by Glynn James
Necessary Measures
Now…
Governor Jackson clung to the control panel, steadying himself as he tried to slow his breathing, staring at the open doorway just a few feet away. He should close it, he knew, but he was terrified that if he let go of the panel he would be pulled out of the door into the tunnel and be smashed against the wall that was rushing past at a speed that was dizzying.
He looked down at his hands and saw that they were nearly white; his grip was so strong on the metal that the lack of circulation was making his fingers numb and his hands throb.
With one deep breath, he braved letting go of the side of the panel and reached up.
I must be far enough away by now, he thought. Must be. And the bomb must have gone off by now, surely. But there had been no indication of it in the tunnel. No tremor that he had felt or rush of hot wind.
But then there wouldn’t be, would there? The Maintenance Trans that he was in was rocketing along at such a speed that a gush of wind would be trivial, and many times over the last few minutes he had thought the damn thing would jump off the rail with all the banging and rocking it was doing.
It wasn’t meant to be used at such a speed. It was for scouring the track slowly, looking for repairs that needed to be made. He remembered, then, as he reached up to the speed control throttle, grasped it tightly, and pulled it slowly back toward him. There were dozens of pull ins along the tunnel, one every thirty or forty miles along the thousands of miles of tunnel that led all the way from the Inner Zone to the Junklands. The maintenance crew had two more of these things, one going in each direction, and they would do a stretch of track each day, taking weeks to cross the entire length of the tunnel.
Weeks in this damn tunnel, he thought. No. He could never do that. All this darkness and dank air. It was stifling. But somewhere along the track were the other Maintenance Trans, one heading in his direction and the other away, their occupants used to spending most of their lives down here in the dark, sleeping at the pull ins.
Had he passed one of the stops already? he wondered. No, not yet. But he must be close. He had to get there, had to get off the Trans and somehow contact the people in the Inner Zone. They would send a proper Trans to pick him up. One where he could sit in relative comfort and drink coffee, maybe even eat something.
The maintenance vehicle slowed, but he didn’t stop it. He hadn’t gone far enough, he thought. The bomb may or may not have gone off; he hadn’t been able to judge the passing of time since his terrifying escape.
So, close. It had been so close.
But it was not a worry now. Only the darkness of the tunnel was a worry. As the Trans slowed to almost walking pace, he felt a shudder. He was looking at the wall of the tunnel, just a few feet away, and the concrete floor underneath the rail. There was graffiti on the walls, written by who knew who. Someone down here.
Jackson quickly reached for the open door and pulled it shut. He grabbed the throttle again and sped the Trans up so that it was travelling much faster than a man could run, too fast for anyone to jump aboard.
It was a shame that Rogen had not made it, he thought. Such a shame. He had treated the man badly, most of the time, but he still had a fondness for him. The scrawny thing was like a rodent, but he was his rodent, his to command. He should have been able to travel with him to the New World.
I would have liked to have someone to boss about in the New World.
But that was in the past now, and couldn’t be helped. Rogen would die with the rest of them, when the bomb went off, and maybe that was a good thing. No one would remain alive to tell anyone anything.
It was another hour before he saw the light ahead, and he knew he hadn’t noticed it for a minute or so. The small speck in the distance slowly grew bigger and bigger, and it was only a few hundred yards away when he saw it.
The stop off. It must be.
He grabbed the throttle once more and patted his belt where the hold out gun was holstered, checking it was still there, before slowing the Trans to jogging speed.
A small turn off on the track lay head, but he couldn’t see how he was supposed to move the Trans onto it, so brought the vehicle to a stop a dozen feet before it and climbed out onto the thin path that led along the side of the tunnel. A large glass panel ran along the wall, and Jackson thought he could see a faint light behind it – a room, maybe? The maintenance drivers had to stay somewhere that wasn’t on the track. There had to be rooms back there.
He reached the end of the small jetty of track and found a slightly ajar door in the wall with light shining out of it. Inside was just one single small room with a bed, a cabinet, a toilet in one corner, and the thing he had hoped for – a comms station. But what of the Maintenance Trans? There had to be some way to switch the track.
He turned back and cursed himself for being stupid. It was on the wall next to the door. He’d walked right past the small switch and lever. He flicked the switch and heard a distant humming. The lights in the room brightened. He frowned and pushed the lever and was relieved to hear a grating sound outside. Peering through the window, he could see that the jetty rail had now moved to intersect the main rail.
Excellent, he thought. Problem solved. I’ll move it in a moment.
First, he needed to speak to someone.
“Hello?” he called into the stubby microphone on the comms desk.
No response.
He looked around at the few controls and noticed a green button. He pressed it and called again. “Hello?”
Twenty seconds passed, and he was about to curse when a voice came back. “Maintenance Control, here.” said a deep male voice. “Is there a problem?”
