Travelers

by K A Riley

  “Naw. Was her,” Ledge confirms with a head tilt toward the dark-eyed girl.

  “You ‘ad a way about you,” All-to-Pot beams. “Soon’s you left, me and Bob’s-yer-Uncle booked it back to Kensington and told ‘im straightaway how it’d be right and proper to hitch our wagon to your star.”

  “We gave up trying to get out from under their thumb a long time ago,” Ledge admits. “We figured we were all out of chances.”

  “But then you all showed up and seemed like you wasn’t prepared to leave your lives up to chance.”

  “So we figured we wouldn’t, neither.”

  “Would’ve been here sooner, but we had a stop to make in the palace.”

  “Had to get our little ones out of that bloody dungeon.”

  “Oh, and we grabbed this while we were down there.” Ledge puts a pulsing, multi-colored object in my hand. It’s shaped like a cube, but it’s big as a softball and heavy as a cinder block.

  I snatch it out of his palm with two hands. “The Alternator!”

  Laughing, Ledge points over to one of the courtyard’s main gates where a team of Banters is pushing Trolly’s wobbly-wheeled shopping cart in front of them.

  Instead of piles of rags or weapons, this time, a pair of muscular legs is sticking out and hanging over the sides of the cart.

  I squeal a giddy shriek at the sight of the tree-trunk legs and the long brown cowl.

  “It’s Terk!”

  40

  Fixed

  Groaning, the team tugs and pushes the cart through the crowd of celebrating Banters and parks it in front of the stage. Together, and with help from three other Banters, they heave Terk out. Complaining in disbelief about his size and weight, they manage to ease him down to the ground without hurting him or themselves.

  Ledge and I hop down to join Brohn, Cardyn, and Rain around our unconscious friend.

  “Great,” Cardyn sighs. “Now all we have to do is find a qualified Techie. Or an oil can.”

  Rain takes the Alternator from me before shoving Cardyn out of the way and kneeling down next to Terk’s unmoving body.

  We all have a look around at the scraggly bunch of Banters and the weakened, undernourished, and newly-liberated Neos and Juvens. They may have been victorious in battle, but I’m pretty sure there’s no one around in what’s left of this city who can perform the micro-circuitry integration Terk needs right now.

  Lost-the-Plot, with his wonky eyes and unending, unprovoked hostility, is the last person I expect to step forward.

  He gives Cardyn a rude shoulder check as he muscles his way by. “No Techies here, ya tosser. You’d see that sure enough if you get your ‘ead out o’ yer arse long enough to ‘ave a look around.”

  Cardyn’s jaw drops open in shock at the uncalled-for insult, but Lost-the-Plot doesn’t seem to care as he slides down from the stage and drops to his knees next to Terk.

  As the Banters disarm and start to corral the Fort Knights into a corner of the courtyard, Lost-the-Plot withdraws a slim leather pouch from the inside of his jacket, sets it on the ground, and tugs it open to reveal a tidy case of toothpick-sized tools.

  Without looking up, he reaches a calloused hand out to Rain. “I’ll take that now, ya scurvy slag.”

  Stunned, Rain robotically drops the heavy Alternator into Lost-the-Plot’s open palm.

  Without acknowledging her, he digs his furry-knuckled hands into Terk’s ribcage and starts mumbling a barrage of bewildering tech terms and phrases:

  “Optical sensory drive. Dynamic servo armature and commutator system. Polyamide insulating coating. Magnetic torque and turbine generator. Turbo manifold organizational network. Sensory intake array.”

  We’re all standing there open-mouthed as this squat, needlessly antagonistic, Neanderthal of a human being patches up Terk and the Auditor with the pinpoint precision of the most technologically advanced bioengineer.

  Brohn taps Ledge on the shoulder. “Um…?”

  Ledge grins and shrugs. “What can I say? He’s got a gift.”

  “I’ll say,” Cardyn gushes.

  “But how?” I ask.

  Ledge flicks his thumb back and forth between Lost-the-Plot and All-to-Pot. “In the early days, before it got turned into that bloody lump of cinder blocks, these two got to reading in the London Library.”

