The Reject. Edyth Bulbring

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СКАЧАТЬ in our bunker, deep in the earth. They waited until the fires burnt out and the seas subsided, until it was safe to emerge. The Cartel formed a government and it has since managed our lives here, in this place we call Sanctuary.”

      Reader stirs next to me and murmurs, “This is most interesting. These people showed great foresight and planning, and their Cartel appears similar to our Guardians.”

      The old man is correct. They sound like the first families in Mangeria, who banded together and got things running again after the conflagration. They control all the resources and make the nasty rules that govern our lives in Slum City.

      Shepherd unclasps his hands. “This is a short version of the history of the Sancturians, as we like to call ourselves. Now, I would like to hear your story. Or at least, trust me with your names.” He looks at Gollum sitting hunched up on the carpet. His blue eyes flick over the growths on his forehead. The white flecks dim. “First, and foremost, let me hear from the little devil.”

      Gollum straightens his spine. “First, and foremost, Chuck, the name’s Gollum. The girl over there, Juliet, called me this. But you can address me as Captain Gollum. I like to keep things formal. The sloop your Locusts boarded is mine, and they had no right to do this without my permission.”

      Shepherd smiles at me with glee. “Gollum, of course. You chose well, Juliet. It suits him.”

      I do not like the way Shepherd looks at Gollum, or his pleasure at the name I gave the Reject out of mischief and spite. Generosity is not in my nature. I do not want to share my malice with this man.

      Gollum pulls himself onto his knees. Before he can stand, the two Peacemakers are at his side, holding him at the elbows.

      “Tell your Locusts to back off. Or is this the way you welcome your guests?” Gollum says, struggling to get free.

      Shepherd clicks his fingers and they release him. “Locusts? They are Peacemakers. And I think you must forgive them for being overcautious. You are strangers and we know nothing about you. Perhaps Juliet can tell me your story. I am eager to hear about the younger people in the land you come from. They are properly formed? Not all of them are …” His gaze brushes Gollum’s face and he arranges a thin strand of hair over his balding head. “And it would also interest me to know where exactly your home is. We had no idea there were others like us who survived.”

      I have no choice but to speak. But I tell Shepherd our story in the sly way the orphan warden used when she reported to the orphanage inspector about her duties. ‘Bafflescat’, we called it. Lots of suffocating words and useless detail. It always had the inspector backing away for air.

      I speak slowly, using my drudge voice. I drone on, and on, and on. Shepherd shuffles and wriggles in his chair like a child trapped in a dull lesson. I pretend not to see his hand begging me to pause until he taps the side of his chair impatiently. “Your land. You could tell me where it is? How we could find it?”

      I stare into Shepherd’s eyes and the white flecks shatter the blue. “A storm came and we got lost. But we plan to try and find our way home again,” I say.

      Shepherd uncrosses his legs and stretches them out, releasing a curious sound – a mixture of a grunt and a yelp of pain. Grulp-grulp-grulp. He rubs his knees. “Let’s talk later. You need to eat more and then rest. Afterwards I’d like our doctors to examine you to make sure that you’re healthy.” He covers his nose and mouth with his speckled hand. “We are anxious not to be infected by any sickness that might have travelled with you. An isolated community like ours is vulnerable.”

      He rises, fumbling for the arms of his chair to steady himself. “Of course you are most welcome. But I do expect you to abide by our laws and traditions while you are under our care.” He blinks at me, shutters slammed over icy blue. “And you, my dear, are most welcome. Let my Peacemakers take you to your quarters.”

      As I lift Hector off my lap and stand, pain washes over my gut. I look down. Water is trickling down my legs. I grab my stomach and mist crosses my eyes.

      Shepherd presses the arm of his chair. The mirror on the wall slides open and reveals people in a room behind. Their faces are masked and bandaged. Some of them support themselves on crutches. Others wear white coats.

      Frankensteins. I know their uniform and their long syringes. Their procedures, their intentions.

      I see my great fish’s fin flashing through the dark waves, hear the oarsman’s word: “Run.”

      I stumble across the carpet towards the door. I cannot run.

      I fall.

      Captain Gollum’s log

      Drudge fought her pain like a Scavvie. Her language was fierce and rude, a credit to any slagget in the Posh City pleasure clubs. I won’t record her words; I don’t know how to spell them. Master Reader never taught me.

      The pain came at her, wave after wave, hour upon hour, until I thought she was drowned. But she kept her head up.

      Me and Master Reader knelt at her side as she lay on that plush white carpet. She held my hands and with each wave she wrenched my fingers back, making me feel her pain. When her screams came too loud, I shoved my fist in her mouth and she bit down, drew blood.

      The whitecoats stood back. She wouldn’t let them near her. And Shepherd told them to hold their horses. That meant they must leave us alone.

      When she started pushing, Shepherd called the whitecoats. I tried to fight them but Shepherd summoned the Locusts. (They call them Peacemakers, but I know these brutes.) As the whitecoats slid on their gloves and armed their instruments, the Locusts ganged us and dragged me and Master Reader away. They held their guns on us outside the door. But we could still hear Drudge’s screams. Like the curfew call in Slum City – that loud. She screeched like a banshee!

      At last there was silence, thank The Machine. Then the squalling of a baby. I know the sound, from working down the river. A horrible noise. Sand in the nose usually made it stop.

      The wailing ended. Silence. More wailing. A chorus of wailing. And laughter. The excited clapping of palms.

      My hand is sore from Drudge’s fangs. I’m not laughing or clapping. I can barely wri te this entry.

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