Amygdala

by Harper J. Cole

  “More numbers,” observed Annie.

  “The top line looks like a fractal equation.” Rivers was rummaging in her bag for a pencil and paper. “I’d better get these down, they may be important later.”

  “A fractal, yes,” whispered Gypsy, dropping to her knees. Her eyes widened as she scanned the characters. “The Mandelbrot set. I’d know it anywhere. And below that … a Steiner chain orbit trap.”

  “You might want to translate that into English, love,” prompted Alice.

  “Hmm? Oh, well it’s art, really. Mathematical art. Yes … the orbit trap turns the Mandelbrot set into a jumble of loops and circles within circles. If we could run these through a computer you’d all be able to see it.”

  “But you don’t need a computer?” guessed Annie.

  “That’s right. I can see it. I can see it all.” Gypsy spread her hands towards the ceiling as though it bore the finest brush-strokes of Michelangelo. Rapture was written upon her upturned face, her glistening eyes.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  * * *

  When the team exited the eighth room, they found themselves in a long, straight corridor, with the by now familiar bluescreen material covering the walls and ceiling. A sign hanging from above bore the simple message: “Examination 2 this way”.

  They were saved a long walk by the presence of a conveyor belt. It bore them along at a brisk pace, and all the women were happy enough to stand or even sit and be carried along. Their energy, they felt, would be better saved for the unknown trials ahead.

  It was an eerie feeling, drifting down that unchanging azure tunnel, the entrance soon too far away to make out, the exit still beyond the limits of their sight. To Gypsy, the planet of Gatari and the Bona Dea herself both seemed to belong to a fading dream; only the softly humming belt and the sea of blue around them were real. Occasionally, she’d notice a camera tucked away near the ceiling, a reminder that the world around them was still there, and watching.

  Gypsy didn’t generally like the idea of being filmed, but just at that moment she hardly cared. Her heart and mind were still full of what had happened in that last room. She’d proven herself at last and seen something wonderful into the bargain. The graceful arcs of the mathematical art were still there inside her, vivid and clear when she closed her eyes.

  “Hey-hey, Gypsy Moth! You put on quite the masterclass back there. Blew me away, I don’t mind saying.”

  “Thank you, Annie.” Gypsy felt conflict within – her euphoria battling her shyness. She was under no illusions; the latter would eventually win. Now was her best chance.

  Ask questions, she reminded herself.

  “You were great at the ball-throwing earlier. Did you play a lot of cricket back in America? Baseball, I mean?”

  “Big time! You’re talking to the star pitcher for the Blanco White Sox. Eight seasons there before I went to college, never missed a game through illness.”

  “Golly, that must have been fun. Did you usually win?”

  “Nah, we sucked,” said Annie cheerfully. “Truth be told, I sucked worse than most of the girls. My career win/loss record was 4-36. But it’s only the wins I remember – no point in dwelling on negatives, is there? Like, my best one … we’re 5-4 up, bottom of the ninth, full count, bases loaded, just like you always dream it. So, I’ve thrown the whole game – coach never pulled pitchers, maybe we’d have won more if she did, but she said it was bad for morale – and the girl I’m facing literally hit me for a home run last time she was up, and now she’s getting hold of my fastballs but they’re just going foul. And d’you know what I did then? I actually threw a curveball – I mean, on purpose. I hardly ever did that. She thinks it’s going right down the pipe, unloads and … whoosh!! Swing ‘n a miss. We finished 3-7 that year. Happy days.”

  I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about, thought Gypsy, but she’s saying a lot of words, and she’s saying them at me.

  I like it. Let’s try another question.

  “I suppose you can’t really play baseball on the ship. What do you do instead?”

  “Ah, well I’ve not got so much free time since Mata. I play a bit of pool in the lounge sometimes, maybe some cards if there’s enough of us about. But what I really love doing – and I’ve only even started properly since we’ve been out here – is writing. I mean, novel writing.”

  “Wow. I write, erm … stuff, sometimes. Have you done a complete book yet?”

