by Angie Sage
Dedication
For L.V. with love
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: Maximillian Fly
Chapter 2: Kaitlin Drew
Chapter 3: The House of Fly
Chapter 4: In and Out and In Again
Chapter 5: Blood Upon the Floor
Chapter 6: Shards
Chapter 7: The DisK
Chapter 8: Friendship
Chapter 9: The Vermin
Chapter 10: Free
Chapter 11: Minna Simms
Chapter 12: Family Matters
Chapter 13: A Star
Chapter 14: Sun Biscuits
Chapter 15: Going Up
Chapter 16: The Sneak
Chapter 17: Kill Gas
Chapter 18: Parminter’s Pantry
Chapter 19: Buried Alive
Chapter 20: Astro
Chapter 21: On the Other Side of the Glass
Chapter 22: Under One Roof
Chapter 23: The Return of the Prodigal
Chapter 24: Nightfall
Chapter 25: The Blind Curator
Chapter 26: Secrets in the Night
Chapter 27: The Boy Next Door
Chapter 28: Cutting Loose
Chapter 29: Countdown
Chapter 30: Exit
Chapter 31: In the Bag
Chapter 32: Nettie
Chapter 33: Sand, Sun and Stars
Chapter 34: Teapot
Chapter 35: Family Reunion
Chapter 36: Oblivion
Chapter 37: Our House
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Maximillian Fly
M
I am Fly. Maximillian Fly. I am a good creature. I am not bad, as some will tell you.
But I see you do not believe me. You do not like my carapace and my broad, flat head, and I can tell that even my beautiful indigo iridescent wings do not persuade you of my goodness. I know that humans like you call me Roach—even though I am human too. Indeed I was once a squashy Wingless baby, just as you were. But I know very well that if I were small enough you would stamp on me without a moment’s thought. Ha! But luckily for me I am much bigger than you and, I have been told, rather terrifying. So we will have no more thoughts of the trampling and crushing of carapaces. They set my mandibles on edge.
I, Maximillian Fly, see all things. I see the revulsion flickering across your face as you imagine how I look. This upsets me, for I am a sensitive creature. I wish to show you that I am as good as you are—or as good as you think you are. Ah, but I am also a forgetful creature. I have forgotten that you cannot see me except through my words. So I will write a picture for you.
I am flying low and fast over our city, a gloomy place named Hope. The fog is late tonight and there is a fine haze of damp in the air. Below I see the dark canyons of the unlit streets, the tumble of vegetation sprawling across the landscape of roofs that glisten like turtles’ backs. I am looking for my own dear roof. There, now I see it: at the end of the line, narrow with its attic windows standing out like little bug eyes, its two stone parapets back and front and the tall yellow brick chimney rising high like a beacon. I love my roof. However, I do not love the orange Astro suit that lies wedged in my front parapet. It fell last week and now it has rolled down and settled in the wide lead gutter like a punctured balloon. Oh, an Astro is a terrible thing.
But look! Here is something to distract us from such gloomy thoughts. Down in the street below I see a chase. Two SilverSeeds—crew of the notorious SilverShip, which every year takes a group of young ones away from Hope, never to return—are being pursued by three Enforcers, who look sleekly dangerous in their CarboNet armor, which shimmers in the night with its blue-green oily sheen. I watch the SilverSeeds race along the overgrown street, leaping through the vegetation, a tall one dragging a shorter by its hand. This chase is no business of mine, but I realize that you might consider it your business, for they are young Wingless ones just like you. So I, Maximillian Fly, will satisfy your curiosity and at the same time I will prove to you that I am indeed a good creature. And then we will both be happy.
Now I shall for your pleasure describe what I see. The small SilverSeed has stopped running and is now dancing on one leg, emitting high-pitched noises. This cannot be good if they truly wish to escape. Now the larger SilverSeed is hoisting the small one upon its back and setting off again at a run like an awkward two-headed mutant. It moves surprisingly quickly, but will it be quick enough?
