DUTTON BOOKS 5 страница

The smell is overpowering and I can’t breathe as I put my hands in. I have to try not to throw up as I feel scales and fins and eyes and tails touching me.

The box is still there; I pull it dripping out of the lake as fast as I can, fish swarming my shins, pushed by the motion of the water. As I wade my way to the shore, little corpses part around and follow behind me.

I carry the box across the grass and away from the lake and crouch down for a moment, hidden in the tangles of brush. As I wipe my hands off on a dry spot on my shirt, I make sure not to drip on the papers I left here earlier.

Would I know the value of these fragile pages if I hadn’t seen the place where they’d been hidden? If I couldn’t picture Hunter looking through them to find a poem to write on his daughter’s headstone? Perhaps that’s why I wear them against my skin. Not only to hide them, but to feel them, to remember what it is that I carry.

I think of making myself a garment of words; something tiled and layered like the scales of the fish behind me. Each page protecting me; paragraphs and sentences shifting to cover me as I move.

But the scales of the fish did not protect them in the end, and as I open the box I recognize something I should have noticed earlier, when I first lifted it. But I was too distracted by all the little bodies.

The box is empty.

Someone’s taken my poems.

Someone’s taken my poems, and Ky didn’t come, and it is cold.

I know it’s too late, but I find myself wishing I hadn’t come here tonight. Then I wouldn’t know everything I’d lost.

As I draw closer to the City and look up at the apartment buildings, I realize that something else is wrong, not just the lake.

It is the middle of the night. But the City has not gone to sleep.

The color of the lights seems strange—blue instead of gold—and it takes me a moment to realize why. The ports in all the apartments are on. I’ve seen Society-wide broadcasts like this on winter evenings before, when the sun goes down early and we are awake for part of the dark.

But I’ve never seen people watching ports this late.

At least, not that I remember.

What could be so important that the Society would wake everyone up?

I pass through greenspaces, now colored cool blue and gray, and I find my apartment complex and slip through the heavy metal door after entering the keycode. The Society will note my lateness; and someone will speak to me about it. An hour unaccounted for here or there is one thing; this is half a night, the kind of time that could be spent in a myriad of nonapproved ways.

The elevator slides as noiselessly as an air train up to my floor, the seventeenth, and the hallway is empty. The doors are well made, so none of the port light seeps through, but when I open the door to my apartment, the port waits in the foyer, as usual.

My hands fly to my mouth, my body anticipating my need to scream before my mind has taken in what’s before me.

Even after my time in the Carving, I could never have conceived of this.

The portscreen is showing me bodies.

It’s worse even than those burned, flung-aside, blue-marked corpses on top of the Carving. Worse than the stone rows of graves in the settlement where Hunter put his daughter down with care and farewell. The sheer numbers make this terrible, make it nearly impossible for my mind to take in. The camera goes up and down the rows so that we can see how many bodies there are. Up and down and up and down.

Why are we watching?

Because they’re showing the faces. The camera lingers on each person, long enough for us to register either recognition or relief and then it moves on, and we are afraid again.

And then another memory comes to mind—the tubes inside the Cavern in the Carving, where Hunter took us.

Is that what they’re doing? Have they found a new way to store us?

But I see now that the people on the screen are alive, though far too quiet and far too still. Their eyes are open and unseeing, but their chests move up and down. Their skin seems strangely dusky and blue.

This isn’t death but it is almost as bad. They are here and not here. With us and gone. Close enough to see but out of reach.

Each person is tethered to a clear bag with a transparent tube running into their arm. Do the tubes run all the way through the patients’ veins? Are their real veins gone and now they’re threaded with plastic? Is this a new plan of the Society’s? First they take our memories, then they drain our blood, until we are only fragile skin and haunted eyes, shells of who we used to be?

I remember Indie’s wasp nest, the one she carried all through the Carving, the papery circles that used to contain humming, stinging creatures and their busy, brief lives.

