Resurgence (20 page)

On the wall next to the lifts is an electronic staff directory, listing everyone who works on the floor. From their job titles, it seems as if the people here deal with ‘waste
disposal’ for the North. At first I dismiss it, until realising that the reason the gully outside Martindale is filled with everybody else’s rubbish could be down to decisions made
here.

I scan my finger down the list, hoping for an idea of how to get up another eighteen floors, as Pietra touches the scanner next to the lift door. ‘If we check the rooms, we could try to
steal a thinkwatch?’ she suggests.

I don’t have a better idea, but before I can reply, a young woman’s voice sounds behind me. She only says four words but the confusion is so apparent that I spin around in panic.

‘Jela, is that you . . . ?’

A young woman with short, straight blonde hair and glasses is standing next to the lifts, staring at Jela. When she turns to me, her eyes bulge as if they are going to pop out
of her head. The thinkpad she is holding clatters to the floor and she starts to say my name until Jela springs forward and puts a hand across her mouth, hissing in her ear. ‘Lola, shush. Be
quiet!’

I recognise the name but can’t place it. Pietra nods towards the far end of the corridor where someone has just turned to walk towards us. The woman is kicking her feet but I step forward,
snatching her wrist and swiping her watch against the door opposite, bundling her inside the room with Jela’s help. We would have had some explaining to do if anyone was in the office but it
is thankfully empty.

Pietra closes the door behind us as Jela looks sternly into the woman’s eyes. ‘If I take my hand away, are you going to stay quiet?’

There are tears in her eyes, which flicker sideways towards me. She is scared but nods gently. Jela slowly removes her hand and the woman gasps deeply.

The office illuminated itself as we walked in, much like the corridors outside. It is sparse, with a desk that has two thinkpads on the top. On the wall is a frame with a moving image of the
plaza. I squint, at first mistaking it for a window, before realising this is what it is supposed to make people think. Even though the office is in the central part of the floor, it gives the
illusion of being next to the outer glass.

Pietra places the broken thinkpad that fell to the floor onto the table as the woman sinks into a chair, staring at me, petrified.

‘We’re not here to hurt anyone,’ I say, but it has no effect, other than to make her snivel.

‘Lola,’ Jela says, repeating herself until the woman looks at her. ‘Lola, it
is
me. It’s Jela – I’m still the same girl you knew.’

I suddenly remember how I know the name. ‘You swallowed the tan fruit,’ I say.

Lola’s eyes flick back to me, and then return to Jela.

‘It’s all right,’ Jela says. ‘It was just a story I told. Silver and Pietra are my friends. We talk a lot about our old lives. You remember the day in the field,
don’t you?’

Lola nods slowly and Jela continues. ‘After you ate the fruit, Muse made you drink the water and then pumped your stomach. You were fine in the end.’

Her voice is soft. ‘I remember.’

‘I’ve not seen you in such a long time – since the morning the Kingsmen came.’ Jela reaches out and touches Lola’s face, stroking her cheek. She doesn’t
flinch. ‘I think about you a lot,’ Jela adds. ‘As well as Muse and Ayowen.’

Lola smiles thinly, not knowing where to look. ‘It was always about you and Ayowen, “Jel-ah”.’

The two giggle at the joke. Jela, Lola, Muse and Ayowen grew up in the same village. They were separated when Kingsmen came and forcibly moved them to the cities. None of them was ever given a
reason for the upheaval but people don’t argue with armed Kingsmen. I assume it was because they were self-sufficient – something which is not looked kindly upon by the authorities.
Ayowen was Jela’s first infatuation. She was so happy when he first spoke to her that she didn’t correct him for years when he pronounced her name wrong.

‘“Jee-lah”,’ Lola says again, more slowly this time, over-pronouncing the syllables.

‘I’m still me,’ Jela says.

Lola glances to me again, wiping the tears from her eyes and taking a handkerchief from her pocket to blow her nose. ‘What about everything that’s been on the news?’

Jela sits on the edge of the desk, resting a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Hardly any of it is true.’

‘But you were an Offering?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you escaped?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

I check my thinkwatch, knowing we have to get on with it. Jela takes a deep breath before answering. ‘Because the King is an evil man. He kills people for fun. He tortures them. He does
whatever he wants. Being an Offering doesn’t mean helping the country, it means giving up everything you have to be at the King’s disposal.’

