Agent nomad 1, p.15
Agent Nomad 1, page 15
Centurion raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘When I get back,’ I said, ‘I want to contact my dad, and my friend Billie. I want to make sure they’re all right, and let them know I still care about them – that I haven’t abandoned them.’
‘That’s it?’ Centurion said.
‘That’s it. Just one conversation – that’s all I need. If you can promise me that, I’ll go to London for you. But I need to let them know I …’ I trailed off, suddenly unable to articulate my feelings. ‘It’s just important, all right? It’s important to me.’
Silence.
Finally, Centurion extended a hand. ‘Very well, Nomad,’ he said. ‘I think that can be arranged.’
An hour later, I stood atop the roof of HQ. Riff and Phoenix stood beside me, tense with anticipation.
My luggage sat by my feet: a wheeled suitcase full of clothes and toiletries, hastily assembled by the Undercover Identity Department. In a hidden compartment, the case contained a false passport, several credit cards and three strings of nightbeads. Somehow, I doubted we’d be smuggling this luggage through customs at Heathrow Airport.
A huge metal shed perched in the middle of the rooftop. It was about the size of my old school gym, and it seemed oddly incongruous here, balancing atop a skyscraper in the middle of the city.
‘Ready?’ snapped a voice.
I turned to see a lone figure striding towards us. To my surprise, she looked to be at least seventy years old. She wore a black shirt and cargo pants, and her thin white hair was scraped into a military bun. She walked with a stiff stride, her wrinkled face set into a web of hard lines and sharp judgement. Her left arm had been amputated at the elbow, replaced by a shining metal prosthetic.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, automatically.
The woman raised a withered eyebrow. ‘If you start calling me “ma’am”, kid, I’ll yank your intestines out through your nostrils. Got it?’
Taken aback, I settled for a nod.
‘My codename’s Dragon,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be your pilot on this mission, and your handler. So if any of you’ve got a problem taking orders from an old lady, speak up now so I’ll know to dump your sorry backside over the ocean and save us all a lot of bother.’
Her voice was forceful, but coloured by a soft twang. My mum had always been interested in dialects and accents, and she’d taught me to identify a few of them. I guessed that Dragon was originally from Northern England, maybe Lancashire, although a lifetime of travel had muddied her accent a bit.
Riff started, looking stunned. ‘Hang on, Dragon? You can’t mean the Dragon who did the Auckland job?’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘But you’re famous!’ Riff said. ‘This is like meeting royalty or something – wait till I tell my parents I met you.’
‘Famous?’ I said.
Riff grinned at me, still visibly star struck. ‘Dragon is one of the most famous agents in HELIX! The best field operative there ever was, they say. She’s worked for the British branch, the Indian branch, the Brazilian branch, the New Zealand branch … pretty much everywhere, really. Everyone reckons she’s a hero.’
‘She is the cat’s mother,’ Dragon said. ‘And I hate to disappoint you, kid, but they wouldn’t say that if they knew the truth of it. The compromises I made …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s the way of the world, though – people just want a hero. They don’t want to know when you get your hands dirty.’
There was a long pause.
‘Can I get your autograph?’ Riff said eagerly.
‘You didn’t take in a single word I just said, did you?’
‘Yeah, course I did,’ Riff said. ‘But I reckon I could flog your autograph to one of the suckers in our class for at least fifty bucks.’
Dragon snorted. ‘Tell you what, kid. If we all get through this mission alive, I’ll give you enough damn autographs to wallpaper your bedroom.’
Riff beamed. ‘Awesome.’
Dragon turned her attention to me now, a calculating look on her face. She twisted her head a little, as though trying to make up her mind about something. ‘So,’ she said, finally. ‘You’re my cargo, are you?’
I blinked. ‘Cargo?’
‘The kid I’m supposed to haul to London.’ As she looked me up and down, her lips settled into a scowl. ‘I know I’m getting on a bit, but I swear you agents get younger every year.’
‘I’m fifteen,’ I said.
‘Aye, I know. You think Centurion forgot to brief me or something?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, I’m starting to figure the world lost its senses when my hair turned white.’
