by Philip Webb
I edge closer. They’re sentries, I reckon, fallen asleep on the job. One of them is on his back, his belly rising and falling with each breath, a great hunk of half-eaten meat resting on his chest. The stink of him makes me gag. His mate is curled up sideways, groaning in his sleep, cradling an empty glass bottle. There’s a niff of that, too – not booze so much as chemicals, like paint stripper. It’s the North Wilds all right.
I creep past them, trying to be sure of my footfalls, feeling out for twigs and stuff that might make a noise. The horses are tethered up farther on – shuffling about half asleep. I make a soft clicking noise so as not to alarm them as I approach and hold my hands out to the nearest ones so they can get used to my smell. They feel me out with their muzzles, all wet and warm and friendly, whinnying at me softly. So far so good. I get in amongst them and stay there for a good ten minutes, patting and stroking and calming them down. I choose a fairly big one – brown with a white streak on his bonce. Most of the others are bareback, but this one’s got a saddle and reins, all togged up and ready to go. The only problem is, the horse I’ve picked is hobbled. I duck down to get busy with my knife when a great holler freezes me to the spot. The horses shift about all nervy, snorting and stamping. Between their legs I can see a great oaf of a Feral crashing about in the bushes, howling away to the moon.
I think about just cutting my horse free and going for it, but if this Feral raises the alarm I’m stuffed. No, I’ve got to sweat it out. Trouble is, it don’t look like he’s going anywhere in a hurry. He sways about for a bit, then he drops his tattered trousers and starts going for a dump. I can’t believe it! The way he’s straining away, I’m set to be there for hours. As I drop my head, I catch sight of a stone and start grubbing it up out of the mud. It’s a big old cobblestone, but I don’t trust my aim, so there ain’t nothing else for it – I’ve got to creep up behind him.
First I cut my horse free and take the rope. There are just ten or so paces between me and my squatting target. I can see his great pale bum cheeks in the firelight, shuddering away to another gargantuan fart. That seems to be my cue. Forget stealth. I just charge him, swing back my stone, and clobber him on the back of the head. He pitches over without a peep, leaving behind a great pile of steaming turd. Quickly I tie his hands and feet with the rope, then gag him with the piece of rag he’s been using as a belt. I make sure all the knots are proper done up, and bury him under a load of dead branches.
Then it’s back to the herd to lead out my horse. I coax him through the trees and round in a big circle past the camp to pick up the road again. Then I’m in the saddle and kicking on – just a gentle canter, nothing too hectic.
About a mile on, Peyto comes flying out the trees, waving his arms. When I see him grinning from ear to ear, my heart dives, cos I know I’ve got to give the shout to Maleeva soon enough. Not yet, I reason. Get some distance between us and the Ferals.
I think Erin is quietly impressed. She don’t look at me, but she smiles and makes a fuss of the horse. I help Peyto into the saddle behind me, and Maleeva hoists Erin onto her back. We’re away. Maleeva goes loping ahead, and I keep about ten lengths behind with Peyto clinging to my waist.
That’s how the night passes, and I try to block everything from my head, settling into the ride, staring into the tunnel of trees, their branches clacking overhead in the wind. And I can feel Peyto’s body resting warm against my back. There ain’t no more thinking to be done – the plan is set as sure as a loaded sling, and the only question is when I should let it fly.
But with each canter stride north, the waiting just gets harder, till every breath is heavy, and the thought of breaking away from Peyto makes me sick to the soul.
BETRAYAL
It’s a long night and we rest only to take water. When the gray light washes in, we find we’re in open hills. Streaks of mist flit over the ruins of farmhouses and broken walls and bare hedges. I glance at the only band left on my cuff, growing ever shorter. I count up the freckles. There’s just eight hours to go.
It nearly sends me off to sleep watching Maleeva’s swinging strides ahead of me – so regular, like a pendulum. But as the mist thickens, I see her slow up, and I know her batteries have got to be running down now. It ain’t a sudden thing, but the bounce goes out of each thrust forward, and for the first time ever, I see her stumble.
