by Budgett, Jay
“I talk to mice, sometimes,” she said finally.
Her face burned red. She could’ve slapped herself. Charlie was the first girl her own age she’d met in five years, and this was what she said to her? Maybe it was good she didn’t talk to people much.
“I’ve found they’re quite good listeners,” said Charlie.
“The best,” agreed Sage.
“Besides,” Charlie continued, “there aren’t a lot of options around here. At least from what I’ve seen.” She was right. There weren’t a lot of options. “I’d get lonely too, if I lived here for four years. And animals are always so willing to listen. I know it sounds crazy, but once I helped some snails cross the street…”
Sage laughed. Maybe she wasn’t so odd. Maybe she was normal. She felt herself get bold. “And I can burp the alphabet,” she announced.
“That’s pretty great,” said Charlie, laughing. “A little odd, but still great.”
Well, maybe she wasn’t normal, but maybe it didn’t matter. She promised herself she’d teach Charlie how to burp the alphabet.
Someone banged on the cell door across from Charlie’s. The prisoner in fifteen had been moved to fourteen earlier in the week. The chancellor was worried the inmate’s behavior would disturb Charlie’s “progress.”
Sage pulled the door shut behind her. It was just her and Charlie now. She worried Charlie’s eyes might have wandered across the hall. That she might ask questions. Questions Sage wasn’t prepared to answer.
The chancellor had been kind with his punishments for Charlie thus far, despite her resistance. If she held out until the end of the week, however, Sage wasn’t sure she’d be so lucky. Starvation was humane by the chancellor’s standards, and far better than the methods used by the Minister of Defense & Patriotism.
Minister Zane had less than a year left before his fiftieth birthday and euthanization, and the faster his own death approached, the more quickly he brought others to theirs. Sage had heard rumors of his experimental methods involving dogs and nuclear waste from the Moku Lani reactor. He said it helped enemies of the state remember things more “willingly.” By the time he was through with them, however, Sage guessed they would confess to anything.
“Sage?” Charlie said quietly. “I need to get out of here.”
Sage’s stomach sank. She’d heard this before. From the others.
“I’ve got someone out there—people. People who need me—people I’ve gotta see, you know? People I care about. You have people like that, right?”
Sage shook her head. Since her mother’s death, she’d had no one. Nobody cared about Sage Penderbrook. Not even Charlie. They all just wanted to use her. Even the mice did, if she was being honest.
“You’d have to come with me, of course,” said Charlie. “I couldn’t leave you behind. You’ve been so kind to me. The bread meant a lot.”
Sage smiled. The other prisoners always told her they were going away, leaving this place forever. But they never invited her to go with them. That was the sort of thing friends said to each other. Sage hadn’t had a friend in a long time.
She nodded her head. “I think I’d come.”
Charlie hugged her. She tingled all over. Friend, Sage repeated to herself again and again. She’d finally made a friend.
“Brilliant!” said Charlie. “We’re gonna escape this place. But first, I have to ask you, have others tried running away? Getting out of here? Has anyone ever gotten out of here?”
Sage nodded. They had. The determined ones always found a way.
Charlie clapped her hands. “They made it? They got out?”
Sage nodded again. During her time at the Light House, she’d walked into many cells where prisoners had found their way out.
Charlie leaned close. “How do they get out, Sage? How do they escape this godforsaken place?”
Sage gritted her teeth. She couldn’t lie to Charlie. Not now that they were friends. She had to tell her the truth.
“They escape,” she said quietly, “with a rope around their neck.”
A week after the torture began, it was Sage’s job to leave a rope in the prisoner’s cell—death’s quiet calling card. Then the guards would tie a noose in it and hang it above the bed.
If the Federation couldn’t crack a nut, they helped the nut crack itself.
Yes, all the prisoners eventually escaped their cells. But unfortunately for Charlie, they never escaped alive.
