by Darren Dash
“Don’t mock him,” Bryan snaps. “If you ever find a human like this in a drone hold, treat him with respect or risk the wrath of the Alchemist.”
“Sorry,” Phil says, blanching at the idea of getting on the wrong side of whoever this Alchemist guy is.
“Where am I?” I bleat, trying (but failing) not to sound hysterical.
“Where do you think you are?” Bryan responds politely.
“I don’t fucking know,” I shout. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking. I’d…” I take a deep breath and count to five. “Sorry, but I’m freaked out big time. One second I’m choking on a nut, the next I’m on a plane full of… of… whatever the hell those dummies are. And now…” I shake my head miserably.
“No use crying over spilt sap,” Bryan says. “What’s done is done. Now, if you don’t mind moving along, we’ve jobs to be getting on with.”
I stare at him incredulously. “Move along?” I screech.
“Have to,” he says. “You can’t stay here. We’ll be sealing it when we’re done. No food, no drink, no way out. You wouldn’t last long.”
I stare at the door of the cockpit, then back at Bryan. “But where will I go?” I whimper.
Bryan shrugs. “I don’t want to be cruel but it’s not my concern,” he says. “We’re just off-loaders. We make sure all the drones get off safely – sometimes one gets stuck in its seat – then clean up any mess.”
“Drones?” I press him. “You mean the wax people?”
“Right,” he says.
“What are they?” I ask. “They look like the people who were on the plane with me, but –”
“I really am sorry,” Bryan says, taking my elbow and gently but firmly leading me up the aisle, “but we can’t stay and chat. Drone holds don’t clean themselves, you know.”
“Bits of the drones fall off from time to time,” Phil chips in. “Ears, noses, fingers, even a few teeth, though we don’t get many of those, worse luck.”
“Where will I go?” I whine again, shaking free and standing my ground.
“Out the door,” Bryan sighs, exchanging a look with Phil that very clearly says, This guy’s crazy.
I study the two men, then half-turn towards the cockpit. “What’s out there?” I ask quietly, fearfully.
“The drone port,” Bryan answers. “Beyond that, the city.”
“What city?” I ask.
“What city do you think it is?” comes the infuriating response.
“I’m… not dead, am I?”
It’s a difficult, delicate question to phrase, but Phil and Bryan laugh rudely, displaying not even the slightest sliver of sympathy.
“He thinks he’s dead,” Phil exclaims.
“Lots of them in his position think that,” Bryan chuckles. “I had one once who lay down and refused to get off. He said he wouldn’t move till somebody got him a coffin, whatever the snuff that is. Had to drag him out by his ears.”
Bryan starts guiding me towards the cockpit again. I argue with him and ask one more time what’s happening and where I am and what lies beyond the cockpit but he says nothing except, “This way, sir, this way please.” Phil follows, giggling at my questions, telling Bryan he’s ready to step in if I act up.
We reach the cockpit door and Bryan lets go of my arm. “Here we are,” he says. “Through there, then the door on your left and down the steps. That’ll bring you to the port. Where you go from there is your business.”
I stare into the dark cockpit. There’s nobody at the controls. No sign of the pilot or his crew. “Please,” I sob, beginning to crack. “Tell me where I am, what’s going on. Is this a dream? Am I tripping? Do you –”
Phil cuffs the back of my head and shoves me into the cockpit. “Get off our snuffing drone hold,” he snarls.
“Steady,” Bryan says. “Remember what I told you about treating people like him with respect.”
“I don’t care,” Phil says. “Who the snuff is this guy, to come on our drone hold and start questioning us?”
“He’s just confused and scared,” Bryan says calmly.
“Well, he’d better scram before I give him something to be properly scared about,” Phil says and shakes a boot at me. “Clear out before I chop your head off and claim I thought you were a drone.”
Bryan rolls his eyes but cocks his thumb and gestures sharply with it. “Go on,” he says softly, “before this fool does something you’ll both regret.”
