It starts as a shimmy. A tremor beneath our feet. Huge ripples course through the tall buildings, wavering them like fluid until the entire city wobbles, threatening to spill its terrible secret on top of us. But it doesn't spill. Instead, the far side of New York rears up and tears itself apart. It becomes the wall of a dark, rising hurricane. A furious swirling force. It eats its way toward us from the edges in, consuming everything in its path. The levway rolls up and disintegrates like a fiery tongue. All surviving Finaglers are swept up and torn to bits as though they were pieces of charred tissue. Even the blasts from their weapons are consumed. Before I can draw breath, the entire crater is whipped up and transformed into roaring ash.
The nanobugs are wreaking their vengeance. And we're next.
On all sides the colossal dark walls of the hurricane pile high above us. They blot out the suns. I instinctively pull Sergei and Rachel down with me and try to shield them from the end. The O'see and Thorpe-Campbell duck with us, holding tight. The weight of alien fury is too immense to face. Please end this quickly. Please make it painless.
It's totally black in here except for a pinprick of light I can see reflected in the glass of Sergei's visor. The last light I'll ever see. It's blue, like our glowsuits. I dare to glance up.
Jiminy.
There are the seething walls of the hurricane, about to collapse on top of us. And there's Jiminy, the tiniest-looking thing you'll ever see. A light so small under the immensity of their darkness he's practically infinitesimal. But he's holding them at bay. Somehow, the little guy's protecting us. Against all the others like him. Maybe he's the only rebel left. But he won't leave us. He won't leave Ingol. This is something he has to do, even if it destroys him.
The longer I watch, breathless, the brighter he shines. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen, and you know I've seen a lot.
Slowly, we kneel up beneath him. I motion for the others to drop their weapons. They obey. However Jiminy's communicating with the nanobugs, it's beyond us, but we can at least do our bit. Show them we mean them no harm. Ingol is one of us. They like her so much, maybe they can like us too.
I can sense them scanning me—a sixth sense born in the Binder perhaps. It's made me different, but in what ways I don't know. By now they must know I'm related to Ingol, to the mother of their dreams. Can they read my mind? If so, I'm going to try to think of her, of a memory we might share. There aren't many to choose from. I barely knew her before she left me for the stars.
“Guys?” Rachel's whisper feels like it could bring the whole black avalanche down on top of us. “I think it's opening up.” She gently shifts position, tilts me in the direction of the cave—or where I imagine the cave is. The hurricane has settled in that direction. It's now almost still, the dark particles only fidgeting. She points me to a vertical sliver of light about the size of a bow shaft. Beige. And green. Hints of other colours seep through as it widens, grows. Without warning it tears open the wall of the hurricane, revealing a tunnel into a bright room inside. Another simulation but more intricate, more intimate.
With the others' help, I struggle to my feet. This simulation is meant for me—I can feel it.
It’s a peek inside a large butterfly house. A steel walkway twenty metres off the ground stretches over an amazing scene of tropical trees and vines and waterfalls and steaming pools full of fish. Butterflies, moths, fireflies and dragonflies are everywhere. The pockets of hot mist leave me thirsty. Make me want to hold hands with whoever goes in with me, so I can feel safe. It’s not that I don’t like bugs, but there are so many, and we’re so high up, level with the upper branches of the highest trees. A rush of déjà vu goes straight to my head, blurs my vision.
I feel myself taking a step forward but I can’t stop it. I don’t know why. Sergei and Thorpe-Campbell have to hold me back. “Steady, Jim. What’s the matter?”
He is.
The ghostly figure of a little boy dressed in khaki shorts and a sweatshirt creeps out across the walkway in front of us. He’s holding hands with someone, but that someone isn’t there, isn’t visible. The boy crosses the bridge to the other side, then disappears into a doorway of pinkish light. He appears again on this side of the walkway, and repeats his walk, as though he’s on a loop.
I say ghostly because it might be the weirdest sensation I’ve ever had, and by now that’s saying something. The reason is simple—simple and inexplicable.
The boy is me. The three-year-old version of me.