‘Did he hurt you?’

Jela glances towards me and gulps. Of everyone, Jela knows more than most. ‘Yes he did.’

For a moment, I think Lola is going to ask what he did, but instead she stands and wraps her arms around Jela, hugging her tightly. ‘I’ve thought about you and the others every day
since we were separated.’

‘I think about you too.’

I check my watch again. ‘Jela . . .’

The two women separate. ‘We’ve got to go,’ Jela says.

‘Where are you going?’

Jela glances towards me, wondering if she should say, so I reply instead. ‘Floor eighty-nine. The stairs are blocked. Can you get us up there?’

Lola’s eyes flicker to her thinkwatch. The face is blue – she is an Inter. ‘If I swipe you up there, it will be noticed,’ she says.

‘I know.’

She rubs her forehead hard, reddening the skin. ‘I was sent to work here after the Reckoning. I’ve not seen my parents or anyone else I knew from the city in months. I work in an
office down the hallway with no window and one of these stupid things.’ She points disdainfully towards the frame showing the moving image of the plaza.

‘What do you do?’ Jela asks.

‘They tell you that the Reckoning looks into you and picks your best qualities. Apparently the best of me involves scheduling trains to pick up people’s rubbish.’

She is heartbroken.

‘But your paintings . . . ?’ Jela reaches out to touch her friend again.

‘I know . . .’

Jela turns to us. ‘When we were kids, Lola would draw these amazing portraits of us. We used to crush leaves, dirt and anything else colourful we could find and mix them with water to give
her some paints. She used the bristles from an old sweeping brush and her fingers to create these images. They were beautiful.’

‘I met the man who created the Reckoning,’ I say. ‘He was brilliant, so clever, but he wasn’t artistic or creative at all. He was like me – technical. If you gave
him a pile of wires and broken old parts, he’d make something for you. Give him a paintbrush or ask him to write something down, and he wouldn’t understand why. The Reckoning
wasn’t designed to recognise creativity because he didn’t comprehend it.’

Lola nods slowly, understanding. Or at least I hope she is. She gulps and wipes away another tear, reaching for Jela before breaking into a smile. It is as if I have lifted a burden from her.
She has spent months thinking she is useful for nothing other than meaningless labour that doesn’t interest or challenge her.

‘If I swipe you into the elevator, are you doing something good?’ she asks.

‘Something that will help everyone,’ I assure her.

She nods slowly. ‘I won’t be able to come back, will I?’

‘Not if they can trace your watch. I’ve got an idea for how to get you to safety, but if they find out you helped us get up there, they’ll come for you.’

‘What’s your idea?’

I tell her and she laughs. ‘I hate it here anyway . . .’

I check my thinkwatch again. ‘We’ve got to go, I’m sorry. It’s been genuinely nice meeting you.’

Lola hugs Jela and shakes hands with Pietra and me. ‘Good luck,’ she says.

We quickly change our clothes, dumping the suits on the floor and emptying the bag Pietra has been carrying. I put on the exact outfit from when I went to Oxford: skinny trousers and a slim top
that makes me look young. This time I have no fake bomb to strap to myself. Pietra uses a tub of water to wash the dye from my hair and we dump everything on the floor when she says my silver
streak is clear enough.

Jela straps a quiver to her back and checks the arrows Frank has created for her.

Lola watches on in amazement at our efficiency but she doesn’t realise how well we have planned this.

‘Do we look good?’ I ask her.

She shrugs. ‘You look like you do on the screen.’

‘Perfect.’ I stand behind her, holding my forearm across her throat. ‘Is that too tight?’

‘Yes,’ she gasps. ‘But make it look good.’

‘You sure?’

Jela nods gently to let her friend know she can trust me.

‘Yes.’

Pietra opens the door and checks both ways before heading to the lifts. I follow at the back, one arm pressing into Lola’s throat, using the other to force her wrist against the scanner. I
whisper, checking I’m not doing it too hard, but she says it’s fine. Her best chance of getting out is to make it look like we overpowered her.

