by Paul Stewart
‘They have discovered our main laboratory complex because of you?’ says Dextra. Her voice sounds calm, but the feathered wings, still trembling at her shoulders, give her away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘When I retrieved the data-banks from that droid for the Sanctuary-dwellers, I had no idea of the real situation. I . . . I believed the lies they told me.’
She smiles sadly. ‘It cannot be helped, York. We will try to save what we can.’
She looks at Belle, who nods at some unspoken understanding between them. Then she turns back to me.
‘Go with Belle,’ Dextra tells me. ‘She knows what to do. If any of us survive the attack, we’ll meet at the Citadel.’
And she turns and crosses the floor to a console set into the bank of lights over at the tech-station. I watch her for a moment as she hunches over the controls, her magnificent feathered wings forming an arch over her lowered head.
She is not a mutant, I realize. She is just a human. With wings.
A siren sounds, and huge panels begin to open in the roof like the petals of some gigantic flower. Light from the arc-lights floods down into the immense chamber.
This really is a hidden city, and it’s incredible.
The Outsiders emerge from gantries, roosts, sunken pools and adapted cabins, and fill the walkways and thoroughfares. They do not panic. Acting quickly and efficiently, they gather up essential equipment and data-stores and begin to make their way to evacuation points.
Heavy-set people with leather skin are climbing ladders up into the light, glowing power-nodes and heat-canisters strapped to their backs. Others, their bodies covered with thick fur, are gathering holo-units, info-pods and memory-stacks in clusters, and following them. I see gill-men and -women slip soundlessly into convection pools, carrying oval spheres fastened to urilium frames between them. They disappear into the depths.
Then suddenly the air is filled with the sound of beating wings, and I look up. The winged people have taken to the air. Some have feathered wings, some have scaly wings, and some, translucent golden wings, with skin stretched taut over a framework of slender bones. As they rise in the shaft of light from the open ceiling, I see that each of them is clutching a glistening cable. And as the cables go taut, the vital tech-units around me are lifted up into the air.
It has all taken moments, and yet it is an awe-inspiring sight – humans perfectly adapted to this environment . . .
‘We must go, York,’ Belle’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘This way.’
She takes me to the grille-covered opening to one of the ducts, pulls the grille off and tosses it aside. Then she crawls into the steam-filled interior. I glance round and see Dextra. She has not taken to the air with the other winged Outsiders. Instead, she is ushering a line of children down through a hatch in the moss-covered floor, her wings raised protectively over their heads.
I swallow as a wave of guilt rises inside me. This is all happening because of me.
All at once there is a deafening crash as the floor of the chamber erupts, scattering turbine sails, convection pods and insulation panels in all directions. I see a black-helmeted head emerge, followed by huge armoured shoulder panels and a metallic ribbed torso. Beneath are powerful propulsion units. The ribs of the torso are lighting up, one after the other, in a luminous detonation sequence.
Another head bursts up through the floor, and another . . .
Belle reaches out and hauls me into the duct, and we’re running through clouds of hot steam when the blast wave knocks us off our feet. My ears are ringing, my lungs burn. I feel Belle pick me up, and we’re moving again.
There’s another blast, which I hear this time, a muffled crump.
Moments later, the blast wave propels Belle and me up out of the duct in a column of rushing steam. We land in a bank of sand outside and tumble, head over heels, to the foot of a dune.
I look up to see a dazzling flash of white, which is followed at once by an ear-splitting explosion. Shards of metal debris shoot up into the air in all directions as a great mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke rises over the hub-generator. Around us in the sand dunes, power lines snap and writhe, sending down a blizzard of sparks.
There’s another explosion. Then another, and another, as Petra Crockett’s detonation droids do what she sent them out to do: destroy the mutants’ central lair.
A sandstorm breaks over us and I can’t see. And with the clamour in my head, I can barely hear either. It’s disorientating. I feel Belle’s hand wrap itself round mine, then hear her voice. It sounds like someone calling me from far away, muffled and hollow, the words coming and going.
