by K A Riley
Basically, those viz-screens and everyone on them broadcast lies.
After the last of the adults was killed in the drone strikes, the Neos, Juvens, and Sixteens organized our own system of education and training where the kids with the most expertise helped the ones with the least.
So we weren’t ignorant, exactly. Along with history and geography, we learned the necessities: botany, horticulture, carpentry, plumbing, and basic survival skills. We even studied science, math, and language. But our resources were limited, and we were forced to make do with what we had on hand.
Today, we know about the world and its major cities, including London. We know some of its history and about its role in Western civilization. What we don’t know is what happened to it or what we’ll find once this beast of a plane finally touches down.
At the moment, as we rattle around in our plane’s alarmingly steep descent toward the area of potholed terrain and jagged ruins below, Rain and Cardyn are heavily immersed in trying to one-up each other with their knowledge about England in an impromptu trivia challenge. It’s annoying, but at least it’s a distraction from the bucking plane that I’m sure is seconds away from plummeting out of the sky and killing us all.
Cardyn’s mother and uncle were both born in London in a neighborhood called Vauxhall, which I once heard Cardyn’s mother describe as “an up and coming luxury neighborhood before the riots.”
“London’s in my blood,” Cardyn brags, rubbing his hands together and offering up a maniacal chuckle.
Rain is brilliant and has an amazing memory. Cardyn, as much as I love him, was always better at memorizing jokes than he was at remembering our lessons.
Cardyn throws his arm around Rain, his voice rattling along with the plane. “Did you hear about the London boy who tried to kiss his girlfriend in the fog and mist?”
Brohn and I say, “Ugh” at the same time as Rain shrugs herself out from under Cardyn’s arm.
“Did you know the city of London is over 2,000 years old?” she shoots back.
“So? Why wasn’t Jesus born in London?” Cardyn asks and then finishes after a pause. “He couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.”
Rain scowls at him. “You’re an idiot. The world’s first public zoo opened in London in 1829.”
“What did one British guy say to the other British guy? ‘My name is also ‘Guy.’”
“In 1665, the Great Plague wiped out over a hundred-thousand Londoners.”
“A priest, a rabbi, and a monk walk into a pub.”
“And?”
“And they all share a drink and have a good time because London is a diverse, friendly, and multi-cultural city.”
“In 1952, twelve-thousand people died in London from the ‘killer fog.’”
“Boring. What’s red and you shouldn’t drink it?”
“I don’t know,” Rain sighs, exasperated.
“One of London’s double-decker buses.”
“Big Ben is the name of the bell, not the entire clock tower.”
“How is the royal family like a cigarette?”
Cardyn stops to glance around, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“We give up,” Brohn groans on behalf of the rest of us.
“They’re perfectly harmless until you put one of them in your mouth and light it on fire.”
“You know what’s really odd?” I interrupt.
Cardyn grins. “Numbers that aren’t divisible by two?”
“No, Dummy. It’s Render.”
“What about him?”
“He hasn’t said anything about it to me, but I keep getting the feeling he’s hiding something.”
“Yeah!” Cardyn beams. “He’s hiding how impressed he is that I’m better than Rain at British trivia!”
“That wasn’t trivia you were spouting,” Rain sneers. “Just trivial.”
As Cardyn ignores her and thrusts his arms into the air in victory, our plane breaks through the last of the low-lying cyclones of rippling red clouds and makes its final, arcing descent toward the city.
The airport we left from in D.C. was an abandoned field of derelict vehicles and overgrown weeds. This one is a cratered minefield.
The plane comes to a skidding, squealing, and tooth-jarring landing, but at least it lands.
Cardyn leads us in a chorus of cheers for our two pilots, who duck their way out of the cockpit and accept our applause with embarrassed blushes and low bows.
I notice they’re both white-knuckled, tight-jawed, and that their olive-green dress shirts, cuffed above the elbow, are soaked in sweat.
Brohn gathers up the sack of weapons—mostly military-issue handguns and high-grade sniper rifles—Granden packed for us. Cardyn proudly slings the black mag-harness with the two tomahawk axes onto his back.
