Green Jack (13 page)

The light from
a guard’s rifle pierced her. She squinted, trying to look confident
and bored, and not like someone smuggling magic. She tossed him the
passage coin. Her pack grew heavier, filling with leaves and
flowers and berries. The grass at her feet was suspiciously thick.
“Now?” He asked. “During a riot?”

“Why do you
think I’m here?”

“Aren’t you a
little young?”

“Are you
arguing with the Directorate’s orders?” she returned, heart
thumping like rain on a metal rooftop. “Or with Cartimandua?”

“No,
ma’am.”

Under any other
circumstances she would have snickered at being called ma’am.

“Pass,” he
finally barked.

The gates
clanged shut behind her.

Chapter
18

Jane

Bombs and riots
didn’t excuse you from parapet duties, it only made you feel as
though you hadn’t slept in a month. They sent a doctor to her but
he proclaimed her bruised but well enough for duty. She put on her
uniform, aching all over.

But the pain
suddenly meant nothing when she saw the moon rising pink over the
rooftops. She’d seen that pink moon too many times inside her own
head: at the cella when she read for Killian, in the club.

And now,
finally, when she was due to be on watch at the parapet.

She knew there
was no doubt some scientific explanation for the colour, pollution
or light particles. But to her Oracle trained sense, it was an omen
hanging in the sky, the pink eye of an invisible creature watching
her. She could taste the ritual anise seed tea on her tongue, even
though she hadn’t had a cup since her dawn meditation.

The pink light
touched everything: the parapet stones, the birch trees, the white
cella marble dome.

And
Cartimandua.

She wore her
usual leather tunic, her short hair like sleek feathers. “Jane,”
Cartimandua smiled.

Jane forced a
smile she hoped didn’t make her look as nauseous as she suddenly
felt. “Hello.”

Something about
Cartimandua’s pale eyes made Jane think the woman could see right
through her, could peel her open like a pomegranate and pluck her
secrets like seeds the colour of blood. It was more than the fact
that she had the entire Protectorate army at her beck and call, and
the backing of the Directorate councils. She was their saviour, and
she could do no wrong.

“How are the
headaches?”

“Better, thank
you.” Where was her usual trick of fading unnoticed into the
background when she really needed it?

Cartimandua
circled around her, touching callused fingertips to Jane’s eye
tattoo. “A new mark, isn’t it?”

“I’ve had it
for a year now,” Jane replied haltingly. The soldiers watched her
curiously. She doubted people like her often held Cartimandua’s
attention. She clenched her hands so they wouldn’t tremble.

“Hmm. You’ve
tested very well with the viewers in the Core. I’m interested to
see what you can do, Jane.”

If nothing
else, Cartimandua was proving, under the pink moon, that Jane was
right. Her fear of being alone outside the Enclave was rightly
outweighed by her fear of being not alone inside the Program.

There was also
an unexpected benefit; if Jane could stop her heart from pounding
so hard she felt faint. Cartimandua was distracting the soldiers
and the others working their shifts. They jostled to impress her.
All eyes followed her, even Jane’s guard. An idea tickled at her.
It was madness, suicide.

The pink moon
urged her on.

She’d been
trained to follow the omens. Why stop now, when she needed them
most? She was wearing her parapet uniform which doubled as a
survival suit, in case of attack. Cartimandua was pulling
attention. All she had to do was find a way to get rid of her
guard. Kiri’s hydrangea petals ought to do the trick. If she could
just get the guard to drink it.

She ducked into
the parapet kitchen when Cartimandua finally moved away. It was
tiny and sparse, but it had drinking water and canisters. Jane
filled one up, dropping bruise-blue petals into it. She added anise
seeds to cover the taste.

“I’m going to
go for a run before my shift starts,” Jane told her guard, who was
craning her neck, trying to catch another glimpse of the Legata.
“Just to loosen up.”