As the morning wears on, the hills grow steeper around us. There are ravines and rivers and nestled villages – all quiet, home only to tiny birds that burst for cover as we come near. I grow dizzy for sleep. My horse is down to a walk, head bowed, clopping through the mud. The mist closes right over us. Then the rain sets in, straight as stair rods, but I’m too done in to care now. Only the cold trickles down my neck are keeping me awake.
“We’ve got to rest,” goes Peyto at last.
“No time.”
He jumps down and stares up at me, squinting in the rain. “No, listen. We’re nearly there, but we have to be alert now – in case the Russians are up here. There’s another village up ahead, see? Let’s put our heads down, just for an hour or so.”
With him off the horse, there’s a golden chance to do what I’ve got to do. Maleeva has stopped up ahead and I can see her poised waiting for the signal. But still I hang back. I’m so cold and wet through that the idea of getting out the rain is too tempting.
And when Peyto grins up at me, I feel the guilt as a sting inside, rearing up from my chest, looking for a way out.
He goes, “Look at you – you’re so tired you can’t even speak!”
He calls out to the others and so we cast about for somewhere to lie down. I don’t even ask what this place is called, but it’s the biggest settlement we’ve come to for ages. There’s a sorry-looking parade of amusement halls nearby and we break into one of them through the window. It’s fusty inside but fairly dry – dust covering all the fruit machines and video games, but no reek of bodies. We’re all so whacked out we don’t even speak – we just cozy up to each other, Peyto in the middle, me and Erin on the outside. Maleeva is stood stock-still in the doorway, gazing out at the street, or maybe she’s asleep already, slumped in her frame. For a while I stare up at the drapes of old spiderwebs near the ceiling, then I feel Peyto’s hand gently seeking out mine and the guilt rises hot inside me again. This is the last leg, the time for choices that’ll make or break us all, and I can’t go soft, not now. But still, lying there with his fingers cupped in mine, I can dream for an hour at least that things are gonna pan out, that we’ll pull it off. And so I shove the guilt away and turn to my enemy, the ship, and all the details of my plan bubble up, until sleep takes me down. And I dream of the ship sailing silently through the black sky with its cargo of sleepers, waiting, waiting …
I’m alone on the floor when Maleeva wakes me, her caged face just above mine.
“Just when are you going to do it?” she whispers.
“Hey! Back off! When it’s the right time, I’ll let you know.”
“What are you waiting for?”
I look over her shoulder toward Peyto and Erin, who are talking by the entrance. Peyto glances over at us – is that a worried look on his face?
“Look, I’ve got it sorted. We need to be close to Arbor Low before everything kicks off.”
“Not so close that the whole Russian army can track us down. You don’t suppose this thing will happen quietly …”
“We don’t even know the Russians are up here.”
“And we don’t know that they’re not. Cass, you’re waiting too long, letting your feelings …”
I sit up sharply. “My feelings ain’t none of your business, right? I’ll give you the shout when it’s the right time and not before. I don’t want anyone stranded in the middle of nowhere while we do the necessary, OK? Everyone’s got to be where I can find them or this ain’t gonna work.”
Maleeva’s head nudges forward in its frame, slipping out of the stays that keep her cheeks in place. I guess she’s lost a load of wei
ght for that to happen, and even in the hour I’ve been asleep, she looks worse. Her movements have slowed right down, even the assisted blinking, so that her eyes are raw and moist. Almost straightaway I feel wrong for snapping at her, and I start to say sorry, but she waves it away.
“I’m sorry, too,” she goes. “I just want it to be over now.”
“Before we get to Arbor Low, I swear.”
And so after sharing the last of the food in our packs – just a few broken biscuits and some water – we set off again into the rain.
We try to step up the pace, but after an hour we’re flagging. Maleeva has the map and keeps stopping to check signs and roads more often, and I know we’ve got to be close now. I check the cuff – there’s just two freckles left. Less than two hours …
It’s Peyto who spots the danger first. We’re picking our way along a narrow road clogged up with bushes and brambles when he clutches at me and points through a gap in the branches. Across the field, maybe a quarter of a mile away, is a clump of trees on a hill, and gathered around it is a small encampment – men and trucks and tents. A crane is being winched into position near the top of the hill and there’s a scar of earth and bare rock splitting the slope in two.
