by Murray, Lee
“Why would you bother helping us? You don’t even see us as people,” Doze says.
“Didn’t see you as people until I loved one of you,” DJ replies sadly. “I couldn’t save her, but I can save others.”
“Where will we go?” Ana asks as she keeps herself from glancing towards Doze.
“You’ll go free.” DJ smiles.
8
“I’ve got you.” Doze holds Ana around her waist until she finds her feet on the narrow steps. They’re heading up the steep side of a ravine that leads away from the river. The heat of the day clings to the shouldering rocks, mitigating the chances of being discovered by infra-red, but their bulky packs make it difficult to manoeuvre safely. Nearing the top, trees fall away to the encroaching low-lying shrubs exposing them to the wind. With malicious intent, it whips at their clothing, the grit irritating their eyes and filling their mouths with dirt. In the distance, ConClave spreads out across the valley floor. Set in the circle of a hub, the roads spoke out like points on a giant compass. It beckons cruelly.
“Don’t be tempted,” says DJ to Doze as he ushers them forward. “There’s nothing down there for you but death.”
Having done away with their walking sticks, it’s difficult traversing the nearly vertical wall. They scramble for handholds of exposed roots and low branches, while the path crumbles beneath their feet. Their laboured grunts leave no breath for encouragement as they concentrate on keeping to the right and from stumbling against each other. Gradually, stray clouds gather, becoming thicker. The first crack of lightning streaks across the sky, startling them. They stare skywards, as if their gaze can hold back the impending storm.
“We need to get over the top before the storm hits,” says DJ, reading the sky’s promise.
“Tell Kym to come by me.” Until now, the two girls have been showing off, prancing across the forbidding path like limber goats.
“I can do it myself.” As if Kym’s words are a challenge to the gods, a great gust sends down a torrent of rocks and dust, obscuring the way.
“We can’t go on. It’s too dangerous,” Ana cries, her hair whipping wildly across her face.
“We have no choice. Keep moving.” DJ reaches back for Chrissy and up onto the next ledge. “Let Kym come next.” Doze helps his sister sidle past Ana to the waiting man. As she steps onto the ledge, it crumbles, sending stones onto the path below. The unexpected bump unbalances Doze, and he loses his traction with the path. His hands clawing the air for support, he hooks Ana’s arm. The two of them topple downwards.
“Doze!” He hears his sisters’ cries as he and Ana slide through the undergrowth, carving up the ground with their momentum.
“Are you dead?”
Doze groans, prying his eyes open to look into Ana’s worried face.
“Nope. Are you?”
“No, thanks to you. Why’d you have to pull me down the mountain with you? I could’ve broken a nail,” she quips. Relief beats the worry from her expression.
“Sorry. I’d forgotten how you like to keep up appearances.” He grins, noting that Ana is still on top of him, her clothes covered in dirt and leaves, souvenirs of their ride to the bottom, but he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.
Realising where she’s sitting, Ana hops off and makes an attempt at tidying herself a bit. She brushes off the worse of the foliage and unties her braid, scraping the hair back and re-braiding it. When she’s done, she’s neater, but no less dirty. “Can we climb back?”
“Not without breaking our necks.” He groans as he sits upright, amazed that the worse damage he’s sustained is some bruising and painful grazes where the rough soil tore through his pants. “Give us a hand, Ana, I’m beaten.”
Watching him wince, she lifts his arm over her shoulder to help him off the ground. “Anything broken?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. Need to walk it off.”
“What do we do now?” Somewhere during their fall, they have both lost their packs.
“We’re a lot closer to ConClave now,” he suggests.
“No, Doze, you agreed not to go there.” But she looks wistfully in the direction of the corporation building.
“I agreed to keep my sisters safe. They’re safe with DJ.” Rather than making him anxious, being separated from his sisters has unburdened him. He knows he’s kept his promise. “Let’s go get your brother.”
