by Amy Cross
Claire
"Hang on," I say, staring at the handful of small, wriggling maggots that Vanguard is holding out toward me. "Run that by me again. They do what while they're inside you?"
"They remain alive," he says, as if it's the most normal and natural thing in the entire world. "Despite this, they excrete a great deal of highly nutritious sputum as they pass through your digestive system. By the time they've completed their journey, they will have effectively replenished your entire mineral base, while also absorbing dead skin and any other undesirable matter that they might find along the way. In many ways, in dietary terms, Burrow Worms are the polar opposite of bipedal life-forms such as ourselves." He holds the maggots closer. "They're virtually tasteless. Just make sure you swallow them whole, rather than chewing them. They can be rather sour if you accidentally bite into their bodies."
"Right," I say, watching as the maggots crawl over one another. At first, I thought they were white, but now I can see that they have a hint of pale yellow on their undersides, while there's a small red point where their heads should be. Overall, they don't look very appetizing.
"Are you not hungry?" Vanguard asks.
"I think I'll pass," I say, as my stomach rumbles.
"If you're hungry, you must eat."
"Uh-huh."
"You seem a little concerned," he continues.
"Sorry," I reply. "It's just that I tend to like my food to be dead when I eat it. Or after I've eaten it."
"You value the kill?"
"I..." I pause, trying to work out how to explain this to him. "Where I come from, we tend to kill things before we eat them. It's just... it makes us feel a little better."
He stares at me. "You will not feel them as they pass through your body," he continues eventually. "If you're worried about the sensation, I can assure you that there will be no discomfort. The Burrow Worm merely offers a symbiotic -"
"I know," I say, interrupting him. "You've explained that, and it sounds great... for you. I just don't like the idea that my food might still be alive when it..." I take a deep breath. "Well, it's not just a question of it being alive when it goes in. It's almost a question of it being alive when it... emerges at the other end, if you know what I mean."
He stares blankly at me.
"You know," I continue. "When it... I just don't know that it's very appealing."
"Is this a human thing?" he asks. "Are all humans so picky?"
"I'm not sure," I say. "It's definitely a Claire thing."
"You'll change your mind," he says, swallowing the handful of worms. We start walking along the aisle. "When you're sufficiently starved, let me know and I shall dig a hole and catch some more Burrow Worms, just for you. You'll wonder why you were so silly."
Smiling politely, I turn and look up at the Citadel. We've been walking for two days now, and we barely seem to be any closer. I keep telling myself that as soon as we reach the Citadel, there'll be some kind of huge feast. I know that's probably a forlorn hope, and that I'm setting myself up for a big disappointment, but I figure I'm not quite at the stage where I'm ready to swallow a mouthful of worms and wait for them to do their magic as they travel from my mouth to my...
"We've got company!" says a familiar voice. Turning and looking down at the ground, I see Thomas J. Sharpe returning from his little exploratory trip. As we've been walking, he's made a habit of continually darting off into other aisles, claiming that he wants to 'scout out' the territory. To be honest, he seems to be surprisingly jumpy, and I can't help wondering if he's got some other agenda.
"What kind of company?" Vanguard asks, immediately stopping and placing a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Relax," Sharpe replies. "Just a couple of peasants. Frankly, they looked more or less dead already. You know the kind. Dressed in rags, thin as rakes, generally bringing the mood down. Fortunately they had a kind of glassy-eyed stare, so I don't think they saw me." Using his hands to dig down into the soil, he eventually pulls up a few small Burrow Worms and swallows them. "I love this part of the Library. Any time you get hungry, you just stick your hand in the ground and it's dinnertime!"
"We must proceed cautiously," Vanguard says, clearly a little concerned. "While a pair of peasants should pose no threat, they're unlikely to be alone. Which way were they headed?"
"East," Sharpe replies, sounding as if he doesn't think it's too important. "Or west. I always get those two confused. Or maybe north. But definitely not south, unless..." He pauses for a moment. "Wait. Which way's east again? Anyway, what's the worry? If you bump into them, you can just slice them down with that big old sword of yours."
