Fugitive

by T. K. Malone

  The man had the most intense brown eyes, short-cropped brown hair and very pale skin. It was like, Connor mused, he was made of…but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Plastic was too clinical, stone too rough. He remembered from somewhere that statues had once been made of—

  “Alabaster,” Byron said. “Flawless, and cheekbones to match.”

  Connor found himself staring and nodding.

  “Gentlemen, please, this is no time for adulation. Granted, Kirk is a rather fine piece of creation, but trust me, he’s an absolute psychopath; just what I need to keep everyone in check. But then, you know all about psychopaths, don’t you, Connor?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Psychopaths?”

  Charm’s unwavering gaze fell on Connor for a short while before he turned to Kirk. “Connor has a limited memory. He had an…an accident, yes, an accident when he was younger. He doesn’t remember much if anything from before it. We’ll have to give him a bit of leeway.”

  Kirk shrugged. “Who doesn’t know a psychopath?” and he tucked into his steak.

  “Indeed,” said Charm.

  “Say, Connor,” Kirk said. “Josiah tells me you’re a DJ. Are you going to play? My…” He looked at Charm. “Peacekeepers?”

  “Peacekeepers,” Charm affirmed.

  Kirk placed his knife and fork down. “We’re bored, Connor; climbing walls with boredom. It’s enough to make you go a little…insane,” and he flashed a broad, white grin. “A little music, a little banter. Might make all the difference.”

  There was something deeply sinister about Kirk, something precise, calculated, even cold about him. He’d just stood there, waiting the whole time they’d chatted, then served the food and sat down, and now, with very few words, was the focus of the whole table. Byron Tuttle appeared to have shrunk into his shell, Charm appeared in awe of the man, and if Connor was honest with himself, he felt a little intimidated. Kirk turned to him, chewing on his steak as he appeared to study Connor. Finally, swallowing, he said, “What do you say, Connor, will you play?”

  “I, er…”

  Kirk cut another piece of steak and pricked it with his fork. He held it up like some trophy. “Say you will, Connor. We’ve all got to contribute else we may as well not be here,” and he popped the meat into his mouth.

  “What say you, Connor Clay?” Charm interrupted, his voice booming around the hangar. “C’mon. If my reasons weren’t good enough, if Byron’s weren’t, surely Kirk, here, has convinced you? Wouldn’t want him and his heavily armed band of merry men and women going insane, now would we?”

  Connor tapped the handle of his knife on the tabletop. Somehow Charm had taken the choice away from him. He now fully understood why he’d been brought here. They’d stripped him of the option of a “Yes” or “No” and replaced it with an invitation to join their team. An invitation that pushed him to the top of the pile, if pile were the correct word for those trapped here. He looked from Kirk to Tuttle and from Tuttle to Charm and finally nodded.

  “Fantastic,” said Charm. “Welcome to Project Firebird.”

  16

  Connor’s story

  Strike time: plus 2 days

  Location: Project Firebird

  Connor woke in the third room he’d occupied so far. He hoped it would be the last, at least, the last in this…Project Firebird. The name seemed wrong to him, far too defiant, when all they were really doing was hiding away while the world outside went to shit. But at least he now had a purpose, a reason to serve this community, and wondered why he’d been so reluctant in the first place.

  This room was better, he decided. True, it was the same green, the same bed and blank screen, identical kitchenette and shower room, all a similar size to his last one, but this had something different: he could hear other things going on outside. From beyond the room’s metal door, he could hear people talking as they walked past, the clatter of trolleys, the buzz of life. And, remarkably, that buzz had let him sleep properly for the first time since Charm’s drugs had worn off. He was down to the last two of the man’s smokes and the kitchenette was devoid of any coffee, so he’d had a shower instead.

