Resurgence (31 page)

I wanted to believe her, to think that I could end this through words. Instead, I should have listened to her other piece of advice: ‘Don’t trust your King’.

In this case, that includes the King’s right-hand man too.

I force myself to look away from Imrin’s body, focusing on Jela. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

She is sobbing softly, using her hands to brush away the tears. ‘It’s going to be us next, isn’t it?’

I stand, unable to face her. ‘I’m so sorry for bringing you here.’

She steps around Imrin, putting an arm around my waist and resting her head on my shoulder. Pietra does the same on the other side, still clasping onto Hart with her free hand.

Our silence is broken when the doors of the royal box swing open. Four Kingsmen stream through, followed by Ignacia, the two Head Kingsmen who were in Oxford, and the Minister Prime. They stand
to attention, staring into the space above us before the national anthem begins. The screens above the door switch themselves on, showing a view from behind us focusing on the royal box.

I watch Ignacia, wondering if she is going to acknowledge me. I never had the impression that she was in this as deeply as the others, acting more through a sense of tired duty as opposed to any
great willingness to harm us. The only movement she makes is to stand straighter as the King enters in his full royal gown. A long red velvet cape trails behind him and the matching waistcoat and
trousers are strapped tightly, holding in his enormous stomach. His beard has been trimmed but his ginger hair is dirty and has been swept back in a hurry before he put on his crown. There are lots
of little things about his appearance that may not be noticed on camera but which I can see as he waves towards the back of the room. A small triangle of his shirt has not been fully tucked in, one
of the sleeves is rolled higher than the other, a button undone on the waistcoat. He has rushed here.

When the anthem finishes, he takes his place on the throne as Ignacia and the two Head Kingsmen sit.

The Minister Prime offers the merest of bows towards the King and then turns to face us. ‘Silver Blackthorn, you have committed many heinous acts against our King and this country. You
stand before us unarmed and defenceless and yet you say you have come to surrender. Is this true?’

‘I don’t want to fight any more.’

He descends towards us one careful step at a time. The cameras focus on me, then Imrin’s body, before settling on the Minister Prime. He is so close that I can see tiny hairs sticking out
from his nostrils, bouncing with each breath he takes. Directly above him, his own face is magnified on the screen, creating a long, unending string of images.

‘People of England, this is the girl that some said would challenge the rule of our monarch. Look at her now. Is this what you call a rebel?’ He laughs, gloating, happy. I’ve
never seen him quite like this, playing to an audience. He turns, pointing to one of the cameras in the royal box. ‘This is being broadcast to every screen in the country. We are going to
deal with you in the same way traitors have been dealt with since the dawn of time.’

I look at the red light under the camera, watching it blink on and off. ‘You’ve already killed Imrin,’ I say. ‘He has six sisters and is the only boy in his family. He
lived on a farm.’

The Minister Prime has the gun in his hand again, stepping quickly to the side and pressing it to Hart’s head, even though he only has eyes for me. ‘He was a traitor, as you all are.
I want you to say you’re sorry.’

I glance at Imrin again as the crimson continues to run along the floor, now nudging the side of my foot. Pietra and Jela still have their arms around me but their grips are looser.
‘I’m not sorry,’ I reply, shaking my head.

The bang blasts around the room as I hear Hart’s body hit the floor. I face the camera, unable to look anywhere else. Pietra gasps but stays standing, bottom lip trembling. Jela’s
fingers painfully dig into me.

‘This is what our leaders are like,’ I say. ‘Hart was nineteen years old. Last week he was scattering flower petals around his girlfriend’s hair while she slept. The
Minister Prime’s name is Bathix – he just shot an unarmed young man in front of you.’

The King stands, with the others around him hurriedly following. He doesn’t say anything but the Minister Prime knows what this means. His eyes narrow at me, daring me to do something that
could force him to pull the trigger. When I don’t, he turns and returns to the steps, waiting for the King to reach the bottom and then making a deep bow to the floor. The King returns it
with a nod and holds out his hand. The Minister Prime hands over the gun, but his fingers linger on the handle for a fraction of a second too long, making it clear he would rather deal with things
himself. Instead of returning to the royal box, he stands at the base of the stairs as the King approaches me with a snarling smirk on his face. He knows he has won.

