by Paul Stewart
For Rick
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Muddle Earth
Muddle Earth Too
My name is York. I’m fourteen years old – leastways, that’s by the Half-Lifes’ reckoning. Years don’t mean much in the Biosphere – nor months or days for that matter. There are no days or nights here the way there were on Earth.
I’ve seen pictures of Earth; the Earth we left behind a thousand years ago. The Half-Lifes have shown me. Trees, mountains, rivers; sunsets over deserts, moonrise over the oceans . . . There’s none of that here in the Biosphere, only light from the hull lamps illuminating the twists and tangles of the tube-forest that surrounds the Inpost.
The Inpost is home. My home. It’s the only home I’ve ever known – or am ever likely to know. A run-down mash-up of tech-sheds and mech-galleys hidden deep beneath the tangle and scuzz of the tube-forest. OK, it can smell of sweat and gunk-grease, and the holosimulations aren’t up to much.
But it’s safe. For now. At least, that’s what Bronx says.
Bronx is the chief tech of the Inpost. He makes and mends. Scanner sights, stun-pulsers, cyber-implants – you name it, Bronx can construct it from zoid-junk. Everything it takes to keep us secure. All one hundred and twenty-six of us – not counting the two Half-Lifes, who aren’t alive exactly, but aren’t quite dead either. They’re our ancestors, from the Launch Times, their consciousness downloaded into mind-tombs.
There are all sorts living in the Inpost, and everyone does their bit. Fixers, growers, watchers, salvagers, sanitizers, cook-techs, bevservers . . . And then there’s me. I’m a scavenger. There aren’t that many of us. Not surprising really. Considering. We hunt zoids out in the tube-forest, kill them any way we can, then bring their parts back to the Inpost for Bronx to use.
It’s a dangerous job, but someone has to do it. Out in the tube-forest not even Bronx can keep you safe.
Just ask Dek, my best friend. I’ve known him as long as I can remember – ever since the nursery hub. We both lost our parents in the last big zoid attack. Not that either of us can remember. We were only babies back then.
That was when Bronx moved the Inpost from the turbine banks to Quadrant 4. Here, beneath the convection lakes in the middle of the tube-forest, we’re hidden from even the most advanced zoids.
Not that they’ve given up looking.
You see, to zoids, humans are vermin, no different to the critters that infest the tube-forests. They’re out to eradicate us from the Biosphere. To wipe us out. Maybe we’re the only ones left. Maybe there are others. There’s no way of knowing without leaving the tube-forest. And that’s not an option. So we hide – and hit back any way we can.
It wasn’t always this way. The Half-Lifes tell us about the Launch Times when robots served mankind, maintained the Biosphere and looked after our needs. Then something in the robots changed. The Half-Lifes can’t tell us what. But the robots rebelled. They became killer zoids and took over.
They are masters now, and we are their prey.
‘To survive,’ says Bronx, ‘that is our mission. And in order to survive, we have to scavenge . . .’
Bleep.
The sound in my ear is so soft and muffled. I keep my eyes shut and drift back to my dream . . .
I’m warm. I’m safe. I’m back at the Inpost, at the Counter, sharing a mug of bev with Dek. He’s smiling and teasing me because Lina, the girl who works at the trough-gardens, has just walked into the Circle.
It looks as though the whole of the Inpost has gathered, coming down tunnels from the sleep-bays and the work-hubs to crowd into the central space. Fixers from the clothing stores are swapping jokes with salvagers from the metal-shop. Sanitizers have abandoned their floor-polishers and hover-sweeps and are mingling with the growers in the hydroponic troughgardens on the upper gallery, admiring the new harvest. A couple of watchers have left their monitoring stations and are playing soundscapes on music decks, while others, old and young, dance.
Lina comes towards me. I smile and hand her a mug of bev. No sweetener. Just how she likes it. Caliph, my pet skeeter, comes skittering through the legs of the crowd and jumps up onto my shoulder. He licks my face. Dek leans forward and ruffles the fur behind Caliph’s ears, and I notice that instead of a cybernetic limb, his arm is real – and I’m happy because now we can go scavenging together, just like we used to before that killer zoid shot him up on the solder-walkway.
