Dome Nine

by John Purcell

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  We approached the aircraft carrier from the east, trying to keep behind it. Far in the distance, onshore, I could see the peak of the Bank of America building, highlighted by the setting sun. If Queen Scarlett owned a telescope, my attempts to hide were a waste of time. I could only hope her aversion to water would protect us.

  It wasn’t until we drew up to its stern that I truly grasped the size of the carrier. The deck about 50 feet above the waterline. Due to the unusual shape of the hull, which fanned out over the water, ladders were of no use. Halfway up was a ledge of sorts, hopelessly out of reach.

  There was no choice but to circle the ship. We rounded the stern, passing by a massive chain that descended into the depths. I wondered why a ghost ship would drop anchor.

  The port side of the carrier had nothing to offer but a second out-of-reach ledge. We rowed around the bow, which was sleek and forbidding and impossible to climb. Another plan of mine was turning into a farce.

  When we came down the starboard side, however, sheer luck rescued me again. There were three enormous portholes cut into the carrier’s hull, where it would have otherwise fanned out. They were about 35 feet above us, much too high to see into, but at least the climb was straight up. Now all we needed was a ladder.

  The first two portholes offered nothing of the sort, but the third was outfitted, miraculously, with a web of ropes that cascaded from the opening all the way down to the waterline. There was no point in questioning this welcome mat. Moto and I tied our lines to it and we readied ourselves for the climb.

  Looking up from our tiny boat, it seemed like a very long way to the top, but no one wanted to admit their qualms. Dogan insisted on going first. Luma, voice quavering, volunteered to go second. I went third, following just below her, ready for trouble. Moto followed just below Bim.

  The web turned out to be quite heavy and stable, swaying gently as we made the climb. The ropes were well worn, almost smooth to the touch. We reached the top without incident.

  The porthole was oval in shape and enormous, 21 feet from bottom to top. When we stepped through it, we found ourselves facing a forest of blue trees and bushes.

  Dogan scowled. “What the hell…?”

  Luma was looking up at the treetops. “How can this be?”

  I turned to Bim.

  He said, “This is the hangar deck. It’s supposed to be filled with jets, not plants.”

  As I repeated Bim’s words, Moto headed straight into the trees, sniffing the ground. As we followed her along a winding dirt pathway, I said to Bim, “Is it possible this occurred naturally?”

  “These plants will grow almost anywhere, but they do need soil.”

  We walked for about 100 yards, until Moto stopped short and cocked her head.

  When I stood still and listened, I could hear it, too: off in the distance, someone was playing the trumpet.

  I said, “Go on, Moto, follow the music.”

  Moto turned off the path, into the woods, leading us toward the sound. We emerged from the trees near the side of the hangar. The music seemed to be coming from an oval hatchway set into the wall. Stepping through it, we found ourselves in a room crammed with electronic gear. The music was still far away, high above us.

  Bim said, “This must be the Island. If we climb that ladder, we should be able to reach the flight deck.”

  We passed through four different rooms on our way up, all crammed with electronics. As we climbed, the sound of the trumpet grew stronger and stronger, as did the aroma of cooking food.

  When we reached the flight deck, we discovered the source of both. The ladder continued upward, but we all stepped off, into a room filled with enormous, simmering stewpots. Once crammed with gear, like the others, this room had been converted into a makeshift kitchen. Hollowed out housings for monitor screens and control panels now served as wood burning stoves.

  The music was coming from outside, on the flight deck. We stepped through the hatchway and found a man standing on the runway with his back to us, trumpet pointed toward his feet.

  The sun was touching the horizon now, casting long shadows over the flight deck. The sky was fading to the color of rust.

  We stood and listened. The music was rhythmic and dissonant, unlike anything I’d ever heard in Dome Nine. The man, who wore only shorts, had skin the color of milk chocolate. His back was broad and powerful and crisscrossed with scars.

  I had seen Negroes, such as Jackie Robinson, on TV, but very few, and had never met any. There were certainly none to be found in Dome Nine, and I’d never heard mention of Negroes in any other Domes, either. For all I knew, they no longer existed.

  He ended his song with a casual flurry of notes and stood upright, letting out a long sigh. Then he froze in place, suddenly aware of our presence.

  When he turned around, though, he was wearing a smile. “Don’t be creeping up on me like that! Scare an old man half to death!”

  His hair was white at the temples and there were touches of white in his neatly rimmed beard, but his face was unlined.

  As we approached him, Luma said, “We’re sorry to bother you, we were just following the music! It’s really beautiful!”

  “You can bother me with compliments anytime. Where you all come from?”

  “We rowed here in a lifeboat.”

  He shook his head. “No, no, I mean where you all come from, originally?”

  “Dome Nine.”

  “Which Dome Nine you talking about?”

  This confused Luma. “How many Dome Nines are there...?”

  I stepped in. “Dome Nine in Philadelphia. Luma doesn't know about the Baltimore Domes.”

  He smiled again. “Luma! Now there’s a beautiful name.”

  Luma said, “Thank you very much. These are my friends, Teo, Bim and Dogan. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Lewis.” He knelt down and patted Moto. “And who might this be?”

  “This is our iPup, Moto.”

  “Hey, Moto, what’s happening?”

  Moto wagged her tail.

  Luma said, “Are you going to play some more?”