In spite of myself, my eyes are drawn to the blank, unseeing gazes on the patients’ faces. The people don’t look like they are in pain. But they don’t look like they are in anything.

The point of view shifts, and now I think we’re watching from the ports mounted on the walls of whatever building houses these people. We’re looking from another angle, but we’re still looking at all of the sick.

Man, woman, child, child, woman, man, man, child.

On and on and on.

How long have the ports been showing this? All night? When did it begin?

They show the face of a man with brown hair.

I know him, I think in shock. I used to sort with him, here in Central. Are these people in Central ?

The images keep coming, merciless, pictures of people who cannot close their eyes. But I can close mine. I do. I don’t want to see anymore. I think about running and I turn blindly toward the door.

And then I hear a man’s voice, rich and melodic and clear.

“The Society is sick,” he says, “and we have the cure.”

I turn slowly back around. But there is no face to put to the voice; just the sound. The ports show only the people lying still.

“This is the Rising,” he says. “I am the Pilot.”

In the tiny foyer the words echo from the walls, coming back to me from each corner, every surface in the room.

Pilot.

Pilot.

Pilot.

For months I have wondered what it would be like to hear the Pilot’s voice.

I thought I might feel fear, surprise, exhilaration, excitement, apprehension.

I didn’t think it would be this.

Disappointment.

So deep it feels like heartbreak. I brush the back of my hand against my eyes.

I didn’t realize until now that I expected to recognize the Pilot’s voice. Did I think he would sound like Grandfather? Did I think the Pilot would be Grandfather, somehow?

“We call this illness the Plague,” the Pilot says. “The Society created it and sent it to the Enemy in their water.”

The Pilot’s words come into the silence like carefully selected seeds or bulbs, dropped into hollowed-out spaces in the soil. The Rising has made these spaces, I think, and now they’re filling them. This is the moment they come into power.

The port changes; now we’re outside following someone up the steps of Central’s City Hall. The view is clear, even in the night, and though the building isn’t lit up with special occasion lights, the look of the marble steps and the waiting doors make me think of the Match Banquet. Not even a year ago, I walked up steps much like those back in Oria. What lies behind the doors of Halls across the Society now?

The camera moves inside.

“The Enemy is gone,” the Pilot says. “But the Plague the Society gave to the Enemy lives on with us. Look at what has happened in the Society’s own capital, in Central, where the Plague first made inroads. The Society can no longer contain the Plague within the medical centers. They’ve had to fill other government buildings and apartments with the sick.”

The Hall is filled, brimming, with even more of the patients.

And now we’re outside, looking from above at the white barricade that encircles Central’s City Hall.

“There are barricades like this in every Province now,” the Pilot tells us. “The Society has tried to keep the Plague from spreading, but they have failed. So many have fallen ill that the Society can no longer keep up even its most important occasions. Tonight, the Match Banquets fell apart. Some of you will remember this.”

When I go to the window, I see movement.

The Rising is here, no longer hiding. They fly over us in ships; they are among us in black. How many of them came in from the sky? I wonder. How many simply changed a set of clothes? How deeply and well had the Rising infiltrated Central? Why do I know so little about what is taking place? Is that the Society’s fault, for making me forget, or the Rising’s, for not telling me enough in the first place?

“When the Plague was first developed,” the Pilot says, “there were those of us who saw what might happen. We were able to give some of you immunity. For the rest, we have a cure.”

And now the Pilot’s voice takes on more emotion, more persuasion, more. It becomes bigger; it plays on our emptiness, fills our hearts. “We will keep all the good things from the Society, all the best parts of our way of life. We won’t lose all the things you’ve worked so hard to build. But we’ll get rid of the sicknesses in the Society.

“This rebellion,” the Pilot says, “is different than others throughout history. It will begin and end with saving your blood, not spilling it.”