“Soldiers, it has to be,” breathes Erin.
If it is the Vlads, it’s just a small unit – no helicopters, no Okhotniks. And that’s strange, unless they’re camped in force elsewhere.
Maleeva checks the map. “It’s Gib Hill.”
“Where Halina was buried,” I blurt out.
And Peyto stiffens on the saddle behind me.
“It was all written down at the museum, where she was found,” mutters Erin. “It makes sense that the Vlads would come here, too.”
“But what are they looking for?” goes Peyto. “How can they know there’s another shuttle?”
“They don’t know,” answers Maleeva. “They’re just digging to see what they can find.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” goes Erin. “We’ve got to summon the shuttle now!”
I feel the moment close around me. It’s now. Or never.
When I speak, my voice is flat, stone-cold certain.
“The shuttle ain’t there.” I think about Halina speaking to me down through the ages. “It’s buried under some stones.”
Erin stares at me. “What stones? How do you know?”
“From the message in her flinder.”
“You never said.”
“I didn’t think we’d make it.”
“That means they’re digging in the wrong place,” says Maleeva, pointing at the map. “The stones – that has to be the circle here at Arbor Low. She tried to reach it, but she died in battle. They must have buried her where she fell …”
It’s hazy, but I half remember the photos and displays at the museum. On the map, the stone circle is set to one side of Gib Hill but very close, perhaps within sight from the trees at the top of the slope.
Maleeva and me stare at each other. There ain’t never gonna be a better time.
“Now!” I snatch at the word, feeling the threads of everything draw together.
Maleeva drops her shoulder and topples Erin, pinning her to the ground. Peyto scrambles out of the saddle to help her. Erin squeals and wrestles, but Maleeva holds her firm with just one arm.
“Hey, leave her alone!” cries Peyto. He tries to reach Erin, but Maleeva checks him with her free arm. He whirls to glare at me.
This is gonna be the worst part – the explaining. But they’ve got to know certain things or it all goes belly up.
“Me and Maleeva are going on alone,” I say.
Peyto starts toward me, but I pull the horse clear, ready to spur away if he gets too close.
“Are you crazy?!” Erin bucks and spits and throws herself at Maleeva, but there ain’t no budging from that grip.
“No, I ain’t crazy,” I go, trying to keep my voice level. “We’re going up there to bring back Wilbur, and all the other sleepers. But the only way that’s gonna happen is if you and Peyto stay right here on Earth. You can’t come with us.”
I’m pretty calm then, all things considered, cos the plan is so utterly clear, like a road unwinding ahead of me.
“This is madness!” screeches Erin.
“I’m sure Cass is going to explain.” Peyto’s voice has gone deadly quiet now.
I look over at Gib Hill. I can’t just sit here and tell them the full story. The soldiers might rumble us at any moment.
“But we all need to go!” shouts Erin. “The ship needs all forty-nine flinders to stop it crashing!”
At last Peyto closes his eyes. “You’re not going up there to repair the ship, are you? You’re going up there to confront it.”
“You can’t!” cries Erin, beating at Maleeva’s solid pillar of an arm.
“I ain’t leaving Wilbur up there. End of.” I hold my hand out to Peyto. “I’m going to the ship without you. And you’re gonna give me your flinder so I can get there.”
Peyto shakes his head. “But what if it won’t listen?”
“Just hand over your flinder, Peyto.”
But he ain’t budging.
Erin’s nearly choking with the effort to break free. “Why don’t you trust us? We were all going up there to save Wilbur …”
“The ship thinks he’s the perfect sleeper. It ain’t gonna let him go. Not unless it’s forced to.”
“But if the ship refuses …,” goes Peyto. “You won’t have Erin’s last flinder with you – the ship will crash. And wars will sweep across the world. Everyone will die, including you.”
“I don’t care. If the ship repairs, it won’t wake anyone up – not for centuries, maybe never. It’s mad. I ain’t leaving Wilbur up there.”
“What makes you think you can defeat the ship when my mother couldn’t?”
