Some Fine Day (31 page)

It’s ridiculous, but I feel safe with him, like nothing can ever harm us. I know it’s not true, that we’re very far from being safe, but I am more at peace than I’ve been in a long time. Raven Rock is behind us, and we’re both alive, by some kind of miracle.

Now we just have to find the access point to Substation 99. Which is still about fifteen hundred miles north.

“I think we’re stopped,” Will says.

He doesn’t look as old as he did before. Late fifties rather than seventies. The QPT is wearing off, thank God. When I tell Will, he looks at me closely but says he doesn’t see any difference. Probably because my dose was more recent. The alternative – that I’m stuck like this – is not something I will allow myself to consider right now.

We talk it over and decide the best option is to slip into one of the passenger cars and blend with the crowd leaving the train. A few people look at us oddly when we emerge from the baggage compartment, but everyone’s tired and impatient to get off and most don’t pay us any mind.

A big clock on the platform says it’s 10.22am Nu London time. I don’t see any soldiers, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t plainclothes agents waiting. I scan the people around us. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for one guy. He’s in his thirties, with a neatly trimmed black beard and heavy shoulders, like a boxer. He doesn’t look at us, but I can see he’s watching out of the corner of his eye. He’s carrying an attaché case and walking purposefully toward the end of the platform, but keeping pace with us just ahead and to the left.

I take Will’s hand and signal to him to drop back a little. Now the guy is well ahead of us, but I keep my eyes fixed on him until he disappears around a corner. Just past a sign with an arrow and one word: CUSTOMS.

I stop cold. Of course we have to go through customs to exit the terminal. It’s an inter-prefecture train. And that’s where they’ll be waiting for us. Not legally or officially, since Raven Rock has no jurisdiction here, but they’ll be there. At a minimum, we’d be detained as undocumented migrants by the local authorities. I should have thought of this hours ago. It’s a glaring oversight. I’m just so tired.

“What’s wrong?” Will looks at me questioningly.

“Hold on, I need to think.”

The last of the other passengers drift past us, and we’re alone on the platform. I go through the various scenarios in my head. It doesn’t take long. We could run into the tunnels. Or we could try to find another way out. That’s about it. The tunnels don’t appeal to me at all, so I start walking again, toward the end of the platform. Behind us, the hum of the train’s power supply cuts off and perfect silence descends.

We reach the customs sign and I peek around the corner. It’s deserted. White walls, grey carpet, fluorescent lighting. Another arrow at the far end pointing right. And then I spot what I’m looking for. A door about halfway down, unmarked, with a keypad. Probably for the train crew. I’m sure it’s alarmed, and I have no idea how to open it, but I’ll just blow the lock off if I have to.

“We’re going through that door,” I tell Will. “We’re going to have to run, and we might have to shoot some people if they try to stop us. Can you handle that?” A wave of dizziness washes over me and I put a hand against the wall to steady myself.

Will gives me a worried look. “I can handle that. The question is whether you can.”

“I’m fine,” I say, taking a deep breath.

But I’m not fine. My skull suddenly feels two sizes too small. I start walking down the corridor, eyes focused on the door. If we can just get through that door, we’ll be OK.

It swings open when we’re about six feet away and the burly guy from the platform steps out. He’s armed and doesn’t look surprised to see us. I reach for the gun in my waistband but it’s too late, his is already pointed at my forehead.

“Jansin Nordqvist,” he says in a thick, almost guttural Nu London accent.

Not a question.

I raise my hands without responding. Next to me, Will does the same.

“Are you aware that diplomatic relations were formally severed between Nu London and Raven Rock at 0930 this morning?” The ghost of a smile plays around his lips. “In fact, our ambassador is being recalled at this very moment. They accused him of being an appeaser because he doesn't support military action against Greenbrier. He’s due to arrive on the next train, in about four hours or so.”

I wonder why he’s not shooting us, or ordering us down to the ground. Maybe he’s waiting for backup. But that doesn’t make sense, because he was clearly expecting us. Something is off.

“Who are you?” I ask. My arms feel like lead weights and I don’t think I can hold them up much longer, but I don’t want him to shoot me either.