He says, “For Manthy,” and we all nod our understanding.
Shortly after she died, Cardyn adopted Manthy’s deadly weapons of choice in our final battle against the Patriots.
They’re pretty much all that’s left of her, and someone’s got to carry them. Even though Manthy and Cardyn argued all the time and completely got on each other’s nerves, they kind of seemed to bond over their bickering, so I figure Cardyn’s the appropriate person to hang onto her axes.
With that settled, we follow Bezra and Fredericks down the narrow metal staircase that extends from the exit door to the tarmac.
From there, we walk through the blistering heat to what Bezra calls, “The Arrival Station.” It’s a single-story brick building surrounded by a ring of rubble, which I assume is the remains of similar buildings that once made up a whole complex. The building’s windows are boarded up, and the lower parts of the walls are coated in some kind of thorny creeper vines with thousands of little transparent filaments that undulate and wriggle in the wind.
“You kids go on ahead,” Fredericks says. “Lieutenant Bezra and I need to go around back and file our flight log with the Nav Controller.”
“And collect on our bet,” Bezra adds through a cheeky grin.
“Bet?” I ask.
“A standing wager on if we’ll make it here alive.”
Unsure if she’s joking, we all stare open-mouthed as the two pilots turn and walk through a gap in the high circle of broken bricks and concrete, disappearing around a corner of the Arrival Station.
“No sense standing here getting crispy-fried,” Cardyn says, dragging a sleeve across the swamp of sweat glistening on his forehead. He pushes the door open and leads us out of the heat.
Once inside the station, we’re greeted in the lobby by a woolly mammoth of a woman with deep, dark eyes and an unruly mane of tangled hair in a spectrum of browns, oranges, and yellows. Despite the heat—scorching outside and nearly as intense in here—she wears a shaggy, threadbare coat with big black buttons and a fur-lined hood.
“Been expectin’ ya. Bezra and Fredericks radioed ahead. I’m Grizzy. I’m the station’s Supply Chief.”
At first, it sounded like she said her name was “Grizzy.”
It turns out, that’s exactly what she said.
We introduce ourselves in turn to Grizzy, and she lingers for a long time on me and Render.
Leaning her fuzzy, pock-marked face in close, she asks his name.
“Render,” I answer.
She shoots me a slightly dirty look. “Wasn’t talkin’ ta you. Was talkin’ ta the bird.”
Render shakes his head, ruffles his hackles, and barks out a short string of what sounds like phlegmy coughs.
“He says his name is Render,” I tell Grizzy with a smirk, which I know is a rude thing to do, but I’m tired from the plane ride, and my body is sore down to my bones.
Grizzy doesn’t seem to notice or care about my unprovoked snarkiness, though, and turns her attention to Terk.
He thrusts out his flesh-and-blood right hand, which she refuses to shake, opting instead to reach in to fondle his mechanical left one.
“We don’t do that ‘ere, Mate. Skin o
n skin contact is ‘ow the sickness got ta spreadin’, innit? But, ‘ey! What’s this?” she asks, half-turning Terk around and running her fingers over the black disk on his back.
A shimmer ripples through the disk. “I’m the Auditor.”
Startled, Grizzy snaps her hand back. But she regains her composure, rotates Terk back around, and looks up at him. She’s got to be close to six feet tall, but Terk still towers over her. He’s giving her a sheepish half-smile as he shifts his weight uneasily from foot to foot.
I can’t blame him for being nervous. The way Grizzy’s dark eyes scan greedily up and down, I keep waiting for her to lick her lips and take a bite out of him.
“An’ what’s an Auditor, ‘xactly?” Her accent is somehow gruff and smooth at the same time, and Brohn and I exchange a grin at the novelty of her voice.
Terk looks at me before turning back to Grizzy and gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s like she said. She’s the Auditor.”
“I’m a techno-human consciousness,” the Auditor explains, “with neuro-circuitry pathways integrated throughout Terk’s life-support systems and quantum micro-network.”