  Another difference was that the room had a wardrobe. “Fully stocked in your size,” Charm had said, and then muttered something about the face of Project Firebird needing to look good before he’d eventually left. It felt good putting on clean stuff, normal stuff, although normal in this case meant a pair of combats—and not in green but a sandy color—a black, long-sleeved top, and decent, strong boots. They felt alien when he put them on, heavy, like walking around with two weights strapped to his feet. It was while he paced up and down, trying to break them in, that it dawned on him he’d never walk the swept and mirror-like pavements of the grid again, that boots would probably be his footwear of choice until he died. If he saw Tuttle again, he’d add boots to the critical list of “fuel and bullets”.

  He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair and took out the second-to-last smoke. He was dreading going outside.

  Molly Hunter suddenly sprang to mind. Assuming Charm, as confirmed by Byron Tuttle, did everything for a reason, it could therefore have been construed that Molly Hunter had been placed in his first cell for a reason. As he lit the cigarette, he backed into the room’s chair and sat down. Molly Hunter? he wondered. What relevance could she have? Just thinking about her made him smile. Though brief, she’d made an impression on him. What had Charm called her? The imposter, that was it. Was that the reason they’d been introduced? So Charm could display his band of misfits? Molly Hunter? he wondered again, and sucked in the last of the cigarette’s smoke.

  “Is there not one fucking ashtray in this whole place?” he shouted at the empty room, before getting up and pulling the door open. Standing in the doorway, he watched as people walked past. Some were still wearing canvas jumpsuits, others which looked like surgical scrubs, a few, combats like him. He drew the odd curious glance, a lingering look in passing. Rather than dither further, he joined the anonymity of the flow without the slightest clue as to where he was going.

  “Connor,” he heard a woman’s voice shout, and he turned to see the beaming face of Molly Hunter herself. She hurried toward him, scything through the crowd with clear intent. “Where are you going? The canteens are this way,” and she pointed behind her. Relief washed over him, and he welcomed her with a broad smile. She grabbed his hand and dragged him along.

  The canteen was just like the one at Free World Radio: an array of orderly tables, a staffed counter at one end and what looked like washrooms at the other. A few of the tables were in use, folk hunched together in fours or sixes, eating and chatting, some whispering, some clearly still upset, and some who’d found laughter again, though their chuckles had a nervous edge.

  “You hungry?” Molly said.

  Connor nodded. “I could eat.”

  She grabbed a tray and a plate and walked along the line of food, loading her plate. Connor followed. “You eaten here before?” she asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s okay. No Free World Bar And Grill, but it ain’t too bad. The guacamole’s crap, in my opinion.”

  Connor only grunted, letting her do the speaking. It was dawning on him how useless he was at casual conversation. For a man who plied his trade the way he did, it was amazing he’d gotten to the top of his game. Molly, though, was undeterred by his silence, telling him all he needed to know about the place. She’d barely taken a breath before they’d sat down.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Molly asked.

  “Deciding,” Connor said. “Deciding whether…what to do.”

  “What do you mean? You haven’t got a choice. None of us have. Fuck me, Connor, there’s nothing to decide. We’re all fucked here, all of us.” She looked across the table at him. “What makes you so special?”

  Connor’s mouth fell open. The truth of her words stung. What had he been thinking? “I’m not,” he whispered. “I had
a brother, a brother who would question everything. I guess…”

  Molly reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “Guess what? You told me already. You gotta shape up there, Connor Clay; a lot of people are waiting on you.”

  “On me?”

  “Sure,” she said, pulling her hand away. “The rumor you’re here’s what’s kept most of the folk sane. I work in micro farming. You wanna know what my daily chores are? Seeds, Connor, seeds, trays, lights and lamps. We’ve got the seeds laid out on rows and rows of rotating steel trays, each being drip fed all the nutrients they can handle, getting just enough light so they don’t burn up. Do you know, Connor, just how boring that is without a bit of distraction?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She polished off the rest of her food. “Don’t be,” she presently said through a mouthful. “A few folk heard you were here and threatened to kill themselves—reckoned you’re the reason the Black City should have been blown up.”

  Uncertain, he stared at her, mouth agape, but Molly began to snigger. “Seriously, Connor, you’ve got to get a grip. Think about it all. Forget whatever conspiracy theories you’ve got going around in your head. Three hundred…four hundred folk trapped in a bunker. There are micro farmers like me, and engineers, scientists, experts in nearly every field, and as far as I can tell, they have one thing in common.”

