by E. J. Swift
Inés wakes. Her eyes rest on Ramona’s face, questioning. From time to time the prisoners remark on things, and Ramona doesn’t need to see to picture the landscape they are describing: the derelict cities drowning in sand, the stumps of bridges that once suspended roads, a dried-up river bed swirling across the sand like a desert snake. Echoes of another era, reverberating back on themselves because there is no one left to answer. The voices of Boreals before they were Boreals, before they went north, pushing into places not previously their own. Once or twice she glances out of the window and sees that the plane is moving faster than Colibrí, perhaps at twice the speed. Then she looks away. She remembers the crash. The desert frightens her.
If they get out of this alive, she will have to make the return journey south, crossing not one but two uninhabitable zones in an unfamiliar aeroplane.
But she can’t think of that. Not yet.
‘Time to act, yes?’ says her mother. ‘You need some help with those men?’
Ramona looks down at her, torn. The deluge of thoughts keeps coming; she can’t shut them out. She’s in a plane over an unknown desert and she’s on her knees outside the empty shack, with the dawning, anguished knowledge that her mother has been taken. She’s flying an injured boy to a medical unit in Titicaca, to have his foot removed. She’s with the poppy farmers and the packers and the stevedores, she’s northbound on a ship with the harvest while morphine supplies in the Patagonian centres run dry. In a crate with a family, suffocating. With a father climbing to the top of a cell and throwing himself into the ocean, at the handler’s side as she mumbles: their stuff, their robotics, their country.
‘Ma—’
‘I don’t like that look on your face, Ramona. I know that look.’
‘Ma, I have to know. I have to know what they’re doing.’
She lifts her chin, catching the eyes of the others, speaking quietly.
‘I know the plan was to get the plane away but if we all leave now, this will never stop. I have to get into the compound.’
Inés’s eyes close, shutting out Ramona’s face, her speech, and for the first time Ramona thinks she understands the meaning of the word crusade. The intransigent force behind it, the impossibility of turning away from it. She remembers her transportation through the desert. The feeling that the jaguar was walking at her side. She had a sense, in Panama, that the desert had altered her. Is this the proof of that? In crossing the belt has she crossed another line, of awareness that can no longer be ignored?
‘None of you have to come in with me. None of you should. When we land, I’ll overpower the pilots. The handler will get them to open the hatch. We’ll take them out. We’ll get out the plane, like she says they always do, but that’s as far as you have to go.’
She waits. The handler starts to laugh.
‘Of course. Of course you turn out to be a suicide mission. What else?’
‘It’s not suicide,’ says Ramona. ‘I’m going to get you all out.’
Her mother’s eyes flicker open. Whatever was fleeting through her mind, she is clear-sighted now.
‘Yes, my lucky one. I am with you.’
‘Do you understand?’ Ramona addresses the others. ‘If I don’t find out what’s happening, all of our families and friends remain at risk.’
One by one the prisoners meet her gaze. She hates herself, in this moment, but she hates the Boreals more. They will be accountable.
It’s one of the youngsters, the girl, that speaks first, and savagely.
‘You should kill them all.’
The cabin heats as the day progresses, and the prisoners fall drowsy. The handler passes round water. After that initial outbreak of mirth her face is closed off and Ramona can’t read her thoughts. One of the pilots is singing to himself. His voice is brash and cheery and fills Ramona with disgust. She runs through everything the handler told her about the compound. She thinks about the paralysis darts and debates whether she should apply them both herself or get one of the other prisoners to do the second. In the end she decides to take responsibility for them both. She’ll have to be quick as a scorpion.
Inés reaches up and shakes Ramona’s shoulder.
‘Sleep an hour. I’ll watch for you. You need to be ready.’
She nods. Lets herself drift. Never fully asleep but not awake either, imagining herself suspended above the sand, facing down, unable to move in any direction, and her skin begins to sweat.
She wakes. Inés is patting water against her cheeks.
‘I think it’s near the time,’ she says.
Ramona blinks. She can feel it too. The plane is slowing. They have been flying almost all day. The reality of their situation, the decision she has made, slams back into the front of her consciousness.
She beckons the handler.
‘As soon as we land, you need to knock on the door. Get them to open up. Say it’s an emergency. All right?’
The handler nods sullenly.
Ramona waits. Her ears pop as the plane begins a spiralling descent. There is no singing from the pilots now. They are going through the landing check. The prisoners are alert and nervous. The teenage girl’s gaze is locked on Ramona. She tries to relax her own face into something reassuring.
As the plane touches down in a series of small bumps Ramona’s heart begins to pound. She motions the handler.
Get ready.
The handler moves into position, Ramona just behind her, a dart in each hand. The plane’s thrusters kick in, slowing the aircraft’s momentum. They coast to a halt.
The handler bangs on the door and begins to shout.
‘Open up, open up! Emergency! Open up, quickly!’
‘What is it?’
‘Open up! Now!’ The handler’s voice rises to a panicked shriek.
The connecting door opens and the co-pilot leans out.
