SpaceBook Awakens (Amy Armstrong 3)

by Stephen Colegrove

The long silver craft sank toward the depths, streaming bubbles like a wounded fish. Amy swam as hard as she could at a right angle, to escape the suction caused by the massive object. Her vision pulsed red, and a hand pressed a mask over her face. Amy sucked in a lungful of air and gave the air cylinder back to Three. Below their feet the silver ship faded into the black depths, leaving the pair of teenagers surrounded in a haze of sapphire nothingness. Amy and Three swam up, toward the lighter part of nothing.

  Chapter Four

  The tiny air cylinder died, the last traces of oxygen fizzing dryly into Amy’s mouth. She let it tumbled into the deep nothingness of the ocean depths and kicked for the surface. Beside her, Three swam up just as hard, her tattooed arms pulling at the cold water.

  A pair of bright points flickered above the struggling teenagers. The lights glowed yellow and red like the eyes of a devil, one that seemed to laugh as it looked down at the pair of desperately swimming girls.

  Amy’s heart pounded in her ears and her chest burned for air. The recent past flashed before her eyes: walking with Philip in Hyde Park, meeting his mother, feeling his strong hands around her before the explosion in the quarry. She felt the churn of Three’s arms in the ocean nearby, and swam harder.

  The eyes of the devil bounced and winked, close enough to touch. Amy reached up and a mesh of white string twisted around her fingers. She pulled away, but the cords wrapped around her wrists and arms. Amy thrashed in the cold water for a moment, but her arms and legs turned numb and wouldn’t move. Everything turned dark.

  She woke to the splash of waves against wood, the quiet murmur of a man’s voice, and the creak of ropes being pulled tight. Her fingers touched wood and she realized that she lay on rough planking at the bottom of a boat. A heap of white fishing net covered her arms and waist, and a pair of strange figures were framed against the night sky. One of the men reached over the gunwale of the narrow boat and lifted a cage of embers that turned his face orange. The man was Asian in appearance: almond eyes, black hair, and oval face. He wore a close-fitting black cap and a plain brown jacket that fastened down the front with knotted bits of cotton instead of buttons.

  The man glanced down at Amy and blurted a string of incomprehensible words. She shook her head.

  “Ship?” asked the man in a thick accent. “Ship gone?”

  Amy sat up from the boards. “Yes! My friends. Please help them!”

  The Asian man nodded and spoke to another figure standing in the bow. The two men untangled Amy, and then leaned over the sides and pulled more of the long fishing net into the boat. A pair of glowing metal cages hung over the left and right sides on wooden poles. The men doused the cages in the ocean with a hiss and set the steaming metal cylinders beside Amy’s feet. The fisherman in the rear of the boat lifted a pair of oars into the gunwales. He turned his back to Amy and used the long wooden bars to pull against the ocean.

  As the man rowed, a handful of orange lights rose and fell with the gentle roll of the sea. A brilliant horizontal beam flashed through the dark. The beam rotated around in a dozen seconds and Amy realized it was a lighthouse. To the left of the bright signal lay the scattered glow of dozens of blue-tinged lights, but that was the only clue that anything existed in the entire universe outside of these two fishermen.

  Amy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Philip!”

  The fisherman in the bow touched Amy’s shoulder and pointed at one of the other wooden boats. It rowed closer and Amy saw the drenched figure of Three sitting on a wooden crate, waving both arms. Her hair was plastered to her head and darkened to black by the water.

  “Hey, sister!” yelled Three. “Are you okay?”

  Amy sank back onto the pile of nets without responding and hugged her knees tight. Not because she was cold––somehow the nanites in her clothing had warmed up and dried her blouse and skirt––but because she was scared.

  The Asian fisherman in the bow reached back and wrapped a thin blanket around Amy that smelled entirely of dead fish.

  For a few minutes there was only the sound of the waves slapping against the wooden hull and the oars dipping into the sea. A distant thrum from the eastern side of the bay grew in volume, burbling and deep-throated like a gigantic mechanical frog. The fisherman at the rear paused in his rowing and pointed into the darkness.

  “Big fish,” he said. “Find ship.”

