The Gray Institute_Rebels' Hell

by Leanne Pearson

  'This must be far enough.' Asil states, changing direction to begin our ascent. The grass underfoot is smooth and well-tended so it doesn't take long to reach the road. It's a dual carriageway and – as Vlad predicted – it's practically deserted. Up ahead is a foot-bridge and we amble towards it in our small group, trying to act like a simple pack of tourists. A few cars pass below as we climb the metal steps, but they give no indication that our presence has alarmed them.

  Halfway across, I spot the airport ahead. It's small with only a handful of planes dotted near the runway. The sun refracts off the glass of the tiny building, temporarily blinding me as we reach the edge of the runway.

  'This is it.' Vlad beams as we step onto hot tarmac. From the way he walks – shoulders broad, head high – I can tell he's proud that we've made it this far. I also sense that he knew we might not.

  Instead of heading inside the glass building, we continue along the runway to where our plane stands out like a sore thumb amongst the lighter aircraft surrounding it. Sir Alec's jet is huge, white and highly conspicuous, the kind of airliner I imagine the Queen travels in. Waiting at the foot of the tall staircase are two men dressed in dark green uniform, both of them muscled and wearing the same scowl.

  'Katak?' One of them asks, stepping towards Vlad in an aggressive manner.

  'That's right,' Vlad nods, smiling, oblivious to the atmosphere. 'Is it all ready for us?'

  'It's ready,' The man grunts. 'Only the pilot and co-pilot on board. You sure that's wise? What if there's an emergency?'

  'I'm sure we'll live.' Vlad smiles wryly.

  'No baggage?' The man growls, clearly incensed. I wonder how much he's been told about us. Did his boss simply tell him to get a jet ready and meet a large group of people on the runway? Who is his boss? What's their connection to Sir Alec?

  'No baggage.' Vlad shakes his head, stepping past the burly man onto the staircase. The rest of us follow suit, climbing up into the massive jet, bowing our heads as the two men glare at us.

  Inside the plane is like nothing I expected. I’m accustomed to rows of seats, a gangway, at the very most the big squashy armchairs accommodated in first class. Sir Alec's jet is more like a home built for the sky. The first room is a large living area with endless white sofas snugly lining the walls. A coffee table sits in the middle, a breakfast bar at one end, two tall black cabinets housing expensive wine glasses at the other. Through a small door lies a study/dining room, white carpets with gold trim and shimmering golden panels on the aircraft walls. A polished oak table stands in the centre with wide leather armchairs parked against it.

  'This isn't how Stacey described a plane.' Jack widens his eyes, staring around in wonder. I suddenly remember that for the old Rebels, this is an entirely new – and probably frightening – experience.

  'That's because most planes don't look like this.' I tell him, sinking into one of the soft armchairs and feeling it mould beneath me.

  'I can't believe the size of it,' Anne shakes her head, looking a little dazed. 'How on Earth is this great thing going to fly?'

  'It's got powerful engines, Anne,' Vlad assures her. 'It'll fly.'

  'Stacey did say it would have windows,' Anne continues, looking more and more harassed. 'I don't want to see out. I don't want to see us hurtling through the air.'

  Vlad stares at her for a moment before stepping towards one of the windows and lowering the shade. 'Better?' He raises an eyebrow. Anne nods. 'We'll close them all. We won't have to see out.'

  Patrick crosses the room and slumps down in the chair next to mine, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. 'You should have seen her when she saw the cars. I thought she was going to have the first Immortal panic attack in history.'

  'Cars weren't invented when you were confined?'

  'Not like the ones we saw on those big roads. It's rather disconcerting to see things like this.' He gestures to the ludicrous aircraft.

  'You seem to be coping quite well.' I observe. Patrick shrugs carelessly.

  'It's not really a surprise. I mean, seeing them is,' He raps sharply on the expensive table. 'But back in our day, new-fangled inventions were a daily occurrence. Technology was just coming into its own,' He thinks for a moment. 'The washing machine had just been invented. Do you still have those?'