“This is Governor Jackson speaking. I am in one of the maintenance stop offs and need to urgently be put through to Internal Security.”
“Um, did you say governor?” asked the voice.
“Yes, I am governor of the NE7 Resource Recycling Facility and the Junklands operations. Hurry, this is important.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” replied the voice.
A few seconds later a different voice came back. “Governor Jackson, please respond.”
Jackson coughed to clear his throat. He would shut the door soon and make himself more comfortable in the stop off room while he waited, but with the door open, the air was filling his lungs with dust.
“This is Jackson speaking.”
“Sir, that’s a relief. This is Major Callister of the Security Corps. Our monitors just reported something disturbing and we were unable to contact you at the facility. The readout suggests there has been a major explosion of some kind near the Recycling Facility. Can you confirm?”
“Yes, I can confirm,” said Jackson. “Something terrible has happened, and I only just managed to escape myself. Unfortunately, I was alone. You say the detonation was near the facility. What can your readouts tell you, officer?”
“Erm…just a moment. I’m pulling up the reading, now.” said the voice. “There. Wide radius, high resonance wave, actually 5km radius, measuring at 8.5. That’s very high. Right in the middle of the facility. Suggests some kind of high yield explosive. All comms are down at the facility. What happened, sir?”
Jackson sighed. It had worked. He didn’t want the man on comms to hear it in his voice, but Jackson smiled. Every damn one of them and every damn thing. Blown away. Gone. He looked over at the row of cases near the door and grinned.
“That’s quite a long story,” said Jackson, “but let’s just say that a large explosion was set off; the facility was being overrun by savages and I was forced to stop them from taking over. If you could arrange for me to be picked up, I will provide a detailed report when I am back within the safety of the Inner Zone. I fear that it is quite dangerous where I am now.”
Deal with it
Two Weeks Later…
The figure moved along the dimly-lit street, keeping to the middle, away from the shop fronts and alleyways. Even at night the place was bustlin
g with life. The voices of shop owners haggling with customers over a price at their counters and the low hum of a multitude of discussions taking place in the shadows of the alleys and doorways built up to a constant din.
The buildings rose as high as four floors in most places, and even though it was not quite dark in the sky, the street below would have been in total darkness if not for the chain of lamps that hung from every other building, joined together with a long chain of wires that zigzagged across the rooftops.
This wasn’t downtown in the Inner Zone, where the shops occupied spots along marble pavements and sported massive, spotless glass panels at their fronts. There were no suited, perfectly presented assistants waiting to satisfy the whims of potential customers.
The Warrens was an embarrassment to the establishment, and most who lived in the Inner Zone didn’t frequent the alleyways and passages that seemed to follow no discernible pattern. But not everyone in the Inner Zone was rich. Even inside the barrier wall there was a lower class that survived purely on others’ need for things that couldn’t be purchased in the pristine shopping malls.
Jackson ducked under an overhang in front of a shop selling some form of food on a stick. He caught a whiff of whatever meat it was as he went by, and cringed. He would rather have met someplace more tasteful, like a café on the riverbank. Enough of them were quiet enough to conduct business in without being scrutinised. But it seemed that this was necessary to the man whom he was to meet.
He stopped at a junction, where the main street met a wider alleyway, and glanced first left, then right, before taking a scrap of paper from his coat pocket and peering at it. He frowned, looked over several of the signs that stuck out of the walls and pointed in various directions, and then he blinked in recognition. A sign quite a distance along the left alleyway was what he was looking for. Though, he thought with some disgruntlement, the note had said it was only around the corner.
He didn’t like the look of the alley – didn’t like the numerous dark places where some buildings jutted out in front of others, or where there was an access path to the back of the building. A dozen such uncertain spots lined the alley before he would reach the sign.
Necessary, he thought. It would be worth it.
But still, as he took a step into the alleyway, he stuffed the note back in his pocket and kept his hand in there, leaving the note loose but taking a firm grasp of the handgun he still possessed.
They had not even checked him when they picked him up. They hadn’t even questioned the cases he carried.
He walked down the alleyway, trying to ignore the movement he saw inside at least two of the darkened alcoves, shrugging off the group of figures down a side alleyway, and finally reached the building he had been looking for. He knocked quickly, four times. He waited for a few seconds and then knocked just once more, slightly louder, exactly as he had been told to.
Then he waited.
After what seemed a lifetime of standing in the alleyway, where he most definitely did not want to be, the door opposite the shop front opened and a man dressed in a well-tailored suit stepped into the alleyway. He was taller than Jackson by six inches, and he was much thinner, even though Jackson had lost a significant amount of weight over the last few weeks. He was also much older, maybe sixty or more, with long grey hair tied back into a topknot and a short, perfectly trimmed beard that seemed almost silver in colour.
“Mr Jackson?” asked the man, giving Jackson a nod.
“Erm…yes,” said Jackson.
“Come, please,” said the man.
