DustRoad

by Tom Huddleston

  There are just some things you can’t improve, he’d said. The shape of a boat, or a bicycle, or a pistol. It’s our job to seek out the things we can make better, and work as hard as we can to do so. But some things are perfect as they are. Like you, my hurricane girl. And he’d tickled her on the belly until she fell on the floor, breathless.

  A tram rattled past and Cane climbed on, gripping the railing. Her fellow passengers gossiped quietly, the murmur wrapping comfortingly around her. After months surrounded by hungry, resentful Shanty folk, just being around healthy people had come as a shock. Her father had always viewed these people as weak, these stay-at-home Mariners who preferred the safety of Bay life to the thrill of the ocean. But there wasn’t room on the Arks for all of them and, besides, there was work to be done here too, a city to run, a civilisation to maintain. Cane felt comforted by their presence, and not for the first time she wondered if she might some day become one of them and forget the call of open water. Now that would really annoy her family.

  Her time in the Shanties had helped Cane realise how much of what she’d learned growing up was a lie. All through her childhood she’d been told that the Mariners needed to look after their own, to guard their technology, to fear and distrust the mudfoots no matter how helpless they might seem. Now she knew the truth. The Shanty folk were poor, they were desperate, but they were brave and decent too, most of them. They needed help and the Mariners were in a position to give it – and that was all that really mattered.

  Cane knew what her father would say: if you gave them money they’d waste it, if you gave them technology they’d turn it against you. They’re like children – they need to be guided. But they weren’t children and they weren’t fools; they were just people, and they deserved the chance for a better life.

  The tram trundled south along the shore and now she could see Frisco itself, pale and gleaming across the Bay. The city shelved down to meet the ocean, tiered streets built to match the vanished old town. But at the foot of the slope the streets continued, out into the water where gleaming towers stood partially submerged and aquatic vehicles plied along sea lanes marked with blinking buoys.

  From this angle the city had always reminded Cane of a living creature, some sort of hump-backed prehistoric amphibian with its head in the water, the towers like spikes projecting from its submerged spine. And if this monster had an eye, it would be the Council Chamber – a gleaming plastiglass dome set right on the edge of the city so it was visible from every part of the Bay. At school she’d learned the thinking behind this: the Chamber was made of glass so every Mariner knew that their leaders couldn’t hide from them. Here in Frisco, power was transparent.

  They reached the waterline and a tunnel opened in front of them, the tram rattling inside, the tracks sloping downward. The walls were clear and through them Cane could make out the shapes of ancient buildings half sunk in the bottom of the Bay, schools of silver fish darting through empty, eroded window frames. Squinting up she could see the shapes of boats on the surface of the water, black hulls with waves trailing behind. Joe would’ve loved this, she thought, and bit her lip.

  The tunnel diverged and they took the westward track, out towards the northern tip of the city. The tram emerged into sunlight, clattering along floating walkways between the towers. Passengers began to disembark, bidding each other farewell, and Cane felt a sudden rush of jealousy. These people were all together, part of a family, a group, the great Mariner project itself. She felt separated from all those things, a stranger, an interloper. A traitor.

  She stepped off the tram near Marina Green, a cluster of five or six stubby towers linked by steel bridges. The walkways here were fringed with plant life – hardy coastal shrubs, sedge and gorse. To the west she could see the deep-water docks and two Arks lying in port – the Neptune and her sister ship the Poseidon. Smaller vessels busied around them like minnows: submersibles and haulage craft unloading and restocking, inspecting and repairing. Beyond, she could make out the rusted span of the Golden Gate Bridge, raised on concrete stanchions, its northernmost tower listing east as it had for well over a century.

  Her own residence was in Marina Block Five, known to everyone as the Tower of Lost Children. The name was half a joke – these kids weren’t lost, simply left temporarily by parents on oceanic assignment, or in the worst cases orphaned and raised by the community. But to Cane the name felt appropriate: she didn’t consider herself a child, not after all she’d seen. But she definitely felt lost.

  “Been to see your folks again?”

  She stopped by the elevator, turning to see a bearded man smiling at her with earnest concern. Marco wasn’t the worst of the guides – there was an older woman called Persephone who had tried every day for a week to get Cane talking. But he could still be a busybody, tilting his head sympathetically as she backed into the lift. “Still won’t see you, huh? That’s too bad.”

  “They must’ve been out,” Cane said, reaching for the button. “It’s fine. I’ve got plenty to do with the investigating committee and Academy starting again soon. Probably for the best.”

  “Well you know where I am, day or night,” he said. “You can just say, ‘Marco, I’m freaking out. I need to—’”

  The doors slid shut in his face and Cane breathed a sigh of relief. Then as the lift ascended she felt a twinge of guilt. The guides were good people and loads of kids benefited from their insights. She just knew that when it came to her, they were out of their depth. She hadn’t been left behind, she hadn’t lost her parents – well, in a sense she had, but that wasn’t the issue.

  The truth was that she’d been part of an act of mass murder; she’d stood at her father’s side as he killed thousands. She’d even tried to shoot Nate, and however much she wanted to pretend it was an accident, she knew deep down that she’d meant to do it. She was a killer, in thought if not in deed. And she didn’t think Marco and his band of eager do-gooders were equipped to help her deal with it.

