The Select's Bodyguard (Children of the Wells - Bron & Calea Book 1)

by Hayden, Nick

  The three leaders nod their heads. So do all the little ones. I am anxious to keep moving. Mentioning the elevator triggered something. Farther down the hallway, the floor is badly damaged, one wall blown out and blocking my way. I work my way over carefully. To head to another elevator would take too much time.

  The mass slips beneath me. The floor shudders. I pause, muscles tense. For a minute I wait. Nothing. I slowly shift my weight, take a step. I move more slowly now, placing each step carefully. Perhaps there is no floor beneath me, but only wood and steel wedged in a hole.

  I am not quite over the mound when I reach the elevator door. I clear away enough broken material to slide through the opening. The lift is gone, probably in pieces on the first floor. Normally, there is a rope in the center of the shaft, a crude mechanism to prevent injury if some accident or error should happen while a Select manipulates the air pressure in the chamber. Any sudden jerk, and the rope locks up, halting the lift’s downward progression.

  Light filters from above. The rope runs along the right wall. With the top levels of the Tower gone, what is holding the rope? Any number of things, certainly. It must be wedged tight somewhere. This is what I hope. I eyeball the jump. It’ll hold. It will. I launch myself. My calloused hands burn as I catch the rope. It slips a few horrible feet, then holds.

  I do not look forward to the climb. Never again, I tell myself. I have muscle, but I am a heavy man. She will be happy to learn of my pain.

  Hand over hand I pull myself, using my feet against the wall. Eleven levels. My muscles burn after seven. I do not stop to rest. Movement is life. My feet slip, but my arms hold. Eight levels. I have no thought, no emotion. Just pain and mission. Hand over hand. Ten levels. Hand over hand. I would go ten more if it would take me to her. My arms will not fail until I let them; I will not let them.

  I work myself back and forth, pedaling the best I can against the wall, try to work up the speed to reach the shaft entrance. Back and forth, now, back and forth. I will get no closer than I now reach. I release and hang over the darkness for a moment. Then I crash into the door. It does not quite open at my impact, and I snatch the ledge of the threshold with my hand just in time. The bottom of the door is at my fingertips. One-handed, I try to push it open. Something is blocking it.

  I consider. It would be wisest to drop down a level and try that door. Instead, I pull myself up, gripping now the inside frame of the door. Using toeholds and fingertips, I wedge my head into the opening, hoping to force the door with my body. I manage to bring one of my shoulders through. I can see around the door. A discarded suitcase is all that stops my entry, its spilt contents gathered beneath the door, shoes and clothes acting as a doorstop.

  I let out a murmur of a laugh and bully my way through the tight space. She would laugh, too, to see me moving like a cat in a tight space.

  I take a moment to rest on the other side, sparing the time to try the abandoned shoes on. My feet emerge from the old ones with a squelch of blood, but it’s worth it. The new pair is nearly perfect after the vise of the others. My feet are larger than the average man’s.

  This is the elevator near her rooms. I could have pressed on and returned for the shoes. I am afraid to continue and almost unable to admit it.

  Her apartment is demolished. Splinters of furniture and broken glass cover the ground. She is not in the foyer. I think I see blood, but I press on, looking for her body. The bedroom has collapsed into the floor below. I cannot see her in what remains. The living room is pocked with smaller holes, the floor bent like a half-closed book, her possessions collecting in the fold and weighing heavily. I wait, searching with my eyes. The room opens onto the balcony, the frames of the glass door empty. Smoke rises slowly from the city. It’s almost peaceful.

  I retrace my steps before daring my way across the precarious living room floor. I examine the blood more closely. It’s a smear--a trail. Not much, but I can follow it. It leads out of the room.

  She was alive, alive enough to crawl.

  Chapter 4 - The Ruined Girl

  Fourteen Years Earlier

  “All right, class, line up.”

