by Philip Webb
She shakes her head. “First we talk – you and I. About this artifact. I wish to know what you know.”
I shrug. “Like what?”
She leans back, takes a cigarette from a shiny case on the table, and lights up.
“Cass, let us not pretend I am stupid. You hear these helicopters today? That is a sign of escalation. You understand?”
I don’t answer.
She watches me through the curls of her smoke before speaking. “Before the wars start, before the Quark bombs, we find trail of something unknown in the connections between computers, something alive and very clever, like a voice, not human. We follow trail here to London and find one man, hunting alone. Not Russian but a man of this city. A man called Morgan Bartlett.”
I swallow as she says the name, but she don’t seem to notice.
“Before dying, he speak of the artifact, an object of great power and knowledge – the secret of living forever.”
Living forever … I think about how the flinders have helped keep Erin and Peyto alive for a billion years. No wonder the Vlads want it so much.
I know she’s waiting for me to give something away, but I ain’t budging.
At last she carries on. “Bartlett speak of some special one to find it, to keep it, to make it stronger, a person not yet born. And he speak of war coming. It seem not possible then. But wars did come. Out of nowhere, like a storm. A clash of many powers across the world. The artifact is just a story perhaps, the dream of a madman. But he made warning of the wars, no? So maybe he is not mad. It’s why we use germs to attack here. To save buildings, to save this artifact. Then we come back. We search till every last piece of London is crushed to dust. Why? Because even a tiny chance we find this artifact is worth this base, these soldiers.”
I can feel her eyes drilling into me, cold and treacherous, waiting.
“Me, I did not believe this tale of an artifact. For me this posting in your broken, dead city, far from New Russia, is like punishment.”
She twirls her cigarette, lost in thought for a while.
“But not now. Because we find your flying machine and your artifact, and now we have some things to defend. So, we bring helicopters, and new soldiers, and new weapons. Other armies of the world can hear of our discoveries here, and they come looking maybe. We must be ready.”
She waits for me to say something, but I ain’t gonna be drawn in.
“Who are you?” I go. “What’s your name?”
She grinds her cigarette out in the ashtray before addressing me.
“I am Commander Serov, Fourteenth Reydovik Armored Division, Seventh Army of New Russia. And I warn you, Miss Westerby, stand in my way and you lose your miserable life.”
“I ain’t standing in your way.”
“This thing – it ‘works’ for you, you said. How?”
“It comes from another world. It’s trying to get back where it came from, and it works for us cos it don’t trust you or any other invaders.”
“It is for doing what?”
Like I’m gonna tell you … “I ain’t got a clue. But I guess you have, seeing as you’re so mad keen to chase it down.”
She gives me a smile that in no way puts me at ease.
“A way to live forever – a cure for death. With this secret, our armies can never lose. And now the artifact joins with your brother. Perhaps he is this special one to keep it?”
I shrug. “You just want to use the artifact so you can go round killing everyone.”
“Enough! Time for you to say what you know. There are others. Where are they?”
“What others? I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“This craft we found in the river. It is not for you to fly, I think.”
“What craft? And I ain’t heard of no other people …”
She stands up so quickly she tips over the table, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.
“LIES! Just lies. My reports speak of three at the river when the craft launch away. I give you chances. You think I play a game with you? You think this whole army comes a thousand miles to hear your lies?”
Just then a door next to me bursts open. It’s the girl in the frame, flushed with anger or worry, I can’t tell. Up close it’s so odd to see the way the outer bars surround and support her, like she’s in the clutches of a giant insect. We stare at each other for a few moments. Even her face and jaw are held by a mesh of struts, but she’s woven yellow flowers into her hair, and somehow you’re drawn to them, not the cage that holds her together. That’s what you see of the girl – the flowers and the eyes – tender and brave.
Serov says something sharp in Russian. The way the girl’s jaw is so wired up, it don’t look possible for her to speak, but then a voice rings out from a box near her throat.
