Also by Barry Jonsberg
FOR YOUNG ADULTS
Pandora Jones 1: Admission
Pandora Jones 2: Deception
My Life as an Alphabet
Being Here
Cassie
Ironbark
Dreamrider
It’s Not All About YOU, Calma!
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull
FOR YOUNGER READERS
Blacky Blasts Back
A Croc Called Capone
The Dog that Dumped on My Doona
First published in 2015
Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin,
83 Alexander Street,
Crows Nest NSW 2065,
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 813 3
eISBN 978 1 74343 553 3
Cover & text design by Astred Hicks, Design Cherry
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
For Scot Gardner
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prologue
Darkness and the sound of feet thumping against a metal floor. Another sound. Breath coming in short gasps.
Pandora Jones runs, but she doesn’t know what she is running to. Or from. Away from the dark? Someone’s hand is in hers and it is cold, clammy. The air reeks of panic.
A door opens and the light is hot against her eyes. Pan stops, blinks away tears, and she is dragged forward. Jen is dragging her, whispering urgently, but her words are swept away by an icy wind laced with salt. A ship. A tanker. The sky is shrouded in dark, ominous clouds and there is a low buzzing. Black, hovering insects – one to the right and another to the left. Danger lies that way. Pan can feel it.
Running again, up a ladder, across metal platforms pockmarked by rust, paint peeling, Jen’s hand in hers, and gasping breaths, loud enough to drown out the buzzing of the insects, but is it her breathing or those in pursuit, catching up with each step? Her shoulder blades itch in anticipation of a shot that never comes. A final stretch of deck and only a railing between her and the vast grey ocean, a barrier that cannot be crossed. They have two choices. Surrender or death.
Men approach, fanning out across the deck.
‘Lay down your guns.’
This is not the time to die. Not while there is still hope, no matter how fragile. She senses agreement in the pressure of Jen’s hand. Or is it resignation?
One man removes his balaclava, his back to the other men.
Pan knew him once. Maybe she loved him once. It is a feeling blurred around the edges.
‘Trust me,’ he mouths. And then he shoots her.
Pan glances down at her chest. There is no pain, but darkness crowds the periphery of her vision, invades until nothing remains except a thin echo inside her head.
Trust me.
‘Pandora!’
The voice fills the void and she bolts upright, heart hammering.
‘I need you. Now.’
Pan knows the summons is confined to her skull, but she answers anyway.
‘Mum, I’m coming.’
Pan races across Melbourne streets, ignoring car horns, the screams of brakes and curses hurled from car windows. She runs across parks and side roads. She runs until her breath is ragged and her body wrapped in pain. And then she runs faster.
The front door of her house is open and the brightness of the day makes the interior black and menacing. Pan stumbles into the hallway and stops; her eyes adjust.
‘Mum?’ she yells, but there is no reply. Somewhere there’s a faint ticking, pipes expanding or contracting, maybe. ‘Mum,’ she shouts again, and this time she catches a sound from upstairs. A muffled sob? She takes the stairs two at a time.
Her mother’s bedroom is empty, the sheets of the bed dishevelled, trailing on the floor. Pan goes to Danny’s room. Her brother. His door is closed, but her senses are alert, registering signals she can’t interpret. She knows, however, that misery lies behind the door and her hand trembles on the knob.
Her mother sits on Danny’s bed, rocking slowly, side to side. Her face is twisted and a keening sound issues from her mouth. Her eyes are fixed on a bundle cradled in her arms. She doesn’t look up as Pan enters.
Time slows.
It takes forever for Pan to cross the gap between herself and her mother. It is difficult to see what her mother holds, but Pan knows it is her brother. She moves closer, but it’s like wading through oil. Another step, another age passes.
Her mother looks up, meets her eyes and Pan gasps at the hatred in them. It’s a blow to the chest and she staggers.
‘Look what you have done, Pandora Jones.’ Her mother’s voice is hard, the words cut like flint. ‘Look what you have done.’
She holds out the bundle and the corner of the blanket falls away.
Danny’s face. White, except for a red stain spreading from his mouth, across his chin, blooming on his neck.
‘You killed him, Pandora,’ says her mother. ‘Your own brother. Are you happy now, Pandora? Are you?’ Her mother stands, takes a step forward. Pan’s feet are fixed to the floor. Her mother extends the bundle. ‘Take him,’ she says. ‘Go on, take him.’ Pan remains frozen. ‘TAKE HIM, YOU BITCH!’ Spittle flies from her mouth and splatters warm against Pan’s face.
Pan holds out her arms and her brother is placed in them.
