The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (19 page)

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 exactly 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.