“What is it?” I whisper. “Why do you have the nightmares?”
I’m not expecting an answer.
He lowers his eyes and twists the covers in his hands as he speaks. “We were all out by the rift—my family, friends, cousins, on our way to a family wedding. I was ten. We were attacked. An ambush. Most of them died. Cousins and friends. All children and teenagers. I was one of the few who escaped unharmed. Freya was not so lucky. She took a hit and lost her leg. Too many died. I couldn’t help.” He opens his mouth to say more but shuts it again. His shoulders rise and fall as he stares into the space.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Horrifying images fill my head. “I’m truly sorry. Who—who attacked you?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “A pack of savage soldiers sent by Captain Sebastian. Like always. And I couldn’t stop them.”
“Are—are you sure it was the government, though? Maybe—maybe they thought they were under attack?”
He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. “They felt threatened by an unarmed family on their way to a wedding? Threatened by a group made up of mostly children? And it was the government. It is always them. When you have been treated like animals, hunted and slaughtered for decades, you come to know your tormentors.” He grinds his teeth.
Weddings. Children. I’ve never once even linked these words to the Anthropoids.
“I’m really sorry. And what could you have done? You were too young.”
“I should have done something.” He shrugs.
“You’re being unfair to yourself.”
“You blame yourself for the attack on the sub. You made a mistake. We all . . . we all make them.” He pauses then, deep in thought.
My mistake hurt us all.
“What do you fear most about the water?” he asks, in his low, rich tones. “How can you enjoy racing through it and also fear it?”
I fix my eyes on the russet covers.
“Please,” he says.
I shrug, my face warming. “I don’t know . . . I’ve always loved being out in the water, but it also terrifies me. I especially really hate the poorly lit areas, and anyplace I’m not already familiar with. I just imagine all sorts when I’m in that situation. I—I tried to overcome it once, with a freefall. Let myself drop through the depths, trust in my instincts. But”—I shake my head—“it didn’t exactly work out.”
“Leyla . . . look at me. Please.” His voice is so husky, so deep.
I raise my gaze to meet his.
He opens his mouth, then pauses before speaking, as if unsure whether to go on. “They’re fake. The earthquakes—they’re not real.”
I stare at him. “How do you mean? How the bloody hell can you fake an earthquake?”
“Because it’s true. They’re planned explosions. I saw one with my own eyes in London. A civic sub arranged one of the ‘quakes.’ ”
“Stop, please. I really can’t take any more right now.”
“Why would I lie? You need to know they’re fake. The water itself isn’t as scary as you think, Leyla. . . . You’ve just been conditioned to believe it is.”
“Please, Ari. The earthquakes can’t be fake. They’ve killed people!”
“You don’t trust me?”
I want to. I did—before I found out his identity. I search his face. He wouldn’t lie about this. But it’s too confusing. It’s all too much. All I can think lately is why, why, why.
I stand. For all my desire to learn the truth, right now I honestly don’t think I can take on any more. These revelations are far bigger than me, and I just don’t know what to do with them. Each one is strange and terrifying.
My throat hurts. I swallow but the lump remains. “I—I hope you get some restful sleep.”
He holds my gaze, twisting the beads around his neck, and nods.
I return to my own room and bed, looking up at the ceiling in the dim golden light.
Anthropoids feel pain.
We’ve always been told they don’t, and that’s why they’re oblivious to ours. But it isn’t true. Because Ari was in pain recalling the incident that took so many lives. The look in his eyes . . . I find myself wishing I could make the pain go away. I shake myself; I should focus instead on what he said.
Would the government really fake earthquakes just to keep us fearing the water? Why? It seems too far-fetched. It simply can’t be true.
Is anything true anymore? It’s a world full of deceit and uncertainty. What does the future hold for people governed by secrets and lies—and fear? Do I even still care about the truth? Lately, the truth’s been one horrifying reveal after another. How is it better? Why did I so desperately seek it?
I hate them. I absolutely, truly hate Captain Sebastian and the
Blackwatch. To take Papa as they did . . . And the attack on innocent people in the Faroe Islands—to hurt children like that. I shudder at the horrific images forming.
And where will it all end?
It feels like I’m circling the edges of one of the many whirlpools that sprang up all over the globe after the disaster, sucking in anything and everything in their way. But I have to keep my mind clear.
I must find Papa before Captain Sebastian catches up with me.
Ari walks over to the seating area and eyes the reports I’m reading. “Government funding?”
I glance up from the digital files hovering over the table laden with breakfast food. Something feels different today with Ari. After last night when he told me what caused his nightmares, he seems less guarded. And yet we both seem to be more aware of each other, which is maddening.
“I was thinking about stuff last night . . . after you told me about the earthquakes. I couldn’t sleep. And well, one of the things that drives me up the walls is the worship of crumbling buildings. Did you know the government spends a ton trying to keep old London propped up? Well, I thought it was just old London, but I’ve found out this morning it’s everything old—all over the country, an obscene amount of funding goes toward maintaining Old World buildings and structures. Look.” I swish the funding reports in his direction. “It’s something that’s always done my head in. So I got up early and started reading the public records. One thing led to another, and before long I was staring at the annual expenditure reports the treasury releases. When you compare where the government is actually spending, against more urgent requirements like the funding for seasickness, the results are pretty rotten.”
“The Underground . . .” Ari says, opening up another file.
“I haven’t got to that yet, but I’m not surprised.” I’m about to turn back to the page I was scanning, when my eye catches the one Ari’s skimming. Urgent: Bakerloo Line. “Wait, what’s it saying about the Bakerloo line?”
“They asked for funding—repeatedly. Many sections of the Underground have,” Ari explains as he continues reading. “The Underground tunnels haven’t been touched since the Old Worlders built them, soon as they heard of the coming disaster. This report warns of a catastrophe if the Bakerloo line doesn’t receive funds for immediate, major structural rework.”