Danny does not look peaceful in death. He looks tormented. His eyes are open and filled with pain. And then he blinks, and coughs. A fine spray of blood dusts Pan’s face and she cries out. When she looks again, Danny’s mouth is twisted downwards in a snarl and there is nothing in his eyes.
And then her mother coughs . . .
Pan screamed and sat up in bed. The dream was still with her, more real than the empty Infirmary, the weak sun drifting through French doors and a curtain blowing fitfully in the breeze. She screamed and screamed and her throat was raw and painful, but she couldn’t stop. She was aware of people running into the room, of hands placed against her shoulders, forcing her down onto the bed and the resistance her body gave, the prick of the needle, and the drug coursin
g through her system. She screamed.
But all she could see were her brother’s eyes and the nothingness within them. Their image dissolved slowly, and she found herself sinking deeper and deeper into a place where there was no pain. She curled into a ball and welcomed the darkness, made herself small within it, put her thumb in her mouth, closed her eyes and begged for oblivion. More than anything, she wished the monsters would go away . . .
‘Pandora.’
She moaned and twisted away from the sound. It’s peaceful here. Let me be. I refuse to hear you.
‘Pandora. Pay attention.’
She opened her eyes, expecting horrors to crowd in, but all she saw was a bright room, a familiar room. She sat at a desk and there was a man opposite. Not Dr Morgan, but Professor Goldberg. Pan moved her head, which felt heavy and removed from her. She had no idea of time. She took in Professor Goldberg’s appearance. The lined face, the eyes that in the past had been bright with humour, with life, but now seemed as dead and cold as pebbles. The beard peppered with grey.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said. Or rather, she thought she said. It was difficult to work out what was real and what was not. The Professor ignored her request, so maybe the words had been only in her head.
‘You will feel disorientated for a while,’ he said. ‘We had to administer a sedative when you became hysterical. The effects will end and your mind will clear. Do you understand?’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Soon. First you must receive answers to questions you have long been posing. You want those answers, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ The Professor shifted in his chair, stroked his beard and shook his head. ‘Ah, Pandora Jones,’ he said, ‘you have been such a problem and such a jewel. You are the future, Pandora, but I don’t think you have any idea how crucial you are. You will soon, I promise.’
Pan blinked. Something strange was happening. She felt relaxed, but at the same time acutely aware of everything. She remembered the Professor’s words: how she was the cause of the destruction of humanity, the unwitting source of the spreading virus. And she felt the truth of those words. The guilt associated with that revelation remained, a hard knot of pain against her heart. But she observed the sensation and, in a curious fashion, felt distanced from it. She was being offered answers and, in a visceral sense, she thirsted for them.
‘Are you ready, Pandora?’
‘Yes.’
The Professor locked together the tips of his fingers and regarded Pan across the desk.
‘I know you will be sceptical,’ he said. ‘That is reasonable, given what you have been through. But, for what it’s worth, I will tell you only the truth as I understand it. You may choose to believe or disbelieve. Are we clear?’
‘Yes.’
Professor Goldberg leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk.
‘Here is the big picture, as I believed it is called in the modern world. Over the past five years we have abducted children from all over the globe. Some, like you, were brought to The School. Others were placed in similar institutions across the world, all of them protected from surveillance, removed from the prying eyes of society.’
‘But . . .’
The Professor held up a hand.
‘Please, Pandora. Let me finish and then I will answer your questions. But this is the most efficient way. Trust me.’
Trust me. Pan fell silent.
‘All right. We abducted children. About ten thousand of them, selected after discreet but exhaustive surveillance and analysis. We did not abduct just anybody, Pandora. We wanted particular children, with specific talents. By and large, we found them.’
‘Why?’
The Professor stopped and smiled, but it was cold. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued, ‘ten thousand hand-picked young people, distributed around the world in special institutions. Think of it this way. This is The School, but it has other campuses. You will all graduate at the same time, go out into the world from separate locations.’ The Professor pulled a pipe from his jacket pocket and tapped it on the table. He took a tobacco pouch from the same pocket and efficiently packed the pipe’s bowl. ‘Let’s go for a stroll,’ he said.
Professor Goldberg led the way from the room without waiting for a reply. Pan followed. He lit his pipe as they passed the Infirmary receptionist. She shook her head at him, but he did not acknowledge her. He strode towards the entrance, a noxious cloud behind him. Pan scurried to keep up. It was a relief when they stood outside. The Professor took deep breaths of the clean air and pointed his pipe towards the Garden on Top of the World.
‘Shall we?’ he said. ‘It is a view of which I never tire.’