I suspect not. The Enforcers, who are older and faster than these two young ones, are gaining ground. They are the usual crew of three runners with a searchlight, a net and a battering ram. You may wonder why they do not shoot their quarry down and be done with it, but Enforcers do not carry weapons—they must bring their prey back alive and in reasonably good condition.
Aha. I have an idea. I will help these young fugitives—what do you say to that? But I am taking a risk here, for young Wingless ones always mean trouble for we humans who are called Roach. So let us make a deal: I, Maximillian Fly, will give them sanctuary. They won’t find it anywhere else in this street. And I will go further than that. I will give these SilverSeeds all the help they need to escape that vile SilverShip, on which, one day soon, they will be forced to leave Hope forever.
But first, they must have the wit to find me.
I land on my beautiful roof so softly that not even the rat sitting upon the ridge stirs. I perch to settle my wings and then I pull up my goggles and meet the rat’s importunate gaze. I hold it until it looks away: one should never permit a rat to win a stare. Halfway along the ridge is my skylight, which I have left open, and a longing comes over me to drop into the cool quietness of my home. But I have not forgotten our bargain. And so now I will check on the progress of the two young ones.
The outstared rat has an amused air as it watches me slide down the slippery slates and—oh, so undignified—end up in the gutter of the rear parapet. Gingerly, I peer over. Well, well, they are not doing badly. They have just scooted into Thin Murk, which is the alley that runs along the side of my house and then past the back of my yard and those of my neighbors. This is becoming interesting, is it not? I pull my goggles back down and I now have superb night vision. They make my eyes look like those of a Night Roach—those despicable creatures who give us Roaches such a bad name. But there is always a downside to everything, is there not?
Now, let me tell you what I can see. The larger SilverSeed has a long braid and so I presume it to be a female. The small one on her back is a shorthaired child of indeterminate gender. Oh, yes, they are being clever. The female has noticed that my gate is unlocked. She has pushed it open and—oh, this is exciting—they are now in my backyard. She has also been shrewd enough to push the gate closed and is now heading along the path at the back of my house, toward the steps that lead down to my basement courtyard. But she is stumbling and I fear she will be unable to carry her burden for much longer.
I look over to the backs of the grimy houses of my neighbors that rear up at the far end of my long, narrow yard. I search for telltale signs of watchers at the dirty little windows: the giveaway glow of a candle, the twitch of a curtain. The city is full of people who would be very happy to take the reward offered for the return of a pair of SilverSeeds. But I see no one. The dark rooms are empty. And those with precious light are not wasting their time looking out into the night.
Ha! I see three dark figures in Thin Murk moving fast and silent like the night fog—the Enforcers are on the trail of the SilverSeeds. Fortunately, they run past my gate
and disappear along the alley, the soft padda-pad-pad of their stalking shoes echoing off the brick walls. Unfortunately, this is not as good as you might think, for Thin Murk is a dead end. The Enforcers will return, more methodically this time, and then . . . oh dear, oh dear. Tick-tick . . .
At the top of my basement steps, the small one slips down from the back of the girl. It hops awkwardly. I believe it has hurt its foot. This is because it wears no shoes, which is foolish, for Wingless humans’ feet are soft and, in my opinion, singularly unsuited for their purpose. Glancing anxiously about her, the girl helps the small one down the steps into the basement, where it collapses in the shadows. I hear a shhhh sound as she tells it to be silent—which indeed it must be, for the Enforcers’ listening devices are highly sensitive. I lean farther out over the parapet, for I wish to see what these SilverSeeds will do next.
Chapter 2
Kaitlin Drew
K
There’s a Night Roach watching us. It is on the roof, hidden in the shadows. I can see the glassy green sheen of its eyes staring down. I remember stories about how a Night Roach will size you up to decide whether to take you in one piece or twist your head off and make do with that. This is what it is doing now: it is sizing us up.
This is not a good place to be.