“I heard a noise, Mother. I was alarmed.”
It’s strange that her lips don’t move. The English is perfect but it ain’t what you’d call human. Cos there ain’t a trace of feeling in the voice.
Serov snaps something in Russian, but the girl’s staying put, not answering.
“Go back to your room, Maleeva. This is no concern for you.” The way Serov switches to English, it’s like her daughter’s won some kind of standoff between them.
“Everything that happens here concerns me, does it not?”
“I do not ask you again. Leave us.”
Maleeva turns to me and nods, though her face is empty. And I don’t know what makes me say it, but I’ve got to say something.
“Help me.” It’s a plea out the blue and it surprises even me.
“Silence!” barks Serov.
Maleeva just watches me from the depths of her prison, and I’ve got no idea what she’s thinking. She blinks then, and I’m sure she does it to make me see just how trapped she really is, cos without these tiny stalks that flick out and draw the eyelids gently down, she can’t do it. Then the frame swivels sharply, joints creaking and whirring as she stalks out of the room.
“What’s wrong with your daughter?” I go.
Serov starts shouting commands. Instantly, troops file in and surround me.
“Mistakes, Miss Westerby. This is very bad for you, very bad for your brother.”
“Look, I want to help you. Just let me see Wilbur and I’ll get you the artifact.”
“You think I can just let you touch it? This thing you say works for you? I know you lie about the others, about this flying craft.”
She marches ahead as the troops bundle me out of the room toward the front of the house.
We burst through open doors into cold sunshine. Hanging in the sky beyond the walls is a whole fleet of helicopters – enormous ones with two sets of blades. And there, facing us below the steps, are ranks and ranks of soldiers. But they ain’t your bog-standard soldiers. They’ve all got machine frames like Maleeva – but larger than hers and stacked with armor. And they all carry fearsome guns, way too heavy for any normal man. But worst still is their faces. I don’t notice till we get up close. Where their eyes should be, there’s just holes. They all stand at attention as Serov steps forward, and I can’t figure that out, cos how can they even see her? Then on one of them I clock a movement in the shadow under its helmet, as upward of eight bloodshot eyes all blink at once and then glare out in every direction. Machine-men.
Serov turns to me. “This is my Cossack elite. Okhotniks – hunter corps. Where will they go?”
All I can do is shake my head.
Then someone steps out from behind me. And there’s no mistaking that trench coat. It’s our scav gangmaster.
He stares at me, then fiddles with his pinky ring to stop his hands trembling.
“Elephant and Castle. That’s where she’s from.”
CAT’S CRADLE
I try speaking to Serov, but she sure ain’t listening now.
One of the Okhotniks whisks me up and hares off toward the main gate. I’m pinned against its armor, so close to its monstrous head that I ca
n see each eye is a different color. It breathes, but it’s hard to think of it as human, cos there’s lines of stitching all across its neck and face like it’s made up of bits of wounded soldiers all sewn together. Over its shoulderplate, I can see Serov and our old gangmaster and more Okhotniks running to keep up.
As we charge through the main gate, I see jeeps and soldiers and piles of crates all gathered on the road – an army landing from the sky. We make a beeline for this hovering helicopter, smaller than the double-rotor ones. The chock-chock of the engine becomes a roar, and the gale from the blades flattens down the grass. I get bundled through the open hatch from one Okhotnik to another, then I feel the helicopter lift and tip forward. I can’t move much, but I spot that Serov and the gangmaster are on board, too.
It’s so crowded, I only get glimpses of the London buildings skating past the hatch. The Okhotniks don’t say a word – they just squat or stand, waiting for orders, sometimes checking their weapons. They’re there all right, but it’s like they’re sleepwalking, in a place where no pain, no loss, no feeling at all can touch them.
I hold it together, but I’m numb with terror. It don’t take brains to figure out why we’re headed for Elephant and Castle. I pray that maybe Peyto and Erin have got back there and somehow persuaded everyone to make a break for it. But it’s like what Dad said at the meeting house – just where are they gonna run to?
