by Chris Ward
The hatch in the ceiling lifted, and a huge black shape began to climb down into the elevator.
‘Quickly!’ Airie screamed, pulling David towards the gap.
‘The grenade,’ he shouted, twisting his board around. ‘It’s my last one.’
‘No! Get out!’
She reached down and jerked the clawboard out of his hands. As the Huntsman, awkwardly trying to squeeze down through the small service hatch, reached out for him, he squeezed up through the small gap in the doors held open by Airie’s clawboard.
‘Run!’ Airie said, pushing David ahead of her, but as he climbed to his feet, the girl screamed. A wiry arm had stretched through the gap and caught her ankle. David grabbed her hands, but the Huntsman was too strong.
Airie’s face was strangely calm as he felt her fingers going weak in his hands. ‘I love you, David,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t forget me.’
Then, in a single fluid motion she let go of his hands, turned and pulled two knives free from her belt as the Huntsman pulled her back into the elevator. She shouted a war cry as David started to move forward, but the heavy jerk of movement made the elevator bounce. Airie’s clawboard twisted free. It landed on the lobby carpet at David’s feet as the elevator doors closed and the car began to move, taking Airie and the Huntsman away.
‘Airie,’ David gasped, slumping to his knees. ‘I’m sorry.’
Part III
Uprising
44
2034
Tim Cold’s presence was beginning to frustrate Mika. He had been pacing back and forth in her de facto laboratory for the last half an hour, as if a certain number of circuits around the room might work to turn back time and bring her sister back to life.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I really need to finish this. Spacewell never tested these boards.’
‘Discovery could come at any time,’ he said, seemingly ignoring her. ‘Do we fight or do we wait until we’re discovered and die in our tunnels?’
Raine’s baby was safe. If there was something good that could come of everything that had happened, it was that. Mika’s little sister, however, was gone, sacrificing herself to save David, who had been wallowing in a pit of misery ever since.
‘I need to fix these boards….’
David had taken one of the clawboards, but he had left the others with her. Far from the shiny futuristic things they had once been, they were now battered to all ruin. Grapnels had been bent, grenades exhausted, internal motors burned out, the surfaces dented and scratched. She was a couple of long days away from having them in good condition again, but that was fine. It gave her a reason not to think about Airie.
‘They worked, didn’t they?’ Tim said. ‘The boards Spacewell made.’
‘I guess they did their job,’ she said.
‘How powerful can you make those grenades? What other functions can you add?’
Mika sighed and shrugged. ‘The most important thing is weight. If they get too heavy, they are unable to perform what they were made for, which is tube riding.’
‘But what a weapon,’ Tim said. ‘Can you make more?’
‘Perhaps in time.’
‘I’ll see to it that you have all the materials you need,’ he said, and finally went out, leaving her in peace.
As soon as the door closed, Mika began to cry.
‘Lindon, can I talk to you a moment, please?’
Tim put the radio down on his desk and took a deep breath. It was a risk, but hadn’t he taken enough already? How much damage could one more do?
It was time to take Lindon into his confidence. He needed a second in command, and if an uprising happened in the coming days, he couldn’t risk his own death without someone in position to take over. The Underground Movement for Freedom couldn’t be allowed to die. London’s future depended on it.
A knock came on the door and Lindon entered without being asked. As always, Lindon looked physically imposing, iron-hard muscles bulging out of a shirt that always seemed too small, but the edge that was usually in his eyes was gone, replaced with an otherworldly weariness that made Tim frown.
‘What’s happened to you?’
Lindon shrugged. ‘It’s personal. Nothing that affects Tank business.’
Tim found himself assuming his old role as Tank leader. ‘Make sure it stays that way.’ Then, forcing himself to strip off the steel veneer, he added, ‘I need to talk to you. It’s time I told you something important.’
