Crashing Heaven

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Crashing Heaven Page 26

by Al Robertson


  Jack thought of the terrorists the block must have harboured. It was hard to believe that all of its inhabitants could have gone over to the enemy. But then, he’d just witnessed a petty criminal who had become something approaching a Totality mind. It seemed that the distinction between human and other was no longer as hard and fast as it had once been.

  He set off towards the block, finding a path glowing palely in the moonlight and following it towards the front doors he’d seen from the road. Once inside, he planned to rest up and closely monitor the initial stages of Fist’s revival. When the renewal process was fully underway, Jack would be able to sleep. His dreams would be infected with Fist’s rebirth. He wondered what details would spring into his sleeping mind, seeding images of reconstruction and growth to half-recall on waking.

  Trees hung over the path, holding back the gently silvered light. Bushes clumped beneath them. Jack walked quickly until something snapped beneath his foot with a loud crack. He instinctively dropped into a crouch and moved sideways into the trees, worried about being heard but making even more noise as he went. He stopped in the shadows and reassured himself that he’d left his pursuers far behind, then looked round to see what he’d trodden on. Complex geometric shapes stretched away in straight lines along the path. He’d squashed several of them. He reached for one that was still whole. It was a hexagonal prism made of whittled sticks, tied together with rough twine.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  There was a rustling in the leaves behind him. Jack thought of the rain, but it had stopped a while back; of the breeze, but the night was still. There was more rustling and he turned through a full circle, only to be faced with silence and a path lined with obsessively repeated structures. Looking more closely, he saw empty glass vials scattered between them. That confirmed his suspicions. He’d stumbled on a sweathead factory.

  Fear bit him. Sweat was a worker’s drug, designed to make six-day weeks of fourteen-hour shifts bearable. It gave its users energy while numbing their minds, helping them focus on tediously repetitive actions for hour after hour without any breaks or lapses in concentration.

  Most carefully managed their use of the drug to avoid addiction. Those that didn’t usually ended up abandoned and homeless until the drug at last devoured them. When they took a sweat hit, they’d spend hours feverishly, repetitively creating pointlessly complex objects. Until the high wore off, they’d react violently to any sort of break in their routine or assault on their creations.

  Jack glanced to left and right, hoping that the sweatheads who’d created these objects were long gone. He moved along the side of the path in a low, crouching trot, carefully avoiding any of the little wooden structures. In a minute or so, he’d be able to find a room inside the block and safely barricade himself in. Darkness loomed around him, rich with its own ancient threat. He tried to convince himself that he’d soon be safe, that there was no need to panic. And then a sweathead exploded out of the bushes beside him, and rammed something sharp and hard into his side.

  Jack screamed and ran. His attacker clung to him, as dry and light as the bundles of twigs on the path. Jack crushed more as he ran. Another sweathead howled in the darkness. The path left the trees and crossed a wide lawn. A mouth that was all dry gums scrabbled at his neck. Pain pulsed across his ribs as his attacker jabbed him again and again. Jack reached up and back for its head but couldn’t grip it. He threw himself sideways and rolled, and the creature cracked beneath his weight and let go.

  In an instant he was up and running again. The path led round the side of the building to the front of the apartment block. Jack risked a quick glance back. Two more dark shapes howled across the lawn behind him. They were lost to sight as he rounded the corner and reached the block’s entrance. He planned to hide inside, but was baffled to see that its doors were now closed. He slammed against them. Pain shot out of his ribs. The doors wouldn’t budge. There was a broomstick pushed through the inner handles.

  A moment of puzzlement – they’d definitely been standing open when he’d seen them from the road – and then the sweatheads appeared round the corner of the building. One of them pointed a three-fingered hand at him and gibbered threats. There was a rock in its other hand. The other kept running, a single eye blazing rage out of a broken face. It was holding a vicious-looking knife.

