Revenge of the Zeds

by Stewart Ross

  “Come on, Cyrus!” interrupted Sakamir. “Yash and I want to know what’s on that bit of paper.”

  He glanced at her sharply but said nothing. Sitting in the chair, he spread the letter out over the desk and began to read.

  Greetings –

  I imagine you’re reading this, whoever you are, because you want to know what this place is all about. I’ll try and explain as briefly as I can – I haven’t got much time left.

  Back in May 2017, an epidemic of what we called the Mini-flu struck the world. Everyone got it but, as the slight symptoms lasted only a few hours, no one took much notice. They should have. The disease was mutating the mechanism in our DNA that controls ageing. The delayed effect kicked in from August 2018.

  Before this we had aged slowly, many of us living to 70, 80 or even 100. Not any more. Nowadays everyone suddenly grows old and dies during their 19th year. The speed of change is terrifying – 3-4 weeks at most. We call it the “Death Month”.

  Adults over 19 went first, billions of them. Services collapsed, power failed, plagues swept the planet, rotting bodies piled in the streets. In a few short months, science, literature and knowledge – thousands of years of human civilisation – disintegrated. Fortunately or not, we were saved from full-scale warfare because governments ordered the destruction of all domestic and military weaponry immediately they saw what was going on.

  Less than a year has passed since it all began – and it’s mayhem out there. Law and order have broken down and gangs of desperate teenagers terrorise the streets and countryside. I can understand how they feel. They know their 18th birthday is their last: at some point during the next 365 days they’ll wake up to find their skin a little tighter and flecks of grey in their hair. They’ll be in their Death Month, with just days to live. There are many suicides.

  I’m one of the last old-style adults. As my Death Month started about three weeks ago, I reckon I’ve got only a few hours to go. By the end of July, there won’t be a single one of us left.

  I guess you understand something of what I’m talking about. Your DNA – if you understand what that is – must be the same as ours. That means you and the people you live with are all 18 or younger. I can’t imagine your world, though it must somehow have evolved out of ours – the one you can probably see in ruins all about you.

  So, what’s this strange depository you’ve managed to get into? Racing against time, a group of us have tried to secure a tolerable future for our kids. We’ve set up camps for them to manage on their own when we’re gone. Maybe you’re from one of these? I hope so.

  We’ve also built this place, a secure vault containing all the human knowledge and wisdom we could gather. It’s for you, young stranger – as long as you’re able to access it. We’ve included the data of the Salvation Project, a medical programme aimed at reversing the DNA-altering symptoms of the Mini-flu. The scientists died before their work was finished. I don’t know how close they came to success.

  I trust you’ll be able to use what you find here. It may allow you to pick up the pieces and carry on where we left off. Try and make a better fist of it than we did! With that wish in mind, I’ve named this vault after an ancient word for salvation: Soterion, the only place of hope in a world looking so desolate that it breaks my dying heart.

  Dr Rebekkah Askar

  10 July 2019

  When he had finished, Cyrus interpreted the bits that made sense to him and looked up the words none of them knew. He told Yash and Sakamir about ‘years’ and how, when she arrived at Della Tallis, Roxanne said she reckoned they were in the year 2106. Judging by the state of everything remaining from the time of the Long Dead, he thought the date might be an underestimate. But if she was right, it was now 2107 and Askar had written her sad message 88 years ago. He had no idea what ‘Dr’ meant.

  The letter confirmed the truth behind several Constant legends. The Long Dead had indeed lived differently from them, some of them enjoying very long lives. Cyrus was intrigued by the phrase ‘human civilisation’. The dictionary definitions were complicated, so he went back to ‘civilised’. ‘Advanced beyond the primitive savage state,’ he read.

  “That makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re what they called civilised, and the Zeds are not.”

  Yash was not listening. “Cyrus,” he said, leaning forward eagerly, “can you read that bit again about military and something that sounded like weapons?”

  “This bit you mean? Governments ordered the destruction of all domestic and military weaponry immediately they saw what was going on.”

  “Yes, that’s it. So what’s it mean exactly?”