The flight lasts about ten minutes. I can see the gangmaster pointing stuff out to Serov, then, as we come in to land, the Okhotniks bail out through the hatch and I’m on the move again. The engine dies, the blades creak to a halt, and as all the troops around me step aside, I find myself on a little hill just out the back of the village by the sheep pens. For a few moments it’s like nothing’s changed. Smoke escapes from the turf ‘n’ timber huts, a lone piglet scurries through the streets, looking for shelter, gulls return to the rubbish dump. And in twos and threes, the scavs I’ve known all my life come outside.
They stare up at me from their little family huddles, not speaking, looking absolutely terrified. Near the edge of one group, I spot Dad, and next to him, Peyto and Erin. Seeing them is like being ripped in two. My dad, even from here, looks years older. Erin clutches her chest, rocking gently on her heels, half her face hidden behind hair. Peyto stands upright, a little apart from them, eyes wide open, not squinting like the others. I want to hug them and make them disappear at the same time.
Serov turns to the gangmaster. “Where are these new people you speak of? Go to them!”
He trudges down and starts to wander between groups of scavs. Everyone just ignores him, standing their ground as he checks them out. My head starts pounding when he gets close to Peyto and Erin.
And then, out the blue, someone makes a break for it. I know him by his patchwork trousers and his floppy hat. Fred the pigherd. No one else moves. I go rigid from my jaw to my scrunched-up toes. There ain’t no way he’s gonna make it. Serov looks at the gangmaster, who shakes his head. Someone shouts, “Fred, stop!” But he ain’t stopping for no one – spooked as he must be at coming face-to-face with his machine-men. Serov waits till he’s reached the last huts, then she mutters an order.
The Okhotnik next to me lifts its rifle and fires. The shot catches Fred square between the shoulder blades and he crumples facedown into the mud even before the echoes fade. From somewhere in the crowd rises a dreadful cry and a few of the little ‘uns break out wailing.
“Search!” Serov barks at the gangmaster.
Even he looks terrified now as he picks up where he left off. And he’s so close to Peyto and Erin now, but he stumbles and looks wildly from one scav to another.
Serov turns to me. “Where are they?”
My head rings with the gunshot. The way poor old Fred lies spread-eagled, it’s like he’s clutching at the earth …
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
“There ain’t no others. I keep telling you, it’s just me and Wilbur –”
“If you do not give them up, I will kill everyone in this place. You understand?”
“But there ain’t no one else! Honest, you got to leave these people alone. They don’t know nothing about the artifact.”
My knees are so weak I just want to drop into the mud and beg. I can’t betray them …
“Make your choice, Cass Westerby.” Serov glances once at her watch and wipes a speck of mud from her gloves.
I look at all the villagers rooted to the spot, shoulders slumped, eyes to the mud now. They know there ain’t no point in running. And they could hand over Peyto and Erin in a heartbeat, except they don’t. I can’t help but stare at Peyto then, and he’s the only one looking back at me. He passes something carefully to Erin – a tinge of blue light in the shadows between them.
And then he steps forward.
Erin moves, too, but Dad holds her firm. Peyto just keeps on walking, up the slope, right toward us, and all the while he stares at me. He stops right in front of Serov.
“My name is Peyto,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m who you’re looking for. There are no others here. I came alone. If you’re smart, you will leave these people be, because if you don’t, I’ll … destroy the artifact.”
“So, you are third one at riverbank …” Serov’s lips tighten into an awful smile. “If you speak lies like Cass, these people all die tonight.”
She signals for the helicopter to start. I catch a glimpse of Dad comforting Erin, and in the sunlight I see tears on his face, which is something I ain’t seen before, even when Mum died.
On the flight back, I feel that if I keep my eyes on Peyto, he’ll be safe somehow. We’re too far apart to talk. But when we’re coming in to land back at the Vlad base, he mouths one word to me – “Wilbur.” And I mouth one back – “Alive.”