“Please,” Will says. “Can’t you see she’s sick?”

The guy smiles, but it doesn’t reach his dark eyes, not entirely. “I’d like you to surrender your firearm, Ms Nordqvist. Two fingers only, please.”

The barrel of his gun has not wavered a fraction of an inch during this exchange, so I do it, nice and slow.

“Kick it over,” he says, then glances at Will. “You too.”

That bit of business completed, the guy seems to relax a little.

“I’m with the Met,” he says. “An hour ago, I would have been obligated to take you into custody for immediate extradition to Raven Rock pursuant to an inter-prefectural arrest warrant issued last night. As it stands, I am no longer required to do so.”

“What then?” Will says hopefully. “You’re letting us go?”

“Not exactly.” He keys the door open and motions for us to step through. My knees choose that moment to buckle and I find myself staring up at the ceiling. The strip of fluorescent lights doubles, then triples. “I’m taking you to my uncle, Rafiq. Unless you’d prefer to go with your friends at Customs.” He laughs evilly. “You can’t miss them. They’re holding up a little sign that says
Nordqvist
.”

The next minutes are foggy and endless, but with Will’s help, I manage to stagger out. Our escort must be high up in the Metropolitan Police because he knows the code for every secure door in the bowels of Nu London station and gets us through without incident. As expected, it’s raining, a steady drizzle. He hustles us into a blue-black Rolls, flips on the wipers, and we’re off. Through my blurred vision, Nu London looks a lot like Raven Rock. Grey and crowded. I guess there’s only so much urban planners can do underground.

The main difference is that the city is multi-level instead of being spread out. It’s like a three-dimensional maze and I quickly lose any sense of whether we’re above or below where we started.

“How did Rafiq know to send you?” I ask as we turn left into a long, downward-sloping tunnel lit only by the car’s powerful high beams.

“We weren’t sure, but he felt there was a decent chance you’d run here. The choices are rather limited.” He glances in the rearview. “They amended your description early this morning. How’d you do that anyway? It’s quite realistic.”

I shut my eyes and rest my head on Will’s shoulder. I think I have a fever, a high one. I really hope I didn’t pick up something nasty in Rebekah’s lab.

“That’s because it is real,” I say.

He looks like he doesn’t believe me, but refrains from commenting.

Will is almost back to normal. I’m not, not at all. I can tell from looking at my hands. Something is wrong. Cold fear grips me and I shake it off. “What are they saying about us? What are we wanted for exactly?” I ask, as if it matters.

“Let’s see. You kidnapped a military scientist and broke into the Helix to steal proprietary vaccine research, presumably to sell to the highest bidder, the implication being Greenbrier. Two guards are dead, a third critically injured.”

So nothing about Will, or human subjects. Of course. They would have mopped up Level Four in a hurry.

“Do you believe any of that?” I ask.

“I trust my uncle. He wouldn’t help you without good reason.”

“Who’s he talking about?” Will says in a low voice.

“Old friend of my mother’s. He helped me get you out.”

“Then I like him already,” Will says.

I take his hand in mine. Even after all he’s been through, what they did to him, what they did to Nileen, he still trusts in human decency. It’s his nature, although he doesn’t realize it and would probably deny it. I’m different. And right now, it’s a good thing. Because as grateful as I am not to be dead or hooded and cuffed on a train back to Raven Rock, I still don’t know why Rafiq is doing this, where he’s sourcing his information, what he’s getting out of it. In my experience, most people are motivated by self-interest.

“Since we’re buddies now, can I have my gun back?” I ask in a sweet old lady voice.

He keeps his eyes on the road. “No.”

That’s the last conversation until he steers the Rolls up a long driveway and parks beneath the carport of a decaying stone heap. It must have been a pretty impressive mansion once, but now a patina of black slime coats the facade and the formal gardens are withered and brown. I figure we’re at least twenty miles outside the city; it’s very quiet, except for the soft patter of the rain.

“Come, Uncle’s waiting,” our escort says.

I’m not thrilled about walking in there unarmed. Under different circumstances, I’d jump him and take his weapon, but he doesn’t strike me as particularly soft. Plus I feel awful. He seems to guess what I’m thinking because that tiny smile softens his expression for a moment.

