Watershed (10 page)

But they weren't the only ones struggling; the scouts were bent over, hands on knees; men rushed around them, filling the tunnel with their calls and commands, the echoes as loud as the noise outside had been, which now bore down, was getting closer, rushing through the still-open gate and filling their ears with hate. Burns was panting and muttering, over and over: C'mon, c'mon, for fuck's sake
c'mon!
And it seemed Cutler agreed. Why don't they close the damned gate? he gasped; the other man turned on him, growling: Coz there are still good men out there!

Yes, thought Sarah. Good men. The gunmen, and that other one, the one whose face she might almost have imagined, who'd stood apart, ready to greet the enemy with nothing more than a smile and his swords. But surely he must be dead? Like Banjo. Like so many others. Would there ever be an end to it?

You still got a way to go.

She began sobbing again.

The welcome cool of stone had grown cold; not damp – nothing was damp any more – but chill, and her bones ached with it. Pushing away, she burrowed into Daniel's warmth and they propped each other up, swaying with exhaustion. Jeremiah had ceased his crying and was taking comfort from his thumb, his eyes widening with every gunshot and scream, and Rachel clutched Ethan hard, stifling any struggles; Cutler leaned beside her, an arm around her shoulder. When had that happened? Sarah wondered, and then
didn't because the gloom of the tunnel suddenly deepened, the noise rose and fell again; shouts, the clamour of boots on stone, the boom and rattle of wood, and then blackness.

'Bout time, she heard Burns mutter. There was a whir, a faint rumble, and something flickered overhead, dim lights strung in a mess of cables and wires, and that smell, fumes to tickle her nose and prick her memory: diesel. They blinked, adjusting to the light, and to their new surroundings.

The tunnel was shorter than she'd imagined. Another gate blocked the far entrance, and the area between had been sectioned, one side divided into open cubicles by wooden partitions, the other taken up with a jumble of tables and shelves, rough benches and, just to their right, a ladder climbing to a rough manhole that had been knocked through stone to the turret above; she could still hear the sniper busy with his target practice. Any remaining space on the ground was filled with people, most of them men, all of them grim-faced and none of them showing any interest in the bewildered group of four who stood apart, still guarded by Burns and his men.

Was this part of the Citadel? Daniel asked. A snort from one of the scouts, and his short reply: No, the garrison. Burns wasn't listening, Sarah noticed. He'd straightened and was craning to see past the melee at the gate; there was a sudden shout of laughter, and he smiled. Thank fuck, he said, to no one in particular. Then he gave a silent nod and the other scouts peeled away and headed down the tunnel.

What happens now? Daniel tried again. We wait, Burns replied. For what? asked Cutler. This question was ignored as, at the sound of his name, Burns turned to face the man striding towards them, ahead of three others. Sarah started, recognising the symmetry of face, the sudden smile, warm this time, though his eyes shone black in the low light. The swords were sheathed, but it was clear he'd made good use of them; his hands and shirt were smeared dark with blood, and a
spatter line marred one side of his face, which was bearded like the rest though his was shorter, cut neat. He couldn't have been more than twenty or so, she thought. Too young for such deeds.

Returning the man's smile, and his grip, Burns said: You had me worried there for a minute.

Someone had to pick up your mess, replied the young man before stepping aside, and Sarah gasped to see Banjo, suspended between two others, one foot held off the ground, his neck slicked red with blood; worse for wear, but alive. You dropped one, the man said, and added with a wide grin: Gettin' careless, Burns.

Burns shrugged. Figured you'd notice, he said, then jerked his head at the group: This is the rest of 'em.

The banter done, the young man's smile faded as he looked them over. His eyes were unfathomable, but his gaze lingered on Daniel, and on Rachel, before he said: Thought there were only five.

Burns laughed and spread his hands: Surprise!

A long silence, and the man nodded. It'll slow things up some, he said, then gave a shrug, as though deciding the matter: Find them somewhere to rest. We head out tonight.

He left as abruptly as he'd appeared, the men with him still carting Banjo; Sarah watched the four weave a path along the tunnel before ducking into one of the cubicles.

Burns turned back to the group: Right. You heard the man. Time to rest up.

Who was that? Sarah asked, and Burns gave her a quick smile, his warmest yet.