There was a long pause.
Dragon sighed. ‘All right, come on, then. Best get a wriggle on, or I’ll die of old age before we’re halfway to London.’
I stared across the rooftop. Pale clouds drifted overhead, stark and white upon the emptiness. ‘Um … where are we going, exactly?’
‘Lon-don.’ Dragon enunciated each syllable individually, as if I were a bit dense. ‘It’s a city in England. Lots of museums, lots of toffs, lots of bankers. Personally, I’d sooner kiss a toad than live in that over-polished dunghill of a city, but it’s still my country what’s in danger, and I’ll be damned if I sit around here while a bunch of antipodean nitwits rush off to defend it.’
‘I meant, how are we supposed to get there?’
Dragon reached into her pocket, produced a remote control and pressed a button. The door of the shed creaked open. I was trying to play it cool, to look like a professional – but when I saw what lay inside, I couldn’t quite suppress a gasp.
This wasn’t a shed. It was an aircraft hangar.
Three airplanes nested inside, so I focused my gaze on the closest one. It seemed to be painted the exact same shade as the shed, right down to the shadows and dapples of light. It was the size of a bus, with tinted windows, a sharp nose and streamlined wings. It looked almost avian: a metallic hawk, cold and lethal, as it crouched on its nest of concrete.
Riff let out a low whistle.
‘This is the Chameleon S-310,’ Dragon said. ‘A real beauty, this model. She’s saved my life more times than I can remember.’
‘Chameleon?’ I said.
‘Ain’t a normal aircraft, kid.’ Dragon gestured at the shadowy paint. ‘The paint’s a mixture of stabilised protean powder and streaks of liquefied quintessence. Changes colour automatically, see, shifting to match the tone of the sky. Damn near impossible to spot her, unless you know what you’re looking for.’
‘Like … invisibility?’
‘Nah, it’s not invisible. It’s just good at disguising itself. All the HELIX branches fly Chameleons nowadays, although it was the kiwis what first invented ’em.’
Dragon stepped forward with a fond expression, regarding the plane as a parent might regard a precocious child. ‘The pilot hooks her quintessence into the engine, see. Just need a few circuits to jumpstart the machinery, then we fly along telluric currents. This baby doesn’t even need a runway, and she’s fast as any military jet on the planet.’
‘How fast?’ Riff said eagerly.
‘Put it this way,’ Dragon said. ‘If we don’t hit any bad weather, we could be in London in seven hours flat.’
We boarded the aircraft in single file. Inside, there was a small bathroom, half a dozen rows of seats and a closed-off cockpit. A row of gleaming lights shone along the ceiling, pulsating in a formation of odd colours.
Dragon headed straight for the cockpit. ‘Belt up, kids,’ she said. ‘Take-off’s always a bit of a jolt, and I ain’t keen to tell Centurion how your brains got smashed all over the ceiling.’
I selected a seat next to a window, carefully clipped on my seatbelt, and peered out into the shadows of the shed.
‘Well,’ Riff said, ‘I dunno about you lot, but I reckon this is the coolest plane I’ve ever been on. No wonder my parents are always so keen to go off on missions, if they get to zoom around in one of these things.’
Secretly, I would have been just as happy with any plane. I’d always loved to fly. Most people complained about it – the food, the cramped seats, the stale air – but even so, I loved the thrill of it. The excitement of soaring through the clouds towards a new land …
I almost felt guilty about it now. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I hadn’t only agreed to this trip for the sake of my deal with Centurion. This trip would put the final nail in the coffin of my life in suburbia. If you dragged your finger around a globe, London was about as far away from Hollingvale as it was possible to get.
This trip was a return to life before. The life of adventure I had locked away, hidden at the back of my mind where I kept the sting of my mum’s rejection.
As I stared out the window, the Chameleon began to roll forward. We taxied out of the shed onto the rooftop – and as we did so, the air flickered oddly around us. I caught a flash of magic, almost like lightning, and I sat up a little straighter. Perhaps the plane was adjusting its colour, shifting its protean powder to mimic the blue of the sky. I had a sudden urge to pull out a pen and paper, to sketch a glint of wings upon the wind.
