Birdie Down Page 10

  20

  Matheson stood over the wet, leaf-strewn airbed waiting for Rolf to calm down, still wondering why it was that this little fellow had tried to sabotage the V4’s fuel. Rolf was neither security, nor was he crew. In fact, Matheson knew scarcely anything about him, other than he was a Lynthax employee rotating back to Earth, and was fast enough with his fists to give that giant of a man, Goosen, a hard time of it.

  ‘I’ll open the damned thing when you’ve quite punching air, Rolf,’ he said, wiping the canopy lid clear of leaves with his hand.

  Rolf took a last swing at the glass canopy and went limp.

  ‘Then open it!’ he rasped.

  ‘Good lad. Now you keep your fists to yourself,’ Matheson replied, flicking a finger at one of the two other able-bodied survivors standing a little way back. ‘You—Johnson—open it up.’

  Nursing a bruised shoulder, a visibly nervous young man in torn, soaking-wet coveralls stepped forward and knelt beside the sarcophagus. He cautiously ran a hand along the lip of the airbed and found a catch, popped it and then slid it further around to pop a few more. Eventually the lid was freed and he stood up, grateful not to have met any of the local bug life. He beckoned the third survivor to help him lift it clear.

  Matheson looked down at Rolf, securely strapped at the feet, chest and head. His neck was still in a brace, but somehow he had pulled his arms free. Matheson reached in to unbuckle the straps.

  ‘About ruddy time,’ Rolf said, scratchily. ‘I thought I’d been buried alive. Where in the blazes are we?’ He took in a lungful of cool but thick, humid air. ‘And what’s that fish smell?’

  ‘The name’s Matheson, second-in-command of the V4. How’s the neck?’ Matheson asked, ignoring Rolf’s other questions. He had few answers in any case.

  Rolf tried sitting up. He held an arm across his eyes. His shirt darkened at the shoulders as the rain lashed down. He saw the others were already soaking wet.

  ‘It friggin’ hurts, that’s what. Help me up.’

  Johnson grabbed his shoulders from behind and lifted him forward. Rolf turned to thank him and groaned.

  ‘Thanks, whoever the hell you are,’ he said. Turning his head was not such a good idea.

  ‘Ted Johnson,’ the man replied, heaving him to his feet. ‘Engineer. Flux-drive.’

  ‘I see it’s chucking it down,’ Rolf observed, a little lamely. He felt lightheaded and could barely stand unaided.

  Matheson gave Rolf an extra shoulder to lean on and helped Johnson walk him back to their shelter some fifty metres away through the the sparse undergrowth. Rolf caught sight of bodies laid out in rows, covered in torn survival wraps. A little further on, they passed a dozen injured, lying or sitting under a couple of inflated life rafts.

  As they walked, the rain seemed to ease and then pick up again, this time without the wind to push it along. The forest canopy above them soared higher and grew thicker, blotting out the light. Water fell vertically now, in large splashing drops. All around them, huge trees punched their way into the canopy, not stopping to lay out branches until they were four stories or more clear of the ground. It felt as though they were in a giant stockade under a huge thatched roof.

  Rolf tried to ignore the smell of fish and rotting vegetation. It was springy underfoot, but even. The base of the trees appeared discoloured, the bark either stripped away or growing in patches.

  ‘So where are we?’ he asked, trying to compete with the noise of rain on leaves. His voice sounded strangely muffled. That would be the soft ground soaking up the sound, he noted. They lowered him into a shelter made of yet more survival wraps, clipped together and spread across the gap between two very large, fin-like tree roots. It was very rudimentary and still leaked. The spongy ground was damp. ‘And how long have we been here?’

  ‘Good question, Rolf,’ Matheson replied. ‘Ten to twelve hours is my best guess. You were a lucky find. We were trawling the place for usable materials. Johnson tripped over you.’

  ‘Lucky me, then ...’ Rolf replied, distracted by the pain in his neck.

  ‘Yes, you were. But we don’t know where we are for sure. Somewhere in Dragon Park we think: a few hundred klicks west of Welwyn. Do you know the place?’

  ‘Never been,’ Rolf replied, croaking.

