by Gary Gibson
She rolled to a halt on the roadway, then pushed herself upright, feeling dizzy. She had been lucky not to break her neck, but she didn’t want to stay around Malcolm or his friend any longer than she had to.
Up ahead, their car had come to a sudden halt.
‘Hey!’ Malcolm shouted back at her, his face turned white with fear and tension. All around them, people were staring, and they had begun attracting all the attention he’d warned her they had to avoid. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled.
She started to run, pushing through the crowds of curious onlookers. She felt hands grab for her, curious voices shouting in her wake, but she determinedly shook them off, fighting her way in deeper amongst the crowds, frantic to put as much distance between her and Malcolm as possible.
Finally she emerged into a sidestreet, feeling cold and terrified and exhausted, with no idea of where to go or what to do next. So she simply put one foot in front of the other, and kept going, until she had got herself thoroughly lost in the depths of a city that she hadn’t even known existed during her previous life.
Thus she wandered for hours, warm air exiting from her breather mask and rising up into the night. Her stomach rumbled from increasing hunger. She constantly kept a wary eye out for anyone wearing a uniform like Malcolm’s.
Just by following the crowds, and listening to snatches of conversation around her, Dakota learned that the pilgrims would come to Dios in such numbers that the city authorities were obliged to construct vast temporary accommodations solely to house and feed them. She followed one group of people who looked as if they knew where they were going, heading into an enormous prefab hangar filled with welcome heat and light. There, she quickly discovered food and drink for the taking. Better still, nobody questioned her, or asked where she came from.
Dakota saw numerous posters featuring a girl in ceremonial robes, and she realized with a shock that these must be images of the Speaker-Elect – of herself. The images did not, however, look anything like she remembered herself, and she guessed Esté’s appearance had been surgically altered at some point in the past.
She continued staring at the poster until she felt dizzy, feeling as if she had woken up into some kind of endless waking nightmare. Despite the humid warmth within the hangar, she kept the woollen cap on, and the hood of her coat pulled over her head. She also took particular care not to meet anyone’s eyes or let herself become involved in conversation.
After standing in a queue for nearly an hour, sweltering beneath the hood and the heavy overcoat, she was finally handed a plastic tray laden with food. Then she made her way down the long rows of mass-fabbed bunks and squeezed into one next to a wall. There she ate silently, always keeping an eye out for anyone who looked as if they might be searching for her.
She presently overheard a conversation about an Accord military base located a few hundred kilometres further inland. She had no idea what the Accord was, but it was easy enough to infer from what she could hear that it offered a real chance for her to get off-planet and as far away from the Demarchy as she could go.
This was a slim enough straw to grasp at, but it seemed to be all she had. So, with a full belly, she drifted off to sleep, trying hard not to think about what the next day might hold.
The following morning she made her way alone along a canal bank, as dawn crept up behind the Magi ship, stranded on its hill. She had seen armoured patrols racing along main roads, and uniformed soldiers setting up roadblocks, but it was clear that the soldiers out in search of her were overwhelmed by the sheer flood of pilgrims.
Unlike the streets, the canal appeared to be unguarded. She encountered boats racing by occasionally, but they were easy to hide from.
She followed the canal, away from the river, until she reached the city limits. The inland continent spread out before her, a far-off range of mountains visible beyond a vast river plain. As it got dark again, she made her way back to the main road, rejoining the masses of pilgrims now making their way out of the city on foot, and heading towards another of the municipal shelters nearby. That night, she fell asleep on coarse matting, her coat thrown over her head and shoulders, and surrounded on all sides by thousands of warm bodies.
When the old woman sleeping next to her asked what her name was, she said it was Megan, though still carefully keeping her face hidden.
Out of sheer desperation and the urge to put as much distance as possible between herself and the city, she managed to talk her way on board one of a flotilla of vehicles provided to carry several hundred pilgrims at a time to the settlements further inland. It proved surprisingly easy. Whatever security checks were in place, it was clear they were struggling just to cope with the sheer number of people on the move.
The flotilla she chose was accompanied by an armed escort of peacekeepers, who were affiliated to the Accord. She had asked careful questions, teasing significant details out of the few other passengers she risked talking to. It soon became clear that the Accord served more or less the same function as had the Consortium, back in the days when she had last been alive. The peacekeepers were from the military base she had heard of earlier, and were apparently on the lookout for Freehold insurgents trying to make their way over the mountains to the north-east.
It thus slowly dawned on Dakota that the Freehold was no longer the dominant military force on Redstone. It seemed it had lost its long struggle with the Uchidanists, and the vast majority of Freeholders had since decamped to new colonies, while only a fanatical few remained behind to fight for what they still saw as their rightful homeland.
She kept the knitted cap pulled down tightly over her ears as the convoy trundled across the broad inland plains, crossing bridges and parallel series of canals, the mountains growing closer and taller as they drove on through the night.
It was a few hours before dawn when Freehold guerrillas opened fire, from the shelter of a ditch, on the flotilla of peacekeepers escorting them.