‘What—’
Ramona springs forwards and jabs the dart into his neck. His eyes glaze over and he slumps at once. The other pilot, seeing what has happened, tries to pull the door shut. Ramona jams herself between the door and the frame. He changes tactic, hands reaching for the console. She lunges, grabbing both of his arms, but in doing so drops the second dart. She lets go of one arm and aims a punch at the head instead. The pilot ducks to the side and her blow glances off his skull. The pilot swats at her. She can’t see where the dart landed. A blow lands in her gut, knocking the breath out of her. Then she sees him reaching down beside the seat, scrambling for something, a gun—
He gasps and his mouth falls slack. Ramona looks up.
The handler has stuck him with the dart.
‘Thank you,’ Ramona wheezes.
The handler says nothing, but goes back into the cabin. Ramona climbs out, retrieving the pilot’s gun and stepping over the unconscious body of the co-pilot which blocks the open door. She gets her breath back. She looks at the terrified prisoners.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘This is it.’
She points to the unconscious bodies.
‘Help me bring them in here.’
They drag the pilots into the passenger hold. Ramona arms herself. She’s never carried so many weapons: the handler’s rifle, her own handgun, knives strapped to her body, and the dartgun, fully loaded.
‘Remember what we talked about. You’ve got more darts, use them if you have to. I need you to stay calm. Once I’m inside, you can retreat to the plane.’
She looks round at them. They’re so scared. And so is she, scared of what she’s done and what she’s about to do, but she can’t show it.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she says. She meets her mother’s eye. Inés nods.
They step out of the plane into intense, blazing white sunshine. Ramona pauses at the top of the steps, shielding her eyes and squinting against the onslaught of light. They have arrived in the middle of the desert. Dunes slope away on either side, reaching to the edges of a panoramic blue horizon. The plane has alighted in front of a collection of low-rise buildings
, all linked together by domed, connecting corridors. The buildings are the same colour as the sand, and as Ramona looks at them the walls seem to ripple disconcertingly, and she realizes they are clad in the same technology that camouflages Colibrí and the aeroplane that has brought them here. A high wall runs around the edges of the compound, but there is no one in sight, no visible guards or security, which corroborates with the handler’s report. She supposes there is nowhere to run. The primary purpose of the wall is more likely to keep the sand at bay during the desert storms.
‘This way,’ says the handler. She casts an apprehensive glance up at the cockpit.
‘Don’t look there,’ says Ramona. ‘Act exactly as you would normally.’
The handler herds them towards the first of the buildings. Ramona keeps to the back of the group, the rifle concealed in her pack, the dartgun tucked into her waistband, beneath her top. As they approach, two figures exit the building and hurry outside, one male and one female. Both are clad in loose clothing and bear broad, beaming expressions. The sight of those smiles fills Ramona with trepidation.
‘You’re early!’ says the man in accented Spanish.
The handler stops. She clears her throat.
‘Yes. We made good time.’
‘Welcome to Tamaruq!’ says the woman.
The eyes of the pair rove over the group of southerners. Their smiles do not falter.
‘Now let’s get you inside and comfortable,’ says the man.
‘You must have had a long journey,’ the woman chimes in.
‘You’ll need a rest, and a shower.’
‘And remove those ropes, there’s no need for that.’
The woman’s eyes settle upon Inés, then the younger girl, before drifting further back to Ramona. Her brow contracts.
‘You’re over quota?’
It’s enough. Ramona lifts the dartgun and shoots the woman in the stomach. She falls backwards and hits the dust heavily.
One of the prisoners screams.
The scream seems to roll around the desert for an intolerable length of time before the handler hushes them.
The second Boreal, the man, stares at Ramona in shock. His hand moves towards his wrist. She tracks the dartgun to his torso.
‘She’s not dead. Not yet. Put your hands where I can see them.’
He lifts them slowly. The prisoners toss aside the ropes. Ramona can see how they are trembling. Inés pulls Ramona’s rifle from the pack and slings it across her daughter’s body.
‘Ma, check if there’s anything on her.’
Inés does as instructed, going through the pockets of the unconscious woman, who stares up at the sky, lips parted, eyes closed, the silver dart sticking out of her belly.
‘Just like the one they shot into me,’ says Inés meditatively.
Ramona comes forwards, never moving her gaze from the remaining man, who stands mute and quivering.
‘Move the woman out of sight,’ she instructs the others. ‘Then everyone get back on the plane.’ Without looking at the handler she says, ‘You can go with them or come with me.’
‘I’ll stay with them. I’m not going in there.’
‘Can you fly that plane?’
‘How should I know—’
‘If I don’t come out, you get them out of here. Figure it out.’
Inés attaches something to Ramona’s belt.
‘This looks like a thing you may need.’
‘Ma, take the pilot’s gun.’
She accepts it without hesitation, causing Ramona to wonder whether her mother has used a gun before, but she doesn’t have time for anything more than a brief, ‘Stay safe.’
She waves the rifle at the man. ‘You. Inside.’
As she steps through the entrance, the man walking slowly in front of her with the muzzle of the rifle pressing between his shoulder blades, Ramona can hear the sound of the prisoners dragging the woman’s body across the dusty yard.
