I glare at the side of her head and leave before I shout or hit her. Lately I’ve been able to handle my temper but I can feel it spiking now and I don’t want us to get kicked out of here because I can’t control myself. This place has beds, food, running water, and some of the common rooms are even heated. It’s too much to risk.
I go back to our room and lay on my bed. I start to count the cracks on the ceiling.
16:09. 03.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.
We’re in a big arched hall, with slate grey mats on the floor and painted-white brick walls. It’s cold as hell.
This is the next step of our ‘Guardian training’—a physical evaluation. Yosiah’s going first, and he stands on one of the mats, blocking an attack from an instructor. I glower at the instructor as I watch them fight. He takes every opportunity to exploit Siah’s weaknesses, kicking his leg from under him every chance he gets. It takes everything in me not to jump up and help him, not to punch his attacker into oblivion, but this is his assessment. They need an honest view of Yosiah so that they can tell him how best to fight to his advantage. If I step in now I could screw up this whole thing, but it’s pointless anyway. Whenever he and I fight it’s together.
I groan and lay back against the mat, not watching anymore.
Yosiah drops beside me when the instructor says they’re done.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ll see,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. “Is it my turn now?”
“Yeah,” he answers absently. He’s wondering about my comment.
The instructor analyses me as I approach him. “Treat me as you would any other threat,” he tells me and I do. I lash out with my fist, hitting him hard on the side of his face. He doesn’t falter, but I expected him to be dizzy and that makes me falter. His fist catches me above my ear. The room spins but I shake it away and narrow my eyes.
When I strike again the instructor catches my curled fingers and spins me so that my back is to him. Yosiah is beside me so fast that he blurs in front of my eyes—although that could be the dizziness.
“I think that’s enough,” he says tightly. His eyes are sharp and furious, and his face is hard. I want to put my fingers against his face to see if it softens under my touch.
“If I don’t have a thorough analysis of her fighting style I won’t be able to help her improve.”
“You’re going to make her unconscious.”
“I told you you’d see what I meant,” I say to Yosiah and he glares at me.
“Go sit down,” the instructor orders. “We’re almost done here.”
Yosiah moves reluctantly and I take the moment to punch the instructor in the nose, dizzy or not. The movement of my body makes the room spin. The crack that echoes through the room is payback for being condescending to Yosiah. It doesn’t take the instructor ten seconds to have me pinned to the floor, but I don’t care. He has a decent analysis of my fighting style: hit first, think later. He can do what he wants with that.
I almost apologise to the guy once my head has stopped swimming, realising that I let my temper get out of hand, but Yosiah’s sad eyes are lowered to the mat beneath him. I bite my tongue and sit beside him. The instructor wordlessly hands me a glass of water, which I empty, and a foil-wrapped bar of food, which doesn’t last a second.
“I don’t like this training idea,” Yosiah admits with a weak laugh. “I’m not sure I can watch you fight without reacting like that.”
“They won’t try to hurt me, though. I think they’re actually trying to help.”
He looks at me slyly. “Is that why you broke that guy’s nose?”
“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.” I nudge his shoulder. “How’s your leg?”
“Painful. How’s your head?”
“Spinning.”
He laughs, but it’s not the free laugh he had earlier, it’s strained.
“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” the instructor says with a displeased look at me. “I was heading there anyway.”
“Sorry,” I blurt out. “You know … for your nose.”
He shrugs and I think I might like him a bit more because of it. “It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.”
Yosiah says, helping me up, “What kind of place is this? I thought it was a … a sanctuary of sorts.”
“It is. It’s a lot of things all in one.”
“That’s … confusing,” I say.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Tell me about it. My name’s Kyle by the way.” He holds out a hand to Siah and I. We both shake it in turn and I feel a weird kind of friendship kindle between the three of us. And then I am reminded that I have had friends and family in the past, only to have them taken away from me. Something rips my heart. There isn’t room for another person in my life, not after what I’ve lost. It’s just me and Yosiah now.
***
Honour
10:13. 04.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.
“Honour.” Hele’s voice cuts through my sleep.
I groan and sit up slowly, blinking until I can see.
“Honour, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
She bites her bottom lip, her fair eyebrows pulling down over her eyes in a very un-Hele-like expression. “I came in to wake you up and I tripped over your bag. You left it in the middle of the room. You could have put it somewhere tidy, away from where people walk.” She shakes her head. “But that’s not the point. The point is I tripped over your bag and everything inside it fell out. I found the letter from your father, Honour. You need to show it to The Guardians.”
I start freaking out. “I … I—no. They don’t … they can’t know.”
“Honour,” she whispers. “If you mean that they can’t know about your father, they already do. They know his identity, and yours. But I meant the warning. You need to tell them about it. The Guardians have prepared for things like this. We have plans for emergencies, and this is an emergency. The deadline is less than three months away, Honour. Do you have any idea how important this is?”
“No,” I protest numbly. “No, that letter was for me and Tia. That warning is for us.”
