Sixth Cycle

by Darren Wearmouth

  “I’m sure you expected me to be an ogre. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

  “Let me go back to Omega. I’ll investigate your claims. This isn’t the first piece of corruption I’ve discovered today.”

  Ryder smiled. “I wouldn’t let Tom’s kid risk herself at my expense. You’re staying here until we move on.”

  “Why? I can see you’re not a murderer. I won’t say a word.”

  “It’s only for a day or two. Once they work out you’ve failed, Finch’ll send a bigger crew. We’ll be gone and you can rejoin them.”

  Rapid footsteps echoed through the cave. Ryder reached for his pistol and turned to the gap between the two chambers. A man ran through, rested his hand on the wall, and took a few deep breaths. He swallowed and looked up. “We’ve got company.”

  Ryder turned to Skye and narrowed his eyes. “How many did you bring?”

  “I came alone and wasn’t followed.”

  The man shuffled along the ledge and grabbed his shoulder. “It’s wastelanders.”

  “Let me help you,” Skye said. “I fought off a group this morning.”

  Ryder tapped his pipe on the ground and scraped his foot on the glowing embers. “Wait here until we’ve seen them off.”

  “I’m serious. They’ll kill me as quickly as they’d kill you. Give me my rifle. It’ll increase your chances.”

  He thought for a moment and nodded. “This way.”

  Ryder led her through the gap into a larger chamber. Women and children huddled together on rags stretched over the ground. Old wooden boxes filled with food and tools sat scattered around them.

  Skye noticed her rifle balanced on top of one of them. She didn’t hesitate to ask Ryder and rushed over. A young woman of a similar age had her arm around a small boy, who buried his face in her armpit. She glanced up at Skye with fear in her eyes. Skye gave her a reassuring nod and rejoined Ryder, who stood by the next entrance.

  “There’s three chambers to this cave system. We defend from outside and inside the front one. If anyone gets through, God help us.”

  She followed him to the front chamber. A rough, thirty-yard-wide, circular space. A single torch on the right-hand wall provided gloomy light. The shadow of flames licked along the roof.

  Twenty of Ryder’s group knelt in the middle and aimed their weapons at the elevated six-foot-wide entrance. Skye crouched next to a man holding a shotgun with a box of shells by his side. She stared at the dark entrance. Wastelanders screamed outside. A usual battle cry when they spotted a potential victim.

  Two gunshots split the air.

  Six of Ryder’s men darted through the entrance and joined the rest in the middle of the chamber. One ran straight to him. “They’re nearly here. We had no chance holding them off at the ledge. There’s too many.”

  “How many?” Ryder said.

  “Maybe fifty? It’s too dark. They killed Andrey.”

  The screams stopped. Somebody grunted outside. Feet scraped against scree. A stone rolled through the entrance and bounced down the rocks and landed in the chamber.

  A figure shot through the gap and roared.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trader’s team secured the man from the bunker in the back of one of the trucks, away from the weapons, food and radios they took. Jake closed the loading doors and exited back through the shaft. They could visit at least another thirty times and still wouldn’t have room for everything. Being the only one who could get in gave Jake an insurance policy.

  The convoy headed for Sigma along a dirt track surrounded by rolling green fields and patches of woodland. He found it a welcome relief to be away from the tight confines of the forest, vegetation-hugged highway and claustrophobic bunker. From the sun’s low position in the late spring sky, they had an hour of natural light left, making it roughly seven o’ clock.

  “You’re quiet, Jake,” Trader said.

  “I’ve had a lot to absorb today. How long till we get there?”

  “Ten minutes. It’s over the next hill.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare watch?”

  Trader unfastened his black plastic watch strap and handed it over. “Take mine. I’ve got a couple of spares at home. Anything else?”

  Jake buckled it around his wrist and looked at the basic digital face. 18:45, Monday May 19th, 2205. Perhaps today’s society didn’t need that kind of grounding information, but Jake felt lost without it. The Fleet did that to a person.

  With Trader wanting to engage in conversation, Jake decided to delve a little deeper into how the strongholds operated behind the curtain of solidarity. “A guard in Omega suggested the population clock wasn’t as businesslike as what I’ve been led to believe.”

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “In Omega, you’re only a number as long as Finch allows it, and there’s something ugly under the surface.”

  “The theory behind controlling the population numbers in line with resources is sound. We never overstretch ourselves. It’s worked for five generations, and all eight strongholds are signed up.”

  “What happens to the people turned away or the ones who get thrown out?”

  “Some people are happy outside the system. We can’t force them to take part in our society.”

  Jake shook his head. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s not for me to make the laws in individual strongholds. I ensure their economies remain balanced by analyzing their resources and deciding on their trade prices. If Finch sees fit to kick people out, for whatever reason, that’s his business.”

  “Seems to me like you’re turning a blind eye to the Pol Pot impersonators like Finch. Have you seen his manor and back garden?”

  “You underestimate him. I did too. After taking over Omega, he’s doubled its size and beefed up defenses. He might be a weirdo, but he runs a tight ship. If that means a few people fall by the wayside, unfortunately that’s how it is.”

