“You heard me,” Henry said.
His friend strode past him and knelt in front of the storage chest, shoving the sack inside. As his hands grabbed the lid’s two corners, however, he stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Henry’s stomach churned, uncertain this confrontation had been such a good idea after all.
“I want to be somewhere safe, with Maniel.” He snapped the lid shut. “Instead I’m here, with…”
His voice trailed off, but Andeal didn’t need to complete his sentence for Henry to understand. He clenched his fists and beat back the anger. As much as it hurt, he realized he could not replace Maniel. Henry stomped down his pride to try to lift his friend’s spirit.
“Did I mention mean?” he asked in a weak, joking tone before crouching next to Andeal. “Listen, if I could make her magically appear in this balloon, I would. Since it’s out of my very considerable power, however, you’ll have to work your way around it. Sulking won’t help. I spent a decade trying this technique and it never made my father reappear.”
“Your father was dead.”
Henry’s mouth opened but he found no easy reply. He ought to think more before he spoke and implied horrible things.
“And Maniel isn’t,” he said. “Union’s Day is but a few months away. You’ll see her soon enough.”
Andeal laid back at the bottom of their basket and stared at the extinguished burner and the envelope’s inside. “If only I could know for sure…”
Henry mumbled an agreement then changed the subject. He had nothing to offer but platitudes now, and he had a feeling Andeal would bounce back to his usual self anyhow. He’d lived through two years of torture and built another life for himself. How could he not survive three months without his wife?
Or maybe he’d managed so well after the lab because Maniel was there.
Henry sighed. “You never explained why you called it The Noodle Show.”
“The look you gave me was priceless,” Andeal said. “That’s not all, though. Galen’s news are like your noodles. Easy to make, they fill you up but don’t do much for your health—or mind, as far as the news are concerned.”
Henry’s mouth hung half-opened for a moment. He used to love the noodles. They’d always been there, cheap and easy to access. Reassuring.
“I can’t believe you’d say that,” he said with a pout.
Andeal chuckled, then shrugged and fell silent again. He wasn’t out of his strange mood yet. Henry had no idea what to do about it, except wait.
With a sigh, he straightened and checked the balloon’s altitude again. The helium contracted, its upward pull diminishing when the sun vanished, and this night’s winds contributed to lowering its temperature. Since he had no desire to be awakened by the basket skimming treetops, he gave the burner’s levers another push. Two beautiful flames shot up, sending a wave of pure warmth down on them and heating the balloon. The altimeter’s needle inched upward. Henry waited until they had a few extra hundred feet then released the burners. His heart pinched when the flames vanished. He wished he had borrowed some of Treysh’s copper, to throw into them. He missed her silliness. She would waste their fuel for the spectacle it offered, even if they needed it.
Henry hoped she was okay, back in Reverence, and that no one had linked her to their break-in at the National Radio Tower. They should have brought a radio receiver with them to keep an eye on the fabricated news.
“Henry?” Andeal had propped himself up on one elbow. A soft smile curled his lips, barely visible in their lamp’s dim light. “Maybe I’m wrong about the noodles. I think I’ll try it your way and munch on them until I feel better.”
“Go ahead, take mine.” He’d be glad if Andeal ate through his noodles. He was still attached to them, had brought the pile with him, but he hadn’t had the heart to eat a single pack since his short evening with Kinsi. The crispy instant meal reminded him of a time now gone, and the memories knotted his stomach up every time. “You can have the whole stack, if you want.”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat instant noodles again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Vermen studied the endless rows of small bottles, fascinated by the panoply of drugs with unfathomable chemical names laid out before him. He hadn’t needed to enter a medical clinic in ages, instead referring to the army’s docs for his occasional bouts of fever. Alfred Colton was one of Serenity’s most reputable doctors and his business was an airy store with a pharmacy section that occupied almost every inch of the main room. Vitamins, creams, and pills were lined up on six different shelves, sometimes locked behind clear glass. The most dangerous were kept out of reach, on a counter only the pharmacist could access. The woman, a tall blonde with pinched lips, was engaged in a deep argument with a lady well into her seventies who seemed prone to taking twice her prescribed dose.
