by Alex Thomson
And Ashton, I think. Don’t forget Ashton.
I DON’T DARE investigate Mr Ortiz’s cabin yet—I checked in the Community cabin, and he was there, occupying a table in sullen silence, while Andrew did press-ups in a corner. I sauntered up to the Rota, pretended to examine it, and left.
So, instead, here I am in the Leisure cabin, with Jupiter, Joseph and Jolly. They’re engrossed in a chess game—the current Holder of the Board, Jupiter, against Joseph and Jolly. The pair are up a bishop but down a pawn, queens exchanged, and they’re in the endgame now—Jupiter’s king trapped in a corner, while the extra bishop allows his brothers to run riot.
My feelings towards Earth are starting to soften. It may be flawed, it may be even worse than here in some ways, but it’s the only escape we’ve got. To stay on Hell is a form of cowardice. We’ve managed to hold the community together for the last few orbits, but now, it’s started its inevitable collapse. I just have to make it out without being killed. And as long as there are people like Mr Lee on Earth, I should be all right. In all the books I’ve read, you have the good guys, and you have the villains. And the good guys will surely be on our side.
Nonetheless, it pays to be prepared, and at the moment, the Jays are the closest thing I have to allies.
“Jays,” I say. “We need a plan for when we get to Earth.”
“What do you mean?” Jupiter says.
“When we get to Earth,” I say, “we’re going to face opposition. Not everyone will accept us, will they? We’ll be the minority, the freaks.”
“Perhaps,” says Jupiter. “But what’s this ‘we’?”
“Though it pains me to say it, Ells and Jays are meant to be together.”
“A lot can change before we get to Earth, Leila,” Joseph says. “And there’s a lot of things we don’t yet know. For now, we observe, and wait.”
“You know, Lily had more balls than the lot of you,” I say, suddenly angry. “At least she did more than talk and wait.”
“We don’t believe in acting without all the information in our hands,” Joseph says slowly. “And that’s why there are six Jays still standing, and why there will be six Jays at the bitter end.”
“Easy, brother,” says Jolly.
“And the Overseers? You don’t trust them any more than I do. Never mind going to Earth, they might be killing us off, one by one. What are you going to do about them?”
Jupiter looks up from the chessboard. “Leila, you’ve done plenty of good work here. Nobody doubts your commitment or your contribution. But there’s just one of you left. It’s time for you to sit back and let the Jays handle the Overseers. It’s a question of how and when.”
The brothers return to their chess. Joseph lifts his bishop, and with a jerky motion stabs it at Jupiter’s knight, knocking it down. Jupiter snorts and takes the bishop with the rook that was protecting it.
“People are dying,” I say to them, “and you think you’re safe. Everything is falling apart, and you sit here and you play bloody games!”
I realise I’m standing, so I kick out at the chessboard. I miss, but a few of the taller pieces topple as I scrape the table. Jupiter cries out and Joseph uprights the pieces with a glare at me. Jolly puts out a hand to me, but I brush past him and exit, knowing that my cabin is the only place on Hell left to me.
WHILE MR ORTIZ continues to brood on the base, I go to the airlock and suit up. I step outside, ignore the jeep parked nearby, and head in a northerly direction. After a few minutes, I come to Lily’s grave. This is what people do in books I’ve read—they visit graves and weep and reflect. I don’t have any flowers, and there’s no headstone or marker, just a pile of rocks.
I hate to think of her down there. Part of me is curious to know what she looks like now, what’s happened to her body under the rocks of Hell. Whenever Lily got bruises and blemishes in the past, I would be half-disgusted, half-fascinated to see my mirror body damaged. It was like lending someone a piece of clothing and seeing it all ripped. And no doubt it was the same for Lily when I was the one with bruises. I remember when she got a big red bump on her forehead, and when I first noticed it, I put a hand to my own forehead reflexively—it seemed impossible that mine could still be smooth and pale.