  ‘Then that makes all four of us. Benson, here, thinks he’s been out this way before. He says we might be in the gaming area, but can’t be sure. He thinks the company has a farm, or some kind of retreat out this way.’

  Benson, a thick-set man in his middle-thirties, nodded his confirmation.

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’ Rolf asked as he adjusted his neck-brace.

  ‘Then we’re screwed. The park is a big place.’ Benson said, squatting down beside them. His statement was matter of fact.

  Johnson ducked under the cover and sat to one side, looking apprehensively at his more seasoned colleague. He had not spent a night out in the wild in his entire life. He was wet-through and shivering involuntarily; the shock of the crash was taking a long while to wear off.

  ‘It’s as clear as crystal that we can’t stay here,’ Matheson said looking at the sky through a small gap in the canopy that opened and closed as the now intermittent wind snatched at it. The electrical storm was easing off, but the rain still hammered at the canopy above them. It made casual conversation difficult. ‘The ground will flood back to swamp by morning. It’ll bring the critters down for feeding, so it will.’

  ‘Critters?’ Johnson asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Matheson replied, fiddling with a torch. ‘Snappy little fellows. The canopy is filled with them. Once the land floods, the mud fish come out to spawn. That brings the swamp rats out of the trees. And if the rivers break their banks that’ll just add to the frenzy. Dragon Park isn’t called Dragon Park just to add to the romance of the place.’

  ‘And they’re big ’ns, too, Ted,’ Benson added, holding his hand at shoulder height. ‘They’re yay high. And the rats are fast beggars, they are. They hunt in swarms when they leave their hives.’

  Matheson glared at him.

  ‘Enough of that, Benson. It’s getting late. Use your smarts to light a fire instead. Johnson, go check on the injured. Make sure they drink water. They’ll need it for the shock, even if they don’t feel thirsty.’

  Benson looked at him, open mouthed.

  ‘Are you kidding me, sir? A fire? In this?’

  ‘Do I look as though I’m kidding?’ Matheson asked. ‘Get on with it.’ He stooped to sit next to Rolf, and started sorting through some equipment. He picked up a torch, checked it worked and eyed Rolf. ‘So what’s your story?’

  Rolf tried to get comfortable. If he was going to tell this story, it was a long narrative.

  He pictured a hard-worked wife, their beautiful, blond-haired, 12-year-old daughter, and their debts. Both he and his wife were working for Lynthax in the Far Dark Light fuel plant out at Cushing, in the US’s most polluted sector. It was the best work they could find and stay together as a family back in 2200. When his debts overwhelmed them, and their daughter’s school threatened to dump her out of class for the non-payment of fees, Petroff had approached him and made an offer. Petroff was the installation’s head of security. He was on the fast track within Lynthax’s security apparatus and was looking to go further. Petroff wanted someone to do some dirty work for him: something to do with a drug pusher who had one of the board’s kids under his thumb. Rolf was tempted: he needed the money; life was getting harsher for those who could not compete; and his daughter needed to stay in school or she would end up at the bottom of the heap.

  When Petroff then suggested his job was also on the line, their Lynthax-funded mortgage too, there was little to think about. In a world of mass unemployment, there was just too much at stake. In any case, it was an easy job for someone with his talents. He took to his new job with zeal. It was the only way to do a job like that. 110% full-on. It was the way he had made it as Navy SEAL. It was the way he was going to k
eep his family well.

  All he had to do was warn the guy off and keep him away. But it was payment on results, and he needed the money badly—urgently—there was no time to wait. So rather than warn him off, and let time prove how successful he was, he made the guy disappear on one of the local battery farms. The next day, he gave Petroff a bag of pellets to prove the drug pusher’s DNA was in the food chain. Job done, he stayed on Petroff’s payroll and ran odd jobs for him in the years that followed. His daughter stayed in school. She graduated from NYU.

  Life was good, if unpredictable. Petroff’s odd jobs took him across the Outer-Rim for several months at a time, but at least his family were safe, secure and whole.

  So he had thought.

  After his work on Prebos was done—stoking yet another fire for Petroff to conveniently put out—he arrived at Lynthax House to find a stream of electronic mail from Maureen waiting for him, imploring him to come home and talk. She was fed up with being alone, of living with a man who could not talk about his work and woke up in sweats in the middle of the night. Clair had flown the nest. It was just the two of them now. And what did they share, other than a house and an inadequate pension?