Once again, he didn’t wait for an answer but walked across the rocky plain towards the cliff top and the precipitous drop. How long ago was it that Jen and I climbed up here? thought Pan. She couldn’t work it out, but the thought of Jen made her heart hammer. What had Professor Goldberg said? That she was unlikely to get help from Jen. What did that mean? What had they done to her friend? Pan sensed that the answer would be brutal. Brutal and distressing. She shook her head, but the feeling remained.
The Professor stopped a few metres short of the edge and gazed out over The School, the wall, the village and the sea beyond. He took another pull on his pipe and a thin stream of smoke issued from his mouth.
‘You asked why, Pandora. The question, really.’
For a giddy moment, Pan was seized with the impulse to step behind the Professor and push him over the edge.
‘If you did that, Pandora,’ said Professor Goldberg calmly, ‘you would never learn the answers to your questions.’ He laughed, bent and tapped out the ashes from his pipe onto the rocky ground. ‘That’s what you were thinking, am I right? One quick way to dispense justice. Don’t worry, my dear, I can’t read your mind, at least not in the way you think.’
‘But . . .’
The Professor held up a hand.
‘You want to know why we abducted children and why we intended to loose a virus on the rest of the world, a plan you have . . . pre-empted. It’s really very simple. This School and the others are the modern-day version of the ark. When humanity has died, you will take their place, a fresh beginning.’ He turned to Pan. ‘You had a dog, Pandora, a number of years ago. A blue heeler cross called Daisy.’
Pan said nothing, but the Professor smiled anyway.
‘I know many things about you, Pandora,’ he said. ‘For example, I know that Daisy was taken to a veterinary surgeon and did not return. Would you care to tell me why?’
‘Cancer,’ said Pan. ‘Daisy had cancer.’
‘Indeed,’ said Professor Goldberg. ‘Your dog was in pain and you couldn’t bear to see her suffer. So, as a caring and responsible owner you had Daisy euthanised.’ He returned his gaze to The School. ‘That is what we are doing, Pandora. The world is in pain. It is dying and has no chance of recovery.’ He put his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky, a hazy sun leaking through cloud cover.
‘To put the world out of its misery, Pandora, is an action born of kindness. Some might say it’s a sacred duty.’
Chapter 1
They sat opposite one another at a table in the Garden on Top of the World, on green plastic garden chairs. It was a curiously nostalgic scene and for a moment Pan thought someone might appear with a tray of lamingtons and a pot of tea for two. The faint shrieking call of a distant raptor was the only sound.
Professor Goldberg took a phone from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. He smiled.
‘I am not comfortable with modern technology,’ he said, ‘but I must admit this little gadget is very clever.’ He put a hand on the case. ‘I have a video to show you, Pandora. I think you will find it informative. But first, we move to the seminar stage of our little class. Ask and I will answer.’
Pan’s mind still felt distant, yet clear. She sorted through the many questions and attempted to classify them in or
der of importance.
‘Why is the world dying?’
Professor Goldberg shook his head.
‘Come now, Pandora. You know as well as I. We have devastated the earth, decimating countless species into the bargain. Humankind is responsible for us being on the brink of mass extinction. We can’t even stop killing our own kind. There are more wars now than at any time in history.’
‘Wars can be stopped.’
‘No, Pandora. Wars can be paused. Occasionally. And, trust me, I’m an expert on this. I was in the military for many years, flying combat helicopters, so I know firsthand.’ He paused and a smile played around his lips. ‘Seems like an age ago now, but one thing I learned is this: technology has given us the means to destroy each other more efficiently.’
‘Isn’t that hypocrisy coming from someone intending to kill billions?’
Professor Goldberg waved away her objection.
‘We are scum. That’s simply what we are, the way we are made.’
‘Not all of us.’
‘Not all, but enough to spell the end of humanity. It’s not a question of if, but when. Here’s a curious yet unsurprising fact. If insects were wiped from the face of the earth, all life would disappear within fifty years. If human beings became extinct, in fifty years all other life would flourish.’
Pan said nothing.
‘Humanity, Pandora, has become a luxury this planet can no longer afford.’
I am sitting across a table from a madman, thought Pan.
‘What is the virus?’ she asked.
The Professor appeared disappointed in the question.
‘Man-made, of course,’ he said. ‘One of millions engineered to create maximum devastation, kept in military laboratories around the world until they can be used. Or an accident occurs. A matter of time only. We chose this one because there is a relatively simple procedure to stop it. The students were all infected with both the virus and its . . . I suppose, antidote would be the simplest term . . . on admission. This virus becomes active after three months.’
There is still time, then, thought Pan. Three months. She tried not to let any reaction show on her face.
‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Who is behind The School?’
Pandora Jones: Reckoning Page 1
