The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (23 page)

“Until we know exactly
what people will do with it,” Vast goes on, “these formulas have to
stay within the Guardians.”

“And you want me to
take it? You trust me with that task?”

“I would be indebted
to you if you did. The Bharatian Independent Police know most of
the Guardians we have here, but they don’t know you. If I were to
send someone away, unless it was someone of low ranking, they would
notice. But you could disappear without a fuss, and I trust you
with the Miracle.”

“And your
disease.”

“Yes. I trust you with
that, too. Will you take them? I know I’ve already asked so much
from you, and I promise to help you find who you’re looking for
when everything is done and the world is safe—but I have to ask
this too. I couldn’t live with myself if I let this cure fall into
unworthy hands.”

I
look at the woman inside the glass room, frowning. There’s a weight
on my chest and I know, despite any argument I might make, that
though Vast is trying to manipulate me, he’s also right. This cure
could save hundreds of people. I knew that when I became involved;
it was part of the reason I did. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll take whatever
you want to your safe place. But I want your word that you’ll help
me as soon as you can. Not later, not a year after. As
soon
as you
can.”

Vast bows his head.
“The world will owe you a debt and I’m happy to pay it. You’ll
leave in two weeks’ time, a full week ahead of the scheduled
raid.”

But
what happens
, I think,
if in the coming war you speak of so often, you don’t
survive? Who will pay it then? Who will help me find my
brother?

It is so tempting to
abandon ship and carve out my own path. So why don’t I? What’s
stopping me?

***

Miya

11:45. 24.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

Yosiah couldn’t find his sister when he went looking last
night, so we asked Timofei who asked a guy who sent us to a white
building covered in different coloured words that make no sense to
me—Odeon is the one word that stands out. I’ve seen it before, on a
building in Holloway, Camden Zone. Siah said it was a place you
could watch films like the one on Victory Day. Well, back before
the Flares wrecked the Earth you could. Maybe this place is the
same. At the top of the building is a cracked clock-face with the
word
PRINTWORKS
underneath it.

Yosiah and I share a
look as we enter.

Inside, the building
is surreal. Electric lights illuminate the area in red, blue, and
gold. Shops are built into the wall, made of brick and glass. It’s
like being outside on an ordinary street, but with a roof. I’ve
never been in a place like this before. It puts me on edge.

We head to the end of
the arcade—street—corridor—whatever it is. Two people are stood
close together, talking quietly. One of them is Kari. She stops
dead when she sees Yosiah. The other, the albino Guardian, follows
her gaze to us with a neutral expression.

“Kari,” Siah whispers.
His breath hitches and I look between him and his sister, not
knowing what to do. Kari rushes towards him and grabs him into her
arms.

“I have been looking
so long,” she says.

He leans against her,
his legs giving out. I’m about to reach out for him but Kari
doesn’t let him fall. She holds him securely as he clutches the
back of her shirt. I move to the side, giving then what little
privacy my paranoid, suspecting mind will allow. I trust Yosiah to
look after himself, that’s not the issue here. I don’t trust Kari;
she might try to turn him against me, like Timofei did when he and
Siah were first reunited in the Guardians’ base.

“Miya,” says a thick
voice. “I’m Brig, the Guardians’—”

“Leader guy, yeah I
know.” I look at him from the side of my eye. “It’s kinda hard to
miss you when you stand up front all the time and tell us what to
do.”

His smile is thin and,
I think, amused. “I’m a counsellor. I don’t give orders, I give
advice.”

“Same thing.” Up close
Brig isn’t as odd-looking as he is from a distance. His skin is
textured with scars and imperfections like any other person, and
his silver eyes are a storm of grey and black, nothing like the
flat colour they are from afar. “So, what do you want?” He frowns.
“You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t want something.”

“I make a point of
introducing myself to influential people,” he says.

