by Jo Zebedee
“Taz!” he yelled. “What’s happening?”
Muffled words came back, but he couldn’t make them out. He kicked the glass. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to be next. A second lever extended from the metal wall, its tip formed into a small blowtorch, its blue needle of flame angled at him. Suddenly, Taz’s screams made sense. John fought the clamp holding him, but there was nowhere to go.
“Jesus!” yelled John. “Get that thing away from me.”
The flame touched his shoulder. Shit, it hurt. He tried to free his arm, wrenching his elbow, but the burner pressed down.
“Get it off me!” he yelled. It kept going, sinking into his flesh. He scrunched his eyes closed. He wouldn’t let the alien bastards see him cry. A burning smell filled the cubicle and made him gag. He bit his lips, holding his scream back, sure he’d give in at any moment and join Taz. A moment later the burner pulled away, leaving pain writhing through his muscles, snaking down to his wrist. He gritted his teeth against a groan. Bastards.
The cubicle stood in silence for a moment. There were Barath’na outside, all around the glass walls. He glared at them.
“No!” Taz’s shout wasn’t muffled this time. “Enough! Stop.”
“Oh, Jesus.” A clunking noise made John tense. What now? A new lever detached from the wall, holding something small and round. It extended to his shoulder and touched his wound, bringing the burning into sharp focus. Sweat bathed him, running down his torso, trickling onto his stomach muscles. The lever deposited something cold into the laser-burned hole, and this time there was no holding his scream back. It joined Taz’s, rising and falling in sickening pain.
Another lever extended, and he cringed away. Taz had gone silent and that was worse than his screams; anything could have happened. He could be dead.
“Stop!” John shouted as the lever touched his arm. “I haven’t done anything!”
Cool, blessed relief. A probe closed the wound, and when it finished the clamp released his arm. The probe moved to his elbow, taking away the pain. He put his head back. The levers sank into the wall and the metal reformed, smooth and unblemished.
Let it be over. He brought his shaking hands up and wiped his cheeks. Open the cubicle, get me out of here. Whatever was in the main prison had to be better than this. The governor padded past, sending a smug look. John watched it, throat tight with anger. If I get the chance I’ll take the alien bastard apart…
At a beep, a screen above the door, like those on a train displaying the next station, came to life, a single red dot flashing on and off. Now what?
A chair extended and he didn’t need to be told to sit; Christ only knew how they would force him to. The walls went opaque, changing to a soft green, which faded into blue. Music, dreamlike and soft, filled the cubicle. A smell like Ma’s washing wafted over him. His shoulder stopped aching, a slight tingling the only sign of what had happened. He closed his eyes. He was knackered; he hadn’t realised until now just how much.
A small beep woke him and he glanced at the screen:
Now, what the hell did that mean? The walls changed back to clear and the one in front of him slid open.
He walked into a second, annexed cubicle, and picked up the black trousers and an orange t-shirt, so bright it could have been taken off one of the stalls set up for the Twelfth of July parades. Did the aliens know he was a Prod? They knew everything else about him. He wondered if Taz’s was green for good measure.
Taz? Where was he? He craned his neck, looking through the glass, and saw a flurry of movement a few feet away. Taz was surrounded by a swarm of Barath’na, his heels dug in, his face contorted in a scream.
Didn’t they know Taz was sick? Hadn’t the governor told them? John banged on the glass, frantic and loud, but the only response was a tingle in his shoulder.
“Let me out!” he shouted. He watched, helpless, as Taz was forced to the ground. Grey bodies ran over him. Claws gripped his legs and arms, slithering over his skin as he tried to buck free. A hypodermic needle extended.
John banged on the glass, hoping to get Taz’s attention. He had to stop fighting. His shoulder buzzed, worse this time, his flesh rippling around the implant. I have to stop this. The glass couldn’t be unbreakable, he just had to fight harder. He shoved it with his good shoulder, trying to topple it, trying to do anything…. The needle plunged into Taz’s arm.