Lindon made no reaction. If Tim didn’t know Lindon better than most, he might have found it difficult to gauge the intelligence behind those eyes. Lindon came across as a street brawler and little else, but he ran deeper than most knew. He read situations better than anyone Tim had known, and his loyalty was absolute.
‘Follow me. This may come as a surprise to you, but I need you to understand that what you are about to learn is of paramount importance to the Tank’s survival.’
Lindon nodded. ‘Lead the way.’
Tim took Lindon downstairs. He stopped outside the door to his hidden command centre.
‘What’s inside this room, Lindon?’
Lindon shrugged. ‘Stock. Guns? I don’t know. It’s not my business.’
‘It is now. Come on, I’ll show you.’
He covered his hand over the lock, entered the combination and stepped into the dark room. As Lindon closed the door behind him, Tim switched on the light.
Lindon stared at the posters on the walls, the banks of computers, the filing cabinets against each wall.
‘Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like….’
‘What does it look like, Lindon?’
Lindon turned and pushed a hand against the door, but it was locked. He thumped against the steel but the door didn’t budge. Even the sound of his fist was muffled, the soundproofing something Tim had ensured years ago for this very such situation.
‘Let me out,’ Lindon said. ‘I want no part of this.’
‘Too late. You’re involved whether you like it or not. Come on, Lindon, you must have known what Spacewell’s business was.’
‘I thought he was a spy for the Tank.’
‘He was. And much more.’
Lindon lunged forward, gripping Tim by the neck and slamming him back against the wall. He lifted a huge fist, then paused. He looked down at the gun Tim was pressing into his side.
‘Back down, Lindon. I’ve had to shoot others. And if you do kill me, there’s no way out. I alone know the combination.’
Lindon let go of Tim and stepped back. He gripped his head with his hands, spinning on his heels as he stared openmouthed at the maps of Mega Britain and the blurry pictures of the Governor pinned to the wall.
‘I want no part of this. I work for the Tank.’
‘And who leads the Tank? By working for the Tank you work for me. I believed in you from the beginning, Lindon, from the day we first met. I recognised in you the kind of heart the movement needs.’
Lindon pulled up a chair and sat down, his hands still over his ears. ‘Fuck you.’
Tim leaned close. There is more than just the Tank to think about, Lindon. More even than London. This is about Mega Britain. Do you like living like a caged bird behind the perimeter walls? Do you like it that there are riots on every street corner, that the city is a violent, starving wasteland? Tell me, Lindon … do you like it?’
‘No!’
‘Then join me! I lead the Underground Movement for Freedom. It’s people like you that we need, people with hearts that are not only pure, but strong. You’re one of us, Lindon. You’ve always been one of us, since the day you were born.’
Lindon looked up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Tell Frank I said hello.’
‘He’s on no one’s side but his own.’
‘Because he values his freedom. So do I. But the only way to get our freedom is to unite against the Governor.’
Lindon stood up. ‘This is because of the Tube Riders, isn’t it?
Since they showed up everything has changed.’
‘It’s time to make your choice.’ Tim pulled the gun from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of Lindon. Then he stepped back and folded his arms. ‘Choose. Take the gun, make it yours, or give it back to me and join us.’
Lindon stood up. He stared at the gun for a long time, his hands at his sides, and Tim almost believed he had forgotten the question. Then he reached out and scooped the gun up. He turned it around in his hands, then tossed it towards Tim, who caught it with both hands.
‘The Underground Movement for Freedom,’ Lindon said. ‘That’s a stupid name.’
Tim smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re not the first person to have said that.’
‘The Tank people are my people,’ Lindon said. ‘I will protect them with my last breath. I don’t care who I fight for, only that I fight against whoever threatens me and mine.’
Tim nodded. ‘Then we share a common enemy. One day the Governor will lie dead at our feet, and we will walk safely on the streets again. Welcome to the UMF, Lindon.’
Lindon nodded, but he didn’t seem bought by all the propaganda talk. He pointed at the door. ‘What is the combination?’
