He’s being modest, and it suits him. I look at his lightly tanned skin, his white teeth and his sandy hair, and remember what Nia said about me being rich. If I am, then so is Paxton. His confidence, too, borders on arrogance. He’s a guy who’s never been turned down. No one would dare refuse him anything. He’ll make a good ally.
I’m momentarily distracted by a glimpse of something on the beach – a twisted hulk of rusting metal, crusted with salt and barnacles. It looks like the skeleton of some large machine – a plane, perhaps, or another bus just like this one, stranded and disintegrating like a mechanical beached whale.
Paxton nods at my blue shirt.
‘I hope this doesn’t mean we’re related,’ he says, with a suggestive twinkle.
I hadn’t considered that. There is a certain resemblance between him and Sandra.
‘Hey,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘You’re the one who says I look familiar. You tell me if we’re related.’
He grins. ‘I don’t think we are. I can’t remember anything about you. But I’ve definitely seen you before. There’s no way I’d forget a face that beautiful.’
I smile up at him, hoping that a little flirtation might ease the thumping panic in my chest.
‘So what do you think it is?’ he asks. ‘The shirts, I mean.’
I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. ‘I thought maybe the red shirts are criminals … and we’re innocent.’
Paxton’s eyes light up. ‘That makes a lot of sense,’ he muses. ‘You, me, Sandra and the old lady are blue, and we don’t look like criminals. But look at the others – look at that girl with the shaved head. And the guy with the tatts. He’s totally a criminal.’
Nia isn’t the only one keen on making snap judgements. ‘Er,’ I say. ‘It was only a theory. I mean, what about Edwin? He doesn’t exactly look like a master criminal.’
Paxton winks at me. ‘The clever ones never do,’ he says. ‘Either way, you and I had better stick together.’
The twinkle is back, and I bask in his approval. I let my eyes drift over his well-muscled arms and chest. He’s probably a swimmer or a rower. I imagine those arms encircling me, that chest pressed against my back. He’d be good to spoon with. Desire is a welcome distraction from the blank fog in my mind, and the terror of unknowing.
‘All joking aside,’ he says, looking at me with a serious expression. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I know we only just met – or at least I think we did – but I feel really comfortable around you.’
I could drown in those blue eyes.
‘I feel comfortable around you, too,’ I say. And I mean it. Paxton’s charm, his confidence, makes me feel safe. It’s like nothing can touch me, because nothing can touch him.
‘Is this …’ He grins. ‘Is this the part where we hug?’
I laugh, and he spreads his arms wide. ‘Bring it in.’
I lean in and can’t help sighing a little as his arms close around me. He feels solid and real, and I move a little closer, fitting myself against the broad expanse of his chest, letting the hug continue for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.
The hug is undeniably comforting, but it also feels … familiar. Paxton even smells familiar – nutmeg and cedar – a cologne?
The bus swims around me and I close my eyes as I’m hit by a flash of memory.
A wardrobe, my face pressed against coats and jackets. The scent of wool and leather and lilac perfume, and closer, nutmeg and cedar.
Someone behind me, their body pressed close against mine, their chest against my back. Arms encircle me, restricting my movement.
A hand over my mouth.
Hot breath on my neck.
Don’t make a sound.
I want to scream.
I pull away with a jolt.
I’m on a bus.
There’s a guy standing close to me, his forehead wrinkled. He looks like he knows me. Do I know him?
I take a deep, shaking breath. Little wisps of myself return, but not enough.
Paxton. His name is Paxton.
I’m on a bus.
I have no memory.
‘Are you okay?’ Paxton frowns. ‘I hope I didn’t … overstep anything.’
‘No,’ I murmur, blinking, trying to piece myself together from floating fragments. ‘I’m fine. A weird little … déjà vu.’
‘Are you sure?’
Paxton is still staring at me, concern written all over his absurdly handsome face. Maybe I do recognise him? Or maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe the memory wasn’t even real. Maybe it was a dream.
I smile up at Paxton and his blue eyes are as calming as the ocean itself. I swim around lazily in them, feeling my heart-rate slow. There’s a definite fizz when we look at each other. A mutual attraction. I lean into it, because what the hell else am I supposed to do?
‘Come and sit next to me,’ I say. ‘The aircon in here is pretty strong, and I might need someone to keep me warm.’
A grin splits his face open, and I let him follow me up the aisle. Nia looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes in disgust. I smile sweetly back at her, and sink into the seat behind hers. Paxton sits next to me.
We settle in, and I snuggle up against him, resting my head on his shoulder. His presence is like an anchor, tethering me to reality. We’re immediately comfortable around each other, as if I know exactly how his body works, and how mine fits against it.
It’s almost as if we already know each other.
3
DAY 1
13:51
Hunger gnaws at me.
I can’t remember what eating feels like. What kind of food do I prefer? I think about hamburgers and ice-cream and sushi. Do I like those things? Do I like sweet or sour or umami?
I swallow my last mouthful of water. It tastes of chlorine. Does all water taste like this?
