by S. K. Holder
A horrible throbbing sound filled the cubicle.
Connor turned his back on the window. The noise came from the laptop. Once again, the screen glowed purple. He lurched at the machine and jabbed its power button. If he switched off the laptop the flashing would stop.
Or so he thought.
He manically stabbed the power button until it was hot with his touch. For half a heartbeat, he felt as if he were being pulled in two directions, and then the whole room was a throbbing purple blaze.
He looked back at the window. He imagined Ted was still there, munching on his sandwich. But it wasn’t Ted he saw standing at the window. It was Luke.
NINE
Skelos Dorm sat on a lump of rock wondering when he had ceased having the ability to shed a tear. He badly wanted to but he had forgotten how a long time ago. This was the worst he had ever felt in his life. Exhaustion had become an old, clingy companion. He felt – for want of a better word – hollow.
His skin resembled dried fruit. The sparkle had gone from his eyes; the bags under them hung like great festoons. The prospect of living out his days in the Baruchian dungeon seemed like a luxurious dream.
He thought he might be losing his mind. He had to survive on a diet of lizards and bog juice. If it wasn’t for his ability to self-heal, he would have died from dehydration or starvation, or permissibly both, a long time ago. He laid his head on the pillow he had made from the sleeve of his robe.
‘You shouldn’t have left Narrigh,’ said a little voice inside his head. ‘As far as I know, I’m still in it,’ said another.
He gave a dry hacking cough. Ordinarily his plans came together quickly. And they were usually good ones. A little negotiation here. A hint of torture there.
At what point should I have come to my senses? When I was scurrying around the Baruchian Vaults or when I was in Undren village trying to retrieve the final Shard from Connor? Whatever made me think I could make it to another world on foot?
He had marked off the days of his trek on the Poppy canvas using his Worral Stone. The poppies were now shredded ribbons of paint and hemp.
Time was running out. He could feel it. Sense it. He felt a pressure pushing on his skull and a tightness in his stomach that no amount of sleep or sustenance could relieve.
He had three days before the Traceless would collect the map of The Other Worlds as they vowed they would. The Traceless grew restless as the days wore on. The one who inhabited his body sent him visions of his fears and discretions to remind him that it had not left. That it was binding its time. He had informed the Traceless that he had the map. For some reason they did not answer him. What were they waiting for? Did they want him to collapse? Did they want him to solve the map’s mysteries on his own?
The map would be as meaningless to the Traceless as it was to him. Perhaps they already knew this and had gone in search of another treasure. Could they still read his mind? See with his eyes? He didn’t know.
If the Traceless did call on him to pay his debt, he would of course convince them that he knew how to unlock the map, which would buy him more time. But his thoughts of other worlds were a distant memory. Aching hunger, darkness and thirst were all he knew.
He had tried to find his way back to the hatch in Undren’s Old Getty Mill and ended up lost, blundering around in circles, staggering over the same stretch of rocky ground.
He stumbled down another cracked path. He nearly careered into a wall on account of his weariness. Something brushed lightly against his shoulder. At first, he hardly noticed it. He noticed the second time because he felt a breath on his cheek that was not his own. He stopped walking and used his hand to steady himself against the wall. The Traceless Ones have caught up with me. Finally, I have their attention.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said. ‘I give up. Have the map and good luck to you and your other worlds.’
He picked up a stone and flung it into the abyss. He felt the warm odourless breath on his cheek again.
And then in a blink of haziness, a figure materialised in front of him. It took ten seconds before the figure became solid. A man stood before him: Vastra. Skelos had not forgotten him. He had last seen the Citizen in the Guild Vaults procuring items from the Guild Master himself.
The sight of another mortal being nearly brought him to tears. Finally, someone to converse with other than myself and non-compliant entities.
Long treks appeared to suit the Second Status Citizen. His eyes were bright; his brown skin flawless. His short beard was cropped to precision. He had a large canvas bag strapped to his shoulder, thick boots and an armoured chest plate adorned with gilded flowers. Skelos remembered admiring the same breastplate when he had visited the Baruchian Guild Vaults.