  “Reading what?”

  “Well…everything.”

  “So they’re savants?” Rain asks.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Ledge admits. “But if it means bare, bloody brilliant, then yeah.”

  The furry flurry of hands goes on for another full five minutes with the rest of us—the victorious Banters, the defeated Fort Knights, and us very tired Emergents—watching on.

  At last, Lost-the-Plot says, “I’m finished wit’ this” and hands the cherished Alternator to Ledge who drops it as casually as car keys into a gray canvas cinch-sack—with the image of a standing, fire-breathing blue lion holding a staff in its front paws—slung across his chest.

  “You won’t keep it from the Royal Fort Knights, will you?” Rain asks.

  Ledge tilts his head back in a chest-shuddering laugh. “Don’t worry yourself none, Love. This won’t be one of those things where the good guys take over and become the bad guys.”

  As if to confirm his noble intentions, he throws his arm around Harah, who seems suddenly mousy and not at all regal as she stares up at us, head bowed.

  Apparently satisfied, Rain laughs along with Ledge and the other nearby Banters, but I’m skeptical.

  “We’ve heard that before,” I say in a quiet aside to Brohn. He gives me a slow nod while his eyes stay fixed on Ledge.

  “We’ve helped upset a balance here,” he reminds me out of the corner of his mouth.

  “True. On the other hand, it was a bad balance.”

  “We tipped the scales.”

  “We just have to hope we didn’t tip them too far.”

  “What matters now is Terk.”

  “I agree. But what about after? What matters then?”

  Standing up, Lost-the-Plot wipes his blood and grease-coated hands on his pants. “That’ll do it.”

  On cue, Terk sits up, sneezes, belches, stretches out his arms, and bellows out a churning, cheek-stretching yawn. “Is it morning already?”

  We all burst into relieved laughter as he swings his head around, trying hard to figure out where the hell he is, who all these people are, and what he’s doing on the ground, surrounded by battle-weary strangers, in the middle of a palace courtyard.

  Brohn and Ledge each grab an arm and help Terk to his feet.

  “Don’t worry about it, Big Guy,” Cardyn says, tapping his own temple and reaching up to clamp a hand onto Terk’s thick shoulder. “I got my own Big Ben rung a few minutes ago. It’ll fade.”

  “Listen,” Brohn starts to say to Cardyn, but Cardyn cuts him off.

  “No need to apologize, Brohn. Wasn’t really you, was it?”

  “No. I was being controlled.”

  “See!” Cardyn beams. “Nothing to feel bad about.”

  Brohn grins and rubs his knuckles. “It still felt pretty good, though.”

  “Hey!”

  The Auditor’s voice wafts out from under Terk’s brown robe. “Hm. I seem to have been rebooted.”

  A bunch of the smaller Banter kids leap back, heads popping back and forth and all around, as they try to identify the source of this smooth-as-silk, disembodied voice.

  “Here,” Brohn says as he helps Terk lift up the back of the billowing cowl. “This is the Auditor.”

  A swarm of Neos and Juvens joins the older Banters and gathers around to run their fingers over the glistening disk on Terk’s back.

  “It…I mean, she…is what’s called a techno-consciousness,” I explain. “Think of her as a teacher you can hear but can’t see.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you all,” the Auditor coos.

  The youngest Banter kids “Oooh” and “Aaah” over the gi
ant Terk and this miracle of technology. In a ravaged city of plagues and poisoned water, this moment seems to be adding a much-needed touch of novelty to their backward world of sorcery and swords.

  Ledge skirts the edge of the commotion and comes back over to stand with me, Brohn, Cardyn, and Rain. “You got us in. You got our little ones out. Now it’s our turn to help you.” He calls out for the black-eyed girl to step forward. She nudges her way out of the shadows where she’s been standing—either patiently, fearfully, or just plain mysteriously—and joins us next to Terk and his new band of bouncing little groupies.

  The girl in red cringes a bit as Ledge hangs his arm across her shoulders. “This is Branwynne, daughter of Llyr and Penarddunne. Now that this is all over, she’s going to take you home with her.”

