by Paul Stewart
We’re on the edge of the rainforest in Zone 3.
The wing-man groans and sinks to the ground. His left wing is jutting out awkwardly, the broken bones clearly visible through the translucent yellow skin.
He looks up at Belle, then me. His sandy brown eyes crinkle up into a pained smile.
‘My name is Cronos. Thank you,’ he says. ‘Thank you both.’
Then he closes his eyes, and I think he’s passed out. But then, sighing and wincing, he sits up, and I watch as he reaches into the inside pocket of his flight-suit. He looks worried, checks the other side, and his expression relaxes.
He removes his hand, and I stare down at the thin flat pack in his grasp.
It’s small, orange, and made of some kind of soft polysynth. It looks old. The colour’s faded, the corners are worn. On the front panel, is a diamond-shaped silver shield, the words Life Lab and Zone 8 embossed inside it.
Without looking up, the wing-man tears at the corner of the pack with his teeth. There’s a soft hiss as the seal is broken, then he pulls it open with his fingers.
I exchange a glance with Belle. She’s as intrigued as I am.
The wing-man extracts a square of paper-like material from the casing, so white it seems to be glowing, and so light that it floats in the air. Then he starts to unfold it. It doubles in size, then doubles again, and again and again, until it’s the size of a sleep-sheet. It’s transparent and tissue thin, and there’s a faint smell to it too, I notice, a curious mixture of hot wires and wet soil.
The wing-man pulls the floating material over himself, wrapping it around his body like a shawl. The material contracts, flowing across his shoulders and settling over the injured wing. Then it starts to glisten. At first, I think it’s just a trick of the light, but the pin-prick flashes of silvery white increase and intensify, until the whole wing is glowing and giving off a gentle warmth that seems to pulsate rhythmically like a heartbeat.
Then, within this warm glow, I see that changes are starting to take place to the wing itself.
Slowly at first, but gathering speed, the jagged ends of the shattered bones come together. The splinters fuse. The fractures disappear. One by one, across the span of the wing, every broken bone is mended.
‘That should do it,’ the wing-man says at last, and smiles, and it is clear that the pain too has gone.
He straightens up and raises his wings. I see his breastbone brace and the knot of muscles at his shoulders flex. Then, tentatively at first, but with increasing confidence, he beats them back and forward, back and forward, till his feet leave the ground and he rises into the air in front of us. He hovers for a moment, then comes down to land and folds his wings behind him.
‘We have three hours of arc-light left,’ he tells us, and rolls his eyes. ‘So long as they haven’t been tampered with again.’ He looks around him. ‘It’s not safe here. But I know a place.’
He turns and sets off through the rainforest on foot.
‘Follow me,’ he calls over his shoulder.
With Cronos leading the way, we stride out over the spongy mattress of fallen leaves that cover the floor of the rainforest. As we continue, I see how his eyes dart from tree to tree, from plant to succulent plant. He doesn’t look happy. And he keeps muttering to himself – about moisture levels, soil erosion, nutrient saturation . . .
All at once, he flaps his wings, and Belle and I watch as he flies up to a cluster of gigantic cup-like blossoms that sprout from the upper branches of a tree. He hovers in front of them, examining the scorched petals closely, before joining us on the ground and continuing on foot without saying a word.
A little further on, he spots a clump of pink-topped fungi. He crouches down to inspect them, and I hear him tut. Then, plucking one of them, he slips it into the front pocket of his flight-suit.
We come to a saturated area, where trees have toppled from the grow-troughs and are lying criss-cross on top of one another in thick oozing mud. Remembering how I almost drowned in mud just like this, I look at Cronos. He’s shaking his head.
‘More sabotage,’ he says darkly, and spreads his wings once more. ‘Wait here,’ he instructs Belle and me, and takes to the air.
Just then, overhead, I hear the sound of hissing water, and I look up to see the dark shape of the giant rainmaker gliding through the air towards us. Its sensor-lights are flashing and the sprinkler nozzles are blasting pressurized jets of water down at the ground.