‘2034.’
‘That’s it? Why so simple?’
‘Twenty thirty-four is the year our freedom ended,’ Tim said. ‘The year the Governor took power, and the year the free country we called Great Britain died.’
45
Invasion
‘You can remove that smile yourself or I can have it removed for you.’ The scar-faced part-metal bitch who identified herself as Dreggo smirked at Airie as she sat behind the metal table, hands cuffed behind her back. ‘Never to return.’
‘My boyfriend will come for me. You’ll see.’
Dreggo laughed. ‘The fool who left you for Heyna? I wouldn’t be too hopeful. You’re so lucky my friend had eaten. Orders or not, when a Huntsman is hungry….’
‘Go kill yourself.’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Unfortunately I’m under my own orders to stay alive. But to soften the misery of my own existence, I get to ruin yours.’ Dreggo leaned closer, their faces almost touching. Airie tried to match her gaze but failed.
‘I won’t tell you anything.’
Dreggo sighed. ‘Look, I appreciate your defiance. That might have been me once. If I want you to talk, I’ll make you talk. Understand?’
‘No.’
Dreggo rolled her eyes, the robotic one moving in unison with its human counterpart. ‘Let me make it clear to you the situation we have.’ She slammed a hand down on the tabletop, making Airie flinch. ‘I don’t care about you or this supposed boyfriend of yours, nor about this woman and her baby. You call yourselves Tube Riders, but whatever. You’re all going to die sooner or later.’ She grinned. ‘Most likely you’ll be first, but that depends. In the great scheme of things, what happens to you and your pretend Tube Rider friends doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Perhaps if you found something that mattered to you, you could stop being such a spiteful bitch.’
Dreggo’s fingers closed over Airie’s cheeks, forcing her mouth open. With her other hand, Dreggo prodded Airie’s tongue. Her fingertip tasted like engine grease. Airie tried to spit but her jaw was held film.
‘Such a beautiful, free-flowing tongue. I’ll ask the Governor if I can take it for myself.’ She shoved Airie’s face away and then cuffed her across the cheek. Airie gasped, the blow snapping her teeth together, needles of pain exploding up the front of her face. ‘In the meantime, if you’ve finally exhausted your vocabulary, can I ask you the only question that really matters? Where is Marta Banks?’
‘I’m Marta Banks.’
Dreggo punched her again, much harder. This time Airie’s eyes rolled, and she clung to consciousness like a shipwreck survivor to a raft as every nerve in her body seemed to ring out like a bell.
‘No, you’re not. You’re Airie Walker, you dumb fucking whore. You’re a worthless piece of street trash playing a very dangerous game. You’re unfortunate enough to be the sister of one Mika Ando, formerly a government scientist. I know you know where she is, because I can smell her on you, the same as I can smell your little boyfriend.’ At Airie’s surprised look, Dreggo added, ‘You see? I don’t need you to speak to answer my questions. Not all of them. Now, one last time, where is Marta Banks?’
Airie tried to match her gaze, but what little resistance she had left was fading. She felt like she would tell this woman anything if she only asked. This question, however, was one she couldn’t answer.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Dreggo lifted a hand to strike Airie again, then paused, a strange look on her face. She looked back towards the door, the façade of authority dropping away. Airie began to hope as uncertainty came into Dreggo’s one human eye.
The door opened. At first Airie thought someone had cut the lights, then she realised that the whole corridor was blocked by a huge man wearing a black cloak. He was so tall that he had to bow his head to enter, and even inside the room his cloaked head grazed the ceiling.
‘Dim the lights, Dreggo,’ he said, his voice so deep Airie wondered if she had been drugged. The world seemed to be slowing down around her.
As the glaring spotlights were replaced by a dimmer glow, he reached up and pulled back his hood.
Airie stared. His features were Afro-Caribbean, but his skin was milk-white, right down to the close-cropped hair. No hint of colour tinted cheeks that were smooth and ageless, and if it wasn’t for the blazing red eyes that glared into her soul he could have been carved out of marble.
