Ways of the Doomed

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Ways of the Doomed Page 8

by McPartlin, Moira;


  He kicked the table, knocking the tray to the floor. ‘Now look what ye made me dae.’

  ‘How do you know I’m a military kid?’ I whispered. There was a quiver in my voice, the skin on my body creeped as if I too moulted. What else did he know?

  Scud continued clearing up the spilled tray.

  ‘Military you say, did ah say that?’ He scratched his head. His acting was chronic. ‘Well, ah don’ know. Ah must huv picked it up frae somewhere. Yer claethes spelt it out ah suppose.’ He coughed and said, ‘Anyway that’s aw tae change.’ He nodded to a parcel he’d dropped at the door on the way in. ‘New overalls for ye. Ah suggested tae Davie boy ye might need them. Dae ye no think ye’ll need mair than two sets o’ claethes? No? The sea water we wash them in damages that cheap fibre somethin’ rotten, even expensive cloth like yours’ll take a pounding.’

  Something was wrong. It was more than his skin. Each time he looked at the dark through the window his bottom lip quivered, like a baby missing its Ma.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Scud wiped his nose on his sleeve, took a deep breath and said, ‘Fine.’

  He stared at some spot over my shoulder.

  ‘Did ye ever dae art at Academy? Ah used tae be right guid at art.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes, but it was difficult with the paper ban. We often painted and drew on recyk textile.’

  Scud rubbed his hand over his aeroed cheek and chin. ‘Maybe you could ask Davie boy fur art things, ah’m sure he’ll have loads o’ Noiri contacts wi supplies.’

  ‘I think I would prefer to work on Davie boy’s permission for my nature work – to get outside.’

  At first I thought he hadn’t heard, he continued rubbing his cheek and chin. He picked a scab off the side of his nose, examined it and put it in his pocket. ‘Aye right enough wee man,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on then.’

  He insisted I show him again the work completed the day before. He shook his head and did that whistling thing with his teeth. He hovered over the history book that lay by my bed but did not touch. ‘How much does Davie know about nature ah wonder?’

  ‘He was brought up on a farm.’

  ‘Uh, huh. Ah wonder if this farm wis close tae the sea?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What dae ye know about the birds young Sorlie?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Not much or nothin’?’

  ‘Nothing I suppose.’

  He settled into the chair beside me, wafting rancid breath my way. ‘Well there are birds here that aw you mainlanders huv niver set eyes on.’ He shuffled his bum and moved closer to me. His unfortunate habit of invading my space irritated me. Each time I drew away he moved closer – very native like. He closed his eyes and struck a dramatic pose, holding his face in the direction of the window for full effect.

  ‘When you lie in bed at night huv ye niver heard it?’

  I recalled the night sounds I heard.

  ‘Gulls you mean. I only hear the sea and gulls and sometimes screams.’

  His eyes popped wide open and he made a ‘shush’ mouth.

  ‘Not gulls.’ He leaned forward and whispered. ‘The special bird.’

  ‘What special bird?’ I whispered back.

  ‘The corncrake.’ He jumped up and did that prancing thing that set my nerves jangling just to watch. ‘The corncrake, wee man.’ This time he didn’t whisper. ‘The scrape and rasp like a rusty hinge trying tae break free.’ He laughed wide and I noticed gaps in his mouth where his molars should have been. ‘Ye must huv heard o’ it. It’s legendary. Here, look it up on FuB.’

  Beastie wheezed and sighed as its ancient components considered the question, went out to lunch, took a nap and eventually ground out the answer. ‘It says here that it has been extinct since 2017.’

  ‘Aye, maybe in other places but if ye listen carefully ye can hear it here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hear it above the other noises.’

  But Scud was back on window duty. ‘Now wouldn’t that be a grand find for yer grandfather. An extinct bird. On his island. He’d be famous and the LRP wid hail him as a hero fur preserving this special environment that hus allowed them tae survive. The find might even pit a stop tae the Purist challenge.’

  ‘Hardly. And how do you know about the Purist challenge?’ This was political news rumbling around the Base.

