by M. G. Harris
Within the hour, I’m almost back at Ek Naab. The ruins of Becan come into view, heavily overgrown. The stone temples are an ancient constant in changing times. I bring up the landing control menu. Suddenly an alarm blares across the radio – a channel used only by Muwans.
Unregistered aircraft, alert, abort landing mission, hangar is closed, repeat, Muwan hangar is closed. Do not approach! This is a quarantine zone. If you come any closer, you will be shot down.
The message repeats over and over. A recording. I circle the area for about five minutes, wondering what to do.
Ek Naab is there, all right. But whoever left that message doesn’t want any visitors, doesn’t even recognize my Muwan as a friendly vehicle. My fingers move mechanically to the landing menu and close it down. Then I find myself bringing up the course plotter.
OK, on to Plan B. This is a perfect opportunity to find out what the Sect have been up to. From what I’ve seen of the world, there’s not much to stop them being on a path to having influence over most governments of the world in the twenty-second century.
That was Bosch’s future. Will it be mine?
According to the website, the Futurology Institute was being built in Oxford University’s science area, in the car park of the Radcliffe Science Library.
With a few clicks, I select Oxford, England. The Muwan soars to an altitude of around twenty-thousand metres and turns east. In another moment I’m over the Caribbean Sea.
I fly in silence, headphones in place as I scour the radio channels for any sign of communication. There’s plenty of chatter on the lower wavelengths, but the craft is moving too fast to focus in on anything. Higher up the spectrum it’s pretty quiet. The Muwan leaves Cuba far behind and heads for the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Then there’s almost total radio silence. The effect is nerve-jangling.
I plug in the iPod and play something calming, my dad’s jazz playlist. “The Peacocks” played by Bill Evans. Real smooth.
No commercial airlines at all. The skies are eerily empty. My mouth goes dry as I begin to think about what this means.
Eighteen months after the galactic superwave has hit, and the airplanes still aren’t flying.
Flying over Ireland, the radio kicks back into life. Plenty of short-wave chatter. And around 93.8 FM, a clear female voice breaks across the airwaves.
This announcement brought to you by the Emergency Government of the UK and Ireland. Food stamps still available for the families of citizens who have registered for the Healthy Rebirth Drive. Badlands residents are not eligible. Applicants must be under thirty years old and disease-free. Applicants must register with their nearest centre. Married couples must apply jointly. Please present yourself for genetic screening at your nearest EG Health Centre. Together we will build a better tomorrow for the best.
The broadcast is repeated twice, then there’s a confident announcement: “Locations of the EG Health Centres are as follows: Greater London area: Northolt, Ealing, Shepherd’s Bush, Kilburn. . . ” and continues with a list of another six or seven places.
Badlands residents are not eligible.
What, or where, are the “badlands”?
It sounds as though these kinds of statements are run-of-the-mill. Her voice is calm, measured, soothing. Then she starts reading out locations of health centres in other counties. I listen carefully until I hear the announcer mention Oxfordshire. “Oxfordshire – Manor Hospital, Headington.”
After the very long announcement, some classical orchestral music begins to play. I turn it down and lean back in my seat. Ireland passes by in a flash of green patchwork and spectacular cliffs. In another minute, mainland England fills the flight image recorder. Mesmerized, I gaze at twisting strips of grey concrete that cut through the land; empty motorways and roads. I sit up sharply when I see the occasional car trundle along, a little toy in a model village. Literally the first sign of life I’ve seen since Mexico. So there’s still some activity, on the roads and in the airwaves. Interesting that here, the roads are mainly clear.
Maybe people in the UK didn’t have to abandon their vehicles. Or else someone else has cleared the roads – the Emergency Government?
A better tomorrow for the best.
But who are “the best”?
I decide to land under the cover of Wytham Woods. It’s not too far from the centre of town, with nothing there but trees. It’s seven o’clock in the evening. At this time of the year, sunset is still hours away. If someone saw the landing, they’ll already be on their way.
