by London Shah
He clears his throat and his voice is low, his words slower than usual. “My parents lived in London, years ago, before they had us, but then moved to the Faroe Islands.”
“I see. And ‘us’?”
Again, he flashes the same wary look; he’s uncomfortable talking about his life. Why?
“Me and Freya, my little sister.”
So Freya—who he called out to in his nightmare—is his sister.
“You don’t like me asking you any personal questions, do you?”
He chews slowly as he contemplates the question. “I’ve never been asked a personal question by your kind before,” he finally says.
Oh. So that’s why all the hesitance.
He tilts his head in consideration then. “The name McQueen?”
“That’s due to my great-grandpa Kasim—Papa’s American grandfather. In Papa’s family, future generations carry the paternal surname, and so we’re the McQueens.”
He nods. “Have you been to Afghanistan?”
“No. Papa said we’re going to go one day, inshallah. He’s been several times since he and Mama married. I have grandparents and cousins who I’ve never met in person. I want to see Mama’s home. Afghanistan’s rolling hills and old riverbeds are covered with kelp forest, and the mountain ranges, wow—just imagine driving through them. Now that I’ve finally left London, I want to go everywhere. One day I’ll race around all the biggest mountains in the whole world. And through the Grand Canyon in America—even though it has Old World Heritage Status, so it’s illegal to visit the site. My mate in New York’s done it twice and always taunts me. And I know I can beat his time.” Please, God, stop me talking.
There’s a tug at the corners of his mouth. “I think you could beat him, yes. You—you speak of the future.” A hint of wonder surfaces in his gaze, brightening his eyes further.
“Well, of course . . .” Don’t you?
He looks away, his brow furrowed. His jaw clenches and a hard expression breaks through. He stays quiet.
Oscar appears, straightening a flower in the pocket of his coat and breaking the sudden, awkward silence. “My lady, are we to continue on during the night, or would you prefer I establish a safe location where the Kabul may remain stationary until the morning?”
I clear my throat. “Stationary, please.”
Oscar adjusts the satin cravat around his neck. He inclines his head as he looks on us both. “Ah, who, being loved, is poor?”
Heat burns through me. I clench my jaw and stare at the Navigator. If only you could tase a hologram. He simply smiles back.
“Oscar, you misunderstand. But that’s all right.”
He raises his eyebrows and waves his hand in the air. “My dear, women are meant to be loved, not understood.”
Argh! “That will be all, thank you.”
He finally bloody disappears.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ari. “He says the daftest things sometimes. It’s maddening.”
Ari’s lips twitch. “I like him.”
My mouth falls open. He actually likes someone!
He shifts, indicating the fried flatbreads. “So, what are these?”
“It’s called a paratha. These ones have a cheese stuffing.”
He raises his eyebrows and tries a piece, nodding in appreciation as he scarfs the food down. Thank goodness he eats normally. I’d hate to look greedy, even though I am.
“And these?” He inspects the kulche ab-e-dandaan.
“Dessert. Melt-in-your-mouth almond biscuits—utterly yummy. Try them.”
Ari takes a bite and proceeds to stuff the whole biscuit into his mouth. I realize I’m staring at him. And he’s staring right back.
He smiles hesitantly, and oh my—his whole face changes. All the sharp edges, the hardness, the fixed suspicion, it all slips away. Everything about him is soft, gentle.
Except Anthropoids are neither soft nor gentle.
I dip my head, my hair hiding my face, and continue to eat, deep in thought.
We chat as we sip cups of kahwah afterward.
He rests his gaze on me. “Are you feeling better? Your wounds, do they still hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
His face darkens.
I shrug. “The main thing is, we survived it.”
His eyes shimmer as he stares at me. I try not to stare back, but it’s impossible. Neither of us speaks. I actually do not know what to say. Or what I even want to say.
And then the muted news screen behind Ari flickers, catching my eye.
