The Ward

by Frankel, Jordana

  That bath I took . . . Derek had enough water to draw me one, then another, with no worries about rationing. And where else could he constantly keep an eye on things?

  Callum’s eyes flicker toward his hand. My hand. Our hands together. Shifting himself toward me, “Let me guess. Derek. Your bookie.”

  “My bookie,” I answer, exhaling as Callum closes his eyes once more.

  My bookie. Derek.

  No, I correct myself.

  Someone who would sit by and watch as hundreds are killed.

  A murderer.

  Callum walks upstairs after his shower, a towel wrapped carefully around his waist, loose, avoiding the wound.

  “Let me check your side one more time,” I insist, and then realize that as he’s no longer on death’s doorstep, that request is a tad more awkward. Especially the half-naked bit.

  He rolls his eyes—this is the fifth time I’ve asked him that. But he walks over anyway and turns to the side, showing me the flesh under his rib cage. “You need to leave,” he says.

  “Not until I’m sure you’ll still be alive when I’m done,” I answer, leaning down to get a better look at the wound. I try my best to look at him without looking at him. I feel my face start to burn, but as soon as I get a better look at the almost-mortal wound at his side, the embarrassment kind of dies. A gory flesh wound tends to do that sort of thing.

  By now, the bleeding has stopped entirely. The two folds of sliced skin are taut together, and dark maroon crusts along the line. I whistle my amazement, timid as I press my fingers around the worst of it. “Well,” I say, standing up. “The serum definitely works on wounds. Enough of those phytowhosits, it would seem. Faster than the original stuff without a doubt.”

  Callum smiles and looks down at his torso like he’s pleased with his work. “And with pure, unmuddied water . . . I’ll be able to do even more, I think.” He walks over to his suitcase to pull out clean clothes.

  “Will you still need my blood, do you think?” I ask, turning away from him so he can change. I walk over to the mess by his table, and with my fingers wrapped in a washcloth, I try to collect half-broken test tubes and droppers and whatever else looks even remotely usable. I’m only slightly worried about him needing my blood to make the cure. With a few hundred sick to heal, I don’t know if I have it in me—literally have enough blood in me—to be up to the task.

  Callum looks at me and inhales. “As all of my notes have been destroyed, it’s hard to say. But, Ren . . . after you left, I ran more tests. The way your blood interacted with the virus—I’ve never seen anything like it. Not only did it break down the viral cells but somehow—and I’m still foggy on this point—it stimulated Milo’s own immune response. And, if my observations are correct, your blood actually improved how the recipient was able to synthesize the springwater’s chemical compounds.”

  A pause. He raises one brow like he don’t understand it himself. “Your blood is . . . different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, then says, “But your blood has served you well these sixteen years, so clearly it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  I nod—If he says so—and pack away the last of what was salvageable into his suitcase. He’s ready to take off. The lab is still a disaster—glass shards on the floor, tubing cut into pieces. . . .

  It’s as good as it’s going to get.

  “Comm me when you have a new location,” I say. He throws me a look that reads Of course, now get out of here? I take the keys to his Omni. “Can I ask you to do one more thing for me?”

  He meets me by the door, and I turn to find him holding something in his hand. “Anything,” he says, and I can see he means anything, though what I’m about to ask doesn’t require that much.

  “You’re a doctor. The hospital knows you. If you asked for Aven’s status, they’d tell you the whole truth, no sugarcoating. I want you to contact them for me and find out how she’s doing.”

  Callum nods. “Absolutely, I’m happy to. I’ll get an update from them soon as you leave, and I’ll comm you straightaway. Anything else?”

  “Nope,” I say, one hand on the doorknob. I’m about to step out, when I feel his arm on my shoulder.

  “Wait, Ren.” He pulls me back gently, and when I turn around, there’s an openness to his face that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. Not that he’s always closed off. . . . He’s just the serious, bookish type. Head always off someplace, figuring out confusing things.