  The nineteen young girls stood quietly from their desks and formed a line in front of the door. Except for the two in the back, all waited with their hands at their sides. In Classroom Two, the students were given more freedom of self-expression and fewer rules, but here in Classroom One, the prevailing theory was that discipline, particularly at an early age, sharpened the mind and cultivated a lifestyle of industriousness.

  That was the theory, at least.

  “Calea, stop whispering, unless you want to share it with the whole class.”

  The eight-year-old stood at attention, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I was just saying that Donava didn’t wash her hands last time she was in the bathroom.” She turned to the other girls in the line. “We all know how germs spread. If anyone gets sick, it’ll be her fault. Remember that.”

  “That’s enough, Calea.”

  Calea opened her eyes wide, as if shocked, faked a shudder, and stood rigidly at attention. She was taller than any of the other girls. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Enough.” Their teacher took a deep breath. “We’re going down to examine the Well. We’ll be on the Greinham Observation Deck this time, so stay together and watch your step.”

  The girls glanced at one another excitedly.

  They took the main staircase down, a long, curving expanse around the open air center of the Tower. Calea wanted to ride the elevator. She had been on it twice in Tower Three since coming to school earlier in the year, once on her way to see the Headmaster. She tapped on Sindi’s shoulder as they descended.

  “Don’t. You’re going to get me in trouble,” Sindi whispered.

  “Why’re we going to the Well again? It’s not going to change.”

  “We’re going close. I mean, Greinham almost sits on top of the Well. I hear you can touch the magic if you want.”

  “Yeah, and burn your fingers off.”

  “I said if you want,” Sindi complained.

  The line stopped. “Calea, come up here.”

  Calea obeyed the teacher, flashing Sindi an exaggerated look of terror as she made her leisurely way to the front.

  “I want you here beside me. I don’t want you playing games. We’re very lucky to have a chance to visit the Greinham Observation Deck. Most times, there are too many experiments being conducted for students to be allowed onto it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s very important.”

  A sour look crossed the teacher’s face. “If you do not behave, I will put you in solitary for the entire evening session.”

  This did worry Calea. Three hours in that spotless, soundless, lonely room was horrible. “I’ll behave, ma’am.”

  “Now, step in line behind me.”

  They continued down, and Calea kept quiet. She was sullen at first, but as they passed through the first security door, it was hard not to be excited. Before they passed through the second security point, a man with a mustache and clipboard gave a stern lecture about the dangers of magic. Calea didn’t listen. She’d heard it from the teacher before. Like ten times.

  There was a gun fastened securely to the wall, however, and she could not take her eyes off it. It was thick and heavy. She did not think she could pick it up, and she saw where a soldier could flip out handles on the sides so that two people could lug it around quickly. The shoulder straps were hidden nicely, too. She’d seen a gun fired, once, while passing through the Academy on an errand. With current capacity, it could get off twenty shots before draining the pack. But what shots!

  The girl behind prodded her and she followed the teacher down a final staircase and onto the Greinham Observation Deck.

  Everyone knew what the Well was--the lake of magic at the center of Jalseion. The Select, who were able to draw power from the Well, had built the Wheel over the top of it. Calea could see the eight spokes above her, radiating from
the Academy in the center and terminating in each of the eight towers. And below was the magic.

  Approaching the edge, she stared. Sindi had been right. Magic pulsed just beneath the platform they stood upon. It shimmered, its surface something like a soap bubble, seemingly thin and filled with flittering colors. She had never looked so closely into it. Though it seemed clear, like glass, it showed no reflection. It projected an illusion of clarity, but the longer Calea looked at it, the more it seemed to resonate with hidden meanings, like a strand of music snatched and lost.

  “The Well is nearly at its high point,” the teacher said. “As you know, it rises and falls according to the use we put it to. Given time, it always regenerates. Even if it didn’t, at our current consumption rates it would take more than a year the expend the energy.”

  “Have you ever been to Thyrion’s Well?” asked one student.

  “I haven’t, but it is many times larger than ours. Ours has its own unique properties, though. For instance, we have determined that our Well is deeper than any other known well.”