I think about the Collection Ship, and how they might be bringing five more Ells with them. But I don’t know if I’ll like them, because they’re not Lily, and they haven’t lived through all this time on Hell together. They’ll just be five new sisters, fresh out the vats, as innocent as I was when I first arrived. I want to warn them, to tell them the truth about the Overseers and Ashton. But how can I spoil their innocence; how can I send them down the path Lily took and the path I’m stuck on? We can be happy but living a lie, or we can know the truth and be miserable.
Or, very likely, dead.
I want to blame the Overseers, but I know it’s pointless, even though they may have killed Lily and will probably kill me eventually. They have the tasers, they have the stripes on their suits, they have the authority; but they’re nothing. Convicted criminals with less freedom than we have, forced to play a part and do what they’re told.
All that matters is getting to Earth and starting again. And survival.
Because I promise myself this—I’ll survive the trials of Hell, I’ll not be killed, and when I’ve made my way to Earth, I’ll survive there, if only to spite them all. For the sake of Lily, for the sake of all those poor Bees, for the sake of Avery, and even for the sake of that stupid, dead rapist Mr Reynolds, I’ll survive.
17
JIGSAW PIECES
IT’S NIGHT AND Mr Ortiz has left the base in Banana, with three Ays. I wait for half an hour, in case they have to come back for anything, then I decide it’s time. Mr Lee is probably in his cabin, so I’m careful not to make too much noise. I take the skeleton key, insert it into Mr Ortiz’s lock, and the door creaks open. His cabin is messier than when I last saw it—dirty mugs, clothes in small piles, spread in an oddly symmetrical pattern. In one corner, it looks like some small machine has been thrown at the wall, with shards of plastic and metal lying on the floor.
I wander round the cabin, in no particular hurry, but it’s clear that the only things on display here are detritus or the necessities for day-to-day life on Hell. By his cot, Ortiz has dragged a canister of water and a crate of food bars and pouches. The information I want has to be locked up in the cabinet, next to the water canister. The key could be anywhere, but I suspect it’s very well hidden—or that he always keeps it on his person. I hunt around for a while, checking under his cot, and at the bottom of the drawers where his clothes are piled, but nothing is there, just a stale odour.
I decide that I’ve come too far to stop now. A hammer is by the smashed machine, along with several other tools. I pick it up, and take a huge swing at the lock. The metal protests with a scree and a splinter of the lock mechanism pings out at me. I take another swing, and this time the lock gives way and the cabinet springs open. It contains several dozen plastic wallets piled neatly on top of one another, each one full of paperwork. No photos. The bottom shelf is empty, except for the Bees’ spike, encrusted with Mr Reynolds’ blood. I stand, transfixed by it for a moment, then get to work.
I pick up the first plastic wallet and leaf through it: an inventory of the Storage depot, similar to the one we use there. I put it at the bottom of the pile, and look at the next one. It consists of thousands and thousands of rows, each row having a metal and several numbers.
32. Aluminium, and then on the right a 17.4 scrawled by an Overseer’s hand.
59. Nickel, followed by a zero.
At the top of the right-hand column, it says Ore Yield. This is a complete record of all the ore we’ve mined from Mizushima-00109—it’s what they must use when figuring out how close we are to quota.
I plod on, through each folder, quickly getting a feel for which papers might be of interest, and which are just red tape. The paperwork has little to identify it—no headings, no elaboration o
f jargon. Often you can guess from the content what it’s for, but other times, all I can see is a forest of figures or words I don’t recognise. Sometimes, I see the Families mentioned—never by name, always by number. So there’s a schematic of the base, for example, and each cabin lists its inhabitants—B1, B2, B3, B4, B5 and B6, all in the Bees’ cabin.
But then, examining a folder which looks to be early drafts of the Rota, I come across one scrap, where the names have been scribbled out in full—not by Mr Ortiz, but by a hand I don’t recognise. It’s written at a skewed angle, with lots of spiky crossings-out, and deals with just the Ays. As I read down the names, I get a nasty shock: Aaron, Alan, Alex, Alistair, Andrew, Avery. Who the heck are Alan and Alex? And what has happened to Andy and—yes, Ashton? I take the scrap, and put it in my boiler suit.
