B-Wing was on fire. Flames punched through windows and roared across the tar roof. Guards sprinted across the yard, shouting in voices too distorted to make out.
There were bodies in the grass, human bodies, bodies wearing the sensible flat shoes of the nurses and doctor uniforms stained with blood, arms flung out as if theyâd done belly flops to the ground. From a distance, it was impossible to distinguish the people from the replicas except by their clothing.
One body appeared to have been lifted off its feet and carried down toward the beachâLyra could just see, in the distance, waves breaking against a pair of legsâor maybe someone had been down on the beach when the explosion had come. Lyra thought of Cassiopeia and her seashell collection and, although she had seen replicas die and die and die, felt vomit rise in her throat. The vomiting center is located in the rear part of the brain. She had heard that once, from one of the nurses. She didnât remember when.
But now 72 was headed not back to safety, not to the nurses and doctors and gentle Glass Eyes, good Glass Eyes, watchful Glass Eyes, but directly toward one of the guard towers. Now people were pouring from the other wings, nurses and doctors dazed or crying, covered with soot sothey looked as if theyâd been cast in stone. For the first time, Lyra realized that they, too, were afraid. That none of this was planned. That no one was coming to tell them what to do.
She stumbled on something in her path: a long pale arm, wrist tagged with a green plastic bracelet. The fingers twitched. A female, Lyra thought, because of the shape of the hands. She was buried beneath a heavy sheet of tin siding that had been hurled across the yard by the first explosion. Lyra saw the fingers curl up in a fist: she was alive, whoever she was.
âWait,â she said, pulling away from 72 and crouching down to try and free the girl. âHelp,â she said, when 72 just stood there, squinting into the distance, looking agitated. He frowned but moved next to her, and together they managed to shift the metal.
Beneath it, Cassiopeia was lying on her back, her face screwed up in pain. Her left leg was twisted at the knee and a gash on her thigh had soaked her pants through with blood. But she was alive. Lyra knelt and touched Cassiopeiaâs face. Cassiopeia opened her eyes.
âLyra,â she said, or appeared to say. Her voice was so faint Lyra couldnât hear it.
âLeave it,â 72 said.
âShe needs a doctor,â Lyra said, bringing a hand to Cassiopeiaâs back and helping her sit up. Her hand cameaway wet and dark with blood. It wasnât just her leg that was injured.
âThere are no more doctors. Thereâs no more Haven. Itâs done,â 72 said. Lyra felt a liquid panic, as if her lungs were slowly filling with water, like in dreams where she was in the ocean and couldnât find her way to the surface.
There was no world without Haven. Haven was the world.
And now the world was burning: the flames had spread to C-Wing and waves of heat reached them even from a distance. The guards were still shoutingâdoctors were crawling on their hands and knees in the dirtâthere were replicas in a line, kneeling, hands behind their heads, pinned in place by the guards with their gunsâLyra couldnât understand any of it.
She helped Cassiopeia to her feet. Cassiopeia was sweating and smelled terrible. She had to lean on Lyra heavily and go half shuffling, half hopping across the yard. In the middle of it all Lyra thought how strange it was to be so physically close to someone. She and Cassiopeia had never touched except by accident, when they were washing up at the same sink, and even when they played with the newest crops, to touch and tickle them, it was because they had to. Nurse Em had put an arm around Lyra once, but Lyra couldnât remember why, only that for days afterward she had touched her
There were bodies in the grass, human bodies, bodies wearing the sensible flat shoes of the nurses and doctor uniforms stained with blood, arms flung out as if theyâd done belly flops to the ground. From a distance, it was impossible to distinguish the people from the replicas except by their clothing.
One body appeared to have been lifted off its feet and carried down toward the beachâLyra could just see, in the distance, waves breaking against a pair of legsâor maybe someone had been down on the beach when the explosion had come. Lyra thought of Cassiopeia and her seashell collection and, although she had seen replicas die and die and die, felt vomit rise in her throat. The vomiting center is located in the rear part of the brain. She had heard that once, from one of the nurses. She didnât remember when.
But now 72 was headed not back to safety, not to the nurses and doctors and gentle Glass Eyes, good Glass Eyes, watchful Glass Eyes, but directly toward one of the guard towers. Now people were pouring from the other wings, nurses and doctors dazed or crying, covered with soot sothey looked as if theyâd been cast in stone. For the first time, Lyra realized that they, too, were afraid. That none of this was planned. That no one was coming to tell them what to do.
She stumbled on something in her path: a long pale arm, wrist tagged with a green plastic bracelet. The fingers twitched. A female, Lyra thought, because of the shape of the hands. She was buried beneath a heavy sheet of tin siding that had been hurled across the yard by the first explosion. Lyra saw the fingers curl up in a fist: she was alive, whoever she was.
âWait,â she said, pulling away from 72 and crouching down to try and free the girl. âHelp,â she said, when 72 just stood there, squinting into the distance, looking agitated. He frowned but moved next to her, and together they managed to shift the metal.
Beneath it, Cassiopeia was lying on her back, her face screwed up in pain. Her left leg was twisted at the knee and a gash on her thigh had soaked her pants through with blood. But she was alive. Lyra knelt and touched Cassiopeiaâs face. Cassiopeia opened her eyes.
âLyra,â she said, or appeared to say. Her voice was so faint Lyra couldnât hear it.
âLeave it,â 72 said.
âShe needs a doctor,â Lyra said, bringing a hand to Cassiopeiaâs back and helping her sit up. Her hand cameaway wet and dark with blood. It wasnât just her leg that was injured.
âThere are no more doctors. Thereâs no more Haven. Itâs done,â 72 said. Lyra felt a liquid panic, as if her lungs were slowly filling with water, like in dreams where she was in the ocean and couldnât find her way to the surface.
There was no world without Haven. Haven was the world.
And now the world was burning: the flames had spread to C-Wing and waves of heat reached them even from a distance. The guards were still shoutingâdoctors were crawling on their hands and knees in the dirtâthere were replicas in a line, kneeling, hands behind their heads, pinned in place by the guards with their gunsâLyra couldnât understand any of it.
She helped Cassiopeia to her feet. Cassiopeia was sweating and smelled terrible. She had to lean on Lyra heavily and go half shuffling, half hopping across the yard. In the middle of it all Lyra thought how strange it was to be so physically close to someone. She and Cassiopeia had never touched except by accident, when they were washing up at the same sink, and even when they played with the newest crops, to touch and tickle them, it was because they had to. Nurse Em had put an arm around Lyra once, but Lyra couldnât remember why, only that for days afterward she had touched her
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