‘You and me,’ I say, ‘we’re a team.’
‘Zoid whackers!’ he says, and we raise our mugs.
Then I’m dancing, Lina on one side, Dek on the other, and the whole of the Inpost has joined in. Suddenly I hear Bronx’s voice and, turning, I see him at the entrance to the tunnel that leads to the Half-Lifes’ chamber.
‘The Half-Lifes,’ he says, and I can hear the excitement in his voice. He’s thirty-seven, but has always looked older, worrying about us all. But not now. Now he looks younger than I’ve ever seen him look. Youthful almost. ‘They know why the zoids rebelled. They know how we can defeat them. They know how humans can take back the Biosphere . . .’
Bleep.
I sit up, still drowsy. Rub my eyes. Tap my earpiece.
Bleep.
There’s a zoid close by.
Bleep.
Suddenly I’m wide awake. I’ve been careless, not masking my heat-sig. And careless can mean dead, out here in the Open Halls.
I flick the coolant switch of my bodysuit and shiver as the flak-panels chill my skin. I hate sleeping cold, but I should’ve known better. I crawl out of the sleepcrib, climb to my feet and tap my wrist-scanner. The sleepcrib folds itself up – flip-flap – into the backcan strapped to my shoulders.
Bleep. Bleep.
If I’m lucky, it’s a workzoid. A tangler or a sluicer. Neither of them have been programmed with much intelligence. On the other hand, it could be a killer.
Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip . . .
I move along the raised walkway, scanning the tubeforest through my recon-sight. I’m looking for the zoid’s heat-sig.
And there it is.
A fuzz of orange surrounded by a rippled blue halo. It’s a workzoid signature – and it’s coming my way.
I catch a flash of movement. Then another. The zoid’s laying cable. A tangler.
The bleeping becomes a single shrill note that whines in my ear. The zoid is directly beneath me. I brace myself. My heart’s thumping. You only get one chance at a kill . . .
I drop.
My feet strike the curve of the tangler’s back. The zoid keels over to one side, and I lash out with my cutter as the pair of us fall. The blade slices through tendons and bunched wires. I land on the floor of the gangway and roll clear – then look up.
The tangler’s thrashing about, but it isn’t going anywhere. I’ve severed one of its legs. A jet of bluegrey zoid-juice is gushing from the stump. Its head is swivelling from side to side, red sensors flashing. Loud clicks come from the perforated plate that covers its vocal cavity.
It’s sounding an alarm.
I reach inside my flakcoat and pull out a gunkball. Flicking the detona
tor fuse, I press the soft putty against the smooth dome of the zoid’s head, then step back.
The head explodes with a blinding white flash. Globules of molten metal and bubbling zoid-juice fizz off in all directions. The air stinks of fused circuitry.
I set to work.
The explosion has completely removed the tangler’s head. Not that I’ve got any use for it. I’m after the good stuff. I rummage around in the mashed wires and dripping motherboard of the zoid’s body and gouge out the command chip with the tip of my cutter. I strip out the zoid’s central core, a shimmering backbone of prehensile urilium, and remove the alloy kneecaps from its legs.
My earpiece bleeps into life once more. High above me, I see the heat-sig of another zoid.
Hot swarf! It’s blood red.
A killer.
I’ve been out in the tube-forest long enough. I backcan the tangler parts. They’ll do very nicely. But as for taking on a killer zoid, that’s just asking for trouble. It’s time to leave.
There is a long way and a short way back to the Inpost.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
I decide to take the short way.
The pipes of the tube-forest criss-cross the hall, snaking up into the gloom and down into the depths, far beneath the gangway.
I reach out for the nearest pipe, cut a hole in the membrane and squeeze myself inside. I brace my legs. There is a blast of heat as the pipe self-seals. Then, folding my arms to my side, I hurtle down into the darkness. When my scanner flashes, I press my elbows and heels out against the metallic membrane of the pipe and slow my descent. I come to a halt. I cut through the tube wall a second time and clamber out.