  “What you did before . . .” Callum starts, shuffling his feet and shaking his fist. It’s still holding something that I can’t see. “We don’t know each other, and you didn’t have to do it. It wasn’t for me. I know that.”

  He waves his hand to dismiss me before I even have a chance to speak, then continues.

  “You saved me because I can save others. We can save others,” he corrects himself. “I just want you to know—I’m going to make it worth it. For you. Aven’s not lost. You didn’t choose me over her. . . . You chose both. I promise.”

  I smile, but his words . . . they make me want to cry. The happy kind, but also the not-so-happy kind. I don’t like him thinking that he’s just a means to an end. I do care about him, of course. Though I don’t know him well, he’s a good person. That much I can see.

  I make my hand into a fist just so I can bite it to stop the tears.

  Callum turns up his palm. In it, he’s holding a shiny copper penny.

  “I saw at the race you already have one.” He glances at my necklace. “Nonetheless. Thank you,” he says, gesturing for me to turn around so he can add it to the chain I’m already wearing. “It’s store-bought, unfortunately,” he goes on. “Not like the other you’re wearing. I don’t expect it’s any less lucky, though.”

  I open my mouth—

  “Not that you need luck, of course,” he adds casually. “I’m quite certain you get along perfectly well without it.”

  Good skill—I can almost hear Aven saying it to me right now. Like she’s speaking to me through him. Or maybe . . . maybe it’s that they just think the same. For the first time in days, I smile, with Aven’s voice right there.

  “Thank you,” I say, rubbing the penny between my fingers. “Thank you.”

  Good skill.

  36

  4:15 P.M., SUNDAY

  A red path mazes across the screen of the Omni’s dash. Remnants of the old city pass by in the windowpane, and it’s like someone’s taken out time’s batteries. Left everything frozen in place.

  The underwater city is always like this. I imagine it’s different over in the West Isle, where so many people have mobiles that the canals actually get congested. Here, though, it’s dead quiet.

  My cuffcomm buzzes. It must be Callum getting back to me about Aven. I pull one hand from the steering wheel, still there despite the autopilot. I read the message:

  She’s stable, and though the mass’s rate of growth has slowed, it’s dangerously close to damaging her long-term brain function. Translation: Fine for the time being. Not fine if we can’t help her soon.

  I swallow and pretend that the world is frozen—no ticking—above the surface. Aven has days that don’t become hours, that don’t become seconds. Soon.

  I’m holding in my breath. Like holding in life.

  I sit back. I do nothing, my hands on the wheel nonetheless. Though the Omni moves easily through the water, I’m not used to letting a machine make all the decisions. But right now, it’s a blessing to be able to turn off my head. I don’t want to make any more decisions.

  Focus. I need to stay focused.

  After a few minutes, the VoiceNav announces that I’ve arrived at my destination.

  The spring could be anywhere, though. Can’t just walk in—what would I say? Please pass the fountain of youth, thanks! Not going to work.

  I’m just gonna have to look around—but down here, nothing is familiar. There are no obvious landmarks. My sense of direction
has flown out the window. If I knew the difference between this pylon and that pylon, maybe I’d have some idea. But they’re all brown, covered in green gunk.

  Nonetheless, VoiceNav doesn’t lie.

  I turn right into an alleyway flanked by two buildings’ brick foundations. The space between is so narrow, I couldn’t lie down sideways without having to bend my knees—the buildings are maybe only four feet apart.

  Callum’s mobile better be small enough. It’s a later-model Omni, putting it at about three feet, nine inches, so I should be good, but I still drive slow, gripping the wheel too hard. The mobile shakes. Nearly bangs into the brick siding.

  Why is she shaking so bad?

  I look down at my grip—my fingers are the problem. His Omni’s just answering the command.

  My hands never get the shakes during a race. Before, sometimes. But not during. Now, though, my nerves physically hurt. Every last one is a razor, ready to slice. Breathe.

  I force air into my mouth, down my lungs, repeat, repeat, listening to the sound.