  The mails grew increasingly desperate and less patient: she could not save the marriage if he continued to ignore her. Did he really care? Taxes were due: should they file separately? Claire was engaged: could he let her know he’s finally grown to like the boyfriend? The condo committee was going public, and, if it did, that meant they could extend their lease by another 10 years: could he please vote ‘yes’ over the next few weeks?

  The final mail included the electronic divorce papers. They just required a signature.

  It was a mess. The mail had taken four months to get to him, which had never happened before. General mail sometimes followed him around the Outer-Rim, and might take a week or so to find the right drop-box, but company mail was never late by more than a few days. And Maureen always used the companynet. Someone must have held everything back. Someone had authorised the delay. And there was only one person who might need to do that and have the power to do so: Petroff.

  But Petroff would not explain himself. He was too busy dealing with civil disorder. He sent an email instead: Take a few weeks; go home; it’ll blow over.

  At the time of the hijacking, he was headed back to Earth to throw himself at the problem, to plead ignorance and to make promises. Maybe even explain. It depended on whether Maureen could stomach the truth. He was not looking forward to it, but it needed to be done. So when that Scat character blew the V4’s commander away, hijacked the ship and made it clear it wasn’t headed for Earth, he had lost control, gotten mad and taken a risk: all in vain.

  ‘Ask another,’ he replied.

  Matheson stopped fiddling with the torch. There was no point in pushing.

  ‘Suit yourself, Rolf. I won’t pry further.’ Putting the torch back in a bag, Matheson got back to the job in hand. ‘We’ll stay here for a while. I’m still not quite up to it, and you’re a crock. But we need to move out before it floods. We’ve found ourselves a map, and, as you know, Benson here thinks he knows where we went down. We’re close to a farm, or a company retreat. He’s not sure which.’

  Rolf’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Farm?’ he asked, hopefully. He half-remembered Matheson mentioning it, but he had missed its significance.

  ‘Something like that, Rolf. If we can find it, we should be OK.’

  Rolf held a hand to his throat. He knew of a farm, but he did not like the idea of moving anywhere, let alone across country.

  ‘Won’t they be looking for us?’ he asked, weakly. ‘Won’t they have marked the crash site?’ He sucked in air as best he could after he spoke, feeling increasingly tired. His eyes drooped. It was hard to stay focused.

  Matheson put a thumb to Rolf’s eyebrow and held the lid open. The eye was glazing over.

  ‘They might have done,’ he replied, looking at the other eye, ‘but these storms could last for days. By then we could be swimming downstream or climbing into the trees. Whichever way you look at it, we’ll either be fighting off armies of rodents or beating back the reptiles. And it’s that time of the year. They’ll be hungry. You’ll just have to suck it up.’

  ‘And the one’s who can’t walk?’ Rolf asked, pointing a limp hand towards the injured outdoors, and mindful of his own condition.

  Matheson followed his finger out through the gap in the plastic.

  ‘What about them?’

  21

  Above Alba

  It was a risk worth taking. Sometimes, when you’re on the back foot, you’ve got to throw the extra punch. It’s good for moral. It keeps everyone in fight-mode. It stops people from dwelling on their problems.

  The journey to Alba had taken two hours. This time they did not mess with the local buoy network. This was Asian space, and it was good politics to keep the Asians neutral. Besides, Nettles was adamant that no good would come of stirring that nest. This time Scat paid attention, in part to make up for locking the door to the conference room. On this occasion he would throw a punch at the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority. No one could complain about that.

  ‘OK,’ Scat said after Tyson confirmed the connection to Alba’s Earth Representative Office. ‘It’s time to lay on the show.’

  He turned to Smithy.

  ‘Off you go. Get the guys ready. We’ll send Khan along in a short while.’

  Smithy raised his right hand in a mock salute. He looked smart, dressed as he was in a previously-owned Outer Rim Force uniform. Scat smiled, returned the salute and watched him leave the cabin. As he stared at the empty doorway he shot a question over his shoulder:

  ‘Is Khan ready?’

  ‘He’s on his way,’ Tyson replied. ‘Chan as well.’