  “What?”

  “They can all build a new society, Connor, they’re all uniquely qualified to rebuild the world,” and Molly sat back. “And then there’s you, Connor, you. The only one qualified to make sure we can hold it all together. So we can survive.”

  But that couldn’t be it, Connor thought. How could it? And that, he decided, was what was bugging him. Why was he really here? Out of nine million people, why him? When all the reasons for Charm’s selection were added up, and despite Byron Tuttle’s vote of confidence, entertaining the populace was not, in his opinion, enough to make the cut.

  “I’m sorry,” Molly said, “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean to say we were more valuable than you.”

  Connor looked at her. “That’s okay. I already know that.”

  “Thing is, Connor, we’re all on the edge, all of us, just about holding it together. No one knows what’s in store for us, but we all know it won’t be great. I think that secretly each of us is wishing we’d died—that would have been easiest.”

  “What do you think it was like?” Connor asked, but Molly just inclined her head in apparent confusion. “When they knew,” Connor continued. “When they knew that the end was coming. Do you think they were told the truth?”

  “How would they have even known?”

  “They’d have seen ours go up? The news? Rumors? Surely they wouldn’t have just been drinking, eating, and then…”

  “I’d have preferred that,” Molly said, her voice hushed. “No goodbyes.”

  “We joked about it; me, my brother and a man called Billy Flynn. We wondered if Oster Prime had the stones to push the button. You see, dissident or not, traitor or not, my brother still wanted to be on the winning side. To everyone, to all those he came into contact with across the counter of his bar, he despised the government, the flag, the law, but deep down…” But then Connor wondered why he was sharing this with a stranger, more used to sharing his thoughts with Sable.

  “Go on.”

  “Deep down, he still wanted us to win. I can’t remember whether it was him or Billy Flynn that said they’d hope our guy had the stones. In a game without a winner, they were rooting for the government they hated at the end.”

  And Connor realized then that the fear had won through, had beaten even Zac. Had his brother truly thought that Oster Prime pressing the button would protect him, or had they just wanted to be on the winning side? He could see Zac and Billy cheering on the missiles as they flew away and on toward Eurasia. He scoffed.

  “What?”

  “I’m wrong. In the end, Zac only wanted the bottle. It’s all he ever wanted,” but that wasn’t quite it. It was all he’d wanted since Teah had left. Teah, the stiff, the woman who’d come into both their lives on that day, yet that day still remained a mystery to Connor. He remembered the wastelands, remembered the vagrant, remembered the drainage tube, but little else. Then he again remembered the vagrant, the vagrant with dark skin and wide eyes, the vagrant who wore a hooded cloak tied with a rope. The one who’d pushed him into the tube. He remembered that now.

  “What’s wrong, Connor?” but he couldn’t answer. He just remembered skidding, rolling in the wet, tumbling and falling. He remembered the vagrant’s face, his stony-faced expression as he’d shoved him in, and his words as he’d done so. What had he said?

  Connor grabbed the last cigarette from his packet, lit it and gasped in its smoky melancholy. He felt his heart go a mile a minute, felt his hands shake, and knew the blood had drained from his face. “Teah,” he muttered, visualizing her, seeing her as he’d looked up from her arms. Teah had saved him, but then his brother had already told him that—time and again.

  “Who?” Molly asked.

  Connor shook his head. Why were these memories coming back now? “Teah, my brother’s girlfriend. She saved me, saved my life. Then, one day, she just vanished. One minute she was part of our lives, the next she was gone.”

  “Gone? From Black City?”

  “Just gone.” Connor knew it was possible to get in and out of the city, knew his brother used special routes, but not a stiff, not a stiff like Teah. They’d have hunted her down for that. Connor had always suspected his brother’s activities had been tolerated, but knew the authorities wouldn’t stand for a stiff’s desertion. Charm wouldn’t let that happen, and in that moment, he knew Charm’s claim was true. He had known him.