From his tone of voice I can tell we’re done talking, and since I like my head where it is on my shoulders, I scrabble to my feet, glance one final time about the deserted cockpit, then rush to the door on my left and start down the steps.
I’m on a sprawling, bare stretch of tarmac. To the far left I spot a bus, into which the wax mannequins – drones, Phil and Bryan called them – are piling. A little to my right lie two small buildings. Behind them and running all round the tarmac is a towering wall. Looking up, I can see only the pitch black sky that I spotted when in flight.
It’s an even choice as to where I go next — the bus or the buildings. Since almost all the drones have boarded the bus, I decide to head for that first, in case it pulls away before I have a chance to examine it.
I arrive just as the last drone is entering. The bus is a strange affair. It looks new but there’s no glass in the windows and no lights of any kind. It’s a dull red colour. The drones sit inside, as still as they’d been on the plane.
While I’m studying the bus, an old man with grey hair appears from round the far side. He jumps when he spots me, then relaxes. “Hello, stranger,” he says in a friendly tone. “Who are you? I’ve been asking for an assistant for ages. You ain’t him, I suppose?”
“No,” I reply.
He sighs. “Didn’t think you were. Still, we live in hope, eh?” The old man offers me his hand. “Mannie’s the name.”
“Newman Riplan,” I tell him as we shake.
“Two names?” He laughs kindly. “One not good enough for you? Let me guess — you’re from off the drone hold?” I nod and he chuckles. “I can always tell. You ran into Phil and Bryan?”
“Yes.”
“Bet they were none too obliging.”
I smile thinly. “You could say that.”
“A curt pair,” Mannie says pleasantly, “but good workers, especially Bryan. He’s been here nearly as long as me.”
The bus starts and begins to roll away. I take an involuntary step after it but Mannie grabs my arm and shakes his head. “Not that way, young fella. The bus is for drones, not humans. You don’t want to go with that lot.”
“Why?” I ask. “What happens to them?”
“You’ll find out,” he promises, then claps briskly. “If those who’ve arrived in the drone holds before are anything to go by, I assume you’re full of questions.”
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Where am I? What is this place?”
Mannie clucks and says, “Where do you think you are?”
I pull a face. “That’s what Bryan said.”
Mannie nods understandingly. “You’ll hear a lot more of it before your stay here is out,” he assures me. “I wish I could tell you something different, but it’s a question that doesn’t mean anything to me, so I can’t answer it. Come on,” he says, starting back across the yard. “Maybe Jess will be able to tell you more, though I doubt it.”
“Jess? Who’s…” I stop. I’ve just spotted Phil and Bryan entering one of the small buildings. The plane’s nowhere to be seen. My gaze shoots high but there’s no sign of it in the freaky black sky either. “Where’d the plane go?”
“Plane?” Mannie’s eyebrows furrow, then lift. “Oh, you mean the drone hold.” He shrugs. “They never stay long. Here one minute, gone the next, always when you least expect them. Come on,” he says again. “I don’t like hurrying you but I’ve got to go see if Phil and Bryan stole anything from the drone hold. They never do but it’s my job to check.”
Mannie leads me to the second buil
ding. Closer up, I notice that both buildings are set in the perimeter wall and there’s not a single pane of glass to be spotted in the windows of either structure.
“Here you are,” Mannie says, knocking on the door.
“Come in,” a muffled voice responds.
Mannie pushes down the handle and the door swings open. “I’ll leave you here,” he says. “Jess doesn’t like to be disturbed, so I keep out of her way as much as I can. But as fierce as she is, she’s good at her job, so don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.” He slaps my back and smiles encouragingly. “Chin up, young fella,” he says, then strolls along to check on Bryan and Phil.
I gaze at the open door, then at the tarmac expanse behind me. No sign of the bus now either. I take a step back and study the wall. Impossibly tall and sheer. Looks like there’s only one way to go, and that’s forward, into the building. So in I march on shaking legs to see the apparently fierce but efficient Jess.
