by Paul Stewart
I look critically at the huge, ungainly suits.
‘I can’t wear one of these,’ I tell Travis.
‘When I scavenge, I need to be able to see clearly and move about freely.’
Travis nods uncertainly. I can tell from his face he thinks I’m crazy. But he smiles and says, ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘Just basic kit,’ I tell him. ‘Like I had when I got here. Knee and elbow guards. A flakcoat. Boltdriver, a cutter . . .’
Travis walks past the row of suits and activates a compartment in the far wall. It slides open to reveal flakcoats and mech-tools. They look unused. I stare at a flakcoat in front of me. It’s all but identical to my old one – the one I was wearing when I entered the decontamination chamber. If I hadn’t seen it crumble to ash with my own eyes, I’d have sworn this was the same one.
‘Try it on,’ says Travis. ‘See if it fits.’
It does. Perfectly.
It’s a good sign. I feel my confidence rise. The mech-tools are good too – the cutter sharp and well weighted, the boltdriver handy and easy to use. I snap them into place. Over at the visiglass shelves, Travis pulls out box after box, and I arm myself with canisters of gunkballs, clips of grenbolts and a pulser. I load up the flakcoat. But not too much. I need to be light on my feet to scavenge.
When I’m done, I turn to Travis. It feels good being kitted out once more.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he says. He’s looking me up and down, and seems worried.
‘I think so . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Why? Is there something wrong?’
‘It’s just . . .’ He frowns. ‘York, I’m not sure you understand the implications of leaving the Sanctuary without wearing a safe-suit.’ He nods over at the bulky exo-skeletons standing against the wall. ‘Just one injury, York – the tiniest scratch – and you risk failing the decontamination protocol . . .’
‘And then what?’ I say. My heart’s hammering inside my chest.
Travis can’t hold my gaze. ‘It won’t just be your clothes that’ll get incinerated,’ he says quietly.
I swallow.
It occurs to me just how lucky I’ve already been. When I first came to the Sanctuary, it seems I was no more than one scratched hand away from incineration. But I have promised Petra Crockett that I’d scavenge her droid, and I can’t back out now.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ I say to Travis.
If I pick up an injury, I won’t be returning anyway. No, I’ll go in search of Belle, I tell myself – although even as I do, I feel a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. It is a clenched, knotted feeling, that gets stronger when I consider the possibility of not returning to this wonderful place.
It’s as if the Sanctuary has some sort of invisible hold on me.
Travis claps me on the shoulder. ‘But come, York. I’ll take you back to your room. If you’re going out there into the zones tomorrow, you’ll need a good night’s sleep.’
And despite everything, I do sleep well.
The sleep-pod really is amazing. The moment the lid closes, the light dims and the pod adapts itself to the contours of my body, I fall into a deep sleep. And I don’t wake again until eight hours later. When I open my eyes I feel rested, relaxed, but alert. Full of energy.
There’s something else too. As the lid of the sleep-pod opens and I get up, I realize I’m no longer bothered at all by the visiglass walls around me. In fact I love the feeling they give me of being a part of the Sanctuary. I want to protect it more than ever, and when I think of it coming to harm I feel an intense anger, deep down inside me, just waiting to explode.
‘Fully rested?’ says Travis half an hour later, when I step out of the elevator down in the atrium beside the entrance.
And that’s another thing. I now know the co-ordinates for the elevator to take me anywhere I want to go. It’s really weird. They just pop into my head as if I’d learned them in my sleep.
I walk with Travis to the airlock. I’m dressed in my flakcoat, tooled up and ready to scavenge. Travis pats me on the shoulder and hands me a tiny ear-piece.
‘Thank you, York,’ he says. ‘Petra asked you to wear this.’
I put it in my ear. It fits snugly, and I hear Petra Crockett’s voice as the airlock opens and I step inside.
‘No going back now,’ it says. ‘Good luck.’