  ‘Good. We might as well go the whole hog.’ he replied. ‘If the ORF takes the bait they’ll arrive with their safeties on.’

  Adding Chan to the upcoming charade was a nice touch. It was Khan’s idea. In Asian Bloc circles Chan was a well-known TV personality. He was also tight with Cohen, Earth’s Outer-Rim Ambassador. The local Earth rep would know that. Having him play along with Khan should help convince the locals the V4 was still a civilian ship.

  For Chan, playing on his celebrity status in furtherance of the rebel cause, even on an Asian Bloc planet like Alba, was a no-brainer: if it went wrong, he could always claim the rebels had forced him to tag along.

  Which was true. At least at first.

  But ever since Scat press-ganged him into helping the rebels hijack the V4 back in Trevon space, Chan had seen the value in working alongside of them. Being on the inside of the rebellion meant he was building a fine portfolio of journalistic exclusives. Between them, he and Li were already divvying up the likely royalties from prospective NetStream, inter-planetary magazine and publicnet distribution. Rebellion, hijack, kidnap, planetary strikes—it was all good news.

  And now the rebels were going after an ORF starflyer. This story was getting sexier by the hour.

  Khan arrived, all fired up, wearing his old badge of office attached to a lapel, his thick black hair neatly brushed. His naturally sallow face was freshly shaved, but still looked to be stained black. Chan followed him in, his unlined forehead and puffy cheeks dusted to reduce the glare. A scruffy Li traipsed into the command cabin behind them, the bugcam hovering at his left shoulder. They waited on Scat’s directions. He motioned them into the conference room and sat them down on the far side of the 3-D bench facing a wall-mounted monitor.

  ‘Welks, get over here,’ he ordered. ‘I want you in the background wearing that V4 uniform of yours. Li, get yourself over there.’ He pointed to the star map. ‘Now remember, Khan, this is a personal call from one Earth Rep to another. Cohen has sent you on a quick and confidential round-robin trip to update his Reps on the Trevon talks, alright?

  ‘The V4 is also carrying fare-paying passengers who’ve gotten permission to travel direct and it’s just y
our bad luck the hangar door won’t open, OK?

  ‘You ask the Earth rep to organise a couple of passenger ferries, and ask ISRA for a starflyer escort. If he asks about the starflyer, don’t explain. Just say it’s required: you’ll fill him in later.

  ‘Keep the chit chat to a minimum. Just make the Rep think you’ve got something of importance to talk about, person to person, when you get to the surface.’

  Khan nodded. Other than to write the speech that Scat transmitted to Trevon’s Spaceport Video Exchange after the first attack, this was his first real contribution to the war effort. He looked at the monitor, not sure when it would go live.

  As he looked back at Scat to get his cue, Chan jumped in.

  ‘So we get to stream our work when this is done, yes? We have an agreement now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Chan. We do,’ Scat replied as if repeating himself for the nth time.

  ‘I only asked again, Scat, because you have changed your mind several times.’ Chan was referring to Scat’s bait-and-switch antics in the hours leading up to the hijack. ‘And we need to stream these teasers back to Earth to attract bidders for the news auction. This is the first time we have had such a chance. If we are to break this story to Earth, we must do it from here.’ Chan reminded him. The rebels had disabled the networks from Trevon, G-eo and Ashmore.

  ‘I get it, Chan. I do. Once we’re done here you can stream whatever you friggin’ like. Are we done, now?’

  Chan nodded slowly and winked at Li.

  ‘We are. Thank you,’ he said.

  Scat shook his head and returned to the work at hand. He raised his voice to get Tyson’s attention out at the console.

  ‘Tyson, get ready to patch them in,’ he directed. ‘Li, stay out of shot when you record your piece.’ He held his stare until Chan translated and Li nodded. ‘Good.’

  With everything set and everyone knowing their parts, Scat stepped across to stand at Li’s right shoulder. He pointed at Tyson and mouthed the order to put the call through.

  ‘Go!’

 

  22

  Tyson broke the news.

  ‘Two ferries and a starflyer are on their way, Scat. The ferries were already delivering supplies to the space station so they’ll be here in a few minutes. The starflyer’s coming around from the far side—ETA 45 minutes.’