‘What happened to you?’ said Vastra. He stared at Skelos as if he had come across a new species of reptile and he couldn’t make up his mind whether to trample on it or set it free.
‘I got into some difficulties with the Traceless. You?’
Vastra gave a half nod as if unsurprised. ‘I’m leaving Narrigh. How did you learn of this path?’
Skelos’s brain had been underworked since going underground, now it sprung to life again. Path, he called it. There was no path, more a terrain of crag formations, bridges and steps hewn from rocks. A Rocky Wasteland. So what was Vastra doing on this path? He didn’t have a lost look about him. He seems self-assured. More self-assured than me.
‘A friend told me of this route,’ said Skelos. The lie came easily. ‘Although I would hardly call it that. I entered through an old mill in Undren village.’
‘Where’s the friend?’
‘Dead.’
‘Not Citizen?’
‘No not Citizen.’
‘Then he was not your friend.’ Vastra squatted on his heels. He opened his bag and pulled out a black flask. He handed it to Skelos.
Skelos sat down on a damp boulder. He took the flask from Vastra, lifted the lid, opened his mouth and tipped his head back. Ice cold! It hit the back of his throat. The rest of it streamed down the sides of his face, soaking his neck and the collar of his robes.
‘That will do it,’ said Skelos when he had emptied the flask. ‘You did not volunteer to stay in Narrigh I take it?’ He passed Vastra the empty flask.
‘No.’
Skelos gave a gentle burp. The beverage more than quenched his thirst. He licked his lips. Vastra was not one for conversation it appeared. ‘Can I ask why you were exiled to Narrigh?’
Vastra stared at him for a moment before replying. ‘You may not.’ He packed the flask away.
Skelos still had the Second Status Citizen’s Compulog. He never thought to examine it any further. The holographic diary could reveal more of his companion’s past, clues to his misdemeanours, his family and his connections. Skelos nodded. ‘We could trade exile stories.’
‘I know yours,’ said Vastra. ‘I should think the whole of Odisiris knows it by now.’
Skelos nodded again. This was not going well. Odisiris was a colossal planet. He would never rise from the embers there. His so-called friends and allies had abandoned him. I shall have to find new ones. I will adapt my personality. Skelos knew of four rules regarding making and maintaining friendships: F.A.C.S; flatter, agree, comply and smile.
‘You said you have a map,’ said Vastra. ‘May I see it?’
‘You don’t have one?’ Skelos’s old sense of entitlement came back to him. He has something I want. Perhaps, we can trade exile stories after all.
‘I have maps, but not the kind of which you speak. You said something about other worlds?’
‘I say a lot of things that don’t make much sense. The air down here can make you become quite deranged. Where were you heading?’
‘Enough with the questions,’ said Vastra. ‘We both want out of here. If you have information, then I suggest you share it. You don’t look equipped enough to last long on your own. You may as well give it up, whatever it is you have.’
S
kelos sighed and pulled the canvas from his robes. He laid it at Vastra’s feet.
Vastra knelt down. Chewing on his bottom lip, he studied the map.
Skelos stood over him. ‘You know what it means?’
Vastra nodded. ‘I can read it.’
Skelos couldn’t work out if he was being sarcastic or if he was telling him he understood how to read the dots and numbers on the map. Skelos stared at the Citizen’s imposing frame. He can’t be more intelligent than me. It must be sarcasm.
Vastra tapped his finger on the numbers 87, 23, and 16 that were marked on the map with a cross. ‘This is what we have to find. This place.’
‘Place?’ said Skelos. ‘There is no name for that place. What do those numbers mean? Do they lead to a portal? Is that what we’re looking for?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ said Vastra. He rolled up the canvas and slotted it under his arm. ‘This map is old. We can’t be sure the coordinates will lead us to the site. If it doesn’t we may have to return to Narrigh for our penance, for there is no other way out.