I take out my pocket combi-tool and flip open the knife blade. My little brother, Jonno, watches me suspiciously. He’s a scrawny kid, scared as a rabbit, his big, round eyes staring at me as if he thinks I’m going to use the knife on him. I risk a glance upward and am answered by the green glint on the parapet.
I saw a Night Roach dive once. It looked like a huge white ghost dropping out of the fog. They say if one swoops down on you, you must hold your nerve. You stand beneath it and at the last moment you stick your blade up between segments two and three. That’s where the heart is. But a Roach is a huge thing, and I wonder about the weight of it falling on me. And its blood cascading over me and . . . That’s enough, Kaitlin, I tell myself. Enough.
I need to get us inside this house as soon as I can, but it’s not looking good. We’re in a damp, slippery basement area and the only ways in are two barred windows and a rusty metal security door. Rising up above us are four more stories of grimy brick and rotten windows. I could get in through any of those with no trouble at all, but there is no way I can climb up to them. My only chance is down here. But the windows have bars on, and the door will be locked. No one leaves a door unlocked at night.
“Stay there,” I whisper to Jonno. “Don’t you dare make a sound. Remember what I told you? They will kill us.”
Jonno nods, too scared to speak—at least I hope he is. I leave him in the shadows and creep over to the door. It’s locked. I close my blade, flip up the pick tool and poke it into the lock. It works! The lock springs open, but the door won’t budge. There are bolts on the other side and there is nothing I can do about those. So I go for the nearest window. The bars are close together and not even I am thin enough to squeeze through—well, my head isn’t, that’s for sure. But if I can get just one bar off—just one—we could fit through. I flip up the screwdriver, but it is useless. The windows may be old and the glass cracked, but the bars guarding them are new and held together by long pins that go deep into the wall.
Jonno whimpers and I freeze, terrified they’ll hear him. And then, in the silence, I hear the padda-pad, padda-pad of the Enforcers’ soft shoes and a shiver runs through me. They’re stalking us and they will find us. Enforcers never give up.
I move silently back to Jonno in the shadows. I sit beside him on the wet stone and I see a puddle of blood seeping from his sock. I feel bad about this. Jonno’s deck shoes were way too big for him and I made him take them off so he could run faster. I put my arm around him, but he doesn’t react. He is all hunched up, clutching his bear, Tedward. If only you had let go of your precious Tedward you wouldn’t be here, I want to tell him.
But I can’t because I’m listening to the gate opening and soft footsteps on the path above us, deliberate and slow. They’re not hurrying because there is no need. They know they’ve got us. I glance up at the parapet and the Night Roach is gone. Well, that’s something, I suppose.
Suddenly a brilliant beam of light sweeps across the back of the house. The Enforcers must be directly above us. In a few seconds they will come down the basement steps and see us huddled against the wall—and I know exactly what will happen then. I rehearse what I must do. I must speak fast before they gag us. I must make them understand that Jonno is hurt and that they mustn’t put him in the net. I must tell them that that he never wanted to come with me, and it is not his fault. But before I do anything I must somehow hide his stupid bear. Very carefully I try to pull Tedward out of Jonno’s grasp, but he clasps it tighter than ever. I make my pleading face at Jonno and mouth, Please, Jonno, let me hide Tedward. Please. But he shakes his head and tugs Tedward toward him. I am in despair—if they get Tedward I’ve done all this for nothing. Nothing. I am about to make a last grab for that stupid, filthy old bear when I hear a scrabbling coming from behind the security door and then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door is opening. I can’t believe it. Someone is going to help us. The door opens a little more, just enough for us to squeeze through. I haul Jonno to his feet but he won’t stay standing so I lift him up, stagger inside, and the door closes behind us.
It is dark in the house and it smells funny. The bones in my legs feel like jelly and suddenly I can’t hold Jonno anymore. As he slithers from my grasp, something grabs my arm. Pincers.
Chapter 3
The House of Fly
M
I, Maximillian Fly, have done an unwise thing. I have brought trouble through my door. Mama is right. I am a fool.
