The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (17 page)

I suspect his heart
belonged to me as much as mine belongs to him, but what good does
that do me now?

I run my thumb over
the scratched surface of the bracelet around my wrist, the one I
have yet to remove. It’s darkened and dulled now, worn by dirt and
scrapes. I bet if I went home nobody would believe what I’ve been
doing. Well, that’s not quite true—a wry smile twists my
lips—Carolina would believe what I have to tell her, I’m sure.

“Do you think you
could pay attention?” Rasmi enquires as we walk. “Should I get
someone else to do this? You seem busy.”

I smile at her,
sweetness and venom. “Forgive me for being preoccupied. It’s not as
if I’ve travelled hundreds of years into the present and lost
everything I hold dear, is it? I suppose I have no reason for being
distracted.”

She drops her gaze to
the floor.

A wisp of guilt moves
through my stomach—I know I’m in an unkind mood—but I reason it
away. She should feel ashamed. I do not, by any stretch of anyone’s
imagination, need to be here. I have the whole world ahead of me
and nothing to tie me to Bharat, let alone Delhi. I help the
Guardians because I believe in their cause and I want to do some
good with my life—but I could as soon do good elsewhere. I’m sure
there are Forgotten Lands that would accept me with open arms,
grateful for the help.

If these Bharatians
continue to punish me for missing my home, for remembering the
times I spent with my loved ones, for yearning for the familiar
earthy scent of the one who had my heart, they will soon lose my
commitment. I will go somewhere I can reminisce and mourn my lost
life as much as I desire, where the people are understanding and
grateful enough for my aid that they don’t reprimand me.

If Mumbai’s God is
true, after all, I am a saviour. A bringer of change and summoner
of light to the dark world. They ought to be careful not to anger
or upset me, or this summoner of light will take her rays to the
opposite side of the world and resume her own quest. She will find
her brother, wherever he is, dead or alive.

Maybe I should do that
anyway. Abandon this righteous assignment, get Branwell—no matter
how many years I have to search—and go home—no matter how many
scientists I must bribe to accomplish it.

But I can’t do that.
Of course I can’t.

I wrap my fingers
around the silver handle and pull the glass door aside. I leave my
past on the cracked black road outside, in the hands of yelling
mothers and groaning teenagers.

There are people
relying on me, desperate for the freedom they have only ever heard
rumours of. Whispers. Promises no one would surely believe lest
their hopes prove false. Children in the Forgotten Lands who
struggle for food and water, who have become shallow versions of
themselves, held back, held silent, for fear of consequence. For
fear of death.

The Dark Soldiers rule
everyone with vows to slaughter lest a single voice be raised, a
thought be spoken, an action taken. And I—Bennet Josephine Ravel, a
girl of sixteen years, daughter of a genius father and a charity
founder mother, sister to a boy whose scientific experiments would
have changed the world, could still change the world—am the Dark
Soldiers’ downfall, the people’s redemption.

I slide into a shiny
orange bench in the diner, folding my hands together atop the
table, and I breathe and breathe and breathe until I’m
resolved.

No more doubts.

No more choices
between the past and the present. Between one person—no matter how
ferociously I love my brother, no matter how much he means to
me—and a whole population oppressed.

I sit straight as I
was taught to, long ago, by my aunt in place of my mother, and I
wait for the Guardian ally I’m meeting.

***

Honour

10:41. 22.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

Something bad is
happening to me and I don’t know what it is. A side effect of being
a carrier? Something the Officials did to me when I was in
Underground London Zone and then wiped my memory of?

I’m starting to wish I
had some of that stuff myself, whatever drug made me forget. I wish
I could forget I was a carrier, a killer of God knows how many
people—people I’ve bumped into on the streets of F.L., men I’ve hit
in bar fights for money, random acquaintances who died without
warning. How many of those were burnt on a mound in Hyde Park
because of me?