I start to edge toward the door. I need to run. To try to find Ky. He didn’t come tonight to the lake; perhaps this is why. He couldn’t get away. But he might still be here in Central, somewhere, tonight.

“Our only regret,” the Pilot says, “is that we were unable to step in before any lives were lost. The Society was stronger than we were, until now. Now, we can save all of you.”

On the screen, someone in a black uniform opens a case. It is filled with small red tubes.

Like the tubes in the cave, I think again, only those were lit blue.

“This is the cure,” the Pilot says. “And now, at last, we have made enough for everyone.”

The man on the screen reaches inside the case and takes out a tube, pulling off the cap and revealing a needle. With the smooth confidence of a medic, he plunges the needle into the line. I draw in a breath.

“This illness may look peaceful,” the Pilot says, “but I can assure you that it is still fatal. Without medical care, bodies shut down quickly. Patients dehydrate and die. Infection can set in. We can bring you back if we find you soon enough, but if you try to run, we cannot guarantee a cure.”

The port goes dark. But not silent.

There are likely many reasons they chose this Pilot. But one of the reasons has to be his voice.

Because when the Pilot starts to sing, I stop to hear.

It’s the Anthem of the Society, a song I have known all my life, one that followed me into the canyons, one that I will never forget.

The Pilot sings it slow, and sad.

The Society is dying, is dead.

Tears stream down my cheeks. In spite of myself, I find that I am crying for the Society, for its end. For the death of what did keep some of us safe for a very long time.

The Rising told me to wait.

But I am no longer any good at that.

I feel my way along the long underground hallway, crumbles of green moss coming off in my hands, and I wonder at how thick and fast things can grow here, below. Somehow, I rarely seem to run into anyone going or coming, though the fear of putting out my hand to touch stone and feeling skin instead is always there.

I couldn’t find Ky, so I’ve come to ask the Archivists what they know. They might lean one way or the other—Society or Rising—but it seems to me that they are Archivists above all.

Today, everyone isn’t hidden among their own shelves, tucked away in their own trades. The Archivists and traders have gathered in the larger main room and stand in clusters, talking. Of course, the largest group has gathered around the head Archivist. I might have to wait a long time to speak with her. To my surprise, when she sees me, she separates herself out to come talk with me.

“Is the Plague real?” I ask.

“That information is worth quite a bit,” she says, smiling. “I should ask for something in exchange.”

“All my papers are gone,” I tell her.

Her face changes, shows genuine regret. “No,” she says. “How?”

“They were stolen,” I say.

Her expression softens. She hands me a piece of paper, a curl of white from one of the illegal Archivist ports. As I look around the room, I notice that many of the people hold slips of paper like mine.

“You’re not the only one who wanted to know if the Plague was real,” she says. “It is.”

“No,” I breathe out.

“We suspected a Plague even before the stillzone barrier went up,” she says. “The Society was able to keep it contained for a long time, but now it’s spreading. Quickly.”

“Who told you?” I ask. “Was it the Rising?”

She smiles. “We hear things from the Rising and the Society. But Archivists have learned to be wary of both.” She gestures to the paper I hold in my hand. “We have a code for times like these. We’ve used it for a long time to warn one another of illness. The lines come from a very old poem.”

I look down and read it.

Physic himself must fade.

All things to end are made;

The plague full swift goes by.

I am sick, I must die.

I grip the paper tightly in my hand. “Who is the physic?” I ask, thinking of Xander.

“No one,” she says. “Nothing. The important word here is plague. The physic isn’t anyone special.” She tilts her head. “Why? Who did you think it might be?”

“The Leader of the Society,” I say, hedging. Even after all my trading with the head Archivist, I’m hesitant to tell her about Xander, or Ky.

She smiles. “There is no Leader of the Society,” she says. “They rule by committees of Officials from different departments. Surely you’ve figured that out by now.”

She’s right. I have. But it’s strange to hear confirmation of what I’ve suspected. “What about the Plague, then?” I ask. “There must be other mentions of it in your Archives.”