‘My people,’ he says, turning a full circle to give the cameras ample opportunity to see him. ‘These have been dark days. Times in which there has been talk of war, of a return
to the mistakes of the past.’

He bounces the gun in the palm of his hand, weighing it before raising his arm at full stretch, aiming at Pietra. He is copying the Minister Prime but has none of the grace or menace. He seems
natural when he is speaking; here he is clumsy. Pietra’s fingers tighten around my waist but she doesn’t flinch, standing tall and defiant.

The King glares at me hungrily, wanting revenge for the injustice he feels he has faced. ‘Tell the people you were wrong,’ he says. ‘Tell them things are better off with me as
your King.’

I shake my head. ‘They’re not.’

My ears feel as if they are going to burst as another bang sounds. Pietra falls backwards, landing with a hand next to her face. I don’t want to look but whoever is controlling the screen
gives me little choice, focusing on her slumped body before zooming out to show all three.

‘You can’t think very much of your friends, Miss Blackthorn.’

‘That was Pietra. She is my age and once thought Trogs were insignificant because that is how she grew up. She changed her mind because that’s what we should all be free to do
– to think for ourselves.’

The King’s head turns slightly to the side, unable to understand why that matters. ‘How dare you try to lecture me about what’s best for this country. I was in charge before
you were born. I united everybody, I stopped the fighting. I built four beautiful towers as a symbol of our great nation. I created a society where everyone has a chance to better themselves, where
people don’t go hungry . . .’

I laugh mockingly. ‘I’m not sure which country you live in but I’ve been hungry almost every day of my life. People still fight. Those towers are a symbol of your own ego, not
of anything that helps the people who live here.’

His eyebrows twitch in anger at my interruption. I’m not sure if he genuinely believes people aren’t hungry because
he
has enough to eat, or if he doesn’t care. He might
even believe his own delusions.

He cocks the gun, turning it towards Jela. ‘Admit your lies,’ he bellows, spittle flying from his mouth and lodging in his beard. His eyes bulge with fury.

‘They’re not lies.’

A fourth explosion and Jela drops to the floor. I am left standing on my own as the King turns the still-smoking gun until I am staring into the barrel. I see the bullet flicking into the
chamber as he primes it.

‘You may not value your friends’ lives; let’s see if you think of your own any differently. Beg me to spare you.’

‘I’m not begging for anything.’

He licks his lips, eyes narrowing with anticipation. I stretch my arms out wide as his finger tightens on the trigger. He waits until I meet his eyes, mouth stretching into a grin.

‘Goodbye, Miss Blackthorn,’ he says.

Then he pulls the trigger.

The vworp blasts through my head as if I have been hit with a hammer. It is exactly like when Opie threw the stone at Hadrian’s Wall but so much louder. Every part of me
feels as if it is vibrating, tingling, like my back is on fire. The initial flare lasts a fraction of a second but I know I am going to be sensing it for a long time to come.

Somehow I hold my nerve. I stagger slightly, I blink. How the other four had the sense to land face-down, hands by their faces, able to crush the blood capsules, I will never know. The Kingsmen
may have patted us down brutally but they never checked the mouths of the other four.

I can only imagine the drama at home as everyone watches, wondering how I am still standing. The King’s mouth flops open in disbelief. My head has turned slightly, trying to cope with the
ringing noise as the modified forcefield around me absorbs the bullet, turning it into a soundwave. I spin back to face him. He was keen to make eye contact as he shot me in the head, but
isn’t so keen as a ghost stares back at him.

‘How . . . ?’

As one, Jela, Pietra, Hart and Imrin stand. There is blood around their faces from the pellets but they wipe it away. Hart lunges forward, snatching the gun from the King’s hand. Imrin
takes his sword, leaving him weaponless.

This is what I tried to explain to Knave, to them all, that it had to be this way. Lucia said the King had never gone to the Scottish border and tried to talk. I had never tried to talk here
either. This was the chance for the King and the Minister Prime to explain themselves. But they acted in the only way they knew how: with brutality and oppression.

