Star Binder

by Robert Appleton

  “Jiminy, how are you going to get us to Ingol? I thought you said the others like you were hostile, that you were afraid of them.”

  I shift the O2 canister to my other arm. It weighs a ton. Jiminy's message appears quickly: WE MUST TRY TO CONVINCE OTHERS LIKE US THAT JAMES TRILLION IS IMPORTANT LIKE INGOL — THIS WAS THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE BOTH JAMES TRILLION AND INGOL

  It sounds cold on the surface, like all Jiminy's messages. But I can sense there's powerful meaning behind the words. Jiminy's risked everything to rescue his beloved Ingol. He's searched for years, travelled untold light-years, to find me and bring me back here. The other nanobugs might be determined to keep her imprisoned, to feed off her dreams until she stops dreaming, but Jiminy has decided that's wrong. Somehow, he's figured out what they've been unable to: that every life-form has the right to be free, that Ingol needs to be free.

  Jiminy and his friends have left the safety of the Binder in order to make that happen. They've risked their own destruction. And while they might not have emotions like ours, in their own way they're every bit as brave as the seven of us.

  Whatever happens, I'm proud to be a part of this joint rescue mission.

  “Jim, ask him if the Finaglers are onto us yet?” says Thorpe-Campbell. I relay the message.

  NOT YET BUT WE ONLY HAVE SECONDS — THE FINALGERS HAVE SENT TWO MESSAGES AND HAVE RECEIVED NO REPLY

  “Then we need to speed up,” says Sergei, nudging me with his shoulder. The big guy sounds out of breath, and no wonder, toting two canisters like that.

  “We're still a long ways from the crater,” the O'see points out. “You guys need to lighten your loads. Drop all those canisters and hustle!”

  We do as she says. It's torture, moving at more than a walk in this gravity, but we're all extremely well-conditioned buggos. Even clambering uphill doesn't beat us. Sliding down the other side gives us a morale boost every time.

  I catch a brilliant flash in the corner of my eye. Spin in time to see another fat oily twister hurtle up and out of the horizon behind us. It lights up the distant shape of a Finagler craft resting on the sea of shells a long way from the flash. The rumble of thunder arrives moments later, but it doesn't stagger us this time. I think the nanobug shield bears the brunt of the shock wave. For a split-second it's visible, a smooth, curved wall of dull brown fragments about ten feet high to our left. It starts to crumble. Tiny holes grow to the size of footballs. Then, in a blink, the wall reconstitutes itself, flickers, and becomes invisible again.

  Jiminy picks himself up from the ground and continues lighting the way ahead.

  It should be a relief. But seeing them vulnerable like that swells a gnawing fear inside me. They can be stunned by the Finaglers' weapons. By electromagnetic pulses. Which means they can't protect us once the shooting starts.

  As we climb, the tips of skyscrapers ahead tell us we're about to enter one of my mum's dreams. Her New York City dream. A big, sprawling dreamscape straight from Earth itself. I think they call it the island of Manhattan, where most of the famous landmarks can be found. Summitting the rim of the crater, I can already make out the Chrysler Building, Pacintic Tower, the Empire State Building, and of course Central Park. Amazing, to think it can all rise and fall in moments.

  How long will her dream last this time, once our nightmare arrives?

  “Where are we making for?” I address Jiminy. “Where are they keeping my mum—I mean Ingol?”

  IN THE GREAT CAVE WHERE ALL DREAMS ARE BORN — JAMES TRILLION MUST HURRY

  “How do I make contact once I'm there?”

  He flies down the steep slope so quickly, I can't risk falling behind, so I slide down after him before I have chance to read his reply. The others follow me at once. At the bottom, I wipe the dust off the digitab screen.

  WE MUST PERSUADE THE OTHERS LIKE US THAT INGOL AND JAMES TRILLION ARE SIMILAR — THAT INGOL WILL NOT SURVIVE WITHOUT JAMES TRILLION

  I don't dare ask him what happens if we can't persuade them. Right now I don't know which is worse: what we're running from or what we're running to. But Jiminy's guided me this far. I have to believe he can get through to them somehow. Who knows, once they scan me, see that I have the same DNA, some of the same neural make-up, maybe even some of the same memories—whatever it is they're addicted to—they'll loosen their stranglehold on her.