‘York . . . go . . . me . . . after the . . .’
I follow where Belle leads. As we get further away from the blast site, the storm of sand begins to thin. Suddenly she lets go of my hand.
There’s a faint hissing sound as something flies past my face, blurred and indistinct. Then two more. And as the dust clears I see that Belle has three of the energy spiders attached to her. She falls to her knees and topples forward as they hungrily feed, draining her power supply.
I draw my cutter and slash at them, sending painful jolts through my arm as I make contact. I’m in luck. The insects don’t resist. Releasing their grip on her, they scuttle away.
But Belle remains motionless, slumped forward on her hands and knees.
I reach towards her, only to freeze, stock-still. Above us, hovering over the lip of the sand dune, is a lens-head droid. There are two spindle-legs with it. One has a wing-man clamped in its pincers.
I hardly dare breathe. Perhaps the lens-head hasn’t seen us . . .
I hear a click just behind me. But before I can turn my head, my world goes black.
When I come round I find myself upside down. The blood’s gone to my head. I’m dizzy. I feel sick. I’m in the tight grip of a spindle-legged droid that is marching mechanically over the dusty ground.
I’ve no idea where I am.
Suddenly the jolting and jostling stops. I’m dropped. Land on the ground hard, awkward. My elbow jars. I roll over.
Belle and the wing-man flump down on the ground on either side of me. Belle is slumped over on her side, her face expressionless, her body stiff. The wing-man rocks backwards and forwards where he lands, his left wing bent back at an impossible angle. He looks across at me, squinting against the brightness of the arc-lights.
I recognize him. It’s the winged Outsider who first rescued me from the golden-furred predators.
‘You,’ I say.
He nods, attempts to smile, then winces with pain.
We’re in an enclosure. Above it, I can just see the visiglass at the top of a gleaming geodesic dome.
‘The Sanctuary,’ I mutter, half to myself, half to my companion.
The enclosure has a perimeter of metal walls, their surfaces splashed red like spattered blood. It’s a pattern I’ve seen before – in the holo-simulation; the work of a clever vid-designer. Or so I thought.
But this is no simulation. It’s horribly real.
All of a sudden, above the central wall, four huge holo-screens appear. In the outer two, I can see a sea of faces. They’re from the dome. There’s Lennox and Klute. And there’s Travis. And there are thousands of others in rows behind them. Fact is, it looks like every single Sanctuary-dweller is there watching.
The two middle holo-screens are blank until, with a second flash and an amplified crackle, images appear on them. An empty podium with three consoles set on it in a line. And Petra Crockett’s head.
It fills the screen, intimidatingly large. Her dark eyes focus on me.
The crowd stares attentively – at me, at her. The atmosphere’s tense.
‘York, York, York,’ Petra Crockett says, her voice that silky soft purr. ‘I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed in you. We welcomed you into the Sanctuary. We gave you a home. And how have you repaid our friendship and generosity? With sabotage and treachery.’
Outrage rum
bles through the crowd of Sanctuary-dwellers.
‘You not only sabotaged our safe-suits,’ she goes on, ‘but you alerted the Outsiders to our plans.’
The rumbling grows louder.
‘Your actions were reckless,’ she adds, then frowns. ‘Yet our plans were not thwarted.’ She looks first one way, then the other, and she smiles, her lips parting to reveal the two rows of even white teeth. ‘For I am pleased to announce that our detonation droids were successful.’
Now a cheer goes up from the spectators.
‘They destroyed the Outsiders’ lair.’
The cheering gets more animated. On the outer holo-screens, the Sanctuary-dwellers are clapping, slapping one another on the back and punching the air.
‘And our surveillance droids have confirmed that there are no survivors. Every single mutant is dead.’ Her voice drops. ‘Except for one.’
A hush falls over the audience.
