Broken Moon Read online

  If so, now is not that time.

  He hustles his sons down into the hole, where they quickly find purchase on a ladder and begin to descend. I still can’t move, so Papa takes my arm, steering me toward the bench and pushing me down, gently but firmly. I pause on the ladder, my head now beneath the floor, looking up. The softly lit room crowds about my father like a halo.

  “Listen to your dreams, Naiya.” His hand is already lowering the piece of floor back into place. A thousand questions stampede through my mind, but I know he will not answer any more. There is only one word left to say.

  “Goodbye, Papa Bear,” I say, using my childhood name for him.

  “Goodbye,” he says, and sets the grate over my head. As he does, I see the tears he’s hiding begin to fall.

  FIVE

  Goodbye, Papa Bear.

  The words echo in my head, but they still can’t make me believe this is real. My throat swells as I remember how my adoptive father gave himself that nickname. How I’d told him I didn’t want to call him Papa, to pretend to be his daughter when I wasn’t. It hadn’t fazed him; like everything else, he simply found a solution. Somehow he knew I’d always loved the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, one my mother often told to me at bedtime. He never forced our relationship, and the playful name had allowed me to feel a closeness we might not otherwise have had.

  Hard to believe that was half a lifetime ago.

  With blinding clarity, I remember first stepping through the front door that is still only a few feet over my head. I remember holding the hand of the man I’d grow to love above all others, looking around with wide eyes, taking in the scattered workbench, the army of friendly clocks, the door that opened into the glossy, wood-floored training room.

  I might never see any of them again, I think dully. Papa’s farewell has not exactly filled me with hope.

  “Naiya?”

  Enoch’s voice seems to come from very far away in the murk, but I can feel him stir, the heat of his breath: he must be close. Just whispering.

  My hands clench and unclench, and I exhale a long, shuddering breath that empties me of courage rather than replacing it. Weariness washes over me like a wave. I cannot even muster the energy to be curious about where we are, about this strange space I’d never known existed. Nor do I have any idea how to get free. Nevertheless.

  “We need to go,” I say, willing my limbs to move. They don’t obey.

  A light flares in the darkness. The three of us shy away from it, hands to our faces. Slowly, blinking, we turn toward it, and one another.

  In his hand Enoch holds his power pack. Its lid is flipped open, a small, faceted panel glowing a bright, pearly blue. Beneath the panel’s plastic, just barely visible, are rows of tiny, long-lasting bulbs. He adjusts a small toggle and the light dims, revealing our surroundings. Pipes and valves twine around our heads, disappearing off into the blackness. We are seated on a narrow catwalk with steel mesh for a floor and paltry rails guarding against the forty-foot drop to the nearly black level beneath us, its gas lamps dimmed and apartments silent at this late hour. Even if we fell off the walk, though, the thick network of piping would probably catch us.

  Enoch and I have used such footpaths before, of course; I just never knew they connected to homes. Usually fixing a broken main is the province of City officials, who don’t appreciate Citizens having extra exits. I gaze openmouthed at the ladder down which we descended, cleverly disguised as a supporting strut, its irregularly spaced bars giving no hint as to its true purpose.

  Pip’s gaze is misty and naïve, but I can tell Enoch has made the same assessment I have: We are in the open. The longer we sit here, the more chance we stand of being caught, and of giving away the illegal back door.

  I rouse myself, pulling leaden limbs from the floor and reaching to dry the fresh tears that stain Pip’s cheeks. I give myself permission to think of Papa’s words later, to grieve, to dream of seeing him again. The crumpled paper in my pocket weighs on my soul, but I can’t yet bring myself to look at it. We need to get to the City floor, where the faint interference created by so many metal levels might offer us some protection from our treacherous tracking devices, even if it isn’t much. After that I have no idea what we’ll do.

  “Come on,” I say.

  Both boys follow, rising from the uncomfortable catwalk. Our best bet is to travel at night, when fewer people are out and fewer computer screens are watched. I pull Pip’s coat from my knapsack; Papa must have slipped it in without me seeing. I bundle him into it and shrug into my bag.

