Horrific images were feeding onto the Ultranet: smoke billowing from ventilation shafts, live-cams from rescue workers wading through debris, bodies being carried from a Metro station.
“No…” Tess swiped her screen. “This isn’t it…” She flitted across the newsfeeds, but with each touch the news got worse: Hundreds caught in Metro crash… Many feared dead… Fire engulfs commuter trains…
Tess felt her knees give way and she crumpled onto the freezing running track.
“It can’t be…”
But all the news sites said otherwise, bombarding her with images of carnage and chaos. Somehow the plan had gone wrong.
Irretrievably wrong.
Overwhelmed with nausea, she retched, painful, choking spasms making her gasp for breath—
“Do you need medical assistance?”
Tess looked up and saw a Maintenance-Bot peering down at her with dispassionate LED eyes. “You seem to be in distress.” The voice was civil, devoid of emotion. “Should I call for medical assistance?”
“No … no.” With immense effort, Tess hauled herself to her feet.
“Please stay where you are—”
“No!”
The bot fell silent, as if sulking at the rebuke.
“It’s… I’m all right,” Tess said.
Hold it together, hold it together.
“It’s just cramp. Really.”
“Cramp can be a serious condition,” the ever-helpful bot went on. “Please stay where you are so that I can call for assistance.”
“I’m OK. It’s nothing.” Tess turned and forced herself to run on.
Hold it together.
She raised a hand to wave her thanks to the bot, but didn’t dare turn around in case its infrared eyes saw the tears streaming down her face.
5
“I’ve got you … I’ve got you.”
Cillian tried to hide his fear, but it felt like he was walking through hell. An acrid, burning hell.
He cradled his father tightly in his arms as he stumbled through the choking heat and smoke-filled darkness, forcing himself to block out all the death and carnage that filled the tunnel, to ignore the bodies and groans for help. If he was going to save his father, he had to stay focussed on the faint dot of light in the distance.
“You’re going to be OK,” Cillian whispered over and over, as he picked his way between the rails, hoping that somehow his words would keep Paul clinging to life. But he could feel his father’s breathing getting shallower.
Keep walking … one step at a time … away from death, towards the light.
A news crew saw him first. Their dramatic images of black smoke billowing from the station entrance were being played in real time on the Ultranet, where millions watched in horror as their City came under attack again.
Momentarily the acrid smoke swirled aside to reveal a figure emerging from the darkness.
“Over there!”
For a few seconds everyone just stared, as the young man emerged into daylight, a bleeding victim draped in his arms, an image of hope amid destruction.
A miracle survivor.
The paramedic’s urgent whistle broke the spell. “Resuscitation Team! Triage! Station entrance!”
As the smoke cleared, Cillian was overwhelmed. Rescue workers rushed towards him in a blur of movement. His father was plucked from his arms and put on a stretcher, medics bombarding his body with tubes and wires: oxygen, adrenaline, analgesics.
Cillian tried to follow, but other paramedics held him back.
“Relax.” They lifted Cillian onto another stretcher. “We’ve got you.”
Everything was confusion. He was blinded by a blizzard of flashing lights from the emergency vehicles and news crews. People were rushing everywhere, cutting equipment was going into the tunnel and body bags were coming the other way.
Cillian saw his father vanish into the mobile ER Unit and knew he had to be there with him. He swung his legs off the gurney—
“Don’t move! Please!”
“I’m OK.”
“You’re in shock.”
He tore off the tubes they were trying to fix to him and ran towards ER.
“WAIT!”
But Cillian wasn’t stopping for anyone. He barged through the doors to the operating theatre—
Doctors huddled around Paul’s body, issuing a stream of instructions in clipped tones; nurses were plugging his father into a bewildering array of monitors and life-support systems amid a cacophony of chirrups and beeps. A porter silently mopped up blood that was spilling onto the floor.
As he edged closer, Cillian saw his father’s hand, the calm familiar hand that he’d known all his life – that he’d clutched as a young child – now sticky with blood, twitching as the nerves jangled.
He looked up at the monitors scrolling with Paul’s vital signs—
I see it.
Instantly the pattern of frightening irregularities became apparent. He could see chaos stalking closer.
Someone grabbed Cillian and tried to pull him away. “You can’t be in here.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You need treatment—”
“He’s my father! I’m not leaving!”
Through the tangle of drug lines he saw his father’s eyelids flutter as he recognized Cillian’s voice.
“Dad!”
With immense effort, Paul dragged open his eyes.
A doctor saw the connection flicker between them. “It’s OK.” The doctor nodded to Cillian. “You can stay.” He pointed to a spot near the head of the gurney. “Talk to him. Don’t let him… Just try to keep him here.”
Cillian crouched next to his father and gently put his hands on his forehead. “I’m staying with you.”
But when he glanced up, Cillian saw the silent language passing between the medics, the hesitations and anxious blinks.
He looked down at his father and saw his lips twisting as if he was fighting to say something.
“It’s all right. Try to stay calm.”
But his father seemed determined to get the words out, and his mouth battled against the drugs that were flooding his body.