Chapter 13
Police pounded the streets behind me as I raced through Newla, spurred on by the heckling of the holograms that shouted obscenities from window ledges. My heart raced and I panicked as I sprinted along the bustling streets of a city I didn’t know. Back home we’d only read about Newla’s different districts. Now I was seeing them first-hand, but not the way I’d ever imagined. The Upper East Side, the Lower West Side, North Atlantic, the neighborhoods raced by, on and on…
I swerved off the sidewalk and into the street. Cars slammed their horns. A taxi driver scarfing down a hoagie lowered his window. “YOU SOME KINDA FRYER?”
Farther down, another smashed his horn. “WELCOME TO NEW LOS ANGELES, MORON! NOW GET THE HELL OUTTA THE WAY!”
The police didn’t evade traffic nearly as well as I did. They tumbled to the curbs like toddlers learning to walk. The chaos unfolded behind me, but I kept going. I had to. Stopping meant certain death—or worse, torture.
A dark alley caught my eye, and I turned sharply and sprinted down its length. A boy a few years younger than me was sprawled out behind a trashcan, a toothy grin plastered across his face below glazed eyes. He popped another pill as I passed. An empty prescription bottle rolled by his arm, the bright yellow packaging giving it away—Neglex. I guess it worked as well for kids who’d lost they parents as it did for parents who’d lost their kids. But it seemed like the vast majority of people wandering the streets were kids.
The alley exited into a neighborhood that replaced skyscrapers with gothic buildings lined by wrought iron gates. A rusted sign towered over the street: Welcome to the Skelewick District.
There were few lights in the district, and the smaller—though still large—buildings sat in their neighbors’ monstrous shadows. The only real light trickled from the bronze streetlamps that lined the barren streets. They glowed eerie and yellow. A perpetual twilight.
There were no holographic actors. No bubbling screens. Just pavement, pedestrians, and yellow pallor glowing from the lamps.
I hurried along, keeping my head down. People didn’t seem to notice. They just stared at the lamps, hypnotized by the glow of twilight.
It seemed I’d lost the cops. For now. But I had to find Phoenix and Mila if I was going to stay alive.
I approached a street corner where a man in a trench coat stood on a crate, hawking watches that hung from the seams of his jacket. A streetlamp stood in front of him, and he stared at it with unblinking eyes.
If I was going to find the Morier Mansion, I needed help. I covered my face with one hand—a ridiculous “disguise,” but really my only option at this point—and sucked in a breath. “Excuse me, sir. Could you—do you know where the Morier Mansion is?”
“Lost?” he asked simply. He picked a watch from his trench coat and pressed a button on its side. Its metal casing flicked open, and white light glowed from its face, lighting the man’s eyes.
“Uh—well, a bit.”
I prayed he wouldn’t turn his attention to my face. He kept his eyes focused on the watch’s brilliant light, nodded slowly, and pointed to a house at the end of the street. “Banyan tree in the front,” he said without looking up.
“Thanks.” I glanced at his coat. “Good luck selling the, uh, watches.”
“They aren’t for sale,” he said. “They’re for the lost souls.”
“Er—right then.” The man was clearly insane. “Well, uh, good luck anyway.”
I hurried away. Uncle Lou always said it was best to run from things you didn’t understand. Mo
m disagreed—she said the things you didn’t understand were the things you should spend your time looking at. Maybe she was right. I glanced back over my shoulder to look at the man, but he was already gone.
The banyan tree loomed at the end of the street, a tangled mess of twigs and trunks. The Morier Mansion lay hidden in the yard behind it. Through patches in the tree’s many trunks, I saw lights flicker inside the mansion. A pointed black gate marked the entrance to the property.
I hopped the fence and landed silently on a patch of moist moss. I raced past the magnificent tree, marveling at the way its roots stretched from its branches to the ground. It was as sprawling as the city itself.
I pounded the brass ring against the black wooden front door. Its knock echoed through the mansion, and the front room’s lights flickered out. As I waited, I glanced back. Outside the gate, I could see police officers searching the street. Perhaps I hadn’t escaped them yet.