  “Getting there. I was halfway through chapter 86 after my last session. Course, that’s just the first draft. I’m gonna have to do some polishing and honing before it’s of publishable quality. Now, beta readers would be nice, but people keep turning me down.”

  “I could -” began Gypsy, but the redhead was on a roll and didn’t hear her.

  “Now, there’s two possible reasons for this. One: they’re intimidated by my literary genius and know that reading my awesome opus would make them feel inferior. Two: my book sucks, and no-one wants to break it to me. Option one’s gotta be the more likely.”

  “I could read it.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to read your book.”

  Gypsy kept her eyes pointed dead ahead, but she could sense Annie staring incredulously at her.

  “You actually wanna read my story? I mean, you’re asking to? Of your own free will, being of sound mind and body?”

  “Oh yes.” And you can rest assured you’ll get a good review, however bad it is …

  “Wild! You’re practically the only person on the ship I never asked. Don’t know why I never thought of you.”

  “Oh, I’m easy to forget. But I hope…” Gypsy couldn’t quite bring herself to complete the sentence: I hope you’ll think of me more often in the future. A trifle too daring. “… I hope I enjoy it. What’s it about?”

  “Ah, now there’s the genius. What do people think about when they think about old folk’s homes? Gloom, death, lost years, fading away … depressing, yeah? I wanna play with those preconceptions. Action! Blood! Sex! Monsters! Going out with a bang! That’s what I think about. So, chapter 1, I’m gonna hit the ground running, by showing our heroine fighting for her life…”

  The corridor stretched on and on before them. At that moment, Gypsy would have been happy for it to take them around the complete circumference of the planet. The swift cadence of Annie’s voice mingled with the memory of the Mandelbrot equations in her mind, each a work of art meant just for her. Glancing back, her eyes briefly met those of Kiaya Ferguson. The geologist gave her a subtle thumbs up, and smiled a smile that seemed to say, I told you you’d have your moment.

  Onward rolled the conveyor belt.

  * * *

  To Miriam Hunter, watching live in the director’s studio, her team appeared to be journeying through the centre of the Aurora Borealis. While she could easily recognise that television special effects were at work – indeed, one of the smaller monitors showed the unenhanced reality – the end product was still striking. Coruscating waves of green, pink and orange appeared to lick along the outsides of the tube through which the women moved.

  Then, a surprise. The main screen faded to black. One of the director’s assistants spoke quietly into a square patch on the wall, announcing that viewers should return tomorrow evening for a further look at the aliens in action, while a page of dense text briefly appeared on the screen. End credits. The director rose from her seat and began to stretch.

  “What’s this?” asked Hunter. “You’re going off air?”

  “Yes,” replied Nomi, her eyes fixed dead ahead. “Extensive highlights will be shown tomorrow. In the meantime, you can continue to watch on one of our smaller monitors.”

  Hunter felt a sudden chill. She reached across and placed a hand on the minister’s shoulder.

  “With such stunning viewing figures, why would you stop now?”

  Nomi didn’t turn to face her. “We aren’t allowed to broadcast Examinations 2 and 3 live, or during th
e daytime. Gataran law.”

  “Why not?” Those two little words may have been the hardest Hunter had ever spoken. She found herself dreading the answer.

  For the moment, she didn’t get one. Nomi, keeping her face and voice totally neutral, pointed at a nearby monitor, which now showed the team from the Bona Dea emerging at last from the long tunnel.

  “Watch,” she said.

  * * *

  Alice was the last to step off the conveyor belt. She found herself entering a small, circular room, carved from stone and empty save for a few shards of wood strewn about the floor. The door opposite them was wooden too, a sturdy, panelled rectangle with an iron ring to pull – quite medieval in design, she thought.

  Gypsy was looking for her, mouth twitching slightly in concern. Alice gave a wave.

  “I’m right here, love.”

  You forgot about your old mum for a bit, while you were with the wonderful Annie. That’s as it should be.