  Once Cyrus had explained the difficult words to him, Yash let out a low whistle. “You know what it’s saying, don’t you?” His eyes were bright with excitement. “They had much better weapons than our bows and swords. Wow! Just think what we could do if we had them!”

  He rose and began pacing up and down the room. Watching him, Cyrus remembered Padmar’s warning about the Soterion’s dark power. Please, Yash, he thought. Not you as well!

  With rising excitement, his friend continued, “I’d smash the Zeds and become the most important and powerful –”

  “Come on, Yash!” said Sakamir, rising to her feet. She looked annoyed, Cyrus thought, as if her impetuous copemate had said too much. Had the two of them already started planning to use the Soterion’s power? No, that was ridiculous. Yash was a good man. He was just a bit carried away by what the future might bring, that was all.

  “We can’t even read yet,” Sakamir went on. “Forget those daft ideas, Yash, and concentrate on the basics.” She smiled apologetically at Cyrus. “I’m right, aren’t I?” As she was speaking, she moved to stand behind his chair and rested her hand on his shoulder, high up near his collar.

  “More or less,” he replied. “We can’t do much until several of us can read properly.” Sakamir’s finger was now rubbing the nape of his neck, slowly, almost – but not quite – imperceptibly.

  This was ridiculous! Surely Yash could see … unless, of course, this was prearranged and he chose not to notice.

  Cyrus stood up abruptly. “Right. I’ll start reading as many books as possible – and teaching others to read at the same time.”

  Sakamir, calm and inscrutable, moved back to her copemate’s side. “Perfect, Cyrus. Yash and I will choose the people for you to teach. You can start tomorrow.”

  So I’m not allowed to select my own pupils, thought Cyrus. Oh Padmar! You weren’t stupid, were you? It had once seemed so simple: all Roxanne and he had to do was reach Alba and open the vault… Open the vault? It was beginning to look as they had opened a nest of vipers. Yash was focused on power rather than learning, and his wily copemate seemed prepared to do anything to get what they wanted. He had to be careful, so very careful.

  “Yes, Sakamir, I’d be happy to start tomorrow,” he answered cautiously. “The sooner we get other people reading, the better.” Irritated by the way she had given him orders, he added in as lighthearted a manner as he could manage, “By the way, don’t forget that if I died tomorrow this lot wouldn’t be much use to you.”

  Sakamir arranged her thin face into another joyless smile. “Oh! Don’t worry about that, Cyrus! Yash and I’ll guard you with our lives, won’t we Yash?”

  “Of course!” He waved a hand at the shelves of books. “And, er, I’ve been thinking… It’d be safer if all these were stored in Alba. We can use the Ghasar.”

  Cyrus frowned. Yes, they had been planning. Once in Alba, the Soterion would be under the personal control of the Emir.

  “Probably best to leave them here,” he countered. “After all, they’ve survived in this place pretty well for almost a hundred winters, er, years. It’s dry and it’s safe.” He pointed towards the massive steel door across the vault’s entrance. “And no one’s going to get through that thing in a hurry.”

  “Sorry, Cyrus,” said Yash firmly, “but I can’t agree. Guarding the Soterion would mean tak
ing archers off other duties. What’s more, the Zeds’ll get to hear of it – yes, I know they will – and then it’d be just about impossible to keep the path between Alba and here open. There’d be Zed ambushes every step of the way, wouldn’t there, Sakamir?”

  “I’m afraid there would, Cyrus,” she replied with a theatrical sigh. “I know how much this place must mean to you, but I think Yash is right. To keep the books safe, we’d better move them into Alba.”

  Cyrus looked at her, then back at Yash. They had clearly made up their minds and there was no point in arguing. Besides, as the books belonged to Alba, there was nothing he could do about it. Only much later, when it was too late, did he realise he should have resisted the change more fiercely.

  “Alright,” he said, “but I’d like something in return.”

  “As you know,” answered Sakamir in the same oily tone she had used when promising to protect him with her life, “we are in your debt, dear Cyrus. What can we do for you?”

  “I’d like my young friend to be one of those I teach to read,” said Cyrus.

  Yash nodded. “You mean Sammy?”

