by Angie Sage
To the sound of soft snoring, we quietly close the door to the hut and I follow Parminter across to a small metal box set onto the far wall. She opens it, to reveal a line of levers all pointing downward except for one. She turns to me, smiling with relief. “It’s okay, it was the fuse,” she says. She pulls the lever down and at once the chamber is awash with light. We are both relieved to see that it is indeed empty. I feel quite in awe of this great square cavern, with thick cables snaking up the sides of its rough concrete walls. Solidly planted in each corner are the massive feet of the skylon, which I imagine rearing up above us, keeping the Orb in place—a true Atlas holding up the sky.
“I think,” Parminter says, “that something has hit the skylon.”
“A bird?” I say.
Parminter is thinking. “Birds don’t trip the chamber lights,” she says. “They frizzle up and the current goes straight through them. I think it was something a bit bigger than a bird.”
“There’s an Astro out,” I say quietly.
Parminter looks at me. We both know what we must do.
The struts of the skylon are constructed so that they can be used as ladders. I follow Parminter’s short little legs as they move quickly upward and very soon we reach the exit in the ceiling—a diaphragm made from an intricate twist of leather flaps. I follow close on Parminter’s heels as she quickly pushes through and we continue climbing up a ladder set on the sides of what feels like a large pipe. Parminter’s voice has a tinny echo as she tells me that we are now moving up through the exit valve.
I laugh. “So what does that make us?”
Parminter giggles. “Frass,” she says.
Parminter pushes up through a second diaphragm and I follow. Suddenly I am eye level with a field of flax stubble, pale in the dawn light. I am so surprised by the change that I have stopped halfway through the valve to gaze upon the scene and now I am aware that the diaphragm is closing in on me with some force. In fact, I am stuck fast. “Parminter,” I say desperately, for the pressure of the thing is pushing the breath from my body and I fear I will soon be unable to breathe.
Parminter swings around to see me looking ridiculous, planted as I am in the middle of a field like a turnip. But she does not laugh. “Oh no!” she cries. “Oh, I should have told you not to stop halfway.” She throws herself down beside me and says, “Maximillian, I am going to push on your head. Really, really hard. You have to go back down and let the valve close above you. Then come up again fast. And whatever you do, don’t stop.” Parminter puts both her hands onto the flat top of my head and leans down with all her weight. She is very strong and my neck feels as though it will be pushed all the way into my body. Parminter, stop! I want to call out but I cannot, for I can no longer breathe. Black spots dance before my eyes, I feel myself go limp and then, suddenly, like a cork pushed into a bottle I am back through the diaphragm and there is a soft therump as the flaps close above my head. And now I am in total darkness. I skitter down the rungs of the ladder, gasping to catch my breath and as my feet hit the lower diaphragm it too begins to open. I panic. I have fears of the vile thing snapping at my foot and imprisoning my leg like a trap. And then I will have to wrench my leg free and it will come off and then . . . oh, I cannot bear to think of it. I grab hold of the ladder, pull myself upward with all my strength and suddenly I am free and climbing, with two legs, three arms, up through the darkness. My head hits the leather of the top valve, I take a deep breath, brace myself, and then I force my way upward. I am surprised at the resistance of the diaphragm and I push, push, push until suddenly I feel it give and I am hurtling through and up and running, out into the stubble and the cool gray light and I see Parminter laughing, laughing, laughing, with the soft blur of the rising sun behind her. Delighting in my escape, I pick her up and swing her around until we are dizzy and fall onto the spiky stubble. “Ouch,” says Parminter, sitting up and brushing the dry dirt from her wing cases.
I begin to apologize for being so thoughtless but Parminter interrupts. “Maximillian, don’t you dare say you are sorry,” she says fiercely. So I don’t. Instead, feeling a little flustered, I stand up, brush my wing cases and gaze around, hoping that I will not see a telltale flash of crumpled orange lying upon the ground. To my relief I see nothing but the wide, flat fields that stretch all the way back to Parminter’s red-roofed farmhouse in the distance.