  He ignored me. ‘Aye, ah think that you could locate that corncrake out there.’ He tapped his nose. ‘If ye were allowed out tae explore the island that is.’ He propped his elbows on the wall, nose pressed to the glass and grinned like a daftie. ‘What better nature project could there be than that?’

  • • •

  There was no mention of the corncrake in the island book, but with this new-found knowledge there must be something I could cook up into a stew to feed Davie.

  Ever since I arrived on this island my physical stats had shown reduced readings. The non-colour white choked; the vastness of white walls and furniture suffocated. It was like being caught up in a crisp white sheet and wrapped tighter and tighter in its folds until it could be squeezed into a filament small enough to be fed into FuB and hurtled into the ether, a rough endless space with no idea where it would land. I had to get out of here.

  Beastie had a few more facts to hand about the island’s water purity, climate and vegetation – the usual gen – which I downloaded with some graphics to my hand reader and studied. Preparation was nine-tenths of the solution or some such scam.

  There was one other thing that was dragging me down: that packet Ishbel had given me and why its discovery was so dangerous. If I got out there might be a chance to read it, a chance to escape or at least make contact with Ishbel. My worrying whittled away the rest of the evening until power shutdown. I looked at the all-seeing dot on the wall.

  ‘Night, night,’ I said. It didn’t blink.

  • • •

  ‘Come on lazy, get out yer pit. Ye’ve a busy day ahead o’ ye.’ Scud’s voice croaked as if he carried a glob of phlegm in his throat that wouldn’t budge. Its pitch was higher too, almost female. It took a while to extract myself from the slugbag I slept in under the top cover. Scud moved to help me, but when I saw him I shrank back into my bag like a lug worm in sand.

  ‘Sakes! What happened to you?’

  His skin had shaded from pasty to barnacled. It was as if his freckles had been bleached and then baked.

  ‘Don’t worry, it isnae catchin’.’ His mouthed pinched in hurt feelings and he retreated to rearrange my work area, leaving me yet again to struggle with the bag.

  ‘What is it then? What happened to your skin?’ I asked.

  He looked at the back of his hand and shook his head then moved my reader to its original position on the desk.

  ‘Well what is it? Stop fussing and tell me.’

  ‘Ah don’ know.’ He didn’t quite snap, that was prohibited, but there was an edge to his voice. ‘It must be something tae dae wi the new vitamins they’re giving us. Ah’ve been feeling a bit weird lately. Some o’ the other guys at roster this mornin’ looked a bit ropey too, especially the ging-ers.’

  ‘What’s a ging-er?’

  ‘Ginger hair.’ He grabbed his command band and took a shifty to the dot. ‘It’s as if we a’ huv a virus or something but we can’t, coz the guard couldn’t care less about shoving us around. If it wiz a virus they wid be coorieing in their quarters and we’d be locked up tae rot.’ The whites of his eyes pleaded as he looked from me to the surveillance dot. He grasped his command band so tightly the barnacles on his knuckles nearly popped.

  ‘But your skin was different yesterday too.’

  ‘Let’s just leave it, OK,’ he said, trying not to move his lips. ‘Ma skin condition is nae concern o’ a Privileged.’

  ‘As you wish, but how do you know
I’ll have a busy day?’

  ‘Don’ know, just guessed – you being a bright boy, you getting access tae the library, you being stuck in here.’

  ‘I need to do a nature project – look.’ I reached to refresh Beastie, but it had powered out. ‘What’s happened? I left it on sleep.’

  ‘Always shut down when ye louse. S’that no how it’s done at the Military Base?’ I shook my head.

  ‘Well here when power goes out at night things switch tae a generator wi limited capacity. Your ‘sleeping’ station drains that power and risks further cuts. And we don’t want generator power cuts do we?’

  What was he babbling on about?

  ‘No we don’t want that. If the generator goes down they lock us aw in the main hall an’ leave us there in the dark. This is an aw male unit. Horrible. Horrible. People get hurt, killed, diseases spread. Power cuts equals misery.’ He clamped his mouth shut. So much said in those few sentences and still no zap. If this was normal acceptable banter, what horrors was he omitting?