  “What’s your clock say?” I ask Enoch, wondering how much of the night we’ve wasted.

  He peers at the small blue window on his power pack, turning it so I can see the digital display: one in the morning. Later than I thought.

  “Are we really leaving?” Pip asks in a small voice.

  I smile as kindly as I can. “We really are,” I reply, taking his hand. I can feel the slight ridges of his Mark.

  “For now,” Enoch adds softly.

  Uh huh, I think cynically. But there’s no point in being a jerk, no matter how permanent this feels.

  The next few hours are a blur. I feel eyes on the back of my neck, the hairs there prickling with a continuous, controlled terror, as I wait for a squad of Home Guard to appear, take us down, bring us in. We’ve left our house against express orders from Doctor Black; how much time can we really have?

  I glance down at Pip, trying to fathom how Papa thought he would be safer here, on the run. He obviously knows something I don’t. I grimace internally; of course he knows something I don’t. A lot, in fact.

  I probably should have told you everything sooner, but I was afraid, he’d said. And now we don’t have time.

  No time. Of course. Classic. I feel just like a heroine in one of my forbidden novels. Only they always seemed sexier doing … this.

  For Pip’s sake, I try to pretend that this is an adventure, though I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He’s been to the Lower City once before, but only on holiday, to see a circus held in the wide, sunlit grounds on the eastern side of the City: a few anorexic-looking animals, some poorly trained acrobats with too much money and time on their hands. It was still the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen, though, and I hold onto the memory as I help Pip down frightening utility paths and herd him through smelly alleys, so different from the slick train ride he took before.

  We stick to the outer edges of each level, which up here are less populated, people preferring to be closer in, to shorten their commutes to the factories. I can’t understand; I like the sun, the sky, the vistas. Perhaps some prefer not to see what they cannot have.

  “Let’s take a break,” I say finally, conscious that the boys are waiting on my signal. Enoch stops, and Pip, whose hand has grown sweaty in mine, stills and stands quietly.

  We stand in a dim square on the edge of Deck 17, sheltered underneath the shadow of the level above. There is a view from here, of green trees and the wide river stretching away. The white shape of a mountain rises in the distance, a distinctive hump protruding near the top of its right side, cast pink in the early light of morning. In the center of the metal plaza, perched atop a crumbling rubber mat, is a single slide, worn rusty by the rains that pummel the City most of the year. Even under this overhang, the moisture is hard to beat. But it’s still early fall, and the weather is clear.

  We look for a place to sit, and I am darkly amused to see Enoch herd me gently toward a pillar at the corner of a square. He pushes me down with my back to it and takes up a guarded position, his body turned slightly outward. He knows I’m every bit the fighter he is, perhaps even better with a knife, yet here he is protecting me. It hasn’t occurred to him to question Papa’s words, which seem almost laughable to me: How can it be that I am “more important than we know”?

  We pull bread and cheese from out knapsacks. I don’t feel hungry at all, but I force myself to eat. When the food hits my stomach, I realize how l
ong it’s been since yesterday’s late lunch.

  “Eat, honey,” I urge Pip, who is staring at his ration with little interest. He obediently takes a small bite of bread and begins to chew mechanically. He stares at his knees, face blank, and I recognize in his demeanor the same determination I feel: to banish the truth by acting like it isn’t there.

  Finishing my meal slowly, brushing crumbs off my legs with unusual care, I put off the inevitable for as long as possible. I can see Enoch glancing at me, but he says nothing. Eventually I sigh in defeat. Digging in my pockets, I pull forth the crumpled paper and the keycard, experiencing the first small spark of curiosity. It feels like a betrayal, being interested in anything when I have no idea what’s happening to Papa high above me. Still, these were his orders.

  Turning the small piece of plastic over in my hands, I scrutinize it for some clue as to what it could unlock. I see nothing, passing it to Enoch with a shrug. He scans it quickly with the power pack, and it beeps softly. He again turns the blue screen to me. This time, instead of a clock, the screen displays a long combination of numbers and letters.