“Gilgamesh…” It was barely audible, more of a gasp than a word.
Cillian didn’t understand. The opiates must be scrambling his father’s mind. “Don’t worry. I’m here,” he whispered, powerless to help.
But his father wasn’t going to give up. Somehow he mustered the energy to feebly shake his head.
“Gilgamesh,” he repeated, his eyes locked on his son, urging him to listen.
“Has he got BioSpares insurance?” The doctor’s voice cut across the moment.
Cillian glanced up.
“Is he insured?” the doctor insisted. “His vital organs have haemorrhaged. He needs replacements. Urgently.”
Cillian shook his head. They had nowhere near enough money for BioSpares.
He looked back to his father and saw him staring with such intensity, unable to muster the strength to say what he needed to say.
Cillian bent low so that their heads touched and he could feel his father’s fragile breath on his face.
“I don’t understand.”
“Gil … Gil…”
Suddenly Paul drew a deep breath. As he sucked in the air, his throat gurgled.
The data on the screens lurched, then started freewheeling. The monitoring bleeps raced chaotically, fighting to keep up.
“Don’t go!” Cillian pleaded. “Don’t!”
Paul’s eyes slid shut and he exhaled in a long sigh.
Cillian waited for his father to draw breath again, waited for the next beat of his heart.
But it never came.
The medical team drew back from the table.
Cillian watched the life drain from his father, saw pale blue tinge the pinkness of his lips.
And it was over.
A fist of pain thumped Cillian’s chest.
Somewhere in the background he heard the
doctor quietly say, “Time of death: 10.34. Notify the Digital-Executor.”
Cillian remained absolutely still, his hands clasping his father’s cooling face.
6
The catastrophic violence of the bomb had scrambled Tess’s mind. She felt numb; all she wanted was to get away from the harrowing images flooding every Wall-Screen and electronic billboard across the City. She had to hide until she could get her head straight.
But where? The agreed rendezvous?
Too dangerous. The destruction would have blown all Blackwood’s meticulous planning to pieces. Everything was different now and for all Tess knew Revelation had already been compromised, which meant she might be walking straight into a trap.
Where to go?
Where?
She looked out across the City, desperately hunting for ideas … and saw the ring of cranes on the horizon. Maybe on Foundation’s churning margins there was still hope.
* * *
The shambolic rolling-estates couldn’t have felt more different to Downtown. The noise and dust and confusion out here always left Tess reeling.
Everything was temporary. Pop-up shops and cafes sprouted and evaporated on a daily basis, buildings vanished and piling machines magically appeared overnight; all life here seemed transient and improvised.
A groaning crack echoed off the buildings as another huge slab of concrete crumpled to the street and kicked up a cloud of dust. Wherever Tess looked, cranes were tearing down old residential blocks, giant mechanical moles were boring gullies and bright hoardings announced new Metro lines and apartment complexes.
The noise and disruption was why it was so cheap to live out here, and why it drew so many young people trying to get a toehold in the City. Rents were low because there was no security. Landlords squeezed the last few weeks out of places before the bulldozers moved in, as yesterday’s slums became tomorrow’s Foundation City.
But while the half-complete infrastructure made life a gritty ordeal, it also meant it was a little easier to stay off-grid.
Sachin opened the door and stared at her in shock. “You can’t be here!”
“I’ve nowhere else to go.”
“Are you crazy?” He tried to shut the door, but Tess jammed it open with her foot. “Don’t turn me away! Please.”
He saw the anguish and confusion in her eyes. “Shit.”
Reluctantly Sachin pulled her inside, checked no-one had seen and threw the bolts across.
“I didn’t change the plan,” Tess said.
“Well something went wrong.”
“I swear! Every last detail was checked—”
“What difference does it make now?” He glared at her angrily.
“I just need somewhere to think.” Tess walked down the hallway and entered the tiny lounge. A laptop was open on the table playing live images from the Metro tunnel. Rescue workers were cutting through the tangled wreckage and carrying out body bags.
“How many dead?” she whispered.
Sachin flipped the computer shut. “No point torturing yourself. You were doing your duty.”
“How could that be duty?” she said bitterly.
“Following The Faith means just that, doesn’t it?” Sachin lit up a smoke anxiously. “Following, not questioning.”
“‘While We Breathe, We Trust’,” Tess said in a hollow voice.
“Right. While We Breathe, We Trust.” Sachin inhaled deeply. Tess could hear the doubt in his voice.
“Could I use the hole? Until it’s safe again.”
“I guess.” Sachin stubbed out his smoke, then pushed the battered sofa aside, lifted a threadbare rug and removed 4 sections of floorboard to reveal a steel trapdoor. “Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned it since you were last here.” He gave a grim smile and swung the door open.
Carefully Tess clambered down the narrow steps into the darkness and dropped onto a mattress.
“The torch is by your foot.”
Tess felt around until she found it and snapped the bulb on.
“You’d better have these as well.” Sachin rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a small tin. He flipped the lid to reveal 2 red capsules.