The Inpost is just ahead, hidden deep down in the ventilation ducts. It’s good to be back. On either side of me, the convection lakes crackle and fizz.
I begin to relax. Few zoids ever venture here. The power surges of the lakes mess with their workings.
‘There y’are, York!’
I look up to see Bronx. He’s got a boltdriver in his hand.
‘Come quick,’ he tells me. ‘There’s trouble with the Half-Lifes . . .’
‘What kind of trouble?’ I say.
In my dream Bronx had looked young. But this is the old Bronx. Careworn and worried.
‘You’ll see,’ he says, and turns away.
He strides back along the gantry. I go with him.
A blue-white lightning bolt jags down and strikes the centre of one of the convection lakes. Steam billows up in a plume and the gantry is drenched with hot rain.
Bronx aims his wrist-scanner at the portal, and it slides open at our feet. The pair of us climb down the ladder inside. The rungs are hot, I notice, and twice vicious surges of static jolt through my body.
The second time it happens, the shock sets my backcan bleeping and flashing as it ejects my sleepcrib and stash of zoid parts and clatters to the floor. I fall after it and land in a heap.
Bronx turns to me, a hand outstretched. ‘All right?’ he says.
I nod. ‘What was that?’ I say.
‘Power surge,’ he says, helping me to my feet. ‘It’s been happening ever since you went out.’
He looks down at the zoid spine and the kneecaps I’ve scavenged, and nods appreciatively. ‘Nice loot, York,’ he says. ‘Get it stowed and come with me.’
I reactivate the backcan, which scoops up my stuff, and send it scuttling off to my pod. Then I follow Bronx down the main tunnel to the Circle.
It’s downtime, so the arc lights are off, but even so the Circle is busy. There are drinkers clustered at the Counter, some with bev and satzcoa; others on stronger brews. Menders are up late, repairing tattered shirts, suits and boots. Salvagers are working on zoid parts in the metal-shop, while growers on dark-shift are tending to the trough-gardens; pruning, harvesting, topping up the levels of biojuice.
As we walk past, one of the growers looks up. It’s Lina. But she doesn’t look at me.
‘Greetwell, Bronx,’ she says. The laser-shears she’s holding illuminate her face. She looks concerned. ‘So what do the Half-Lifes say?’
Bronx gives her his most reassuring smile. ‘They say the Inpost is safe and the static will pass, Lina.’
He strides on towards the slip tunnel on the other side of the Circle. I follow close behind, uneasy about the lie he has just told. I sneak a glance back.
Lina is staring after us. Despite Bronx’s smile and words, she’s looking anything but reassured.
‘Bronx . . . Wait!’
I turn to see my friend Dek coming towards us from the Counter, a mug of steaming bev held in his good hand.
‘This new arm . . .’ he begins. He raises his other hand, and I see how the metal fingers are flexing and bunching up, over and over. ‘Can’t seem to control it,’ he says.
Bronx pauses and takes a brief look at Dek’s arm. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it mechanically,’ he says. ‘And the flesh/metal surgery’s been successful . . . It’s this static,’ he tells Dek. ‘It seems to be spreading.’
I hear unfamiliar tension in his voice. I see sweat beading his brow, which he wipes away on the back of his sleeve.
‘I’m working on controlling it, Dek,’ Bronx tells him. ‘But you’re gonna have to give me some time . . .’
‘Time.’ Dek snorts. ‘I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,’ he says, his hand opening and closing faster than ever.
My friend Dek’s one of the best scavengers we’ve got – or, rather, had. Ever since his arm got shot up, he’s been out of action. Bronx’s artificial limb was meant to solve all his problems.
‘Whole arm’s been acting up all downtime,’ Dek continues. ‘And it’s getting worse,’ he adds, his voice louder as Bronx turns on his heels and strides away from him. ‘Have you spoken to the Half-Lifes?’ he calls after him.