John drew his foot back, bracing to roundhouse the cubicle. Dimly, he heard a metallic whine, but ignored it. His shoulder was burning. The screen over the door had changed to flashing red, reflecting off the glass, turning the cubicle into a crazy disco. A pin pricked his arm, and a needle retracted.
“No!” He pulled his leg back, but stopped as a rush of euphoria washed through him. His muscles relaxed and a smile broke across his face. He could see Taz being attended to, but it didn’t matter. The red line became a single dot. He put his hand flat against the glass, woozy.
That’s why he was here. He pulled off his trousers. The aliens were watching him, but he didn’t care. He picked up the new pair and looked at them. How did they go on again? After a moment he figured it out and pulled them on, fumbling at the buttons. He lifted the t-shirt. The orange was a-maz-ing, like the sun in the evening. He’d never seen better, he was sure of it. He pulled it on and stood, swaying, watching as Taz stumbled to his feet.
The Barath’na backed away, their movements smooth, in tandem with each other. His friend was docile, his face blank and relaxed. John pulled on his boots; they, like everything else, fitted perfectly. He did the laces up easily enough; whatever they’d given him was wearing off as quickly as it had hit.
The door opened and he stepped out, shaking the last of the dizziness away. He waited, too freaked-out to take any initiative. Not if it led to more of the cubicle-treatment.
“John?” Taz’s voice was slurred. “You okay?”
He shook his head. “Jesus…” He checked Taz up and down, and he looked as shaken as John felt. “What was that about?”
“Dunno.” Taz sounded stunned.
Barath’na shepherded John to stand in front of a cargo door. The prison. He started to shake, with anger more than shock; they’d managed him, made him obey them. The one thing he’d said wouldn’t happen to him, that he’d always resist, and he’d been forced to give in on the first day. Some brave guy I am.
The cargo door started to open. Whatever lay in Inish Carraig was ahead. John forced himself to stop shaking, to wait and face it. God, give me strength. His shoulder buzzed and he tensed. It buzzed again, insistent, and the doors opened fully.
“Step through.”
He put his free hand on Taz’s elbow, and they walked forwards into the prison, their bots in tow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Josey's stomach growled at the smell of chicken soup filling the room. She opened her eyes but the bright sunlight hurt, and when she turned her head it pounded in protest. A blond bloke of about eighteen sat beside the bed, flicking through a magazine, which he put down with a smile. “Well, well, you’re awake.” He went to the door and yelled, “Mam!”
There was the sound of someone on the stairs and an older woman – maybe about fifty – came in. She put her hand on Josey’s forehead.
“Your temperature’s better,” she said, smiling. “You had us worried for a while.” She fussed around, patting Josey's pillow into shape. “Do you want to try and sit up, love? See if you can take a wee drop of soup, or a bit of water? You must be awful hungry.”
At the mention of the soup, Josey’s stomach rumbled and she tried to say yes. It didn’t work – her lips felt like they were glued together – so she nodded instead. The woman nudged the blond lad.
“Sean, go and get a bowl of soup for the child. And a bit of soft bread.”
&n
bsp; After he left, she helped Josey sit up and take a sip of water. The room swung alarmingly, making Josey sure she’d be sick, but it passed and she managed to croak, “Where am I?”
“Hush, we’ll get to all that. Sean and his Da found you in one of the paddocks. Lucky they did, too, another wee while and you’d have frozen. Do you have a name, pet?”
“Jos–” She stopped herself and coughed. She had no idea where she was, or if the woman could be trusted. In Belfast, half the city were on the take, looking after themselves and not others. “I can’t remember.”
The woman didn’t appear to notice anything out of place. Josey looked around; the room was nice and airy. It was painted blue, and looked like it needed freshened, but there was no bomb damage. She blinked. No bomb damage at all? After Belfast, it seemed like a miracle.
“Please, where am I?”
“Just outside Coleraine, love.” The woman sat on the end of the bed. “Now, tell me where you're from and we’ll take you home. Your mum must be worried.”