Parminter is on her feet too. “That’s odd,” she says. “I was so sure we’d see the Astro.” And then she seizes my hand. “Over there,” she whispers, pointing at a line of flax-straw bales. “Look!”
I shield my eyes and see the neighboring farm’s field plowed into deep, soft furrows that look like giant corduroy, its boundary marked by a wall of bales. But for all my looking, I see no Astro. I see that some of the bales are missing from the top two rows, but that means nothing to me, for I have no idea what they should look like. But of course Parminter does, and she is already setting off toward them.
It is not easy to run across stubble and I have trouble keeping up. Parminter arrives at the bales, then stops, turns and waits for me. I hurry to her and she grabs my hand. “It’s behind the bales,” she says. “Look.”
It is there: a fat orange suit with a long black scorch mark down its back lies sprawled facedown in the soft corduroy, surrounded by an avalanche of straw. Parminter and I exchange stricken glances. “We will have to . . . look at it,” Parminter says. “Just to make sure it is . . .”
“Dead . . . ,” I finish for her.
We approach gingerly and I become afraid it is going to get up and lumber toward us like an undead thing. But it does not move. We stand respectfully by it, as you do beside a coffin, and see the great indentation it has made in the soft soil—it has landed hard.
Parminter is brave. She kneels beside the Astro and pushes on it with both hands. She looks up at me. “I can’t feel much,” she says. “There’s still a lot of pressure there.”
“I suppose that’s why it bounced,” I say.
“It could still be alive,” she whispers.
“Oh,” I say. I do not know what is worse: a dead Astro or a living one in bits.
“We must help,” Parminter says.
I glance around to check that the fields truly are deserted, which they are. But there are farmhouses in the distance and anyone could be watching with a spyglass—indeed they probably are. That bang would have been heard for miles. What Parminter is suggesting is very dangerous: it is treason to tamper with an Astro. But I cannot be a coward when Parminter is so brave. “Okay,” I say.
“We need to turn it over,” Parminter says. “Because if we don’t, when we take the helmet off it will be facedown in the earth.”
“Ah,” I say. I am impressed that Parminter always thinks things through so logically, although right now I wish she didn’t. So we kneel down beside the Astro and very carefully we begin to roll it over. It is extremely heavy but we are helped by the roundness of its inflated suit and with two strong pushes it now lies flat upon its back, spread-eagled on the soft earth, with its ghostly impression beside it. We listen for any sound inside the suit but there is nothing except for the strange sense of a body settling within.
“The helmet unscrews,” Parminter says. “We must check it out.”
I shudder at the thought of what we will find. “But there is no hope,” I say. “Surely it is best to leave it as it is?”
Parminter shakes her head. “No. We must be sure.”
And so I kneel down beside Parminter. “Just close your eyes and turn,” she whispers. But I do not close my eyes. I will see what Parminter sees. We will do this together. I take the heavy helmet in both hands, Parminter places her small but capable hands beside mine and together we turn the cold lump of metal until it has done a half turn and then another and suddenly the monstrosity is loose in our hands. Parminter and I look at one another with great trepidation. “On the count of three?” Parminter whispers.
I nod.
�
��One . . . two . . . three.”
Slowly, gently, we lift the helmet off.
T
My head has fallen off. The light is too bright. But it smells so sweet. The light smells so, so sweet. I am seeing double. Double Roach. They stare at me. They have their hands over their mouths and noses. They look horrified. I splutter and spit and retch and cough. I am choking, choking. . . .
Oh, I love them. I love Roaches. I do. They are trying to help me sit up but the Astro will not bend easily. They take me under the arms and together drag me to a bale and prop me up like an old scarecrow and I am gasping in sweet air. Thank you. Oh, thank you, thank you, I try to say but I have no voice. It is a husk of grain. It is a swirl of dust.
The small Roach takes a piece of cloth from its pocket and very gently wipes it over my face, staring at me intently as it does so. And then, when it is finished, its mouth moves. I hear nothing. I am deaf. It puts its head on one side and looks at me quizzically. Its mouth moves, but the world stays silent.