  Hoots of excitement occasionally broke through the slap of oars in the water, but Amy couldn’t understand what the Asian men were saying, and the other boats were too far away to see what they had found.

  “Friends?” she asked the rower.

  He shook his head. “Treasure. Floating thing.”

  The man in the front yelled and reached over the side. He held up a clear plastic bag full of puffy white cylinders.

  “Marshdevils,” said Amy. “Definitely not treasure. Do not eat.”

  Long, sustained thunder rolled across the sky from west to east. The fishermen continued searching for a few moments, but after another strange rumble, lifted oars, spun their wooden boats, and pulled for the lights of shore.

  Amy struggled to sit up. “What are you doing? We have to stay here and find my friends!”

  “Bad,” said the man in the bow, and pointed at the sky. “Storm bad. Home want go.”

  “It’s not a storm, it’s a spaceship!”

  The man nodded. “Ship sink. Storm bad.”

  Amy sank down and lay on her side on the wet boards.

  “Not a storm,” she whispered.

  THE BLACK CAT raced through greasy, cramped corridors that smelled of stale lubricating oil, dodging teams of dog engineers and a platoon of cat soldiers with gray packs and rifles across their backs. He paced in circles in front of a metal hatch while a cat guard unlocked and pulled it open, and jumped into the noise and light of the command center.

  “We found a survivor, my Lady!” he blurted.

  From the comfortable position of her command chair, One stared at the cat and then crossed her legs.

  “I know that, you pan-faced idiot,” she said, and pointed to the wall of displays. “We’ve got cameras everywhere on this ship. We finally caught that disgusting pig, MacGuffin.”

  The black cat Wilson blinked for a moment. “He’s a cat and not a pig, my Lady. It’s a common mistake, as a wet feline looks the same as a gigantic hamster who is also wet.”

  “You know what I mean, you thick-headed stream of lizard vomit!”

  Wilson bowed. “Of course, my Lady. I simply had to see for myself.”

  “How about the diffraction screen? Is it still operational?”

  Wilson jumped to a nearby control panel and tapped the display with his furry paws.

  “Yes, my Lady. Our recovery efforts will be hidden from the local humans. Not absolutely necessary, as their technology has barely advanced past the wheel.” The cat chuckled. “Think about it-–they don’t even have radar!”

  One brushed her gray-streaked blonde hair over an ear and jabbed a button on her armrest.

  “Two and Four, report in. How’s the recovery?”

  A pair of large displays showing the dark Pacific coast flickered and two versions of Amy Armstrong flashed into view––a blonde in her thirties and a twenty-something Amy with dark hair and a black turtleneck.

  “We’ve raised the ship to the surface,” said the blonde copy. “The flotation devices are working properly, and drainage should be complete within a few hours.”

  “Good. Comb it from top to bottom for anything useful. Four? Any more survivors?”

  The black-haired twin of Amy glanced away from the screen for a moment.

  “My rescue team has found a human body in a pressure suit,” she said. “Hare Twist is stamped across the shoulder.”

  “Is it Three?”

  Four shook her head. “Male. From the height and weight I think it’s––”

  One jumped from her command chair. “Don’t say it! Have the rescue team bring him to the ventra
l pressure lock.”

  “But it’s my turn,” said the black-haired Amy. “You had the last Philip! We talked about this––it’s been months since I had any fun.”

  One spread the fingers of her mechanical right hand and examined the chrome tips of the sharp, talon-like fingers.

  “I didn’t say I was going to do anything to him. I’ll talk to the boy, and if he doesn’t have anything interesting to say, I’ll send him over. At least try not to murder him in the first five minutes like the last one. Not that I care one way or the other, it’s just extremely messy to put a body in the transfuser that’s been abused like that.”

  Four scowled and jabbed something in front of her. Her image on the display screen snapped to black.

  The older blonde version of Amy on the other screen shook her head. “She’s got a temper, that one, but can you blame her? Tragic.”

  One pointed a mechanical finger at the blonde. “Keep working on the recovery of that ship, Two, or you’ll be the tragic figure.”

  With a squeak of leather, she stood from her command chair and walked briskly out of the control center. The black cat Wilson followed her at a gallop.

  “What’s the point of keeping another human?” he asked as One ducked through security hatches. “He’ll cause problems!”

