Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
Is this why?
Can it really be true that huge numbers of people are going hungry because of the way relatively small numbers of people conduct business in this building?
As the statistics fade, they are replaced by names and positions. At the top is ‘FLOOR 90: CHIEF MINISTER PELL’, with a photo of a grey-haired man staring wistfully into the
distance.
The list skips floor 89 and goes straight to 88, which belongs to Deputy Minister Reith. He has a similarly posed picture, facing purposefully out of frame. He is younger than Chief Minister
Pell but wearing the same borodron uniform that we are and has a purple scar that curves around his mouth.
After four more ministers are named, their apparent ages matching their diminishing ranks, the rest of the building’s departments take over the screen and begin scrolling upwards. I look
for anything that could indicate where Rom might be, but the closest thing I spot is ‘ROYAL OPINION COMPLIANCE’ on floor 30. Of all the places listed, this is perhaps the worst place to
start.
Even if we did have the time to try all ninety floors, there is no way large numbers of people are going to be deceived by our disguises for anything other than a cursory glance, and I turn to
Imrin to see if he has any inspiration.
He seems blank and my eyes are drawn to the screen above the entrance, inadvertently gasping at the enormous picture of my face stretching across it.
Above my image are the words ‘WANTED’ and ‘DANGER’ in gigantic letters and underneath is my name: ‘SILVER BLACKTHORN’. I step to the side and see that the
other buildings all have the same photograph. It is the one from the security camera outside Kingsman Porter’s office but it seems as if they have done something to the picture. The silver
parts of my hair are brighter and more defined but my skin is paler, my eyes almost red. They are trying to turn me into some sort of demon, wild and out of control. Not to be approached, not to be
trusted.
I pull the helmet down further until the brim is completely covering my eyebrows. It stops me being able to look up properly, hiding the image from view, but in doing so I end up loosening it
around my ears.
Another lift opens, allowing an additional sprawl of people to cascade towards the doors, a few of them glancing towards us as they hurry away. We have been standing still for too long.
‘Where are we going?’ Imrin whispers.
‘Have you seen anything that could point us to Rom?’
‘We could ask.’
‘Ask who?’ I realise I have raised my voice too loud, as the syllable echoes around the concourse.
‘Look at us,’ Imrin says. ‘Do you think all those people in suits are going to ignore a direct question from a Kingsman?’
He has a point, although I tell him he should do the talking. Neither of us has ever seen a female Kingsman and although the uniform gives me a degree of anonymity, it is not worth pushing our
luck.
I struggle to keep up as Imrin strides towards the stallholders, who are grouped in a gap between two of the central market stands. They are talking quietly to each other but as Imrin nears, one
of them nods towards him and everyone stops. I stay a little behind just in case.
‘Where’s Rom?’ Imrin asks. He has completely changed his voice, putting on a firm, harsh tone that almost convinces me that he
is
a Kingsman.
At first nobody replies, the men looking at each other in confusion.
The one in the middle replies: ‘Who?’
‘We’re here for Rom. Where is he?’
The men are looking nervous; the one who spoke is shifting his weight awkwardly, his eyes darting from side to side.
‘None of us are called Rom.’
Imrin leans in, one hand on his sword. ‘Don’t play games. You guys are here every day – you know where all the departments are and probably most of the people too. Now tell us:
where’s Rom?’
He is controlled yet fierce at the same time, the force of his demand sending a shiver down my spine. I have never seen or heard him act like this but he is playing the role perfectly.
The men exchange looks again, muttering questions and speculating as to whether Rom could be a nickname for someone they know.
It is clear they don’t have a clue but Imrin still warns them that they had better not be lying before marching away. ‘If any of them knew, they would have told us,’ he
whispers as we walk side by side.
‘We could start on the communications floor,’ I suggest. ‘It was on the list of departments and Knave is having a problem with communications. There could be something
there?’