They enter an empty, windowless foyer: a holding area, she thinks. The air is cool after outside and the hairs on Ramona’s arms raise in response to the drop in temperature. Two sealed doors are in front of them, heavy steel doors that remind her of the robotics laboratories at the university in Cataveiro. Doors designed to keep things in. Ramona can feel the shakiness in her limbs. She is afraid in a way she has never been afraid before: afraid of what she is going to find. Afraid that her body will let her down, and the people she has put at risk by coming here.
‘You speak Spanish,’ she says to the man.
‘I’m the welcome,’ he replies. She can hear a different kind of fear reflected in his voice: the fear that she’s going to hurt him. A justifiable fear. ‘I speak many languages.’
‘You’re going to take me inside. Show me what is going on here. I spared that woman’s life, but if you scream, if you do anything, I will shoot you dead. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many people are in this place?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘How many?’
‘Maybe twenty. No more.’
‘Who are they? What are they doing?’
‘Staff,’ he whispers. ‘Scientists.’
Coldness injects her body.
‘What about southerners?’ she asks. ‘People like them? How many?’
‘I don’t go to those levels—’
She can see the sweat gathering at his hairline, trickling down beneath his collar.
‘You don’t go there? Then you’re no good to me. Shall I kill you now and be done with it?’
‘I’ll take you.’ His voice quivers. ‘I’ll take you.’
Ramona looks at her belt where her mother attached the device belonging to the unconscious woman. A pass. She looks to the door and sees a blinking red light at waist height. She presses the pass to it and the doors slide open.
Two corridors lead off in opposite directions. The walls are painted a pale, innocuous blue, and are empty of adornment. The floor is grey and carpeted. Seed bulbs are planted in the ceiling, offering an unobtrusive light.
A corridor you might find anywhere. A corridor that makes her think of data drones in the Facility, a life without the sky. A prison.
‘Where are the southerners?’
He points to the left.
‘Move,’ she orders.
They proceed down the silent corridor, passing a number of doors marked with signs. Library. Immersives. Canteen. Ramona pauses by the canteen, sniffing, but can smell only the faint, dry antiseptic that lingers in the corridor.
She keeps one hand on the rifle, her other squeezing the dartgun. At any moment she expects to come face-to-face with a group of guards bristling with weaponry.
‘Where are all your people?’ she demands. ‘Your security?’
‘It’s not like – we don’t need—’ He stops. ‘Please, let me go. I don’t know what you want but I can’t help you. I just work here.’
Ramona pushes the rifle into his back.
‘Move.’
Garden. Gymnasium. Showers.
As they pass each door she tenses, listening, alert to movement. But there is nothing. The corridor ends in a lift.
‘Where now?’
‘D-down.’
‘Call it.’
As the lift doors slide open, she hears talking, calm and leisurely. There are two people in the lift. One male, one female. Both dressed in overalls, a mop and bucket between them. They pause their conversation and shuffle over, waiting for the others to enter. They register Ramona. The dartgun and the rifle. Panic crosses their faces.
Ramona fires the dartgun twice. The first hits its target, the second glances off something, a buckle or belt. She reverses the rifle and clouts the woman over the head. Her hostage moans.
‘Get in there!’ She pushes him inside and hits the close button. ‘Which floor?’
‘Lower four,’ he whispers.
She looks at the options, where a red light blinks steadily. Lower fo
ur is not the last level.
‘You’re lying.’
She swipes her pass and pushes lower six.
The lift starts to move. The two cleaners are slumped insensate where they collapsed. A trickle of blood makes its way down from the woman’s temple.
Lower ground one. Lower ground two… The lift judders to a halt at lower ground six. Ramona lifts the rifle in anticipation. The doors slide open. Another empty corridor, pale and benignly lit. Where is everyone? She orders the hostage to drag one of the unconscious cleaners halfway out so that their legs jam the lift doors. On her way out the woman starts to stir. She sticks the deflected dart into the woman’s neck, where a vein pulses. Only three darts are left.
The man said there were twenty staff, but this compound must have the potential to house many times that number. Is he lying? Or is something else going on? It feels too easy, like a trick. But his fear is genuine, of that she is certain.
She’s here now. She has to keep going.
The hostage leads her down a passage of numbered laboratories. At each door she listens. Behind one door she can hear the faint sound of voices in discussion, and hurries on.
Finally the hostage stops. They stand outside Unit 4. The sign on the door is plain, simply marked, with nothing to indicate what they might find on the other side. Ramona glances back. The corridor is silent. The other doors remain shut but there are people down here. Scientists. She can feel her heart knocking between her ribs. The rush of blood in her ears.
‘This is where they are?’
The hostage nods. He looks petrified.
Ramona closes her eyes momentarily. She does not want to go inside. She wants to turn and run. Get out, get away, as far from this place as the Earth and an aeroplane can take her.
Slowly, she forces down the feeling of sick dread. She lifts the pass, noting the tremor in her fingers, unable to stop it.
She swipes and enters, pushing the hostage before her.
They are inside an airlock. On the other side is a second door, with the now-familiar blinking red light. Ramona has never wanted to do anything less in her life than open that door.
The hostage turns to her.
‘We shouldn’t go in, I’m not meant to be here, this is wrong, please—’