I lower the craft into a tiny coppice, well away from any footpaths. I snap off some branches to camouflage the surface. There’s been nothing but birds in the sky since I time travelled. But that doesn’t mean that this “Emergency Government” don’t have access to airplanes. Maybe they’re just for emergencies.
Let’s hope that to anyone who saw it, the Muwan is just another UFO.
No sign of any eyewitnesses yet. I’ve landed on the edge of a field on Wytham Hill. The Oxfordshire countryside stretches out below. The city of Oxford is on the other side of the wood, which will take about twenty minutes to cross, if I remember the route.
A cool breeze rustles the canopy; fresh new leaves move in unison as it passes through. They continue in every direction as far as the eye can see. Unspoilt, silent. If all the computer technology really has gone from the world, the trees don’t miss it. I’m the only person around. And this wood is truly beautiful. All those years walking through it with my mum and dad, I never noticed the beauty.
It could be risky to be caught using electronic devices – could draw the wrong type of attention. I hide the Muwan remote and both my mobile phones in the hollow of a tree trunk close to the craft. Inside my jacket are the two survival packs, but my hands are empty. The Bracelet of Itzamna is hidden above my elbow. It really has to be a last resort.
If this mission fails then there’s still a chance I’ll find answers with the Sect in Switzerland.
The paths are overgrown but still just about recognizable. I manage to find my way across the woods, to the old car park. There used to be sheep in the nearby fields. Instead, the fields are filled with neat rows of bright green crops. From a distance I assumed it was tall grass but now that I’m closer, I see it’s something else; everywhere I look, the fields are bursting with different shades of green. Rows of corn, as tall as me. Swaying very slightly in the breeze.
This land is organized, fertile.
“You! Get your hands in the air. Turn around.”
The orders are barked out by someone behind me. He doesn’t seem to be kidding. I turn around as casually as I dare. Standing ten metres away is a guy who looks barely older than me, with sandy blond hair that touches his shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a sleeveless blue T-shirt. At shoulder height, he carries a rifle. It’s aimed at me.
Slowly, I raise my hands.
“Who are you?” The guy takes a couple of steps closer. “What are you doin’ up here? I know all the teams assigned here. You’re not on any of them.” He comes right up to me, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off the nose of his rifle. His eyes run along my right forearm.
“No chippenpin scar?”
I hesitate for just too long. He jams the rifle under my jaw and grabs hold of the front of my jacket. “Don’t move. . .” he hisses. I can feel the hard metal cylinder pressing against my throat, almost blocking off my air. He unzips my flight jacket and reaches inside with one hand. When he sees the plastic casing of the survival pack, his eyes bulge.
“You dirty thief. . . Where’d you get this?”
It’s the first aid kit; it pops open at the touch of a button. Sandy marvels at the contents as though they were emeralds. He laughs nervously, then thinks better of it. Slowly, not taking his eyes from mine or his finger from the trigger, he bends down and places the first survival pack on the ground. Then he’s reaching inside for a second pack, the one with the Gerber multitool and survival supplies. There’s a long silence.
Then: “Why don’t you have a chippenpin?”
I swallow, try to stay calm.
He turns me round and marches me in front of him, down the country lane and towards the village of Wytham. On the way he talks briskly into a walkie-talkie.
“Found a runaway. Dunno if he’s badlands, no. He looks all right, to be honest. No chippenpin scar, though. I know. That’s what I’m doin’.”
My hands are on my head but I’m on the verge of reaching across, pressing the Crystal Key on the Bracelet through my jacket sleeve. Would he try to shoot me first? The problem is the stupid countdown – I won’t vanish immediately. If I get the timing wrong I’ll be sending a corpse back to Ixchel.
I decide against it. This guy seems to be nothing more than a guard. It’s clear that I’m being taken to someone with more authority. Maybe I can learn something before I leave.
As often as I can, I sneak surreptitious glances at Sandy. His clothes are dusty and he smells like he hasn’t had a shower for several days. He’s strong; I can see that in his arms and shoulders. Even so, with what I’ve learned about fighting, I could probably risk taking him on. If it wasn’t for the rifle.
