Epilogue To Suburbia

by Jon Collins

  * * * * *

  Of all the missions, and there have been plenty, this one has been the hardest to prepare. It’s a forensic and political nightmare – nine hundred square miles of potential evidence, and the entire international community at a fever pitch for what might be revealed. The prospect of residual bioactivity and radiocontaminants doesn’t help matters; satellite imaging may be advanced, but it can’t predict the situation in the as-yet uncharted network of tunnels. This particular trip could only ever be reconnaissance: it will not enter the centre, skirting carefully around the real danger zones. At least, that’s the plan, so meticulously put together over the past months. One by one, options were considered and discounted, until the powers arrived back at the answer they first thought of. No point in attempting to use overland vehicles, which would founder on the remaining defences and be more trouble than they are worth; flying in wouldn’t help towards the primary goal of determining the situation on the ground and in the tunnels. Finally, there’s no point in sending in more than two: the second is only for backup, and if things get bad, it is better to lose two bodies than several. This last point has never been written down, but it is understood.

  It is not her first time as A. The reason for the mission codes has vanished into the mythology of the unit, nowadays it is accepted without question. Indeed, it would seem strange to use proper names in the field. A’s own place on the team was not unexpected, but B’s selection was, well, novel. She’d only joined the group a few months before, for Chrissakes, a point A had tried to argue with Brooke. To no avail, as it happened, and there was something in his look that had informed her of the pointlessness of the discussion. Doesn’t mean I’m happy, she thinks as she surveys the scene. The area just inside the entrance is clear, any obstacles bulldozed further inside, probably when the steel doors had been installed. The buggers weren’t hanging around. Together, they pick their way across the debris, using free hands to ward off the straggling pieces of insulating material, hanging down at intervals to give a ghost-train feel to the corridor. Before long it widens into a dark, high-roofed chamber, flanked either side by black entranceways. “Lifts,” says A to nobody in particular, associating what she can see with the old building plans no doubt still laid out in the control room. The route is clearer and there isn’t anything worth pausing for, so they head towards the end wall, its crude, breeze block construction visible in the torchlight. In its centre is a single, flat panelled door, blank apart from a handle and a small sticker bearing the word: PULL.

  For a moment A regrets the lack of melodrama. No doubt that will follow, she thinks, when the officials claim the first visit for themselves and take their names in the history books. No worries, let ‘em. She glances at B, who is waiting expectantly.

  “Would you like the honour?” she asks, tilting her head and arching her brows.

  B’s expression is unreadable as she reaches forward and tugs, to no avail. Her eyes narrow. She pushes: the door resists for a second, then flies open and outward, swinging wide before jamming to a halt on the weed-strewn paving slabs outside. Sunlight floods in like air into a vacuum chamber, leaving them blinking like infants. Framed in the doorway like a scene from a film, a vista of lush greenery stretches as far as the eye can see.

  The euphoria lasts almost as long as the verdant facade keeps its pretence: both dissolve before them as they step forward and the landscape reveals its true nature. Far from lush, it is a threadbare carpet of hardy plants, moss and unkempt grass, hastily thrown over the rubble and ruin. Mother Nature is in no great hurry to reclaim her own, weaving a new layer at the passing of each warm season. In one place a cluster of tattered bones emerges, causing B to crouch down for a closer look.

  “Suburbian,” B says, frowning. “Can’t have made it to the Site.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Young. Can’t tell the sex, but I’d guess at male.”

  I know you. A is not ready for the unexpected pang. Lad, I know you. In the periphery of her mind’s eye, a fuzzy image makes a brief attempt to surface. A memory emerges of a boy soldier, proud and dishevelled, acting sentry long after his role had become redundant. Quickly, A ushers such thoughts back into the recesses of her mind, letting the more immediate issues jostle it out of the way. Away. Focus.

  “Label it – someone can check it out later.”

  B reaches to a panel on her left arm and pushes a button, registering the datapoint with a voice text. When she is finished, she stands and takes in the scene. The terminal building stands alone, a squat block of concrete, topping a small rise in the middle of the pasture spreading out before them.

  “Where’s the path? The map shows steps.”

  “The map shows a lot of things,” replies A, her composure regained. She raises a gloved hand to indicate straight ahead. “We go over the mountain.’

  The route is passable, but only just: the greenery hides a minefield of broken debris. Each footfall has to be tested, and the visibility allowed by the suits is unhelpful in the extreme. The airwaves are silent bar the sounds of increasingly heavy breathing and the occasional expletive as they pick, trip and stumble their way to the top of the rise. B gets there first, turning and offering a hand to her senior officer.

  “Come on, let’s keep going,” breathes A, ignoring the gesture. “Plenty of time to rest when we get down there.”

  The terminal building is bigger than it looks from the outside. Acknowledging the building plans as they go, they walk past the remains of a ticket office, through the stalls where barriers used to be, not pausing for the long-forgotten lifts as they head for the stairs. Given the encumbrance of the suits they descend carefully, silently grateful that the stairwell is wide and clear. However, it is also long. And warm: it seems to get hotter as they descend. They benefit from the use of the side railing for the last few steps, and the bottom cannot be too soon in coming.