  Calea had a coin in the pocket of her dress, and she had an idea.

  “The wells sustain our way of life in so many ways,” the teacher continued, “but they are also our limitation. We Select cannot manipulate the power we find here unless we are nearby. Outside of a certain range, the ecosystem becomes bare, and vegetation and animal life is very difficult. That is why continued research into the battery is so vital. Next week we will be touring a battery facility, and you can see what amazing work our Architects are doing.”

  Calea turned away from the group, leaned over the guardrail, and tossed in her coin.

  It hissed as it touched the magic, not sinking, but setting on the surface, or even, it seemed, just above the surface. Then, it sank, disintegrating, and was gone.

  “Neat-o,” Calea whispered.

  She fished two more coins from her pocket and tossed them in to see which would vaporize quickest. Oddly enough, the bigger coin disappeared fastest. She thought she caught a whiff almost like static electricity or a dry day beneath rain-filled clouds. She searched her pockets for something else to toss. A pen and some crumbled paper went in. These burned up in a flash.

  Calea looked around. The teacher was engaged in conversation with Laurie, a particular favorite. Satisfied, Calea took the ribbon out of her hair, knelt down, and dangled the red strip over the magic. Slowly, she lowered it. The end crumpled on the surface as if on a table, but only for a second. Then the magic engulfed the end, tugging it softly like a fish on a pole. With a little jerk, Caea pulled, but the length that had entered the magic was gone. She started to lower it again, reaching her arm through the space between the railing, letting the magic eat away at the ribbon, bit by bit....

  “Calea!” The voice was pitched an octave higher than usual. In a flash, the teacher was forcefully dragging Calea from edge. “You idiot girl! You horrible brat! You could have died! Stand up! I said, stand up!”

  Calea did so in the shock of the moment, though she later regretted not delaying and getting up at her own leisure. A deep fear had taken hold of her, ignited by the panic in the teacher’s voice. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and the shame of them, in front of so many, made her want to cry harder.

  “What did I tell you? What did I say?” The teacher was screaming. “You do not play with magic. People have lost arms. They’ve died.”

  “I didn’t die.” Calea was regaining her composure, but she hated herself for breaking down in front of the class. “I was being careful.”

  The teacher laughed in her face. “Careful? You? I want you to go back through security and wait for us. Now.”

  Calea wiped the last vestige of tears from her face. “No. I want to stay.”

  “It’s not up for debate.” She extended her arm and pointed. “Go.”

  Calea just looked at her, then turned away, returning to her place along the guardrail. The teacher grabbed her hard on her bony shoulder. She pulled away viciously, breaking into a run. She headed toward the far end of the platform. She didn’t have a plan; she was angry and hurt and wanted to frustrate the teacher. Let them talk about her antics, as long as they didn’t talk about her crying.

  A few of the kids blocked her path. They didn’t really know what they were doing. They had been farthest away and heading to the commotion when Calea made her escape. She dodged around them, slammed into the fence. She enjoyed the hard, unforgiving pain.

  She’d reached the far corner, and in the corner was a small gate that opened to allow tools and probes easier access to the magic. It was normally latched securely and locked. It jarred beneath Calea’s impact with the fence. Something came loose. Calea had almost regained her balance when the door swung open.

  She teetered on the edge. She could see the expressions on her classmates’ faces. She seemed to remain precariously perched for a long time. Part of her tried to stop her fall; part of her watched the events unfold with crystal clarity. She was falling and she would fall and she would land in the magic and she would die.

  And she did fall. She landed hard on the magic. It knocked the breath out of her. Her thoughts were slow, but she reacted quickly, trying to stand and grab the edge of the platform. Her limbs wouldn’t react. She couldn’t get traction. It was like trying to push off air.

  Then her arm began to sink below the surface.