I shoot the bolts home and then I look down at the huddle at my feet. The girl stares up at me, and I see a dangerous creature, crouched upon my doormat, an animal ready to pounce. The small one—a young boy I think—is curled up like a snail that has lost its shell.
Outside I hear soft footsteps creeping down into the basement area. I tell myself that these Enforcers are no more than lowlife vermin—for that is how they behave—but the truth is, I am very afraid. In a few moments they will blow up the door, gag these young ones and put them in a net. And then, for the fun of it, they will probably pull my arms off, all three of them.
There is a thunderous crash upon my dear old door, but it does not move. Now comes the electronic voice screen, which all Enforcers—I mean Vermin—use. The voice is flat and menacing, and it speaks the same words I heard when they raided the house of the mad cat woman across the road: “Open! Open in the name of the Bartizan. A refusal will be taken as declaration by all those within that they are traitors. Traitors will be killed. Open! Open in the name of the Bartizan!”
I decide I would prefer not to open the door. I move toward the girl, intending to help her to her feet. Her hand flashes out toward me, oddly thin, sharp and shining. For a second I am puzzled and then I understand: she is holding a knife. I am affronted. After all I have risked, she wishes me harm. I jump back and another crash comes upon the door. Her blade hovers, uncertain.
Outside, the electronic words begin once more. This is the second declaration. There will be a third, and then they will blow up the door. It is a bad situation. Oh dear. Tick-tick. I should leave now, while I still can. I glance down at the young ones on my doormat and I see the fear in their eyes—deep gray eyes, the same as mine. And then I remember my goggles. Aha. Maybe I remind them too much of a Night Roach. I quickly pull off my goggles and as I do a searchlight beam sweeps in through the window and cuts through the dark like a knife.
K
In the light of the beam, I see the Roach pull off its eyes. It takes me a moment to realize it has been wearing goggles—and that, with its deep indigo shimmer, it is most definitely not a Night Roach. Well, that’s a relief.
I look up into its strikingly human eyes set halfway up its flat head, which are gray j
ust like mine. It regards me with an anxious expression. The Roach is impressive: tall and powerful, yet oddly delicate. Framed by its elegantly curved wing shells, I see its long, segmented upper body tapering to a pair of short, sturdy legs on which it wears plaid Roach leggings. Its broad, flat feet are bare and covered with some kind of hard insecty skin. I see a complete pair of delicate upper limbs but only one in the middle set—the other seems to be missing. I watch its top right hand with its four fingers and one opposable thumb—just like ours but covered in very hard skin, I think—fiddling nervously with one of its antennae, which is bent sideways. And then the searchlight sweeps away and we are in darkness again.
Suddenly, from outside, I hear the word “Blood!”
It is over. I count the ten seconds it takes to check blood ID and sure enough at the tenth, there is a shout: “It’s the boy’s. They’re here. We’ve got them!” There is the most terrific bang on the door and in the silence that follows I hear a voice in my ear. It is a Roach voice, small and tinny, like you hear on old radios. “I wish to help you,” it says.
The Roach makes an anxious tick-tick sound. “You must hide,” it says. “I have a safe place. Follow.” I drag Jonno to his feet and, clutching Tedward, he limps forward, making little moans of fear as the Roach pushes us along the dark basement passageway into the depths of the house. Suddenly it stops and says, “Give me your neckerchiefs. Both. Hurry, hurry.”
What else can I do? I pull off our neckerchiefs.
“I smell blood,” the Roach says. “Yes?”
“Jonno’s hurt his foot,” I say.
“Good,” says the Roach.
“Good?” I say angrily. “What’s so good about—” But I’m drowned out by the third declaration beginning. I know that when it is finished, we are legally dead. And when I look up at the Roach I see that it knows that too. It glances anxiously down the passageway and gabbles in a panicky squeak, “Put blood on one neckerchief. Quick, quick.” I hear its pincers clacking and I realize it is trembling. It is as scared of the Enforcers as we are.