  Or maybe they'll just keep me imprisoned too, dreaming alongside her forever.

  All I know is I'm within shouting distance of her. The woman who gave me life. And if I can just reach her, I can give that life back to her. I can bring her back. I can bring her back.

  “We need to split up,” the O'see says between gasps. “Create a diversion. If we stay together they'll take us all out with one shot. In groups, we can hide, pick them off, confuse them.”

  “Okay, who goes with who?” asks Thorpe-Campbell, picking his daughter up after her fall. “Maybe I should stick with—”

  “Two runners to draw them wide,” says Lohengrin, steady and decisive, just like he was as the best conch gamemaster in the Hex. “That's Rachel and Mr Thorpe-Campbell. You two need to be the last to leave, to give the rest of us time to disappear. As soon as you spot the Finaglers, sprint as fast as you can in different directions around Central Park. Lead as many of them away from us as you can. I know it's a long way but you're the fittest two by far. You can outrun them. And you'll be armed.”

  He turns to Hendron. “O'see, I need you and Lyssa to use the thruster rigs to reach elevated positions up there, along the rooftops on that street. One on either side.” He points to a levway ramp in the next street over to our left. It's closed to traffic, for maintenance, but we can get onto it. The road rises umpteen floors in a short distance. A steep incline. But there are access steps on one side. “Any Finaglers that try to follow us up that ramp, pick them off,” he tells the O'see. “You two are excellent shots. If any get past you, follow us, cover our progress. That leaves Jim, Sergei and me to make the straight run to the cave. Sergei will have the last weapon, Jim and I will go unarmed. If everything goes well, we'll all meet up just outside the cave at the far side of the levway. The rest, I guess, is up to Jiminy.”

  I wait for one of the teachers to pat him on the back, to give him some gesture of approval, but there's no time. The cascade of shells behind us, high above us, is drawing near. It sounds like a tide dragging the surface of the planet. The Finaglers are coming.

  “This is it then. Be careful, guys,” says Thorpe-Campbell, bumping fists with Rachel, his running mate, before they set off for the park, where they'll split up. “Don't try to be heroes.” That one's aimed at Sergei, who throws him a cheeky salute. And lastly, to his daughter: “Aim small, miss small, sweetheart. Just like I showed you.”

  “Just like I showed you, Dad,” she shouts after him, forgetting we're all sharing the same comm channel. It deafens us. “Don't stop for a coffee!”

  The O'see hands her a thruster rig, helps her into it. With her own secure, she says to the rest of us, “Keep that heading but don't stay to a straight line. Weave gently as you go, side to side so it's a little unpredictable. We'll bottle the bastards at the ramp. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, O'see. Later, Lys.”

  And with that they're up and away, and we're off. Jiminy's going ballistic up ahead. He seems to have understood Lohengrin's plan because he's waiting at the correct turn-off, but I'm not sure waiting is the right word. Bugging out is more like it. If I don't get there soon he's going to be travelling through time with the speed of his zig-zagging.

  “Think of all the skimming we could have done in this place.” Sergei Balakirev, patron saint of capitalists everywhere.

  “Yeah. What happened to that thing, anyway?” I ask him.

  “The skimmer? I've got it right here.” He pats his thigh. “Don't look so surprised. Wherever we end up, we're gonna need some extra spending money, right?”

  “Jesus, Sergei,” says Lohengrin, leading us up the access steps to the levwa
y. “Don't you want to make a fresh start? Turn over a new leaf?”

  The Minsk Machine scoffs. “Sure. Right after I settle scores with the old leaf. That bitch still owes me big time.”

  “It's no use arguing with him,” I tell Lohengrin. “He'll still be skimming from inside his coffin at his own funeral. You buy a drink at his wake, you'd best believe he'll tax it and find a way to take those skimmings with him. The derelict.”

  The prince snickers.

  “Hey, less of this funeral talk, unless you want an impromptu one,” says Sergei, scanning the smooth copper levway behind us as we jog. I try to figure out where Lys and the O'see might be, high up there on the roofs, rifles trained on the street entrance. Will Rachel and Thorpe-Campbell have set off yet? Will the Finaglers figure out Lohengrin's plan? How long will it take us to jog to the cave? My leg muscles and my back are aching so much I can barely keep an upright posture.