In the back of the store was the clinic proper. The pharmacy gave way to an intimate waiting room. Three sofas—one of them a two-seater—framed a round hazelnut table buried under magazines. Soft yellow lights lined the walls, spreading a warm light in that small area. A door at the back wall, next to the reception counter, led to the doctor’s office. Seraphin had walked straight to the secretary, only to be informed by the zealous young man that Doctor Colton was in a consultation. He’d plopped down in a black sofa and tried to read a magazine. He bent further forward than necessary, concealing his white eyelashes and pale eyes. Every now and then, he reached up and ran a hand through his cut hair, a reflex that brought a smile to Vermen’s lips. Discomfort. Seraphin didn’t want to stay in Ferrys’ second biggest city any longer than necessary. They had no choice, however: no one but this doctor could get Seraphin a new pair of glasses to help his major sight problems.
The office door clicked as it opened, announcing the consultation’s end. Vermen tore his gaze from the white bottle he’d been examining, curious about this latest ally of the rebels. Everyone from their network seemed ready to spring into action and push their social circles to listen to the radio and travel to Reverence. Their intense conviction was as contagious as the Threstle Plague, and Hans became increasingly eager to talk another person into joining the movement.
Although some encounters were more mortifying than others. They’d met an agender tattoo artist by the name of Alex who clearly knew Seraphin was bisexual and joked about his relationship with Vermen and insisted on giving him “tips for the sexy times”. They’d keep going until Vermen turned redder than Alex’s bright coat, clearly drawing pleasure from his discomfort. Vermen took the jokes in stride, however—better them than the angry scowl his name had caused at first. Seraphin had needed to vouch for him twice, also growing redder each time, before Alex moved on. By the end of the short meeting, Seraphin had been more relaxed than ever before. He’d kissed Alex briefly before leaving.
In addition to Alex, they’d met a farmer, a policeman, and, of course, the mayor, but no one from the medical profession. When the two men walked out, however, Vermen spun back toward the shelf and feigned reading the labels once more. His heartbeat banged in his ears and he couldn’t concentrate enough to make out a single word.
The good doctor was a short man in his late forties with a shock of burnt orange hair and a squarish visage, but Vermen’s gaze didn’t linger long enough to detail him more. The client walking one step behind him, however? Hans could describe him without even looking.
David Lungvist was all limbs, his skeletal frame stretching out in arms and legs of inhuman length. The Plague had sucked all fat out of him years ago and left behind lean muscles and a crescent moon constellation of pock-marks on his left arm, chest, and face. He hid most under his long-sleeved soldier’s uniform, but the sickness’ passage remained visible on his left cheek. He compensated for his physical weakness with ferocious devotion, excellent aim, and an incredible mind for observation and puzzles, and Vermen had enjoyed his company as a lieutenant for years.
The captain’s throat tightened as Lungvist b
ade good day to the doctor in his particular soft, wheezing voice. Vermen fought his deep urge to walk over and greet him, to wrap his arms around David and tell him everything. Had his lieutenant ever let him down? He would understand, tell him it was okay, it hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe even help them. Vermen swallowed hard, forced himself to stay put. Lungvist belonged to his old life. No amount of nostalgia justified endangering the doctor, every rebel in camp, and the broadcast as a whole. Vermen watched his friend walk out through the glass reflection, every one of his lanky strides sending needles through his heart.
Seraphin had already greeted Doctor Colton and was being scolded for losing his glasses by the time Vermen dared to approach them. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and tried to keep his cool. Holt threw him a questioning glance before he followed the doctor inside his office.