I leap up, staring at the image. It’s Camilla Maxwell, the chief
historian’s daughter. What has she done? I command the soothing music off and the volume for the news on.
“A truly sad, sad day for all Britons,” the newscaster says. “Messages of condolence have been flooding Westminster all day, and Lord Maxwell himself will issue a statement later.”
My legs start to quiver.
“For those of you who have just joined us, it has been confirmed that Miss Camilla Maxwell—that’s our esteemed Lord Maxwell’s daughter—went out to Camden Town on New Year’s Eve, parking on its seabed. With a seventies Lastar, she blasted a hole into the side of her submersible. Miss Maxwell is dead. Another victim of the seasickness.”
An icy cold tentacle wraps itself around my heart and squeezes.
I shudder by the porthole in my bedroom, trying to focus on folding the paper model in my lap.
Camilla suffered from the seasickness. She drove all that way to the marshes knowing what she intended to do. She aimed at the sub’s body knowing what would follow. Did she drown, or did the pressure crush her? What went through her head after the shot, in that split second before the horror began?
My insides lurch as I picture her final moments again.
How can we hope to survive where such hopelessness exists? Poor, poor Camilla. All I can see is her enthusiastic self back at Clio House, her blond ponytail bobbing up and down and her face glowing whenever she chatted about a story or script for the historical reenactments. Damn the seasickness!
I grind my teeth; sod the stupid paper model. I grip the half shape and rip it to pieces. There’s a knock at the door.
“Enter,” I snap.
Ari stares down at the torn paper and back at me. My bottom lip quivers. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
He pauses and then joins me on the floor by the porthole, a few feet away. We stare out at the glimmering darkness. Minutes pass in silence before I speak.
“Camilla was so incredibly gentle and good and kind. It’s so unfair. It’s unfair that the seasickness keeps taking all these people. It’s so frustrating that we can’t help them. Papa always tried comforting any sufferers
—lifting their spirits. But how do you fight such an invincible sense of hopelessness?”
When I turn to him, his eyes are clouded, his face pinched. Ever since we heard the news, he’s been struggling with something. As if he’s unsure what to say. He clears his throat. “Where did the hopelessness come from?”
“The water brought it, of course. Every time a scary creature comes too close to the city—”
“It’s their natural habitat. And people are safe in their homes and vessels.”
“Every time the water conspires against us, when it tries to—”
“Nature. Nothing sinister,” he finishes.
“Every time there’s a bloody earthquake and—”
He looks away, clamping his jaw shut.
“Just because you’re—you’re not afraid of the environment, doesn’t mean it’s any less terrifying for others.” I turn to the porthole. I’m not in the mood for this. Why are we going on about the water, when Camilla’s dead? “She was a really talented writer, you know,” I say. “On the morning of the marathon, she told me a recent story she’d submitted had been rejected because it was an original; they only want retellings. I wish they’d accepted her story, that she’d seen that happen.” My heart sinks as I
suddenly recall the premise of her story. A little girl trapped inside the mouth of a monster. . . .
We both peer out into the dark and shifting environment.
“Why does everything have to revolve around the Old World?” Ari asks quietly after a while. “What if new ideas were encouraged instead? We revere the Old World buildings. We are always looking back. What if the Great Briton of the Day was one of the many worthy people to have been born after the disaster? Those dolls today . . . Why are we creating mock Old World scenes in the water?”
I can’t believe it. He’s just listed everything I find bewildering and frustrating.
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly. I’ve always found it a bit creepy, all the obsession for the Old World. I’ve never understood the intense reverence for its ruins, for instance.” I press on my temples and look out at the water surging past as we make our way north, to wherever the coordinates for Papa will lead us.
So much to try and make sense of.
I can’t get Camilla’s face out of my head; her fixed, melancholic expression during the marathon. Why didn’t I see it?
What could you have done?