‘This winged monstrosity,’ says Petra Crockett, her voice cold and hard. ‘Note its deformed breastbone. Note the inhuman curvature of its spine. The wings . . .’
A hissing and muttering comes from the crowd, which grows louder as their revulsion grows. Then the chanting starts.
‘Destroy the mutant! Destroy the mutant! Destroy the mutant!’
Despite the pain he’s in, the wing-man climbs stiffly to his feet. He raises his head and stands tall. I join him, and the pair of us stare back at the crowd defiantly.
Petra Crockett is unimpressed. ‘The girl is York’s companion,’ she is saying. ‘We’ve had them both under surveillance since they broke through the force-field from the Outer Hull. She willingly served the mutants from what we can tell. And she seems to have turned her companion against us.’
The crowd murmurs disbelief and horror. Someone boos.
‘Which brings me back to our traitor, York, here,’ she says.
The jeers and catcalls increase. And I notice that Travis has his hands cupped to his mouth and is booing along with the rest.
Petra Crockett fixes me with her steely gaze, and her eyes are so large on the screen it feels almost as though I’m being swallowed up inside them.
‘There is a price to pay for turning against your fellow humans, is there not?’
Her head turns from side to side, as if in search of the answer from her audience. And they respond, screaming and shouting and waving their fists. She nods back at them.
‘A price that will be extracted in full in the arena,’ she adds. ‘For our enjoyment. Who wants to play?’
‘Me! Me! Me! Me!’ countless voices shout out, and on the screen I can see the Sanctuary-dwellers jumping up and down excitedly, arms raised, trying desperately to get Petra Crockett’s attention.
‘How about you, Lennox?’ Petra says. ‘I’ve been following your progress keenly. Do you think you can entertain us?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ I hear Lennox say.
I watch him climb to his feet and make his way through the crowd to the podium. He looks unpleasantly eager, and I remember that he was one of the first to congratulate me – all smiles and kind words – when I arrived back with the droid’s memory-unit.
‘And how about you, Lisette?’ says Petra Crockett. ‘You show great promise at the simulation games.’
The crowd turns, and I find myself focusing in on a slim girl with dark wavy hair, who raises an open hand in triumphant acceptance of the offer.
‘Thank you!’ she cries, and beams as she strides to the podium. Again the crowd roars its approval.
‘And . . . last but not least . . .’ Petra Crockett says. She hesitates. The spectators fall still. Then a smile plucks at the corners of her mouth. ‘Travis,’ she purrs. ‘Yes, you, Travis. Will you accept the challenge?’
He nods. ‘I accept,’ he says.
He picks his way through the crowd to join Lennox and Lisette. Unlike the other two, his face looks serious, but I cannot tell what he’s thinking. He does not look at me as he takes his place on the podium.
The three of them pick up the consoles. Lennox is to the right, Travis to the left, Lisette between them. A grinning skull, its eye-sockets black, hovers on the screen beneath each of them.
The sinister, cheerful music begins to play as three lens-heads appear over the top of the metal enclosure and hover above us. Petra Crockett frowns, chops at the air with her hand, and the music falls silent.
‘I think that on this occasion we should hear their cries for mercy,’ she announces. ‘And they should hear us,’ she adds, looking around the ranks of spectators. ‘So raise your voices, all of you. Let them know exactly how the Sanctuary feels.’
A cacophony of boos and whistles and howls of rage echo round the arena. I know they’re not to blame – that the hours of darkness spent in the sleep-pods have programmed their behaviour, like they did mine. But that doesn’t make it any less horrible. Or frightening. Petra Crockett lets it continue for a while, then raises her hands.
Once again, the crowd falls still.
Petra Crockett nods appreciatively, then she speaks, the words calm and chilling.
‘Let the game begin.’
Lennox and Lisette work their consoles with intense concentration. Their flying droids come at the wing-man from both sides, zapping him with their blue taser-light. Sparks fly and his body judders. Two tasers strike the back of his neck at the same time. He jerks violently backwards and slams to the ground with a strangled scream.