"We've wasted enough time," Vanguard says humorlessly. "Every time we walk a few paces, we end up stopping for some non-essential activity. Eat as many Burrow Worms as you like, and then get ready to start walking again. We must travel for a few more hours before sundown. The last thing I want is for a group of peasants to become aware of our location."
"That'll help with my blisters," I mutter.
"You want some worms?" Sharpe asks, glancing over at me.
"No thanks."
"You sure?"
I nod.
"Already eaten too many, huh? They're pretty filling."
I nod again, just as my empty stomach rumbles again. "So how long before we reach the Citadel?" I ask, deciding I'd rather change the subject. I walk to the end of the aisle and stare into the distance. "We're not lost, are we?" I turn back to Vanguard. I've assumed up until now that he and Sharpe know the way, but now I'm starting to wonder if maybe they're just guessing. After all, there don't seem to be any maps around, so we're relying entirely on their ability to navigate the Library. Most of the aisles seem to run in nice long, parallel lines, but occasionally there's a junction where an aisle will suddenly come to an end and force us to go either left or right. Frankly, I can't help thinking that whoever built this place perhaps didn't think it through properly.
"Of course we're not lost," Vanguard replies, pushing past me and starting to walk along the aisle. "Don't ask foolish questions."
"What's so bad about peasants?" I ask Sharpe as we follow Vanguard. "Are they dangerous?"
"Not directly," he says, "but it depends who they're with. In some cases, peasants are used as slaves, and then maybe there's a problem. People who keep slaves tend, on the whole, to be very fond of acquiring more slaves, and you and Vanguard would probably make a fine catch. It's just a bit of a social minefield, and we're better off keeping out of it. Unfortunately, the closer we get to the Citadel, the more like we are to run into other people, and if there's one thing Vanguard doesn't like, it's other people."
"He's a bit of a loner, huh?"
"That's one way of describing him."
I watch the back of Vanguard's neck as we continue to walk. Every so often, I see a hint of something jutting out beneath his skin, and I hear the sound of jangling metal. "So tell me," I continue, keeping my voice low, "what's the deal with him, anyway? Has he got, like, bits of metal in his body?"
"Don't ask," Sharpe replies. "Sort subject. In every possible respect. Anyway, you've got metal in your body, so why shouldn't others?"
"I'm not criticizing," I say. "I was just wondering."
"Well, don't. He doesn't like talking about it."
"Then he -" I start to say, before realizing that Vanguard has stopped ahead of us. Sharpe and I pull up short, just in time to avoid walking straight into Vanguard's back. "What's wrong?" I ask. "You picked something up on your peasant radar?"
"We're not alone," he says, drawing his sword.
"Again?" I sigh. "You say that every five minutes. You complain that we keep stopping, but half the time it's because you start muttering about us not being alone."
"We're not alone," he says again. As he speaks, there's a metallic crunching sound from his body, as if metal is grinding against metal. Sometimes, I wonder if there's more to Vanguard than I've seen so far.
"It's not more of those giant ti
cks, is it?" I ask, suddenly starting to worry. Those damn things gave me nightmares last night, but at least I've got a plan: if I ever see one again, I'm going to climb straight up the shelves and hide up on the top. In fact, I don't see why we don't try that option anyway, at least so we can see where we're going. "I've had an idea," I say, turning to Sharpe. "Wouldn't this be easier if we -"
"Quiet!" Vanguard hisses, as a figure appears in the distance. Dressed in white rags, an unbelievably thin old man stops and stares at us. He seems almost mesmerized, as if we're the strangest thing he's ever seen, which I guess might be true. After a moment, however, he turns and starts running back down one of the aisles.
"Wait here!" Vanguard shouts, before racing off after the old man. They disappear into a nearby aisle for a moment, before Vanguard returns, dragging the old man by the collar. He throws the man against a shelf, before shoving him down into the mud.