  He stood up. “Uh uh. I was just warming up my chops for later. I got pots to tend to and torches to light.”

  “Torches?”

  “Yeah, in an hour or so a lot of people gonna come up here to eat. Dining under the stars, you know? Except there ain’t no stars.”

  I said, “Does this carrier have a name?”

  “Sure she does. The USS Abraham Lincoln.”

  I looked up “Lincoln, Abraham,” and read the article.

  Luma said, “How many people live here?”

  “Almost a thousand.”

  Her eyes widened. “A thousand?”

  “You kids standing on top of a city!”

  “But where did everybody come from?”

  “That, young lady, is a long, long story, and I got a lotta work to do.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m too set in my ways. But you all stay and eat, and after we gonna put you up for the night. Meantime, the flight deck is good for footraces. Don’t worry about going overboard, we got railings all the way around.”

  I turned to the Three. “Go stretch your legs, and take Moto with you. I have a couple of questions for Lewis.”

  They hurried off to play in the twilight, Moto trotting after them.

  Lewis’s face became serious. “They just kids, but not you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You a lot older than them.”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s your eyes, man. Come on, walk with me.”

  He started off toward the Island.

  I said, “You escaped from the Inland Baltimore Complex.”

  “Like most of us.”

>   “Queen Scarlett gave you those scars on your back.”

  “Like most of us.”

  “She must know where you’ve all gone. She can see this ship from her building.”

  “Here’s how Queen Scarlett do. She catch you escaping, she torture you to death, try to make it last for days. But once you over the water, once you here, she let it go.”

  “She won’t cross the water?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “She’s never come here?”

  “Never. Not once.”

  Lewis entered the kitchen, placed his trumpet on its case, and picked up an apron.

  I said, “Why doesn’t she just destroy the carrier?”

  “How she gonna do that? Her little waterspouts bounce right off.”

  “Doesn’t she have drones or missiles or some form of GR weaponry?”

  “No, no, no, you don’t understand. She ain’t got none of that. She gotta play by the same rules everybody do Outside. No guns, no bombs, no nothing.”

  “But she works for the GR, overseeing the Domes.”

  Lewis tied his apron. “She gets exactly one thing in return for that: electricity. See, they need her running her experiments, they know she smarter than every other scientist they got. But they ain’t dumb enough to give her no weapons, ’cause soon enough she be coming after them.”

  “The GR can’t be happy about your ship. Why don’t they destroy it?”

  “’Cause we ain’t no threat. Nobody is. They got nothing to worry about. They took over the world a hundred years ago and ain’t nobody Outside trying to take it back. They can have it, you understand? We just trying to live in peace.”

  Lewis turned his attention to his pots, moving down the line, adding ingredients and stirring the stews with an enormous ladle. When he finished, he took off his apron and said, “Come on, it’s almost dark. I gotta start lighting torches.”

  I followed him up the ladder to the next level. This room had been cleared of its electronics and functioned as a storage room. The glass had been removed from the front window and a crane arm attached to the outside wall.

  Using a pulley system, Lewis lowered a crate containing three-dozen torches and empty shell casings. When we got back down to the flight deck, we went about setting the torches in place, using the shell casings as holders.

  When we’d finished, Lewis went into the kitchen and picked up a spare torch, igniting it over the stove. Then he returned to the flight deck and began setting the other torches ablaze. We talked as he worked.

  I said, “When did you escape from the Baltimore Domes?”

  “13 years ago.”

  “This ship has been sitting here that long?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Were you among the first to escape?”

  “No.”

  “Did you escape on your own?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Not just me. Ain’t nobody want to talk about it!”

  “Can you talk about this ship, then? How it ended up here?”

  He shook his head. “Bitter Years, you know what I’m saying?”

  I had expected this answer. I was working on a theory of my own. “If I guess correctly, are you willing to confirm it?”

  He answered grudgingly. “I suppose I could do that, yeah.”

  “All right. The Abraham Lincoln must have been docked before the Invasion began. The Navy ran out of money in 2065.”

  Lewis nodded.

  I said, “All the jets had been moved off and the crew was gone, but the food and water were still here. Your ancestors stowed away before UNK/C towed it out to sea. That’s how they survived the Great Starvation.”

  Lewis nodded again, looking surprised.

  “That was risky, because UNK/C might have scuttled it. They didn’t, though, and they didn’t tow it out very far, either. I’m not sure why.”

  Lewis shrugged.

  “But your ancestors must have stowed away before the Invasion, or they never would have made it onboard. They might have even stowed away before the Crash.”

  That wasn’t exactly a guess, but Lewis nodded anyway. I was wondering what could have motivated them when it suddenly became clear.

  I said, “An aircraft carrier can weather a hurricane or a tornado like nothing else. Your ancestors lost their homes in the storms and moved in here.”

  Lewis stopped what he was doing and stared at me.

  “But someone must have been familiar with this ship. They knew the food and water had been left behind.”

  Lewis pursed his lips.

  “Some of your ancestors must have been stationed here, when it was still a functioning carrier.”

  Lewis gave me a skeptical look. “You telling me you guessed all that?”

  “Well, I’ve been trying to work it out since we got here.”

  “A half hour ago.”

  “Yes.”

  Lewis narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m gonna have to think on that awhile.”