The sound of gunfire filled the air, while energy weapons seared her eyes with after-images that took long minutes to fade. Then she heard the dull thud of a detonation, and saw the windows of her transport implode, allowing Redstone’s poisonous atmosphere to come rushing in.
The lights went out. Dakota struggled through the dark as people all around her fought to find their masks, or escape through the shattered windows of the transport, or both. Fortunately, the mask given to her by Malcolm still hung around her neck by its cord.
She could hear those people who hadn’t yet been able to find their breather masks struggling for breath as Redstone’s native atmosphere flooded in. She managed to pull her own mask over her mouth and nose, then clambered through a window, tumbling out and onto the verge.
It came to her with a horrible shock that most of the people she had been riding with were going to die. The transport’s heating systems had been faulty, and even while she had slept, she still wore the heavy coat Malcolm had given her. If it hadn’t been for that, she would probably have frozen to death within minutes.
She felt a desperate urge to stay and help the pilgrims, but she could see little in the darkness, and with a battle under way all around them, she knew the most she could hope for was to save herself.
The ground shuddered beneath her feet, as a great cloud of ash and fire rose up into the sky from further along the road, revealing the silhouettes of other transports. The sound of the explosion followed a moment later.
Leaving the highway behind her, she ran out onto the night-darkened plain. Before long her ears were filled with an eerie, ghost-like silence.
She was far from alone, however. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could just about make out dozens of men and women, some of them carrying young children, their eyes tired and frightened above hastily retrieved breather masks. They were all similarly trying to put some serious distance between themselves and the convoy before any more shells struck. Any who hadn’t managed to retrieve their masks were most l
ikely dead by now.
Some instinct drew them all towards the relative shelter of a canopy tree that stood half a kilometre or so from the highway. Its trunk soared eighty metres above their heads, with multiple layers of veined shrouds spreading out from its highest branches like an umbrella. The air here was fractionally warmer because the thermal energy the canopy trees tapped via their deep roots, combined with their sheer size, allowed them to engender their own microclimate with its own unique flora and fauna.
They gathered in their dozens amongst the tree’s blade-like roots, many clinging to each other out of terror or, more likely, the need to stay warm. From there could be heard the distant boom and hiss of artillery, and the thunder of orbital energy weapons discharging into the foothills a hundred kilometres away.
An hour passed, and then another, and her coat’s heating elements began to run out of juice, the cold slowly digging deeper and deeper into Dakota’s unprotected flesh. She heard someone sobbing loudly, and glanced over to see a shadowy form crouching over another that lay ominously still and silent.
Unless help came very soon, she realized, a lot of these people were going to die.
After another couple of hours, the fighting seemed to become more sporadic, until finally there was only the hiss of the sleeting rain blown under the tree’s canopy.
Some hours after dawn had broken, a dropship with Accord markings finally settled onto the hard soil just outside the tree’s protective canopy. It wasn’t until Dakota heard excited cries from the people around her that she felt convinced it was not a hallucination.
From the dropship emerged figures in armour that flickered and shifted, so that those wearing it immediately faded into the surrounding landscape. She heard them calling to each other, though their voices were rendered identical by the processors built into their helmets. Soon they began moving amongst the pilgrims, some equipped with stretchers, while others wrapped the shivering survivors in sheets of reflective material before guiding them towards the waiting dropship.
One of the peacekeepers eventually approached Dakota and helped her get to her feet. He pushed up the faceplate of his environment-skinned helmet, leaving only the lower half of his face hidden behind a partial breather mask.
This man had the gentlest eyes Megan had ever seen, though his protective gear did little to hide the fact he possessed the body of a well-muscled bear.
‘What’s your name, honey?’ he asked, his voice as warm and deep as a river despite the electronic distortion of his breather.
‘Megan,’ she replied.
He nodded and unravelled a strip of foil from the long roll he carried, before carefully wrapping it around her shoulders.
The woollen cap slipped from her head and she swore, reaching down to fetch it back. She looked up again at her rescuer and froze in alarm, knowing what he was seeing: the tell-tale furrows and all-too-regular patterns of bumps beneath her recently shaven scalp.
‘You’re a machine-head,’ he observed quietly. ‘I never heard of Uchidan machine-heads.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not what it is. It’s . . . it’s a kind of faith implant. All Uchidans have them, didn’t you know?’
‘Don’t bullshit me,’ he said, though sounding not in the least angry. ‘I know a machine-head when I see one.’
Reaching up, he fiddled with the clasps on his helmet and lifted it off. Megan saw how his hair was cut close to the skull, revealing a scalp covered with identical subcutaneous patterns: a machine-head.
‘Who are you really, girl?’ he asked her, tilting his head quizzically.
‘I already told you my name,’ she said, defiance creeping into her voice. But he laughed and shook his head, as he replaced his helmet.
‘You running away from something, Megan?’ he asked softly. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.’
Tears began rolling down her filth-streaked cheeks, and she ground her fingernails into her palms. ‘Please don’t take me back there,’ she begged him. ‘Please. They’ll kill me. They’ll . . .’