Ana kisses his cheek and then punches him in the arm, so similar to the angry love she showed her brother. “But he said they’ll all be dead.” She trembles and rubs her arms as if she feels a sudden chill.
Doze brushes away a piece of leaf from under her eye and smiles. “He doesn’t know for certain. Besides, DJ’s not the only one that’s been inside.” He scrapes back the hair from his scar as a reminder.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she says, pushing his hand aside to smooth the hair back over his scar.
Doze’s gladdened by her concern. “I let ConClave use me to spy in exchange for leaving my sisters alone. I need to make up for what I’ve done.”
“You can’t put your life at risk for me, for Paulo.” She ducks her head, hiding from his intensity.
“I put too many people in that building, Ana. I need to do this for me.” He kisses her as the first fat raindrop pounds into the dry soil at their feet.
9
The downpour develops into a deluge by the time they’ve left the forest and begun wading through fields of giant sugarcane. Their sodden clothing clings to their bodies, as more water drains from the sugarcane stalks and into their shoes. It’s difficult to force a path between the tightly-sewn canes, their thick stems refusing to stay bent or break. Even without their packs, the way is tiring.
“How much farther?” Ana catches a cane before it snaps back into place.
“We’re nearly there. I can see the top of the building from here.” Beyond the fields, the scraped earth has drunk its full and repelled the rain to form a thin lake. A long, low concrete building emerges from the centre like an unfinished water sculpture. Double rows of street lights bordering a nearby incoming road end in an empty parking lot in front of a pair of darkened doors.
“It looks abandoned,” says Ana.
“I guess they don’t work nights.” Doze leads her around the building, keeping close to the sugarcane for protection. They can see other roads, similarly lit, leading to similar empty parking lots and darkened doors, but they don’t cross.
“So not through the front door,” Ana suggests. “And no high window around the back?”
Doze grins at the recent memory. “It’ll have to be the roof, then.” Their dash is hampered by thick mud that sucks eagerly at their feet. By the time they reach the building, their lower legs are covered in it.
“At least it is still raining.”
Ana gives Doze a disgusted look as she attempts to scrape the mud off. Then he surveys the walls of ConClave Corp.
“Push or pull?” he says.
“A little higher. I’m almost there.” Flinging a leg over the low ridge of the roof, Ana flips over and extends her arms down towards Doze, waiting on the ground below. “Get ready to jump and I’ll pull you up.” Digging an artificial edge into the wall with his toes, Doze runs up to meet Ana. She grabs his wrists and drags him the rest of the way onto the roof.
Rows of cooling tanks push through the flattened surface of the roof like hollow sentries guarding corner utility points.
Ana rattles the thin steel hatchway embedded in the roof access.
“It’s locked from the inside.”
“Move out of the way. I’ll have a go.” Doze uses the heel of his boot, kicking backwards into the door, but only manages to buckle the metal and chip the paint. While Doze kicks like a rebellious mule, Ana scours the rooftop, sifting through debris left over by workmen too lazy to tidy after themselves. She finds a selection of metal pipes, wire and a rusty screwdriver.
“This might work better, and try not to make so much noise,” she cautio
ns.
“Brilliant.” He selects a narrow pipe and jams it into a small opening made by the batter of his boots. Recoiling at the sharp screech of metal on metal, he levers it back and forward, weakening the flimsy lock until it gives way. Ana looks over the side of the building.
“I don’t think anyone heard,” she says without conviction.
Doze opens the door and crawls in first, dropping to the beams below.
“Careful, the edges are sharp,” he calls to Ana. “And keep to the beams or you’ll crash through the ceiling panels.”
The gap between the roof and ceiling gives them little room to manoeuvre, forcing them to crawl across a spur and onto a crossbeam. Giant metal tubing links the cooling tanks above with a series to the rooms below.
“I don’t know,” Doze mumbles to his own unanswered musings. He waddles like a duck from vent to vent, peering unsuccessfully into the darkness, while Ana picks at one of a number of bundles of cable that snake through the restricted space.
