The Ward (19 page)

After March’s meteor collided with the Antarctic’s Pine Island Glacier, and high-temperature gases were released, causing a global rise in sea level, Voss was unable to locate the source of the spring. “I went back with diving gear,” he stated during the interview. “But someone had been there. It wasn’t even a spring anymore—just rubble and mud.”

Now, Voss is looking for the spring. But there’s a catch: he needs your money
.

Two things stand out.

One: 2048. About sixty years ago.

And two: “Our governor’s last name is Voss.”

“It could be a relative,” Callum suggests. “Or—and I know this sounds crazy—but what if they’re the same? What if he found the spring and kept enough to keep him alive for a while?”

I look for similarities in their faces, but it’s hard to tell. The governor is older. But both have prickly, cactuslike eyebrows, and faces that would make a baby cry.

“Lemme guess,” I say, examining the liquid. “You’re gonna tell me this stuff is magic in a bottle?”

Or the devil in a bottle, given what it did to Aven.

“Not magic,” he answers. “Science. Under the microscope that stuff looked fairly incredible.”

“Incredible how?”

“There wasn’t enough to run a sufficient number of tests that would yield anything conclusive . . . but it clearly had a regenerative effect on the human cellular structure.”

“Okay. So the water is . . . unusual. But why all the secrecy? Why go searching for it behind the back of the DI? Why pretend you’re still with them?”

“I thought that you’d be more likely to agree to the search if it came as a direct request from the DI. Had I known about your sister’s condition . . .” Callum’s gaze suddenly turns serious. “And as for the secrecy, what do you think would happen if the government got their hands on something this big?”

Waving my hands, I spout the obvious. “Oh, I dunno, how about use it to cure the virus that’s killing off the Ward’s citizens left and right?”

“You’re naive,” he mutters, replacing the vial and the article in the drawer before taking out a Core, a shiny, rainbowy disk no bigger than my thumbnail.

I want to argue—no way am I naive, not these days—but I get the feeling he’s about to prove me wrong.

He draws the curtains closed, darkening the room. He slips the disk into a slot in his cuffcomm.

“After reading that article, I conducted some of my own research. I figured, if Voss needed money for a search party, he was probably advertising. This is what I found.”

An image projects onto the door behind us. The audio is weak—cuffcomms don’t have the best speakers—but it’s easy enough to see it’s a commercial.

Scratchy background music plays, while three kids hold hands and spin together. As they go round, they age. Slow at first, then faster. Older and older they get; their whirling makes me dizzy. When they’re too old to keep on spinning like that, the image slows. A man’s voice: “For too long, we have accepted one single fact: humans age.”

Graphics-morphing software lifts layers of wrinkles from the women’s faces like old-school time-lapse photography in reverse.

Another voice-over: “What if aging were just another disease? A disease that could be cured? With your money, we can enter a new frontier—one that is ageless. Timeless. Buy eternity today. Sell eternity tomorrow.”

The image dissipates like someone tossing pixilated sand grains into the air.

“They’d sell it,” Callum whispers. “It would go to the highest bidder. Just like Upstate did with their freshwater aquifers—they used to share them with us, back when we were all one state. Especially now, with all the animosity certain West Isle radicals have against the Ward’s sick population. You think they’d want to share something this big?”

“What are you talking about? What animosity?”

Callum looks at me like he wishes he hadn’t said anything. “You don’t know.”

“No,” I answer. “Most people here don’t have electric. West Isle news is hard to come by. We’ve got radios . . . but then we have to trade for the batteries.” I don’t add that we never hear them say much interesting, anyway.

“At its most elemental, it’s prejudice. They’re calling the sick . . .” He pauses, then says the next word like it tastes bad in his mouth. “Subhuman.”

My sister.
Subhuman
. I want to curse at him, though I know he’s just the messenger. But the more I hear about people on the West Isle, the happier I am that I grew up here. Of all places.

“So as I was saying,” Callum continues, “if something like that were to exist . . .”

“We’d never see a drop.”

“What’s more, the face of this planet would be forever changed. Think of the repercussions. . . . Overpopulation, an even greater strain on the Earth’s resources. We’re already suffering for water as it is.” Callum lowers down onto the floor, sits himself directly across from me. “Immortality is an entirely unsustainable concept.”

