Broken Moon Page 2

  “Naiya?” she says slowly, brokenly, as though she is just learning to talk. “Naiya, is that you?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, startled.

  “Naiya?” she says again, looking utterly adrift.

  “Yes,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears, which shocks me. I never cry, not even when Amy disappeared. But something about this frightens me to the core.

  The tall, dark figure seems to ignore my response. “Enoch?” she says, turning to him.

  “Yes.” He looks as though he cannot believe he is awake. I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it. “What – what happened, Amy?”

  She shakes her head. In the absence of my adoptive sister’s usual braids, her hair is high and curly. “I’m not your sister,” she says, “not who you think I am.”

  I almost want to agree. “What do you mean?” I ask again. I can’t think of anything else to say, so alien is the scene.

  “I wanted to be but … I’m not,” she finally finishes, lamely, looking disappointed by her own efforts. “I’m sorry.”

  I look at Enoch, waiting for him to say something, make some sense of this, but he does nothing; as usual, it’s up to me.

  “Then who are you?” The taste of blood suddenly fills my mouth: looking down I see that I’ve torn a cuticle away along with the top of a fingernail. I pull the hand away, pressing it to my pants to curb the bleeding. “Amy?” I ask again, realizing belatedly that I have no other name to call her.

  She merely stares, and my skin begins to crawl as though it were alive. When she opens her mouth again, I cannot be sure if it’s to speak or to scream. In the end, she does neither.

  She simply walks off the ledge.

  TWO

  At first it feels as though I’ve imagined the last few minutes, and nothing more dramatic has happened than the sharpening of my senses, the brightening of the Broken Moon, throwing every shadow and detail into cutting relief. The Top of the World is empty except for Enoch and I, the knapsack sitting in the same place, my hand sticky with apple juice from the core I’m still holding.

  When our eyes meet, though, I accept the truth. Enoch’s are filled with naked fear, and my legs are shaking uncontrollably. He makes a small motion indicating that we should go, we should move, we should get as far away as possible as soon as possible, and I know he’s right. Of course he’s right. But I can’t.

  With a quick shake of my head, I throw off his gently restraining hand, peering over the edge of the drop to her body, lying twisted and unnatural on the landing more than fifty feet below. For one wild moment it occurs to me to jump. I step back.

  “We have to go down there.” I force my voice to steady.

  “Naiya,” he says softly, “no.”

  “No?” I repeat fiercely. “What do you propose instead? We forget? Again?”

  I try to imagine ever putting the sight from my mind. Amy, used and drained and shuffling and empty. Not the way she was before, not even during the worst of her depression. This is something new, something strange and desperate and different. I cannot think where this false copy has come from, or what it means, nor can I envision living with the uncertainties.

  “Enoch,” I say, when he doesn’t answer, “it’s Amy. How can you not need to know? What would you tell Papa?”

  His eyes flicker to his feet, then back again. I can almost hear his thoughts. The dead are beyond our help. We stay away from the dead.

  It’s true. Those who protest disappearances, deaths, tend to find themselves lumped in with the guilty. Everything for everyone rarely extends to protecting someone the Party has targeted. Even we, who often work hand in hand with City officials, who know many of its members by name, would never want to get caught up in anything strange or outside our job description. Anything that might lead to inquiry, or a fall from grace.

  This certainly qualifies. It was bad enough when Amy disappeared the first time, only to reappear, forcing us to reintegrate her into our lives without answers to our many questions. But now I know that the complacency I’ve allowed myself to feel since she returned is wholly misplaced, as I always suspected it was.

  “Enoch.” I’m almost pleading.

  “Let’s go home,” he says, a plea of his own. It’s the closest he’ll come to begging. “Let’s go see her. See that she’s all right. I know she’s all right.”

  It is jarring to hear Enoch echo my assumptions, echo the doppelganger’s words: that this is not his sister. That is not someone we know or love spattered on the grate below, never was. As though somehow that makes it less appalling, less terrifying. I can’t deny that the idea is tempting, to put the whole scene from my mind forever, to see Amy bursting and happy.