  It’s because there are too many people at stake. Too much responsibility. I don’t like it, don’t know where to put it. And Aven’s life is riding on this, too—my one more shot at saving her.

  I turn off the headlight in favor of the belly lamp, not wanting to draw too much attention. Actually, I’d rather keep the lights off entirely—it’s safer—but then I really might run into the building’s side.

  Everything under me turns bright green as the Omni hovers alongside the walls. I search for a window, or anything. Just a way to make it inside the building and get scouting.

  But then, there—a glint of silver?

  What would be silver down here? You could store a mobile, I guess, but it would be hard to get at when you needed it. And if it weren’t being used on the regular, it wouldn’t be silver. Metal, plastic, you name it—it all gets covered in green underwater funk almost immediately.

  I hit reverse, trying to catch the light again. Nothing, nothing—

  There.

  And it disappears. The alley is no more than algae and concrete blocks and brick turned green. Seaweeds move with such sway, if I weren’t so adrenaline-amped, I might find it soothing.

  Again.

  I’m along the Strait’s floor now, and I’ve lost sight of the glint. But, over there, caught underneath a pile of rubble, I think I see a tangled fishing net.

  Normally this wouldn’t catch my eye, but there’s nothing else like it down here. And it’s the perfect place to cover something metal, something silver.

  This wasn’t exactly in the plan, but then again, nothing was.

  I know what to do next, but I’m not looking forward to it.

  Dimming the belly lamp, I hop into the backseat, then dig around for the neoprene suit that I know is back here. After all, this baby has an airlock hatch.

  When I find the neatly folded suit, I quickly strip out of my clothes and slide myself into the skintight fabric. It was obviously made for a guy: long in the legs and puffy in the shoulders and groin. The thought of Callum’s thing having been right here makes me snicker. I can’t help but pat the bulgy space. He must’ve had it made special order. The rest of it may be small enough, but this space . . . not small.

  Tucked into a net on the roof I find a rubber storage pack. I pull it down and throw it on like a backpack, then fold the extra neoprene underneath itself. Last, I crank at the hatch in the back, crawl into a space no bigger than I am, and curl into a ball.

  How would a guy fit in here?

  Then again, Callum is pretty slim. Derek couldn’t fit. Who knew they made mobiles that came in a size small?

  My head and hands are gonna be exposed, but so long as my core stays warm, my temp should be fine. I know I should take off my Hessians—they’ll only weigh me down. But we’ve been through so much together. I can’t abandon them now, when I’m finally doing something worthwhile.

  I leave them on, and push the red button and take a deep breath. The bottom retracts.

  I’m back in the water.

  After the second or two it takes to shake off the pesky feeling of being knifed by ice water, I focus myself. My Hessians drag me down and I don’t have to swim to the floor—a happy accident thanks to my stubbornness. I reach out for the net, but it’s slick, slippery, and coated by algae, and we grapple with each other. I defeat the monster though, in the end, tossing it to the side once I free it from the bricks.

  Then I see the thing that glinted.

  Another hatch.

  An underwater entrance for docking Omnis or subs is unusual but not unheard of. Still, it warrants some poking around.

  I brace myself, steadying my legs against the wall, and with both hands I try to rotate the latch. Air bubbles drift away from me—How long can I go without breathing?

  The latch won’t budge.

  To the right, I see a small device glowing neon green under the water. I flip it open, and on the screen a series of shapes appears: square, triangle, circle, dot.

  What do I do?

  Seconds float by, each one seeming longer than the last. I’ll need air soon.

  I look at the shapes again, then—to see what happens—I tap the square. It slides down onto the middle of the screen, blinking, waiting for me to do something else. I drag it back to the row of shapes, because I know it’s not right.

  I need the circle. Using the pad of my finger, I drag the circle down. Next, the dot. But there’s no line. Without a line, how can I draw the tattoo? I look closer.

  The square—

  Dragging the bottom line, I lay it directly over the dot, across the middle of the circle.

  I’d hold my breath . . . but I already am.