The mansion’s massive door cracked open. “Come in, Kai Bradbury,” whispered an old woman—mid-forties at least. “Hurry in before they see you.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I slipped inside and the door shut behind me.
The woman shook my hand fervently. She had gray hair bundled atop her head like a dust bunny, and her eyes were hidden behind a pair of purple horn-rimmed glasses with emeralds encrusted in the corners. Several shawls in shades of scarlet were wrapped around her neck.
“How do you do, Mr. Bradbury?” she said warmly. “We’ve been expecting you for quite some time.”
Behind her, Phoenix and Mila stood on the steps of the grand staircase. Mila took one look at my torn skirt and stifled a laugh. “Staying classy, I see.”
Phoenix shook his head. “You’ve been all over the news. What were you thinking? Flooding the sewage treatment facility? Wandering through the city streets like a Neglex-snorting lunatic? Tell me, Kai: Were you intentionally trying to get yourself killed, or did you not believe us when we told you that you were on the ‘Most Wanted’ list?”
Both, I wanted to yell back, but instead I shrugged. “Bertha’s device didn’t work. It crapped out in the middle of the ocean. You’re lucky I made it here.”
Mila pulled a knife from her pocket. “We’re lucky?” she said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, uh, I mean—you should try getting around in this sort of thing.” I shook the skirt. “Was pretty breezy though… Maybe you could wear it tonight?”
Phoenix stroked his chin. “With the police on alert? I’m afraid we won’t be going tonight.”
The woman in the scarves stamped her foot. “Oh, you’re going tonight. Everything’s set up, Phoenix, and it wasn’t easy. Nancy Perkins is the only cover we’ve got. She has to wear her Daisy tonight.”
“I’m not so sure,” Phoenix replied. “Not with all those Feds out. And Kai has no idea what he’s doing.”
“The shipment of vaccines will be moved from Club 49 after tonight,” the old woman insisted. “We have no choice. We must act now if the raid is to be successful. And don’t be so shortsighted, young man: I remember you making a worse mess of the city, and not so long ago. If anything, this boy should only remind you of your own foolishness.”
“Well, in his defense,” I said, pointing to Phoenix’s bulging muscles, “he’s a bit more capable.”
The woman sighed. “I do apologize for the disagreement, Mr. Bradbury. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Madam Revleon, and the Morier Mansion is my home. A land base of sorts for the Lost Boys, as well as for the Caravites. They can’t do everything from that floating island of rubbish—”
“New Texas,” said Mila.
“Yes, yes—New Texas, that’s right.” She rolled her eyes. “A bit smaller than the old Texas, I think, but never mind that. Though you’ll only be here a short while, please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything, Mr. Bradbury. I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon.” She turned to Mila. “Miss Vachowski, would you be so kind as to lead Mr. Bradbury upstairs to rest? You both have a long evening ahead of you. I think a moment’s rest is in order.”
Mila dragged me up the steps of the grand staircase, which fanned out at the bottom then spiraled tightly up to the top. The walls along it were decorated with scarlet tapestries. I pressed my fingers against the velvet words written below one of them: Veritas vos liberabit. Above them, a gold knight stood atop a sea of fallen corpses.
“Don’t touch that,” snapped Mila.
We moved through the mansion’s left wing, stopping at a room at the end of the hall. A bed covered by a gold canopy stood in its center. Mila plopped herself on its covers and tossed a pillow onto the floor. “You get ground,” she said.
I sighed. The wooden floor didn’t exactly look welcoming, and my back still burned where Churchill’s hook scraped it. I ignored Mila’s instruction and instead moved to an armchair with plush, satin cushions. The sharp face of a bird had been carved into its clawed wooden feet.
Mila’s slow, steady breathing started in a matter of minutes; the soft bed quickly lulled her to sleep. I was exhausted from the day’s ordeal, but unable to get comfortable in the chair. So I got up and wandered out into the hall, admiring the brass light fixtures that lined the black wooden walls.
Phoenix and Madam Revleon muttered something at the foot of the stairs.
“…megalodon researcher, really?”