I’m quiet. There’s so much to take in. So much that goes against everything I knew to be true.

Callum doesn’t look at me, lost in his own head. After a few moments, “So you see, whatever you found out there, it’s imperative that the wrong people never have access to it.”

But if Governor Voss is one of the “wrong people,” I have to wonder: Who are the right people?

“What, exactly, do you want with it?” I ask.

“I don’t want to cure death, that’s for sure. I’m a scientist, Ren. I believe that something like this—whatever it is—could have huge potential in the medical sphere. I’d like to examine the water, alter base components. Make it stronger. Ideally, I’d like to use it to develop a drug therapy and eradicate the HBNC virus. But I can’t work with nothing.”

The ball’s in my court.

“Like I said, I found freshwater. A hot spring. But I don’t know anything about this fountain of youth you’re talking about.”

“Just tell me what you found. Everything.”

I inhale, and I start with Plan B bunking out on me. I tell him how I had to swim into a building with a big red star, how the place should have been flooded but wasn’t, and how under an abandoned subway tunnel, I fell into a pool of water that didn’t leave me thirsty.

And then I tell him how it tasted.

He laughs, almost in awe. Mumbles, “Unbelievable,” but says nothing more. I get to the part where I gave Aven the water, and for a few hours she was symptom free—better than symptom free—until she collapsed on the floor of the Tank. The grand finale.

The memory physically hurts. Retelling it is reliving it, and the corners of my eyes prickle with salt water. “So if the fresh is responsible for fixing Aven, it’s also responsible for making her sicker. How do you explain that?”

“I only have theories. Nothing’s certain until I have an actual sample.”

“What if I didn’t find your miracle spring?”

He grunts, and I can almost see the thoughts clicking into place, the mechanics of his mind landing on an answer. “There’s only one way of finding out.”

Had a feeling he’d say that.

19

2:45 A.M., SUNDAY

J
ust as we’re about to step out into the tar-black night, Callum stops. Runs back inside the apartment. Returning, he throws me something small and says, “In case you need to reach me.”

I catch it—a cuffcomm. Latching it next to my DI-issued one, I realize they look identical. I hold the comm close, inspect its sides, flip it open and everything, but I can’t see a difference.

“It’s DI issued as well,” Callum tells me, noticing. “I snagged it before I left and made it untraceable.”

I look at the comm with a nod and make a mental note to ask Callum about that “falling-out” he mentioned. Not one bit do I like the sight of the two side by side on my wrist. My nerves get all jittery.

Then we’re out the door again, each carrying one empty rubber sack. The narrows creak the whole half block it takes to reach Mad Ave, but not far down the boardwalk, I see his mobile. Docked and waiting. Callum tugs at the rope, drawing it in.

“You got an Omni?” I ask, awed.

“Of course I do.”

Under my breath, I mumble, “Of course he does. Silly me.”

“And you’re driving.”

I do a double take as Callum passes me his keys. You just don’t
do
that, offer the keys to your mobile. An Omni, no less. Sure, I’m known, but still . . .

Whistling, I run my finger along the sleek, purple paint job. The wheels that allow for driving on land are tucked inside the body, under the surface. She looks just like a bullet, but with a glass roof. Swankier than Ter’s.

“Let’s get a move on,” Callum mutters anxiously, rubbing the nape of his neck like he’s reconsidering getting in with me. “They’ll station people there once the freshwater find has been confirmed. We have to move fast, or we lose our shot entirely.”

“I’m on it,” I say, not liking his tone, but knowing he’s right. If Chief Dunn sends the surveillance team early . . . bad news. Don’t know how we’d get out of that one.

I push a grooved button on the key and a soft click follows. The roof lifts, revealing two black leather seats, one for the driver, one for a back passenger. Wonder how she goes from water to land. With a classy ride like this, it shouldn’t be too hard to learn—you probably just think the word
wheels
and they electromagically grow out of its bum, ready for riding.

We both hop into our respective seats. I click the button on the key again, folding the roof back over our heads. The Omni pressurizes and my ears crackle.