It’s a plain room, the huge perimeter barrier serving as the rear wall. There’s a long desk set beneath one of the glass-less windows to my left, behind which sits a woman in her late thirties or early forties, plump, dressed in a uniform similar to those of the men in the yard, her face unadorned with make-up.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks, barely looking up. She scribbles something at the bottom of a sheet of paper and stacks it with a load of others.
“Are you Jess?” I ask hesitantly.
“Who else might I be?” she sniffs.
“Um… Mannie told me to come see you.”
“Did he?” She scribbles on another sheet of paper, straightens the edge of the pile, then fixes her gaze on me. “A friend of his, are you? Looking for a job? As I told the last no-hoper he sent to me, this isn’t –”
“I’m not his friend,” I interrupt. “I’m not here about a job. I’m from the plane.”
Her face is blank. “Plane?” she says, as if the word is bitter on her tongue.
“The drone hold,” I elaborate.
Her eyes light up with understanding. “Oh. Yes. The Alchemist told me to be on the lookout for a newcomer but that was so long ago…” She tears through a stack of papers to her right, then another, and another. Finally she finds a form, licks the tip of her pen and gets down to business. “Name?”
“Newman Riplan,” I answer automatically. “Um… The men on the drone hold, and Mannie. I asked them where I was but they –”
“Please,” she snaps. “I can’t record your details if you’re distracting me with questions. Have you been here before?”
“Where?” I ask.
“Here,” she says. “This port, this office, this city.”
“I don’t know,” I cry. “Nobody’s told me where I am. Is it London? Moscow? Sydney? How can I tell you if I’ve been here if I don’t –”
“I’ll take that as a no,” she stops me, writing it down. She looks up and smiles tightly. “The answer to that question was obvious, I know, but I’m required to ask. Now…” She scans down to the next question. “What age are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Occupation?”
“I’m a troubleshooter. Computer systems.”
She pauses. “Could you be more specific?”
“I fix viruses and things like that.”
“You’re some sort of medic?”
“No,” I groan. “Computer viruses. I sort out operating systems that have gone haywire.”
“I see,” she says, but by the way she chews her lower lip, I can tell she doesn’t. “These com-pu-ters… they’re machines of some kind?”
Is she trying to be funny? By her puzzled frown, I don’t think so. I spend a couple of minutes trying to explain what a computer is – something I’ve never had to do before, and it’s more difficult than I would have imagined – and it ends with her inscribing on the sheet, He fixes machines. A possible medical connection.
“Do you know anything about drones?” she asks.
“Those wax dummies on the plane? No. Not a thing.”
She ticks a box. “That’s unfortunate. Still, you’ll learn fast, I’m sure. It won’t take long to adjust.”
“Adjust to what?” I ask but she’s already moved on to the next question.
“Have you any place to stay?”
“In the city?” She nods. “No.”
“You don’t know anybody here? No family or friends?”
“Hard to say when I don’t know where this is,” I note sarcastically but she ignores that.
“Have you any currency?”
“Some sterling, euros and my credit cards,” I say, but when I search for my wallet, it isn’t where it should be. I spend a few frantic seconds patting myself down but it’s gone, the same as my watch and phone.
“No matter,” Jess says when I express concern. “Your currency would have been worthless here anyway.” She pulls out a drawer, reaches in and hands me a small bag tied at the top with yellow string. I open it and look inside. It’s full of teeth.
“What the fuck?” I yell, dropping the bag.
“Those are what we use for business transactions,” Jess says.
“Teeth?” I laugh sickly. “You’re shitting me.” She shakes her head. “Where did you get them?” I ask, picking up the bag again. “The tooth fairy?”
“From the drones,” she says. “As soon as they arrive, they’re taken to a factory, where their teeth are extracted and processed.”