  Jack reached up to the flayed canopy above him, tore a strip of canvas from it, and ran for a forlorn clump of bushes. He pushed himself inside them and knelt down. His right hand grasped a rock. The running sweathead approached, casting around uncertainly for its prey. Jack felt suddenly lightheaded. He wrapped the rock in the canvas strip. The sweathead jogged past his hiding place. Its knife shimmered in the moonlight.

  Jack moved silently to his feet and stepped out of cover. He swung his weapon and the rock smashed against the sweathead’s arm. He’d hoped that he’d only make it drop the knife and perhaps wind it, but it was far gone and physically very weak. The rock snapped through its arm and carved a dark hole in its flank. It collapsed, whinnying painfully.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Jack, and took a step towards it. Blood poured out like dust, staining the ground. It wasn’t going to survive. Shocked, Jack forgot the third sweathead until it swung its own rock down on his shoulder. He staggered and nearly fell. It howled at him, then bent down and scrabbled around for the knife.

  In pain, and wanting to hide from rather than hurt the sweathead, Jack turned and ran for the doorway. As he reached it, he leapt up and grabbed the front of the structure supporting the canopy. It gave a little under his weight, starting to pull away from the building. He swung his legs forward towards the double doors, hitting them with both feet. There was a crack and a moment of resistance before the broomstick that held them closed snapped in two. The doors slammed open and Jack flew through them feetfirst. He landed hard, sliding across the floor. He flipped himself over and looked back.

  The canopy was hanging down, blocking the door. The surviving sweathead was climbing through it, the knife sharp in one hand and the rock heavy in the other. The canopy frame collapsed on to its head and shoulders, pulling it backwards. It staggered and fell. Jack stood up, wondering if the fight was over. He felt unsteady. The sweathead rose to its feet again and kept coming. The canopy had knocked part of its scalp off. Jack looked round. There was nowhere to hide and nothing he could use as a weapon. Guilt bit him, and then he realised how easily Kingdom would find him if the fight left him badly injured or even unconscious. His last opponent staggered towards him, weapons raised.

  Jack ran for the stairs. The sweathead chattered something incomprehensible and followed him. There were bullet holes in the stair walls. The building must have seen some fighting. The stairs ended in a long corridor lined with numbered doors. Most were closed. A jumble of luggage bags, suitcases and briefcases lay on the floor, clothes scattered around them. There was a broken window at the end of the corridor, a fire extinguisher hanging beside it. A couple of seconds, and he was tearing it off the wall. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision.

  The sweathead appeared, moving like a nightmare made of sticks and dirty blankets. It howled words that could have been ‘stopped us completing our quota!’, then staggered down the hall towards him, kicking the luggage out of the way. Its broken eye leaked dark, poisoned blood. Yellow teeth showed through a tear in its cheek. Its shattered voice carved through the air like a siren.

  Jack stood poised, ready to bring the fire extinguisher down. The sweathead closed on him, then let itself sink to the ground, before springing up to fly towards him. Its long limbs were spiderlike in the air, its knife carving in like a stinger, its rock swinging in like a claw.

  Jack was barely able to bring the fire extinguisher down in time. It smashed against a ruined face. The knife took Jack in the forearm and he felt a tearing pain. The sweathead smashed against the wall and half-fell. It turned its broken face towards Jack. He swung the fire extinguisher again. It ducked away, and the extinguish
er smashed against the wall. The knife whipped across Jack’s knuckles. Pain flashed, making him stagger and almost drop his weapon.

  ‘QUOTA!’ the sweathead screamed. Its good eye was clouded with white. Reeking spittle stung Jack’s face. He took a firmer grip on the fire extinguisher as it sprang towards him again, swinging against his attacker’s blind side. It hit his opponent’s head with a dull clang. Scrabbling for purchase, the sweathead fell to the floor. Jack smashed the fire extinguisher down hard, crushing its chest. It screamed and lashed out with the knife, slicing Jack’s lower thigh. Jack fell to his knees, bringing the extinguisher down one last time. The full weight of it hit the sweathead’s neck, snapping its head too far to one side. Its scream became a choking gurgle and died away.

