She was not dressed right. Any minute somebody would notice her drab, shadow-coloured garb. Autumn grabbed a platter half filled with canapés and pressed her back against a glassy strut. Nobody stopped her. Nobody even noticed her at all.
All eyes were on the five brides lined up across the stage. They looked like dolls, so porcelain and placid, the lace of their multi-layered skirts spilling like milk.
Autumn wasn’t wasting any time on them. She scanned the crowd for the Birdman. On-screen, the stiff, formal gowns of Topside women had always looked so splendid. Up close, they looked ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the brides.
A speech was just beginning. Familiar words, the same as broadcast Downbelow four times each year in memoriam to seasons no longer existing as anything but pretty names for girls. The boiling of the oceans, the bleaching of the skies, the centuries of helpless silence before, at last, the Birdmen came.
The Birdman stood on stage a little to one side. How extraordinarily handsome. Thick, dark hair, completely straight, falling down past his shoulders. Tanned cheeks, perhaps from hours exposed to deadly sun. Strange eyes like shadow crescents. If only she could have seen him aloft in his special skinsuit and leather coverings. Master of the skies, with massive wings spread wide. One of a very fortunate few not pinned beneath the oppressive weight of sand.
Speeches droned like the humming of algae vats. Eventually, a man recognisible as Topside’s Governor spoke about the connection between the domes and the importance and vitality of exchanges of fresh seed, data and most importantly, goodwill.
Would the Birdman speak? His voice would be dark and thick like treacle. Perhaps he had already spoken. Perhaps she had arrived too late?
The Birdman bowed before the Governor. He offered something in his outstretched hands. The Governor returned the bow and accepted the gift. Autumn pictured what must have passed between their hands. Datacapsules, along with seed from Fallout, or perhaps as far away as Solace or Windcap Veer. Cities she could only dream of. No one born in Battendown would ever see them.
There was more talk on the value and vitality of seed and the challenge of exciting new opportunities, but she tuned out, especially as each bride was named and presented to their beautiful husband. Brook had never looked so smug, her self-satisfied face all powder-caked and white. That girl got everything she ever wanted. No doubt, the first Birdman baby would be hers, ensuring Brook remained the centre of attention.
Autumn turned her face away and began to examine the crowd in earnest. Topside or Downbelow, they were all supposed to be the same people. Perhaps the folk of Topside only seemed more elegant. Born with fewer defects. Hardly surprising when they never dirtied their hands or risked their lives tunneling deep below the earth. Entombed with a hundred thousand smells, the cloying accumulation of processed fertiliser and vegetation pulp. All the air of Battendown was filtered, yet somehow theirs was cleaner, their corridors more spacious, ceilings arching high above their heads.
Up close however, skin was skin, with tones ranging from shades of light through dark. Hairstyles fancy and ridiculously impractical. Evidently Topsiders had time to waste on pointless vanities. The voluminous clothing likely hid a multitude of imperfections — a thought that made Autumn smile as she cast her gaze back to the stage just in time to see Brook receive a chaste kiss on the cheek from her Birdman husband.
Behind the stage, a mighty stretch of clear, transparent dome. How quickly she’d become accustomed to the desolate landscape beyond. So much so that hairstyles and clothing could prove distracting.
The beginnings of a fearful storm were stirring, scouring and battering the shield, at times strong enough to obscure the view. Storms were frequent and completely random. How brave the Birdmen were, risking their lives to fly from settlement to settlement. Uniting the domes through marriages and blood.
Autumn placed the tray of ignored canapés down on the nearest table as the Birdman resumed his original place on stage. She crept a little closer, soaking up the crowd’s warmth and wellbeing. The raging storm muted the harshness of the desert light, bathing the wedding chamber in yellow ochre.
Closer still, Autumn nudged, not really sure of where she was going, only that she wanted to be as close to him as possible, even if all she could ever do was stare. What Downbelow got to see on the screens was never enough.
Not like being Topside in the flesh. She wanted to remember every minute of this day: the colours, the smells, the hair. Everything.
She was drinking in the intoxicating scent of jasmine-scented skin when an almighty crash made her freeze in terror. A small, round table bearing drinks had tumbled over, accidentally knocked with her twisted foot. All eyes were now upon her, the protective invisibility of irrelevance fading quickly. A circle of space widened around her as the plain garb of Downbelow was recognised for what it was. A hush fell over the crowd as guards pushed through to investigate, one already brandishing his sword.
She struggled in vain for a final glimpse of her beloved Birdman but her view was blocked by a solid wall of backs and shoulders. Guards led her down a corridor, its walls stained with centuries of grime. Industrial and functional, it might as well have been back Downbelow. Outside a doorway, an officious man gave Autumn a dressing down. She cringed beneath his barrage of words until she noticed something curious about his face. The telltale scar on his upper lip. This man had been born with a cleft pallet! Autumn suppressed her astonishment. There before her was the truth of it. Topsiders were no more perfect than the folks of Downbelow.
They shut her in a chilly room for more hours than she could reckon. As the memory of the Birdman’s handsome features faded, worry began to gnaw at her insides. What did Topside do to their criminals? Hot boxes, or something worse? Did they force them outside the dome to fend for themselves? She’d heard tell of such things Downbelow. Many times.