Grizzy steps back and finishes sizing Terk up, clearly impressed. “Before all o’ dis, I once ‘ad a duck named ‘erbert who used ta snag rides ‘round the farm on the back o’ me goats.”
“Yes,” Cardyn says, his voice filled with eager, impish insistence. “This is exactly like that. Terk, you’re the goat, and Auditor, you’re Herbert the duck.”
Terk frowns down at Cardyn, and the Auditor definitely sounds annoyed when she says, “I am not a duck.”
Brohn gives me a light jab to the arm with his elbow. He leans in close, his breath warm on my ear. “She’s pretty thin-skinned for a disembodied techno-consciousness, don’t you think?”
I cover my laugh with my hand as Grizzy gathers her thick length of coat around herself and instructs us to follow her.
“Now that you’re ‘ere, it’s my job ta send you on your way.”
7
Arrival Station
The Arrival Station isn’t very big, and it’s just two or three turns down some pretty dark and narrow hallways before we get to our destination.
Along the way, parts of the walls have been boarded up with big sheets of compressed wood or covered with heavy army-green tarps. When Rain asks why, Grizzy explains it’s to cover holes in the walls from the blasts.
“Blasts?” Cardyn asks, nibbling the skin around his thumbnail.
“Don’t worry none,” Grizzy laughs. “‘aven’t ‘ad a good bombing in a long time now. Not many places ‘aven’t been blasted up. Should be okay goin’ forward, though.”
“Why’s that?” Rain asks. She sounds uncharacteristically nervous. “Are there peace talks underway? Disarmament plans?”
“Naw. Everyone just ran outta ammo.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Grizzy eyes the heavy, bulging canvas sack slung across Brohn’s back. “I’m assuming you brought guns with ya?”
Smiling, Brohn smacks the bag with his hand. “Got to be prepared, right?”
“Sure. Only…”
“Only, what?”
“Only, no guns.”
Brohn gives Grizzy a deep frown. “Um. What do you mean, ‘no guns’?”
“It’s a different kind of war out there, Kiddoes. No guns allowed. By order o’ the Royal Fort Knights and on penalty o’ death.”
“Fort Knights?” I ask.
“The new royals. The ruling clan. The London governors. The ones with all the power and no sense o’ humor.”
Coming to an abrupt stop, Brohn drops the duffel bag from his shoulder and lets it clatter to the floor right in the middle of the hallway. “So what are we supposed to do with these?”
“Dunno. Take ‘em wit ya. If yer lookin’ ta get killed real quick, that is. Melt ‘em down an’ turn ‘em inta baubles, or whatnot. Otherwise, I suggest ya leave ‘em ‘ere. They’ll only weigh ya down. Only a handfulla things’ll getcha the Death Penalty out in the Ol’ Smoke: Unauthorized guns. Jumpin’ queues. Praise for the old Royals. Not enough praise for the new ones.”
“And what are we supposed to do about protecting ourselves?”
“I said no guns,” Grizzy shrugs, her dark eyes on Brohn’s. “I never said nothin’ about not bein’ able ta defend yerselfs an’ maybe even offer up a little bit o’ offense of yer own along the way.” When we all just stare at her, she blinks hard like she’s snapping herself out of a trance. “Chivvy along, then. Follow me.”
A few seconds later, Grizzy pushes a door open and ushers us into a large, dimly-lit room.
“This ‘ere’s the Canteen. Good grub and a nice spot for a nosh, all things considered.”
The room’s floors are a checkerboard pattern of green and white tiles, mostly cracked, broken, or missing. Two empty buffet tables and seven round, steel-topped tables with old-style metal folding chairs are scattered haphazardly throughout the space. One of the windowless walls leans into the room on a dangerous angle and is held up by a trio of long wooden beams that have been wedged against it.
On the far side of the Canteen, Grizzy ambles her way behind a long, silver-topped counter and pushes up a roll-door of corrugated steel built into the back wall. The rust-flecked, horizontal panels on the segmented door creak and groan. Render cringes at the sound, his talons digging deep enough into my shoulder to pierce my shirt and draw blood.
I wince and give him a light whack, but he hisses at me and doesn’t budge.