  If only we had sand bikes. If only we had the rover. If only Mum hadn't insisted on playing Sally Spacehopper all those years ago when she had a family to take care of. Would things have turned out differently if she'd stayed? Would I?

  There are so many things I want to ask her. The immense shadow of the cave looms like a gateway to another part of space, separate from New York and the sea of shells and even this planet. It could swallow everything up if it wanted. It feels like an origin—the origin of all things. The end of my journey lies inside that cave. The only thing I need to do to reach it is what I've been doing for the last eight years.

  Run. Run and don't look back.

  Even when you're tired, you can always keep moving forward if you're fleeing for your life. It's instinct. Survival. But try not looking behind you when there's a vicious alien army tearing up a city trying to find you!

  The first blasts shake the ground and send ripples that wobble the buildings on either side. It reminds me that this whole place is a simulation, a temporary construct that could fly apart at any moment. How much damage will it sustain before the nanobug brains behind it decide to pull the plug and fight back? A little more, I hope. But not too much. Just enough to see us safely to the cave entrance.

  A few rapid bursts of quicksilver light streak past us on our left. I turn in time to see two, now three Finaglers get blown off the levway by powerful shots from above. Another attempts to climb a fire escape ladder but doesn't get far. Shots rain down on it, and it falls screeching. Lys and the O'see aren't messing around. But the quicksilver streaks keep on coming. Two fly past my right shoulder, rising as they go up the street and then falling well before the cave in this higher-than-usual gravity. Several more miss us but not by much.

  “Remember, don't move in a straight line,” Lohengrin reminds us. “Weave from side to side. It's harder to hit a moving target.”

  We follow his lead for the next few minutes. The arcs are gradual, but they seem predictable to me. I thought the whole point was to make our run unpredictable. Anyone watching would be able to tell exactly when we're going to—

  Agh!

  Something sharp and hot rips into my right leg. It undermines whatever was keeping me upright for so long in 1.6 gravity. I collapse onto the digitab. It smashes under my weight and the pieces spill over the edge of the levway. A sickening hiss of air pressure escaping through the tear in my suit leaves me nauseous. That and the pain. It bites, swells, gouges deep. I feel it all over and don't know how to escape it.

  Strong arms cradle me from behind. My wound feels icy all of a sudden. As I look down, skilful gloved hands squeeze the two halves of suit fabric over the breach and apply some sort of sealant—a spray that solidifies instantly, gluing the hole shut.

  “You can't walk on that leg anymore.” The glass of Lohengrin's visor scrapes against mine. “Jim, can you hear me?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “Sergei and I are going to have to support you, okay? Your leg's bleeding. I've covered the wound and the hole with sealant but the bleeding might not stop. You can't put any more pressure on it.”

  “Wait. I think I can manage. Help me up, Sergei.”

  He does. I take a cautious step on my wounded leg. The pain spears up into my side and I topple sideways. They both catch me.

  “Forget that!” Sergei yanks me upright and crouches with his back to me. “Get on, Jim,” he says, handing Lohengrin his weapon. “It's the only way we'll get there.”

  But try as I might, I can't climb onto his back and hold a position that doesn't knock me sick with pain. His oxygen rig is the problem. It bulges so that it's right in my face, and I have to arch my own back to cling on. That means Sergei has to hang on tight to my legs or I'll slide off. Christ, that hurts!

  By now a steady bombardment of the upper floors is underway at the end of the street behind us. Chunks of buildings fly apart and then evaporate into black dust. The odd zip of return fire relieves me a little, but it's obvious the women can't hold out much longer.

  Quicksilver streaks start to flash by us at frequent intervals. Some way off target. Others too close for comfort. Searching. Odd that they haven't been able to pinpoint us by now. Then one smashes into smithereens no more than a metre away—one that should have hit us!

  It takes me a few seconds to realise what's happened.

  The nanobug shield. It's followed us all this way, or at least a smaller version of it has. It's been protecting us as best it can, camouflaging our retreat. And we didn't even know it was there!