I head down the stone steps, then stop. The swamp of Zone 2 lies ahead of me and I don’t fancy crossing it again. Not with the swarms of biting, stinging insects buzzing over the scuzzy water.
‘Take the walkway to your left, York,’ comes a voice in my ear.
It’s Petra Crockett again. Her voice is silky and smooth, yet it makes me jump.
‘It will take you to the seed libraries. Zone 8. It is where we lost . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Where we lost the droid. Start your search there.’
‘Will do,’ I say.
‘And York, this zone is unpredictable. More unpredictable than most, so keep moving. You have until nightfall to complete the mission and return.’
Her voice is as soothing as before, but I can hear a slight edge to it. Is it urgency? Impatience?
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say.
‘Excellent,’ she purrs. ‘Our databases are at your disposal. And there’s a tracking device in your ear-piece. I’ll do my best to guide you.’
I thank her and step onto the walkway to my left. It hums into motion, and I’m off, speeding through the Mid Deck.
As I leave the geodesic dome behind me, I find myself crossing a dry, barren plain. Zone 6. According to an info-post I pass, it used to be jungle. Not any more. There are dead trees, their branches like stubby fingers; there are clumps of dust-blown grass and long leafy tendrils that have grown out over the ground as far as they could, before the water gave out, stopping their growth and leaving them crisp and dried out.
The arc-lights overhead get hotter and hotter, simulating the temperature of the midday sun as I continue. I’m sweating inside my flakcoat. My eyes are screwed up against the dazzle.
I activate the coolant device.
The zones blur and change. Time moves on. Petra Crockett reminds me more than once of the urgency of my mission.
I come to signs of human habitation, all of them abandoned. A windowless tower, one side shored up by the fallen tree that smashed into it. A row of raised tanks that are rusted now and unable to hold water. A light-turbine, half of its black-and-white sails broken. And a series of tracks that criss-cross the entire zone.
‘You are passing the magno-transport grid,’ Petra tells me. ‘Sadly non-functioning. But you might experience a little static interferen—’
Her voice is cut off by loud crackling.
Tracks cut through this dusty landscape like scars, and are marked by the shapes of stranded vehicles, their magnetic power units rusting beneath them. The static fades, and is followed by silence.
‘You are approaching the central seed libraries.’ Petra Crockett’s voice is back, silky smooth. ‘But time’s moving on. I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of speed.’
The walkway slows, then comes to a stop. At last. I climb down onto a carpet of lush green grass.
I’m standing at the edge of a vast grassland. In the middle distance are terraces, connected by more walkways and full of stacks. They, like everything else, are covered in the grass, that is long and thick and ripples as the air from hanging turbines flows over it.
‘Zone 8,’ Petra Crockett confirms. ‘The droid was downed on the upper levels of Bank 4.’
I set off, and find myself wading through the knee-high grass, its seed-laden heads swaying from side to side, puffing with pollen when I knock against them.
Having lived most my life in the Outer Hull, I found the other zones strange, but at least they were like places that once existed on Earth. This? This is weird. Truly weird. The grass is too thick. Too green. And it’s like . . . I don’t know. I’m probably being stupid, but it’s as if I can hear
it growing . . .
I haven’t gone far when I stumble against something at my feet. I stop. Look down. And there’s some kind of terminal there, lying on its side. The outer casing and screen are covered by a layer of grass.
And it’s not the only one.
As I trudge deeper into the grassy zone, I’m surrounded by humps and mounds that form the outlines of consoles and work-desks, vid-screens and holostations. I’m wading through a vast bio-engineering hub, but one that’s been completely overgrown with the thick, swaying grass.
‘Keep moving.’ Petra Crockett’s voice is that same mixture of concern and irritation. ‘If you slow down, the grass will seed itself.’
I look down and am shocked to see tiny grass shoots spotting the front of my flakcoat, the surface of my boots. Hot swarf! Something here is definitely not right.
‘Ahead is Bank 4. Take the central walkway. Unfortunately it stopped working five centuries ago.’