For now, I’m going to have to play things very carefully.
We reach the pub – I can’t remember what it used to be called but I remember going there with my parents. The pub sign is gone; the garden is full of tomatoes, rows of vegetables and herbs. We stand in front of the conservatory doors and Sandy waits.
After a minute a woman appears: short, untidy blonde hair, tanned face, wearing dusty jeans and a loose T-shirt. She looks hard, like she’s used to giving orders and being obeyed. The woman doesn’t introduce herself, just takes a plastic wand like you see in the security checks at airports. She waves it over my arms and then starts talking, short, staccato statements.
“Name?”
Might as well buy some time. “Matt Murdock.” The name is out before I have time to think up anything better.
“You don’t have a chippenpin?”
“Err . . . no.”
“Why not? You look healthy.”
Sandy passes the woman my two survival packs. “Found ’em in his jacket.”
She stares at them, baffled. Her eyes return to mine with something like fear, or a newfound respect.
“You stole these. . .?”
“They’re mine.”
Sandy interjects, “Have you seen his eyes. . .?”
“Shut it,” the woman snaps, without taking her eyes from mine. “Matt Murdock, yeah? But you got no chippenpin, ‘Matt’. Also, I do believe that’s the name of a comic-book superhero. So, why don’t you tell me your real name and how you got into the Controlled Zone? Are you one of the Caps?”
Chippenpin . . . Controlled Zone . . . Caps . . . there’s so much that I don’t understand that I simply shake my head, bewildered.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
“What were you doing in Wytham Woods? It’s a sacred wood, you must know that.”
I open my mouth and then close it. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound suspicious.
Very precisely, the woman tells me, “Last chance. I’m going to call the EG office. We’ll soon see if anyone’s been reported missing.”
The woman disappears into the house. Sandy raises the rifle, now aiming at my chest.
About three minutes later the woman comes out. Her face looks totally different. She’s gone from looking bored, as though there’d been a routine infraction, to ashen-faced solemnity.
There’s something terrifying about her nervousness, and Sandy’s.
Under her breath I can just about make out what the woman is saying, almost to herself. “Piece of badlands trash; why don’t they just respect the CZ? Then things like this wouldn’t have to happen.”
Sandy mumbles, “But how did he get in?”
“Don’t know,” she says between gritted teeth. “And don’t care. My orders don’t cover any of that.”
“We’ve actually got to. . .?” Sandy whispers. He sounds shocked.
“Sandy, get him out of my sight! Why do badlanders even DO this? Do they think we like giving these orders?” The woman turns to me and I can see that her cheeks are flushed, her eyes cold with fear-tinged rage. “Why can’t you just stay in the badlands and leave us alone?” she says, spitting the words. “You know what happens if you come into Controlled Zones!”
She gives Sandy an angry nod. “You know what to do.”
His eyes are full of trepidation as he tells her, “You’ll come too. . .?”
The woman nods, lowers her eyes. “I’ll come too, I always do.”
“I’ve never done one,” Sandy says, very quiet.
“Be grateful that they’re rarer than they were.”
I look from one to the other. “Guys . . . what are you talking about?”
Sandy lifts the rifle and pokes it into my ribs. “Let’s go, ‘Matt’.”
I follow the woman, winding down the lanes of Wytham village towards the fields across from Godstow, Sandy nudging me along with the end of his rifle. “Where are you taking me?” I keep asking. When they don’t reply, my nerve starts to give way. A tense silence has fallen over Sandy and Boss Woman. Whatever is going on here, it’s not good.
We pass through a band of oaks and beech trees, and then I see it.
A trench in the ground, two metres across, three metres wide, close to a large beech tree. The stench of decay is nauseating, makes me stop in my tracks. I don’t need to get closer to realize that it’s an open burial pit.
They’re going to execute me.