“Cos your mother didn’t have a plan, and I do. That’s why. I’ll be making the ship a deal it can’t turn down. As soon as I’m there, the shuttle can’t come back for you and the last flinder, unless I reset it. So the ship can’t complete the forty-nine the way it wants. It’ll let the sleepers go. It has to.”
“What if it can’t let them go, Cass? What if it won’t? You’re holding everyone on board ransom – Wilbur, too.”
“The flinders are too precious. The ship won’t let them or the sleepers die.”
“But you would?”
There’s no answering that. The whole thing hinges on what I would risk, what I’m prepared to do. I wait for his flinder.
Erin gives a strangled cry, a last-ditch attempt to wriggle free. “You and Maleeva can’t both go back to the ship! It’ll dock on the bridge side where there’s no air and there’ll only be Halina’s suit in the shuttle …”
“I’ve thought everything through. I need Maleeva up there in case the Okhotnik shows up, but one suit’s enough.”
“There is no other way.” Maleeva states it as plain fact. “Give her the flinder, Peyto.”
“No! Don’t do it!” Erin cries.
He nods very slightly, maybe working it through in his mind, and a sad smile rises to his lips. “When did you figure all this out, Cass?”
“On the boat.”
“Well, maybe you haven’t thought through everything,” he goes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not just a question of numbers. It’s the identity of the sleeper that matters. How the flinder chooses you, remember?”
I stare at him, and the tears come to my eyes at last. “I ain’t got time for this.”
“No, I suppose not. But you think about it when the time comes. Because you’re a match for this. More than me. We both know it.” And with that he reaches under his collar and pulls out the flinder. It sparkles blue in the gloom, a light hovering between our outstretched arms. Then he puts it in my hand without another word.
IN TANDEM
Erin begins to wail as I spur the horse forward, ducking through the hedgerow branc
hes, out into the open. Maleeva comes bounding up alongside me – her strides ragged and off balance. I know there ain’t no point in stealth – we’ve got to go for it. It’s a straight race to the stones of Arbor Low now.
I keep my head low, almost against the mane, feeling the horse strain forward, and ahead of me the field slopes upward into steep banks of turf – the edge of the circle? I blot out thoughts of Peyto and Erin. Only getting to the Aeolus matters now. I charge to the top of the slope, and the horse rears up, spooked by the sudden dip that lies over the edge. The circle stretches below me, sheltered on all sides by great banks of earth, like a crater. I slide out of the saddle and pull the horse down, trying to soothe him. Back toward Gib Hill, I can see men scurrying about in all directions, headlights firing up, and over the wind comes the sound of engines and shouting.
I watch in horror as Peyto and Erin stumble out into the open field, trying to catch up with us.
“Come on!” cries Maleeva. “We can’t help them! Do what you have to do!”
She drags me down into the circle. Here, protected from the wind, lies a ring of maybe thirty stones, fallen and half buried in the ground. They’re all misshapen, covered in splashes of lichen, weathered and broken. It’s a forbidding place, and somehow I know it’s unimaginably old – old even when Halina had been queen of her tribe. I’m dazed at being there at last – the place where she’d come to Earth all those thousands of years ago …
“Cass! Hurry! Call the shuttle! Do it now!”
I pull out the flinder and stare at its pulsing surface. I think about how I reset the shuttle, just with thoughts. Then I close my eyes and sing, reaching out with my mind, and sending out them seven simple notes. But nothing happens. Maybe it’s buried too deep. A scream rises to my throat – I feel it lodging there, building up. All this way for nothing!
But then a grinding starts deep under my boots, like boulders being crushed. I step back out of the ring and I’m suddenly showered with dirt and stones. Then thrusting out of the earth comes the dark, gleaming head of a shuttle, shrugging off cloaks of grass, like an animal desperate for air. A hole opens in the hull surface, blasting mud into a fountain. But the shuttle don’t stop. It writhes out of its burial chamber and plows right through the outer bank of the circle like it’s diving into a wave. I scramble after it, through the ruins of its wake and back toward Gib Hill. It disappears for a moment, corkscrewing into the ground, kicking up a fan of dirt.