  “Home?”

  “To where she lives. Turns out it’s where you need to go, eh?”

  We stare at Ledge for a second before he realizes our confusion and elaborates.

  “Her mum and dad are Ravenmasters. Ravenmasters of the Tower of London.”

  41

  Reunited

  The girl Ledge introduced as “Branwynne” nudges her way out from under his arm and, without missing a beat and completely ignoring Brohn, Cardyn, Rain, and Terk, walks right up to me until we’re standing toe to toe.

  I’m looking over her head at Ledge, at Brohn, at anyone who can tell me what this dark-eyed, exotic-looking girl is doing standing in front of me like this.

  Is she going to kill me or kiss me?

  For better or worse, she does neither. Instead, her sullen, almost Manthy-like dark intensity gives way to a beaming, teary-eyed smile. She puts her hand on her heart and offers me a half-bow, which I’m far too stunned to return.

  The hints of tension in her face lighten and loosen. “It’s so good to see you,” she says through an exhalation of pure relief. “Kress, right?”

  “Do I know you?”

  Branwynne shakes her head. “Not yet. Not here.”

  Brohn’s forehead wrinkles. “You’re not from the States, are you?”

  Branwynne flicks her eyes in his direction before locking them back onto me. “No. I’m from here. I’m even from now. It just might not be the now you know.”

  “Great,” Cardyn moans. “More riddles.”

  Rain elbows him, but he’s not ready to stop complaining. “I’m just saying…I’d be grateful to get a straight answer out of someone for once.”

  Brohn reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Be grateful we’re all alive, Sweet Potato.”

  Cardyn smacks his hand away and skips back, his fists up like he wants to pretend-fight.

  “You have a mission to complete,” Ledge says to Brohn. He surveys our Conspiracy before his eyes land on Branwynne’s. “And it looks like you have what you need to get you to the next leg of your journey.”

  “You should come with us,” Rain says. “To the Tower, at least.” But Ledge is quick to shake his head.

  His eyes arc through the courtyard, up to the sky, and back again. “The Tower’s your mission. This—the palaces, the park—is ours. It may not be much, but it’s worth saving.”

  In less than a day, I’ve seen London from the air, from the ground, and from the top of Harah Tower. In my mind, I’m thinking that there’s not much left of this city to save.

  But when Ledge curls his fingers around Harah’s and she returns his grip with a gentle squeeze and an embarrassed and downcast but somehow contented grin, I realize that Ledge isn’t necessarily talking about saving his little corner of the city.

  “We used to be the same,” Ledge says. “The Banters and the Fort Knights.”

  When a thin murmur of disapproval ripples through the courtyard, Ledge quiets it with a firm headshake and a raised hand. “And we will be again.”

  “I got work to do,” Lost-the-Plot growls at Ledge. As he storms off, he calls back over his shoulder to me and my Conspiracy. “Good luck, ya bloody wankers.” Then he continues on his way. But under his breath and shaking his head, he adds, “Smashing lot, them.”

  His back is to us by now, but I swear I hear his voice crack, and I wonder if he’s crying.

  Stepping out of the crowd, All-to-Pot and Bob’s-yer-Uncle offer to take us off Ledge’s hands.

  “You got them in here,” Ledge grins. “Only fair you lead them back out.”

  All-to-Pot gathers up her multitude of colored skirts and tells us to follow her. “Ledge has got to oversee this little reunion of ‘is. Me an’ Bob’ll get you and your new friend ‘ere on your way.”

  After a round of “goodbyes” and a full-on chorus of “cheerios,” “ta-tas,” and “farewells”—all accompanied by a few dozen bows to each other—All-to-Pot and Bob’s-yer-Uncle gather up Branwynne and my Conspiracy and lead us through the parting crowd of victorious Banters and defeated Royal Fort Knights, who, according to Ledge, are about to attempt some kind of reconciliation after I don’t know how many years of being at odds with each other.

  In one form or another, I’ve seen struggle and conflict my entire life. It’d be nice to see two feuding groups drop their weapons for a change and find a way to really get along.