I suddenly gasp and Ari turns to me. “Tabby!” I say. “She’s going to be so upset. . . . Oh, I hope she’s all right. She battled with the seasickness a few years ago—came through it, thank God. But it’s all going to surface again. Oh no. Ari . . . will people ever feel truly hopeful again?”
I look away, staring into the water ahead. Ari still watches me, studying me.
The question hangs in the air between us.
I sit up in bed, heart thumping and soaked in sweat. I was back in my nightmare, the one from years ago. As ever, I’m standing by a window, looking out at the water. Watching and waiting. And then something so utterly foreboding stirs in the void. I shiver at the memory now.
I don’t know what woke me up, but thank God it did. I shift around in bed, when a guttural moan reverberates off the walls. Ari. He’s having another nightmare.
Scrambling out of the bed without thinking, I throw on my robe as I rush to his door and command it open. I edge into his room. A red Lumi-Orb burns, casting a dim light in the space.
I move closer. Ari looks asleep. My breathing is still too fast from my own dark dream; I take deep breaths and slowly come to my senses. What on earth am I doing entering his private space uninvited? What was I thinking barging in here like this?
I turn to go when his head twitches as if agitated. What should I do? On the cabinet next to him is his favorite knife. And the paper seahorse I made him. He saved it. He mutters something, and I lean over.
“Ari,” I whisper. Nothing. “Ari, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. You need to wake up.” Still nothing. I reach over and shake his shoulder.
He lashes out. He grabs my arm, pulling me close, and sits up. In an instant, he has the knife in his other hand. I tremble.
“Ari! It’s just me. You were having a nightmare. You’re all right now.”
He stares at me, blinking rapidly. The knife slips from his fingers, back onto the cabinet. His chest rises and falls as he breathes heavy and fast. He looks around the room and swallows. “Sorry,” he whispers, eyes wide as his grip releases my arm.
He shifts back against the headboard, and gradually his breathing calms down. I sit on the edge of the bed and meet his gaze. His eyes are two golden orbs, and in the red light of the room, he’s mystifying.
Against my will, I breathe in his smell. It’s difficult to pin it down. Especially because I’ve never actually smelled woodlands, mountains, and the rain. But it’s wild and raw and warm. And heartening. Is this Ari’s scent, or an Anthropoid thing?
I want to ask him about the nightmare. I really want to know what plagues his dreams. I shouldn’t ask, though. There’s so much about him I don’t know, that I’ve no right to know. But the way he automatically reached for his knife . . . That was practice. What kind of life do you have to lead that your first instinct on being awoken is to reach for a weapon? I feel so heavy just watching him now. I have to know.
“What is it?” I whisper. “Why do you have the nightmares?”
I’m not expecting an answer.
He lowers his eyes and twists the covers in his hands as he speaks. “We were all out by the rift—my family, friends, cousins, on our way to a family wedding. I was ten. We were attacked. An ambush. Most of them died. Cousins and friends. All children and teenagers. I was one of the few who escaped unharmed. Freya was not so lucky. She took a hit and lost her leg. Too many died. I couldn’t help.” He opens his mouth to say more but shuts it again. His shoulders rise and fall as he stares into the space.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Horrifying images fill my head. “I’m truly sorry. Who—who attacked you?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “A pack of savage soldiers sent by Captain Sebastian. Like always. And I couldn’t stop them.”
“Are—are you sure it was the government, though? Maybe—maybe they thought they were under attack?”
He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. “They felt threatened by an unarmed family on their way to a wedding? Threatened by a group made up of mostly children? And it was the government. It is always them. When you have been treated like animals, hunted and slaughtered for decades, you come to know your tormentors.” He grinds his teeth.
Weddings. Children. I’ve never once even linked these words to the Anthropoids.
“I’m really sorry. And what could you have done? You were too young.”
“I should have done something.” He shrugs.
“You’re being unfair to yourself.”
“You blame yourself for the attack on the sub. You made a mistake. We all . . . we all make them.” He pauses then, deep in thought.
My mistake hurt us all.