I carry on, hunting for more juicy stuff. But there follows a glut of technical instructions, guides to the machinery the Jays operate, and I flick through them impatiently. Finally, I get to another interesting folder: a report on the Ays. Presumably, there’s an equivalent on the Ells in Mr Lee’s cabinet. I skim through the descriptions of the Ays’ mildly differing personalities.
A4 has a stronger tendency than the others to lose his temper—handle him carefully.
A5 will fume for cycles over the mildest of reproofs—try not to criticize his work unless absolutely necessary.
It carries on in a similar vein for several pages. I put it back in the plastic wallet, and replace it in the cabinet. There are still dozens of folders to get through. My eyes are aching from all the reading. I blink three times, to beat back the waves of tiredness. A horrible headache has been needling away at the back of my skull, for Earth knows how long. I need a break, but this is the only chance I’m ever going to get to rifle through Mr Ortiz’s cabinet like this. It’s like his whole life has been laid out for me to inspect—neat rows of documents, an ordered, predictable life—nothing like the mess in Mr Reynolds’ cabinet (who I suspect had destroyed the majority of his documents).
So I get back to my work, I shuffle through the pages, and with painstaking care I examine everything he has. I pick up some useful information, some oddities, dozens of jigsaw pieces that slowly fit together. When I’m finished, I look at the clock and realise I’ve been here for five hours. Mr Ortiz is due back on base in just over an hour. I make a vague attempt to tidy the cabinet, but it’s pointless, since Mr Ortiz will see the lock is broken as soon as he goes to open it. I close the cabinet door—then as an afterthought, I open it, withdraw the Bees’ spike and wrap it in a sheet. Then I close it again, take the hammer, and tap at the flimsy lock to push it back into place, so that it won’t appear broken at first glance. Finally, I take some wire cutters and snip the wires behind the cupboard, so that his lights don’t work. It is night, and it will buy me a bit more time before the next cycle begins, and he notices the broken lock.
When I get back to my cabin, I find a Jay snooping around.
“Oi,” I say, “Jeremy?”
“I am he.”
“What are you up to?”
“Never mind me, where have you been, little Leila? You weren’t with Mr Lee. I checked.”
“I’m sorry, are you my Overseer? No? Then it’s none of your business.”
“All right, all right. Just keeping an eye out for you. Dangerous times, Leila. All of us looking over our shoulders.”
I slip the spike-in-a-sheet under my cot, but Jeremy notices it. “What’s that, then?”
“Jeremy, do I have to kick you out of my cabin, or will you respect my privacy?”
“Privacy! In this place! You’re on the wrong asteroid if you want some of that, my girl.”
“Don’t my girl me.”
He grins, lurches forward and kisses me hard on the lips. I respond at first, then push him back, and wipe his saliva off my lips.
“Don’t be a fool, Jeremy.”
He’s still grinning. “This feels right. Don’t tell me you don’t think the same.”
“All I know is, there’s a killer on the loose, we’re on the brink of civil war, all kinds of funny business are going on—this is not the time for sordid liaisons.”
“That’s not what Lily and Juan thought.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Suit yourself. So what have you found out, Leila? What’s the big secret?”
I don’t respond. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he says. “You’ve found something out! Come on, tell brother Jeremy.”
“No.”
“Come on, you need the help.”
“You’re all sweetness and light now, but when you Jays get together, I don’t know which way you’d turn.” A sudden thought hits me. “Were you sent here? To try and seduce me, winkle out what I’ve learned?”
“Leila! No, I came to check up on you.” He looks hurt. “Have it your way, then. I don’t want to know your poxy secrets.”
“Are you even Jeremy? You could be posing as him.”
“Of course I’m bloody Jeremy.”
“Show me your brand, then.”
His lip curls. “Jays don’t show their brands to anyone.”
“Jeremy would show it to me, if I asked.”
He stares at me for a few seconds. Then, with a wrench, he pulls the band of his trousers down, to show the brand on his right hip. It’s not easy to make out on his black, pock-marked skin, and the number is faded and smudged, but it is, indubitably, a 5.