  I wish them luck, and I wonder if we’ll ever see any of them again.

  No. It’s not wonder I’m feeling. It’s hope. Hope…with maybe a hint of a premonition thrown in.

  But I can’t think about that now. I’m happy to be alive and to have our Conspiracy intact again.

  Of course, all we’ve done is keep ourselves alive long enough to overcome a royal hiccup.

  Our original mission and my personal mission…my real mission—the one I haven’t shared yet with anyone but Brohn—still lie ahead.

  Back in D.C., Render gave me a tempting lead and a cryptic clue for an impossible task.

  I’m wondering, as we walk, if this Branwynne—who keeps giving me sideways glances before looking away—is going to help or hurt my chances for success.

  42

  To the Tower

  Branwynne leads the way, navigating us along the banks of the swollen, litter-filled Thames with expert precision.

  She reminds me of a taller, slightly more superheroic looking version of Wisp.

  She can’t be more than about 5’3”, but she carries herself, shoulders back, gaze forward, as focused as the 6’2” Brohn.

  Although Branwynne looks like she could even give Brohn a run for his money in a one-on-one fist fight, like Wisp, she’s also lithe, sprightly, and a lightning bolt of pure energy.

  Up close, I can tell she’s actually several years younger than we are—maybe twelve or thirteen. But she has the composure and confidence of someone twice her age. And she walks fast. Her gliding stride is like some kind of magic trick where her pace seems perfectly normal, yet we all have trouble keeping up with her.

  Through halting breaths, Cardyn taps me on the shoulder and flicks his finger for me to come closer. “What do you think the deal is with her eyes?”

  “Her eyes?”

  “They look like yours. When you, you know…”

  “Don’t ask me. I barely understand myself. I’m not quite ready to solve the mysteries of this new girl, too.”

  “I bet she’s an Emergent.”

  “Could be.”

  “I wonder if she can talk to birds.”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because she’s scary as hell.”

  “She’s a teenage girl who’s barely said a word to us.”

  “Can you think of anything scarier?”

  I giggle and elbow Cardyn in the arm.

  As we hustle along, we pass by more shattered structures and heaps of concrete, steel, stripped-to-the-bones vehicles, and countless everyday items—from refrigerators and stoves to cars and trucks—most melted nearly beyond recognition. Some of the junk has got to be piled a hundred feet high. The best buildings aren’t much more than boarded up leftovers of fragmented walls and exposed foundations. The worst
ones aren’t even really recognizable as buildings anymore.

  Other than the occasional cluster of kids snooping through wreckage, the city seems pretty much deserted. Even the kids we see don’t give us more than a second glance before going back to their foraging.

  With the larger shops and malls crushed down to their most basic framework, it’s easy to see that the old businesses have been completely looted over time. Behind a line of free-standing storefronts and empty clothes-racks of tangled steel, the burned remains of mannequins lie pinned under lengths of twisted steel struts.

  A block later, we duck under the twisted, rusted frame of an old fire-escape ladder that’s become detached from the brick wall of a nearby building.

  Every once in a while, Branwynne stops our procession and changes direction. I’m guessing it’s because of the distant murmuring of human voices or the flashes of movement we keep glimpsing behind broken walls and down in the depths of some very dark laneways.

  I rub my eyes at one point, sure I’ve just seen that tall woman in the camo-cowl again. But every time I look back, there’s just more junk, swirls of dust, or the spackle of light and shadow cast by the setting sun.

  Half the streets we follow are impassible, either because of the deep sinkholes and bombed-out craters carved as if by an ice cream scoop into the street or else because of the sky-high piles of obliterated buildings blocking the way.

  When Branwynne leads us past a mountain range of glass, Brohn taps my shoulder. “It’s horrifying.”

  The jagged-topped mountain is at least three blocks long and twenty feet high. Towering over us and composed of glass scraps of every size—from five-foot shards to one-inch chips and millions of sharp-edged slivers—it absorbs every scrap of light in the sky and in the air around it, transforming it into its component colors and casting a rainbow cloud, like an aurora borealis undulating in the middle of the city.