Jane ran hard,
looping twice around the hilly blocks, until her Protectorate guard
was wheezing and grateful for a long drink from Jane’s canister

She didn’t have
to wait long for it to take effect. Just long enough for sense to
start returning. Who did she think she was? She couldn’t survive
out there on her own. They’d charge her with desertion,
treason.

Run, the pink
moon urged. Run now.

“Are you all
right?” Jane asked her guard, making sure to sound concerned. In
truth, she was a little worried she’d used too many petals. She
wasn’t a Seedsinger after all.

The guard
groaned something unintelligible.

“I’m taking my
watch now,” Jane added. “At my usual station, so take your
time.”

Instead, she
followed the track for foot patrols around the perimeter. She was
usually stationed up top, better with a crossbow than actual
combat, but no one noticed. Her guard was still retching in the
bushes. Hopefully it would be awhile before anyone realized she was
gone. Jane walked with away with calm, purposeful steps, as she’d
seen countless others do on patrol. If sweat soaked her spine under
her uniform, no one had to know.

The suburbs
outside the Enclave were vast and dark and dangerous. She broke
into a run, twitching at every sound, avoiding the bones piled on
the road. Part of her, too much of her actually, wanted to turn
right around and go back to where it was safe. She couldn’t even
stand up to Asher’s bullying with any degree of success. She was
going to get eaten by wild dogs before she even made it down the
street. Was the Garden so bad? She’d be taken care of, fed,
protected. Trapped.

The pink moon
was still watching her, urging her on.

Chapter
19

Saffron

Saffron had
never been beyond the Wall.

They said there
were stars over the rest of the world, millions of them. She’d only
ever seen the North star, it was the only one bright enough to
struggle through the layers of pollution, weather controlling
chemicals, and replacement ozone.

She already
missed Oona and Killian. It was a physical ache under the
breastbone, like an infection. Only comfrey and honey tea wouldn’t
cure the hollow empty grinding. She had nothing but her own
stubbornness to comfort her. She’d see this through because Oona
wanted her to. And because spiting the Directorate was as good a
destiny as any she’d find in the Core.

The artificial
glow of the Rings was surprisingly pretty from a distance. She
couldn’t see Killian, of course. But she knew that he was running
home. They were both running, only this time in opposite
directions. It felt wrong. They always did stupid things together.
She didn’t know what to think, here on the other side without
him.

The Enclave was
several hours walk from the City borders. To the west were the most
affluent homes, and therefore more soldiers. The northern and
eastern border gave way to the Badlands. It would take her at least
three days to reach them, if she was lucky. And longer to reach the
Spirit Forest. A week, maybe two. Assuming she didn’t get lost. Or
tracked. Or killed.

A lot of
assumptions, actually.

Never mind the
long arm of the Directorate, she’d have to deal with the Ferals and
folk more desperate than her. Still, she was Elysian. She could
handle it. Probably better than she could handle the lingering
taste of green on her tongue, courtesy of the leaf mask. It was
alien, and only served to remind her that she was alien now too.
She wasn’t even sure if she was still human. She was a Green Jill.
She wasn’t Saffron anymore, not really.

No. If nothing
else, she would still be Saffron. She’d see to it. She’d given up
everything else, given up Oona and Killian. Damned if she’d
sacrifice that too. A tough promise from a girl with nothing but a
pack on her back, a stolen Green Jack mask, and the rubble of the
suburbs to the horizon.

There was just
enough moonlight to make out the hulking shadows of houses,
identical even in their disrepair. Lawns had long since turned
weedy. The suburbs might be abandoned but they were investigated on
a regular basis by the Protectorate. The yard was a tangle of
overgrown leggy rosebushes with silver thorns like daggers. There
was an algae-thick pool sunk into the ground, left over from the
last century. People used to paint them blue, and fill them with
chemicals in order to float in them. The idea of wasting that much
water was shocking, not to mention illegal.

A shadow
swooped down, interrupting her tangled thoughts. Her neck prickled,
the tiny hairs like frozen needles. She reached for a knife but
kept walking.