Everything in this room was strictly professional, from the papers on the desk to the filing cabinet, medical posters, diplomas, and honorific mentions that covered the walls. Once a new pair of glasses was promised for the following morning, Seraphin began explaining the reason for their coming—always the same speech about supporting the broadcast, gathering people in Reverence’s plains and demanding justice for the Plague’s victims. Vermen used the time to seek a trace of the doctor’s personal life. No baubles gathered dust on the cabinets, and the desk’s surface was clean of family pictures. He wondered if the plump doctor had removed them all on purpose. Sometimes it was easier to try to forget the past.
“I cannot do it.” Doctor Colton’s strict refusal surprised Vermen. Most others had been happy to recruit more travelers. “My patients give me their trust, Seraphin. They confide in me and listen to my advice. I will not abuse my position to push them on your dangerous quest.”
“You’re not pushing them, Alfred, you’re opening a new possible worldview. How is that different than laying out all possible treatments, experimental ones included, and informing them of the risks so they can make an enlightened decision?”
“I’m paid to heal them, not to help an underground political movement.”
Seraphin let out an exasperated sigh and slumped in the chair in front of the doctor’s desk. He rested his elbows on the wooden surface and rubbed his face. “I need your help.”
Doctor Colton shook his head. “I’ll be happy to provide medical supplies and advice, as always.”
“Aren’t you also paid to keep your patients healthy?” Vermen interjected. “You’ve fought the Plague, you’re old enough for that, and you saw what it could do. You believe us, or you wouldn’t provide drugs. We’re talking about a man capable of creating another such supervirus—a man already testing a new disease—and willing to spread it and kill thousands if it’ll accomplish what he wants. I hardly think it a betrayal of their trust to do your utmost to ensure such an epidemic never spreads again.”
The doctor’s keen gaze settled on him with curiosity. “Who are you?” he asked. “Seraphin never visited with you before, yet you are arrogant enough to step in and tell me what to think.”
Vermen smiled at the irate doctor. His logic wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t ring true. Before he could answer, however, three loud knocks interrupted them. Colton rolled his eyes and called out.
“What is it?”
“Mister Lungvist said he forgot to ask you some questions about his prescription,” the secretary said through the door.
“Ask the good man to wait for a few minutes. I won’t be long.”
This time David’s feeble voice answered. “I must insist, Doctor. Please let me in.”
He knew. His tone had hardened with the last sentence, and barging in on someone else’s consultation was unlike David. He would not do it unless he had another urgent reason.
“Do it,” Vermen said. “It’s too late now.”
Colton hesitated but when Seraphin gestured for him to do as asked, he opened the door. The Regarian’s gaze never left Vermen, however. The captain offered an awkward smile and straightened as David stepped in. He kept a brave face on but his insides had twisted one over the other. Despite his earlier desire, he wasn’t ready for this clash.
His lieutenant wasted no time in masquerades and entered, chalked skin and lips pressed together, with his standard-issue gun raised. The doctor slammed the door shut behind him then backpedaled into a corner. Although Lungvist’s hand did not shake, his entire body tensed with expectation and he made an obvious effort to keep his breathing slow. He looked at Vermen with the same expression he’d have when he was at a loss of what to do and sought orders.
The captain crossed the distance between them in a single stride and, his heart pumping, he set his palm over David’s hand and lowered the firearm.
“You won’t need this.”
Vermen looked up and met his friend’s gaze. After years of working with him, he’d learned to read when his second was confused and orders needed to be clarified. David’s eyes held a single, simple question now: are you with me? When he received no answer, he stepped back and pointed his gun at Seraphin.
“I will. To arrest him.”
The Regarian didn’t seem to notice. His eyes bore holes in Vermen, asking the very same question David’s had. Hans’ stomach clenched as he understood the rebel leader didn’t even trust him yet, not quite. He pushed the rising anger down. There were more important matters to deal with.
“No, Lungvist,” Vermen said. “We need him.”
“We?” he repeated. Panic crawled into David’s tone, his soft voice rising into a high-pitched cry. “There is no we for you! You are a captain of this army, one of the best, and you are not one of them.”