‘Hey, now,’ he said, gripping her by the shoulder and leading her back towards the dropship. ‘Ain’t nobody going to hurt you now.’
‘You say that,’ she half whispered, ‘but you can’t possibly know.’
He looked beyond her, past the canopy tree and back towards the direction of the city, in silent thought.
‘Baby,’ he said finally, returning his gaze to her face, ‘if there’s one thing to be said about old Bash, it’s that he always keeps his word.’
TWENTY-SIX
Gabrielle
2763 (the present)
After they disembarked from the dropship that had brought them back down from orbit, and after she was loaded into a truck driven by Freeholders, Gabrielle had spent long hours staring out at the Montos de Frenezo as the vehicle made its way amidst endless foothills, followed by a convoy of other trucks.
Tarrant had long since made his way through from the rear compartment to talk to the two Freeholders sitting up in the front cabin, and Gabrielle had gradually dozed off, until a sudden increase in speed jolted her awake. When she glanced outside again, it was to see a narrow trail of greasy smoke rising high into the sky.
The truck had changed direction, clearly headed towards the same smoke trail. When she had looked out through the rear, she could see the other trucks still following them. The terrain became rougher, requiring numerous detours to avoid scree and scattered boulders.
After another hour or so, they had passed over a low hill when the truck accelerated again. It bounced violently over stony ground, although they were still nowhere near the source of the smoke.
At that moment, she pressed her face to the glass in time to see someone running as if pursued by all the demons of hell. Black shapes – drones of some kind – darted through the air, rapidly converging on the figure before it collapsed. Gabrielle wondered if a ship might have crashed, and this was a survivor struggling to avoid capture by the Freehold. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, the Accord had already begun a counter-attack.
The truck came to a halt not far from where the figure lay. At first Gabrielle thought it was dead, then saw the figure’s limbs moving weakly. Despite the bulky clothing, instinct made her sure it was a woman. A drone hovered directly before the figure, its recording lenses focused on her.
She heard Tarrant’s voice clearly from the cabin up front. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he exclaimed.
Then there was a sound like the slamming of a fist against the ceiling of the truck.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he repeated, louder this time.
As he made his way back through, he looked to Gabrielle like someone who’d just seen a ghost. She watched him unlock the two rear doors of the truck, freezing air rushing inside as they swung open.
The two Freeholders quickly followed him outside, without either of them giving her so much as a glance. Gabrielle adjusted the seal on her mask and followed them out of the truck, curious despite herself.
As their eyes met, the other woman had stared at Gabrielle with an expression of bleak despair mixed with astonishment. Gabrielle had the strangest feeling that she knew this woman from somewhere, yet she felt sure she had never set eyes on her before.
Before long the new prisoner was lifted up and bundled into the back of one of the other trucks, while Gabrielle was guided back to her own. Soon they had caught up with the rest of the convoy, Tarrant again choosing to ride in the company of the Freeholders.
Some time later, the trucks had traversed a wide expanse of flat ground to reach the steep hills surrounding the base of a mountain, much of its bulk hidden behind clouds. They continued onwards until they came to a high cliff, in front of which sat what appeared to be a dropship hidden beneath a shroud the colour of the surrounding landscape. The trucks kept going, entering the mouth of a long, sloping passageway at the base of the cliff that appeared to extend deep beneath the mountain. This, she guessed, must be one of the Freehold ba
ses that Tarrant had supposedly been so skilled at smoking out on behalf of the Demarchy.
The truck turned through a series of side-passages before stopping briefly to let Tarrant disembark, then continued on, finally coming to a halt outside a row of prefab buildings lined up against a sloping cave wall. The two Freeholders led Gabrielle inside one of these buildings, before locking her inside a room furnished only with a cot and a chemical toilet. The cot smelled of sour sweat and unchanged sheets.
She peered out through the single barred window in time to see the truck disappearing back the way it had come.
Without sight of the sun or any hint of the world outside, the following hours seemed to stretch into an eternity. There was little for her to do but stare out of the window, watching pallet-laden trucks drive past from time to time, which reminded her of something said during Tarrant’s conversation with Cuyàs, about the Freehold preparing for a full-scale invasion of the Demarchy.
Perhaps, she thought, they were getting ready to abandon this complex.
She soon gave up avoiding the malodorous cot, which at least offered the advantage of not being quite as freezing cold as the cell floor. To begin with, she pulled one sleeve of her jacket across her mouth and nose, in an attempt to block out the stink, but when that didn’t work she tried sleeping with her breather mask pulled on.
Long hours later she woke with the uncanny sense that she was being watched. She sat up with a start, her heart thudding, at the suspicion that she might no longer be alone in that locked and silent room. Yet a glance confirmed she was mistaken, while the great cave beyond the window was silent.
She could see nothing from the barred window, and it suddenly occurred to her that the complex might already have been abandoned, leaving her here to die alone beneath the mountain . . .