  “What if she isn’t dead?” I ask. I glance again at the body, a mere shadow from this height, unmoving. An even more horrifying thought occurs to me, shoves its way into my burdened brain. “Or what if … what if it really is her? What if they … did something?”

  The Party is supposed to be our friend, to help and protect us. But ever since Amy’s disappearance, I’ve had a harder time believing it. Those aren’t fears you voice aloud, though. If you know what’s good for you.

  Still, it was the right thing to say. Enoch hesitates briefly, then nods his assent. He follows me to the ladder up which I’d expected him to appear minutes before, thinking of nothing more than the pleasure of being alone with him. Now I focus firmly on keeping my grip as I throw a leg off the landing and onto the metal rung. The bottoms of my boots are worn, but catch the bars; it is my hands, slippery with cold sweat, that I worry about. But moving deliberately, we make it to the bottom without incident. I turn left, toward the metal landing, instead of right toward the edge of Deck 20, on which our small apartment is perched. Even now Enoch looks as though he might protest, but doesn’t.

  We creep slowly through a small maze of old apartment buildings, now fully abandoned; as the populace dwindles and space opens up, people move lower down, where utilities are cheaper because they don’t travel as far. The thin metal walls rise on either side of us, forming narrow alleys with lots of cover. Still, my breath catches in my throat every time we move into the moonlight.

  I feel a pluck at my belt, and slow. Without having discussed it, Enoch and I have already agreed to total silence. As I turn to him, I see the panic tightening his green eyes as he raises his hand and points once, twice, to the back of his neck.

  Our tracking chips.

  Always on, impossible to deactivate. Fused to the brainstem so that removal means death.

  They are the reason we must be careful even when alone. A single click of a button by the Party or, worse, the Home Guard, can bring up a readout of where I am now and where I’ve been for the last fifteen years, my entire life. Another click will show them who’s in any given place at any given time. With so much of the City to map, reception can be spotty and locations are not exact. But if they know about the apparition we’re tracking, there’s a good chance they know we’re only a short distance away.

  I shrug. I realize the danger, and I’m not turning back.

  We move forward again, coming to the end of the claustrophobic street. At its mouth a small, rusted-out ramp spills down onto the platform where the body lays. The landing comes into view slowly, its metal-grated floor a dim checkerboard in the single gas lamp that burns along its edge. The dark, amorphous huddle at the far end slowly resolves itself into something harsher, more recognizable, with bent limbs and splayed hair dripping through the holes in the grate. I cross lightly to where she lies. Enoch, like a wraith, follows. Our black clothing blends seamlessly with the shadows.

  Bending close to her, I can now see almost every detail in the dim light: the unbound hair, the long, straight nose, the strange white gown I’ve never seen her wear. It looks cheap, and in this weather, very cold. On her feet she wears thin slippers, scarcely better than bare soles on the frigid metal. Blood seeps from a head wound I cannot see and into her dark brown hair, making
it slick and shiny. I touch one arm gingerly. Nothing happens.

  So I merely stare, as though trying to memorize a face I already know so well. The closed eyelids with their long lashes remind me of the years we spent together in the same bed, before she moved out of Papa’s house. Her long arms bring back memories of hugs and comfort, of an adoptive sister who was almost a parent. When I came to live with Papa after my mother died, I needed her desperately. The Party reassigns orphans to new homes at random, and it doesn’t bother seeking out families that will love them. But I got lucky: Papa and Amy provided all the love I’d ever need, even if I never managed to feel like a true part of that family. And even if this isn’t the real Amy, the sight is almost too much to bear.

  The real Amy.

  Startled by the thought, I realize there is one way to check. My eyes flick immediately to her forehead, and gently I smooth aside a lock of wiry hair. Her scar, the big one right across the left side of her forehead, the one she got from a broken windowpane as a little girl, is gone. It’s as if it has been erased without a trace, as if the fleshy toffee-colored mess that she hated, covered by sweeping her hair in front of it, has never been. Which has only two possible explanations:

  Either the scar has been removed, which seems highly unlikely in a City where cosmetic surgery is reserved for the wealthy.