“Oh, there are,” the Archivist says. “Plagues are mentioned everywhere, in literature, histories, even poetry, as you’ve seen. But they all say the same thing. People die until someone finds a cure.”

“Will you tell me if my papers surface somehow?” I ask. “If someone else brings them to trade?”

I already know the answer but it’s difficult to hear. “No,” she says. “Our job is only to certify authenticity of items and keep track of our own trades. We do not ask anyone to account for the items they bring here.”

I knew that, of course. Otherwise, I would have had to explain how I came by my papers in the first place. In a way, I stole them, too.

“I could write some poems,” I say. “I’ve thought of them before—”

The head Archivist interrupts me. “There’s no market for that,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact. “We deal in old things of established worth. And some new things whose value is obvious.”

“Wait,” I say, my idea taking hold and making me reckless. I can’t help it—I picture it: all of us coming together to trade. For some reason I imagine the scene taking place in a City Hall, under the dome, only instead of wearing bright dresses we are bearing bright pictures, holding colorful words, humming snatches of new melodies under our breaths, unafraid of being caught out, ready to be asked, What song is this you sing?

“What if,” I say, “we started another line of trading, using new things that we’ve made? I might want someone else’s painting. They might want my poem. Or—”

The Archivist shakes her head. “There’s no market for that,” she says again. “But I am sorry about your papers.” Her voice rings with the loss only felt by a true connoisseur. She knew what those pages were worth. She saw the words, smelled the faint aroma of rocks and dust that clung to them.

“So am I,” I say. And my loss is much deeper, more visceral and essential. I have lost my way to get to Ky, the insurance I always had that if I stopped believing in the Rising, or if things went terribly wrong, I could trade my way to Ky, to my family. Now I have very little left, and even the Thomas poem, which no one else knows, won’t be nearly enough to get me there without the actual document.

“You have, of course, two items in transit,” the Archivist says. “When those items arrive, you’ll be able to take possession of them immediately since you have already paid in full.”

Of course. The I did not reach Thee poem. Grandfather’s microcard. Will they still come through?

“And you may keep running trades for us,” the Archivist says, “as long as you prove trustworthy.”

“Thank you,” I say. At least there’s that. The small amount I get as payment for the trades won’t be much, but perhaps I can start to accrue something.

“Some things will remain valuable no matter who is in charge,” the Archivist tells me. “Others will change. The currency will shift.”

She smiles. “It is always,” she says, “so interesting to watch.”

PART TWO

POET

CHAPTER 9

XANDER

I’m dying,” the patient tells me. He opens his eyes. “It’s not very hard.”

“You’re not dying,” I assure him, taking a cure from my case. I’ve seen more and more of this as the weeks go on. People know the symptoms of the Plague now and they often come in before they go down. “And this red? It’s the color of the tube, not the cure. It will start working soon.” He’s old, and when I reach out to pat his hand, the skin feels very fragile. In the Society he could have expected to die in the next few years. Now, who knows? Maybe he’s got plenty of time left. All we have to do is get him through this Plague.

“You promise,” he says, looking right at me. “You give me your word as a physic.”

I promise.

I hook up a vital-stats machine to him so that we’ll be alerted if his heart stops beating or if he quits breathing. Then I move on to the next patient. We’re keeping up, but it takes every minute of every shift.

The outbreak of the Plague happened sooner than the Rising had anticipated. Overall, the takeover of the Society has gone well, but it hasn’t been perfect. People have accepted the Rising because they want the cure. We’ve got their loyalty, for now. But there are still Society sympathizers and those who are just plain scared of what’s happening. They don’t trust anyone. That’s what we’re trying to change. The more people who come in sick and go out cured, the better. Then everyone can see that we’re here to help.

“Carrow.” The head physic’s voice comes across my miniport. “We have a new group assembling in the conference hall for their welcome speech.”