The horror of that moment is such a jolt that before I know what I’m doing, my hand is moving towards the Bracelet. Before I can press the Crystal Key, I’ve been walloped in the side by the rifle. The blow is like an explosion inside my ribs. The wind is knocked out of me; I fall to my knees gasping for breath. I’m dimly aware of Sandy and the woman exchanging heated remarks; did he not search me properly, what kind of idiot security guard . . . but the pain in my ribs keeps coming in waves and I’m almost sick. Sandy pins me to the ground with his rifle, which he shoves against my temple.
From the moment Boss Woman finished her phone call to the EG Centre, their attitudes to me completely changed. It’s like finding out that I might be from these “badlands” makes them think that I’m not even human, that I’m some hideous, sick criminal – or worse.
There’s nothing faint-hearted about Sandy now. “I’ll blow your brains out, you lying badlands scum. We work hard for what we have. Diseased filth coming in here, nicking what’s ours. . .”
Boss Woman sets to work on getting the Bracelet of Itzamna off my arm. When it’s in her hands her eyes gleam. She turns to me, lips pulled into a thin, cruel smile.
“Where did you get this?”
The pain begins to focus my mind. This is actually happening; I’m going to be executed by this scruffy guy with a rifle.
She lands a sharp kick to my ribs. I fall over, groaning.
“You know what, filth, I think I might go back and ask for permission to interrogate you first, after all. You’ve been on the rob, obvious. Where’d you nick this bracelet from, one of them fancy houses in the country?”
I struggle back to my knees, Sandy’s rifle bore hooked underneath my jaw.
“Go on, sis,” he says. “I’ll watch him. You’re not gonna budge, are you, scumbag? Else I’ll blow a hole in your guts and throw you in with the corpses to die all slow and lonely.”
The woman he called “sis” backs away, a vengeful glitter in her eyes. She holds out the Bracelet of Itzamna and says, “Be right back. Then you can start hitting that again.”
She turns and in a few seconds I lose sight of her in the trees. Sandy orders me to place my hands on the back of my head. I do as he says and turn slightly to catch a glimpse of his face. He looks angry, yet he’s still guarding something: fear.
He’s scared of me getting anywhere near him. As if
my touch was deadly.
I’m swamped by fear too, but it’s clear enough to me that Sandy doesn’t want to shoot. He seems comfortable with the idea of hitting me, though.
“Why don’t you put your gun down and kill me with your bare hands, like a man,” I say, in a voice as cold and tough as I can muster.
“Touch you? Oh yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, germ sack?” Sandy cocks the rifle a bit higher. He seems unsure of himself. There’s a sudden loud rustle in the trees somewhere to our right. We’re both momentarily distracted.
The attack comes from the left. It’s a sound I’ve heard once before: the swish of an arrow slicing through the air. Then another. When I look back at Sandy, he’s staggering. The rifle falls from his fingers, his wrist skewered by one arrow. The second arrow has taken him in the upper chest. I’d guess that it’s missed his heart, but even so, he’s defeated.
A figure emerges from the thicket to our left; a kid, probably no more than twelve, lithe and slim, dressed in skinny jeans and a jade-green hoody. There’s a bow slung over the kid’s shoulder. The kid closes in and scoops up Sandy’s rifle. I’m thrown a quick glance, then the kid beckons, waves at me to follow.
I hesitate. Boss Woman still has the Bracelet of Itzamna. Without that, I’m well and truly trapped.
When I don’t move, the kid looks back. This time I catch sight of him under the green hood: short, spiky hair and a piercing gaze. The thought of Peter Pan comes into my mind. “Come on,” hisses the kid. “We need to get out of here.”
“That woman took something of mine. . .” I begin. Then to my astonishment, the kid pulls the Bracelet out of the pocket of the hoody.
“You mean this? Don’t worry; I got it. And I got her.”
“You killed that woman?!”
“Probably not. It’s best if we don’t kill them; they always insist on killing some of us if we do.” The kid steps a little closer. “You came out of that spaceship. Didn’t you? I saw it land.”
I stare back in silence. Sandy moans softly, squirming in the dirt.