Sean came back, carrying a small tray holding a mug and some bread, which he set on the bed for her. He glanced at his ma, having evidently heard the end of the conversation, and waited.
Josey looked down, suddenly not hungry. She tried to think what to say. She couldn’t tell them she was from Belfast; they’d send her back, and then Gary would find her. She bit her lip. If she waited until she was a bit stronger, she could leave. And go where? She ignored the thought; she’d think of something. The silence stretched as they waited for her answer, and finally she picked up the spoon, and half-shrugged.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I can’t remember anything about me.”
Sean crossed his arms. “You don’t remem–”
Josey’s cheeks burned and tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head, but couldn’t speak past the tightness in her throat. If she'd learned nothing else from her year in Belfast, she knew to trust no one. To throw that away just because someone seemed kind was stupid. To allow anyone to know she was from Belfast and give them the chance to send her back wasn't a chance she could take. Silence was her only safety.
His mum stood up. “Ssh, now, she’s upset. Let the child get something to eat and a wee bit of time to think, then she might tell us.”
Sean went to say something else, but his mother’s scowl stopped him. She shooed him from the room, following, but stopped at the door.
“The GC have lists of who lives where, and you’re not registered for here. We need to get you back to where you are listed.” A shadow of what looked like fear crossed her face. “They check, see. Even out here in the country, they send Barath’na patrols.”
She left and Josey watched the door and the empty hall beyond. Registration lists? She had no idea what that meant. Maybe they were clearing the ghettoes. Maybe everyone had been sent to the country, and made to work. And what did she mean by Barath’na patrols – the aliens hadn’t come to Earth. The questions whirled, with no answers.
She took another mouthful of soup and started to feel full. And tired. She set the tray to the side and slid down the bed, pulling the covers over her. Later. She’d think about it all later. She drifted away, warm, half dreaming. Something shimmered at the edge of her memory, something about people John was with who couldn’t be bribed. She needed to remember... sleep took her, and the memory left with it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
John followed the governor into a second cavern of grey walls and floor. This one stretched the length of the annex, unbroken and empty, except for one end of the room, set up as a dining area. Its regimented tables and servery counter at least hinted at others’ presence.
Their footsteps echoed: his and Taz’s booted and dull, the governor’s nails sharper and quicker. Scurrying sounds from behind indicated the remaining Barath’na were following, and he barely resisted the urge to look back. A hissing noise made him tense: the Barath’na horde streamed across the floor to staircases that led to upper levels. They flowed up the stairs, some low to the floor, some loping like wolves, all fast and with a single purpose. Their tails thudded off the stairs, heavy and slow compared to the rest of their movement. Something in the way the tails moved, like entities apart from their owners, turned his stomach.
A clang in the distance made John jump. His shoulder gave a sharp bolt of pain, and he stumbled forwards. He’d never felt so spaced out. Even in Belfast, where he’d been scared half the time and petrified the rest, he’d come to know what to expect. Here, surrounded by creatures he didn’t understand, in an environment that felt more alien than anywhere on Earth should be, he hadn't a clue. The governor sent a knowing look his way. Bastard. John straightened and tried to force his fear away but it lay deep in his belly, gnawing and cold.
They climbed one of the metal staircases to a corridor lined in black doorways, one of four forming a square overlooking the main room. The staircase led to more corridors above, it seemed.
The Barath’na swarm spread through the corridors, two guarding the top of each staircase, the others patrolling, their clicking claws setting his teeth on edge. The prison was otherwise silent, no voices, no televisions, nothing to say how many people were held, or where they were. One of the doorways fizzed as John passed. He put his hand out and touched the black entranceway. A stinging sensation made him jerk his hand away. Some sort of force field? He followed, cradling his arm, until they reached two open-doored cells, near the end of the row. The governor jerked its head at Taz. “Enter.”