  “What is it, Connor? You’ve gone deathly pale.”

  But Connor was remembering. Without Sable, he was now remembering, wondering if she hadn’t repressed those memories all along.

  “Yes,” he eventually said, and reached for Molly’s hand. “Yes, can you show me around?”

  “Yes what?”

  “I will play my part.”

  “Then yes, I’ll show you around. Quid pro quo, Connor, that’s how this new world should work,” and she got up and held out her hand. “Though there isn’t much to show.” Molly pulled him to his feet and they left the canteen.

  “Tell me the whole place isn’t the same color,” Connor said as they walked through the labyrinth of corridors.

  “I’ve yet to come across another. Charm must have bought a container load, on the cheap.”

  “So what’s the layout? I’m just getting more and more confused.”

  Molly stopped, grabbed him and pulled him around another corner. “There,” she said, “stairwells to level one. This level is a bit of a rabbit warren. I think the word’s ‘residential’, but it's pretty simple once you work out what’s what. Stairwells: think of them as the center of Charm’s web. Radiating out from them are the residential rooms—about four hundred, or so I’ve been told. On the outside ring you have places like the canteen, a few mess rooms, what looks like a cinema, a hospital—you get the picture. All very basic, functional.” And 'familiar,' thought Connor, same as the military area.

  “So, what’s up there?” Connor asked, pointing to the stairs.

  “In simple terms, up there pays for down here,” and she started up the stairs.

  Connor followed and they soon arrived in a circular hallway. Four corridors led away, carving the level into quarters.

  “Quadrants, Connor. Food-quadrant one, maintenance-quadrant two, administration-quadrant three, and quadrant four…well, we’re unsure about quadrant four. A lot of stiffs come and go from there, so we presume it’s their bit of the base.” She pointed at administration. “You’re that way,” but before they could move, Josiah Charm emerged from its corridor.

  “Ah, there you both are. Molly,” he said, bending down and taking her hand. Brushing his lips against it, he mutter
ed, “Enchanté,” and looked up. “Thank you so much for showing him around. I can take it from here.” When she hesitated, he straightened and stared at her. “Haven’t you got any…seeds to sow?”

  She gulped, glanced at Connor and hurried off.

  “See you later,” Connor shouted, but she didn’t look back.

  “Quite the tiny mouse, that girl,” Charm said, “but useful, very useful. Do you know, they can produce tons of food on those little trays of theirs. Did she show you? The micro farms, did she get time to show you?”

  “No,” Connor stammered, “no time.”

  Charm embraced Connor, draping his arm over Connor’s shoulder to guide him. “You should, you know, see it in action. Words, Connor, words don’t do the efficiency of the place justice.” He twirled his fingers. “Around and around they go.”

  Almost pulling Connor with him, Charm headed back toward the corridor from which he’d emerged. “You’re just down here. Tuttle’s up a bit farther and I’m way up at the end—but then, I do enjoy my privacy. You’ll have a team—small—but a team none the less. Ah, here we are,” and he stopped outside a door. Stenciled on its surface in gold letters were the words “Free World Radio”. “What do you think?”

  “It’s, er…”

  “It’s a name,” and Charm opened the door. “Consistency is what we’re after, Connor. It was Free World Radio outside…before, so it’s Free World Radio in here.” He patted Connor’s back. “Free World—we work to a common goal: the new Free World.”

  The first thing Connor noticed about the room was that it had a few cameras and some lighting, all pointed toward a desk with a blue screen behind it, but as the door swept open, the rest of the studio became apparent.

  “Can’t believe that all you need nowadays is a desk, a microphone and a computer. Old-fashioned, that’s what I am.” Charm held the door open and ushered Connor through. He pointed. “Video area, radio area, makeup, briefing area and a rest area.” He made his way over to a couch in the rest area and sat down. “Come, sit, sit. I’ve stocked the place with cigarettes, some beer, etcetera. You DJ types are supposed to be quite the mavericks. I know your own personal monitor kept sending less than perfect reports to me.”