With no other plan, we head to the lifts, pressing the Kingsmen’s thinkwatches to the sensor and stepping inside. I have never been in an elevator before but Imrin takes control, typing
‘43’ for the communications department into a keypad on the wall and then winking at me.
Nothing happens for a second or two and then, in an instant, it feels as if we have been thrown into the air. My knees wobble at the sensation of zooming upwards and there is pressure around my
temples as my vision becomes fuzzy. After a couple of seconds, the doors fizz open but my first few steps are more of a stagger as I try to get used to being on steady ground again.
‘Come on,’ Imrin whispers unhelpfully, stepping outside.
I try not to stumble as I pass three suited workers waiting to enter the lift. Their eyes are on me but I edge out of their way until Imrin grips me by the arm, pulling me towards the wall.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just dizzy. I’ve never been in a lift before.’
‘Me neither.’
As I begin to get my bearings, I see that we are in a white corridor that stretches as far as I can see in both directions. At regular intervals, there are either more corridors branching off on
each side, or grey metallic doors.
Both ways look the same, so I start walking in the direction I am facing, feeling stronger with each step.
‘When was the last time you ate?’ Imrin whispers.
I ignore him, stopping to look at the first door. There is no handle but a small grey scanner fixed to the wall. The name ‘Ulises Noon’ is printed in the centre of the metal, in the
same way the writing on the screens downstairs blends into the glass.
As we walk around the floor, I expect to be interrupted at any moment but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. There are hundreds of doors, all sporting different names, but we
can’t see anything that gives us a clue where Rom is. As we reach the far end, there is a corridor that encircles the edge of the floor. I stop to stare out over the plaza. My image has
disappeared from the front of the buildings, replaced by the time and, for a moment at least, I forget where I am. Through the gap between the towers, I can see a mix of houses beyond the plaza and
then miles and miles of green beyond that.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Imrin says.
‘We can’t stay here for much longer.’
‘Did Knave tell you anything else about Rom?’
‘Just that they thought he or she was in the North Tower. They didn’t even know if Rom was a man or a woman. I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to find
them.’
Below us, there is a small group of people rushing from the North Tower in a straight line across the central plaza towards the South Tower. They are like ants, tiny dark dots against a bright
white background.
‘I think I’ve taken on too much,’ I say. Hearing the words out loud makes it more real. It is something I have been thinking for a little while, ever since Vez held a knife to
my throat. Perhaps before that.
There is a new-found enthusiasm to Imrin’s reply: ‘We can go and do everything we spoke about when we were at the castle. Think of all the houses we’ve already seen abandoned
– there are all sorts of places we can live for years uninterrupted.’
‘What about the others?’
‘It’s up to them. They can do their own thing or they could come with us. We’ve already shown we can get by without official rations. We can live freely.’
In the distance, the endless fields seem so welcoming; the bright winter sun makes them glow a wondrous shade of green. There could be much worse places to wake up but my mother and Colt flit
into my mind. Throughout our escape and what we have gone through since, I have always had it in the back of my head that I would get back to them some day.
‘We’re getting nowhere,’ I say, ignoring his suggestion. ‘We’ll head downstairs and check the department listings one last time. If we’re at a complete loss,
we can always head back to Knave and see if he has any other plans.’
Imrin doesn’t reply but I can sense his disappointment.
We return to the lifts via the same route, passing a few larger rooms that are unmarked. For all I know, there could be a simple switch on the inside of any of them that could solve all the
communication problems. As we reach the lifts, I see a glass information panel on the wall like the one on the ground floor. I don’t remember it being there before but because of my earlier
dizziness and eagerness to get away from the people waiting to get into the lift, it is no surprise.
It lists every person working on the floor and as I press the name ‘Ruth May’, directions appear, pointing us towards her office. Somehow we walked straight past it.
‘What do you think?’ I ask. ‘Ruth something-beginning-with-O May? Rom?’
Before Imrin can reply, the lift doors hum open. A face I recognise steps out of the lift, the purple scar brighter in real life than in the photo I saw on the ground floor. Deputy Minister
Reith glances both ways before settling on us. He is flanked by two Kingsmen who are standing to attention.