Just Taz: they were going to be separated. John choked fear. He’d go mental on his own; he needed Taz to talk to, to listen to, hell, just to argue with. And if Taz woke in the night screaming, who was going to tell him to shut up and go back to sleep? He couldn’t let the governor separate them.
“No,” said John. His voice was croaked and weak, and he hated himself for it. “We ... we’d like to share a cell.”
“Enter.” The governor’s voice took on a different edge, a warning tone. Six Barath’na approached on all fours, their bellies almost touching the ground. They got to within a couple of feet and pulled onto their hind legs, releasing weapons strapped over their chests. As they continued to approach, their mobility seemed unaffected; their stance was balanced, almost graceful. He backed away. His shoulder gave a stab of pain, down to his elbow, and he cried out. He didn’t know what to do – fight or run. Damn it, he needed to know how things worked. He met Taz’s eyes, trapped, and opened his hands in a plea for advice.
“All right!” Taz stepped into the cell and raised his arms. “I’m in. No problem.” He looked at John. “It’ll be all right. At least your snoring won’t keep me awake.” Sammy followed and cowered by his right foot, and the governor gave a satisfied nod.
The force field came up, slowly, cutting off the sight of Taz’s feet and knees, then his stomach and chest. It rose up his face, erasing his fuck-you-if-you-think-you-can-get-to-me smile. At the last moment he gave a wink. The force field closed; Taz was gone.
The governor indicated the next cell, and John walked past, striving for coolness. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
The force field rose before him, filling the doorway, and he tried to smile but it felt like a grimace. Taz was the master of smiling through crap, not John. The governor’s eyes were focused on him, meltingly dangerous. Sweat broke between his shoulders. The force field sealed, and only then did John take a shuddering breath. He sank onto the edge of the small bunk. Jimmy gave a soft beep, worried and careful, and John managed to smile – it would seem he wasn’t the only one freaked out. He picked the bot up, enjoying the solidness of its body, and stretched out on the bed.
He zoned out. The throbbing in his arm died away. Dimly, he was aware of the light in the cell fading but he didn’t move. He was too tired or shocked or fucked off to care. Besides, it wasn’t like he was pressed for time.
Eventually, hunger made him sit up. They had to feed him sometime, right? A small, slitted window showed the
sky darkening towards night, a single line of orange against black the last reminder of the day. One section of the wall showed a line of green, steady and unwavering: another of the screens he’d seen in the cubicle. He got up and put his hands out and the lights came on, dazzling him. He hissed and covered his eyes.
He grew used to the light. A small desk stood against the opposite wall. On it was a sandwich, a banana and a glass of milk, like he was fourteen again and had a lunch packed by his ma. He was hungry enough not to care, and ate the sandwich in a couple of bites. He lifted the banana, went to peel it, but stopped, his instincts from Belfast still in place. How did he know when he’d get fed again? Best to be prepared for the worst. Besides, some hunger in his belly would keep his wits about him.
He started to tour the tiny cell. A chest of drawers was quickly checked out – a couple of changes of clothes, the same as he had on. The single door along one wall slid open to a small bathroom. Alien bogs: he had to see this. Sadly, the toilet was disappointingly normal, but when he touched the metal seat it was soft and dough-like, not at all as solid as it appeared. At least his butt wouldn’t get cold.
He went back into the cell. The walls were of the alien dull silver metal, much like the toilet. And the cubicle with its hidden levers and blow-torches. He touched one of the walls and his finger sank to the end of his nail, the hard metal changing form into something solid but pliable.
“Jesus!” He pulled his finger out and looked at it. It was unmarked. Tentatively, he put his palm against the wall and the metal shaped around it, reforming under his touch. It made him feel queasy, for no reason other than walls should stay solid, not hide things within their surface or suck his hand in. He touched it again, and the metal gave until he released his hand. The wall sprang back, slowly filling in the shape of his hand and returning to its solid state of hardened plasticine. Urgh. Metal shouldn’t do that. He looked at the tiled floor and gave an experimental bounce; it was reassuringly hard.