“Stop it. You understood the moment you walked past me in the pharmacy. You must have known when you recognized me.” He advanced on Lungvist again and this time when he pushed the firearm down, he didn’t let go. David let him with a crestfallen look.
“You always swore you’d never do this,” he said in a whisper. “What of our brothers? Of your vows to protect? What of the Union and President Kurtmann?” His voice grew stronger, angrier. “When you disappeared I gathered your notes and tracked the rebels down. I understood the meaning of Galway’s scuffle, drew the routes to Mount Kairn. Everyone told me to give up, to accept you’d be dead or a traitor, but I knew it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be, not you. So I kept going, and I’ve been dismantling this little band and their filthy lies better than you ever could, all because it might lead me to you. But here you are, and defending Holt! What happened to you?”
“What do you mean, ‘dismantling this little band’?” Seraphin interrupted. Vermen cringed. He’d heard the anguish in David’s voice, sensed the precarious position they were in. If they pushed Lungvist, they might not make it out alive.
“Don’t you listen to the radio?” Lungvist retorted. “The real one, I mean.” When no answer came but a tight-lipped silence, David leaned forward with a satisfied smile. “I had Ferrea’s grocer tailed until Schmitt showed up, and the fool led me to his host in Reverence. We arrested her quite some time ago.”
“Him,” Seraphin corrected. His voice was tight and even Vermen saw through the bluff.
“Don’t even try, your dismay is written all over your face. She’s tall, green-haired, and has at least one loose screw. Talks all the time, too, although rarely about something that matters.”
David had barely finished his sentence when the rebel leader sprang on him. Lungvist’s arm jacked up and he shot but Vermen held it down, shifting his footing to come between the two men. The bullet lodged itself in the blue carpet at their feet while Seraphin crashed into the captain’s back. They both fell to the ground as David scrambled back to avoid being caught in the tangle. Vermen’s chin hit the floor hard, smashing his teeth together, and he struggled to keep his wits about him. Seraphin rolled off his back. Lungvist would be taking aim at him right now.
“Stop it!”
He pushed himself up, standing between them. David removed his
finger from the trigger. All three men breathed hard. Seraphin’s white face was twisted into an angry snarl, intense hatred running from one man to another. Vermen stepped closer to his faithful lieutenant, until the gun’s barrel pressed against his chest and only Lungvist’s long arm kept them apart.
“Seraphin isn’t an enemy. He’s…”
Vermen didn’t know what he was anymore. As he struggled for a word to encompass his relationship with the rebel leader, he met David’s dark gaze.
His lieutenant’s eyes widened, went from him to Seraphin, then back to the captain. He took a step back, even paler than usual. As if Lungvist had understood, without even needing a word.
“I see.”
An intense sadness filled his bitter whisper and it felt like a punch to Vermen. Lungvist’s wheezing breath had acquired a new shaky quality and he seemed to fight an urge to pull the trigger.
“He’s an ally. Nothing more.” Vermen poured all the conviction he could into those words. All of a sudden, David’s unrelenting commitment had taken a whole new meaning—not one he wanted to address now. Not at all. “We swore to protect all Union citizens, and as long as Galen Clarin is out there, free to create the microbial monster of his choice, no one is safe. The last pandemic wiped out entire families. It took away your twin. We cannot allow it to happen again.”
David swallowed hard. “My brother’s death was natural. The Threstle Plague was not man-made.”
“We have proof. We think Galen was testing the next plague already, six years ago. David, you believed in me enough to get this far.” Vermen put a hand on his forearm. The touch felt intrusive even to him. “Will you not trust me again?”
“Hans, I…”
David’s eyes snapped shut, his brow knotted as he struggled with a decision. Every breath turned into a soft wheeze. Seraphin lurched forward to take advantage of his momentary distraction, but when Vermen raised a hand to interrupt, he had the decency to stop. In the corner behind Lungvist, Doctor Colton squirmed and wiped his sweaty brow. The poor man’s fate might hang on the soldier’s decision now.
Viral Airwaves Page 24