  5HRP217

  Whatever that means. Enoch’s face says he is equally clueless.

  Still, it’s something. I turn my attention next to the scrap of paper, knowing before I open it what I’ll see. A word, a name, written in Papa’s small, spiked hand. Something I’ve seen countless times. Before, though, it was just a job. Now it feels like anything but.

  I unfold the paper and smooth it on my thighs. Enoch is crouched next to me, watching as I reveal a page torn hastily from Papa’s journal, holes from the thread binding still visible on the left-hand side. For a long time I stare, uncomprehending, at the blackly inked letters.

  Enoch lets out his breath abruptly, a warm stream that stirs my hair, still loose down my back, and tickles my ear. A shiver runs up my spine, and I attempt to quash the heat that rises to my cheeks. Unsuccessful, I shift a few feet away, as though stretching. Enoch gives me a quick look, but before I even register it he’s once again gazing down at the small page.

  “Terminus,” he says.

  “Yes.” My lips are numb. “It’s Latin.”

  Enoch just nods. Though I’m the one whose specializes in books, languages, this one is simple. He doesn’t need a translation to know what it means:

  End.

  Feeling faintly nauseated, I wonder if this is some kind of sick joke, a comment on my life as I knew it. Over. I dismiss the thought almost immediately, knowing Papa would never do such a thing, that there is scant humor in this situation.

  “That’s not a name,” Enoch points out, sounding confused.

  I consider that. It’s true that Papa usually gives us something more distinct, epithets of strange places, deities, books: Ur, Jehovah, Upanishads. Words that have been banished, forgotten, but later catch the interest of a professor, a wealthy dilettante. Still, anything could be a name, couldn’t it?

  “It’s what we have,” is all I say.

  We are silent for a long time, minutes that feel like hours. I feel vaguely like we should be in motion, but can’t see how that would make us any safer at this point: traveling during the day is a foregone conclusion. The sun has risen fully now, but is still low enough in the sky to cast golden light between the decks and onto our faces. Despite the welcome warmth, a sense of icy despair courses through my veins. Two new pieces of information, both of which mean nothing to me.

  “Where will we go?” Enoch asks finally.

  “The Cache.” I can’t think of anywhere else.

  “But they’ll be watching it for sure,” he argues.

  “Enoch, where won’t they be watching? The Library, the Tech District, the Archives … none of it is safe. They could be watching us right now; they could know exactly where we are already!” My whisper feels like a shout.

  His lips compress into a thin line, but I can tell he knows I’m right. Our little hideout is no more or less secure than any place we normally go on mission. The Cache is where we drop off goods for safekeeping whenever we venture into the Lower City for more than one item at a time. An old office near Deck 2’s Northern Wall, it is protected by a somewhat flimsy security system Enoch helped Papa fine-tune a few years back. Nothing that would stop the Home Guard if they really wanted in – it was meant to deter curious wanderers more than anything else – but enough to give them pause. We’d never been bothered before, but that means nothing now.

  And at least there I’d be somewhere familiar, feel Papa’s presence. For as long as it took for the guards to find us and end such stupid hopes. I ignore this thought.

  “Besides,” I say, “we need supplies.”

  Enoch looks at me steadily, then nods once. He stands, pulling me to my feet and holding up my knapsack. I slip my arms through, trying not to notice how his fingers brush my neck as he drops it into place. Taking a final swig from a canteen, he slides into his own pack.

  It’s only once we’re on our feet again that Pip finally speaks.

  “I want to see Papa,” he says. “When will we go home?” I look down into his forlorn face, wishing I could give him the answer he wants.

  “Not for a while.” The words hurt coming out.

  “But when?”

  I’ve never lied to Pip before, but I want to now. Still, I can’t bring myself to do it. I settle for equivocation. “You heard Papa. He’s going to find us. We’ll see him again.”

  “And then we’ll go home?”

  “I hope so.”