Are … they … going to feed us?
How long is this going to go on for?
Are we nearly there, wherever there is?
How long does it take before people turn to cannibalism?
I glance around. Sandra has her fingers pressed to her forehead, her eyes closed, like she has a headache. Nia is staring out the window. Riley is pacing up and down the aisle. He looks jittery, like he can’t keep still. His hands are trembling, and he keeps checking his pockets as if he’s looking for something. I wonder if he’s a smoker, or even dependent on something heavier. His expression is tight with tension.
Edwin is curled up in his seat, his head pressed against his knees.
Everyone is quiet. It’s hard to make small talk when you have no idea who you are.
I keep reaching inside myself, hoping that something will emerge. I mentally shout trigger words into the fog, but nothing comes out.
Mother.
Father.
Home.
Mistake.
Paxton is asleep beside me, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, breathy snores. His mouth hangs slightly open, and he looks peaceful and content. He’s adorable, and I’m envious – how can he settle down enough to fall asleep? I’m terrified that if I close my eyes, the fog will swallow everything, leaving only an empty husk.
I try to remember the details of what happened when I hugged him. Something to do with a wardrobe. The smell of nutmeg and cedar. A hand over my mouth.
Could it have been Paxton? Could we really have known each other before this? It’s not out of the question, there’s a definite connection between us that I think goes beyond mere physical attraction. But whoever was in that wardrobe with me … I don’t think they had my best interests at heart. I remember a rising scream in my throat, and the wetness of tears on my cheeks. I close my eyes and there’s more. A large hand gripping my wrists too tightly. I hold up my hands. Are there bruises on my wrists? I squint, but I can’t tell. Maybe, or maybe it’s a trick of the light.
I look over at Paxton’s hands, relaxed and open-palmed on his knees. I reach over and br
ush his fingers softly. His eyes open for a moment, and he smiles a sleepy smile at me before sinking back into sleep.
It couldn’t have been him.
It might not even be my memory. It could be something I saw on TV or read in a book.
I turn to look out the window. More jungle. Vines and trees and glossy green, all in a continuous blur of movement as we rush past.
Almost without thinking, I reach into my back pocket and pull out the blue thread from my T-shirt and start tying knots. It’s soothing, a repetitive action that I know I’ve done before.
Someone is humming nearby. Catherine, the old lady. I don’t recognise the song, but it feels familiar somehow. Her voice is warbly with age. Why is she here? It seems cruel to subject a little old lady to whatever it is that we are being subjected to. What if she has a heart attack?
A terrible part of me wonders what would happen if she did. Would the whole thing be called off? Would paramedics rush in and rescue her? Would we all be driven to a nearby resort for hot showers and to-camera interviews? What would it take to give an old lady a heart attack?
I shake my head. Am I really the kind of person who would consider pushing an old lady into a heart attack, in order to escape discomfort?
No. I’m not that kind of person. The mind wanders, when one has no memory to cling to, and nothing to occupy it. You can’t help what you think. Only what you do.
I lean my head against Paxton’s shoulder, and am soothed by the rise and fall of his chest, his soft snores.
Catherine is still humming her song. I can feel my own eyelids growing heavy, and I’m close to drifting off myself.
But I fight it. I fight the fog of sleep. The fog of forgetting.
I tie more knots.
I need a distraction.
Careful not to disturb Paxton, I stand up and look around. A few rows in front of me, Nia has her jeans leg rolled up again, and is hunched over her prosthesis.
I lean over the seatback. ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
Nia jumps and yanks her jeans back down over her leg, then scowls up at me. ‘None of your business.’
That’s basically an invitation, so I make my way down the aisle and slide in next to her. The scowl intensifies into a glare.
I don’t know why she hates me so much – I’m nice, aren’t I?
There’s something about her I’m drawn to. I like her sharp tongue and tough exterior. I can tell she’s just as panicked and terrified as I am, but she’s trying not to let the cracks show. I admire that.
I smile my very best, most friendly smile.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
I give her an oh really face.
‘Why don’t you go back to flirting with Mr Squarejaw Bulgepants?’
I grin with delight. ‘Are you jealous?’
Nia snorts. ‘Of you or him?’
‘Either? Both? Anyway, tell me your secret.’
She hesitates.
‘You can tell me,’ I say, trying to inject as much sincerity as I can into my voice. ‘Whatever it is.’
‘I …’ Nia frowns. ‘Never mind.’
I put my hand on her knee, and through her jeans I can feel where the prosthesis ends and her flesh-and-bone leg begins. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Tell me.’
Nia removes my hand – but gently, her fingers cool on mine. Then she leans forward and rolls up the leg of her jeans again, revealing the blue and white willow pattern, the gold crack.
‘Look.’
She runs her finger down the crack from knee to ankle, then along the letters of the word UNBREAKABLE. Immediately the gold crack begins to glow, as if lit from inside. Little lights appear in the windows of the dark blue pavilion and the boat.
‘Whoa.’
‘Right? They’re LEDs. Touch-activated.’