  One waved dismissively. “Don’t have a kitten, Wilson. It’s just a bit of fun. Trust me, this human will be dumped out a pressure lock before the day is over––whoever or whatever he is.”

  A cat guard spun the wheel on the last security hatch and pulled it open. A steady breeze of salt and the ocean blew into the faces of One and her feline assistant. Both covered their ears against the deafening crash of waves and the roar of powerful engines.

  The sounds came from a three-meter, circular opening in the deck. A taut steel cable swayed in the center of the opening and was connected to a spinning cylindrical hoist above their heads. Three white cats in yellow wetsuits stood at a small control panel at the wall. All saluted One and turned back to the controls.

  The steel cable lifted a beagle in a red wetsuit and scuba mask through the opening, right above the dangling limbs of a human body in an orange pressure suit and fogged-up bubble helmet. Both were attached to the cable by a fluorescent yellow rescue sling. The arms and legs of the human hung down limply and dripped with ocean water. As the beagle and his human cargo cleared the deck, the circular opening to the outside world spiraled shut, silencing the powerful roar of waves and thrusters with an oily click.

  One clapped sharply. “Get that suit off! Where’s the LifePack?”

  The three white cats unclipped the lifeless body from the cable and helped the beagle lower him to the deck. They twisted the helmet and pulled it off, revealing Philip’s pale face as water poured from the bottom. The teenager’s dark hair was plastered to his ghostly gray skin, his mouth was open in a slack-jawed expression, and his eyes were closed.

  One knelt beside Philip and touched the boy’s forehead gently, using the human fingers of her left hand. She stared at his face for a few seconds, as if forgetting where she was, then jerked her head up and glared at the white cats.

  “LifePack!”

  A cat slammed a large orange box on the deck and pulled out a nest of colored wires and giant stickers from the side. The limp body became a swirl of activity as hands and paws exposed Philip’s chest and slapped, poked, and dug needles into the limp body of the teenager.

  The beagle had pulled off his breathing mask and oxygen tank. He stood with a paw over a large button on the face of the orange box.

  “Stand clear! Watch that puddle!”

  One and all the cats moved back. The beagle punched the button and Philip’s entire body jumped as all of his muscles contracted. He coughed and wheezed. The cats lifted his arm and rolled him to his side, where he vomited a stream of water.

  “Vital signs normal,” said the beagle. “Wait! Let me check––yes, normal for a human.”

  Wilson twitched his furry black ears. “What’s that sound? Does anyone hear that?”

  “You’re having a flashback,” said One. “I just pulled you out of a punishment cube. It does things to a cat’s brain, which is sort of the point.”

  The beagle raised a paw. “I hear it, too! A female scream, but from far, far away, as if a thousand souls cried out for justice and were suddenly silenced. Justice … raaah.”

  One stared open-mouthed, and shook her head slowly. “I hear a wet dog who really, really wants to see the inside of a punishment cube.”

  Wilson stood on his hind legs and waved his paws over his head excitedly. “He’s moving!”

  The orange sleeve of Philip’s pressure suit bounced up and down, causing his limp arm to slap his side with a wet smack. A bulge in the shiny material squirmed up his arm to the shoulder, and a tiny woman in red spandex shot from the neck opening, her wings buzzing like an angry dragonfly.

  “Are you people insane?” she yelled, pointing at the blonde hair plastered across her face and neck. “It took me ages to get this hair right, and you come along and ruin it!”

  One stared at the tiny flying creature. “What the five suns is that?”

  “I’m a sprite, and the best gem specialist this side of Gliese. Right, Philly-Billy?” Nick glanced down at the motionless body of Philip. “You killed him!” she screamed. Her tiny face turned red. “I’ll murder every stupid person on this entire stupid ship!”

  She buzzed and bounced around the room, kicking at eyes and pulling fur. The cats and beagle frantically scrambled into action, knocking over equipment and crashing into each other in an effort to catch the lightning-fast, flying woman.

  “Watch it!” yelled One. “Grab it. Over there! Don’t open the hatch, you fool. She’ll get into the ship! And now it’s gone. Don’t stand there gaping at me, you globs of steaming cow spit––go catch that thing, whatever it is!”