“It’s not a trap,” he says. “And if it were, there’s not much you could do about it.”

I can’t argue with his logic so we follow him inside, down a long, gloomy hallway. The décor is Victorian revivalist, lots of dark velvet and faux wood paneling with oil paintings of pre-Transition English country life. They can’t be originals, but must have been commissioned specially. This is a man who yearns for the past.

We enter a large study, with a holofire dancing in the grate and bookshelves covering two walls. Unlike Kozlowski’s pristine collection, these are mostly in poor shape, their bindings loose or missing completely, the pages yellow and brittle with age. The third wall is oddly blank, unadorned by even a single picture or photograph.

The fourth is dominated by two tall stained glass windows depicting the Furies tormenting a naked and hunted-looking Orestes, who has just killed his own mother in revenge for
her
murder of his father. The work is beautifully executed, although I have to wonder about a person who enjoys that kind of reminder of our collective sins.

He’s sitting in an armchair before the fire, feet stretched out on a hassock toward the imaginary warmth. He’s enormous, what they used to call a bear of a man. Let’s say Bob’s size, maybe bigger.

He looks up at us as we cross the threadbare carpet and I see that any resemblance to Bob ends there. Rafiq’s eyes are black, with a fierce intelligence behind them, and the lines on his face are deep and melancholy. He has unruly grey hair and a big knobby nose that looks like it would be right at home hovering over a glass of good red wine.

He’s a lot older than my mom, closer to Charlie’s age, although the two couldn’t be more different physically. Rafiq is twice his weight at least, and much less leathery.

He takes in my appearance, and gestures to a loveseat near the fire.

“I’m very glad you’re both here. Now, Jansin, how long ago did you take the drug?” he asks mildly.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Twelve hours maybe.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

I’m having a hard time focusing on his questions. Everything suddenly seems so unreal.

“From the look of things, you exceeded the safe threshold. That’s five milligrams per kilo of body weight. Although in my personal opinion, there is no safe threshold for QPT.”

“What does that mean?” Will says, helping me to the couch. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Drug reactions vary according to the individual. Age, weight, genetic factors all play a role. You see what it did to her on the outside. It’s what’s happening on the inside that concerns me.” He looks over at his nephew. “Samer, call Aviva, tell her to come right away. Tell her we need a detox.”

I lie there, shivering, while Will strokes my hair.

“She’s burning up,” he says fiercely. “We have to get the fever down. Do you have any yarrow or willow bark?” I feel him shift against me. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. Just plain aspirin then?”

Rafiq rises and comes back a few minutes later with a damp cloth, which he lays across my forehead. “She needs more than that,” he says. “My friend is a doctor. She can help, and she knows how to be discreet. The new drugs are quite miraculous. It’s fortunate we found her within twenty-four hours. After that, treatment options diminish considerably.”

I must drift off for a while. When I come back, there’s a woman in the room, young and wearing street clothes. She’s pretty, with short dark hair and a quietly efficient manner. She checks my vitals and runs some blood tests.

“Her BUN levels are elevated, and creatinine is off the charts,” she says, scanning some numbers on a portable lab device. “We’re looking at acute renal failure.”

I feel Will’s arms tighten around me. Where he comes from, bad kidneys are probably fatal. They would be here too, if I didn’t get immediate medical treatment.

“Don’t worry,” she says, swabbing my arm. “I’m going to juice you up.”

“How does it work?” Will asks, as she injects me with something.

“The serum delivers custom-designed molecules at the nano scale. That’s about a hundred thousand times smaller than the width of a human hair. They identify and lock onto foreign particles in the bloodstream, and purge them through the urine. The applications are almost limitless, but the one I just gave her targets the QPT class of drugs. That’s ostensibly an anti-depressant, by the way, but it’s so unstable Nu London banned it a decade ago.”

“Incredible,” Will says. “I mean, that’s really incredible.”

“It’s revolutionizing medicine,” Aviva replies. “Imagine being able to precisely excise a tumor while leaving the healthy cells intact, without surgery or radiation. Or being able to knit torn flesh together at the cellular level, without stitches.”