‘All belted up?’ Dragon called.
‘Yeah, we’re good,’ I said, after the others nodded.
‘Right, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s fly.’
The Chameleon shot upwards. There was a quiver around us: a churn of magic and technology, engines and motors. Then we blasted higher, soaring up with all the strength and silent fury of a wild falcon tearing into the sky. Higher and higher, faster and faster, until the city fell away below me, swallowed by a bank of rolling clouds.
I clenched my fists. I inhaled.
This was it. An adventure in London, a chance to prove myself, and a reward at the end of it. Afterward, I could contact my dad, and finally speak to Billie. I would let her know that I still cared about her, that our years of friendship hadn’t been a lie. I wouldn’t just abandon her – not like my mum had abandoned me.
Assuming, of course, that I made it back alive.
It was a cold day in London.
The chill hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane, legs stiff and ears sharp with pain from the descent. It was the cold more than anything that convinced me I was really here. I had travelled right around the world, from the southern hemisphere into the north – and from one season into another.
This was real. It was really happening.
At first, I assumed we’d land directly on the roof of British HQ, but Dragon quickly put paid to that assumption.
‘Any of these local agents might be the traitor,’ she said, ‘and right now, we don’t know who to trust. I ain’t about to risk all our lives ’cause you lazy sods can’t be bothered with a bit of extra walking.’
And so we landed on the outskirts of Greater London, in the wreckage of an abandoned industrial park. Dragon steered the Chameleon into the husk of one of the old buildings, tyres crunching over the debris. The site was a cluster of old factories and broken glass, fenced off for public safety.
As we dragged our luggage outside, a cool breeze slapped me across the face, harsh and raw. Concentrating hard, I used my spare hand to tug a few threads of my quintessence into a top-half semi-circle. It was a simple circuit for warmth, straight from Zephyr’s briefing, which I’d been practising in the evenings. The magic swirled and floated around me, shielding me from the chill like an invisible blanket.
Behind us, the Chameleon shimmered and faded to mimic the patchy walls and shattered windows that surrounded it. No one would find the aircraft unless they quite literally bumped into it – and since we’d chosen the most derelict shed, buried deep in the maze of the industrial site, that seemed highly unlikely. A sign proclaimed that the site had been sold for redevelopment, but construction wasn’t due to start until July.
For now, at least, it was a decent place to hide a plane.
‘Now,’ Dragon said, ‘don’t you forget your cover identities. I’m a kindly old grandmother, escorting my beloved granddaughter and her friends on their first big overseas holiday, and you’re a bunch of snot-nosed brats who should be grateful for the trip of a lifetime. Got it?’
‘But you’re English, aren’t you?’ Riff said. ‘Originally, I mean. If you’re pretending to be a tourist …’
‘I’m from England,’ Dragon said, ‘but not from here. I certainly ain’t one of these damn fool Londoners what thinks the whole world revolves around their newest brunch cafe.’
Five minutes later, once Dragon had drilled us on our new identities, we began our trundling trek through the streets to the nearest train station. From there, we caught an overland train into the heart of London. I erased my heat circuit, not keen to waste my quintessence, or to interfere with the other passengers’ electronic devices. Dragon pulled on a pair of woollen gloves, which subtly disguised her prosthetic hand.
‘Don’t fancy standing out,’ she muttered, when she caught my questioning glance. ‘Last thing we want is to be memorable.’
As soon as we descended underground at Paddington Station – and heard the loudspeaker politely instruct us to ‘mind the gap’ – a wave of nostalgia washed over me, so strong that it took my breath away. The London tube. Tiles on the floor, ads on the walls, and murderous glares at anyone who dared to stand on the wrong side of the escalator.
In a strange way, it felt like coming home.
I grinned at Riff, almost giddy with the sudden rush. ‘My mum and I, we always … I mean, we always rode the tube together. Sometimes, on the weekend, we’d just hop on a train to see where it would take us.’