This was the last day I ever spent with Mum.
Okay, so I might not have remembered anything about this day—her bedside photo in the pod didn’t ring any bells—but now that I’m experiencing it, retracing my own steps, all the sights and sounds and even the smells of the butterfly house flood back, as though no time has passed. Though she isn’t in the simulation, I’m holding hands with Mum. I’m certain of that. The two of us crossed this bridge alone because Nessie was too frightened to come up so high and Dad had to stay with her down on the ground.
So why isn’t Mum here?
“This is her memory. This is her dream.”
“Go on, Jim.” Thorpe-Campbell steadies my limp forward.
“This must be how she remembers it. That’s why she isn’t in it. But why are they showing it to us? Unless...” I recall one of Jiminy’s messages: JAMES TRILLION HAS SIMILAR STIMULI. “Guys, I think this is an invitation. I think they want me to go with them.”
“What? How do you know?” Sergei’s not about to let that happen.
“That boy is me. Look, they keep showing it over and over. It’s in a zoo somewhere on Mars, in a tropical butterfly house. That’s all I know. It’s the last day I spent with Mum.”
“It’s the zoo at Tharsis Rise,” explains Thorpe-Campbell. “A fairly big one. When you say invitation, Jim, what do you think they have in mind?”
“How’s he supposed to know that?” snaps Sergei.
I glance round at my friends, who all share the same worried look. “Guys, it's the only reason they haven't killed us. Jiminy's right here, speaking for us, for my mum. She's weakening and they know it. Maybe they're curious about what I can do for her, because I'm so similar. They crave stimulus, remember? They need her.”
“But what can you do to save her?” asks Sergei, eyeing his weapon on the ground.
“Brother, we have no choice. It's our only chance. You need to let me go.” I take a step away from him.
Sergei steps after me. “Stop talking stupid. We’ve still got weapons. We’ll blast our way out of this somehow.”
I shake my head at him, shuffle another step, then another. “You saw what happened to the Finaglers. I don't do this, we all get buried.”
“Thorpe-Campbell! Order him not to go,” yells Sergei. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Sergei, I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s the only way to save her...and all of you. It’s why Jiminy brought me here.”
“You’re talking crazy!”
“I know. Look after them for me till I get back, all right, big guy? I won’t be long.”
“Jim! Don’t!” He looks to the others for help, squeezes his gloves into fists when he sees they aren’t backing him up. “Right, that’s it, I’m going with you.”
I halt him from a distance with an outstretched hand. “Not this time, Sergei. They’ll kill you if you try. Me on my own, I might just make it. You know it’s the only way.”
“It’s not the only way. For God’s sake, why isn’t anyone stopping him?”
“Keep those sand bikes revved for me, okay? Soon as we get back to Alpha, we’ll kick up the dust, just you and me, ride for a whole year.”
He just stares at me, his sweaty face scrunched into that big Russian scowl I know so well. But it starts to quiver. His iron tension trembles, starts to buckle at the seams. I’ve never seen him look so wounded or so helpless, but at the same time I’ve never been prouder. He’s realised he has to let me go. He might be hard-wired as
my protector, but he’s thinking past us now. He’s thinking of Lys and Rachel and Lohengrin.
I glimpse Rachel on her knees, sobbing. Lohengrin and Thorpe-Campbell try their best to comfort her. I don’t know if I’m good at goodbyes or not because I’ve never had to say one before. I’d rather not start now. And anyway, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels more like...another assignment.
My final assignment before I graduate—to what, I don’t know.
The tops of the black walls threaten with a teetering overhang, set to collapse on my friends if I fail. The nanobugs might be curious about me, but they don't trust me.
Jiminy floats into the tunnel, waits there for me.
The wrench in my heart as I turn away from Sergei is like it was when I watched him speed away across the desert on his sand bike. Sure, I’m afraid, but if anything I’m more afraid for him this time. I know how much he’d blame himself if anything happened to me. He’d say he could have stopped me, that it was all his fault. The only thing I can do to prevent that is to not fail.