Cronos tilts his wings, first this way, then that, as he flies up through the branches of the trees and on beyond the forest canopy towards the arc-lights. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the brightness, and watch as he swoops back down and lands lightly on top of the great irrigation unit.
He bends forward and opens a series of hatches along its side. He reaches in. Sparks fly, and his face is lit up in the glow. The sensor-lights dim for a moment, then grow bright again, and spread across the surface, until the whole rainmaker is a bright constellation of pulsing lights.
All at once, the sound of the hissing changes. It gets higher pitched and softer. The rushing becomes a gentle pattering, and as Belle and I watch from the cover of a tree, I can see that the nozzles of the rainmaker have untangled themselves and are fanning out, sending down a spray of tiny droplets that splash softly on the leaves of the trees below.
Satisfied, Cronos returns, his huge wings silhouetted against the arc-lights as he glides back down through the air. He lands beside us.
‘The work of the droids,’ he mutters grimly. ‘The Sanctuary-dwellers use them against us, no matter what the cost to the bio-zones.’ He shakes his head. ‘To think of the good we could do, if only we all worked together.’
Cronos looks back up at the giant rainmaker as it continues on its way. And as it passes overhead, it showers us with a soft, refreshing rain.
I’ve got so many questions to ask him, but the wing-man clearly doesn’t feel like saying any more. He strides off through the rainforest, looking around him, still muttering to himself.
Belle and I follow.
Then the arc-lights go out.
It’s dark. The single arc-light still shining overhead barely penetrates the dense forest canopy.
Not that it makes much difference to us. Cronos knows the rainforest like the back of his hand. Trouble is, though, I’m feeling pretty tired. It’s been a long, tough day. I’m wondering just how much further we’re going to trudge through the dark rainforest when he suddenly stops in front of a tree and looks up.
‘We can stop here for the night,’ he says.
‘Under this tree?’ I ask, and Cronos smiles.
‘Not down here, York,’ he says, and points. ‘Up there.’
It is the first time he’s spoken directly to me – used my name. But then he’s had a lot on his mind.
Belle crouches down. ‘I do not need rest,’ she says simply. ‘I’ll wait here and keep watch.’
Cronos looks puzzled.
‘Belle’s a zoid,’ I tell him. ‘We teamed up in the Outer Hull.’ I glance at her and smile. Back at the Outsiders’ central lair, I thought she’d betrayed me. I was wrong, of course, and I reach out and take her hand in mine, squeeze it. And she surprises me by squeezing back. ‘We’ve been through a lot together,’ I say.
Cronos’s jaw drops. ‘I overheard our bio-engineers talking about a robotic mutation they’d found in the zones,’ he says. ‘They were really excited about it.’ He looks Belle up and down. ‘So that was you. I had no idea. You look so . . . so human.’ He turns to me and laughs. ‘No wonder she dealt so effectively with those droids,’ he says. ‘Tech-engineering at its most advanced . . .’
‘Belle’s not a machine,’ I break in. ‘She’s my friend.’
I notice that Belle is looking at us, back and forward, gauging our reactions.
‘I see,’ says Cronos.
‘And York is my friend,’ says Belle.
‘As a bio-engineer myself, I find your ability to adapt to your
surroundings fascinating,’ he tells her, then looks at me. ‘Belle might not need rest,’ he says, ‘but we bio-lifeforms certainly do. Allow me.’
Cronos takes me by the shoulders and beats his wings, and together we rise off the ground. Belle stays motionless below the tree, looking off through the darkness. Branches swish past, my feet catching on the leaves, and my stomach lurches as Cronos soars high above the forest. His wingtips are edged silver in the single arc-light. Then he dips down towards the treetops.
We land on a swaying branch, and I see it.
A tent-like structure, paper-thin but strong and well camouflaged, attached to the trunk of the tree. Cronos lifts the entrance flap to the little hideaway he’s brought us to, and I crawl in.
It is spacious inside, with room to stand, and bedding in the form of rolled mats in one corner. In the other are bio-tech instruments and several of the globe-shaped white-noise weapons.
I roll out the mat that Cronos hands me. Made of the same sort of grey moss that carpeted the Outsiders’ central laboratories, it’s soft and warm, and as I lie down on it, I feel my whole body relax.