  ‘OK, hold your rant. Power cuts equal misery, message received. I’ll try to remember. Anyway look at this.’ I showed him the nature project. ‘I need to get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Scud said behind his teeth.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t committed a crime.’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Maybe you should remind yer grandfather o’ that,’ he whispered behind a soft cough, his hand to his mouth, and then to the dot he said, ‘Crimes have different definitions for different regimes, different cultures.’ The nose was tapped, then ‘Enough chatter – work.’

  ‘I need to collect sea and soil samples and vegetation. We have a choice of habitat and seashore is one.’

  ‘Ye’ll need tae ask Davie.’

  ‘I already have. He said no.’

  ‘Maybe ye asked him too soon. Maybe ye didn’t gie him a good enough reason tae let ye out. Like a corncrake fur instance.’

  ‘I said to do a project and he said no.’

  ‘Well if he won’t let ye out he’ll need tae answer yer questions for ye, won’t he? Ah cannae. Ah’m just a humble historian, ah cannae help ye on this one and ah doubt if he would like another prisoner in here tae help. But he’s a busy man, has a prison tae run.’ Scud scrolled down the text. ‘How’s yer projects presented?’

  ‘Hologram,’ I said.

  ‘Can ye write on paper, spools, that sort of thing?’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t be such a crunk, that’s obsolete.’ This paper thing again. Natives can be so primitive.

  ‘Can ye read and write handwriting?’

  ‘Of course.’ What had this to do with getting outside? ‘Ancient art is still taught in Academy, you know.’

  ‘Ah see.’ He looked down at his pale and barnacled skin but seemed to concentrate on some far-off world. Then he clapped his hands together and rubbed them so fiercely I ducked from the flying skin particles. Someone would have to sweep up.

  ‘Right, let’s be havin ye. Get on with this nature project why don’t we? We’ll see if our wee pal the corncrake is mentioned.’

  Despite his enthusiasm, as we worked through the morning Scud kept drifting into sleep, falling off his chair. At first I left him. Then a humming sounded and he jolted upright. It was like watching a Snap TV Roadrunner cartoon when Wile E Coyote hit an electric wire; sparks flew, his skeleton juddered, eyes bulged and spiralled, teeth rattled, before he was released to the ground, smoking like a doused campfire. Except this wasn’t funny and cartoons don’t smell of burning flesh and pisshap. The jolt came after ten minutes of inactivity, so I began to wake him after eight minutes. This was disruptive and the planned work fell out of the allotted time. I don’t know why this bothered me so much; it wasn’t as if the work would be submitted to Academy for scores. Officially I didn’t exist, like those boys in my year that disappeared before me.

  ‘Is there an Infirmary here?’ I asked on the way to the library.

  He nodded.

  ‘Then, I think you should go.’

  ‘Oh ah don’t think there’s much use in that.’

  ‘Well go to your cell and sleep.’

  This was a joke it seemed. ‘It’s no as easy as that. Ah won’t be taken off ten minute activity watch until ah’ve finished ma chores fur the day. Ah still have the duty roster for next week tae finish and ah huv a new bunch o’ young detainees tae brief on the principles o’ the Land Reclaimist Party manifesto.’

  ‘Why do you have to do that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Someone has tae dae it. – “No rest for the wicked,” as the ancestors used tae say.’

  • • •

  The library was as I left it, minus the tyrant. A slim book, almost a pamphlet, lay on the table beside the skin chair. Its pages were ragged, the binding rough as if it had been home-made in a native shantytown. It was entitled History of the Clearances (2064-2066). It was planted but I played along even though it was sure to be propaganda of one side or the other. Most of its text was humdrum, stats, charts, boring. So what if the ethnos from the Eastern Zone and Desert States willingly lived on these shores? They weren’t here now. The Purists got rid of them, sent them back to their origins, everyone knew that. No one ever challenged how ethnic origins were established though and this propaganda claimed a DNA test was devised – if the ethnos failed to show the desirable mix of alleles they were deported. There was a footnote: early natives had welcomed and assisted in the clearance of the ethnos, but in a land of diminished resources and ever expanding populations, who would be next? I reread the stats – there were tens of millions deported back to Desert States. Some never arrived due to something called genocide. The old raggedy dictionary drew a blank on this word as did my reader. It’s funny though, how some words carry their own meaning in their roots. Geno = race, and the meaning of cide is a no-brainer. Put them together and you reach hell. It made my skin crawl, the histories of millions of lost souls prickling at each of my pores. I could see now there were clues and remnants of this history all around the Base even after all the decades. Some families must have cheated the system.