A voice catches me on the turn. It’s Thorpe-Campbell’s: “Jim, what would a skivvy say if you're in trouble?”
I smile back. “Use your head.”
“Don't forget it.”
“I won't, sir.”
“Go find her, son. Bring her back.”
I step off the ellipse, onto the walkway. The sides of the tunnel flick together behind me like a blinking eyelid, stranding me in the past.
CHAPTER 27
Dreaming of Dragonflies
Here's the thing about dreams: they’re only as real as they need to be to keep you in the illusion. When dreaming, the mind doesn’t have a very good reality filter, so dreams can get away with all kinds of fuzzy physics, time-jumping, sketchy details, impossible wish fulfilment. What this means when the nanobugs try to copy my mum’s dreams is a “reality” that’s equally fuzzy, equally sketchy. I saw this in New York. From a distance objects look great, photo-real. But closer to I can tell they’re only guesses at what Mum visualized in her dream. For instance, the tree bark here has no wrinkles, no roughness. The moths and dragonflies have no tiny hairs, no grotesque features. The metal walkway has no scuff-marks, no ageing. Everything’s spotless, like a Walt Disney cartoon. When you dig into the illusion it’s almost disappointing. And that’s because dreams are lazy when it comes to detail. They’re only as real as they need to be. For the nanobugs, Mum’s dreams are the only reference for the reality of the butterfly house, New York, or anything else they’ve simulated for us.
They don’t know the difference.
Without sound, without Mum, and with the Disney effect, this place is cold, artificial. The magic quickly fades. By the time I pass through the door of pink light, I’m on top of this illusion.
On the other side is the spot near the brown bear enclosure, where Mum took that photo I found at her bedside in the pod. Again, it’s an ingenious attempt at making it seem lifelike. The passers-by, the cotton candy, the blades of grass, Nessie, Dad, even me—the three-year-old version of me. If I was observing all this from a distance I’d be beyond impressed. It is that day, except...it is not real. Real is infinitely better. If only the nanobugs could understand that, maybe they'd let Mum wake up, let her show them the wonders of the universe first-hand.
The bright daylight fades and the zoo disappears. In its place the dark, fidgety walls of another tunnel. Jiminy leads the way as ever, shining as brilliantly as ever. His light reflects off a glassy surface not far ahead. It's curved like a sphere, and appears to be suspended in midair. The surface is not flat smooth; it's fluid, see-through. A giant water droplet held in place by eight claw-like devices that produce a shimmering, oily haze.
There's a figure inside the sphere. She's suspended too, completely at rest, adrift. I can't make her out clearly because the surface wavers a little, shivers here and there, as though mimicking her vital signs.
Mum's now so close I can almost feel her heartbeat. But it's no use. I've ignored my seeping leg wound for too long. It's literally sapped the life out of me, the strength to finish this journey. I go woozy. Like I did entering the Binder. As though my brain’s unspooling to one side, spilling out of my ear. I wheel with it, and my legs can no longer steady me.
Then the sphere isn't there. And neither is Jiminy. On my knees, I glance all around and realise I'm lost. Well and truly lost. My first thought is the nanobugs have tricked me and this is where they'll be keeping me from now on.
It’s dark, close to total. There are steps, lots of steps. It has the spooky feel of the stairwell in my old home at Bowman's Reach, when the wonky light-strip used to zonk out, leaving me to shuffle up or down on my butt. It used to terrify me because there were no windows and no other lights. I had to feel my way like an insect. There was just up, down, or nowhere. But here there are way more steps—like, thousands. I can see a pinpoint of light at the bottom of the staircase and a pinpoint of light at the top. Both seem forever away.
If they want me to make a choice here—up or down—it’s no contest. In 1.6 gravity I’ll make it much further downhill. I might even reach the bottom.
After a long downhill climb, there’s a level of sorts, a platform. It’s covered with a carpet that definitely has the same pattern as the one in my old childhood home. An orange, brown and black pattern. It stretches off to the right, along the landing, into Dad’s bedroom. His tennis shoes poke out from under the bed. His new racquet with the cellophane wrapping still on stands against the bedside table. A bottle of Captain Morgan’s dark rum is two-thirds empty on the table, next to a liquigraph photo album that’s open on an image of Mum and Dad on their wedding day—the exact same image Mum took with her into the great (then) unknown.