‘I can see it,’ I tell Petra as a series of terraces comes into view up ahead. Like everything else, they’re covered in the thick carpet of grass. ‘I’m heading for it now.’
I climb the walkway, past terraces full of data-stacks that are shimmering and green-fringed. I reach the upper terrace and stop. There, stooped and unmoving, is the unmistakable outline of an exo-skeleton suit. It is covered with grass. I make my way over to it, and as I do, the ear-piece fills with static once more.
I’m on my own.
I take out my cutter and scrape away the grass covering the visored helmet. Etched beneath it is a name plate. Connor, it reads. I press the pressure-pads, the visor opens – and I’m staring into the dead eyes of the former occupant of my sleep-pod.
I swallow. It’s no wonder Petra and Travis kept quiet about what happened to him.
With shaky hands, I shut the visor and step back, only to stumble over an object directly behind me. I crouch down and cut the grass away. It is the surveillance droid. The grass has seeded itself to its body and taken root in the creases of metal. I can’t believe how quickly the stuff grows.
I roll the droid over on its side. Then I unhook my boltdriver. It feels so good having it in my hand. Just like the old days back in the Outer Hull, doing what I do best.
Scavenging.
I cut through the lens casing and lay it to one side. The memory-unit is laid bare. I drill a hole in the urilium casing, and probe inside for the ejector-button. A moment later, there’s a click, and the whole unit comes away in my hand.
‘Memory-unit intact,’ I whisper to myself. I put it in the pocket of my flakcoat. ‘And secured.’
I leave the terraces and set off for the walkway, following the line of trampled grass, heading back the way I came. I’m feeling good. Happy to have been of use to the Sanctuary. Pleased that everything’s gone without a hitch. And oddly elated to be out scavenging once again. I’m wondering whether Petra Crockett might not have other jobs like this for me when the lights abruptly go out.
‘Nightfall,’ the voice says in my ear. Petra Crockett is back again, and she doesn’t sound happy. ‘Have you secured the droid’s memory-unit, York?’
I tell her I have.
‘Then get out of Zone 8 as fast as you can,’ she says.
Above me, the solitary arc-light shines down, turning the swaying grass into a rippling sea of silver. I increase my pace, only to see a long snaking trail of bioluminescence coming towards me. It’s between me and the walkway and, as I run, it swoops round and encircles me in a glowing, pulsating ring.
A head, mounted on a thick sinuous neck, rises up out of the grass. I come to a skidding halt. It’s got four yellow eyes, a jutting snout, the jaws slightly parted to reveal three glistening fangs inside, and a pair of forked tongues that flick in and out between them. It is no more than a metre in front of me and, when I glance back, I see the snake-like creature’s coils undulating all around me in the grass.
It’s massive. And it has me surrounded. I’m trapped. The decontamination protocol back at the Sanctuary means I can’t risk being bitten. Or even scratched. The coils contract; the jaws open wide. It’s life or death . . .
The creature strikes.
A fang snags the shoulder of my flakcoat, and I stab wildly at its head with my cutter. There’s a squelch. A hiss. And thick dark liquid spurts from its throat. The creature recoils. I pull out my pulser and fire.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Molten grenbolts find their mark and the creature’s head explodes. I jump over the smoking stump and run. Run like my life depends on it. I’ve got to get out of this terrible zone.
I plough through the dense grass as fast as I can towards the walkway. I haul myself up onto its surface, which hums into life. I glance behind me. The creature’s rearing up once more, and I see there are three smaller glistening heads already forming at the top of its severed neck as it does so. I stare back in fascinated horror as the walkway speeds me to safety. And when I reach the end, I step down, still shaken up.
‘Keep moving!’
Petra Crocketts’s voice jolts me back to action. I look down and realize the grass is fusing my boots to the ground. I yank them free and begin to run.
By the time I get to the dome, I’m close to exhaustion. My body is covered in a fresh green growth, weighing me down and growing faster than I can tear it away. But I’m all right. No cuts. No scratches.