Not knowing anything
would be better than this. Being a carrier was one thing but being
altered, changed to States’s design … that’s something else. Why is
anyone letting me live? What’s the point?

A new bruise is
blooming on my arm, my fingernails dug into skin that looks pallid
despite the sunshine that’s decided to show its face. On any other
day, in any other life, I’d turn my face up and bask in the
warmth—nice weather, who would have guessed it actually existed?
But not today, not this year, not this lifetime. I’m a killer of
innocent people and I’m miserable. I don’t want the sun. I lower my
head, staring at the ground as I walk. Little stones push their way
through the crevices in my boot soles to cut into my feet. I ignore
the pricks of skin being scraped open.

I
pull my jacket closer around my chest. Not because it’s cold but
because it might lessen my carrier threat.
Might
, because I have no idea what
can stop it. Nothing, probably. It’s in my blood and I can’t get it
out. We don’t have enough time or equipment to strap me to a table
and find out what’s really pumping through my veins. Blood or
poison? It’s anyone’s guess.

I pinch my skin harder
and the flare of pain chases away my hectic thoughts. I shouldn’t
be turning to pain for clarity—God knows how messed up that is—but
compared to the rest of my existence it’s a blip of an issue.

“What the hell?” I
hiss, ducking behind a building. Eyes narrowed, I peer around its
edge to the street beyond it.

Two teenage guys, one
in jeans and a hoodie, the other in a green button down shirt and
shorts. No uniform, but they’re obviously guards. They patrol the
road, walking lazily from one end to the other, carrying a
conversation across the distance. I see guns slung haphazardly
across their shoulders, and relaxed postures—clearly they’re not
expecting a threat—but their presence still makes me uneasy. What
are they blocking? Is it something in one of the buildings just
past them, or are they Manchester’s barrier? The town boundary?

Are they keeping us
in?

Do they tell
Manchester’s people it’s for their safety, like the Officials
did?

I flatten myself
against the dirty wall, laughing bitterly. Nothing ever changes
does it? We might have left Forgotten London behind but I see
evidence of all its bad parts in every place we go. I thought we
left to escape being trapped but now these soldiers are trapping us
in pretty much the same way.

Do
humans even know how to live without barriers and rules, or is this
just our natural state? I guess the question I really want to ask
myself is this: will we
ever
be free?

I don’t think we will.
Even without States and the Officials, we’ll always find new ways
to trap ourselves.

I leave the soldiers
and the barred road behind and weave through the free streets of
the city. The simplicity of walking calls up memories of home, when
I would cross the zones to see Hele and Dalmar, when despite the
horrors and death of London, it was still possible to find pleasure
in the little things. I always loved walking, being able to set my
own pace, being alone with my thoughts. Making decisions for
myself—what routes I choose, when I stop for breaks, how
relentlessly I push myself. The one thing I never allowed myself to
do was run. Running always makes you look guilty, and in a city
ruled by an iron fist looking guilty is the exact opposite of
staying alive.

But what’s stopping me
now?

The
wind is gentle but still brushes against my arms as I take off my
jacket and tie it around my waist. I look around myself, making
sure I’m well and truly alone. And then I
run
.

The wind becomes
harsher as I throw my body through the air, flying over the ground.
It’s exhilarating and freeing.

I don’t last two
blocks.

I collapse against the
side of an old nightclub, wheezing, my hands on my knees.
Apparently the miles and miles of walking didn’t make me a pro
runner. Pity. It’s probably the only thing that’ll keep me alive
when the Officials catch up with us. I don’t have a natural
instinct for fighting, which makes me a runner.

A runner who can’t
really run.

How am I still
alive?

The wind masks the
footsteps so I don’t hear them until they’re right on top of me. I
sigh, turning around to face the civilian soldiers who apparently
followed me on my little run. I don’t know how I’ll explain it.
Maybe I’ll say I needed to stretch my legs, or exercise, or train
to kill my enemies. I don’t know. Chances are I’ll say the first
thing that comes into my head and it’ll be really dumb.

