by Paul Stewart
‘The humans from the Launch Times were cleverer than us,’ he’s saying. ‘Much cleverer. I mean, I can make use of the parts they left behind. Anything, from proto-input drives to . . . to vapour-shower nozzles.’ He glances back at me, face earnest. ‘But I couldn’t manufacture those parts myself.’ He shakes his head. ‘What I’m saying is, York, I’m not just scavenging their objects. I’m scavenging their technology. Their knowledge. Their cleverness.’
I look around. It’s never really struck me before. But Dale’s right. The Biosphere. Everything. It was all created by humans on Earth, back before the launch – even the robots who did all the construction work and then, after the launch of the Biosphere itself, served humankind for five hundred years. Until this . . .
I stare at the ruins of this lost world.
‘Here we are,’ Dale says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘The Clan-Safe.’
I stare at the cluster of geodesic domes up ahead. The one at the centre is the largest, with six smaller ones attached in a circle to its lower side. Unlike the other buildings we’ve passed, there’s no damage to the structure. The triangular metal plates the domes are constructed from gleam like silverworm scales. It’s impressive – especially compared to the Inpost. And there’s another difference.
The Clan-Safe isn’t hidden, but is in plain view of zoid patrols. Not that there seem to be any. I glance down at my scanner. No heat-sigs register.
Dale must have noticed me. ‘Relax, York,’ he says. ‘The zoids know not to mess with us here.’
I like his confidence.
As we arrive at the Clan-Safe, two women and a man come to meet us. They are wearing heavy utility belts around their waists, scanners at their wrists. Name tags glow on the sleeves of their blue tunics. The man is called Kurt; the women, Stent and Myros.
‘Welcome home, Dale,’ Kurt says. ‘I trust your forage was a success.’
‘Take this to my worklab.’ Dale pulls the backcan from his shoulders and gives it to him. Then he gestures to me. ‘This is York.’
‘Greetwell, York,’ the three of them say in unison.
Dale turns to the two young women. ‘Make preparations for our guest.’
The three of them nod and comply. Dale is clearly in charge. Just like Bronx. Only more so. He turns to Belle next.
‘Show York to Dome 4,’ he says. ‘And when he’s settled in, bring him to the refectory. He’ll be dining with me this evening.’ He turns his piercing blue-eyed gaze to me. ‘If that’s all right with you?’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘I’m starving,’ I tell him.
Belle turns to me, her hair swishing and green eyes flashing. ‘Please come with me, York.’
I follow her to an entrance at the bottom of the nearest dome, Caliph asleep on my shoulder. Ralph waddles along with me. We step inside, and I look around the vast airy expanse.
‘This is the Peace Dome,’ Belle tells me with a sweep of her arm.
There are padded chairs arranged in clusters, with adjustable screens on the armrests and speakers in the headrests. The air smells sweet and flowery, and there’s ambient music playing. Concealed lights keep changing colour: green, blue, purple, red, orange, yellow, and back to green . . .
‘This way,’ says Belle. A door slides open with a hiss.
We step through into the second dome. I don’t need to be told that we’re in the refectory. There’s a large round table with a visiglass top, and more padded chairs, about thirty in all, around it. Stent and Myros are setting two places at the table. They don’t seem to notice us. One is polishing drinking beakers. The other is laying out cutlery.
‘And through here,’ says Belle, hurrying me through into the third dome, ‘is the Battle Dome.’
I look around.
Back at the Inpost, Bronx created a few simulations.
Simple holo-screens with hand zappers for shooting up grainy projections of zoids – to keep our eye in during downtimes.
But nothing compared to this. There are flashing terminals and soloid screens. There are head-visors and haptic gloves. And there’s a holo-screen hovering at the centre of the room, with a list of simulations that numbers thousands. I scroll down. Zoid Raiders. Laser-Duels – 1 through 25. Gunkball Attacks – 500, Evasive Fire Moves . . .
‘Come on, York,’ says Belle, guiding me away.
She stops in front of a door and activates it. The door slides open.
‘This is Dome 4, the Sleep Dome. Get yourself settled,’ she says. ‘I’ll return in fifteen to take you to the refectory.’