“This one reads Pens. Do you think that’s where they’ll be?” Ana’s hands shake, causing the wires to bang against a spur.
“What do the others say?” Doze takes the wires from her and twists them so he can read each label in turn. “They could be in the Labs.”
“I don’t want to see them there if they are.” Doze can’t argue with her. Just the word conjures images of cold metal tables, blinding light and pain. Instead, he follows the Pen wire, his finger guiding it as it sidles its way towards the nearest vent.
“Door number one, then.” Doze flicks open his pocketknife and, using the blunt edge, he unscrews the corners of the vent.
“Anything?” Ana asks, her chin resting on his shoulder as she tries to see for herself.
“Wait a minute. Yes, they’re here.” Without warning, he slips through the vent, swinging lightly to the floor below. “Come on. I’ll catch you.” Recklessly, Ana drops feet first into his waiting hands.
The dim light makes it difficult to see the rows of cots checker-boarding their way from one end of the room to the other. Each bed contains a lone figure covered with a single blanket.
Ana pushes away from Doze’s embrace and rushes from bed to bed, pulling down the blankets as she checks each sleeping face in turn. Her actions disturb the sleeping occupants and they begin to wake.
“What’s going on?” Doze groans as he recognises the voice.
“We’ve come to free you, Mr Norway.” Doze struggles to keep the contempt from his reply. Mr Norway is one fat bastard he does not care to see again.
“Get out? What are you talking about, Daniel?” Suddenly, the lights flicker, illuminating the sleepy town folk rising like zombies from their beds.
“Go back to sleep everyone. False alarm,” Mr Norway commands as he levers himself awkwardly from his camp bed.
“No false alarm. Why are you all just sleeping here, waiting for your end?” Doze grabs the older man by his shirt and shakes him in disgust.
“Doze, stop it. We don’t have time for this,” says Ana. She has serpentined her way back, shaking her head to signal her lack of success.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of game you two are playing, but I’m going to alert the authorities, and they can deal with you,” Norway says. Twisting away from Doze’s grip, he heads for an imposing steel door at the far end.
“No, you’re not.” Doze races to the door, shouting. “Everyone, can I have your attention? You need to come with us. We’ve found a way out.”
Caught like cattle, mothers and fathers hold their children closer. Elderly couples reach for each other’s hands, while those without anyone to comfort them surge forward to watch Doze pile a barricade of recently emptied cots against the door.
“Why should we leave?”
“The trial’s over. They’re letting us go.” Unable to move through the crowd, Mr Norway steps onto one of the beds, but it’s unable to support his weight and collapses beneath him as he cries out: “No more volunteering.”
“Don’t believe him! We met a Cutter…” Doze counters, raising his voice over the building murmurings.
The word acts like wildfire, leaping from one person to the next, voices raised in fear. “The Cutter told us that when a trial is over, they kill all the Volunteers.”
“Am I dead, Doze?” Norway shouts. “No, and you know why? Because the trial is over, and we’re all going home. Even a waste of space like you.” Norway bullies his way to the front. Successfully tugging a bed from his grasp, the older man sends Doze sprawling to the floor.
“Where’s Paulo? Brett?” Ana, returning from her second search of the halls, squats close to Doze on the floor.
Mr Norway’s head jerks back to them. “They went first. All the teenagers did. You can’t expect us all to go at once, and they were making such a pain of themselves. Fighting. Throwing things. It was upsetting the little ones.” His voice trails off.
“Oh, Ana. I’m so sorry,” Doze says. He helps her to her feet as other arms reach around her from behind, twisting her away from him.
“Ana, you’ve gotta go.” It’s Ana’s parents. Smaller and paler than Doze can remember; grief of their loss evident in their downturned smiles. “Paulo told us,” Ana’s dad says softly. “He said if we saw you to say he was sorry. He should’ve done a better job of looking after you.” The reduced family hug tightly. Ana’s father glances over her shoulders at Doze. “Please, take her away from here. Promise you’ll look after her.”