  Air bubbles drift up from the circular hatch in front of me. Must’ve done it right.

  I try twisting the wheel-shaped handle again and find myself spinning it to the left. In a rush of air and water, the latch makes one final rotation, and with a heavy click it automatically rises. Suction pulls me into an indoor pool.

  I can almost breathe.

  Behind, the hatch lowers. I try to get some air but the Hudson water hurdles over the closing door in a waterfall, pushing me down. I can’t stand until the airlock pressurizes and there’s no more water coming in.

  When the door finally locks, suctioning closed with a heavy sigh, I’m standing waist deep in the pool. In front of me is yet another latch. I inhale the dank smell a few times. If I weren’t so short on air, I’d be plugging up my nose. The swampy rankness ain’t exactly pleasant.

  I inspect the other circular door—it’s got no latch. No way to open it.

  Below my feet, the metal flooring groans. It slides away, and I’m left standing on a grate, allowing the water to draining away. Soon as the last of the water disappears, the hatch opposite slides up, and, wasting no time, I step through.

  37

  4:40 P.M., SUNDAY

  Dust-covered black pianos. Gold-painted chairs stacked high, leaning to the side on top of a plush, velvet sofa. Rolled-up carpets in every corner. Trunks with brass handles, destinations papered to their sides.

  Stuff, everywhere.

  The space is huge, probably bigger than the inside of the Tank. I’d call it the base-base-basement, but basements don’t look like this, even if that’s what it is. This room looks kinda like how I’d imagine the inside of a dragon’s lair.

  I know I shouldn’t waste time, but my eyes don’t know what to do with everything. I wanna know what all of it is. When Derek got it, since you can’t buy most of this stuff nowadays. I can’t help myself—I pick my way through, until I see a small desk leaned up against the exposed brick.

  On it, albums. Stacks and stacks of albums, all dusty and worn.

  I find the one that looks the oldest, and open to the first page: a faded black-and-white photo. It’s not dated, but the somber faces tell me this was taken before people started smiling in pictures.

  Three men stand beside three wo
men, all dressed to the nines. For the men, waistcoats and tall hats. The women, though, wear half–American Indian garb, half-white-settler fashions. Poufy, embroidered dresses, but also strands and strands of beads. Feathers dangle from their hair while pearls dangle from their ears. Moccasins for their feet, and stockings for their legs.

  I lean in closer.

  The first and second couple I don’t recognize at all, though one of the men looks a lot like Derek. But the last . . . Even without color, I know the distinct glint of his copper hair.

  I almost drop the pack dangling over my shoulder. Why the brack is he still alive?

  Guardian of a magical healing spring was one thing, but this? This is . . . this is immortality.

  Maybe I should have known. Maybe I did know. Somewhere, in the way, way back of my mind. It’s just . . . Seeing him like this. It changes everything. I can’t deny it, or ignore the possibility.

  I choke, cough, and in my stomach, a snake pit. I can feel it writhing. I’m writhing—he guards the water from people like Aven, who need it, and yet here he is . . . alive. For centuries. No wonder he’s quick to let us die—he’s juiced up on a spring that keeps him young. No expiration date.

  But the picture shows me more than just that. I keep looking, hunched over the album. Next to Derek, a woman stands straight. Fearsome and commanding despite her lack of height. Glossy, pin-straight liquid metal. It’s Kitaneh, and his hand rests on her shoulder.

  His hand. Her hand. Gold bands on the fourth fingers—

  They’re married.

  My eyes water, but like watching some horrible accident, I keep riffling through the album. Page after page, Derek and Kitaneh. Him in the militia, her the good colonial wife. Decade after decade. She’s smiling, sequined; he’s got a floppy grin on—New York City in the nineteen twenties. Thirties. On and on.

  I slam the album shut and start opening drawers left and right, looking for . . . who knows what. More of the story. More answers. Forcing myself to breathe, I push down the feeling that I’m about to be sick. He kissed me. . . . How could he?