The room stank of mould and the walls were damp. They hadn’t even given her a blanket. As she sat on a battered packing crate hugging her arms, she thought more and more of the sands beyond the dome. Air that burned and storms that stripped and scoured. Would they force her outside? Why would they not? She was a criminal caught in the act. No one ’Below even knew she was here.
The echo of footfall on cement corridors made her jump to her feet. She held her breath as they passed on by, grateful for the reprieve, yet troubled by thoughts of abandonment. Perhaps they had forgotten her already? What if no one ever came?
She paced along her prison floor. A room long and thin and filled with shapes shrouded in shadow. Not a cell, more like a storeroom and there, set high in the wall, something she hadn’t noticed when they had first locked her in. A window; small and square and dim, but a window all the same.
Most crates were empty, their edges reinforced with metal alloy, sides stenciled with symbols she couldn’t read. She piled them one atop the other until a precarious pyramid slouched against the wall.
Up close, the window was merely a hatch but, after a bit of kicking, it opened. It led out and that was the main thing. Anywhere was better than this.
Autumn heaved through the hatch on her stomach, sliding into the unknown. What light there was illuminated muddy smudges of grey-brown filth. The air reverberated with sounds familiar to anyone raised in the bowels of Downbelow: creaks and clanks, hums and shudders; hydraulic hammering beyond foot-thick cement. By touch, she determined she was in a narrow maintenance shaft or vent. Lacking better options, she crawled along its length, feeling cautiously for obstacles, following the sounds. Movement meant machinery and machinery meant other maintenance hatches, the only way out of her cramped confines.
The shaft narrowed. That could not be good. But she wouldn’t go back. Not unless she had to. Not unless there was nowhere left to go. Now and then she was forced to choose. Left or right? Up or down? At her third left she heard echoes of a woman sobbing. Autumn crawled towards the sound, an action of pure instinct.
The sobbing led her to another
hatch of sorts, one too small to fit through. The sobbing ceased. Autumn pressed her face against the metal grille, holding her breath until it started up again. Below, a chamber flooded with bright light. Enormous numbered pot-bellied vats. Nitrogen tanks with hoses feeding in and out of them. Figures garbed in white and muted green. A hospital, like Downbelow’s for mangled factory workers, only the staff were garbed more like cowshed techs than doctors.
“Get your hands off me!”
Two green-garbed figures struggled with a girl in a white shift. Autumn couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Brook. She’d have known that shrill voice anywhere.
“My husband will hear of this!” she wailed. “He will whip you like a servant!”
“You ’Below brats are always trouble. Don’t know why they bother, myself — it’s not like we’ve got a shortage of empty wombs,” said one of them. The other beside her laughed. Still others crossed the floor to help as Brook screamed and thrashed and threw back her head.
Autumn jumped back instinctively, landing squarely on her arse as Brook’s gaze swept over her hiding spot. She turned and scrabbled along the narrow vent as fast as she could manage, not pausing for breath until her hammering heart finally slowed.
Eventually bright light began to bleed through jagged rents in the concrete, which, she realised, had replaced the ceiling of the vent. The crumbling decay of decades led the way. Up she climbed, with Brook’s screams echoing in her head. Up away from things she didn’t understand. Into another world. Or so it appeared. Emerging, breathless, into a space so unfamiliar it might have been torn from a picture book of old.
The vast chambers of Topside had been nothing compared to this: the size of the space, or the strangeness of the thing occupying it below, an enormous egg encased in silvery mesh that appeared to hover gracefully above the ground.
The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, but what was it? She was climbing down towards it before she was even aware she was moving, dodging uneven sections of rubble, so distracted she almost fell twice.
There was only one thing it could be. An ancient zeppelin that had somehow survived, hidden in this voluminous chamber, protected all these years. But by who? The Governor of Topside and its superior citizens? Not likely. Someone would have spoken of it, leaked the secret, given lowly Downbelow something else to feel inferior about.
She ducked as voices wafted upwards.
“…against the clock as the upslope winds take her into the jet stream … launch window scheduled for twenty-two hundred hours…”
Autumn kept her head down low. Suddenly there seemed to be people everywhere, most of them dressed in dark brown coveralls. She snuggled into a crouch and hugged her knees, too terrified to move again in case she exposed herself. In the space of minutes her horizons had expanded to encompass things surely even Jarrah had never dreamed of.
Her reverie did not last long. A cry went up as she was spotted. As scared as she was, she didn’t try to run. There was nowhere to go and if she fell she would probably break a leg.
She was still staring at the zeppelin when they brought her down and took her before the Birdman. Everybody stared at her. Nobody was smiling. Up close, the Birdman was anything but handsome. His mysterious crescent eyes blazed with what she took for silent fury. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. She shouldn’t be here. She should have stayed Downbelow where she belonged. Her mind was flooded with Brook’s outrage, but her own defiant explanations lodged pathetically in her windpipe.
“Let her go. She won’t tell anybody,” a voice called out behind her.