“Right.” I glance back
to Siah and his sister. He looks close to tears. Something grips my
heart and an irrational protectiveness rises in me. I want to go to
him, but he needs this time to be with his sister. “What do you
know about her?” I ask Brig, nodding to Kari.

“Not much.” He watches
her thoughtfully. “She’s the head of the civilian guard who protect
Manchester and its civilians.”

“From Officials?”

“From themselves, if
what I’ve heard is right.”

I frown at him. “So
they attack each other? That’s great.”

“Not desirable is it,
living in a place with a lot of conflict? I suppose Forgotten
London was worse but we rarely fought each other.”

“You’ve clearly never
been to Hounslow.”

We watch Yosiah and
Kari hugging in silence for a few minutes until Brig says, “She
seems fine to me. Honourable, from what I’ve heard.”

I tear my eyes from
Siah to raise an eyebrow at Brig. “You hear a lot?”

“I do.”

Deciding I’ve been
away from my best friend for long enough, I leave Brig to take my
usual spot at Yosiah’s side. His hand subtly seeks my wrist and I
bite down on a smile.

The conversation isn’t
anything important, just Kari telling Siah what she’s been doing
since they last saw each other—searching safe towns for Yosiah,
making connections and friends to ask about her lost brother,
travelling the island until she found this ‘colony’ in Manchester.
Yosiah is quiet mostly, his eyes fixed on his sister, memorising
her. I know him well enough to recognise the happiness in the
half-moons of his eyes, in the restlessness of his fingers on the
pulse in my wrist.

His bright mood is
infectious. When Kari has to leave to do important stuff in the
‘guard room’, Siah and I wander the town centre, lazy and content.
For once we just walk, not in a rush to get anywhere, not running
from anyone. The sun even shows its face for a few minutes.
Yosiah’s fingers never leave my wrist. I can’t remember the last
time I felt this happy.

It’s harder than
normal to dampen my wants. And—I damn myself for even admitting it
in my head—I want him. I want more than friendship and it’s
ridiculous. It can’t happen. It’d screw up our friendship, the bond
that’s grown over years into something stronger than normal friends
have. He’s my family.

If I’m admitting to
myself that I want him, I have to admit it’ll never work.

By the time we make it
back to the Station, where Hele and Horatia are watching over Tom
and Olive, my emotions are all tangled up and snarling. Wanting
Siah isn’t worth the way it hurts.

I pull my arm out of
his grip and dive headlong onto the mattress.

***

Branwell

15:11. 24.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

A short walk away from
the Station is the city library, a dome that stands as a shining
white beacon in the middle of a dull city. It has four towering
columns at its front and a number of statues, tributes, and
obelisks dotted around the entrance, some with decayed flowers at
their bases. A majestic atmosphere hangs around the whole area, as
if this library has been undisturbed by the flares and disease and
commands respect and admiration because of it.

The town around it is
shrouded in silver mist, fingers of the fog brushing moisture
across my face as I cross the road. The tracks of some obsolete
train service press through the soles of my shoes and wires flap in
the wind above my head. A tram ran through this town, I think, once
upon a time. I try to remember if Manchester had a tram in my own
era but I can’t recall anything about the city.

The library entrance
is closed but unlocked. Taking a breath of damp air, I push it open
and follow echoing voices to an airy room. The scent of aging books
overwhelms my senses and for a second I am home, curled up in my
basement amongst shelves and shelves of paperbacks. But the
pleasant heat of this room is too far removed from my arctic
basement to be anything like home.

I put my bedroom out
of my mind and step into a bright, wide room of curved walls and
faded spines, a shining brass gallery above my head. Sunlight
streams through a glass roof, painting mahogany bookshelves and
solid tables a warm golden colour. In the middle of the marble
floor tables with mostly empty chairs have been evenly spaced. At
one of them sits Yosiah, talking to the blonde Manchester leader
with unease in his posture. I pull out the chair opposite him with
a weary smile.

“I’m Dagné,” says the
woman. “We haven’t met.”