  After a series of effusive bows and hasty saluting, her feline assistant Wilson, the three cats, and the beagle dashed out of the airlock.

  One shook her head and sighed as the hatch closed. She turned back to the soaked figure of Philip lying on the rubberized deck.

  “I don’t know why I keep expecting results from sewer-born scum of motherless pirates,” she murmured. “Tell me, boy––is that thing of yours a cleaning robot? A tiny friend? A tiny girlfriend?”

  Philip groaned and coughed as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were still closed, but a healthy pink flush had returned to his skin.

  “Wakey, wakey, dear,” whispered One. She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

  Philip wiped seawater from his eyes and blinked at the strangely familiar voice.

  “Amy? Is that you?”

  One smiled. “Yes … and no.”

  Chapter Five

  Dawn crawled up behind the mountains and slowly turned the clouds orange. As the rowboat inched toward the coast and the sky lightened from black to slate-gray, Amy stared with numb shock at the shore.

  The Pacific Grove she remembered from 1995 was a tourist mecca and bustling retirement center––nothing like this village of dirt streets and three-story Victorian houses. No condominiums rose above the rocky coastline; in fact, they probably hadn’t invented the word. Green pastures spread below Lighthouse Avenue, and a thick forest separated the village from the orderly Army fort of The Presidio and empty green fields of New Monterey. The black rocks of the coast were barren of any piers or overhanging restaurants, apart from several wooden structures at Lover’s Point, not the least of which was a two-story structure that looked like a Japanese temple. A railway only a few meters above the shoreline linked the fishing piers of Old Monterey to the sleepy Victorian town. Eighty years later, the two towns would be an indistinguishable swath of concrete urban development, but at this moment they were as separated by distance and purpose as a sardine factory from a Carmelite monastery. As the boats pulled closer to the shore, smoke from burning wood and coal mixed with a breeze of rotting fish an
d creosote. Black and green Model-T Fords rattled along the dirt streets, clanking and grinding on wire wheels and narrow tires. To Amy’s left, a floating menagerie moored off the Monterey wharf––schooners, Chinese junks, and tall wooden ships with furled sails.

  The Asian rowers in the boats aimed for a beach between Monterey and Pacific Grove, the bluffs over the pale sand populated by a collection of gray, sun-beaten shacks. Large wooden racks stood on the beach, like temporary scaffolding. As they approached the shore, the men jumped into the surf and pulled the boats out of the foaming water. Women and children ran barefoot over the cold sand to help, all wearing jackets and pants similar to that worn by the men, but in dull shades of red and blue.

  The two fishermen in Amy’s boat yelled a stream of foreign words. An older woman and a girl of maybe eight or nine ran up to the side of Amy’s boat and helped her climb out and onto the damp sand. The girl was barefoot, and her black hair was split into a pair of braids wound tightly at the sides of her head.

  She stared wide-eyed at Amy. “You’re a girl!”

  Amy shrugged. “What else would I be?”

  “Father brings squid and fish in the morning, not people.”

  The Asian fisherman who had saved Amy blurted out a stream of words at the girl. She nodded and bowed to Amy.

  “I understand,” she said. “You’re from a shipwreck. Come to my house and be warm.”

  Feet squished the sand nearby and Amy glanced over at Three. The teenager was shivering, arms crossed and stringy wet hair dangling in front of her face. Both followed the young girl without a word.

  A narrow trail twisted for a short distance, climbing above the high-tide line through huge boulders, and ended at the faded gray planks of a shack. Strips of red paper had been pasted on either side of a flimsy-looking door, and were covered with vertical streaks of squiggly black lines. Amy guessed it was Chinese writing.

  Inside, the girl motioned for Amy and Three to sit on a narrow bed. The hard surface felt like the rough planks at the bottom of the boat, and wasn’t softened a bit by the pink blanket embroidered with flowers that covered it. Steam curled from a teapot on top of a very small and very black pot-bellied stove in the center of the dirt floor. Wooden crates covered in colorful but thin cloth sat around the inside of the shack. Pages of old newspaper were glued to all four walls as decoration, but whatever news or product that had once streaked the tissue-like paper had faded away completely.