"You're hurting him!" I say, watching as the old man reaches up in a futile attempt to get free.
"That is my intention," Vanguard says, pushing the old man into the dirt. "Had I not stopped him, he would undoubtedly have spread word of our presence." As the old man tries to get up, Vanguard places one of his large leather boots on his neck and slams him back down. "Perhaps I'm being paranoid, but I prefer not to have people spying on me." Reaching down, he grabs the old man's neck and hauls him up. "Who are you?" he says firmly. "Who do you serve?"
Staring back at Vanguard, the old man seems terror-struck. His eyes, mostly white but with a few red veins at the edges, are wide open, and it's clear that he poses no threat.
"Speak!" Vanguard growls, pulling the man's face closer to his own. "If you stay quiet, I shall have no option but to end your worthless life."
"I don't think he's capable of words," Sharpe says. "Look at him. He's just skin and bones. Put him out of his misery and let's get out of here. He probably wants to die."
"You can't just kill him!" I say.
"It's kill or be killed around here," Sharpe replies.
"So if everyone -" I start to say, but suddenly there's a cracking sound from nearby; I turn just in time to see Vanguard's heel crushing the man's skull. I stare in shock as blood, fragments of shattered bone, and pieces of brain material are smeared into the dirt, and one of the man's eyes comes loose from the socket.
"We must move quickly," Vanguard says, wiping his boot clean against a patch of grass.
"Are you gonna kill every old man we meet?" I ask.
"Every threat," he replies, turning and walking along the aisle.
"Don't turn this into an issue," Sharpe says. "I know the Library's a little different to the world you're used to, but you're not here to bring sweeping social change to the entire land. You're in a world you don't understand, and we have different rules. You're here by accident, and you're looking for a way out. Don't turn this into something it's not."
"Yeah," I say quietly, realizing that he's right. Still, as I step around the old man's dead body, I can't help feeling as if there's something very wrong with a world in which old men are just randomly killed for no reason other than that they might, potentially, in some twisted way, one day pose the possibility of a threat. After all, he didn't look so dangerous, though I suppose I'm not well-versed in the ways of the Library. Maybe old men spit venom around these parts.
"You're not from here," Sharpe continues as we follow Vanguard along the aisle. "You don't understand how things work in the Library. You don't like our food and you don't like the way we deal with strangers, but you're going to have to accept these things while you're here. Dangers can come from surprising sources." He smiles as my stomach rumbles. "You sure you don't want me to dig you up some Burrow Worms?"
"I'm not hungry," I reply, watching as Vanguard stops at the next junction. To be honest, I hate the idea that I'm reliant upon this guy for help. I just want to get away from him and find my own way to the Citadel, but at the same time I know it's useful to be led by someone who knows the territory. I guess I'm lucky: I can rely on Vanguard for help, while letting him do all the nasty stuff that keeps us safe. For all I know, maybe that old man was the devil incarnate.
"We have a problem," Vanguard says as Sharpe and I catch up to him.
"Don't we always?" I ask. "What if we -" Suddenly I stop as I see what he's looking at: the next aisle is filled with people. Some of them are old, and some of them are young, but they're all sitting around on the ground, dressed in nothing more than rags. Sheets are strung up between the shelves, and there's a pretty nasty stench that smells like a cross between sweat and various other types of organic matter. Turning and looking in the other direction, I see more of the same. It's as if hundreds of people have taken up residence in this part of the Library, but most of them are just sitting around on the ground, making very little noise and apparently just waiting to die. It looks like the aftermath of something awful.
"Who are they?" I ask.
Vanguard's eyes narrow with suspicion. "Refugees," he says with a sneer.