As I remove my jacket,
heat leaks through my shirtsleeves, a rare warmth I cherish after
these long days of cold. “Branwell Ravel. It’s a pleasure to meet
you.” I glance at Yosiah. It takes him several moments to notice my
attention; he appears miles away from this library. “Found
anything?”

“A lot of information
I’ve not had access to before, but nothing useful.”

Dagné smiles. She’s
too cheerful, too bright for the darkness and despair I’m used to.
“Looking for something in particular? I could help.”

“The history of
London,” Yosiah supplies. “We were curious about the similarities
of our different homes.”

I nod, confirming his
lie.

“You’re looking in the
wrong section,” Dagné says with a laugh, promptly going to what I
assume is the history section. Yosiah gives me a furtive look to
say he hasn’t found anything about the projects. My guess is the
clues to biological alteration can’t be found within a dusty
library book, but this is as close as we come to information.

Marc, the soldier I
despise for no sound reason, marches into the room, his boots
slapping the floor. He has a hushed conversation with Dagné,
blatantly watching Yosiah and me out of the corner of his eye. With
an apologetic smile Dagné excuses herself, pointing us in the right
direction of the library.

“So,” Yosiah says when
she’s gone. “Where do we start?”

“I have no idea.”

“Biology or
psychology?” I give him a frantic look. “Okay. Biology. You think
his brain is what was altered?”

“I
think so, yes.” I rub my eyes, worried and exhausted. “But it’s
just a
theory
. I
have no proof.”

“Run with it.” He
strides to the science section, me right on his heels, and bends
down to a collection of shelves labelled biology. “All your other
theories have been right.”

“Most of them. Not
all.” I sink to the floor, scanning titles. Most of these are about
the human body, which is useless. The only part of Honour capable
of making him a carrier, of altering something so profound, is his
brain. Or his DNA—but it is impossible to alter someone’s genetics.
Thus, his brain has been changed, and I’m going to find out how and
why. If possible, we can get the information to someone capable of
reversing it.

That is my hope,
anyway.

“But working on the
theory that his mind’s been changed, to make him forget …”

He’s right about that
at least. Honour has lost all memory of his time spent in
Underground London Zone and his brain is the only organ capable of
changing that. But besides that obvious fact, we’re working on
nothing but a hunch. Yosiah agrees with me at least and he’s a
medic, which makes me inclined to trust his judgement on these
matters.

“Here.” He hands me a book titled simply
The Brain
. “That’s as good as we’re
gonna get.”

I leaf through but I
don’t know what to look for.

“Give me it.” Yosiah
secretes the book inside his coat. It’s large but not bulky so our
theft shouldn’t be obvious. “We’ll read it away from here.”

As we leave, I ask,
“Do you really think we’ll be able to help him?”

“Something bad happened to Honour in that zone, in the time
he’s forgotten, and he
needs
to remember. He needs to understand what he’s
become, so he can control it.” Yosiah’s hands are trembling very
slightly. He doesn’t notice. “No,” he adds after a pause. “I don’t
really think we can help him—but we have to try.”

18:03. 25.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Manchester.

The Guardians have
rounded us up and brought us to a square named Piccadilly Gardens
some minutes away from the library. We inch our way to the front,
passing residents of Manchester, soldiers only identifiable by
their alert expressions and rigid backs, Dagné, the petite
ice-haired leader of this rebel city, and her two constant
companions—Marc and the woman I now know is Yosiah’s sister. Some
of the faces are distantly familiar, most are not. Strangers or no,
everyone is gathered here.

Children are bursts of
energy among the nervous crowd, running between adults’ legs and
chasing each other over the slippery grass with sharp peals of
laughter. I step out of the way of a girl of ten who barrels past
me into Horatia. She shouts back an apology and carries on running,
followed a second later by a boy the same age. At least the young
ones are carefree, unaffected by the way their parents and
guardians appear scared of what’s to come from this
congregation.