The technology that runs Hadrian’s Wall is an astonishing feat, but it was very easy to manipulate into a smaller version with which to coat our bodies once Lucia shared it. I feel sure
she is watching now and wonder what she is thinking. There will definitely be a part of her saying ‘I told you so’.

Above the King’s panicking frame, I can see our five faces on the screen, each of us covered in blood. The others are glancing sideways at me, willing me to speak or do something. I
realise why they are looking so concerned: I am the odd one out. I am drenched with blood but it is not from a pellet; this is my own. An explosion of red from my nose is dripping from my chin,
staining my clothes, muddying my thoughts, as the vworp bounces around my mind.

It doesn’t seem to have affected any of the others. Their movements are urgent, mine feel sluggish.

Hart’s fingers seem clumsy around the alien shape of the gun, but the fact he is holding it and pointing it vaguely in the direction of the King is enough to make Victor sink to his
knees.

I finally find my voice and it doesn’t sound as croaky as I feared. ‘Everyone put your weapons down.’

There is a clatter of metal hitting ground as I turn to see the Kingsmen dropping their swords. Only the Minister Prime remains, standing tall, hand on his sword.

‘Shut the cameras off,’ he shouts to no one in particular. He glances sideways to see the screen focused on him, which only makes him angrier. He starts to march towards us,
bellowing his request a second time, only stopping when Imrin raises the sword above the King.

‘We’re in charge of what’s being broadcast,’ I say calmly. ‘Now put your sword down.’

He is bubbling with fury, a frenzy of outrage and disbelief. Not only is he being humiliated but it is happening in front of the nation. Lucia told me she would not start a war but this was her
only concession – she would allow her computer experts to hack into the castle security system in order to keep us on air. With no Porter to help protect it, I imagine it wasn’t that
hard.

The Minister Prime rips the sword out of its sheath, his eyes running across the five of us. He is wondering if he can get to all of us before we get to the King. Considering whether the King
even matters any longer.

Seconds tick by until his sword bounces onto the ground. I know the only reason he dropped it is because he was fearful he himself could be harmed.

‘Knees,’ I say.

His filthy dark eyes glare at mine, wishing any number of ills upon me, but he obeys, dropping to the ground. I call to the royal box, telling Ignacia and the others to sit. They are an
irrelevance, sheep of the highest order.

I wipe my hand across my face, cleaning it on my trousers, but can feel the blood still flowing. Suddenly there is a thud behind me, then a second which sends another enormous vworp barrelling
through my body. It is not as loud as before but I stumble forward a step before steadying myself and turning. On the ground is an arrow that missed, but an archer hidden in the lights has shot me
in the back. The forcefield has absorbed the blow but I pick up the arrow that missed, brandishing it in the air and then throwing it away.

‘Put your weapons down. Now!’ I shout.

At first nothing happens, but then three bows are thrown from the balconies, landing on the floor of the hall with a wooden clump.

I turn back to the King. ‘Is that what your men think of you?’

He says nothing, staring at my feet.

I reach into the back of my trousers and pull out the long, thin tube that has weighed on me for so long. The metal is cool and doesn’t reflect the overhead lights and I hold it in the air
so the cameras can see it. So the King can see it.

‘My friend Opie calls this a blood bomb,’ I say. ‘I don’t like the term but it is about as accurate as you can get.’ I look at the King, willing him to make the
same eye contact he wanted from me. When he does, I can see his entire body shaking.

‘This was created with a sample of your blood. It’s hotwired to you. All I have to do is flick the catch at the bottom and press the trigger at the top. It will boil you from the
inside out. It will be pain like you have never known, seeping through every pore, every vessel, every part of your body. It will be the most painful death anyone has ever known.’

He can see in my face that I am not lying and collapses to the floor, kissing my feet and begging for mercy. I raise my foot as if to kick him and he shuffles backwards, expecting an impact that
never comes.

‘You’ve killed so many people I cared for. Some directly, some through others.’ I glance up so the camera can see me. ‘I’ve spoken about Wray before. He was the
start of all of this because he was murdered by this man for no reason.’