  The wonderful Annie was currently struggling with the door, so Gypsy fell into her familiar place beside her mother. Some of her usual nervousness was creeping back in, but she still managed a little smile.

  “Fun this, isn’t it Mum?”

  “Yeah. Just remember, next time you’ve the chance to get yourself outdoors, don’t hesitate. You always enjoy it more than you think you will.”

  Gypsy nodded, her smile turning a touch rueful. “I’ll try.”

  She looks her age, all of a sudden. A grown woman, nearly thirty-four, not a frightened child in a woman’s body. We’re getting there.

  Alice gave her daughter’s shoulder a quick squeeze as they watched Annie and Ferguson struggle together to budge the door. Finally, the pair pulled it just enough ajar for Bala to work her fingers between door and frame. With more than a single grunt of effort, she heaved and pushed it open, but she had to stand with her back planted against the frame to keep it from closing again.

  “Weighs a ton,’ she gasped. ‘Move it.”

  Going as swiftly as they could, the party filed through the door, ducking under Bala’s arms. Gypsy and Alice were the last ones through; the athletic Nigerian sighed with relief as they passed her, stepping through after them and letting the door close behind her with a hefty thump.

  They were in a broad stone passageway, perhaps ten feet wide. It was dark, the pallid illumination provided by fluorescence high above them – twisted tubes at irregular intervals.

  “Whew!” gasped Annie. “That door may’ve been the toughest challenge in the whole place.”

  “Let’s not tempt fate, shall we?” suggested Rivers as she started down the new passage. “We’ve no idea -”

  She was cut off by a sudden confusion of sounds from above, scraping and clicking and grinding all melded together. Looking up, Alice saw a large section of the ceiling folding back, revealing itself to be metal masquerading as stone. Above them was almost complete blackness, allowing only a vague impression of a long, slender object.

  The object began to move.

  It was a scythe.

  If it had been left to Alice’s conscious thoughts, she would have done nothing. There simply wasn’t enough time to process the descending object as a deadly threat, calculate that it was on a course straight for her daughter and move to prevent an impact.

  But instincts are swifter than thought. Before she had even begun to process what was happening, she was already lunging for Gypsy, tackling her to the ground, hearing the swish as the scythe passed behind them, feeling the rush of air on her neck as it continued its deadly arc. She was dimly aware of screams around her, and of a terrible splitting and rending as the scythe embedded itself in the door behind them.

  Slowly, her brain began to catch up with events. The blade, gleaming now in the faint light, wickedly sharp, was affixed to a pivot at ceiling height. Once the trapdoor above them had opened, it had been released; gravity had done the rest. Alice saw dark blood on the blade. Had it clipped her after all?

  No, the blood was dark and dry, an old stain. Matan blood, from a previous contestant who hadn’t moved fast enough. All her friends were safe, though Hisano was lying prone, forehead bleeding from where she’d scraped it diving to safety. Bala, who’d been the rearmost of the team when the scythe fell, was standing mere inches from the impact point, her wide eyes reflected on the surface of the blade.

  Alice began to scramble to her feet, but Rivers checked her with a sharp cry of “No! Stay down! It’s coming back…”

  The scythe, which was no less honed along its trailing edge, was being pulled out of the shattered door by its own weight. With a squeal, it pulled free, swinging back the way it had come, at a far more leisurely pace this time.

  After a few more pendulum swings, the wicked blade came to a rest. All was silent and still.

  VI

  As soon as there is life, there is danger.

  – Ralf Waldo Emerson

  For many long moments, no-one spoke. Each of the eight women were trying, in their own way, to digest what had happened.

  It was Annie who broke the silence. “God! They tried to kill us. They tried to kill us!”

  “They did…” responded Rivers distantly. Then she drew in a slow breath and let it out. Steady nerves were needed now. She managed to summon forth a degree of equanimity before she spoke again. “Iris, see to Hisano’s wound. Alice, are you and Gypsy okay?”