“What are they?”
“You need to sleep.”
Tess shook her head. “I need to find out what went wrong.”
“You’ll go crazy in the hole if you don’t sleep. You know that. Just swallow them.”
Tess looked at the capsules.
“Pray, then sleep. I’ll try to make contact with Revelation.” He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so reluctantly Tess did as she was told. Then Sachin closed the steel trapdoor and locked it.
Tess heard the sofa being dragged back into position above her and wondered how long she was going to be down here.
She looked around the tiny cell – no windows, no furniture, just the torch, the mattress and a small grille that let fresh air in through a pipe in the wall. Nothing had changed since the stem-cell engineer had been held here until his ransom was paid. Except that Tess had been on the other side of the trapdoor then, guarding him, making sure he was fed and washed.
Now she was in the hole.
Even so, for the first time since the explosion, Tess felt safe. Maybe if she never left the hole, she’d never have to face what she’d done. But in the darkness she could feel the rhythmic thump, thump of the pile drivers outside; soon this building would be consumed as well. She couldn’t stay hidden for ever.
Slowly her limbs started to feel heavy as the sedatives kicked in. Tess curled up and closed her eyes.
7
Numb with shock, Cillian finally gave in to the paramedics’ demands. Strangers’ hands took control, placed him on a stretcher and wheeled him across the station concourse towards what looked like a medical imaging truck.
He didn’t struggle.
He didn’t question.
He didn’t say anything at all. Now he was just another victim.
As he was wheeled past the growing line of body bags on the pavement, Cillian saw that the medics had given way to heavily armed Special Ops teams. That meant it was a terror attack rather than an accident. Not that it made any difference to the people he’d been sitting next to in the carriage.
Inside the truck, the scanner powered up and its deep hum blocked out the sounds of crisis and emergency. Now all Cillian could feel was emptiness inside.
As the mechanical arm danced around him, he studied the nurses’ faces. In the reflections on their glasses, he saw colourful real-time images from inside his own body unfolding on the display screens.
But the more they scanned, hunting for internal injuries, the more puzzled the nurses became. Cillian saw their glances flick anxiously across the screens as if they were struggling to make sense of the body-maps, then he heard someone pick up the phone and call for a doctor.
They’d obviously found something wrong. Deeply wrong; maybe some kind of brain injury. It was the only thing that could explain the terrifying strangeness of the crash: the violence unfolding in slow motion, his freakish ability to outmanoeuvre the carnage as if he’d somehow been ripped out of normal time, the inexplicable strength that had let him twist aside the steel chassis to free his father.
Cillian held up his hands and gazed at them as if they were something alien. An hour ago it had just been a normal Wednesday morning; he’d understood how the world worked. Now nothing made sense.
Not even his own father.
Gilgamesh. The word hung darkly in his head.
What did it mean?
Desperately hunting for a clue, Cillian’s mind started speeding back over the life they’d shared: places they’d been to, things they’d talked about, books they’d read, movies they’d seen.
Gilgamesh … Gilgamesh…
But his mind kept drawing blanks.
The word meant nothing to Cillian. Why had it meant so much to his father that he’d used his dying breath to utter it?
“Do you know what’s happened?”
The nurse’s abrupt voice cut across his thoughts. Before Cillian could answer, she shone a torch into his eyes, making him wince.
“Yes,” he said, trying to turn aside.
The nurse studied his face intently. “You’ve been in an accident—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I know.”
The nurse looked at him strangely, then whispered to her colleague, “He’s still in shock.”
Cillian glanced to his right and saw his reflection in yet another screen. He looked so relaxed, as if lying here was the most natural thing in the world.
Why was he so calm?
Why wasn’t he in pieces, sobbing inconsolably?
What the hell was wrong with him?
8
For a few precious moments after she woke, Tess felt a deep sense of peace. Her eyes focussed on a tiny speckle of sunlight that had dodged through the ventilation grille, and she watched for a few moments as it fluttered on the wall.
Then with a jolt she remembered, and heaviness overwhelmed her again. From now on, her world would always be stained with a bloodshed that would never wash clean.
She heard the sofa scrape across the floor above, and braced herself. A few seconds later the trapdoor swung open and a dark shadow loomed over her.
“You OK?”
It took a few frightening seconds to recognize him.
“Blackwood?”
As the figure crouched down and stretched out a hand, light from the lounge spilled across his face. Blackwood was muscular, with a soft, neat beard. He looked young, but he had the certainty of someone much older, and his brown eyes exuded reassurance.
“Come on.” His strong grip lifted her up into the room.
“What went wrong?” Tess demanded.
“You have to stay calm.”
“Tell me! What went wrong?”
“Tess, you’re angry and upset. I get that—”
“You have no idea what I’m feeling! Do you know how many people died today?”
But Blackwood wouldn’t be drawn. “We’re all so proud of what you’ve done—”
“How can you be proud of murder?” She couldn’t hide the disgust in her voice. “Tell me!”
“The people who died today had no respect for what’s sacred. You need to understand—”
Maladapted Page 2