Jackson followed the stranger through the door into a small room furnished with just a table and two chairs. He sat where the man indicated and laid the case on the table.
“Show me,” said the man.
Jackson coughed quietly and started to open the case. “I must say, coming to this place makes me very uncomfortable,” he said.
The man simply nodded and looked back at the case.
Jackson opened it and turned it to face the man in the suit. He seemed to consider the contents of the case – which Jackson had intentionally kept to just a small sample of what he had brought with him from the facility – for a long time.
But then the man smiled and nodded. “This is excellent,” he said. “And you have much more of this?”
“Yes,” said Jackson. A hundred times more, at least. This is just a small sample of what I was able to collect during my time at NE7. I assure you it is the best that can be found, considering it has been over five hundred years since anyone has manufactured it.”
“Indeed,” said the man. “I can see as much.”
Silence fell between them for a moment.
“Do you think we will be able to make a deal?” asked Jackson. “I would like to offload all that I have, and I need to do it within a week. I am due on the next HyperTrans, you see, and I do not wish to miss that opportunity. Do you think you can find a buyer before then?”
“Yes.” The man nodded. “Absolutely. I can get you an excellent price this very day.”
What Comes Next
A Week Later…
Governor Brannigan scratched his head and frowned at the screen, watching the flicker of alerts coming in. This was not turning out to be one of his best mornings. Usually the list was marked mostly with grey – non-urgent requests for a response from some administration department or other – or yellow messages, which were usually of a more urgent nature and required a quick response. But they could wait an hour or two if he was particularly in need of a coffee.
The list this morning, as it had been for almost a week, was riddled with bold, glaring red entries that seemed to be breeding. As soon as he opened one, shook his head in disbelief and pondered how to handle such a situation, another red message seemed to be born.
And it was such a lovely day outside; something unusual and welcoming. He could have left a flood of grey and yellow and gone for a wander, visiting various nearby departments personally – just to increase morale, of course.
Not today, it seemed. Just like the last six.
Jackson. It had all started with the rescue of the operations governor of the NE7 Resource Recycling Facility, and it then proceeded into unknown territory and grew to be an absolute nightmare. Each day he hoped the red messages would be gone, but there seemed to be more than ever.
Blown to dust. The entire facility, or so the initial reports had said. No other outcome possible. A bomb that was the last resort, a fail-safe so that the facility never fell into the hands of someone else, not supposed to be used unless all else had failed, had been triggered.
His supply of raw materials for building the Ark ships had been cut off, just like that.
Brannigan minimised the messaging program on the computer and opened his operations inventory. He quickly scanned over the levels of raw materials and electronics in stock. Same as yesterday, there was not enough to even complete half of the next Ark ship. Not that it was much of a surprise. Without shipments from the Junklands the inventory was unlikely to change. And it was already under construction, sitting in orbit right next to the one that was ready to launch. Just a hollow shell. And now it may never be completed.
A shiver ran up his spine. Maybe he should get on this one? He was overdue by four or five now. If things were about to go badly with the supply line, that Ark ship in orbit may well be the last. The thought unnerved him. He could get a ticket easily enough. They kept back a few statesman cabins just in case of emergencies.
He shook his head and flipped the screen back to the messages.
No. This must be dealt with. Another expedition was needed. At the very least they would need to re-establish communications with the other, smaller facilities out in the Junklands. There were a dozen other small factories and power plants outside of the main one that would still be manned.
And where the hell was the first expedition? There had been no communication back from them in days.
Brannigan slammed his fi
st on the table. They couldn’t use the main Trans. The area would be contaminated well beyond safe occupation levels for years. A whole new length of tunnel would need to be built, taking the Trans around the red site and out to another location, then a new facility
It could take years.
As Brannigan put his head in his hands, about ready to rip his own hair out, he noticed a small blinking box in the corner of the messages screen.
A call. Right now. Someone wanted to talk to him, right at the time when he really wasn’t in the mood for any human contact.
He sighed, hovering the cursor over the box, and read the title that popped up.
Incoming. Communications Corps. Urgent.
The Comms Corps? What hell did they want?
He clicked the button and rubbed his eyes as the picture of the operator appeared in the middle of the terminal.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Ah. Governor Brannigan. Sorry to interrupt you. I’m sure you are very busy at the moment.”
“Yes. I am. I hope this is important.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Major Elkand of the Comms Corp, and I’ve got an incoming conference request for you.”
Brannigan frowned. “What? From whom? Which department? And why come through your office?”
The comms officer paused, looking puzzled. “Well, that’s the confusing part, sir. And I apologise again. The call isn’t from within the Zone, sir. It’s from outside. A long way outside.”
“What do you mean?” Brannigan asked. “Spit it out, officer. I am in no mood for suspense.”
“The call is from the NE7 Facility, sir,” The comms officer said. “They said they wanted to talk to you personally and no one else.”