“And it tells you to evacuate Forgotten London! For God’s sake, Honour, pull yourself together. This isn’t about you or Horatia, this is about innocent people dying. Do you know how many children will suffer, how many children will die if this is true?”
“I—”
“No,” she interrupts sharply. “Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside your room. We are taking this to Alba.”
She leaves me no room to argue as she slams the door behind her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hele angry. I stare at the door for a shocked moment before I drag myself up to get dressed. Something close to trepidation starts to fill me.
*
When Hele, Dalmar, and I walk into Alba’s office she’s writing furiously on a piece of paper. She looks up at our entry but goes back to her writing for two minutes. Neither Hele or Dalmar interrupt her so whatever she’s writing must be important.
“What is it?” she asks when she’s finished. She rests her chin on her palm and looks at us with curiosity and worry.
“Honour … had this letter,” Hele says. “I found it fifteen minutes ago and brought it straight to you.”
Alba looks mildly interested until Hele says, “It’s from his father.” She bolts upright.
“Give it here,” she commands impatiently, coming around the table to stand beside us. She reads the letter, gradually getting paler. She reads it again, and I wait with a racing heart for her to kick me out of the base for keeping it hidden. She doesn’t even look at me.
She goes to a metal cabinet and unlocks it with a key on a chain around her neck. She removes a number of old-looking papers, holding my letter up to them. I guess this is what my father meant when he said they would recognise his handwriting. After a long moment of studying the papers, Alba looks up at the three of us with wide eyes and a
haunted expression.
“We’re done for,” she says eventually.
*
Despite Alba’s words, half an hour later a meeting of the Guardian powers that be is in process. She speaks slowly and calmly, informing everyone about the warning and the date my letter said. She doesn’t tell them where the letter came from; only that it is authentic and that the warning it gives matches up to the suspicions they already have about the military’s recent movements.
I find out that, like the Officials I overheard at work on Victory Day morning, most of the military have been making plans to leave Forgotten London. The Guardians suspect States are making moves to eradicate our town. I also find out that nobody knew how States were going to do it until my letter.
The meeting revolves around the best methods to stop the Strain being released, and contingency plans to get Forgotten London’s citizens to safety. There’s never any talk of escape being futile or hopeless. Either Alba is keeping her fears to herself, or she’s realised that we might have a chance. I hope we do. Before, when it was just about me and my family, months seemed like an endless time and the deadline felt distant and unthreatening. But now that I’m surrounded by planning and panicking it feels like there’s never going to be enough time to save everyone.
But Alba goes on, regardless of my doubt. She’s confident and assuring, convinced that the evacuation isn’t an impossible thing. Maybe it’s not impossible to The Guardians. They do have the Underground trains after all.
The problems start to come—doubts like my own. How are The Guardians going to get everyone onto the trains in the first place? And how do they get them out of Forgotten London once they’re on the trains? Another problem is the electric fence, but I think to myself that I have a solution to that. I know the electric boxes can turn off the barrier. But … more problems—someone would have to be stationed in each of the trains’ destinations to turn off the fence. That would take a lot of organisation and time. Time nobody has.
“Our biggest problem,” Alba is saying, “is that we have no information about how the disease spreads. It could be airborne, or waterborne, or any number of things States has developed. If we knew where the Strain originates, where it gets into Forgotten London, we might be able to track it to its source.”
“So evacuation is looking like the more feasible plan?” Timofei asks. “As opposed to halting the distribution of the Strain.”
He talks differently—there’s no light-hearted tone or teasing now. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to conceal a smile. He’s deadly serious. I didn’t expect that from him.
Alba nods. “We shouldn’t abandon the idea of stopping the Strain, but we should put most of our focus on finalising the evacuation plans we already have.” She shifts her gaze to address the small crowd again. “I’ll inform you of your roles in the evacuation a few days from now. Until then continue as you are if that’s at all possible. We need to keep the majority of our Guardians, and the civilians that share our base, from being alarmed.”
The people in the room gradually leave. I stay behind with Dalmar who seems to be waiting for something.
“Alba,” he says before she can pass us by. “I’ve been thinking about our defences. You know the military is looking for our base, and I thought … well I’ve been developing another security system for our gateways. It would take me less than a day to put into place.”
Alba looks at Dalmar in shock, and then … proudly? “Thank you, Dalmar. I would appreciate that. How long have you been working on this?”
He looks at the far wall, his eyes unfocused. “A few months. It’s nothing major, but it’s sophisticated. It’ll take out anyone who inputs a false password more than three times. It also has a dormant defence in case someone tries to breach the outer walls. Electrocution—I used their own technology from the barrier against them.”
“That’s brilliant,” she breathes. There’s definite pride in her smile. “I’ll have a few technologists go out and help you. Thank you, for everything you do to help us.”
Dalmar’s eyes refocus and he nods, crossing his arms over his chest. The only time I’ve seen him embarrassed or flustered is when Alba has complimented or thanked him. I wonder if he and Alba have ever been a thing.