The lieutenant, he said. Number two at the wall. He's the one takin' you down.

The wall? she asked, though it wasn't what she wanted to.

Don't worry, you'll see when you get there, said Burns, slipping back into old habits. Then, eyeing the four of them, reading their doubt, he added: and you will get there. There ain't a better man for the job than young Garrick.

Excerpt ~ Letter #10

 

I suppose the big question is this: if our technology was advanced enough for us to explore deep space and cure the incurable, why couldn't we just make more fresh water when we needed it? The answer is simple: because it was never ours to make. Perhaps there are some secrets only nature can know. I once read that the total volume of water in the world is constant; whatever its form (ice, water or cloud), wherever it is (land, sea or air), we can't create it and we can't make it disappear. All we can do is borrow and return, do what the Earth does and recycle, over and over. And after we're gone, passed into a forgotten history, the water will remain.

Ignoring the familiar stirrings of guilt and regret, I refolded the paper carefully and retied the string. This was my ritual before every assignment, to read one of my grandmother's letters, though it was hardly needed now. I knew everything she'd written, had committed it to memory, but rituals are important and we all had them. Kind of fatalistic, but reassuring too.

She'd always said it came down to the water: too much one minute, not enough the next. Extreme weather, they'd called it. Climate change. A global catastrophe. And she reckoned that'd been the problem all along, every country so dependent on the next, one big greedy globe, that when the super-cells hit and there was no safe way to get all those Made-in-China's (made in other places too, she said, most of them gone now) to where they were needed, everything started to fall apart.

Because for all their technology, all those marvellous advances they'd made, all that enlightenment they were so fond of telling themselves they had, not a single one of them could stop the slide. Their computers and modelling systems, their satellites and databases that had predicted the couple of metres of ocean rise so expertly; the desal plants they'd built by the hundreds (close to
shore to minimise costs and piping, burning coal and oil faster than they could dig it) that were soon underwater and fucking useless; containers, swamped by tidal waves and sucked into whirlpools, that broke apart and bled black; wind turbines choked by dust storms; wave turbines chewed by the Sea; all those shiny smooth solar grids, too scoured by grit to raise even a spark; the deep – and ever deeper – bores that had drained the water table and dredged up enough salt and toxins to kill the soil: none of it had amounted to shit.

And that's when the panic set in, when a life rated less than a mouthful of water and that big greedy globe became a real angry one; when the war on climate became a war on everything and everyone. They reckon two great bombs was all it took, on the other side of the world somewhere, one in the east and one in the west, blacking out the sky and wiping out half the planet. God's people doing their god's work, though which of them had ascended to claim victory was anyone's guess. My grandmother said her biggest fear had been the spread of radiation but, for whatever reason, all that fucked-up weather with its hot wind that kept blowing round and around worked like some kind of a shield, and that poisoned air had never drifted down. She reckoned it'd be raining there, over those ruined places – now, and for a long time to come – not water, but acid and ash. We were luckier, she told me, with our wind and our sun and our dust and our heat and our no rain. And now here we were, drinking our own piss and floating on the Sea to catch the water, gathering brine and distilling it slowly under a cruel sun, saving and squeezing every last drop, trading it like gold. But we still killed for it too. Coz some things never change.

Tucking the letter back into the box with the others, I locked the cupboard and hung the key around my neck. If I didn't return, the lock would be broken and my box of memories discarded, making room for the new Watchman who took my quarters. Life would go on, after a fashion. Just not mine.

Garrick met me at the base of the stairs, already scowling, not at all happy that I'd been summoned to this meeting to undermine his authority.

‘Heard you fucked up today,' was his greeting, and I poised, ready for the berating I deserved. What I didn't expect was his fist, clouting me across the side of the head, not so hard it did any real damage, but enough to spin me sideways and set off a ringing in my ears. Oh yeah, he was mad.

I didn't ask how he knew. Like I said, he had eyes everywhere, but in the dim light of the tunnel his own bored into me. The two sentries looked every way except at us.

‘You get a name at least?'

I shook my head. The fuck-up might've been mine, but Garrick took any slight against the Watch personally. He'd probably get his revenge too, but not with my help. Brandon was a fool but I'd been as much to blame, and Garrick could do his own dirty work.