Another shadow,
circling.

Never mind the
Protectorate, she was going to be torn apart by bonebirds before
she’d even walked an hour outside the City. Perfect. They’d been
genetically manipulated out of vultures during the Lake Wars, to
eat the dead. Fire was too dangerous to burn all of the bodies
since water was too precious to put out the flames if they spread.
So the bodies were dumped in the suburbs for the bonebirds. There
were bones all around her, pushed against the curbs, crumbled to
dust in the middle of the road.

The bonebirds
were huge, with a wingspan as tall as her, talons thick as branches
and sharp curved beaks. Their bald heads gleamed, pink as raw
flesh. Oona talked about thunderbirds sometimes, how they blinked
lightning, brought thunder on their wings, and made sure humans
kept their promises. Bonebirds might be as big, but otherwise they
were nothing like that. They only new hunger. An appropriate totem
for Elysians, come to think it. One of them shrieked at her. Her
daggers wouldn’t do much good. She might stop one, but the others
would tear her scalp from her skull before she had a chance to wipe
the blood off her blade.

The closest
house only had half a front door swinging uselessly on rusted
hinges, and it was the wrong half. She’d have to try for the
crumbling church with the stained glass windows. As she launched
into a run, there was a powerful slash of wings above her. A talon
scraped her shoulder, slicing through the thick uniform to her
skin. The smell of wet feathers, rotting meat and rancid breath
filled her nostrils when she gasped for air.

She hit the
door hard, kicking it until it finally gave way. She slipped inside
but a bonebird was already trying to force his way through one of
the broken windows. Black downy feathers filled the air. Blood
smeared on the brightly coloured glass.

She lodged a
broken chair against the window frame, the bonebird pecking at her
fingers. Blood pooled between her knuckles. She backed into the
main nave, the benches thick with dust. Mould furred the faded
statues.

She wedged a
kerchief under the torn shoulder of her jacket, pressing down on
the gash. She’d pack it with cobwebs later; she wasn’t likely to
run out in this dusty place. She pulled the leaf mask from her
pack, handling it as gingerly as a ferret that might turn on her
without warning. It had been flat grape leaves and knobbly oak when
she’d first found it but they were changing. Vines unfurled,
clinging around her wrist. They were so thin and delicate she’d
have had to use a fine-point marker to draw them. Paint was too
wild, brushes too coarse.

She knew
nothing about Green Jacks, beyond the basics from countless public
service announcement. Nothing reliable to say the least. Green
Jacks were a mystery, and carefully kept that way.

Only they were
no longer “they”.

That comforting
distance was gone. She was one of them now.

Chapter
20

Jane

It took a long
moment for Jane to figure out why this particular suburb street
she’d never seen before was so familiar.

The moon hung
like a glass lantern flickering out as the sun rose steadily behind
her. The tall steeple of a crumbling church grasped at it but fell
short. She knew the shadow of that steeple. One omen leading to
another. Something nameless and primal skittered up her spine as
she slipped inside the church. The silence had a certain quality,
like it was holding its breath. She didn’t have time to
investigate.

A girl with
black braids tangled with leaves flung herself at Jane, pinning her
to the stained glass. She pressed a knife to Jane’s collarbone.
Feeling the bite of the blade, Jane froze.

“I know you.”
Jane recognized the braids, the fierce anger. “I read the omens for
your friend Killian on the steps of the cella.” She turned her head
slightly to alleviate the pressure of the knife inching up to her
throat. Cartimandua might not need to send soldiers after her at
all, she was about to have her throat sliced open by a half-dead
scavenger from the Core.

It probably
served her right for trusting a pink moon.

And then
suddenly, that wasn’t the only danger anymore.

Clouds were
gathering like a rust-coloured puffball mushrooms sending out
deadly spores on the other side of the cracked glass. It smelled
like raspberries and vinegar, and something sharper. “Red Dust,”
Jane croaked. “It will kill us, puncture---“