  She unlocked her door with a pass key, shoving it shut behind her. The room wasn’t much to look at – a white box containing a bed, a chair and a wardrobe with a single change of clothes. Through glass doors her balcony looked north, past the docks towards the humming hydroelectric plants of San Pablo. She leaned on the railing, picturing herself leaving this place, packing a bag and just walking into the wilderness, never to—

  The knock on the door was sharp and sudden.

  “Not now, Marco,” she called. “I know you’re trying to help but I just want to be on my own.”

  But the knock came again and she sighed, crossing the room. Maybe he was right to be persistent, maybe she did need someone to talk to. She tugged on the handle and stepped back in surprise.

  The man standing there was sturdy and square-shaped, not much taller than Cane herself. His skin was dark and his head was bald, his eyes shining as he smiled at her, exuding warmth and welcome and a hint of apology.

  “Well?” he said, holding out his hands. “Don’t you have a hug for your Uncle Rex?”

  Cane was too startled to refuse, trying not to stiffen as he put his arms around her. Then he let go and edged forward, driving her with him as he pushed into the room. He shut the door and looked around, nodding. “Not bad. Very comfortable.”

  Rex Cortez had never reminded Cane of her father; he was squat and muscular where John was lithe and streamlined. All they had in common was their accent and their piercing blue eyes. The two men had never been close – in her earliest memories Rex was a distant presence, the kind of uncle who’d show up once in a while, give her a sweet then ignore her. And then six years ago the brothers had fallen out bitterly, and publicly: Rex was trying to get himself nominated to the Council, and had openly criticised John’s methods as captain of the Neptune. They hadn’t spoken since, but it didn’t seem to have done Rex any harm: he was defence minister now, and a highly respected member of Mariner society.

  “What are you doing here?” Cane managed, blushing
as she realised how rude that sounded.

  Rex laughed. “I should have come before. I know you’ve been trying to reach your grandmother and your cousins, but with everything that happened, it’s tough. Everyone’s so shocked.”

  “They think I betrayed my father,” Cane said flatly. “That I’m a traitor to the family.”

  Rex frowned. “They said the same of me, at one time. But once they understood, they came around. Cane, that’s all this is about. Everyone’s trying to understand. Now, I know you’ve been giving evidence to Councillor Weaver’s committee, letting them record your thoughts and memories – that’s good, I support that. Your recollections may not chime exactly with what others who served on the Kraken have said, but that’s OK – memory’s a funny thing.”

  “I’ve told the truth,” Cane said, bristling slightly. “Only the truth.”

  Rex nodded. “I’m sure you have. And it all helps to establish what your father was trying to achieve, and how it all went so wrong.”

  “He was trying to invade London,” Cane said. “And it went wrong because people fought back. Even though they were poor and starving they stood up and it still didn’t stop him from—”

  “All right,” Rex cut in. “John was always an extremist. But at least he was trying to do something, wasn’t he? To make a change in the world.”

  Cane kept her eyes on the floor, feeling his hand on her shoulder. His voice was calm and comforting, so similar to the one that had soothed her to sleep all those times.

  “Your father may have foundered in deep water, but that doesn’t mean you have to,” he said. “Cane, your family still love you. They want to see you. They just need to know that you’re … that you’re still one of them. There’s no need for you to swim out here alone, in this darkness.”

  She lifted her head, looking up into his sparkling blue eyes. “What do they want me to do?”

  9

  Monuments

  The Five’s army rumbled along the DustRoad, the sand plume trailing for miles into the baking blue sky. Joe pressed his forehead against the window of the train car and watched the trucks advance, grinding up a shallow hillside of scrub and dry creek beds, the ground shaking and breaking beneath their wheels.

  He couldn’t help marvelling at the sheer diversity and ingenuity of these mechanised monsters. Some of the vehicles had four wheels, some six, some thirty or more encased inside clattering metal tracks with treads to grip the ground. Some were armoured in steel plate while others were little more than skeletal roll-cages with wheels attached. But each one looked equally unstoppable, surging relentlessly through the barren landscape.

  It was their third day on the road and Joe couldn’t begin to guess how many miles they’d covered. Last night they’d camped in a place where the sand was as white as the snow that sometimes fell in the Shanties, great hillocks of it rising around them. He had wanted to run out in it, to slide down those dunes, but Kara wouldn’t hear of it. They needed to stay together, she said, and keep their heads down. These were dangerous people, and they couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves.

  He could hear her voice from the lounge room now, debating with those men, those Five. Joe still hadn’t figured out what the deal was with them – were they identical twins, or whatever it was called when there were five of you? But that didn’t seem to be enough, somehow – they were almost too alike. It was very disconcerting.

  Nate lay in the same position he’d occupied for most of yesterday and all of the day before – face down on the bunk, saying nothing. Joe didn’t think he was sleeping – he was just lying there. He hesitated then stepped over, shaking the boy gently.

  “I’m going to see if there’s breakfast. Do you want to come?”