  Once there was a doctor who came to Academy to inoculate us against some new virus or other. It was a bright day. As we lined up in the drill hall the sun streaked through the window onto the area where the doctor stood sticking inoculation patches on each arm bared to him. His colour was Caucasian and his hair light brown. The heat in the hall became intense, cranking the joules to red. I don’t remember why, maybe the air-con broke or maybe the power was out again. The doctor loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. It was possible to see tight curly black hairs on his chest. Whispers trickled through the line like rubble through a riddle. He dyed his hair, what a dolt. There was a scuffle as everyone in the line tried to swatchie a look, but before it was my turn to receive the patch a guard appeared at the door. Sweat now buttered the doctor’s face. The clamminess of his touch when he put the patch on my arm smeared so much the patch wouldn’t stick. This was the first time I ever smelled the fetid reek of fear. The doctor’s car remained in the parking bay for days until it was eventually carted off on the back of a truck.

  Davie owed me an explanation; he had left this history here for me to read. Why?

  A sepia, blue and green globe that looked as though it belonged to the Romans was shoved in a corner behind the desk. On closer inspection different hues of colour emerged showing borders, individual countries and states. It was inconceivable that so many countries once existed within the land mass that is now Esperaneo. I spun the globe hard and these borders fused into a conglomerate, each country becoming as indistinguishable as greasy handprints on a prefab food-chain door. Was this how the world became carved up into three slices – some power took a globe and spun it off its hinges to reach the desired mix, throwing populations into turmoil, until it slowed and settled? The only problem was the
turmoil still existed and the globe continued to spin.

  Twenty-one hundred hours and Davie was a no show. The old crumbly must have guessed I’d be waiting for him. No use asking Scud about the pamphlet; disclosing that sort of information would zap him into orbit.

  • • •

  A meal of the usual synthetic nondescript muck was laid beside Beastie. The grey broth was cold and had a film on it thick enough to plaster the cracks on Scud’s skin. It heated in minutes by thermo-rod and filled a hole. There was too much time to think in this place. Images of peoples cast out from their homes, murdered and banished to foreign lands crowded my pea-brain. How could the world have changed so much in half a century? If all this happened during my grandfather’s lifetime then how many more oldies like him were involved? Of course there weren’t too many oldies of his generation around now since that nasty little silversurf virus wiped them out. How convenient.

  Scud said his condition wasn’t a virus, but how could he be sure? My stats were reading normalish for someone my age with no access to daylight but that didn’t stop a cold shudder raking my spine. What was happening to Scud and when would it start to infect me? I once read a text called The Count of Monte Cristo about a man falsely imprisoned on an island for years. Was that my fate?

  The erratic lighthouse beacon flashed across the floor. ‘Please come back for me,’ I willed to the distant Ishbel, but there was no sound of an approaching Transport. I listened above the sounds of the sea and gulls and that stupid non-existent corncrake until my ears almost bled but no amount of wishing and listening made her come.

  • • •

  Breakfast was served next morning by a small man with spiky white hair and pink eyes – a goblin of the kind found in fairy tales. The sight of him was enough to put you off the rest of your life.

  ‘Where’s Scud?’ I asked. His watery pink eyes blinked in fear.

  He shook his head before scuttling from the room backwards and knocking his Neanderthal knuckles on the door jamb. There was a crunch and whimper and he vanished, no doubt muddying the corridors with his blood as he dragged his knuckles after him.

 

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