabinet door but it will not shut—Stowe's body is pushing the blankets forward just enough to keep it from closing. The driver tries a few more times, checking it. He must think the noise he heard was the loose door.

“I'll have Hawkes look at that when we get back.”

He retreats, and moments later the engine starts and the truck gains momentum. With a sigh of relief, Stowe carefully slips out of the cabinet and sits back in her seat. “Why do you try to frighten me when it is clear you don't want me hurt? What do you hope to gain?” She focuses all her frustration where she senses Ferrell's presence most strongly within her, grasping at anything that might push him back, give her time to think.

Don't you realize what Darius is doing? If you refuse to go back, then I have no reason to live and it is nothing to me if you end your life and mine. But soon no one will escape Darius's grip. He will be puppet master to us all. This is what I seek to stop. This is worth living to achieve.

“We want the same thing, then. Leave me alone and I'll kill Darius for you. I want to kill him. I can kill him.”

You overestimate your abilities.

“It would already be done if you hadn't slithered inside me.”

I have no reason to believe you would act for the benefit of others.

“And whose benefit do you serve now, Ferrell? I think you're the one going mad, cooped up inside me, grieving over your poor incinerated wife. No body, no love, not even your own mind anymore. I offer my help and still you want me destroyed. Who does that serve?”

A thousand jagged nails rip into Stowe's brain.

She'd scream but her throat is paralyzed with pain; nails tear into her legs. She tells herself that the pain's an illusion, he's just tweaking her nerves. She wills it to stop, but it builds, swelling hot inside her skull.

When she tries to numb herself, push Ferrell's invisible fingers from her synapses, wave after wave of blinding, searing pain slices through her.

She staggers down the aisle, clinging to the seat backs. With each step, a firestorm erupts behind her eyes, her vision doubling, her limbs flailing. She is ready to surrender, to die, to smash herself against the pavement spinning past. Blindly pitching herself at the door, she flings it open.

No!

The instant the pain stops, the memories rise like a flood.

Blood in the snow. Slashing. Burning. Her mother's kiss.

The door!

She starts to cough uncontrollably. Her eyes snap into focus. Dust. A cloud of it, all around. She can hear horses galloping on either side. It must be warriors sent to escort the truck.

Shut it!

Ferrell's scream sends her reaching for the handle. Groping, she grabs it, shuts the door, then totters back.

Hide, hide!

But her legs won't hold, the cabinet is too far, much too far. She collapses in the nearest seat, utterly spent.

You don't know what they'll do. They may not know who you are. Hide!

“What for, Ferrell?”

Move!

But Stowe will not move. She cannot.

Tears in her mother's eyes. Be brave, my pumpkin. Be brave.

She struggles to clear her mind. That's what Willum said she should do, clear her mind. But it's so difficult.

The red skull. Blood in the snow. Her brother's hand slipping from hers.
Everything on fire.

For the first time in her life, she envies all those enabled fools. They have peace, at least. More and more people choose enablers... more... how many did Fortin say? She remembers the look in those weepy eyes of his: power. From simply controlling their manufacture? No. That doesn't make sense. How could she have thought that? It's something else... some secret knowledge... something to do with Darius's new plans... perhaps even his new Construction—She's suddenly aware that the truck's movement has slowed.