  Or it isn’t her.

  I hear a startled exhalation, and look up to see Enoch staring fixedly at the place where the crescent-shaped blemish used to be – or more likely never was.

  “It’s not Amy,” I breathe, too astounded to keep from speaking. “It really isn’t.” Though I’d known it, finding irrefutable proof of something so bizarre makes me reel.

  “No,” he agrees quietly. “But then, who is it?”

  The body stirs. I bite my lip to keep from gasping aloud, a thrill of foreboding racing up my spine. I glance automatically at Enoch. He looks dismayed, but reaches out to take her cold hand.

  Her eyes flutter, then open on mine. “Naiya,” she says weakly, with more certainty this time. “You shouldn’t … shouldn’t be here.”

  “Listen,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from quavering, checking over my shoulder every other second. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Enoch looks at me like I’m insane.

  “No,” she says weakly.

  “Yes,” I insist. “You’re going to be all right.” Whatever else tonight brings, I can’t just leave her here alive.

  “No,” she insists faintly, “you don’t understand. I can’t do this anymore, can’t be what they want. I tried. I wanted to talk to you, to tell you everything but … it’s too hard.”

  “Tell us what?” I demand, leaning closer. Trying and failing to keep my voice to a hiss.

  “That it’s all … all a lie. All a lie.”

  With a disgusting gurgle, her eyes roll back in her head.

  “No!” I say, bending down to put my face in front of hers and gripping both her shoulders with my hands. I’m not sure whether curiosity or compassion is the right emotion, which one Amy would prefer if she could see this spectacle. All I know is I’m not letting this girl-who-looks-like-my-sister die with the biggest cliché ever the last words on her lips. “What’s a lie? You were never what? Don’t die!”

  “My …. pocket,” is all she says. Her chest rises, weakly, then falls one last time. I jab her neck with two fingers, then a limp wrist. Neither registers a pulse. I want to scream; it feels like Amy’s gone all over again.

  “What should we do?” Enoch says faintly, looking sick.

  The echo of booted feet and the dim murmur of voices answer for him. I scrabble in the pockets of her thin gown, pulling out a white plastic keycard. Glancing around quickly, my eye lands on a bank of commuter lockers, now disused and rusty, but most of all dark, their rows casting deep shadows against the already-deep gloom.

  “Over here.”

  We’ve only just hidden when two Home Guard, their metal-plated vests glimmering like snake scales in the lamp’s hazy blue light, march out onto the metal. I shiver at the sight of them, instinctively afraid of their long, hugely muscled limbs and hard, planed faces. Even the women, like one of the guards in front of me, have imposing physiques and short hair. Every detail suggests brutality, from the spiked boots to the leather weapons belts, each arrayed with knives, electroshock guns and a long, wicked-looking baton. But it is their eyes that seem the strangest, glinting like embers from their sunken sockets.

  They are surreal, but human nonetheless. Even from here I can see a sheen of sweat on each forehead, as though they rushed; only by moving quickly did we beat them here from their Upper City headquarters. They pause, putting fingers to the small earpieces they wear, listening for instructions. Looking furtively into the shadows, they bend and scoop the body up between them, bundling it back out through the walkway from which they emerged. Neither utters a word.

  Nor do I, waiting a beat before I stand up and follow them, slipping the keycard into my pocket, tiptoeing across the mottled grate. If Enoch disagrees with this course of action, he does not say so.

  The presence of two guards only confirms what we knew the second we saw this woman who wasn’t our sister: Here is a mystery best untouched. But I just can’t help myself, not when it might mean something’s happened to someone in my family. Again.

  This time I have to know what it means.