The lift hums into place and I peer directly into the camera inside before we move. As I stare into the lens, I press harder into Lola’s neck before spinning around and releasing her. She
looks at me, eyes wide in fear, and I punch her hard in the face. She sells it perfectly, falling backwards and thudding to the floor, all in full view of the camera inside the lift. Jela presses
the button for eighty-nine and we start to glide upwards.

The last time I was in this lift going up, I had my first nosebleed, but this is a far shorter journey.

‘Do you think Lola will be okay?’ Jela whispers, priming her crossbow.

‘I don’t know, I hit her pretty hard. I bet it looked good. If she wants to stay here, she’ll probably be all right.’

‘I don’t think she’ll stay,’ Jela replies, pulling the arrow back so it is perfectly in line with her eye.

As the lift door slips open, I press the button on my ear and tell the others to move. I have barely taken a breath when Jela releases an arrow. It fizzes away with a twang, travelling so
quickly that by the time I look up it is already embedded in the neck of a Kingsman. Her aim is so perfect that it has clinked into the gap between his chest armour and helmet.

A second Kingsman turns in surprise but has scarcely opened his mouth before a second arrow pings into his throat, sending him crashing backwards.

Jela exits the lift first, another arrow primed. After a few seconds, she lowers the crossbow.

‘It’s clear.’

My heart is racing as I step out. ‘That is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.’

‘I told you she was good,’ Pietra says.

‘Not
that
good.’

‘Lucky shot,’ Jela says with a modest grin, retrieving the pair of arrows from the Kingsmen.

Rom told us the eighty-ninth floor of the North Tower was where broadcasts originated from, meaning there would be Kingsmen guarding it. The other three towers contain transmitters for their
respective Realms, but not the studio facilities.

The room is a complete contrast to the dimness of the floor we just left and reminds me of Rom’s office on the floor below. It is clear enough so that we have perfect views out of the
windows on all four sides. My ear buzzes as the other three say they are on the eighty-ninth floors of the other buildings unscathed. We have things to do but it’s hard not to be drawn to the
windows. I have seen the view during the day but it is nothing compared to night-time. There are lights, small villages and towns dotted far into the distance, while the other three towers are
stunning, inspirational pillars of light that snatch my breath. We spend a few minutes looking at the scene in front of us before Knave tells me that he is ready.

‘We’ve got to get on with it,’ I say, mainly to myself.

In the corner, two cameras are pointing towards a cream-coloured backdrop. There is a selection of props out of shot: tables, chairs and a lectern with the national flag on the front, like the
one the King uses.

I ask Pietra and Jela to manoeuvre it into position as I work on the bank of keyboards and thinkpads on a panel nearby. The broadcast frequency is already primed because this is where some of
the news transmissions are made from. It takes me a short while to work out the system and then I press the button in my ear, talking Hart, Knave and Opie through which buttons to press in order to
stop anyone from externally blocking the feed. Then I repeat the steps on the bank in front of me. What we are about to broadcast will appear on every screen across the country and only disappear
if someone has access to the panels we are using.

Sabotaging the lift is less of an issue – we unclip the panel next to the door and cut through the wires. The light above the sliding door flickers off and then we slip the deadbolt across
the door that leads to the stairs. Kingsmen won’t be able to reach us through the lift, but I suspect the blockade we reached on the stairs will cause them less of a problem.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask, pressing my ear.

Opie, Knave and Hart offer three yeses and Pietra gives a nervous thumbs-up as Jela lays her arrows on the ground and sets herself opposite the door.

I move onto the set, standing behind the lectern, and turn to face the camera.

‘Okay,’ I say, ready to face the nation, ‘let’s go.’

There are four blank monitors next to the camera that will show me what is being broadcast to each of the Realms. As soon as I say the word, they all pop into life. Pietra
crosses from the panel where she pressed the broadcast button to the camera. Opie, Hart and Knave will have pressed similar buttons in the other three towers and then run for it, their jobs
complete. We are taking a risk that no one will catch them on the staircase before they get to the bottom, but Rom was right about nobody using the stairs on the way up.

As soon as I start speaking, Kingsmen in all four towers will rush to the lift and head for floor eighty-nine. They will get stuck as we have disabled the elevators, and will eventually decide
to go for the stairs. By the time they get to the control panel to shut me off, I should have been able to say everything I need to. At the same time, Opie, Hart and Knave will be many floors below
them, heading back to the sewers.