I glance at my scanner. It’s showing 19:45.
I step inside the dome, and Ralph waddles in behind me. On my shoulder, Caliph, who’s awake now, sniffs the air. The door slides shut behind me.
Suddenly Caliph lets out a loud squeak. There is a second skeeter curled up asleep on the comfortable-looking crib in the corner. It wakes as Caliph leaps from my shoulder and bounds across the floor towards it. Rippling fur. Bushy tail. Caliph is excited. The skeeter is a female. The pair of them greet one another skeeter fashion. They rear up on their hind legs, rub noses. Caliph’s tail is quivering.
But then something changes. He drops down to all sixes. Backs away. His fangs are bared and he’s spitting at the female critter, who stops stock-still and stares back at him for a moment.
Then she turns and walks calmly over to the door, which slides open to allow her through. As it closes again, I look back at Caliph.
He’s trembling uncontrollably.
‘What is it?’ I ask him. ‘Not your type, boy?’
He looks up at me, eyes wide. I stroke his head, tickle his ears. He soon calms down, and I leave him grooming himself and head for the vapour shower.
It’s a small recess set to the right of the sleepcrib. As I break the sensors, lights come on. There’s a round indentation in the floor, and above it a cluster of nozzles in the ceiling. I get out of my dirty clothes, kick them aside and step inside the circle. As I do so, the shower whirrs into action.
Jets of warm steam appear from above and below. An opaque column of vapour envelopes me. Every centimetre of my skin tingles and glows as it’s pummelled by jets of fine mist that open my pores and deep-cleanse. The filth melts away. Then the vapour becomes fragrant. Sandalwood. Mint. The vapour fades. A blast of warm air leaves me dry.
I step out and gather up my clothes. They smell stale to me now. Sour. And I notice a rip in the sleeve of my jacket. Reluctant to put them on again, I rummage through my backcan for anything cleaner.
No joy. It’s looking as if I’ll have to put my old clothes back on after all – but then I see the storechest under the sleepcrib. There’s a glowing red circle on its front, which I press. The chest slides out and the lid opens.
Inside are toiletries. Groomers and clippers . . .
And clean clothes.
I select a white sweatsuit and put it on. Then I slip on a pair of flex-slippers, which mould themselves to the contours of my feet.
There’s a knock at the door. I look at my scanner again.
20:00:00.
The door slides open. Belle is standing there. At the sight of her, Caliph ducks beneath the sleepcrib.
‘Are you ready?’ she asks me. ‘Dale doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘I’m ready,’ I say.
As I head for the door, Ralph waddles after me.
‘Just you, York,’ says Belle.
I tell Ralph to wait for me, then follow Belle.
We pass two others on our way back to the refectory. One of them is a woman with a brown bob. The other, a clean-cut young man with cropped fair hair. They’re walking side by side, but not speaking. And when they go past they do not acknowledge us.
I turn to Belle. ‘Friendly types,’ I say, and smile.
Belle says nothing. Her eyes flick across my face – eyes, mouth, brow. I’m not sure what she’s thinking. Then all at once, she smiles back at me.
We reach the Refectory Dome.
; Five servers are standing in a row. Three of them I have seen before: Stent, Myros and Kurt. The other two look just like them. Smart. Blue-uniformed. Their name tags glow on their sleeves. Lowell and Denton.
Dale is sitting at the table at one of the two set places.
‘Ah, York,’ he says, looking up. I see him take note of my sweatsuit and flex-slippers, but he makes no comment. He points to the place beside him. ‘Do take a seat.’
The servers move forward. Stent pulls my chair back. I sit down and she pushes it in. Myros unrolls a square dinner-cloth and lays it across my lap. Kurt fills my beaker with something dark red. Lowell and Denton appear beside us, each one with a dome-lidded tray in one hand and silver tongs in the other.
I’m reminded of the butlers back at the Robot Hub. Except this time there is actual drink on offer. And, when the domed lids are lifted, food as well. Lots of food. One tray has slices of something pink lying in a bed of green leaves. The other tray is split into two, with something dark brown and glistening on one side and a pale yellow mash on the other.