  “People aren’t just numbers that you can dismiss at your leisure. Where’s the accountability?”

  Trader rolled his eyes. “Drop the human rights bullshit, you’re boring me. This is 2205, get used to it.”

  He lit a cigarette and lowered his window.

  * * *

  At the top of the rise, Jake caught his first glimpse of Sigma below. Built in a natural basin, its dark square walls had stone towers at each corner and surrounded an area similar to the size of Omega. Most of the properties packed to the left side had terracotta-tiled roofs. Warehouses and yards lined the right-hand side. A road ran up the middle of the stronghold to a three-story white stone building at its center.

  “I take it that’s the local lord’s place?” Jake said.

  “It’s the administrative center. They’re organized in terms of resource allocation and output. Makes my job harder when the likes of Kappa perform so poorly in comparison. They want to expand their clock to nine thousand, but we’re blocking it at the moment.”

  “Who are we, and why is it being blocked?”

  “I sit with the eight stronghold leaders every quarter. We review progress and decide on expansions or reductions, depending on how things are going. A unanimous vote is required to rubber-stamp any changes. The concern here is Kappa will become too powerful.”

  “Won’t it cost you in the long run? You’re potentially sentencing thousands of people to die in the wilderness and might create resentment in Sigma.”

  “Equilibrium, Jake. Remember the equilibrium.”

  Jake detected rising irritation in Trader’s voice and decided not to press any further for the moment. He didn’t have a problem understanding the logic behind the system. His issue was how it worked in practice. The idea that a life could be passed off as acceptable collateral damage on the whim of a fruitcake like Finch. Or that growth and ambition could be stifled in order to keep the status quo. At first glance, their monopolistic regimes were only a whisker away from communism.

  Trader waved an arm out o
f his window as he approached the tall iron gates. They slowly opened, allowing the convoy access. He drove along the central tarmac road toward the administrative center. The yards on the right contained timber, bricks, dusty paper sacks and sheets of glass. Smoke pumped from the chimneys of two steel-constructed factories.

  The smart stucco-sided homes on the left side of the stronghold started from just inside the stone wall, and were built in a grid system with small grassed front gardens surrounded by white picket fences. The terracotta roof tiles gave them a Mediterranean look.

  “Nicer than Omega,” Jake said. “Do they just trade the surplus?”

  “One thing we can’t stop is the strongholds keeping the best materials for themselves. What would you do in their shoes? I wouldn’t expect Sigma to live in wooden bungalows while helping to build houses like this for Finch.”

  “They hold onto their top-end materials, and Finch gets to keep his prize carrots.”

  Trader laughed and coughed. He beat his chest three times with his fist. “Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll come to appreciate the whole thing. We’re meeting Sigma’s governor now. Save the questions.”

  “No problem. He won’t throw me in jail, will he?”

  “She, and no, they don’t have a jail here,” Trader said coldly.

  Jake didn’t need to read too far between the lines to understand. Why build a jail when a person could be simply banished. The threat of it, especially with the increase in wastelanders outside, would be enough to keep people in check.

  Trader parked outside the steps leading to the doors of the administrative center. The convoy rolled past, toward the other end of the stronghold.

  A middle-aged woman with short mousy hair, dressed in black fatigues, walked out of the building into the fading light and acknowledged Trader with a nod. She looked at Jake and frowned. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Captain Jake Phillips of Endeavor Three,” he said.

  “My God, it’s really you. How long have you been awake?”

  “Less than a day.”

  “You must be a little confused.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “I picked him up from Omega today,” Trader said. “He got us into the western bunker, and I’ve got a few items for you. But there’s a catch.”

  She groaned and shook her head. “There’s always a catch with you. What is it this time?”

  “Pete’s got an injured leg and needs treatment.”

  “Okay, no big deal.”

  “Jake’s joined my team, and we need a place for him. He led the assault inside the bunker.”

  “We’ve got thirty places on the clock. He sounds like a useful addition. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like the next part?”

  Trader paused. Jake guessed the amiable governor was like an iron fist in a velvet glove to make a man like him hesitate over his next request.

  “Come on, Trader. We’re all busy here,” she said.

  “We found somebody in the bunker, and they also require treatment. I was hoping that you’d agree to take him in.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of injuries?”

  “Ones of a mental nature. I have your goods from Theta and extra food and weapons from the bunker. Isn’t it a small price to pay?”

  The governor turned to Jake. “This is your idea, right? Trader isn’t usually a kind-hearted soul. Did he tell you what happened last time I took in a crazy relic?”

  “It’s my idea,” Jake said, attempting to hide his surprise at her question. “He’s the only living link I have to the world I know. Trader didn’t mention anything about other relics. What happened?”

  “Eight years ago, we found him wandering around outside, shouting like a madman. I agreed to attempt his rehabilitation. He locked himself in a house and refused to come out. After a week of passing food through the window, my patience snapped, and we broke in.”

  “I heard stasis could have that effect if you’re in for extended periods,” Jake said. “I think I’m all right.”

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “He made a small bed for a teddy bear using pieces of wood and a cushion, a life support machine out of a tin box and some plastic tubes, and connected them to the teddy’s mouth and wrist.”