Cronos sits cross-legged on a mat on the other side of the tree cabin. He takes stores from sealed canisters and prepares a meal – hydrating and steaming ration packs quickly, expertly. He hands me a heated tray of food. There’s some sort of chopped plant, a mound of steamed grains and rich, textured protein. It smells and tastes delicious, and I don’t need the Sanctuary’s coloured pills to enjoy it.
‘That medi-pack you used on your injured wing,’ I say between mouthfuls. ‘It said Zone 8 on it . . .’
‘You have a good eye for detail,’ Cronos says, and smiles. ‘Regeneration wrap, we call it. It can heal just about anything.’ He frowns. ‘You got anything you need healing, York?’
I check myself over. But despite the violence of the battle in the arena, I can’t find a thing. Not so much as a scratch. I shake my head.
‘Well, you let me know if you do,’ he says, examining his own wing. ‘Trouble is,’ he goes on, ‘regeneration wrap is ancient tech, produced back before the Launch Times, and there’s barely any of it left now. And without fresh resources, we can’t hope to research and develop any more.’
‘So it’s accelerated-evolution technology?’ I ask. ‘From the life labs of Zone 8?’
Cronos nods. ‘It’s one application. One of many,’ he says and sighs. ‘Accelerated evolution was perhaps the most startling discovery we humans have ever made. More important than learning to make fire. More important than managing to fuse the atom. It is the key to life itself. It enables us to alter the genetic code of every living organism. Plant. Animal . . .’ He pauses. ‘Human.’
He flexes the wings at his shoulder.
‘Used properly,’ he says, ‘it could – it has – transformed mankind.’ He shakes his head. ‘Which makes it all the more tragic that such a discovery should have gone so terribly wrong . . .’
‘Like in Zone 8,’ I say quietly. The horror of the grass that seeded itself on everything, as well as the terrifying creatures that live in it, are still so clear in my mind.
‘Like in Zone 8,’ he repeats, his eyes glazing over for a moment as he stares into the middle distance. ‘But all is not lost. Not yet,’ he says. ‘So long as there are a few of us Survivors left, there’s still hope.’
Petra’s words back in the arena echo inside my head. Every single mutant is dead. I only hope she was wrong.
Cronos dips his head, his wings folded at his back. For a moment, I think he’s fallen asleep, but as I put down my empty tray, he speaks.
‘I know we must look strange to you, York,’ he says, and bats away my denials with a wave of his hand. ‘But when the zones broke down, those who chose to battle on had to adapt themselves to continue the work.’ He hesitates. ‘But it is more than that, York . . .’
Cronos looks up at me. His expression is radiant, full of joy.
‘Our ancestors chose their adaptations,’ he tells me. ‘Their gene-engineers spliced and grew the modifications they required. Since then, we have inherited their adapted genes and gone out into the Mid Deck to enjoy a freedom the Sanctuary-dwellers can only dream of.’
He’s smiling. His eyes have a far-away look.
‘To glide on the thermals through the arc-lights, York. On your own wings! To roam the polar zone, impervious to cold. To dive to the depths of the ocean zone and swim with the whales . . .’
I lie down on my mat and listen as Cronos talks. His voice is deep and melodic, the grey moss warm and soft. Cronos tells me how he and the other modified Outsiders have built on the work of generations before them; have never given up hope, not only of surviving, but of creating a better world.
He reminds me of my friend Bronx, back in my home in the Outer Hull. Instead of biological modifications, Bronx used zoid parts that I scavenged to augment our bodies. My eyes close and I find myself drifting off to sleep. I think of Belle down there at the base of the tree, keeping watch.
Zoid. Wing-man. Me. We’re really not so different.
The arc-lights come on full-blast. I sit up, feeling completely rested; rub my eyes, look around. The tree cabin’s papery walls are glowing a rich golden yellow.
And I’m on my own.
I climb to my feet and step out onto the branch. Cronos is up already. He’s standing with Belle at the base of the tree. The two of them look up when I emerge.
‘Ah, York,’ says Cronos. ‘All set?’