The servers lean forward and use the tongs to transfer food from the trays to our platters. Their movements are expert and delicate. And as soon as we tell them that we have enough of what they are serving, they swap places.
Dale raises his visiglass beaker. ‘To your excellent health, York.’ He smiles, his piercing blue eyes fixed on mine.
The servers step back and stand by the wall watching us, their faces registering nothing. They make me feel awkward.
‘I trust Belle’s been looking after you well,’ Dale says.
I look round. Belle is standing with the others, watching us impassively.
‘Very well,’ I say, smiling at her, and am relieved when she smiles back.
‘You must treat the Clan-Safe as your home,’ Dale tells me. ‘Stay as long as you like.’ He gestures at my plate. ‘But tuck in, son. Before it gets cold.’
The food is the best I’ve eaten since I left the Inpost. The pink slices are soft and juicy. The green leaves are both bitter and sweet at the same time. The brown stuff is spicy; the mash, creamy. Everything is delicious, and when my platter is empty the servers step forward to fill it up again.
I eat until I’m full. And then I have just a little bit more.
‘Naturally the invitation extends to your people,’ Dale is saying. ‘If and when you find them, you are all welcome to come and join us.’
‘It’s a tempting offer,’ I say.
What was it Dale said? The zoids know not to mess with us here.
‘Dale,’ I say, ‘how come this place is so safe from zoids?’
‘Because I – we – have had to adapt to survive,’ Dale says. His blue eyes grow more intense as he leans towards me, his elbow resting on the tabletop. ‘It’s up to us to match the zoids. They improve their defences. We improve our defences. They up their weapon power. We up our weapon power.’ He smiles. ‘Plus,’ he adds, ‘we train to look after ourselves . . .’
His smile becomes broader. He pushes back his chair. ‘I’ll show you,’ he says.
Taking my arm, he steers me across the refectory and through the door to the Battle Dome. Inside the dome, he reaches up and plucks at the air. The green holo-screen appears. He spreads his fingers to widen it. Makes it brighter. Selects a setting and points to the list of simulations that come scrolling down.
‘Any requests?’ he asks me.
‘Zoid Raiders,’ I say at once.
‘Excellent choice,’ Dale says. ‘I’ve just been rejigging its spec – inputting the latest killer-zoid upgrade.’
He clicks to upload the simulation.
Denton, one of the servers, has followed us into the dome. He hands out head-visors and haptic gloves to the pair of us, then puts some on himself. The chamber goes dark, but as I pull on the visor, a holographic scene suddenly explodes into life.
There’s a tangle of coloured pipes. Just like the tube-forest. It’s so real I could be there. Through the visor I see that I’m not wearing the sweatsuit any more. Or the flex-slippers. I’m dressed in a blue uniform like the servers, and there are sturdy boots on my feet. The haptic glove pulses and I feel something solid in my hand. Looking down, I discover I’m holding an impressive-looking pulser, its weapons system charging up with a low hum.
A laser bolt whizzes past my ear. Through the visor, I feel its heat and smell its fuse-wire burn. I’ve never experienced a simulation this real. I follow the line of fire.
And there it is. A killer zoid. Pneumatic legs. Heavily armed. A compartment in its chest.
My stomach churns. It’s identical to the zoids that attacked the Inpost and kidnapped my friends.
To my left, Denton drops to one knee, takes aim, fires. The zoid explodes in a mess of hot swarf and zoid-juice.
Two more killers appear – one on either side of me. They fire. I roll over on the ground, shoot one way, then the other. Both zoids are totally zilched.
But not by me. Dale and his sidekick, Denton, have got there first.
Three more zoids appear . . .
This time I’m ready for them. I reach out and take hold of a coloured pipe. It’s springy and soft to the touch. I swing round in a broad arc, climbing hand over hand as I do so. Gaining height. Broadening my field of fire. One of the zoids fires up at me. Misses. I grip onto a second pipe, anchor myself with my feet, turn and fire back.
This time, I do not miss.
The zoid explodes. I twist further round and fire again. The second zoid gives out a kind of grunt and bursts into flames. It staggers forward, crashes into the third zoid and the pair of them go up in smoke.