  A second to savour the victory, to feel for the pain of his wounds, to hope that he wasn’t too badly hurt; to realise what he’d just done. Sick disgust filled him, but only for a moment. Adrenaline ebbed and all darkened. Vision flickered for one last moment. There was a small figure, moving down the hallway towards him. ‘Fist?’ he said. But that was impossible. And then, despairing, he passed out.

  Chapter 36

  Jack was lying somewhere soft. He could hear running water. His face was covered, his own breath warm against it. His arms were crossed and held tight against his chest. He was swaddled in blankets. He remembered a small figure, half-glimpsed at the end of a passage. He wriggled. Pain danced between his ribs, across his face and hands. There was a soft thudding in his head. Perhaps he’d been captured by one of Kingdom’s agents. Soft voices whispered. There were two or three people talking. Jack risked movement. He carefully brought one arm up to pull the blanket away from his head. The speakers were arguing about him.

  ‘We’ve got to look after him.’

  ‘We can’t keep him.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well, he’s here for now anyway.’

  The first voice was clear and high-pitched, a far more natural version of Fist’s. The second had an uncertain huskiness to it. Jack opened his eyes and saw a metal wall. Someone giggled next to him, then prodded him in the small of his back and said, ‘Sleepyhead!’ It was unmistakably the voice of a very young girl. ‘He’s waking up,’ she called to the others. They must be children too – an older boy and another girl. Jack wondered at the adults that would leave them alone with a captive. He rolled over. A blanket decorated with a brightly smiling cartoon mouse slid off him. He was lying on a mattress, one of several pushed together. A small, dark-haired girl sat next to him, wearing a ragged dress and a shiny blue anorak. She held a cuddly rabbit and was tugging absent-mindedly at one of its ears.

  ‘Get back, Lyssa,’ said the husky voice. There was a table at the other end of the room. The older boy and the other girl were sitting at it. Both were just as shabbily dressed. The wall behind them was covered with bright, dynamic designs; paintings of different parts of Homelands. Some of the buildings had names scrawled across them – Chuigushou Mall, Glass Vision Tower, The Shard, The Acorn, Violin Square.

  ‘You won’t hurt us, will you?’ said Lyssa. ‘You killed the wicked men.’ She peered down at her bunny, pulling its nose to left and right as she spoke. ‘Wicked, wicked, wicked men.’ She looked up again, her gaze surprisingly confident. ‘You’re a ghost, aren’t you? Like us?’

  ‘None of us are ghosts,’ said the boy grumpily.

  ‘Then how come no one can see us? Not even the lions and tigers and bears?’

  ‘Quiet, Lyssa,’ cautioned the girl at the table. ‘Don’t tell him secrets.’

  ‘It’s not secret,’ said Lyssa, her head turned over her shoulder. ‘He knows,’ she concluded, whispering conspiratorially to her bunny.

  ‘Who are you all?’ asked Jack. Lyssa was now deep in conversation with her cuddly toy. The girl from the table came over and sat down, putting a protective arm around her. She looked at the boy, who nodded.

  ‘I’m Ato,’ she said brightly, ‘and this is Fred.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Deep underground, in Station’s skin,’ Fred replied. ‘About an hour’s walk from where Ato found you. We’re safe. All this’ – he waved at the walls – ‘insulates us from anyone outside.’

  ‘No sound scanners, no body heat cameras, nothing,’ said Ato.

  ‘That’s pretty impressive,’ said Jack. ‘You built this yourselves?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ scolded Lyssa. ‘Our mummies and daddies did. And Grandpa helped them.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘When the police came and took them, they left this room for us to be safe in. And they took us offweave and made us all invisible.’

  ‘How did they do that?’

  ‘Secrets from Grandpa,’ whispered Lyssa. ‘He knew that InSec were coming.’

  ‘For your parents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Realisation struck Jack. The terrorists must have tried to protect their children from InSec, and in doing so made phantoms of them.

  ‘Why did InSec come for them?’ wondered Jack.