  “Yes, Sammy. Sakamir?”

  “If the Emir agrees,” she said, her face an expressionless mask, “I agree.”

  Quite clearly she did not, though Cyrus was not sure why. It looked as if she wanted to keep him isolated from his close friends and companions. He’d be easier to manipulate like that.

  The transfer of the Soterion library to Alba was completed by sundown, as Yash wished. Cyrus positioned himself in the Ghasar to receive the books as they came in and did his best to keep them in their original order. Sammy worked with him, helping to stack the dusty volumes on the floor.

  “They going to be alright here, Mister Cyrus?” he asked as he kicked aside a startled cockroach nestling in a crack between the boards.

  “I hope so. At least we’ll be able to read them without leaving Alba. Might be safer, too.”

  “So long as this place don’t catch fire… ”

  The conversation was interrupted by an archer carrying two low piles of books on a sort of shiny metal tray.

  “What’s that?” asked Cyrus as he handed the contents of the tray to Sammy.

  “Dunno, Cyrus. Thought you might. There’s five or six of them down there. I brought one up so you could take a look and see what you wanted to do with them.”

  Cyrus took the object and examined it. It was rectangular, about an adult handspan on the short side and a little over a foot wide, with holes of different sizes along the edges. The whole thing was no more than a fingerjoint thick. He passed it over to his helper.

  “What do you make of this, Sammy? Obviously some Long Dead gadget I’ve never seen before. Have you?”

  The young man turned the tray over in his hands. “No, never seen one. But them holes has metal bits sticking up inside. You can see them, all gleaming. And where there’s metal, there’s that stuff what made the killer fence where I come from.”

  “You mean electricity,” said Cyrus. That was another word he needed to look up. He made a mental note to do so as soon as he had finished arranging the books.

  A cry from Sammy interrupted his thoughts. “Wow! Look! It opens up!”

  The tray appeared to be in two parts joined by a hinge. On the inside of one half were rows of letters and numbers, and a name. The other was covered with a grey, glassy substance. Sammy poked it and grinned.

  “Bet this was important,” he said. “What you goin’ to do with it, Mister Cyrus?”

  “Well, it’s not much use to us until we know what it is. As you say, it probably needs electricity, which we haven’t got. Let’s concentrate on the books for the moment.”

  He thanked the archer and asked him and his colleagues to move the books first. If there was time while it was still light, they could bring up any further trays they found.

  Sammy looked disappointed. Towards the end of the evening, when the transfer of the library was nearly complete, he went down to the Soterion himself. He wanted to check no tray had been overlooked, he said. He returned with two more, bringing the total in the Ghasar to five. Finally, as night was closing in, Yash looked around the vault to check that it was empty and shut the steel door. After locking it, he kept the key himself. For safety’s sake, he declared, henceforward it should remain in the possession of the Emir of Alba.

  The Grozny Zeds held women in contempt. They were, in the words of the late Malik Timur, “poisonous flabtoads” whose sole purposes were to provide recreation and maintain a supply of new Grozny warriors. So when Giv and Jumshid found themselves ambushed by a band of women, their first reaction was one of total scorn.

  “Breeding slaves!” muttered Jamshid. “Smash them!” He raised his gut-ripper and advanced on the nearest of his would-be assailants. With a slight hiss, she nimbly jumped back a couple of steps. Jamshid followed, and again she retreated.

  Before he could react, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his rump. With a roar, he spun round to confront his assailant. As he did so, a second spear pierced his left side. He squealed in hurt and frustration, and swivelled to face his elusive enemy. Another stab, cry of pain, furious turn – and another and another.

  Jamshid was bleeding heavily from seven gashes to the fleshy parts of his body. Frenzied by the goading, he hurled his gut-ripper at the nearest attacker. As she sidestepped the flying weapon, he lumbered towards the gap. A spear shot between his calves, and he tripped and fell. Immediately a swarm of hissing women fell upon him, pinning him spread-eagled to the ground.

  Not far off, the same fate had befallen Giv. A warrior stood astride each of the wounded Grozny, a razor-sharp spear poised above their throats.