  But it's just taken a big hit. The smithereens are actually the nanobugs falling away onto the levway. They darken as they fall. Then they seem to compact into hundreds of tiny shells, just like those that cover most of this region of the planet.

  So the sea of shells is actually a sea of dead nanobugs?

  No time to worry about that. We're still a long way off the cave, and right now the best I can do is hop, with support from Sergei and Lohengrin. It's slow, agonizing. But at least we're moving and...

  ...moving?

  Our feet are no longer on the ground. The three of us tip forward till we're almost horizontal. Somehow, we're floating a few feet above the levway. Moving. Always moving. At various points underneath me I can feel gentle points of pressure pushing me up, keeping me afloat. The pain in my leg throbs but no longer jabs pain.

  I glance across at Sergei and see the dragonflies whisking him along on their backs. Dozens. Hundreds of them. Blazing as many brilliant colours, some I've never seen before. Their wings don't move. They fly with a propulsion I can only imagine, harnessing a strength I can't. Their loyal colleagues, maintaining the invisible shield behind us, continue to repel enemy fire at great cost to themselves. The levway is littered with the shells of dead nanobugs.

  Through it all, Jiminy leads the way, a general marshalling his rebels on what has to be the strangest rescue mission ever attempted on any world. We're getting closer now. Enemy fire hits its target again and again, weakening and shrinking the nanobug shield behind us. How many more hits until it's gone altogether? Until we're totally exposed?

  The shadow of the cave envelopes us and the edge of the city like a giant mouth ready to snap shut. Its upper jaw, the cusp of the petrified wave, is all the more monstrous because it's so still. There doesn't appear to be anything holding it open, holding it up like that. It could crush us at any time.

  A shock from the rear wobbles our flight. The dragonflies slow, then set us down on the levway. Then they stream together in a rushing kaleidoscope of colours to replenish the spent shield keeping us alive. Shot after shot smashes into them, staggers them back, but they hold firm.

  “What are we waiting for, guys?” I struggle onto one leg and start limping the final stretch of the levway. The next access ramp isn't far now. Maybe half the length of a football pitch. Lohengrin offers me his shoulder as a crutch. Sergei, furious, fires off blind shots down the street, careful not to hit the brave nanobugs. Then he helps me too.

  “Glad you could join us, boys.”

  I know
that voice. I'd die for that voice. As the levway ramps down to street level, two suited figures wave up at us from the bottom. My vision's a little blurred but I know it's Rachel. Sweet, deadly Rachel. An image of her climbing out of the pool in her black swimsuit and really ugly swimming hat is like something from another life. That long white hair and those even longer white legs might be my favourite things from that life. Along with Sergei and his sand bikes. And a million other memories of me and the Minsk Machine.

  I'm so tired I can barely see straight. So cold I can't stop shivering.

  “Hey, Rachel. I-I knew you'd make it.”

  “Jim, what's happened? When did—you've been hit!”

  “Yeah, it kinda stings.” My strength slips. She bends to catch my fall, and I'm vaguely aware of being somewhere I'd have given anything to be in my old life. In her arms. The Lunar girl's. Maybe this should be where my journey ends.

  “He's lost a lot of blood,” I can hear someone say.

  “What now?” says another voice. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Into the cave!” That one is Sergei's. I'll bet his face is doing that scrunchy scowly Russian thing. I'd give anything to see it.

  “But Jiminy said we shouldn't go in there,” says Lohengrin.

  “I don't give a damn what he said,” shouts Sergei. “We're out of time. Look!”

  Nothing worries me more than when Sergei's worried. His voice becomes like a sharp edge. I swear it can cut through anything, whether it's three nights without sleep or delirium on death's door. I sit up in Rachel's arms, tell her we need to move. Nothing comes out except a hoary whisper.

  The levway blasts apart a few blocks away. Massive chunks smash into nearby buildings and instantly crumble into black shells and black mist that barely have chance to settle before—crack!—another blast eats up more of the levway. The Finagler bombs are working their way to us.

  Sergei and Thorpe-Campbell scoop me up in time to see an enemy projectile screech over our heads and dip into the shadow of the cave, where it explodes. Not far inside, but enough to ruin our chances of retreat. The explosion showers us with the shells of dead nanobugs. Many stick to our suits with their sharp hooks.