Dale catches my eye. ‘Excellent shooting, York,’ he calls across.
Four more zoids appear . . .
One of them fires at Dale, but not fast enough. Blue eyes gleaming with excitement, Dale hunkers down and fires twice. The first shot blows the zoid’s head clean off. The next one explodes inside its chest.
I slide down the pipe. I hit the floor, roll over, steady my pulser and fire, all in one smooth movement. There’s a flash. A bang. And another zoid’s been wiped out.
I look around. My heart’s racing.
The third and fourth zoids are after Denton. He’s ducking a line of tracer fire, down on the ground. His pulser’s raised. The zoids are advancing. Scrambling to his feet, he makes a dash for cover. The zoids shoot. Denton returns fire over his shoulder. One of the zoids goes down – but so does Denton.
He’s been hit in the back. He slams down hard on the ground and doesn’t move.
The other zoid goes to fire, but I’m ready for it. My pulser jerks as I squeeze the trigger. A stream of laser bolts hit its extendable neck. The zoid goes into a spin, whirling round and round, then blows up. Zoid-juice gushes. Pieces of shrapnel hiss overhead and embed themselves in the multicoloured pipes. I can smell burning . . .
Denton is lying on his front. There’s a charred hole in the back of his blue tunic. Black smoke and orange sparks are coming from the wound.
The zoids might be simulations, but the effect of their weapons is all too real. I glance over at Dale. He must have programmed this lethal effect.
Dale halts the action. The tube-forest disappears.
I remove my glove and visor. I’m back in my sweatsuit and flex-slippers. Denton remains on the floor. He looks badly hurt. Maybe worse than that.
‘Is he . . . dead?’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, York. The simulator doesn’t kill,’ Dale says, then smiles. ‘Not humans, anyway.’
He taps his scanner. The other four servers from the refectory appear. ‘Take him to the Healing Dome,’ he tells them, then turns to Belle, who has also arrived. ‘Show York to his quarters.’
Neither of us speak as we head back. I’m shaken. That simulator was just like the real thing and, despite Dale’s reassurances, Denton looked critically hurt. Yet nobody seemed concerned. Not Dale. Not the other servers. Not Belle.
When we arrive at the door I
break the silence. ‘Belle,’ I say, ‘aren’t you worried about Denton?’
Belle looks back at me, but her clear green eyes are impossible to read.
‘Well, aren’t you?’ I say.
She’s still looking at me, scanning my face. It’s as though she’s trying to work out what I’m thinking. Looking for clues. But all she can find is my own puzzlement, and that’s what I see mirrored back at me.
‘Is he . . . is he going to be all right?’
Belle nods her head. ‘Dale will make him better.’
‘You’re sure?’ I say.
The look of puzzlement in my face must have shifted to one of worry. That’s what I see reflected in Belle’s expression. Worry. Concern. But then she nods again.
‘I’m sure,’ she says.
I smile. She smiles back, and there’s something so beautiful and innocent about that smile that my stomach turns somersaults. It reminds me of Lina, and how I used to feel when she smiled at me.
The last time I saw Lina’s face, she wasn’t smiling.
The zoid download from Sector 17 – wherever that is – comes back to me in all its horror. Bronx and Dek, penned up. And Lina, watching her grandfather being tortured by those killer zoids. She looked so frightened and vulnerable; so fragile. So lonely. So sad . . .
Suddenly I’m dragged from my thoughts. Belle is reaching out to me. Her index finger trembles as she touches it to my face, just beneath my left eye. She pulls it away again and inspects the small pearl-like droplet of water on her fingertip.
It’s a tear. My tear.
‘I . . . I was thinking of my friends,’ I tell her awkwardly. ‘They were taken by zoids. Killer zoids.’ I swallow miserably. ‘To somewhere called Sector 17 . . .’
Before me, Belle’s expression changes. Her lower lip pouts and trembles. Her eyebrows draw together. Her brow knits. And her eyes – those soft green eyes – they moisten and tears well up. As I watch, a single teardrop spills over and slides down her cheek.
She’s sensitive after all, and I’m surprised. I smile tentatively, and she smiles back at me.