I pivot on my heel,
attempting to hide my frustration. My first day truly alone and
I’ve been interrupted. I could’ve guessed I’d—

My stomach drops to my
feet. For a weightless second I can’t move. All I can do is stare
hopelessly at the sight in front of me and try—fail—to process
it.

Officials.

Three of them.

Here.

I
knew this would happen—I knew it and I told everyone but none of
them listened. They said it was safe here, said these people hadn’t
seen an Official attack since the days of the flares, but they were
wrong. I
knew
they were wrong. And here is the proof: two men and a woman,
electric guns strapped to their waists, clothed in bulky black
pants and jackets with red piping down the sleeves and collars.
Red. The colour of blood. Of my blood. They’re going to kill
me.

As if in slow motion,
every Official raises a hand and presses it to their right eye in
the President’s salute. Their palms are open to the sky, fingers
straight and pointing, stained and bloody.

I stare at the guns in
their left hands, all three pointed at my chest, the flat disc of
glass on the end of the barrel glowing, powering up, ready to rip
me apart, to sear my flesh. I’m so paralysed that for a moment I
forget I’m capable of movement. I can lift my feet and walk and
run.

I burst into action
without warning.

I pump my arms to give
me speed, the thought of becoming a charred husk flashing through
my mind repeatedly. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to
leave my family. I don’t want to die.

An Official grabs the
back of my shirt, hauling me back, and the neck of my shirt rips
with how frantically I’m pulling away. Furious panic makes me
breathless. I’m spun around, brought close to the female Official’s
face as she stares into my eyes, spitting words at me I can’t hear.
Each of my breaths comes faster and shorter than the last until I’m
sure I’ll never be able to fill my lungs again.

Acting on instinct I
shove one of my trembling fists into the Official’s stomach. She
snaps her mouth shut and digs her fingers into my shoulders. Pain
flashes down my arm. Why isn’t she killing me? Is she going to
torture me?

Ignoring the building
pressure in my head, the blurring edges of my vision, the buildings
that are swaying, I hit out again. My palm connects with her ribs.
I look frantically, trying to point the one clear spot of my vision
at the other two Officials—but they’re nowhere in sight.

Gone for back up. Gone
for more. More Officials.

I gasp. I choke. I
can’t breathe.

My eyes blur, tears
springing into existence and rolling down my cheeks. I let them
flow. I’m going to die. What difference will crying make?

“Honour!” This time I
hear the Official but she sounds wrong. I get the tiniest hold on
my breathing. It sounded like …

“Dalmar?”

“It’s me. I’m right
here.”

The
Official’s hands become less like claws and more like the
reassuring press of a friend’s. The words change from threatening
hisses to worried questions and hurried comforts. I drop to my
knees. It takes time and effort but eventually I’m able to shove my
panic down. Deep,
deep
down.

What … what just
happened?

“It’s me,” Dal
repeats, kneeling beside me. “Can you see me now?”

“Yeah.” My throat is
raw. I don’t remember screaming but I must have. Anyone could have
heard me—thank God it was only Dalmar and not a Manchester
soldier.

He grips my shaking
hands and exhales a long breath. “Thank God for that. Do you know
what that was? What just happened?”

I shake my head,
pushing the heels of my hands against my eyes. I take in breath
after breath, blowing them out slowly. I scrape all my courage
together and ask the question that has filled my head, pulsing with
every second that passes.

I
scrub away the tears and look at my friend, my brother. “What
is
wrong
with
me?”

***

Miya

12:43. 22.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

My
hands are raw, red, and peeling. I’m not used to housework of any
kind—it goes against every bone in my body—but Saga won’t let us
break a single Manchester rule and the rules say everyone has to do
something useful. He’s sucking up. I’m not sure why we even need
these people. They don’t have a secret armoury of weapons, only the
battered and faulty guns their guard carry, and even though they
have a small army, they’re all
people
and not soldiers.