  “Kill?” asked the woman who stood over Giv. She glanced across at a colleague standing slightly apart. Well built, of medium height and carrying the same type of metal-tipped spear as the rest of the warband, she was distinguished by a Z tattoo on each cheek as well as on her forehead. The triple scar was the mark of a Zektiv, an officer in the all-female Kogon tribe.

  “No kill! No kill! No kill!” screamed Giv, staring up wildly at his grinning conquerors. “Have head!”

  It was true. In a feat of extraordinary devotion, he had managed to keep hold of his grim trophy by its long white hair. It now lay beside him, staring up with sightless eyes and a fixed smirk on the rotting lips that glistened like slug trails.

  “Wait!” ordered the Zektiv. She walked with lithe strides to where the head lay. “What’s this?”

  “Malik!” gasped Giv. “Master not dead! Giv have head!”

  The woman frowned and swung the butt of her spear hard into Giv’s exposed groin. Hearing their captive’s howl, the women who held him hissed in satisfaction.

  “Speak true!” demanded his inquisitor. “This is the head of a dead man – what man?”

  “Malik,” croaked Giv, looking up at his tormentor with eyes in which defiance danced with pleading.

  “Malik? What Malik?”

  “Great Malik! You not know great Malik?”

  The heavy butt swung down, once again evoking a cacophony of howls and hisses. The Zektiv walked round to inspect the head more carefully. When she had done so, she lifted her spear for a third strike. “This thing a Malik?” she enquired.

  Giv, though his hair was held firmly by two pairs of hands, attempted to nod. “Malik,” he confirmed.

  “Name of this Malik?”

  “Timur!” croaked Giv, his voice harsh with sorrow, pain and fear. “Timur, Malik of Grozny!”

  The hands that grasped him tightened and further shrill hissing escaped into the evening air. The Zektiv lowered her spear. “Malik Timur?” she smiled in disbelief. “Malik Timur is dead and a prisoner of the Kogon brings us his head? This is a good day, a very good day!”

  She took a couple of steps back and issued crisp commands. “Tie the Zed dumbmans and bring them with me. Zilna?”

  One of the women holding Jamshid raised her head. “Yes, Ji
nsha?”

  “Carry the Malik head. Come!”

  The strange procession was soon on its way. Scouts, senses alert to any danger, combed the woods on either side of the path. Jinsha, lithe and athletic, walked at the head of the column, followed by Zilna with the stinking head of Timur swinging beside her. Behind them hobbled Giv and Jamshid. Their arms were bound tight behind their backs and cords ran from their ankles to Kogon warriors walking behind them. To make sure they behaved, each man was flanked by two spear-carriers, weapons permanently at the ready.

  To survive in a Zed world dominated by ruthless males, the Kogon had learned to take no chances. What they lacked in physical strength, they made up for with caution and cunning. Unlike male Zeds, they were not permanently on the move. They liked to settle for several months in a small Long Dead town, one that had been ransacked and abandoned. Careful scavenging of buildings and gardens provided food and useful materials. It was a dangerous and precarious existence, and the Kogon’s survival depended entirely on its supremely skilled and intelligent leadership.

  The Long Dead town of Filna perched on a hilltop surrounded by dense woodland. The roads that had once linked it to adjoining communities had long since grown over, leaving it a small island of mossy brickwork amid a sea of trees. The ancient piazza remained relatively clear of vegetation and the buildings around it had the better part of their roofs intact. It was in one of these, a cavernous structure adorned with slashed and faded paintings and broken statues, that the Kogon leadership had its headquarters.

  It was almost dark by the time Jinsha’s party arrived. They went straight to the piazza, forced Giv and Jamshid to their knees, and waited. All eyes focussed on a dark arched opening behind a stone balcony a few feet above the ground. After a while, a gibbous moon rose over the roofs opposite, casting a pale and ghostly light over the scene. The patrol waited. After a while, clouds again floated across the face of the moon and darkness palled the piazza. Still the patrol waited.

  Finally, as moonlight once again flooded the piazza, a silhouette emerged out of the blackness behind the balcony. As it did so, the assembled Kogon hissed softly.