Snorting his disgust at my incompetence, he unlocked the gate. I followed him in, waiting while he locked it again and then climbed the stairs behind him, blinking away the stars that kept dancing before my eyes. I'd have a hell of a headache tomorrow, but it could've been worse.

There were no landings, no doors leading into any passages between the base step and the last; just a rounded stone shaft supporting the staircase. It was hard to say what might've been on the other side of those stones, coz the truth was not a lot was known about the Tower, other than it was the seat of the Council and home to all the Keepers of Knowledge, the ones who kept every record of every deed and every birth and death, the ones who supposedly guarded all the books, and who no one ever saw. The bean-counters. As I climbed I tried to imagine them in dark, smoky rooms, poring over papers, inking their words in a hushed and reverent silence and, not for the first time, was glad I hadn't ended up one of them. My grandmother, I knew, had once
hoped I might've found work in the Tower, but I reckon there are degrees of safety, and being incarcerated in the cold and the dark with only mounds of parchment for company wasn't the sort I'd ever relished.

Finally we reached the top, and Garrick pushed the key into the lock and looked back at me. ‘Whatever happens in there, you say nothing. And whatever you see and hear, you keep to yourself. One word, and I'll know about it. And you'll be sorry, Jem. Real fucking sorry. You got it?'

‘Got it.'

‘Right then.' Turning the key, he pulled the door wide and ushered me through.

The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not the snug, stale cool of the compound, or the open-air night chill of the Citadel, but a bone-digging iciness, crisp and dry, invading the body with every breath, slowly numbing it from within. If death had any kind of form, it might've felt something like this.

‘You'll get used to it,' was Garrick's only comment as he took the lead again, stalking past the Guards on duty and following a long, circular corridor to another flight of stairs that opened into a large room. More Guards at either side of the entrance, but once again Garrick didn't acknowledge them. Ten strides in and he stopped, motioning to me to stand beside him and face the big semi-circular table that reached out from the far wall, as though set to embrace us. Following its curve, a line of lamps hung from the ceiling; above, the stone was caked with a black crust. Another ring of them, suspended from an old wheel, dangled overhead, spotlighting the two of us. Off to each side of the room, in the shadows, were rows of chairs, a few filled, but it was the dozen or so in the centre that commanded our attention.

There was plenty of talk about the Council, and not all of it by Disses. If ever there was a way to guarantee speculation, as well as a whole lot of disgruntlement, it was to rule from a lofty
distance, out of touch and out of sight, and both the Council and the Keepers were masters at that. Some of the rumours – that the Tower was empty, the Council had died off long ago, there were no Keepers and it was the Guard who controlled everything – were plain crazy, but there were others that might've borne some scrutiny. Not that I ever listened too hard. Truth was, I'd never worried a whole lot about the Council and what they did or didn't do, hadn't given much thought to their history or their number; it was enough for me to know that Garrick ran the Watch. But standing in that room, I was struck by two things, neither of them any real surprise: the first was that they were all men, and the second was how old they all were. Silver-haired heads turned on stalk necks as they discussed, in hushed tones, whatever business they had going on, while we waited, shivering and silent, for them to finish. Garrick was probably more used to it than I, but his tight edginess was a giveaway. Then I realised why: Garrick was afraid. And that worried me big-time.

Two black-clad, hooded figures sat at either end of the table closest to us, bent over paper and scribbling furiously: Keepers, I guessed, recording every word for posterity. Finally the murmurings ceased, papers were shuffled, and heads swivelled to stare at us. A long, unnerving silence followed. I resisted the urge to stamp my feet.

‘Garrick, is this the Watchman we discussed?' asked the man in the centre chair. His voice creaked with age, and his breath misted the air.

‘Jem, sir,' Garrick replied. ‘Packed and ready to leave, as requested.' Very formal, very respectful. Very unlike Garrick.

All eyes turned to me, sizing me up. If I hadn't been so cold, I might've squirmed. As it was, I just shook.

‘Jem,' the man repeated before glancing down at a report that no doubt listed every bean-counting statistic. ‘Jeremiah. It's a very impressive record, young man. Garrick's already told me your
assessment of this Hills situation. Would you care to share your thoughts with the rest of the Council?'