  'Yes.' I laugh despite myself. I spoke to many of the old Rebels down in the dungeons, and plenty of them asked questions about what the new world is like, but I never thought just how disconcerting coming into contact with it might be for them.

  'And they'd just invented a toilet that flushed with water. I'm not sure how it worked.'

  'We still have those, too.' I smile.

  'There were probably other things, marvellous things, being invented around that time. But, being stuck in the Immortal world where technology is of very little use, we didn't really keep up to date with the progress. Stacey told tales down in the dungeons of men travelling to the moon, boxes that show moving pictures of people and... I don't know... dogs, or some-such. And she kept talking about something called the internet,' He shakes his head slightly. 'It's too much for us to take in. We prefer to just imagine that the world is exactly the way we left it. So it's hard to be confronted with something like this.'

  'Ladies and gentleman,' The pilot's voice sounds over the tannoy and Anne jumps out of her skin. 'We're ready for take off. Please remain seated as the aircraft ascends until I make the announcement.' The rumble of the engine causes Anne to lose the plot and she cowers in her seat, eyes behind her hands. I'm not sure what she's so afraid of – it's not like she's going to die – but I feel sorry for her just the same. The plane lurches forward onto the runway, doing the obligatory stop-start that always irritates me though I know it's necessary. It's actually worse with the shades pulled down; I can't see the runway whipping by, can't prepare myself as the wheels leave the tarmac and we jolt into the air. From the dining room through to the lounge area there's a lot of squeals and gasps, but Patrick sits quietly, an expression of amusement on his face.

  'So,' I lean closer to him, eager not to let him see that, despite my modern status compared to his, I'm not keen on flying either. 'What was it like in your day?'

  'You're making me feel old.'

  'You are old.' I frown. This amuses him, and I try not to watch him too closely as he lets out a rare laugh.

  'I suppose I am,' He nods. 'It was – ' He thinks for a moment. 'Dark.'

  'Dark?' I raise an eyebrow.

  'Yes, dark. I lived in London – '

  'I'm from London!' I announce, and the look he gives me as I squeal with surprised delight makes my insides shrivel up.

  'I know that,' He rolls his eyes. 'It's not the same London, I imagine. We may as well be from different planets.'

  'Well, what was it like?' I press.

  'It was dangerous. Depraved. Dismal. All the D's,' He smirks, and I slump back in my seat, disappointed. I'd hoped for more. Patrick notices my expression. 'I'm sorry I don't have much to give you. Before I was transformed, I spent most of my life in a workhouse.'

  'You did?' I gasp. 'A real workhouse?'

  'Yes, a real workhouse,' He smirks. 'But those of us who experienced them don't like to talk about it. There aren't any happy memories.' I nod, trying not to seem put out, and lean back in my chair. He regards me for a moment – a very long moment – before something in his eyes softens and he leans into me. For the duration of the twelve hour flight, Patrick keeps me entertained with a detailed history lesson on Victorian England, tactfully skirting around the topic of his own life. In return, I try to educate him about the modern world, despite his protests.

  'No, no, you don't get it,' I shake my head some hours later. 'You go onto your computer, which is the little box thingy I told you about, and it connects to a wireless signal. That wireless signal gives you access to all the information.'

  'But where does the wireless signal come from?'

  'It's in the air. Like radio waves.'

  'What
's radio waves?'

  'They're um... like... Jesus,' I shake my head. 'This is hard. It's like trying to explain how to breathe.'

  'How do you think the Confine prisoners will feel when they're freed?' He asks suddenly. The question stops me in my tracks, snapping my eyes to meet his. There's no wry smile on his face now; his dark eyes are cold and hard. 'I was confined for two hundred years. Some of those prisoners have been in there thousands. How do you expect them to cope in the modern day world, even bound to the Immortal one? What will they do when they see an aeroplane fly overhead? Or cars on the road?'