I get took off the helicopter first and I don’t see Peyto after that. An escort of four Okhotniks leads me all the way up to my prison cell, where I sink to the floor and crawl into a ball. I lie there for ages, not moving, just listening to the comings and goings of soldiers and the beating thunder of helicopters. No one comes for me.
I’m so done in, so beaten that I’m ready to give up – it lurks inside me for the first time ever, the black feeling of defeat. Over and over I see old Fred fall into the mud. And I think of the villagers – Turnley and his sons, and Mabel, and Jacob Armitage the preacher, the scavs I’ve known forever, surrounded and scared. But then I feel this tickling on my wrist, and out my sleeve scuttles a spider. The same one as on the ship? I’m gobsmacked there’s any of them left after what I’ve been through, but somehow they just keep turning up from wherever they’re hiding in my clothes, when I’m least expecting it. And I let it scurry over my limp fingers this way and that, till I twig that it’s building a web. The threads link my fingers and thumb in a span of spider silk that wafts in and out with my breath. The more I let it beaver away, the less I want to break up what it’s done. Though I know I’ve got to sometime. If I don’t just give up and lie here forever, that is. And it’s weird, cos I know this ain’t your average spider weaving your average web. All them spiders was changed somehow after touching Peyto’s flinder back in Little Sanctuary. And this one’s sticking with me no matter what. But more than that – the way it’s spinning silk, it’s like it’s trying to chivy me, or protect me, or say something to me.
So I watch it. And I try to think about the flinders, the mystery of them, what they are, what they’re for. The voices inside them. The way they send out sleepers’ dreams for the terraforming business. And maybe that, too, is like weaving a web, lines of dreaming spun out into the world. For hours the spider works, till evening comes and I can only see it by the slit of light under the door. And I can feel the strands of the web clinging to my skin, pulling the fingers tighter. Into what? A fist? Is it saying fight? At last it stops, like it’s run out of silk, then it heads into my jacket pocket. Job done.
I lay there staring at the shimmer that hangs between my fingers – all the tight
meshings and stays, like the most beautiful cat’s cradle ever. And at last I fall asleep.
I’m standing on the edge of the Thames, my feet sinking into sludge, and I catch Wilbur’s singing, from miles away. But this time, he’s coming toward me, standing just under the water, like before, the waves peeling back from his bare ankles. His song rises and calls to me, so that all my blood hums in time to it. And when he’s nearly at the shore, he just lifts clean out the water, standing on some black humpbacked thing that sweeps over my head and right past me …
I wake up with a start. Shouting from the corridor outside, and heavy footsteps running down the hall. I jump up and turn to the window and nearly scream out, cos there’s someone there, face pressed up against the bars! Maleeva.
Before I can do or say anything, she reaches back with one hand and punches through the glass.
“What on Earth are you doing here?” I go.
“Helping you,” she says in her dead voice, lips firmly stuck together. “It is what you asked me to do, isn’t it?”
“But … but why?”
“Your brother. The cellar where he’s being held is heavily guarded. I can’t get anywhere near him, but he’s trying to reach me.”
“You mean he’s awake?”
“No, he’s still unconscious … But I know he’s trying to break free. He’s trying to keep the artifact safe, Cass.” She strokes her forehead and closes her eyes for a second.
“He’s trying to reach you? How?”
“It’s not just me. He’s trying to reach everyone. Anyone who’ll listen. Even soldiers. Some of them are refusing to obey orders … Didn’t you hear it? He’s singing inside everyone’s dreams.”
I see Wilbur standing on the river surface, in my dream, waiting, calling out. And I remember Peyto telling me about the test, back on Homefleet, to see if you’re a match for a flinder – the way it helps you share dreams …
“Cass, the artifact must be gone from here. Away from my mother. Only Wilbur can take it away.”
I try to take that on board – how can he take it anywhere, when he’s asleep?