I wasn’t sure what made me say it. It was as if now that I was here, I suddenly needed someone to know. To share the moment. But my need was spliced with an odd sting – a sharp reminder that this time would be different. I was no longer a kid, my fingers knotted through my mum’s gloves. She had abandoned me, and gone on to travel the world alone. Now, I had done the same thing to my dad.
And this time, my family might be broken for good.
I didn’t have long to dwell on this thought. It was a violent pang, quickly brushed aside by the chaos of the tube platform. We bundled up the escalators, trundled down a corridor or two, and followed the signs to find the right line.
‘Where are we staying?’ I asked.
‘City Road,’ Dragon said. ‘Just a cheap chain hotel.’
‘Oh man, really?’ Riff scrunched up his face. ‘I was hoping for a five-star joint near the palace. You know – room service, origami bath towels, little bottles of fancy shampoo …’
Dragon gave him a look. ‘Hate to break it to you, kid, but that’d be a bit beyond our means. We’re a family of ordinary tourists, remember? Nothing too flashy, nothing that stands out.’
‘No dining at the Ritz, then?’
‘Not in this lifetime,’ Dragon said. ‘Think more along the lines of supermarket sandwiches.’
We hopped aboard a circle-line train, cramming our cases into the carriage like Tetris blocks. A couple of businessmen edged away from us, looking faintly fed up with the whole rigmarole. I couldn’t blame them really; we were crammed in like sardines, and it had to be a pain to share your commute with the Leaning Tower of Suitcases.
At Moorgate, we hauled our luggage up the steps into greyish daylight. We checked into our hotel and took a clanking lift up to the seventh floor. As we waited for the lift to rise, Riff leafed through a collection of brochures he’d snagged from a display at reception.
‘What?’ he said, in response to Phoenix’s raised eyebrow. ‘We’re supposed to be tourists, right? Tourists love this stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but you’ve got about fifteen copies of the same leaflet.’
Riff waved a hand. ‘Well, maybe I’m just a single-minded tourist. You know, I’m really passionate about visiting the –’ he glanced down at his fistful of brochures ‘– Medieval Chamber Pot Collection.’
I couldn’t quite hold back a laugh.
We’d booked three adjoining rooms: one for Riff, one for Dragon and one for me to share with Phoenix. As soon as Phoenix and I had dragged our luggage into our room, I made a beeline for the kettle. The room was stuffy, but the windows could be cranked open a little to provide a narrow sliver of fresh air. Unfortunately, our only view outside was the smoke-stained wall of the neighbouring building.
‘Coffee?’ I said, dumping a sachet into a cup. ‘Tea? Cocoa?’
Phoenix was already sitting on her bed, rifling through her suitcase. She shook her head, not bothering to look up. ‘No, thanks.’
For a while, there was silence. I poured hot water into my coffee, stirred it, and took a moment to simply appreciate the aroma. Dodgy instant coffee, boiled in a hotel room. It was the smell of my childhood, of travelling with my mother. My heart skipped with another brief beat of nostalgia.
‘Nomad,’ Phoenix said, unexpectedly. ‘Can you come here for a minute?’
She looked oddly intense. There was no hint of distaste in her expression. If anything, she looked concerned.
I paused, startled, with the cup of instant coffee halfway to my lips. ‘Yeah, of course,’ I said, trying to hide my surprise. I put down my coffee and moved across to sit on my own bed, facing her. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s something I want to teach you,’ she said. ‘Can you watch my quintessence?’
I stared at her, slightly uncomfortable. Until now, Phoenix had gone out of her way to avoid her duties as my guardian. Unlike Riff, she’d made it clear she’d been forced into the role, and she had no interest in being my friend. A stiff formality still lurked between us, like an awkward lull in conversation. Now, being asked to look at her quintessence felt oddly personal. As if an invisible barrier were being breached.
‘I guess so.’
I knotted my hands and tried to focus. Slowly, my surroundings faded. A faint light skimmed around Phoenix, skipping and rubbing across her shoulders.
The last time I’d seen her quintessence, it had been red: a panicky flare as she saved herself from falling. Now it was green. It looked calm and deep, like the coolest depths of a forest. I supposed she must be in a fairly relaxed mood.