Maybe she’s his sister is the other thought that crosses my mind.
“I know we haven’t always … got on,” Alba continues, “but—well I—”
“I know,” Dalmar rushes to say, and then he does something that shocks both me and Alba; he hugs her for a split second. “I know. Thank you,” —he moves away as quickly as he had embraced her— “for accepting me, and letting me and Hele stay here.”
“Of course. I’d never leave you outside when you’re in danger. You should know that.”
“I do. It’s …” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Thank you is all I meant. I’ll go set up that security now.”
I eye Dalmar worriedly as we leave the room. We turn down corridor after corridor, and I don’t think he has a destination in mind. He gets to a set of white metal stairs that lead past the ceiling, and he crumples onto the bottom step. He drops his head into his hands and stares at the floor.
“Is she your sister?” I ask after five minutes of silence.
“No.” He chokes on a laugh. “No, she’s my mother.”
By no small miracle I manage to stop the ‘fucking hell’ before it rolls off of my tongue.
12:47. 04.10.2040. Forgotten London, Edgware Zone.
Hele and I sit in a large, arched room surrounded by books and mahogany furniture. It’s not as impressive as the library in Hammersmith which is old and beautiful, but it has a sort of homely feeling about it, even with the tunnel walls.
“You need to keep an open mind,” Hele says, twirling strawberry blonde hair around a finger with an agitated ferocity.
“I will,” I tell her for the third time. “Tell me about my dad.”
“Well,” she begins, “this island used to be called Great Britain, or The United Kingdom.”
“It said that in my letter.”
“Let me finish. Great Britain, before the dissolution, had a Royal Family—a family of people, of monarchs, who ruled over it. In the past, the purpose of the Royal Family was to make important decisions for the island and ensure their people’s safety. That is as much as we can gather from our books. Over time the Royal Family lost a certain amount of their influence, but they were still important, and considerably powerful. That’s the first thing you need to understand.”
“So … they were like States’s President and his family?”
“Similar. Less … oppressing, but I suppose they are similar in certain aspects. Your father, as you know, was a member of the Royal Family. From what we know he was a Prince, but that was years before States, Bharat, and The Forgotten Lands were formed. After the dissolution all Royal Families, not just in Great Britain, lost their power and their name.
“On this island, though, there was one man who never lost his people’s favour. That was your father. He was … I suppose you would call him a motivator, a change-bringer.”
“Is that why he was wanted?” I interrupt, slowly wrapping my head around Hele’s words.
She smiles and says, “No. He was wanted because he inspired people, because he gave them hope. He made people wish to determine their own lives when States expected people to accept what they were given.” She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing. “I brought you here, to the library, because I thought it’d be better for you to learn about your father in facts, rather in mine or Dalmar’s or anyone else’s opinion. I still can’t seem to stop being biased, however.” She looks at me for a long moment. “I’ll tell you one thing—to me your father was a hero. A failed hero, but still a hero.”
She slides a book across the table and it takes me a while to fully grasp what she’s saying. On the cover of the book, in gilt writing, are two words: The Unnamed.
“The Unnamed was my father?”
Hele nods and grips my hand across the table. “Yes.”
I whisper, “How do you know?”
“Because he left you and your sister in the care of a known member of the rebellion. He was in contact with us, the man you were left with, and your names and whereabouts were highly protected information that only Alba knew, until a month ago when she told Dalmar and I. We’re still the only ones who know.”
I stare blankly at the book. “That’s not right. We’ve never lived with a rebel.”
“You have. I don’t know if you remember the man who looked after you, but he died when you were seven years old. The Guardians lost track of you then for a few years until you turned up in a house with John Norton. That’s where The Guardians began watching over you in case you or your sister needed protection. It’s how we knew when you tried to get through the borders, and when a Military Observation Order was filed on you.” She laughs softly and makes a face. “I sound like Dalmar. I never say things like that.”
“I know,” I say with a faint smile. “Are you … absolutely sure he was my father?”
“Yes. Not only do your birthdates match up with the day The Unnamed’s wife gave birth, but your colouring—” She stops, fumbling for words.
“I get it,” I say and Hele nods gratefully.
I ask, “Was my mother dark skinned? I know The Unnamed wasn’t; I’ve seen photos of him.”
Photos of him dead, I remember, photos of his body. I force back the bile that rises in my throat.
“Yes.” Hele watches me with concern furrowed between her brows.
She doesn’t say anything else for a long time so I ask, “What was she like—my mother?”
“Beautiful,” she says wistfully, “and inspirational. Kind and altruistic. She was willing to listen to anyone. Everything I’ve read describes her as the most compassionate woman you could ever meet. She sounds wonderful.”
“That must be where Horatia gets her kindness from,” I comment without thinking. The tug in my heart silences me from saying anything else. I want my sister here. She should be learning about our parents with me.
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