A guard lay a heavy hand on Autumn’s shoulder. She turned just as two more Birdmen in flying regalia approached. Two! One tall, one short. Both wore skinsuits layered with heavily-treated leathers.
Her mouth opened in surprise, but before so much as a squeak came out, the one who had spoken tugged his helmet free, revealing a familiar face that took her utterly by surprise.
He was a she.
“Jarrah!”
The guard cut her off before she could ask a single question. Her mouth was still hanging stupidly open when the other Birdman intervened. Stepping forward, he smiled and gently touched her cheek. Autumn raised her hand and placed it upon his own. His skin was tough and leathery. Not skin. She was touching leather glove.
Jarrah grinned. “Told you I’d been up and down that chute before. I knew you didn’t believe me.”
“But what—”
Jarrah pressed her finger against her lips. “Shhh. They don’t tell us anything much Downbelow. Some things we’ve got to figure for ourselves.”
“Like what they’ve done to Brook?”
Jarrah frowned, then rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me she’s bitching about pre-motherhood already. That girl does nothing but complain, I swear.”
“But—”
“They’re not hurting her. It’s just not quite the honeymoon she envisaged. They never stay more than a day or two. Their seed is frozen in nitrogen. No Birdman ever visits the same dome twice.”
“But—”
“Where am I going?” Jarrah smiled. She nodded toward the open sky. “There’s a new dome surfaced beyond the south salt flats. I’m bringing knowledge in place of seed.” She glanced up at the mighty balloon. “They never would have built that thing off the plans without my help.”
With that, she signaled the control booth. All three Birdmen approached the zeppelin’s tiny underside compartment. Two tall, one short. Three stepping in unison.
“Wait!”
A klaxon sounded and the people in dark overalls began to scurry for cover.
“Jarrah!”
“Come on Miss, it’s time to go.” The guard placed his hand lightly on Autumn’s shoulder. This time he didn’t seem so frightening.
“You can watch the launch from the control booth. No need to worry. We’ll all be perfectly safe.” He nodded at the zeppelin. “Those three are the ones taking all the chances.”
Autumn threw a final incredulous glance at Jarrah, just in time to catch her wave in return. The three Birdmen entered the compartment as the mighty transparent shielding began to waver. Outside, the air was still and clear, but for how long? Who could say? All Autumn could be certain of was that sand and storms would not imprison her forever. Where Jarrah was going, one day she would follow.
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Baby Steps by Barbara Robson
I went through a gluten-free phase a while ago. I had myself convinced that milled-bone bread was going to deliver all these health benefits and I’d be like a new man. I can’t decide now whether I really did have more energy, eating bone bread, but frankly, it tasted like shit. It never rose properly. It was this dense lump, sitting at the bottom of my stomach, and if I felt healthier, maybe that was down to the weight I lost, eating less bread.
The worst thing about bone bread was the rumours. If anyone else orders a bag of bone flour, nobody cares. If they don’t know about bone bread, they don’t think twice about it, or if they do, they figure it’s to go on the garden. If I order bone flour, though, it’s another story. I’m a freak. I must be eating people.
You don’t believe me, right? That’s really what they said. Once it was out there, all kinds of people believed it.
Just to be perfectly clear: I don’t eat people. Google it. Bone flour is from cows.
I’m sorry. I’m getting worked up. But you see how it is? This sort of thing happens to me all the time. I could sue for slander, but that would just give more publicity to these claims — and that’s what people would remember: not that they lied, just what they said.
So I don’t get out much.
I’ll be honest; I don’t get out at all. I might be nearly eight metres tall, but I don’t need much space, not really. The house is enough for me.
My parents were big, too, and I miss them. They had our house fitted out right for our family before I was even born. From the outside, it looks like a high-ceilinged three-storey townhou
se. It fits in with its neighbours. The front door is big, I guess, but it’s hidden behind an alcove. The house doesn’t attract attention.
I attract attention, but only if I go out.
I don’t need to go out, not these days. That’s what the internet is for. That and cat videos. And porn (I’m kidding: I don’t use porn!)
It feels a little strange, writing you this long email, but we’ve been chatting for a while now and I think we’re starting to get serious. I should tell you a bit more about myself so you know what you are getting into. So we both know.
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I told you I don’t get out, so you’re probably wondering how I make a living. I guess you could call me a freelancer. I do lots of little jobs online: piece-work. I choose my own hours and pick jobs that suit me: classifying images, filling out surveys, writing little articles and “how to” guides. It pays a few cents here, a couple of dollars there. None of it takes long, so as long as I put in the hours every day, it adds up to a good-enough living. I order in what I need: groceries from the local shops, custom-made trousers from China, music and videos streamed direct to my TV. It’s a pretty good life. I do all my own repairs. There are always online videos to show me how. I work out, too: I put on an old movie and go through my weight routines in front of the TV. Gotta stay in shape.
I’ve noticed you’re on the internet a lot, too: always available to chat. I like that about you. I like your picture, and I’ve been wondering: is that really you? It’s okay if it’s not. My profile doesn’t say I’m almost eight metres tall, after all. No one is perfect. But if it is you, you’re really cute.
I just wanted to say that.
One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries Page 9