  'I... I don't know,' I reply quietly. 'I suppose someone will have to teach them – '

  'Like you're teaching me?' He raises his eyebrows. 'Do you think they'll understand? Even if you manage to employ someone who can explain what radio waves are? Besides, that's a lot of people to spare simply teaching the Confined about the new world. It's a lot of hassle, isn't it?'

  'I should've known this conversation was just another ruse to bring up your objections.' I mutter, turning to slide out of my seat. Patrick's hand clamps down hard on my forearm.

  'You know I'm right, Eve,' He stares at me. No, through me. Just like Stacey said. 'You know this mission is damned in more ways than one.'

  'Get off me.' I snap, wrenching my arm out from under his grip. As I walk through to the lounge, I try to ascertain why I suddenly feel so riled up. There's something about Patrick that puts me on edge, certainly. But it's more than that. Is it possible I get so angry about his ravings because there may be some truth to them?

  'Discussing the flaws in my plan again?' Vlad's cold voice sounds from behind a large, leather-bound book. He's lounging on one of the white sofas, his legs crossed, one foot bouncing up and down casually. I glance back at Patrick, who's still seated on the armchair, staring back at me.

  'No,' I snap irritably. 'Just having a conversation. This is a long flight.'

  'Really?' Vlad peers over the top of his book, one eyebrow raised sceptically. 'A conversation about what?'

  'Victorian England.' I shrug, making to head past him between the coffee table and the sofa. He sticks one leg out to block my path.

  'And Patrick was the only viable candidate for that information?'

  'You may have a problem with him, but I don't.' I lie.

  'I'm just saying,' Vlad shrugs carelessly. 'There are plenty of other people on this plane who could have regaled you with tales of Victorian England. Myself, included. It's curious that you should favour Patrick's account.' Without another word, he tosses the book aside and stands up straight to address the whole group. 'Everyone! We are nearing the Putorana Plateau. In thirty minutes, the time will come for our departure. Before we leave, you should be prepared for the events to follow,' He pauses a moment, making sure he has everyone's attention. Not all of us can fit in the lounge area, so those still gathered in the dining room cram around the doorway to listen.

  'Normally, the act of parachuting from a jet would be within the realms of impossibility. Fortunately for us, mortal perils don't apply. When we reach the Plateau, the plane will descend towards the mountains, allowing the pilot to de-pressurize the cabins and the emergency locks on the doors to release. For those of you who don't understand what that means, in short, descending will stop the plane from breaking apart when the doors open,' Vlad ignores a stifled gasp from Anne's direction.

  'In a few moments, you will all be handed your parachutes. At 12,000 feet, you will make the jump from the aircraft. You are not to open your parachutes until you are 5,000 feet from the ground. I will jump first so for those of you following, follow my lead. Those of you behind, imitate the person in front of you. Try to keep yourself in line with the others, but if you drift, don't panic.'

  Asil appears from the next room, carrying in his arms a bundle of small, green backpacks. Vlad snatches one of them up, holding it high so that we can all see. 'The red cord is your parachute,' He indicates. 'Simply pull it when you want it to release. If you are separated, find your way back to the group immediately. There are natives who live in the Plateau but they are rarely encountered; should you come by them, steer clear. They are aware of Immortal presence and they fear us. I appreciate that for the older Rebels this task is a fairly daunting one,' His expression softens slightly. I know what he means. I've never skydived before and the thought alone terrifies me, but at least I have the advantage of knowing what it is, and that it's relatively safe given the correct equipment. 'When the pilot de-pressurizes the cabin the sensation will feel strange – don't panic. When the doors open, you will feel like you're being pulled towards them – don't panic. You're Immortals, nothing can harm you.' With these last words of assurance, Vlad begins doling out the backpacks. He doesn't even look at me as I take mine, slipping it over my shoulders and feeling its reassuring weight on my back.

  The atmosphere within the plane switches from relative comfort to electric anxiety the moment the backpacks are received. The old Rebels huddle together, backing away from the doors like they're poisonous snakes. I try not to advertise my own panic, telling myself that as a new Rebel, and a modern-day being, I should try to set an example.