One massive hand gently caressed her forehead. Airie was too terrified to breathe, let alone struggle. She remembered her brief battle with the Huntsman in the falling elevator. It had pressed her face against the floor and leaned close, telling her in pieces of words to stay still. Despite the snarling, dripping maw and the wires barely hidden by tufts of fur, she had seen emotion in its human eyes. In the eyes of this man however, there were none.
‘My Lord….’ Dreggo stepped aside, but the man lifted a hand.
‘Wait, Dreggo. She will be yours again soon.’
His voice was like the languid flow of a canal. Tell me where she is, she heard him say, not realising at first that his lips hadn’t moved, that his voice was inside her head. Tell me what you know of Marta Banks.
She had never felt such a sense of invasion before. Her brother had sold her body but this was different. Something was in her mind, knocking about in there, looking for answers she couldn’t consciously control. She felt herself gagging, and then a rush of bile sprayed from her throat, splattering the tabletop. Airie coughed. Dreggo glared at her from the corner.
The towering man gave a slow nod. ‘Hmm.’ He turned back to Dreggo. ‘She knows nothing of Marta Banks,’ he said. ‘Take her to the cells. She might still be of some use. Leave her unharmed. I want her defiance intact.’
Then he was gone, stepping back through the door, which a nervous guard closed behind him. As he went out, Airie felt the fingers that seemed to be squeezing her mind first relax, then vanish altogether. She stared at Dreggo.
‘Who was he?’ she whispered.
Dreggo stepped forward and reached for Airie’s bonds. When she spoke her voice carried a level of reverence Airie hadn’t heard before. ‘He is the man who gave you everything,’ she said. ‘He is Maxim Cale, the Lord Governor of Mega Britain.’
The cell was cold and dark. Straw matting beneath her feet was crusted with long-dried feces, but the guards had provided her with a metal pan, and every few hours someone came along and tossed a bucket of cold water over her in what she could only assume was a prison shower. Food was a plate of something mashed with a cup of cold soup. For an hour after the guards left the first tray she tried to let a hunger strike be her rebellion, but her stomach quit on her, and she wolfed down the food in a few desperate swallows. The days became a waiting game, with nothing to do b
ut sit shivering in her wet clothes while she listened to cries for help coming from other cells further down the dim corridor.
She hadn’t realised she had been dozing when she looked up to see Dreggo peering through the bars, Heyna standing at her shoulder.
‘Good news, Little Marta. A use has been found for you. Our Lord Governor has decided to call a public address with you as the guest of honour. In return for information regarding your boyfriend and the bitch with the kid, plus a little cooperation from the good people of this cesspit of a city, you’ll be pardoned.’
Airie sat up. ‘I can leave?’
Dreggo laughed. ‘No, no. I don’t think you understand the nature of the Governor’s pardons. His terms are rarely met, and as a result, you’ll be required to suffer for it. Expect to die in public this coming Saturday, four days from now.’
46
Address
David didn’t like to stay in one place for too long. He moved from underground bar to gambling den to fighting pit and back again, spreading the word, telling the people. Sometimes he was a messenger, proclaiming his assertions in front of an audience, sometimes he was one of them, a mumbling drunk passing on a rumour he had heard from another man.
Often they took his words as gospel, a sea of fists raised into the air to denounce the government, other times they didn’t care. He was laughed at, assaulted, thrown out onto the street.
But with every seed he planted, he hoped that some flowers would grow.
Government men had tried to slaughter an innocent baby. Tube Riders had saved him. Their leader, Marta Banks, was dead, sacrificing herself for the child.
Sometimes they asked him for his own name, and he would shake his head, say it didn’t matter. Once he had hoped to lead them, but that time was done. Now all that mattered was that a single name slowly chiseled itself into a heart on the dead tree in the centre of London.