  Nate grunted and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll bring you something, then,” Joe said. Then he leaned close and whispered. “And I’ll let you know if we find out anything important.”

  Nate sat up, his eyes red-rimmed. “Great, Joe, you do that. If you figure out how to broadcast to my people over thousands of miles or you suddenly learn how to fly, you come and tell me, OK?”

  Joe backed up, trying to think of something to say, anything that might be comforting. But Nate was already turning away, throwing himself back down on the bed and covering his head with a pillow. He was right, of course. So far they’d failed to come up with any way to stop The Five or warn the Mariners. But Joe wasn’t ready to give up yet.

  As he stepped into the corridor the train car lurched and he grabbed the wall, steadying himself as he made for the lounge in the centre. The Five sat in a row on the red-leather couch, sipping small cups of coffee and facing Kara on the other side.

  “This whole business with Cortez,” one of them was saying, “his attack on London, it couldn’t have come at a better time for us.” Joe saw the scar over his eye – this was the one who’d wanted to kill that prisoner.

  “We’d been working towards reunification for years,” the next joined in. “Talking to war chiefs, presidents, state sheriffs, trying to convince them to end their petty disputes and come together.”

  “But it was slow-going,” another added. “Even with all the benefits we offer, like our ranch programme.”

  “Starvation rates in Texas have plummeted under our watch.” This was the one with the Morse code birthmark; Joe could see it peeking from under his sleeve. “But it still wasn’t enough. They’d gotten so used to fighting each other.”

  “Then along comes Cortez, and boom!” The last man cracked his knuckles so loudly that it made Joe jump. “Scares the life out of everyone, gets them all running over to our side. They’ve hated the Mariners for years, now they’re scared of them too. And when people get scared, they get angry.”

  “But why do they hate them?” Kara asked. “What did the Mariners ever do to them?”

  “Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  “The Mariners have always set themselves apart.”

  “Hoarding their tech.”

  “Acting like they’re better than everyone else.”

  “Then three years back there was a disaster.”

  “Have you heard of wheat blight? It’s a disease that attacks crops. Very tricky to fight.”

  “The outbreak swept through the Midwest. Thousands were starving. Tens of thousands.”

  “People begged the Mariners for aid.”

  “And they sent it. Dried seaweed chips and algae powder.”

  “Tasted like sand.”

  “But that’s what they eat themselves, at sea,” Kara explained. “It’s portable and nutritious.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “We wouldn’t feed it to a pig.”

  “That made a lot of people very bitter.”

  “Cortez just tipped things over the edge.”

  “And the result was that army out there.” Scar-eye gestured through the window. “Militias from seventeen different states, all finally agreeing to work together.”

  “So you’re just using the Mariners,” Kara said. “You’re giving these people someone to hate, so they’ll join up and follow you.”

  Birthmark shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not just about that.”

  “But you’ve got the general idea,” Scar-eye smiled.

  “Someone has to unite this shattered nation, Kara,” one of his brothers said.

  “Someone has to lift America out of the ashes.”

  “Give the people out here the chance for a better life.”

  “And what about the ones who lose their lives?” Kara asked. “On your side as well as theirs. It won’t be an easy fight, you know.”

  “Well, perhaps we have a few tricks up our sleeve.”

  “Something they’re not expecting.”

  Scar-eye flashed a frown. “That’s enough.”

  Footsteps sounded on the upper deck and moments later the door slid aside, a uniformed officer saluting in the entranceway. “Sirs, you
asked to be alerted when we were approaching the compound.”

  The Five looked at one another, rising abruptly. Joe felt a sudden tension in the air.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “See how much the old place has changed.”

  The man with the birthmark beckoned to Kara. “You can join us if you like. Joe too.”

  They followed him up a narrow, twisting staircase to the observation deck. The Five were proud of their command centre, but Joe had been on the bridge of a Mariner Ark and this paled in comparison. Pasted to one wall was a map of the continent, a black pin marking what he guessed was their approximate position, a little less than halfway across. Below the map was a table piled with ancient radio equipment and battered computer monitors, all switched off.

  But the glass dome overhead gave them an all-round view, and this at least was impressive. They were travelling across an empty plateau ringed by black peaks, the pitted road running in a straight line ahead of them. The Five stood in watchful silence, their eyes fixed on the horizon. Joe saw a shape in the distance and shielded his eyes.

  It was a metal disc, its round face tilted towards the sky, its support struts rooted in the ground. There were several of them, he saw, rising from the plain like statues. At first he couldn’t tell how big they were – the landscape was featureless, there was nothing to compare them to. But as they drew closer he realised they were as tall as tower blocks, mighty monuments standing sentinel over this desolate place.

  “Let’s hope the old man kept them working,” one of The Five muttered, and the others nodded.

  There were other structures around and below the enormous discs, concrete buildings linked by cracked roadways with grass spiking through. Maybe this was an important place once, Joe thought, the home of some king or president who’d had these statues built in his honour, like the pyramids in India or wherever. The train car passed below one of the discs, its shadow falling over them. It was rusty and windswept but still somehow grand, as though possessed of an ancient power.