  'Beginning our descent now.' The pilot's voice comes over the tannoy again, and this time, it's not only Anne who jumps.

  'What about the pilots?' I turn to the nearest Rebel, who happens to be Asil. He's tying a bungee cord around the silver case, unfortunate enough to have been given the task of diving with it. 'How will they survive the de-pressurization?'

  Asil gives me a look he's never given me before; the kind Vanessa permanently wears around me. 'They're Immortals, Eve. They'll survive it. They can fly low until they land in Norilsk.'

  'Won't their suspicions be aroused? I frown. 'Dropping a band of misfit Immortals at the Plateau?'

  'They're Sir Alec's guys, very loyal to him. Plus, they've been well compensated for their risk.'

  '15,000 feet.' The pilot announces. Vlad jolts into action, heading to the nearest door whilst Asil goes through to the dining area. Slowly, a bizarre sensation comes over me, like my body is trying to cave in on itself. A dull hum rings out in my ears and it grows steadily more difficult to breathe.

  'This is it,' Vlad tells us, his eyes wide but not panicked. 'See you on the ground.' He waits a few moments until a red light appears above the rectangular door, before twisting a long white lever. The door opens inwards, and Vlad steps back just in time as it swings towards him, smashing against the aircraft wall. Immediately, the decompression drags us towards the door and causes me to stagger on my feet. It's not too hard to fight against once the surprise has worn off, but it takes almost all of my strength to keep myself planted. It's deathly cold and the roar of the engine is absolutely deafening; Vlad doesn't bother to speak, merely waves a hand carelessly before throwing himself out of the aeroplane. Despite the knowledge that he has a parachute safely attached to his person, my stomach lurches as I watch his solid frame disappear into the air.

  Jasmina goes next, and the expert way she launches herself from aircraft makes it obvious she's done this before; the look on her face as she flies into the air is one of rapturous enjoyment. Asil follows with the fluid ease he seems to encompass permanently, despite hugging the heavy silver case.

  I glance around the cabin, waiting for the next person to propel themselves through the door, but as the truth dawns on me, I feel a sickening jolt in the pit of my stomach. I'm the only new Rebel left, and every pair of eyes is resting on me, waiting for my lead. Trying not to let my anxiety show, I take a shaky step forward. I could simply let the powerful force drag me towards the door, but that would look clumsy and amateur, so I control my legs, using strength to keep them steady.

  Peering warily out of the giant hole in the plane, I glimpse the view of the Earth below. It's white and peaked, the mountains mere molehills thousands of feet away. Standing there, with the ferocious wind slapping my cheeks, I retract the mental observation that Anne's fear is misplaced
as an Immortal. Immortality is forgotten up here, natural instinct allowing fear to flood my arteries.

  I glance back at the others, still watching me raptly, some of them now with worried creases in their brows. If they think I'm afraid, they won't jump. They'll stay here, cowering on the plane, convincing one another that Patrick was right, Vlad is crazy, this is impossible. So, even though it feels an impossible thing to do, with a tight, forced smile, I throw myself forwards.

  As the snowy, white Earth rushes towards me, and the wind roars angrily in my ears, all I can think about is the pain of freezing cold temperatures. My hands and face are on fire, like a thousand knives stabbing my impenetrable skin. It's hard to concentrate, impossible to breathe, and by far the most frightening thing I've ever experienced. Asil is a speck of black below me and I squint through the wind to see his parachute open. As it does, and the black sheet of nylon unfolds, I bring my freezing fingers to my own red cord, and gauge the distance before tugging on it. For a moment, the world goes dark as nothing happens. I tug again, frantically, and a loud whoosh next to my ear sends a shiver of relief through my bones. The forceful jerk as the parachute takes flight is painful, but the descent is much more pleasant as I float slowly towards the ground. From this distance I can see more clearly the peaks of the mountains, the startling blue of the lakes lying deep at their base. A few hundred miles beyond is a dark green landscape, eerily deserted and wonderfully untouched.