M
“Tomas?” Parminter says. “Tomas, is that you?”
The smell from the suit is very bad, but Parminter is brave. Tenderly, she wipes the foul sludge from the Astro occupant’s face while I stare, amazed that he is alive. I am shocked too that he is little more than a boy—far too young for this kind of horror. Parminter seems to know him. And there is indeed something familiar about the face, although I am not good on Wingless facial recognition. I rely on obvious things like hair color, the wearing of glasses, that kind of thing, and all young men with short hair look the same to me. But Parminter is good at this. I suppose because she has seen so many more Wingless ones than I.
“Tomas?” she says again. “Tomas, it is you, isn’t it?” The boy stares at her, his mouth moving, making silent words. His sunken eyes are dark in their sockets. He looks as though he has seen a ghost. No, that is not true—he looks as though he is a ghost.
“Do you know him?” I ask Parminter.
Parminter looks at me with tears in her eyes. “I think so. But, oh, it can’t be. Surely not . . . Oh, this is so unfair. So unfair. That poor family.”
“What poor family?” I ask.
Parminter sighs. “The Drews,” she says. “I think he is Tomas Drew.”
“Drew?” I ask, thinking at once of my Kaitlin Drew.
Gently, Parminter wipes the boy’s face. “Tomas,” she says, “it’s Parminter. Do you remember me?”
And I watch the boy’s lips moving. I see him struggling to make his words come out and I stare at him. And then, at last, I remember the face. “That is not a Drew,” I say. “That is a Vermin.”
T
It is Parminter Wing. She recognizes me. I struggle to speak but my voice won’t work. And it seems that the other Roach knows me too. And now that my mind is clearing I realize that I also know him. He is the one who ate Jonno. I muster all my strength and I spit at him. He recoils in disgust. Good.
Now the killer Roach is talking to Parminter and she is shaking her head. He shrugs his shoulders and then glances into the distance, to where the farmhouses are. And now they hurriedly begin to put bales of flax straw behind me and I understand that they are shielding me from view. I watch, unable to move, propped up like a dummy. I long to be free of this suit but I am trapped. My wrists and ankles are held tight and no matter how hard I pull on them they will not come free. But I am breathing in beautiful fresh air, and with each breath I feel the fire in my lungs subside. I don’t care that I hurt all over; I don’t even care what will happen to me next. All that matters to me right now is that I can breathe.
In a silent daze I watch Parminter and the devourer of my little brother work together building their flax-bale wall. I confess that I am surprised by the company Parminter keeps. I used to think she was a good person. She helped Mom and gave us leftover food from the shop. She even went to Jonno’s school on Apple Tree Day. But as they say: you never know with a Roach.
They have finished their wall now and they are still talking. They glance at me while they talk and I begin to feel afraid. I think they are deciding what to do with me. And whatever it is, they clearly want to keep it hidden from prying eyes. This does not feel good.
It’s not good. Not good at all. The killer Roach is taking out his dagger; it has a long, thin blade with a notch halfway down. I remember it well. He is walking toward me now. Oh, this is so unfair—to have come so far only to die at the hands of that vile Roach.
I try to call to Parminter for help, but my voice will not work. But there is no point anyway. Parminter is hanging back, watching quite happily. I try to raise my arms to protect my face but I can hardly move them. I am as weak as a newborn baby. The killer Roach is taller than I remember. He is here now, leaning over me. I look up at him but his glittering gray eyes refuse to meet mine. As he places the tip of his dagger upon my chest, I at last find my voice.
“No!” I shout, and this time I make a sound. It is no more than a weak bleat, but I hear it, like faint buzzing at the end of a long tunnel. “Please . . . ,” I squeak. “Let me live. Please.”
M
Oh, give me patience. The Vermin thinks I’m going to kill it.
Parminter runs up behind me and kneels down beside the Vermin. “Tomas?” she asks. “You can speak?”
The Vermin croaks like a frog.
“And you can hear me?”