  “But we might not?” His insistence is wearing on me, beginning to crack the façade I’m only barely managing to keep up. I look to Enoch for help, but he just shrugs.

  “I don’t know,” I respond, struggling to keep my voice even. “I wish I did.” I reach for his hand and begin to walk, but he resists.

  “What does that mean?” he demands. I blanch, surprised by his tone, harsh and slightly aggressive. Turning, I’m shocked to see his eyes glowing the faintest crimson.

  “No,” I breathe.

  “Hey, listen,” Enoch says, a false note marring the reasonable words. He kneels down, in this pose barely shorter than his brother. Reaching his hands forward, he smiles at Pip, opening his mouth.

  Whatever he was going to say is lost in a blur of motion. Pip lashes out viciously, knocking Enoch’s injured hand away with a well-aimed downward chop. His eyes, I’m terrified to see, are a bright red, and his bared teeth look like an animal’s. Enoch smothers his howl of agony as best he can, but it still rings alarmingly through the metal space.

  “Phillip, stop!” I command, aghast. Reaching forward swiftly, I pin his arms behind his back, spreading my legs to protect my shins. But there’s no need: he is suddenly limp, slack in my arms. Twisting, he puts his arms around my waist and begins to cry into my chest. Shaking, I force myself to hug him back.

  “It’s okay,” I say, my fear and anger melting into heartache. I tighten the embrace, but it does nothing to alleviate the crushing sense of guilt.

  It’s my fault he can’t go home.

  * * * * *

  The day is long. An endless succession of walking and pausing, fearing capture and remaining free. We know the City better than almost anyone else, yes, but I still cannot make sense of the fact that no one has come for us. Whatever aegis descending into the City offers, it is not enough to hide a tracking device for a whole day. Perhaps they are toying with me, waiting to see what I will do.

  You have something they need.

  As the sun is setting, we shimmy down our last ladder and onto the City floor. The Cache is on Level 2, but it is too far to travel today, and we prefer the comfort of dirt and scrubby grass beneath our feet. We camp under an old, rotting dock, near the water’s edge. The river is so wide, but we can see the dim glow of streetlamps on the other side.

  I sink to the ground, pulling Pip down with me and putting an arm around him. He looks exhausted, black circles carved into the skin underneath his eyes.

&nbs
p; “Guess what’s for dinner?” I ask him lightheartedly. “Bet you can’t.”

  “Bread and cheese?” he says, unenthused. He barely choked down lunch.

  “You got it.”

  We eat in silence. Papa is the ghostly fourth guest at our meal, intruding on my every thought. I want more than anything to turn around, tear back home, bang down our door, tell him no one’s going anywhere without him. I wish I’d done it when we were still there; silently leaving feels like a physical pain. If I never see him again, I know I’ll always blame myself.

  How tedious.

  Sighing, I pull my knapsack toward me. I haven’t opened it yet today; Enoch has produced food at every meal, taking care of us and leaving me to my glassy thoughts. It is only then that I realize this is the bag into which Papa put the mystery object.

  “Something wrong?” Enoch says, catching my look as he lays out our blankets and moves a now-sleeping Pip onto them. I shake my head, now urgently pulling the pack open, rooting around in the mess: a pen, a journal, some bath tissue, a set of playing cards and an old, grimy stuffed rabbit, an old gift from Papa. Not for the first time, I curse myself for being so messy.

  But then my hand touches something unfamiliar, and the thought is forgotten in the thrill: another clue after all. Holding my breath, grabbing the object, I withdraw it reverently. And gasp in shock.

  A Bible.

  The almost cosmic words echo in my head, impossible to accept. The book Papa once told me was gone forever, burned a million times over, the stories eradicated from memory by decades of cruelty and abuse. No one remembers them now, he told me. “Not even the Barrigans,” he’d whispered, “and we remember everything others forget.”

  So where on Earth he found it, I can’t possibly imagine.

  “The … Bible,” I whisper in a hushed voice.

  “What?” Enoch gasps, coming to look. His eyes bulge as he sees the truth for himself. “I can’t believe it. No.”