“Of course,” I say. This is another part of my job. “I’ll come right away.”

I nod to the nurses on duty on my way out the door. Once I finish the speech, my shift’s over, so I won’t come back here tonight unless there’s an emergency. “See you tomorrow,” I say to them.

I fall into step with the others walking to the conference room. I haven’t gone far when I hear someone say my name: “Carrow.” There’s a crowd of people in black pressing down the hall, and it takes me a second to figure out who called to me, but then I see her.

“Official Lei,” I say, before I remember that it’s just Lei now. The Rising’s done away with titles. We only use last names. The last time I saw her was almost two months ago, back when the Plague first came and she was stuck in quarantine. She couldn’t have been in for long—the Rising let everyone in the cells go home as soon as the Boroughs and Cities were secure. But I still walked away and left her there.

“I’m sorry—” I begin, but she shakes her head.

“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I say. “Especially here. Does this mean you’ve joined the Rising?”

“I have,” she says, “but I’m afraid I need your help to stay here.”

“Of course. What can I do?”

“I was hoping you would vouch for me,” she says. “If you don’t, I can’t stay.”

Each member of the Rising is only allowed to vouch for three other people. Obviously we want everyone to join eventually, but right now we’ve got to be careful. Vouching for someone isn’t something you can take lightly. I’ve always assumed that my three people would be my parents and Cassia, if she needed it, in case I was wrong about her being in the Rising.

If someone that you vouch for turns out to be a traitor, you’ll be investigated right along with them. So: how much do I trust Lei?

I’m about to ask Lei if there’s anyone else she can ask, but something about the tightness around her mouth and the way she stands—her posture even more perfect than usual—makes me realize that no, there isn’t. She doesn’t look away. I’d forgotten how we’re almost exactly the same height.

“Of course,” I say. I’ll still have two people left. If something happens and I was wrong about Cassia, my brother, Tannen, can vouch for one of our parents. He’s probably planning on it anyway. Not for the first time, I wish I’d had a chance to talk to him about the Rising.

Lei puts her hand on my arm, very briefly. “Thank you,” she says. Her voice sounds lovely and sincere, and a little surprised. She didn’t think I’d do it.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“If you’re here,” I tell the new workers, “it means that you’ve met the three main qualifications required to work in the medical center. First, you have medical training. Second, you’re safe, because you either contracted the Plague immediately and have since been cured, or you received an immunization when you applied to return to work. Third, you’ve joined the Rising.”

I pause and let the silence settle before I begin again.

“You are now a part of this rebellion. You might not have known the Rising existed until you heard the Pilot speak, or you may have only come to believe in the Rising now that you’ve seen our cure, or because you want our immunity. We don’t hold that against you, of course. We’re grateful for your assistance. Our immediate goal is to save people from the Plague.”

I smile out at them, and almost everyone smiles in return. They’re glad to be back at work and part of the solution. Some of them look downright eager.

Then a woman calls out, “If that’s true, then why didn’t you—I mean we—immunize everyone before they got sick? Why wait until they need the cure?”

One of the Rising officers at the back moves forward, but I hold up my hand. The Rising has given me all the information I need to field a question like this. And it’s a good question.

“Why didn’t we stockpile immunizations as well as cures?” I ask. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she says. “It would be easier and more efficient to keep people from getting sick in the first place.”

“The Rising had limited resources,” I say. “We decided that focusing on the cure was the best use for those resources. There was no way to warn the public about the possibility of the Plague before it happened without causing panic. And the Rising didn’t want to immunize you without your permission. We’re not the Society.”

“But you—we—immunized the babies,” she point outs. “Without their permission.”

“That’s true,” I say. “The Rising felt that immunizing the infants was important enough that we diverted some of the resources in that direction. As you all know, infants suffer most during times of illness, and even a cure can’t guarantee a positive outcome in all cases with children so small. In this case, the decision was made to immunize without permission. And the result is that we haven’t seen anyone under the age of two years come in sick.” I let that sink in. “Now that the Rising is fully in power, we’ve already been able to shift additional resources over to making immunizations. We’ll save everyone eventually, one way or another.”