  “I reckon we’re fine,” responded Alice, using the wall to pull herself to her feet, then reaching down to help the stunned Gypsy. Her daughter’s face was blank and non-comprehending. Alice held aloft a several inch-long plait of hair, and Rivers noticed for the first time that most of the woman’s locks were hanging freely about her shoulders. ‘Close call, but it just gave me a bit of a trim. Rather my hair than my fingers. Oh!’ Alice had spotted her silver medallion on the ground. Stooping to recover the heart-shaped jewellery, which now had a broken chain, she slipped it into her pocket.

  “Hisano’s wound is superficial,” reported Iris. The Japanese technician was already on her feet.

  “Good,” said Rivers. “We can plan our next move.”

  Annie responded at once. “Leaving’s our next move! Hey, you out there!” She spotted a camera near the ceiling and waved frantically at it. “Let us out!”

  “It might help if you spoke their language,” said Rivers testily. “Hisano, could you tell our hosts that we didn’t realise their game was lethal, and we wish to leave now. Be as polite as you can.”

  Hisano nodded, but Bala cut in before she could speak. “Wait. Do we want to quit? There’s still Vitana’s fragment to play for. If we don’t complete the Zakazashi, we may never get it.”

  “She’s right,” said Annie after a moment’s consideration. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ve no choice – we’ve still gotta do it.”

  Ferguson shook her head. “Whoa, hold up there. We don’t gotta do nothing. They told us this game wasn’t dangerous. They lied. Why should we believe that they’ll give us the prize even if we win?”

  Rivers tugged thoughtfully at her curls. “That prize was written into the contracts we all signed. The lack of danger was a verbal assurance given to the captain.”

  “So?”

  “So, if they violate the contract they will have acted unlawfully towards honorary citizens of Ramira. There could be severe diplomatic consequences.”

  “We’ve got to try, anyway,’ said Annie. ‘It’s our only shot at getting home.”

  “Home means different things to different folk,” argued Ferguson. She jerked a thumb towards the ceiling, and the heavens that lay far beyond it. “I’ve got a wife up there. My home’s with her. I don’t wanna risk that, and I reckon I’m not the only one who feels that way. I vote that we leave.”

  “No, they’ll be no vote,” said Rivers. “I’m the leader of this team, but I’ve no right to order anyone to risk their lives if they don’t want to. Hisano, make our request please.”

  Neither Bala nor Annie looked completel
y satisfied, but they didn’t protest as Hisano delivered the message, using the politest form of Matan.

  “I think you all realise that the Gatarans are unlikely to accede to our request,” said Rivers once the technician had finished. “As Ki pointed out, Minister Nomi lied to get us in here, and I rather suspect that releasing us would be a decision resting upon her shoulders.”

  “Do we need her permission?” asked Ferguson. “I say we stay right here, or head back the way we came.”

  She had no sooner finished speaking than a heavy rumbling sounded from behind the ruined door they’d come through. Annie rushed over to the hole that the scythe had ripped in it and peered through.

  “God!” she exclaimed, raising her voice to be heard above the din. “The floor’s on the move in there! It’s rolling back into the wall…”

  Rivers crossed over to take a look. She arrived just in time to see the last of the ground upon which they’d been standing mere minutes ago – now revealed to be a stone slab only about a yard thick – vanishing into a slot in the wall. A gaping black maw was revealed below.

  Even though she’d suspected there was no way back, the professor’s heart sunk a little at the sight. Across the now impassable room she could still see the long conveyor belt trundling steadily away. It seemed to belong to another, safer world.

  Rivers turned back to the little party, adopting her iciest manner – she had always found it an effective shield against fear. “I believe that may have been the answer to our request to leave,” she stated in clipped tones. “Moreover, retracing our steps is no longer an option. As to the idea of staying put and refusing to play their game” - she indicated the motionless scythe - “it appears likely that they will have anticipated that plan and installed further deadly surprises as motivation to continue. I don’t propose to wait around here and discover what they are.

  “Our course is clear. We go on with the Zakazashi.”