Before I have a chance to answer, he spreads his wings and flies up to meet me on the branch. Taking my shoulders, he carries me down to the ground. Belle greets me, and the three of us set off through the rainforest towards the Citadel, where we are supposed to meet up with Dextra. Given what Petra announced in the arena, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any point.
Not that I’m about to give up now.
The rainmaker unit must have passed overhead once more during the hours of darkness, and this time it’s done its job properly. The leaves are twinkling with droplets of water and the air’s humid. Neither Belle nor Cronos seem affected, but I’m hot inside my flakcoat and activate the coolant device. Cold air flows, and as my body cools, I find myself missing the familiar feel of the skeeter’s little warm body curled up at my chest.
Where are you, Caliph? I wonder.
We keep on through the forest, Cronos leading us now, Belle happy to follow.
The arc-lights start to cool. Beneath my feet, the leaves crackle and crunch, and I look down to see that they’re edged with frost. The trees are bare and stick-like. I realize we must be approaching the polar zone.
‘Is the Citadel here?’ I ask Belle as we step into a freezing bank of fog.
‘No, York,’ she says. Then, her voice a whisper, she adds, ‘Surveillance droids could be listening.’ And she won’t say any more.
I follow the two of them over the frozen ice crystals: the winged Outsider and the zoid girl. They both know so much more about this chaos zone than I do.
After another hour, despite turning the coolant device to heat mode, I’m painfully cold. There seems no let-up in the freezing fog. Then, just when I’m thinking we’re lost, we come to the frost-covered wall of the ocean zone.
Belle turns to me. She’s smiling.
‘There,’ she says, and I look up to see the frozen waterfall towering before us. We stop at the bottom, where the crashing water has solidified into weird twists and huge boulders of ice.
Belle begins scaling the waterfall. She doesn’t feel the intense cold and, with her hands and the soles of her boots able to grip effortlessly, she doesn’t slip either. Me? I touch the surface of the ice, and it’s so cold it burns.
Cronos taps me on the back. ‘There’s a much easier way up,’ he says, gripping me by the shoulders once more.
On either side of me, I see his great wings lift up and begin to flap, and suddenly my feet leave the ground. As we fly up the frozen waterfall, the cold air it gives off chills
my face, my hands, and my breath comes in puffs of white cloud. Cronos soars higher, and not for the first time, I marvel at his strength.
‘The ocean breach occurred five hundred years ago, and the bio-engineers polar-coated the barrier to contain it,’ Cronos tells me, pointing as we fly past. ‘The breach was only the first of many disasters that occurred when the core systems were lost. Forest fires, floods, swamp slides and desert drift. And then . . .’
‘Accelerated evolution?’ I say.
Cronos doesn’t answer me directly. ‘As with the breach, we controlled all the other disasters,’ he says. ‘Except in Zone 8.’
We fly up over the frozen waterfall and, from this height, I can really appreciate its scale. The jagged edges of the ocean tank are crusted white around the column of frozen water, sealing the hole. Above the breach, the tank rises another thirty metres or so, and as we swoop down, I see Belle powering her way up its frozen surface, finding hand- and footholds in the ice.
Cronos and I land on a metal platform. It’s fringed with giant wave machines that jut out into the water. As we wait for Belle, I cross to the edge of the platform and gaze out at the vast ocean. It stretches off before me as far as the eye can see.
There are ice-floes nearby, milky floating islands that bump into one another as underwater currents drive them on. There are creatures on some of them. White-furred. Yellow-furred. Large and small. And others, some with sleek grey skin, some with black-and-white down, that slip off the ice and disappear beneath the icy water.
In the middle distance, huge waves move across the surface of the ocean in parallel lines. Capped with white foam, they tip and fold over, and crash down on one another.
A black-backed bird with broad wings and a sabre-like beak glides over the rolling water, its head turning slowly from side to side as it scans below. Then, suddenly flapping backwards, it flips over and dives down, breaks the surface without a splash and disappears from view. Moments later it re-emerges, twenty metres or so further on, and flaps back into the air, a large silver fish hanging limply from its beak.