The window’s open. I can hear kids laughing in the distance, and the hiss and spit of lawn sprinklers below. It seems like a nice day, sunny, clear rose sky, a day for paddling or swimming. But down there on the lawn, Dad and Nessie lie perfectly still like dolls with the arms and legs bent the wrong way. They’re soaking wet, they’re in their swimwear. But they’ll never go paddling or swimming again.
The sum, A Trillion + 1, is written in blood on the path just off the grass. Sloppy writing, runny ink. But the sprinklers don’t reach that far, and the message is drying in the heat. Eight years later, it still isn’t dry. I’ve pictured it a thousand times, and each time it’s just as fresh, just as runny. The realisation that they’ll never go paddling or swimming again triggers the exact same panic that echoes through every memory I have of them. It tells me Dad and Nessie are gone, and that if I don’t want to be gone too, I need to keep on running.
So I do. In the lunkiest spacesuit imaginable, I run because I have to. Because that fear is always a bite away from completing the sum in blood. Run. It’s all I’ve done ever since that day. Out of the bedroom and along the landing and down the dark, dark steps with the zonked-out light-strip. Steps and darkness that never seem to end as I feel my way to nowhere.
I run down the staircase for what seems like hours, never looking back, not really looking ahead. The carpeted steps are a comfort. The repetition makes me feel safe, steady. I could do this all day so long as I don’t have to look up.
But what about Mum? You need to find Mum.
Okay, but how? The pinpoint of light at the bottom is no nearer. If anything it seems farther away. And I’m pretty sure this staircase has no walls, only a pitch empty void on either side. If I fell off the edge, what would happen? Do I even want to know?
The next level I come to isn’t carpeted. It’s bare marble, reflects purple light from another, much more impressive room. My boots whisper as I walk, as though I’m in the anteroom of a church. Or a cathedral. It’s the most expensive room I’ve ever been in, by far. It’s almost the size of a city, this room. Legions of uniformed men and women stand in ranks as far as the eye can see, while colourful leaves and flower petals float down from the rafters as though heaven itself is in autumn. Dappled
sunlight shines through incredible stained-glass windows, creating the purple hue. At the far end, under the Royal Rhean court of arms, a marriage ceremony is taking place.
It’s Lohengrin! My good pal, Lohengrin, heir to the throne, is getting married. He’s back where he belongs, in the spotlight on Rhea. The entire planet loves him, cries tears of joy when he says the words, “I do.”
I can’t wait to run up there and congratulate him. We always said he’d be a great king. Damn, I didn’t even bring a present. Maybe he’ll be happy enough just to see me. We’ve been through so much together, Lohengrin and me.
“I do.” His partner, now wife, pledges herself to him. The cathedral-city erupts with cheers and applause, and a thousand cannons salute outside. It’s the greatest moment of his life. I can’t wait to shake his—
Rachel?
It is Rachel Foggerty. My Rachel. She’s...chosen him? Not me? That can’t be right. This isn’t right. It’s not what was supposed to happen. I always treated Lohengrin like a friend, like he was one of us. And what does he do? He shows me just why he was never one of us. One wave of his royal sceptre and he’s gone and seduced Rachel, my Rachel. She’s his wife now, his queen! She’s so far out of my reach I’d need a fleet of starships all firing at the same time just to get her attention.
Sarazzin was right to hate him. He doesn’t play by our rules. He takes what he wants, when he wants, who he wants. If I had a weapon right now, I’d end them both. Those cheating, back-stabbing—
Hang on! Do you really think this marriage is real?
How should I know? I’ve been walking down those steps for a goddamn age. For all I know I’m never gonna get out of here. Maybe I have been in here that long, like Mum was, and Lohengrin and Rachel really have left me high and dry.
Use your head.
You use yours! I’m the one who’s stuck in this nightmare.
Star Binder Page 34