  ‘They were fighting for peace,’ said Fred, firmly. ‘For a better world.’

  Jack wondered how the parents’ weavehack worked. It must be very effective – if InSec had been able to perceive the children, they’d have been taken into care. He wondered whether Lestak could arrange for them to be looked after; if she’d even let him get a word in edgeways. Perhaps she might listen when he told her about Kingdom.

  He sat up.

  ‘No, don’t!’ snapped Ato.

  Pain spiked in his head. The room spun.

  ‘You’re still not better,’ she told him. ‘Lie down.’

  He felt the soft pressure of her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. It was a relief to sink back on to the mattress.

  ‘We’ll look after you. And anyway, you can’t go anywhere just now. They’re looking for you upstairs.’ There was a confident finality to her voice. She was talking as much to Fred as to Jack.

  Jack felt a soft scratching in his mind. Fist was stirring. An indicator pinged. The puppet’s core consciousness would start rebooting in an hour or so. Perhaps it would be best to sleep until then. He felt that he could trust the children not to betray him. Exhaustion rolled over him like a dark wave, and he let himself fall into it.

  He dreamed that he was Corazon again. Her assassin pursued him through sleep. Sometimes there was one Yamata, shooting at him through a keyhole. Sometimes many limped behind him, never quite catching him, never slowing down. At one point, he found himself in the middle of a silent, moonlit piazza. Bone-white stone surrounded him. There was no one else there, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop running.

  When he awoke, he barely felt rested. The room was quiet. Lyssa was sitting by the table, playing with her bunny. Fred stood at the rear wall, sketching on it with a marker pen, roughing out a new building for the Homelands mural. Neither noticed he’d woken. There was no sign of Ato.

  Jack closed his eyes and settled back into his mattress. Now that he’d looked outwards, he could reach inwards. Icons flashed in his mind – Fist’s damage repair reports. The puppet’s basic systems had successfully repaired themselves. His mind, memory and personality were ready to be reactivated. Jack had to be present to steer this final rebirth. For a moment, he hesitated. Without Fist, he had felt loneliness, but also peace. There’d been solitude for the first time in seven years. Such privacy was difficult to relinquish.

  But so much had changed since they’d returned to Station. Each had become a mediator for the other, Jack helping Fist engage with the subtle workings of humanity, Fist helping Jack control the digital environment that the little puppet understood so well. Emotion poured through him. He thought back to when East had offered to neuter Fist’s higher functions. He’d framed his objection then in rational terms; now, he understood that there was far more to it than that. The puppet was no longer just a burdensome tool. He was a conscious, developing individual with whom Jack
was deeply involved.

  Commands pulsed in Jack’s thoughts. They confirmed that it was safe for Fist to reboot. At peace in the sanctuary of his mind, Jack watched as his child began to live again.

  Chapter 37

  Hours passed. Jack seemed to be asleep. In fact, he was deep in conversation with Fist.

  [ Thank gods I’m back,] chirped the puppet. [ You can’t manage without me. Rescued by children!]

  [Pretty capable kids. They’ve hidden from InSec all this time.]

  Fist was silent for a moment. [ Well, here’s part of how they did it,] he told Jack. [ This room’s a Turing cage. Nothing digital gets in or out. And that young girl’s got some fairly heavy protection running. She’s invisible to anyone onweave.]

  [ They said that the lions and tigers and bears couldn’t see them either. Must be invisible to security programs, too.]

  [ Yup. But only for a while. Their protection stops at puberty. Lyssa’s weave presence will activate fully then and break her shielding.]

  [And the boy?]

  [Looks like his broke a few months back. But he’s never been fully onweave. Must have been hiding here all that time.]

  [ He could do that?]

  [As long as they keep feeding him.]

  [ That’s not what I meant, Fist.]

  [ I know. Poor kid.]

  The note of empathy in the puppet’s voice surprised Jack. He wondered about commenting on it, but worried that that would inhibit it. [ They can’t have got this stuff from their parents,] he said neutrally. [ It’s far too sophisticated.]

 

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