“What do you fear most about the water?” he asks, in his low, rich tones. “How can you enjoy racing through it and also fear it?”
I fix my eyes on the russet covers.
“Please,” he says.
I shrug, my face warming. “I don’t know . . . I’ve always loved being out in the water, but it also terrifies me. I especially really hate the poorly lit areas, and anyplace I’m not already familiar with. I just imagine all sorts when I’m in that situation. I—I tried to overcome it once, with a freefall. Let myself drop through the depths, trust in my instincts. But”—I shake my head—“it didn’t exactly work out.”
“Leyla . . . look at me. Please.” His voice is so husky, so deep.
I raise my gaze to meet his.
He opens his mouth, then pauses before speaking, as if unsure whether to go on. “They’re fake. The earthquakes—they’re not real.”
I stare at him. “How do you mean? How the bloody hell can you fake an earthquake?”
“Because it’s true. They’re planned explosions. I saw one with my own eyes in London. A civic sub arranged one of the ‘quakes.’ ”
“Stop, please. I really can’t take any more right now.”
“Why would I lie? You need to know they’re fake. The water itself isn’t as scary as you think, Leyla. . . . You’ve just been conditioned to believe it is.”
“Please, Ari. The earthquakes can’t be fake. They’ve killed people!”
“You don’t trust me?”
I want to. I did—before I found out his identity. I search his face. He wouldn’t lie about this. But it’s too confusing. It’s all too much. All I can think lately is why, why, why.
I stand. For all my desire to learn the truth, right now I honestly don’t think I can take on any more. These revelations are far bigger than me, and I just don’t know what to do with them. Each one is strange and terrifying.
My throat hurts. I swallow but the lump remains. “I—I hope you get some restful sleep.”
He holds my gaze, twisting the beads around his neck, and nods.
I return to my own room and bed, looking up at the ceiling in the dim golden light.
Anth
ropoids feel pain.
We’ve always been told they don’t, and that’s why they’re oblivious to ours. But it isn’t true. Because Ari was in pain recalling the incident that took so many lives. The look in his eyes . . . I find myself wishing I could make the pain go away. I shake myself; I should focus instead on what he said.
Would the government really fake earthquakes just to keep us fearing the water? Why? It seems too far-fetched. It simply can’t be true.
Is anything true anymore? It’s a world full of deceit and uncertainty. What does the future hold for people governed by secrets and lies—and fear? Do I even still care about the truth? Lately, the truth’s been one horrifying reveal after another. How is it better? Why did I so desperately seek it?
I hate them. I absolutely, truly hate Captain Sebastian and the
Blackwatch. To take Papa as they did . . . And the attack on innocent people in the Faroe Islands—to hurt children like that. I shudder at the horrific images forming.
And where will it all end?
It feels like I’m circling the edges of one of the many whirlpools that sprang up all over the globe after the disaster, sucking in anything and everything in their way. But I have to keep my mind clear.
I must find Papa before Captain Sebastian catches up with me.
Ari walks over to the seating area and eyes the reports I’m reading. “Government funding?”
I glance up from the digital files hovering over the table laden with breakfast food. Something feels different today with Ari. After last night when he told me what caused his nightmares, he seems less guarded. And yet we both seem to be more aware of each other, which is maddening.
“I was thinking about stuff last night . . . after you told me about the earthquakes. I couldn’t sleep. And well, one of the things that drives me up the walls is the worship of crumbling buildings. Did you know the government spends a ton trying to keep old London propped up? Well, I thought it was just old London, but I’ve found out this morning it’s everything old—all over the country, an obscene amount of funding goes toward maintaining Old World buildings and structures. Look.” I swish the funding reports in his direction. “It’s something that’s always done my head in. So I got up early and started reading the public records. One thing led to another, and before long I was staring at the annual expenditure reports the treasury releases. When you compare where the government is actually spending, against more urgent requirements like the funding for seasickness, the results are pretty rotten.”