“Uh,” it rasps.
“Tomas,” says Parminter. “We are not trying to kill you. We need to slit the suit so you can get out of it.” The Vermin tries to say something but its voice seems to have given up again. “So hold still and don’t be scared,” Parminter tells it. “We’ll get you free. Okay?”
The Vermin nods, but it does not look convinced. I am not convinced either. I would be quite happy to leave it here stuck like a deflated orange slug. But with the help of Parminter, who holds the thick and remarkably stiff material away from the Vermin’s body so I may safely cut into it, I manage to get the point of the blade in. But there is a steel mesh woven through the fabric and despite my best efforts sawing away—all the while watched with terror by the Vermin—I am able to make no more than a small hole.
“It’s no good,” I tell Parminter. “We need something stronger to get through this.”
The Vermin is opening and closing its mouth and wheezing at us in a most irritating fashion. Parminter kneels down close to it and listens. “Tomas says his wrists and ankles are held in cuffs,” she tells me. “So whatever we do with the suit he’ll still be trapped. We need bolt cutters.”
“And where do we get those from?” I ask a little tetchily.
“We have some at home,” Parminter says. “I shall go and get them.”
I am shocked. Parminter is risking everything for a Vermin. “No!” I say. “He is not worth it. He took my Kaitlin Drew away. Let him stay here. It serves him right.”
Parminter looks at me with a strange expression. “Maximillian,” she says quietly. “Tomas is Kaitlin’s brother. He would not hurt her. I am sure she went with him quite happily.”
But I am not sure, not at all. “No, she didn’t,” I say. And I see from the Vermin’s expression I am correct.
Parminter sighs as if I am being annoying. But, for once, I do not think this is fair. “Before we go to all the trouble and risk of getting him free, I want to know what he did with my Kaitlin Drew,” I say.
The Vermin begins to wheeze like an old bellows and Parminter listens, her ear to its mouth. She looks up at me. “He says he is sorry. He took her back to the SilverShip. But in the end, she wanted to go.”
“But not in the beginning?” I say.
The Vermin shakes his head and I hear him whisper, “No.”
Parminter looks at me. “Maximillian, he is sorry and that has to be enough for now. If we abandon him he will die, and we will be as guilty as you think he is. I am going now to get the bolt cutters. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I do not want her to leave me wi
th this Vermin, but more than that I am worried about Parminter going alone to her home that was ransacked by guards. It will be very upsetting for her. “I’ll come with you,” I say. “You don’t know what you’re going to find.”
“Ma,” Parminter says in an oddly bright and brittle tone. “I will find Ma back home baking the morning flax cakes.”
I do not think this will happen. “I still think I should come with you,” I say.
“No,” Parminter says. “Tomas is not well enough to be left alone.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say stiffly. “He seems to have a habit of bouncing back.”
But Parminter will not be persuaded. “Maximillian,” she says, “you must stay with Tomas.”
“Filthy Vermin,” I mutter.
I hear a nasty wheeze from the Vermin. “Killer,” it croaks. “You killed my brother.”
Parminter looks at us both, amused. I find this annoying. I do not think this is at all funny. “Boys, boys,” she says as if we are little children, “stop fighting now. Tomas, no one has killed your brother—well, not yet anyway. He’s actually back in the SilverShip crew quarters. So how about while I’m gone you both have a little talk about brothers? Hey?”
“I’m not talking to that piece of frass,” I say.
Parminter is in a very strange mood now. I do not understand it at all. She gives me a weird little smile, like she knows something I don’t. “You might both find it interesting. You have more in common than you realize.”
“Ha!” the Vermin and I manage to say together. Then we stop and glare at one another.
“Like what?” I demand.
Parminter looks at us both and takes a deep breath. “Like your father,” she says. And with that she turns and walks away. She raises her lovely purple wing cases, her delicate underwings unfurl and then, with two gentle beats, she is airborne. The Vermin and I watch her go and when, at last, I look down I realize who the Vermin’s deep gray eyes remind me of—the sad man who gave me the books and the bear.