Skelos didn’t push Vastra any further about the subject of the map or where it led. He did not want to be left behind, abandoned in the ruin of the Narrigh underground. Once more, he was desperate and welcomed the companionship of another Citizen. And he would rather have the feeling that he was going somewhere than getting nowhere. If this site existed, then he would have an exquisite surprise. If not, he would give up his fools’ mission and return to Narrigh.
TEN
Oblivion.
His lifeless form shuddered crudely in a white barrel of light. Time stood still.
He had fallen into a deep sleep. He could not be awoken by touch or sound. He did not feel pain and he did not dream.
After an immeasurable amount of time, the blue sparks shot into the barrel. The electrical stimulation pinched him into semi-consciousness. The barrels of light broke apart with a snap, drifting away in a purple mist.
And then he was falling…
Connor landed in a tangled heap and lay motionless for a while, oblivious to the world around him. His skin was hot and clammy. His breath came low and rasping as he stirred to a new existence.
He sat up, slamming his fists to his head. He had the worst headache ever. Spots of purple and white light hurtled across his vision. His body felt as if it had been broken into a thousand pieces and put back together again. Painful spasms racked his thighs and calves and his neck felt as if it had shrunk several inches in both width and height.
Once his vision had cleared and the pain in his head had eased a little, he staggered to his feet and checked the palm of his right hand. The Mark was there, I for Indigo. He was a Citizen again. An alien. He wore a new set of clothes: a military-style black tunic with a metal insignia on the breast pocket, dark trousers and hefty black boots.
His stomach went into spasms. He crashed to his knees. He coughed until he threw up. The cuts on his fingers and the slash on his hand disappeared. He observed a slight change in his skin tint. The Blood Change! He felt as if he had lost a week’s worth of sleep somewhere between Tridan Entertainment and−
Where was he?
The air was unnaturally quiet. Two crescent moons stood in the sky, one white and one a pale blue. Both shone bright, illuminating a terrain that resembled semi-dry black tar. Rock formations and sandbanks peppered the landscape.
He hobbled to a nearby rock. He saw the body of a man lying face up. He gave a muffled cry. The man’s face had been gouged out, leaving a dark blue pool. The dead man wore black trousers and a ridged breastplate over his tunic. He saw no weapons around the body. Connor knew there would be no resurrection for him.
This isn’t Narrigh, he reminded himself. This is different. He hadn’t been playing the game. He hadn’t created his own player characters, and unlike his Narrigh experience, he knew exactly what he was doing prior to his arrival in this strange new world.
He swept his hands across his chest. He didn’t appear to have lost any weight. The Authoritative Voice had not popped into his head. Not yet anyway. He found his Worral Stone in one of the pockets of his uniform. It was the only item to have come through with him. He squeezed it tight. He wondered again how it was possible to leave one world and find himself in another with new clothes, memories and abilities. And why he was never prepared. He regretted packing The Plague of Pyridian gaming guide inside his rucksack without thoroughly checking it first. He needed to know what he was dealing with. He didn’t have a bag full of supplies either − or any weapons. He was defenceless.
He tried to reassure himself. He had more going for him than he did when had found himself in Narrigh; his memory for one. He knew what had happened to him, knew the extent of his abilities and he could distinguish friend from foe.
The Plague of Pyridian backstory had mentioned a city full of Citizens, who lived above ground, which meant he was on friendly terrain even if it had been invaded by aliens.
In the distance, he spotted the airship he had seen on the screen of Luke’s laptop. To his trained Citizen eyes, he calculated he could reach the ship in minutes. If he ran super-fast he could hitch a ride to the Citizen city, and if it was empty, he could use whatever contact device they had on board to radio for help.
He hadn’t taken one step when a shadow crept up on him. It was a shadow unlike any he had seen before; a distorted mass of spikes and arcs. He wondered why he hadn’t heard it. It wasn’t human and it wasn’t dead. He slowly turned around. The alien looked like a congealed blob of skin and mucus. Light bronze in colour, it stood on four stumpy legs. It had great folds of skin over the top of its eyes, a flat tongue-shaped nose and no visible ears. Hundreds of tiny spikes covered its back.