  Calea screamed. She stopped thinking. Afterward, she couldn’t remember anything except pain--not just fire and burning, but pulling, sucking, ripping. Her body was being torn apart at the most basic level. Her classmates reported later that she had managed to get to her knees, but her arm was being devoured. By this time, it had sunk up to the elbow. Then her foot slipped in.

  Her classmates turned away. Her shrieks forced them to recoil. A few were crying; at least one vomited. They said it lasted a long, long time, but the clock said otherwise. Her teacher watched in horror, unable to move or speak or offer help.

  Then the screams changed pitch. The agony drained away. A desperate, battered moan remained.

  Calea knelt upon the magic, twisted, her right arm sunken to the shoulder, her left leg gone nearly to the hip, but her descent had stopped. She managed in a weak voice: “Help me.”

  Her teacher rushed forward, throwing herself down on her belly. “Give me your hand.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  Calea’s body trembled from effort. Slowly, she lifted her unaffected arm. Her hand was clenched in a fist. Her teacher lowered herself farther out. “Give me your hand.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “You have to, Calea. Give me your hand.”

  “I can’t let go. It’ll eat me.”

  “Laurie!” The teacher yelled. “Get help!”

  A few minutes later, a guard hung suspended over the magic, his legs firmly secured on the deck by another, as he reached out and grabbed Calea’s wrist. With effort, they pulled her up. Stumps remained where limbs had been, cauterized. Calea remained rigid, sitting oddly on towels brought to clean up the blood that didn’t come. They brought out a stretcher and began to lay her on it.

  “No,” she said.

  “Calea, you’re in shock. You need to be taken to a doctor.”

  “I have to let go.” She scooted off the stretcher, half crawling. When one of the guards moved to stop her, she screamed, “Don’t!”

  “Calea, what are you doing?” asked the teacher. Calea continued to scoot-crawl to the edge. “Calea?”

  Calea extended her clenched hand through the fence and opened it. A ball of shimmering colors sat on her palm, vibrating. She turned her hand over, and it fell to rejoin the rest of the magic.

  Calea’s body relaxed. Then her head smacked hard against the floor as she passed out.

  Chapter 5 - The Journey In

  The trail of blood is faint. This means she is not badly injured, but it also means I may lose her. I cannot assume she has taken the path of least resistance. It is
almost certain she has not.

  Even so, such thoughts give me hope, a strange thing when I was nearly convinced she had died. I rein in the expansive thoughts. Hope makes one believe things a more sober judgment would not. I will hope when I have found her. It will be far too hard to let her go if I hope now.

  She is heading toward the central stairwell. As I travel the winding halls, I become certain of it. The stairwell of the Column is a long way from her room, but the most protected from outside attacks. She is taking the long view. It is perhaps a wiser choice than my headlong rush upward. Wiser, perhaps, but not faster. I prefer a straight line, even with roadblocks.

  Still, it has taken me a long time to reach this place. She could be long gone by now. The marks of blood have vanished. I stop. The floors above have collapsed, blocking the entire hall. I backtrack, taking the first passage I find. It is only a small detour, one she must have taken.

  My assumptions are compounding. It may not even have been her blood.

  I stop again. I force myself to stop. It is difficult. I have been pressing and pressing; it seems a sin to stop. I wait a whole minute, impatiently trying to reevaluate my options. One thought overrides the others: I must protect her.

  It is not just a thought. It is a belief, a decision, an ethic.

  I continue forward. My path is set.

  Another collapsed hall. I turn again, now veering farther from my original path. And I see her.

  She is on the ground, on her belly. I stop a third time, this time to say, carefully, “Calea?”

  She starts to turn her head--yes, she’s alive. “Go away.”

  I somehow expected the response.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I said, go away.”

  I step forward to help her to her feet.

  “Go away!” she screams. Her body shudders.

  I think she is crying. That silences me. I wait until she calms herself. It takes longer than I expect. Then I wait. I wait for her to speak.

  Finally, she does. “Why are you here?” she accuses me.

  I do not answer. She knows why I am here. Any answer I give will infuriate her.