“Happy?” he says.
“Don’t be like that. Listen, I’ll tell you this much: if anything should happen to me”—I’ve always wanted to say that—“all the answers can be found in Mr Ortiz’s cabinet. Get to that, by any means necessary, and you will figure it out.”
“Okay,” says Jeremy, frowning. “So Mr Ortiz is the killer?”
“Just look in the cabinet. And forget about Mr Reynolds. His death is nothing to do with this.”
“You’re not going to do anything dangerous, are you?”
“I can look after myself.”
“That’s what Lily thought.”
It’s a low blow, but I guess he has a point. I sit down on my cot, suddenly exhausted, and he flops down beside me, leaning back against the pillow. I lean back too, and rest my head on his belly.
“So…” he says.
“Shut up,” I reply, staring up at the ceiling. “This is nice.”
We lie like that for some time, and I drift in and out of sleep.
I DREAM OF being in a glass box, while silent, faceless men poke at me and scribble on their clipboards. I dream of an eternity in a cabin even smaller than this one, the stars creeping past the pothole window, my voice raw and broken because I’ve spent so long screaming. I dream of the depot, the bloody depot, the rows and rows of crates, walking and walking down the same rows and rows of crates, until I realise I’ve been walking for an hour; and I’ve started to recognise some of the crates, even though they’re all virtually indistinguishable, and somehow I’ve been walking round in a giant circle.
I WAKE UP, feverish and with a pain at my temples. At some point, Jeremy slipped out from under me—something I dimly realised at the time, during my half-dreaming. I’m alone now.
My eyes snap open, and I scrabble under the cot. But the spike’s still there. I take the sheet off and lift it, doing my best not to look at the crusted blood of Mr Reynolds. I try and imagine myself stabbing someone with it, the way I saw Brenda demonstrating. My fingers clench and unclench as I try to get purchase on the spike. Two pillows are lying among all the junk at the opposite end of the cabin. I cover the ground in four steps, and jab at the pillows with the spike, ripping through the fabric as smoothly as if it is water.
I withdraw it, slowly. That wasn’t so hard. But now I try to imagine there’s a human face on the pillows, yelling, pleading; I think of the blood, gushing out, spraying the cot and me. I think of the sound the spike made when Mr Ortiz withdrew it from Mr Reynolds, that soft schlup. I wonder what sound it makes when it pl
unges in.
I’m not so sure I’ve got the will to do it, when you think like that. Brenda is a cold fish indeed. I remember her in the Emergency Meeting, hours after killing her Overseer, asking questions in a concerned voice and tutting about the clean-up operation. Nerves of steel, our Brenda.
My eyes are sticky with sleep, and the taste of spoilt food fills my mouth. I do some stretches, and try to drag myself to an alert state. Time has always been on my side—a bit too much bloody time, if I’m honest—but now it’s slipping through my fingers. Sunrise is not for another hour, and Mr Ortiz should—should—be asleep after a long shift. I raise the spike again, pass it from left hand to right, to left, to right. I point the tip at Lily’s cot, and utter a silent prayer to her—wherever she might be, whether stuck in those bones under the surface of Hell or in a better place. I think of Macbeth, agonizing over killing King Duncan: If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly. I didn’t read much Shakespeare, too many words I didn’t understand, too much that didn’t make sense. But I understood that now, all right.
I march out my cabin, spike gripped in my right hand, skeleton key in my left. The spine is empty, which is just as well. I’m not too worried about a Jay or a Bee seeing me—they know when to look the other way. But the Ays mustn’t see me, they would derail my whole plan. I stride past their tunnel without incident, and carry on up to Mr Ortiz’s tunnel. I slow down as I approach his door.
This time, there is no heavy breathing on the other side. I can hear a gentle snoring, though: half-snort, then a low whistle. Half-snort, then a low whistle.
I listen to the rhythm for a full minute. Lily’s spirit is with me at this moment, and the cold fury of the Bees. I readjust my grip on the spike, and insert the skeleton key into the lock.