  The moments are tense, my breaths short, the seconds long. Following the figures in front of us, always at a distance, always with the silence of the well-trained, is nerve-wracking. I pad on in mute leather shoes, avoiding a rail I know is squeaky, shimmying up the underside of a bridge while the guards struggle across the top with their deadweight burden. They take only the darkest, most circuitous routes, even up here, where almost everything has been left to the rats. I assume they’re headed to a bigger landing strip to rendezvous with an aircar; the one onto which the body fell was too small.

  After a few minutes, I have to work to control my breathing. Even for us, young and hardened by years of martial arts and physical conditioning, it is hard to keep up with the guards. Their feline grace and unnatural stamina are legendary. As are their implacable natures, their cruelty.

  I can’t help but think of Pip.

  Enoch’s younger brother, he is barely eight years old, and recently chosen for the Home Guard. They took him away for Marking just after his birthday, then returned him a month later. No one knows what takes place during these month-long sojourns – Pip doesn’t remember – or why it happens so early when they don’t leave for training until they are sixteen. We know only that sweet children come back a little more frightening. Not all the time; mostly they are their same loving selves. When they get angry or frustrated, though, you can see the sharpness of their teeth, the first fiery glints in their eyes. Just another way the Party uses us: to raise the boys and girls, our own children, who will later oppress us.

  For our protection, of course.

  I glance ahead, trying to imagine Pip one of these lithe keepers of the law, inexorable, killing if he has to. Not that the Home Guard seem to mind it, and by then he probably won’t either. I suppress a shudder, still crushed by the wound Pip’s departure left on Papa’s soul, and keep moving. We’re getting close to one of the old main squares; I’m assuming the guards will stop there to meet their transport.

  Irrationally, I wish for a tree to hide behind, bushes and leaves, organic screens that offer so much cover on the City floor, where many of our missions take place.

  It is a vain hope. There is no green in the Upper City. Here, the Home Guard and Party officials exterminate wild plants and cultivated alike with impunity – anything that might take root in a patch of dirt. Everyone relies on the City, never on themselves. A man who could grow his own food might not work so hard in the fields, after all. Down in the Lower City, where the elite are allowed their pleasure gardens, things are different. I wish I were there now, walking along the sunny p
erimeter, peering through wrought iron fences at well-tended roses and their well-heeled gardeners.

  But I’m not there. I’m here. And the body is now right in front of me, swaying limply in the arms of people who can no longer do her harm, but who never meant her any good. I wonder where they’re taking the corpse, what indignities are in store for it. More than anything, I wonder how anyone could find the means, or the nerve, to replicate a person.

  If that is what happened. If this is a copy.

  It can’t be Amy. It isn’t.

  I swallow hard as we pause, waiting for the two guards to awkwardly negotiate a short ladder to the landing below. It is thin, made of brittle and disused metal. Much of the Upper City is like this, dangerous and corrupted by time, made of iron and steel instead of replaced with newer, stronger airmetal, like the decks below. As the guards leave the ladder and duck onto a covered walkway, we descend hastily. In the open, with the wind clawing at my hair and neck, I feel exposed. Like prey, rather than predator.

  But I follow, the questions burning a hole in my mind.

  Who was that girl?

  The further we go, the longer we stay in the same vicinity as these guards and their gruesome charge, the clearer it becomes that Enoch doesn’t feel the same need for answers. He tugs urgently at my sleeve, but I ignore him, dancing catlike across a narrow beam, suspended underneath a railroad track and over thirty feet of empty space. He says nothing, but I can hear his curses nevertheless. I know he would never leave me behind, and I’m shamelessly using that knowledge to make him follow me. It must be infuriating.

  My heart grins, even as it tries to climb into my esophagus.

  It occurs to me to wonder whose side Papa would be on: Enoch’s, for being careful, or mine, for wanting to know the truth. Probably Enoch’s. I’m not even sure what I hope to achieve, following them like this: see where they go? Try to save the body? It doesn’t seem to matter; I feel duty-bound not to forget the way I tried to last time. I feel like I owe it to Amy.