Vanguard
Seldom have I seen such a pathetic sight. As I lead Claire and Sharpe through the refugee settlement, it's impossible to avoid being sickened by the filth into which these people have descended. Living in their own effluence, with nothing to do all day except stare weakly up at passersby in expectation of food or water, they have no value whatsoever. Their bodies are stick-thin, which means that even when they eventually die, there will be precious little meat. Some of them dig with their fingers, desperately trying to find Burrow Worms, but the soil in these aisles appears to be bone-dry; besides, most of these people are beyond salvation. Wounded, injured and starved, they're just waiting for their bodies to give out, and then they'll quietly rot.
"Refugees from where?" Claire whispers, keeping close to me.
"The war," I reply firmly, keen to just get through these aisles as fast as possible. I've been in enough refugee camps over the years to know that it's best to just keep moving, avoid making eye contact, and focus on the horizon.
"The big war?" she continues. "The one that's causing all the smoke on the horizon?"
"How many wars do you think are raging in the Library?" I say. "There is only one."
"But isn't there anywhere for them to go?" she asks, continuing her line of incessant, frustrating questions. "What are they doing? Are they just going to sit around here and die?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"So no-one's going to help them?"
"There would be no benefit in helping them." I step over a particularly sickly old woman who seems to be sleeping lengthways across the aisle. "They are not soldiers. They are not farmers. They have tried to survive, and they have failed. There is no point trying to keep them alive any longer." At that moment, a woman reaches out and grabs my leg; I quickly pull away, disgusted by the thought of her verminous hands coming anywhere near me. Staring down at her thin, eroded face, I see nothing but an inhuman wraith. Whatever she once was, this woman is now just a collection of bones held tight in a sack of skin. I do not understand why she would choose to capitulate in this way, when others stood strong; the war requires soldiers, and these refugees chose to run instead of fight. I would kill her, and all those like her, but she poses no threat and I would rather not expend the energy.
"The war has displaced a lot of people," Sharpe says as we continue to pick our way through the detritus. "No-one knows how many for sure, but certainly hundreds of millions. They have nowhere to go, so they try to make the best of it, setting up home between the shelves. The problem is, the soil around here is no good. They can't grow anything, so they just waste away."
"It is to be hoped that they will attract a pack of wild ticks," I say, interrupting Sharpe's attempt to put a cosier gloss on the situation. "At least then they would be killed quickly, and the path would be cleared for other travelers. The cycle of life requires these people to die, so that their bodies will be re-used in some more helpful manner. Any potential they mi
ght have possessed is long since spent."
"You can't just write people off like that," Claire argues.
"They've had their chance," I reply. "Any of us could just sit on the ground and wait to be helped. These people are pathetic."
"So no-one's going to try to save them?" she asks. "No-one's going to give them food or water? No-one's going to help them at all?"
"Fine!" I say, stopping and turning to her. "If you wish to help them, you can help them. We will halt our journey, and you can find food and water for these hundreds and hundreds of dying people, and then you can teach them how to sustain themselves in these aisles. You can nurse them back to health and encourage them to survive and then, when you've done all that, we shall continue our journey to the Citadel." I pause for a moment, letting my words sink in. "Is that what you would like to do?"
She stares at me. "I can't do all that..." she says plaintively.
"Then who should?" I continue, trying to hide the full extent of my anger. "Onto whose shoulders would you like to shift the burden of caring for these people?"
She opens her mouth to reply, but no words emerge. It's clear that she has no answer; she merely wants to make herself feel better by saying that someone should resolve the situation, but she herself has nothing to offer.
"These people will die," I say firmly as she stares open-mouthed at me. "Their bodies will rot and eventually they will become part of the soil. Then, and only then, might this part of the Library start to become a place where food can grow. You want to know the greatest contribution that these refugees can make? Bonemeal. They will help to revitalize the soil. That is all they can do, and future generations will benefit. If you can think of something else, some other idea that no-one else in the Library has ever tried, then by all means criticize the way things happen around here. Otherwise, you might be better advised to keep your mouth shut." I reach out and place a finger under her chin, before gently tilting her mouth closed. "Do you have anything more to add?" I ask. "Or shall we continue on our way?"