Grunting with effort, Grizzy reaches into the deep compartments behind her, drawing out a buffet of weapons, which she starts lining up on the counter.
“This isn’t exactly guns and rifles,” Brohn says, picking up one of three swords and running his finger along its silver surface.
One at a time, Grizzy points to the swords and calls out their names. “Falcata Iberian Warrior Sword. Twenty-three-inches long. Hanwei Marshall Broadsword. Charlemagne. Windlass Bastard. Euro Model 7 Longsword.”
Cardyn says, “Marvie” and drags the backs of his fingers along the leather-bound hilts of the razor-sharp weapons.
“Like I said,” Grizzy says to Brohn, “no ammo. Never ‘ad the same gun culture ‘ere you ‘ave overseas. Of what we did ‘ave, the gun manufacturin’ plants went first. Then the coppers, military, and the narks ran outta stock. After everyone else’s personal supplies dried up, it was either this or else stop killin’ each other.”
“Great choice,” I say.
Brohn picks up a sword Grizzy tells him is a Hanwei Albrecht. “Fifteenth century,” she informs him. “Austrian. Thirty-four-inch blade. Cruciform hilt. Hand-and-a-half grip.”
“Where—?”
“From the old museums. Lots of raids in those early days. The British Museum. The Fitzwilliam. Museum of London. The Royal Armory. Even the V and A.”
“V and A?”
“The Victoria and Albert Museum. Plus, a few private collections here and there. Plenty of good weapons in the rubble if you know where ta look.”
Brohn holds up the black-handled sword and inspects it under the crackling, overhead fluorescent lights. “As long as there’s a single rock or a stick or a clenched fist, people will keep finding ways and reasons to kill each other.”
He looks up from his reflection in the blade as Rain and I step forward to inspect this new array of old but polished and apparently well-cared-for weapons. Grizzy asks Cardyn and Terk if they see anything they like.
Terk clacks the servos in his prosthetic arm. “This part of me was built for a circuit-to-circuit interface. It can house jeep-mounted recoilless rifles and such. Not sure how much good I’ll be with one arm and no gun in a fight.”
“You’re gonna want something,” Grizzy insists. “Can’t very well send ya out there unarmed. Um…no offense.”
Wrinkling his nose in Grizzy’s direction, Terk picks up a cylindrical shaft with a spiked iron ball attached to it by a thic
k chain of clanging, interlocking links. “I guess I can use this mace.”
“It’s not a mace,” Grizzy corrects him.
“It’s not?”
“A mace is a shaft wit’ the spiked ball or strikin’ end attached directly. Connected like dis wit’ a chain, it’s called a ‘flail.’ Sometimes called a ‘mornin’ star.’ Not as common as a mace, but it’ll get the job done. And you can use it wit one hand. Or, who knows? Maybe even find a way to lock it into that brillie metal arm o’ yours.”
Cardyn reaches over and locks onto Terk’s human wrist, raising his arm high into the air like he’s a boxing referee announcing Terk’s victory in a prize fight. “I’ll take your one arm over an entire platoon of ambidextrous Patriots, any day.”
Terk gives Cardyn a blushing, “Aw, shucks” look while Cardyn flicks his thumb over his shoulder to call Grizzy’s attention to the twin tomahawk axes—the ones that used to be Manthy’s—attached in an “X” to the mag-holster on his back.
“I’m all set. I’ve got these.”
“That’s great an’ all, Kid,” Grizzy says behind an amused and clearly skeptical grin. “Know ‘ow to use ‘em, anyway?”
“Absolutely!”
Cardyn reaches over his shoulder and deftly pulls the tomahawk axes from their holster. With his fingers curled loosely around the smooth, curved handles, he slips his hands into the leather straps and spins the silver axes until they look like a pair of helicopter blades distorting the air in front of him. The glimmering steel head and the silver spike at the tail-end of each axe disappear in an impressive blur.
Impressive, that is, until one of the straps snaps, and Cardyn loses his grip on the axe. It slips out of his hand and goes flying across the room, just past my face, and buries itself with a baritone “thunk” into the wall.