“This is one good piece of metal, Doc,” I comment, nodding in approval. “Never know when a floodable airlock might prove useful.” Behind Callum’s seat in the back is a tiny space where you can enter directly into the water without sinking the boat.

“Could you stop calling me Doc, please?” Polite words, sharp voice. Not sure what gives.

“That’s what you are though, right?” I fire up the obviously not-old girl and she sways side to side, sending bubbles round the edges. Now might be a good time to mention that I’ve never actually driven a fully water-adaptable mobile, which is less like driving a car and more like steering a boat.

Nah. He’d only get nervous. I jam on the acceleration and the Omni jerks forward.

Callum groans. It’s a pitiful sound that makes me turn to face him. When I do, he shoos me away and points to the mobile’s nose. I shrug and keep driving. It takes a few erratic lurches before I’m able to get the hang of this whole underwater acceleration thing.

“I’m going to be sick,” Callum says as I shift the gears and bring us underwater.

“Better not.” I turn around to face him again. All the while he’s going more and more interesting shades of seaweed. “You’re the doctor, remember?”

He shakes his head and points again. “Eyes. Front.”

Looking out at the wide expanse of the channel, I realize I don’t know where I am. It’s a different city down here, full of furry, fuzzy edges. I tap the dashboard screen, hoping there’s no actual button. It beeps a few times and then a neon grid lines the black background.

“Quad Nine,” I say aloud, feeling mighty foolish. Like I’m talking to myself.

But then . . .
Bingo
.

Green lines mark the way through the rubble to our destination like an antique Etch A Sketch. I set out, steering us as fast as I can, but with each turn, the Omni jolts. It’s difficult—following the navigation screen while rushing. After a few moments of silence, I turn around to see Callum curled up with his head hanging between his legs.

“Are you really getting sick?”

“Submarine travel . . . it hasn’t agreed with me since I was a child.”

“You were fine in the transport sub earlier.”

“My mind was occupied. And there were no windows.”

“What have windows got to do with it?”

Callum takes a deep breath, presses his head against the window. “I’m guessing you’ve never been trapped underwater in a mobile, your only way out through a window that’s sealed shut.”

If he’d said that forty-eight hours ago, I would’ve been able to say no. “Last night. The race. It was one of the scariest moments of my life.”

“I was nine. I’d begged my parents for an underwater tour of the city for my birthday. There was a mechanical failure, something to do with the sub’s oxygen tanks. They were leaking. My entire family—all my friends—we were all trapped. The captain had to break the windows. Everyone made it, thankfully. But ever since then, it’s been hard.”

I don’t know what to say. It was terrifying for me, and I’m sixteen. Can’t imagine what it would be like to go through the same thing at nine. In the rearview mirror, I see Callum close his eyes. “Open your eyes,” I tell him. “You’re going to miss the tour.”

“I’d really rather not,” he groans.

“Give it five minutes. If you don’t feel better after that, I won’t bother you again till we get to the building.” I point out his window, slowing down the mobile. “Take a look.”

A shaft of sunlight stakes the water, turns it a golden, muckish brown. Schools of bluefish flick by, white splashes in this brown sea-sky. “It’s downright pretty under here.” I laugh, hoping he notices.

Callum looks out at the fish, but he doesn’t comment. I keep going. “You can almost imagine the city from Before, right? What do you think it was like?”

He takes a glance, followed by a gulp, and then he leans his head against the glass. “I imagine there . . . were . . . very many people.”

If I knew him better I might make a joke about that being one
seriously
profound observation.

The red line on the dash makes its gradual crawl to our destination point, just one square away on the screen’s grid. “Almost there,” I let him know, and I force myself to relax my grip on the wheel since the nav’s doing all the work anyway. I’m a sympathy puker. Seeing it, hearing it . . . and, ugh, the smell. If he goes, I go. “Hang on.”

As we speed through the water, I can really see the metropolis that was, buried in things like gravel and concrete, pavement and sidewalks. Streets that don’t wobble when there’s an overeager tide swelling in. There’s even a whole cathedral down here—I know because the spires are still visible from the surface. It’s a rich-looking building, though the marble is covered in green and brown.