  “I see what you mean,” Jake said. “Where is he now?”

  “He wouldn’t leave the teddy, claiming it needed his treatment. When we removed it from the property, he hung himself with a leather belt. Do you see my reluctance at the request?”

  “Just give him a few days. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said and turned to Trader. “I’d like to talk with you in private.”

  Trader nodded. “Jake, you’ll find a bar around the back of the building. It’s got a blue light outside. Tell them I sent you. I’ll be ten minutes.”

  Jake stood for a moment, replaying the sobering story about one of his former colleagues through his mind.

  The governor gave him a stern look. “If you want me to consider your request, you’ll do as Trader says. He might be your boss, but while you’re in Sigma, you’re under my rules.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Trader, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  He didn’t want to antagonize his chance of safety after his experience in the forest and on the highway. It grated on him that they’d immediately assumed the roles of his masters, but he had no choice. His favorite motto Improvise, adapt and overcome would just have to be trimmed to the first two words for now.

  * * *

  Light streamed out of the bar’s four large opaque windows, dark figures sat inside. It had the same design as the houses in Omega, although twice the size. Jake stood under the blue light above the entrance in the chilly spring air and listened to the faint buzz of conversation occasionally punctuated by loud laughter.

  The door swung out and a man dressed in a purple jumpsuit staggered past Jake. A rush of warm air mixed with the smell of stale beer simultaneously escaped into the quiet street. The man leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

  Jake propped the door open with his hand.

  A man at the bar looked over his shoulder. “Were you born in a barn?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shut the damned door.”

  Patrons, all dressed in the same clothes as the smoker, sat at eight round wooden tables on the right side. A few glanced up after the man’s shout. A few had filthy faces. Jake guessed they were factory workers having a drink after a shift. To the left, six people perched on high metal stools at the copper-plated bar. The walls were painted in dark green emulsion and had four old-fashioned gold-plated light fittings attached just above head height in each corner.

  He decided to act as naturally as possible to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. The barman rubbed a glass with a white towel and whispered something to a man sitting opposite him.

  The conversation quieted to a hush. Jake creaked across the floorboards toward the bar. He looked at the unbranded spirits attached to the wall behind it. Each bottle had a white sticker with the type of liquor written in blue marker pen.

  The barman, a stout bald man with a slug-like mustache, threw his towel over his shoulder. “Can I help you?”

  “Trader sent me. Do you have a glass of water?”

  A couple of the men either side of him snickered.

  “We’ve got beer, whiskey, rum, gin and vodka,” the barman said. “What would you like?”

  It felt like the whole pub focused on his position. A middle-aged man with a greasy brown mullet and beard leaned over. “Why don’t you give sleeping beauty a whiskey? That might put hairs on his chest.”

  The barman stifled a laugh, slammed a shot glass down, and filled it. Jake nodded and hunched over it, keen to avoid eye contact. The drink smelled like a postman’s sock, and he twisted the rim in his fingers.

  Mullet pulled his stool closer. “It ain’t gonna drink itself, sleeping beauty.”


  His boozy breath barely masked his body odor. Jake turned to face him. “It wasn’t funny the first time. I’m just here for a quiet drink.”

  “You hear that, boys? Sleeping beauty’s here for a nice quiet time.”

  Most of the thirty people gazed over, but none reacted to Mullet’s apparent joke. He spun back around and glared at Jake.

  Jake said to the barman, “Has a local village reported an idiot missing?”

  Mullet sprang from his stool. Its legs screeched across the tiled floor. He stood next to Jake and held his arms out. “You want a piece of me, asshole?”

  Jake tensed, ready to defend himself, but hoped Trader would walk through the door. One of his faults was not being able to bite his lip in these types of situations. He hated bullies or people who tried to intimidate others.

  A tall lean man with receding black hair rushed over from one of the tables and pressed his hands against Mullet’s chest. “Easy now, Walt. You’ve had a lot to drink, and you’re on a final warning. Go home before you do something you regret.”

  “He called me an idiot, Roy. We can’t let him just walk into our bar and start insulting us.”

  Roy pushed him further away. “You don’t know the deal he’s got with the governor. Seriously, have an early night.”

  Mullet scowled over Roy’s shoulder. “Me and you are not through yet, history man.”

  Jake shrugged and drank his whiskey. He swallowed and screwed his face up as it burnt the back of his throat. It tasted like hot alcoholic vinegar. The barman went to refill the glass. He held his hand over the top of it. “One’s fine, thanks. Trader’ll be here soon.”

  Mullet stopped at the door. “Show him the statue. Tell him what we do with it.”

  “Call it a night, Walt,” a woman said from a table. She glanced sympathetically toward Jake. He acknowledged her with a single nod.

  Roy pulled a stool beside him. “Sorry about Walt. He’s like that with anyone after a few drinks.”

  “No problem. He’s not the first person I’ve met like that. What’s with the statue?”

  Roy’s face reddened, and he bowed his head. “Nothing. He’s had too much to drink. I’d take his word with a grain of salt.”