“No, Papa. You can’t ask Doze that.” Ana squeezes her parents’ hands. “Come with us. We’ll look after each other.”
“It’s too late,” he replies as the door behind them shudders, its locking mechanism sliding open.
“Anyone who wants to live, follow us.” Grabbing Ana’s hand, Doze pulls her away from her parents as he makes a rush for the other end of the room.
“They’ll know. They’ll come after us.” Mr Norway stands defeated in front of the door, watching as its forward motion is barely hindered by Doze’s pile of cots.
“The children. Take the children!” The words jolt the townsfolk into action. Together, Mr Norway and Ana’s father are the first of the men to throw their bodies against the opening door, slamming it back into place. Grabbing their chance, women drag their children away from the struggle and towards the hole in the ceiling.
“Hurry!” Thrusting Ana into the ceiling, Doze passes child after child into her waiting arms, ignoring the cries of fear and breaking hearts until there are no more to come.
“Go, now.” He doesn’t know who lifts him up, but as he slides the vent back over the hole, he catches a glimpse of a tear-stained face, and for the second time in his life makes a promise he knows he will give his life to keep.
The sound of banging, metal against metal, follows them as they scramble through the ceiling and out onto the roof.
“I smell smoke.” The last one out, Doze sniffs the air behind them. Ana’s eyes widen as she realises what the parents have done. “We have to get them down now, Ana.”
Leaping off the top of the roof, Doze stumbles before regaining his feet and positioning himself at the base of the wall. He can see the smoke rise behind Ana as she drops the little ones into his arms. Child after child, he passes them on to the older children, who have followed his example and are finding their own way down. Every frightened face streaked with tears adds a stone to his belly and strength to his arms. He will find a way to keep them safe.
“Are they all here?” Doze asks, catching Ana as she jumps down beside him and picks up the baby he had laid on the ground. Swaddled tightly in a yellow blanket, the baby sucks contentedly on a tiny fist.
“Yes, Doze. They are all here,” she answers, and hurries among the children, pairing up the older ones with the younger ones while giving softly spoken words of comfort and encouragement.
“I have no idea where we’re going,” Doze cautions her as he takes the proffered child and the responsibility that comes with
her.
“We’re going free.” She kisses the baby in his arms, then urges the others to follow Doze through the sugarcane field.
Conclave Seven
Lee Murray
1
The blocky Crons crowd around the bookie, their silvery manes gleaming in the midday sun of Vauxhon.
“Step up. Place your bets here,” the bookie shouts over the noise of the teeming throng, all clamouring to make the most of the pre-Game festivities in the makeshift marketplace of food stalls and souvenir stands that has sprung up around the Conclave Village. It’s not only athletes and their supporters who are represented here either, but private citizens from all the nearby systems. Record numbers, apparently, if their Vauxhon hosts are to be believed.
“What’s that?” calls the bookie. “The Crons? I have them at four to one for the win,” he says, marking up the latest odds on his iSplay. One of the Crons throws a shaggy paw in the air and roars his displeasure, causing the startled bookie to step back, nearly toppling off the platform. It takes him a moment to recover his balance before continuing his spiel; a brave decision because adult Crons are known to be short-tempered and don’t have to be too annoyed to rip a limb off anyone they consider an irritant.
“Er… Seven to one on the Xrlfs,” the bookie goes on. “Even money on the Phemeres, and two to one on there being more than three amphitheatre changes…”
So, Rowan thinks, short odds for the Phemeres. Not too surprising, given that the species from Morpheus system have been the Games’ reigning champions for the past two millennia, having won both Conclave Five and Six. They’re clearly the team to beat.
“Rowan. Keep up,” Galileo, their guide, calls, as he shepherds his charges through the mêlée. “The Klaxon hasn’t yet sounded to declare the start of the Games. It’s not safe.”
More species have joined the crowd, shouting their bets to the bookie on the platform. Rowan hangs back a moment, hovering at the edge of the mob, hoping to catch the odds on his team.