A funny growling sound erupted from the back of Connor’s throat. No scream came. He stood rigid with fear, staring at the alien. The alien stared right back. It opened its mouth. It had no teeth, just a fleshy hollow.
‘Jump!’ the Authoritative Voice cut into his consciousness.
‘Can’t − can’t feel my legs,’ replied Connor, thankful to hear the voice again. It was consistent with what he had experienced in the past. It made him feel less alone.
Seconds became minutes. Still the alien stared at him. Its eyes didn’t move and Connor wondered if it had fallen asleep with its eyes open and didn’t know he was there. How long could he stay as still as a rock? It was only a matter of time before he flinched, or sneezed or jumped. The alien had a long tentacle protruding from its belly. He thought that if he jumped, it would snatch him from the air and if he ran, it would drag him into its mouth without mercy.
With no warning, the alien’s tentacle sprung at him, knocking him off his feet and lashing his ankles together. It made a low wailing sound as it lugged him towards its thickset mouth.
Connor screamed in terror. Arching his back, he pulled himself upright. He dug his fingers into the slimy, rubbery limb causing the beast sufficient pain for it to loosen its hold. He then snapped his legs apart, breaking free from the tentacle.
He lurched to his feet, ready to bolt. The alien charged. Ploughing into him, it flung him onto its back. He howled as the creature’s spikes struck his spine, puncturing his clothes and piercing his skin. He grappled to get to his feet, seizing the tentacle as it bore down on him. His fingers slipped and he fell head first onto the alien’s backbone.
A spike struck his forehead. Blood trickled down his face. He bit down on his lip to shake off the pain.
The tentacle came at him again. This time he was ready. He pitched forward and seized it with his arms and legs. The tentacle flailed in his grip. He head-butted it and leaned to one side, steering the limb in the direction he wanted it to go: the ground. The tentacle resisted and held him aloft. He hit it with a succession of punches. When it showed no signs of setting him free, he breathed through his nose and bit into its flesh, feeling the slime on his lips and tasting the alien stench on his tongue. The creature’s wail became a scream.
/> The creature tossed him in the air. He smashed to the ground. The rocks stabbed his ribs and legs. The grotesque shadow still loomed over him. Beyond the shadow, he could see the bright light of the moons.
Spitting out the wedge of tentacle he had bitten off, he half stumbled, half dragged himself to his feet. Gargling his own saliva, he ran from under the creature’s shadow. He ran until his legs throbbed and the blood pulsed in his ears. He had lost sight of the airship and worried that it had taken off without him.
Sensing he had left the alien far behind, he stole a look over his shoulder. He saw no sign of it. He stopped, gasping for breath. He needed to rest. His lungs burned. His heart beat so hard he was afraid it would burst from his chest, and he had a gnawing pain in the back of his head.
Where to now? He saw no Peltarcks or Citizens, only rocks, clusters of shrubs, sparse trees and sandbanks.
He whirled at the sound of falling rock. He saw another alien, smaller than the first, standing by a tree. It stood on two legs. Its teeth sat on the outside of its mouth. It had dark green serrated skin, a helmet-shaped head and a short tail. It didn’t have any eyes but he could tell it knew he was there. He found the eerie clicking sound it made more disturbing than its appearance. It occurred to him that it was calling to the others. There had to be thousands of them hiding among the rocks and sandbanks. He tried to figure out which way he should run. His gaze left the alien for a few short seconds. When he looked at it again, he discovered to his revulsion that the distance between them had shrunk. The alien opened its jaws, exposing a sticky black tongue. He backed away from it.
‘Run,’ said the Authoritative Voice, ‘as fast as you can.’
Connor took bounding strides. He heard the clicking sound behind him, and then all at once it surrounded him. Something nipped his ankle. He hiked up his leg and jerked his elbow back. It met a hard solid mass. He sprinted through a clump of bushes, thick with needles and rough bark.