She runs her finger backwards along the gold letters, and the lights blink out.
Without thinking, I reach a hand forward, then stop myself. ‘May I?’
Nia hesitates again, then nods.
I touch the smooth polymer at her knee, running my finger down the gold-filled line. It feels weirdly intimate. Nia shivers. I trace the gold letters, and the lights blink on again.
‘Your leg is really cool.’
‘I know.’
I retrace my path, and the lights go out again. Then I look up. For once, Nia doesn’t look like she hates me. She looks … calm. Relaxed. Then her attention sharpens on something, and I turn to see text appearing on the seatback in front of me, staining the bland grey plastic with crisp white letters. I sit bolt upright.
Please remain calm and await further instructions.
Nia reaches forward and starts tapping at her seatback. I stand up and look around. Only the seats with a passenger are displaying text. I guess there are sensors or something. Most people have noticed – they’re poking uselessly at their seatbacks. Nia’s movements are different, though. Deliberate, using different combinations of fingers in different places.
‘You’re looking for something,’ I observe.
She nods absently. ‘It might be touch sensitive,’ she says. ‘If it is, there’ll be a hidden menu. I just have to find the right combination of gestures. If I can get into it, we might be able to find some answers.’
‘How do you know how to do this? Do you remember?’
A frown creases Nia’s forehead. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.
Nia is good at computers. It must be nice to learn that about yourself. Something real, something that proves you had a life before this bus. What am I good at?
Suddenly the text on her seatback disappears, and the entire seatback glows white for a moment. Then green text appears.
181.125.159.142@>
A virtual keyboard pops up, and Nia makes a satisfied sound and starts typing, her fingers a blur.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m seeing what we’re up against,’ she says, typing the word probe.
Last login Wed Mar 21 13:08:13 on ttys000
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03]$
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03]$ pwd
/Home/me
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03]$ ls
Desktop Xrootenv.0 belluxcmd
GNUstep bin nedit.rpm
GUILG00.GZ hitnil134.jpg nsmail
Nia snorts. ‘No security? Really? Either the person behind this is really confident, or really stupid.’
‘Or they figure we’re on a bus in the middle of nowhere and have no possible way of breaking into the system.’
Nia looks at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s a good point,’ she says, which is the last thing I expected her to say. She turns back to the seatback and types scan.
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node01]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node02]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node04]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node05]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node06]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node07]
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Master]
‘You’re right, it’s a closed network,’ she murmurs.
‘Of course I’m right. Even when I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘This network isn’t online,’ she says. ‘I can’t get to other servers, and other servers can’t get to us. It’s impenetrable from the outside, so it doesn’t need good security.’
She points at the display. ‘This is a list of every node on this network. There are the seven that are here on the bus, and then one more. My guess is it’s somewhere else, wherever they are.’
[Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03]$ ls-l
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Asking it for a list of all the files and folders it contains,’ Nia says absently, running a finger down the display. ‘Here.’ She jabs one line.
&nbs
p; D_ _ x _ _ _ _ _ _1 cb cbjp 276480
Mar 19 02:01:55 passengerdata.fol
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Passenger Data. It must be a folder about us. But it’s restricted access.’ She taps away again.
Passenger Data. There are answers. That display can tell me who I am, if Nia can trick it into giving up its secrets.
‘Can I do anything?’ I ask. ‘Do you need water? I could fill up your bottle from the sink in the bathroom.’
Nia doesn’t respond.
$ chmod g=rx Documents
$ chmod o=rx Documents
The display spits out two more lines, and my heart sinks.
Bash: chmod g=rx Documents: Command not found
Bash: chmod o=rx Documents: Command not found
Error: access denied
‘Damn,’ Nia mutters.
Even I know what access denied means. ‘Why is it denied? What can you do to make it not-denied?’
‘Shh.’ Nia continues tapping away, but the same error message keeps popping up over and over.
Nia growls in frustration. ‘If I had some equipment with me I could probably break in. A …’ She pauses and wriggles her fingers, like she’s grasping for the name of something. ‘I can’t remember what it’s called. Either way, it’s not like the bus is going to pull up outside a retail store for hackers.’ She slumps back in her chair. ‘I guess that’s that. We didn’t learn anything.’
‘We learnt two things.’
‘Which is?’
‘One, you give up too quickly. And two, you’re a hacker.’
Nia is definitely the kind of hacker who dreams of bringing down big evil corporations and thinks she’s making the world a better place.
Criminals versus innocents. Could it be possible?
‘Why would you assume I’m a hacker?’ Nia says. ‘Just because I know about computers, doesn’t mean I’m some kind of criminal mastermind. I could be a programmer. Or an IT support officer. If I’m a hacker, I’m not a very good one.’
‘See Thing Number One.’ I nudge her in the ribs. ‘Where’s your can-do attitude? Your vim? Your spunk?’
‘Ew.’
‘What does this bit mean?’ I ask, pointing to the bit that says [Bell-Server-ErasureInitiative-Node03].
The Erasure Initiative Page 3