She nods, apparently satisfied.

There’s another reason, of course, but I don’t say it out loud: If the Rising had secretly immunized people, the people wouldn’t know whom to thank for saving them. They wouldn’t even know they had been saved. The Rising didn’t start this Plague. They solved it. And the people need to know that. They can’t appreciate the solution unless they know there had been a problem.

So, the Rising had to let some people become sick. But in most revolutions, many have to die.

This is much better.

“It’s my job to remind you,” I say, looking out over the group, “that each of you are here because you have been vouched for by a member of the Rising. They’ve taken a chance on you, one they believe was warranted. Please don’t disappoint them, or us, by trying to sabotage what we’re doing here. We’re working to save people.”

I’m not sure where Lei is in the room and I’m glad. I’m speaking to everyone, not only to her.

“Now,” I say. “Let me describe the basic procedures for taking care of the sick. You’ll receive more specific instructions and your initial shift assignments as you leave the room. Some of you will go straight to work and others will be assigned to rest and take your turn later.”

I run through the basic steps of protocol, reminding the workers about proper antiseptic techniques and procedures like hand washing and disinfecting supplies and equipment. These practices are especially important since this virus can be spread through contact with bodily fluids. I tell them about the admittance system and the initial medical exams, that we’re short on pressurized mattresses so we need to turn some patients by hand. I describe the wound vacuums we use for sealing off the lesions to try to stave off infection.

You can hear a pin drop when I get to the part that they all find the most interesting: the cure.

“Administering the cure is very similar to what you saw on the portscreens when the Pilot first spoke to everyone,” I say. “A negative reaction is almost unheard of, but if it does occur, it’ll take place within the first half hour of cure administration.”

“What is the adverse reaction?” a man asks.

“Patients stop breathing,” I say. “They have to be intubated. But the cure still works. They just need help breathing for a while. Obviously, only medics are allowed to intubate.”

“Have you ever seen a bad reaction?” he asks.

“Three times,” I say. “And I’ve been working at this medical center since the Rising took over here.” In some ways it feels like no time at all and in other ways it feels like it’s been my whole life.

“How long does it take for the cure to work?” someone else calls out.

“Often, patients are fully alert within three or four days,” I say, “and they move to the recovery area of the medical center by day six. They’ll stay there for a few more days before going back out to their families and friends. The cure is extremely potent.”

Some eyes widen and people look at each other in surprise. They’ve seen people come out of the medical centers, of course, but they didn’t know just how fast the cure kicked in.

“That’s all,” I say. I smile at everyone. “Welcome to the Rising.”

They all start clapping and someone cheers loudly. The room is full of excitement. They’re all glad to be back doing something that matters instead of sitting outside the barricade walls. I understand. When I’m giving people the cure, I know I’m doing the right thing.

I stare up at the sleeproom ceiling and listen to everyone breathing. Somewhere out in the medical center, Lei’s working with the patients. I’m glad she’s part of the Rising now: She’ll take good care of the still. I wonder why she didn’t join earlier. Maybe she just didn’t know about the Rising. People didn’t talk openly about the rebellion, after all.

I’m sure Tannen’s part of the Rising. Like me, he would have recognized the rebellion as our responsibility the minute he heard about it, and he’s immune to the tablet, too. He’s a perfect fit.

I never could figure out why Ky didn’t join the Rising right away, back when they first asked us. The Rising could have helped him. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t tell me why.

Even before Cassia went out into the Outer Provinces to find Ky, you could tell that she might do something big. Like that day at the pool when she finally decided she was ready to jump: She went into the water without looking back. So I shouldn’t have been surprised at the way she fell in love with Ky because it’s the way I wanted her to fall in love with me: completely.