Not really, I thought. Not if it meant Garrick was going to make me sorry I'd opened my mouth. I shot him a quick sideways glance, but he kept staring straight ahead, not giving me any direction. Letting me fuck up again.

‘In your own time, Watchman,' the Councillor said, not really meaning it.

I gave a mental shrug. An order was an order, and his authority exceeded Garrick's. A few listened, some even nodding, while others shook their heads, as I summed it up for them. Again. And I noticed neither of the Keepers was recording a single word, or anything else for that matter; both had downed their quills and were sitting still and straight. Clearly I had no claim to posterity.

‘Interesting,' said one of the men, when I'd finished. ‘We have over a dozen informants in the area, all of them telling us the same thing. Yet you say different. Why is that?'

‘My assessment is based on the report I was given. If I'm wrong, it's because the report's inaccurate.' Risking a glance at the Keepers, I saw one of them squirm. And maybe I was a little cocky, but at the back of my mind niggled Taggart's gift, and his final words.

‘Garrick?' The first Councillor sought agreement.

‘He's right, sir,' Garrick said, finally backing me up.

There was another long silence before the Councillor asked, ‘And what of the two Guards who were captured?'

‘If they're still alive, they're a liability and they'll be killed with the rest,' I told him. This was the usual practice, part punishment, part security. And for us, double reward. Killing a Guard scored you two marks; taking out one of our own, on Garrick's orders, got us four.

There was a stirring, and the old man looked to the chairs at the side of the room. ‘Commander? What do you have to say about that?'

A Guard rose from the shadows and stepped into the light. Tall and lean, his uniform almost squeaked as he moved, the sword at his hip slapping noisily against his leg. They were all the same, no matter their rank.

‘I've already requested that both Guards be returned alive. They'll have information that may prove useful, and we'll see to their punishment ourselves.' His voice was deep but respectful, like Garrick's.

‘I can retrieve the information you need before I kill them. That's my job,' I said, not quite as respectfully.

‘Nevertheless, you will bring them both back.
Alive
,' the Commander insisted, as though I were one of his to direct. Beside me, Garrick bristled and I almost heard his growl.

‘And if they're already dead?' I asked.

‘They're not,' cut in the first Councillor. ‘We would've had word.' It wasn't uncommon for Disses to send the tags of prisoners back to the Tower as proof they meant business. It never bothered me too much when they did. Just meant less work.

But the Councillor's reaction was puzzling. If the assignment proved successful any information those Guards had would be useless, the uprising culled, the rebels put down. There was no need for any of this.

‘It's not my job to rescue Guards who are too stupid not to get caught. And if they're wounded, travelling back will be slow and more dangerous,' I argued. Why risk my skin for the sake of theirs?

The whole Council stared at me, clearly not used to being defied.

‘You will do as you're told. And if you're as good as you think you are, then there'll be no problem,' said the Councillor. ‘The Guards will be returned alive.'

I expected Garrick to speak up then, but he said nothing and I fumed alongside him, silent and worried. Because now the order had been given, if anything happened to either of those Guards, it was my head on the block.

But as far as the Council was concerned, the matter was over. ‘How long are you allowing for your assignment?' the Councillor asked me.

‘Eight weeks,' I replied. Give or take.

‘You have six,' he told me and, before I could protest, added, ‘And you'll take the east road.'

Why? I thought, sourly. The east road was easier, though the route was circuitous and long. Given my new time frame, it wouldn't have been my first choice, but all I said was, ‘Sir.'

‘You have a half-hour to gather your things and wait at the base of the stairs.'

I blinked. As far as I knew, the Tower had never before interfered with the comings and goings of Watchmen, concerned only with the outcome. The timing of an assignment was always Garrick's decision. Then again, nothing about this assignment was proving usual. So I gave a curt nod, and he turned his gaze away, dismissing me.

‘Garrick, despite Jeremiah's confidence, I agree that this assignment will require the efforts of more than one Watchman. Your request has been noted, however you will not be accompanying him. We have need of you elsewhere.'

Garrick rocked on his feet a few times, clearly annoyed, while I felt only relief. At least something was working in my favour.

But the old Councillor wasn't finished. ‘In view of our decision to return the Guards safely, we feel it's best if one of their own go with your man. Just in case.'