He takes a step forward and I think he is going to continue walking past us but then, in a snipped, efficient voice, he tells us to follow him.
Deputy Minister Reith spins on the spot and heads back into the lift, trailed by the other two Kingsmen. Imrin and I have no choice but to follow, the elevator door swishing
shut behind us.
Although there is plenty of room for the five of us, my head aches as the lift glides upwards. There is the rushing feeling I had from before but I also have an almost overwhelming sense of
being cramped. I try to focus on the space between us but that only makes it worse. Imrin is right that I haven’t been eating enough but it feels like more than that, as if someone is
squeezing my head.
Reith is facing away from me, the other two Kingsmen sandwiched in between us. Imrin is next to me but staring fixedly ahead and standing rigidly straight. My knees wobble and I almost reach
forward to steady myself. Imrin glances sideways but doesn’t move.
Just as I feel I cannot take the pressure any longer, the door slides open. I want a second or two to compose myself but don’t get it as Reith bounds forward with the Kingsmen in single
file behind him. Imrin follows and I somehow force my legs to move. If any of the others were to glance backwards, they would surely see my uncertainty but they remain in line as the Deputy
Minister marches away.
Floor 88 is a complete contrast to the communications level. Instead of long white corridors, there is an enormous open space. With no walls to impede the view through the window, we can see
through a gap in the towers towards a horizon that is so far away it may as well be the edge of the earth. The small areas of houses I could see are now specks, the green of the fields interrupted
constantly by grey flattened areas of destruction. Although my head is clearing, the view is so stunning that I have to remind myself to walk, skipping a few steps until I am behind Imrin.
Aside from the view, it is striking how empty the floor is. We are heading towards a wide desk that has a bank of screens and a clock integrated into the window behind it. We have been in the
building for over an hour.
The first Kingsman stops as Reith walks around the desk and sits in a huge throne-like chair on the other side. On the table in front of him are six thinkpads and a few black and grey metal
boxes. The monitors behind him are showing live images from cameras surrounding the plaza.
‘Leave us,’ he says crisply.
I am confused at what he means but the Kingsman in front spins and begins marching towards the lift from which we just came. The second follows and, as Imrin half-turns, Reith speaks again.
‘Not you.’
Imrin meets my eyes but I don’t know what to do. We are almost at the top of a skyscraper with one lift to get us in and out.
The other Kingsmen stride away, their heavy footsteps echoing rhythmically around the sparse room until they reach the lift. They step inside and the door slides shut behind them.
I turn to face the Deputy Minister but he is already staring at me, gaze darting up and down my uniform before settling on my face.
‘Sit,’ he says.
Imrin moves first, pressing into the hard metal chair in front of us. I follow his lead, feeling the pressure of the Minister’s stare burdening me. The borodron slides against the hard
seat and I do all I can not to look back up. I know he is still watching as an uncomfortable silence develops.
‘Take your helmets off.’
I feel that familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. He must know who I am as there is no other reason he would ask. Imrin doesn’t move but there is little point in resisting.
As I remove the helmet, there is a popping sensation in my ears and the dizziness takes hold again. I feel freer without it but there is now no hiding who I am. With the helmet on my lap, I
defiantly pull my hair back, before flicking the silver strand forward, allowing it to fall across my face. There are stars in my eyes but I blink them away before finally meeting Reith’s
gaze.
‘Ms Blackthorn, I believe.’
‘Surely you don’t need the reward rations?’
He smiles thinly. ‘One can never have too many rations.’
I struggle to focus on his face, still blinking, this time in annoyance.
‘I take it this is your first visit to Middle England,’ he adds.
‘Obviously.’
‘You shouldn’t worry about your eyes and your head. Most people get that the first time they use the lifts. It is a type of motion sickness. My people downstairs tell me it
isn’t uncommon.’ I wonder why he is telling me this but then the tone of his voice changes. ‘Oh . . .’