I collapse against the sensor-pad. The door opens, and I fall forward into the airlock. The chamber seals with a hiss, and a calm voice speaks.
‘Prepare for decontamination.’
‘Decontamination complete,’ the voice announces after what seems to me like an eternity.
For a second time the clothes I’m wearing have been lasered to ash. The kit – cutter, pulser, grenbolts – has been stripped down, cleaned and reassembled by a droid attendant. They’re laid out on a tray at my feet next to the little ear-piece, gleaming and clean, just like me.
All in one piece. Thank the Half-Lifes!
The droid passes me crisp new clothes and polysynth boots. It has the memory-unit in one of its pincers. It waits patiently while I dress, then opens the inner airlock and leaves without a word.
I step through the doorway into the dome. And as I do so, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of belonging, of being where I’m meant to be.
Of being home.
It’s a feeling that’s made stronger by what’s facing me. A huge crowd of people. They surge forward, grinning and laughing, whooping and cheering and calling out my name.
‘York! York! York! York!’
I realize I’m grinning back at them. And waving. It feels so, so good to be back inside the Sanctuary, away from the horror of the chaos zone, and surrounded by all these people who are obviously relieved and pleased to see me.
‘Well done!’ someone yells.
‘Yeah, well done, York!’ several other cries go up.
‘That was mega!’ comes a voice, young and excited, and I turn to see Lennox, along with Klute and twenty or so of the young spectators from up on the simulation platform.
They’re cheering louder than anyone, and as I step forward, they gather round me, patting me on the back, punching me lightly on the arms and beaming with happiness. And their reaction is so warm and friendly and sincere, I realize that I am now truly one of them.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I say. ‘But I was only serving the Sanctuary.’
And Petra Crockett, I think. The person who’s made all this possible . . .
‘The bev-counter,’ someone calls out.
‘Yeah, let’s celebrate,’ comes a chorus of voices. ‘Drinks all round.’
I’m clutching my kit, laid out on the tray.
‘That sounds great,’ I say. ‘But I need to get these things back to the armoury first. Then we’ll celebrate!’
Another cheer goes up from the Sanctuary-dwellers, and the crowd parts to let me through. I step into a waiting elevator, give the co-ordinates, then wave back throu
gh the visiglass wall as it whisks me away.
As the crowd slips back into the distance, I look down at the tray and, I don’t know why, but I pick up the ear-piece and pop it in my ear. Perhaps I want to see if it’s still working. Perhaps I want to hear Petra Crockett’s voice. Whatever the reason, I’m glad I do.
‘After all, I rescued York.’ It is the voice of Travis I hear. ‘Why can’t we rescue this companion of his?’
‘It’s too risky,’ comes the reply. It’s Petra Crockett.
So they know where Belle is now, I realize.
‘But I’ll be wearing a safe-suit,’ Travis protests. ‘And I’ll insist that York does too. With twenty droids, we’ll lose half, maybe more, but . . .’
‘But nothing, Travis.’ Petra Crockett is sounding exasperated. ‘We rescued the boy because he was of use to us. Connor failed. York did not. The detonation droids did their job and destroyed the Outsiders’ camp, but it was just an outpost, Travis. The girl is of no value.’
‘But the Outsiders will torture her. Maybe kill her.’
Travis sounds upset.
So am I. I swallow hard. Belle’s out there in the clutches of the hideous mutants. And Caliph. My little Caliph. I left him in the mutants’ camp . . .
‘Forget about rescue missions, Travis,’ Petra Crockett insists. ‘The memory-unit York recovered gives us the exact location of the mutants’ central lair.’
‘Beneath the hub-generator of Zone 12,’ says Travis. ‘York and I could go in through the duct tunnel . . .’
‘Enough!’ says Petra. ‘This is the best chance we’ve ever had to destroy the mutants. Once and for all. Every last one of them. I won’t let it slip through my fingers. And if the girl has to die that’s no concern of mine.’