I strained my ears to hear their hushed whispers, but they soon moved from the staircase. I shuffled down the hall, poking my head into the various rooms. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bathroom. Billiard parlor. Bedroom. A room lined with barred glass windows. All of them dark.
At last I reached the room at the end of the wing. Inside, a reading lamp had been left on, lighting a walnut desk. Papers and open books were sprawled across its surface. I thumbed through a few of the papers. They looked like copied pages from a handwritten journal.
One sheet caught my attention—the cover. I ran my fingers over its title: The Indigo Report. The name of a single individual was printed beneath it: Dr. Harper Neevlor.
Below that, someone had sketched a bird on fire. I knew that image: the woman on the Tube with the fan. The bird had been covered in flames when she flicked her wrist. It was the exact same image. A Phoenix.
Phoenix McGann.
Was it the Lost Boys’ symbol? I flipped through the rest of the pages. Excerpts caught my eye as they turned in my hand.
Yesterday, I began testing Indigo with aquatic subjects. The fish had thrown themselves from the tanks by noon. Out of a hundred subjects, there were no survivors. The Indigo appears to have been tainted. Perhaps genetically altered.
I do not venture to make a formal hypothesis at this point. The data is far too limited. On a personal level, however, I begin to suspect something has been done to my sample of vaccines. Something horribly wrong.
Colleagues mock me for pressing on with the research. They tell me the vaccine is foolproof. That quality control measures do not allow for tampering. But I am unconvinced. I will continue my experiments with these samples and present my findings to the Ministry at the study’s conclusion.
From there, the pages were out of order. I scanned the remaining documents as best as I could.
—my sample of vaccines remains unstable. Continued use on subjects results in certain death—
—located an irregularity in the samples. Possibly a bacterium? Or a virus? It remains dormant at the time of vaccination, but continued injections cause the strain to multiply—
—abuse potential is great. The laboratory can no longer contain—
—Ministry has warned me about the study’s continuation. They fear it is not safe. The results could be capable of dissolving the very fabric of society—
—Burned the lab. The data is lost. The experiment has been labeled a failure. The Ministry revoked my access to the laboratory. The last remaining charts now exist only in the pages of this notebook. I have decided to call
it the Indigo Report—
—they are coming to kill me in my sleep. They want the results. The study was conclusive. The findings contained in these pages are undeniable—
The papers slipped from my hands onto the floor. I cursed under my breath and hurried to pick them up. Madam Revleon and Phoenix might learn I’d been here. That I’d seen the report.
Who was Dr. Neevlor? What had been done to his sample of Indigo vaccines? And what sort of substance had they been tainted with?
By now he was surely dead, and his secrets buried with him. In my hands, however, I held a fragment of the truth: the Lost Boys were doing something terrible to the vaccines. Meddling with them in some way.
They weren’t thieves; they were something else. Maybe full-blown terrorists. The Federation had always been right. The Lost Boys had lied to me. About Mom dying, too. And now, I was certain. She was alive. I could save her.
I’d seen pieces of a plan to pull apart the entire empire, to destroy the Federation itself. I scanned the study’s rich wooden bookshelves—antiques built to hold antiques. You never really saw these old, static books anymore. Pretty much everyone just bought a single book and then downloaded stories onto its pages, the text refreshing itself with each new novel.
The books on the shelves weren’t novels, though; they were textbooks. Had this once been Dr. Neevlor’s home? Did the Lost Boys and Madam Revleon steal it from him? The denizens of the Skelewick district would probably have been too dazed to notice if they had.
I ran my fingers along the spines of a few of the books:
Optometry & Infectious Diseases.
Microbiology: a Clinical Perspective.
Pharmacological Design & Operation.
Physics and Structures of Clinical Viruses.
Understanding Viruses.
Evolution of a Synthetic Molecule.
Synthetic Viruses, Ailments, & Other Macrobiotic Apparatuses.
The black parade of titles continued forever. The seeds of revolution just chapters away. I pulled one book at random from the shelf. Engineering an Epidemic, its cover read. It was dog-eared in several places.