I shake loose a couple of the teeth and examine them. They have no roots and are perfectly white, no fillings or cavities. Tiny marks have been carved into the front and back of each. “Are there different denominations?” I ask wryly. “Is a long tooth worth more than a short one? An adult’s more valuable than a kid’s?”
“No,” she says. “All teeth are the same. Now, the contents of that bag should be enough to tide you over for three or four days, but after that you’re on your own. You’ll have to find work and earn your living. This is the only hand-out you’ll ever receive, so make the most of it.”
“How much are teeth worth?” I ask, tucking the bag away, playing along with the madness. “What can you get with them?”
“One tooth buys a drone,” Jess explains, “or basic clothing items or a torch. Two will ensure you a room in a low-class boarding house. And so on. It won’t take you long to figure out the system. It isn’t that complicated.” She returns to the form and purses her lips. “There are other questions but most are only relevant in peculiar circumstances.” She reads down to the bottom of the page, then flicks over. “Are you sexually active?”
“What business is that of yours?” I retort.
She shakes her pen at me. “Temper, Mr Riplan. I’m only trying to help.”
“You want to help?” I snap. “Tell me the name of this shit hole. Where the hell am I?”
“Where do you think you are?” comes the immediate reply.
“Are you people programmed with that response?” I ask sourly.
“I’ll need a sample of your blood,” she says, producing a small pin.
“In your dreams,” I snort.
“It won’t hurt,” she assures me.
“Damn right it won’t,” I agree, “because I refuse to submit to it. You aren’t sticking me with anything, lady, so the sooner you rid yourself of that particular delusion, the better.”
“I see,” she purrs. “Subject refuses blood sample.” She writes each word down as she says it. “I assume you’ll also refuse saliva and sperm samples?”
I laugh out loud. “You assume right.”
Jess sighs. “You’re being most uncooperative, Mr Riplan, but then most of your kind usually are.”
“Is that a racial slur?” I bristle.
“All I need to conclude is your signature,” Jess says, ignoring my question. She turns the sheet of paper round and offers me the pen.
“No,” I say. “I’m not giving up that easily. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m going to find
out. We aren’t finished until I say we are, and that won’t be until you’ve answered my questions as obligingly as I’ve answered yours.” I lean forward menacingly. “Why don’t we start with –”
Jess’s left hand slams a button on the desk. A pole with a rounded end jabs me hard in the stomach, driving me backwards. I fall out of my chair and land hard on the floor, wincing. “What the hell?” I yelp. “That hurt. I’m going to…”
I stop. I can see under the desk now. There are two wire nets, one either side of Jess’s legs. Behind them squat a pair of grim-looking wolves. They’re glaring at me, lips pulled back over their teeth. They don’t growl but they don’t have to — they’re terrifying enough as they are.
“This second button,” Jess says, tapping the top of the desk, “releases the wolves. They’re fed regularly but never overfed, so they’re always in the mood for a snack. It’s been a long time since I was forced to unleash them but I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again if the situation calls for it.” She leans forward and holds out the paper and pen. “May I have your signature now, Mr Riplan?”
Cursing softly, I take the pen, lay the paper on the floor and jot down my name where indicated.
“Thank you,” Jess says, smiling as she checks to make sure I’ve signed in the right place. “You’ve now completed registration and are free to proceed.”
“Proceed where?” I ask, slowly – so as not to alarm her – getting to my feet.
“Why, into the city, of course,” she says. “Unless you want to stay here and try to wrangle a job with the off-loaders.”
I look about the sparse room and recall how barren the area outside was.
“How do I get out?” I ask. She points to a door in the wall, tucked away in the far left corner, which is why I didn’t see it before. “Straight through?”
“Straight through,” she confirms.
“What happens on the other side? Do I have to get a taxi into the centre of the city, is there a train, can I walk?”
“Mr Riplan,” Jess says impatiently, “I’m not here to answer questions. I suggest you simply go your own way and take things as they come.”
“Thanks,” I say bitterly, “you’ve been a bundle of help.”