  “Jeez,” exhales A, catching her breath as she stumbles out onto the platform area. “Enough!” Clearly, this is a good time to rest. The microphone has lost its echo, she notices, which means they’re cut off from the outside, from Control. She knows this information is reflected in the helmet display, but she can’t summon the energy to look up. B comes up behind her, exhaling vocally and leaning with both hands on a low wall. In front of them and caught by the light of the torches are the transits, lined up like so many egg boxes, with their bulky electromagnets beneath them. Time passes, but nobody is keeping track of how much.

  For some reason, the real thing is never quite the same as training, a conundrum that puzzles A as she regains her energy. There is no natural end to a real exercise, so it is difficult to pace… or perhaps you just put more energy into it. whatever, the result is the same. It’s a damn sight more knackering.

  “Well,” she says, more to break the silence than anything. Then, nodding towards the case, “Are you going to turn that thing on?”

  “It is on,” says B. The word “obviously” is silent.

  You are pissing me off. “Readings?”

  “Irrelevant,” says B. “Underground hasn’t been sat-tested.”

  “I know. What’s the readings?”

  “Rad low, Air as clean as youd expect, Bio… maybe its best we kept the suits on.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dunno. Indicators flying around a bit. Maybe it’s the draft in the tunnels.”

  Not that we’d notice, thinks A. All this modern technology, and I still feel I’m modelling a rubber sack. The suits put paid to any idea of feeling what it’s like. They have their own microclimate – clammy, not too hot but warm enough to be discomfiting. Most likely, anyone who tested them for suitability took them off after an hour. Needs must. Better to sweat than to catch whatever might still be down here.

  It is time to move on. The techs were almost giggling with delight a few weeks ago, when they claimed to have restored power to the transit line. So they said, this proved easier than fixing the lights – someth
ing to do with the relative resilience of the transport circuits, whatever that meant. “This better work,” says A, walking towards the front carriage, its interior obscured by black glass on the silver frame. She reaches over and pushes a button by the door. It makes a sound like it is unsticking before sliding open, smooth and efficient, like it had been used yesterday.

  “Result!” murmurs A, quietly delighted.

  “Not yet,” says B. “Might not move.”

  “Please insert card,” says the transit indifferently, repeating itself every few seconds. They climb onboard, not wanting to prolong the irritating voice. Inside, the console is lit, with blue arrows flashing to indicate a slot. B pulls on a tab on her suit, releasing a key card on a string. She pulls it with her other hand and inserts it into the slot. The lights flicker and change to a steady green.

  “Strike two,” says B. She reaches over to a touch screen and taps in a destination.

  “Registered,” says the transit. “Stand clear, doors closing.”

  “Strike three and we’re out.”

  A deep noise, somewhere between a drone and a creak, reverberates through the carriage. It persists for several, uncomfortable seconds before it settles down into a quieter, steady hum. A slight list to one side is felt, as the magnets disengage from the rails; then the dim view outside begins to move backwards and the terminal platform slips behind them. They’re on their way.

  “Might as well settle down,” says B. “It’s a bit of a ride.”

  Quietly grateful, A takes a seat, or indeed two seats given the bulk of the suits. She leans back to crush the accumulating beads of moisture between herself and the suit. B continues to stand, hefting the black case onto the shelf in front of her so she can monitor the readings.

  The ride is seemingly endless, with just the occasional clank of machinery to punctuate the otherwise smooth running. It seems all so familiar and yet strange: the retro feel of the carriage draws comparison with its more modern equivalents, back on the other side of the portal. Above all, it is so quiet – no overheard conversations, no invasion of space, it is like renting a private jet for the day. I could quite get used to this, thinks A, momentarily feeling the chill that her feelings of decadence inspire. Dangerous.

  As the shape looms up in front of the transit, A’s brain tries to break out of the reverie and formulate a response. Her eyes dart around her as she attempts to stand, registering B who has already grabbed a safety bar and who is reaching above her head. A sudden jolt is followed by inordinate screeching, drowning out any expletives that A can think of as, caught off balance, she flies forward and crashes to the floor. The transit shudders to a halt, feet from what appears to be a collapsed roof.

  “Wha’happened there?” says A, trying to recover her position as well as her dignity, too aware of the spasms of pain being signalled from her wrist and ankle.

  “Emergency stop. You OK?”

  “Guess so,” says A, stil on her hands and knees. She looks round, sees B pointing at a red handle above the door. “I’ll be even better when we reach the surface. Got a thing about being buried alive. Any ideas?”

  “We dig, or we backtrack,” says B. “Don’t fancy digging.”

  “We backtrack, then. Best hope we don’t hit any more collapses.”

  “No guarantees about this working.” B removes the card and re-inserts it, lights flashing in incredulity before settling back down to the steady green. “We passed a terminal back there,” she says. “We can aim for that and take the long way round.” She taps the console coolly, and before long the car starts moving backwards, away from the fall.

  “Thank Christ for that,” says A, who has eased herself back on the seat. “How long are we up for?”

  “Another hour at least.”

  The alternative route passes without incident. They roll into another terminal, which looks exactly like the one they left and the one they traversed. They disembark quickly, neither hiding their relief. The staircase is short, but it is all upward and it is getting decidedly hot in the suits, the clamminess causing the even the technofabric materials to chafe. And then they are outside again.