‘That’s just what he’s about to do now,’ I tell Dek as I hurry after Bronx, who’s already halfway across the Circle.
Bronx and I take one of the slip tunnels. The lights seem dimmer than usual. A long spineback lets out a squeal and ripples off ahead of us, before scaling the wall on its sucker feet and disappearing into a narrow air vent.
Just then, there is the scrit-scrat of six tiny clawed feet as Caliph comes bounding up the tunnel to greet me. The skeeter scrambles excitedly over my chest and round my neck, then disappears into the pocket of my flakcoat.
We arrive at the Half-Lifes’ chamber. Bronx enters, and I follow. The door slides shut behind us. And there, in front of us, stand the two Half-Lifes.
I look at the familiar faces that hover behind the domed casing of the mind-tombs. Something’s definitely not right with them. Their images are flickering and flashing ominously.
The first Half-Life has cropped black hair, neatly brushed, and his firm, square jaw is clean-shaven. The second has long fair hair, flicked up at the ends. Her face is heart-shaped, her chin pointed. Laughter lines fan out from the corners of her hazel eyes.
Their faces are more familiar to me than my own. They flicker palely, their lips moving, while their voices, soft and level, whisper from hidden speakers.
Like I said, they’re not alive exactly. But they’re not dead either. According to Bronx, the Half-Lifes are what is left of the original crew of the Biosphere, that left Earth a thousand years or so ago. When their bodies aged and gave out, their minds were downloaded into these black data-towers: the mind-tombs.
We protect the Half-Lifes and they speak to us, their descendants.
They are speaking now.
‘The outer hull is no longer safe . . .’ Half-Life One hisses as the flickering grows more intense. ‘Firewall breached . . . Scanning overrides . . .’
‘Perimeter shell broken through,’ Half-Life Two announces, her voice partly obscured by a wave of buzzing white noise. ‘Must seek lower levels . . . Return to the core . . .’
The images suddenly jump and blur. The faces dissolve into lines and zigzags. They reappear briefly, only to dis
integrate once more into a fuzz of static.
‘Something bad’s happening,’ Bronx says.
He places his hands on first one of the black mindtombs, then the other, as though this might heal them. But then both faces disappear.
‘Are they . . . dead?’ I breathe.
Before Bronx can answer, there is another sound, only this one is coming from somewhere outside. It is a low hum.
The sound of lasers slicing through metal.
‘It’s a zoid attack!’ Bronx exclaims.
I stare at the two blank screens. ‘Shouldn’t we do something with the Half-Lifes?’ I ask him. ‘Hide them? Move them somewhere safe?’
‘There’s no point, York,’ Bronx replies bleakly. ‘They’re just empty cases now. The Half-Lifes have gone.’
He turns and makes for the door. I follow him as he heads back down the slip tunnel.
The static is getting worse. The floor sparks and the air buzzes; tendrils of light crawl the walls.
As he approaches his pod, Bronx aims his scanner at the door. It opens in juddering fits and starts. The static again. He marches inside and crosses to his locker. The door opens and he reaches inside.
‘Take this,’ he says, passing me a pulser. ‘And this. And this. And these . . .’
I shoulder the pulser, and the strapload of grenbolts he hands me. I holster the stunner and clip the firepick to my belt. Bronx has a pulser and grenbolt strap of his own, together with a pack of frack-grenades, which he loads into the pockets of his flakcoat. He reaches inside the locker again.
‘Need more of these?’ he asks.
I look at the open canister of gunkballs in his hand. Nod. Take half a dozen.
At that moment the Inpost sirens blare into life.
When we reach the Circle, the arc lights are on, but because of the power surges, they’re flashing and sparking, throwing crazy shadows across the metal-shop and trough-gardens. In the dome above, a plume of smoke jets down from the glowing tip of a laser as it cuts through the ceiling. Spirals of swarf shower down like convection rain, and the air stinks of scorched metal. The laser comes full circle and a thick metal disc falls to the floor.