The crowd roars with excitement. The eye-sockets of two of the skulls light up a pale yellow.
Meanwhile, the third lens-head – Travis’s one – drops down low and zaps Belle. Over and over, the taser hits her. Body. Shoulder. Neck. A glowing net-like pattern of lights covers her body as it convulses on the ground, but she makes no sound.
A chant goes up, ‘York! York! York! York . . .’
Lennox and Lisette are enjoying torturing the wing-man too much, but Travis responds. His lens-head speeds towards me, its taser firing.
I dodge and dart as best I can. But I’m not quick enough. A bolt of taser-light hits me at the top of my spine. It’s like being struck a hammerblow. My back arches, my eyes burn. I let out a cry of pain.
The crowd cheers.
A second blast hits me square in the chest. I’m thrown to the ground, body numb and head spinning. I look up groggily.
The eye-sockets of the third skull are now glowing the same pale yellow as the others.
I glance at Travis on the holo-screen. He could have finished me off if he’d wanted. I’m sure he could. But that’s not the game.
And to think I believed this was just a simulation.
Looking round, I see that the other lens-heads are still working together. Their anti-gravity tractor beams are on, and they’re using them to raise the wing-man up in the air some ten metres above the ground.
‘He’s flying!’ a voice jeers, and a section of the crowd explodes with taunting laughter.
The wing-man writhes and wriggles. His good wing flaps, but the other one is shattered and useless, and there’s nothing he can do. He hovers there, unable to break free of the tractor beams – until they abruptly switch off, and the wing-man falls.
He lands hard in a crumpled heap and groans miserably where he lies.
The crowd roars with delight.
The lens-heads hover above the arena, and I brace myself for the inevitable pain. I roll over on the sand – and my gaze falls on Belle. She’s stirring. Then her eyes snap open and she jumps to her feet.
The taser-light from Travis’s droid has recharged her.
The spectators scream at the gamers, but before Lennox, Lisette or Travis can respond, Belle leaps high in the air. She seizes one of the droids by the head and hurls it at another as she lands. As the two lens-heads collide, they explode in a dazzling flash of white and yellow. Zoid-juice and molten metal shower down into the arena.
There’s a horrified gasp from the crowd as Lisette’s and Lennox’s skulls turn b
lack on the screen, then disappear. No one can believe what they’re seeing.
Down on the ground, Belle shoots out a leg with lightning speed, landing a powerful blow on the remaining lens-head droid. Its body panel crumples and it crashes through the metal wall before exploding.
Travis’s skull turns black.
The groans of the crowd grow louder. Petra Crockett’s jaw drops.
The three spindle-legged droids come towards us, their pincers outstretched, only for Belle to leap up onto first one, then the next, and rip off their head-units with her bare hands. She brings down the third with an enveloping tackle, crushing its knee joints. It crashes to the ground, fizzing and bleeping, before shutting down.
I spin round to look at the screens. The spectators are standing, open-mouthed. The three gamers are clutching their useless consoles, at a loss to know what to do next. Petra Crockett looks as though she’s been sucking on something sour.
Then there’s a fizz and a crackle. All four screens go blank.
Belle helps the wing-man to his feet. The three of us climb through the gaping hole in the metal wall.
‘We’ve got to get to the Citadel,’ Belle tells us.
‘You know the emergency protocol?’ the wing-man croaks.
He doesn’t look well. There is a greyish tinge to his skin that matches the tattered flight-suit he’s wearing, and his broken wing causes him to grimace with pain at every step.
Belle nods. She stoops down at the control panel of the first walkway we come to and re-activates it.
The walkway takes us swiftly away from the arena and the Sanctuary dome beyond. Already, Petra Crockett has sent lens-heads out to track us. But we’ve got a good head start, and when we hear the hum of their propulsion units, we jump from the walkway into undergrowth and watch them fly past.