  ‘Good. Is Smithy ready?’

  ‘He is. And Nettles and the others are waiting outside the starboard airlock.’

  ‘No fuss?’ Scat asked.

  ‘None,’ Tyson replied. ‘Nettles says “good luck”.’

  Well that was good of him. Maybe Goosen was right. Or maybe it was just good politics. Quite possibly Marvin had reminded Nettles that events could be revised at will, and so leaving on good terms was probably the wisest thing to do. Well let him. Nettles could claim whatever he wanted about his involvement with the rebellion. Scat knew Nettles had plans to represent the independence movement from exile, possibly from Alba, but would prefer the charges against him to be dropped so he could get back to Trevon. Fat chance. He would have a long wait. But at least Scat was getting what he wanted—freedom from political interference.

  ‘Welks? You’re comfortable with this?’ he asked, referring to the up-coming double dockings.

  Welks did not look up. He was busy adjusting the V4’s orbit. Although he had piloted the ship in orbit before, it was always under Matheson’s direct supervision. This time there would be no one to over-ride a clumsy mistake. Dockings were always a little tricky. Fortunately it was down to the ferries and the starflyer to make most of the adjustments.

  ‘Er, yes, sir. No problem.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ll leave you and Tyson to it.’

  Scat left the cabin and then made his way out of the gravity ring into a warren of zero-gravity low-light service corridors. He pushed and pulled himself along, occasionally peering through the windows and across the rear hangar deck, hoping to get a glimpse of the politicos in the opposite corridor. He saw nothing.

  Smithy was waiting for him inside the portside airlock, along with 10 rebels dressed in ill-fitting ORF uniforms and carrying an assortment of PIKLs and stuns. Smithy held out a bag containing another uniform.

  ‘This one might be a little big for you, Scat. But if you hang back a little, they won’t notice.’

  Scat took it off him. As he shed his coveralls he spoke to Khan who clung to a hand grip at the back of the bright but featureless, all-white room.

  ‘Nervous?’ he asked.

  Khan looked a little grim. He was looking down at the floor, his head moving fractionally as though rehearsing his lines. He broke his stare and looked up.

  ‘Somewhat, Scat. You’ll appreciate this is all a little new. But please don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to Khoffi. Just be yourself. We’ll do the rest.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Scat,’ Khan replied, not really knowing what ‘the rest’ would be. He knew it might involve violence, but he could not comprehend it.

  ‘We’ll be surprising them, Khoffi,’ Scat added. ‘The buoy network won’t have carried any news back to Earth so this lot’ll still be in the dark.’

  Scat made it sound like it was nothing. Khan appreciated the effort, but was mentally prepared for a little difficulty. Outer Rim Force starflyers were armed with a turret-mounted Pulsed Impulsive Kill Laser, a light-tug, and two solid-shot rail cannons up front. If they were not fitted with extra Far Dark Light fuel tanks for extended patrols, they could carry either a fully equipped platoon of 40 assault troops or two in-system interceptors. Scat was hoping it carried interceptors, or a combination of a single interceptor and fuel. That would leave them with only a flight crew of around four and possibly a few technicians to overpower—if they were lucky.

  Scat’s graf bleeped.

  ‘First ferry docking now, Scat.’ It was Tyson. ‘Starflyer still inbound.’

  The boarding party waited in silence. Someone lightened the mood by quietly sharing a joke with the two on either side of him. There was muted laughter. Heads turned out of interest, and then returned to watch the airlock door.

  ‘Ferry docked. Rotating airlock.’ This time it was Welks. There was a short pause. ‘Approving transfer ...’

  Another, longer pause, as on the other side of the ship the politicos, Chan, Li and half the ex-coppers who did not want to join the rebellion made their way across to the first ferry.

  Scat waited, flexing his fists, waiting on the outcome. He noticed Smithy stiffening up.

  Welks spoke again.

  ‘Transfer complete. Closing airlock ...’ Smithy beamed a smile. ‘Airlock sealed ... Disengaging ...’

  ‘Starflyer approaching.’ This time it was Tyson. ‘It doesn’t look shielded, Scat.’

  That was a relief. It meant the starflyer was not at battle stations. The crew was not stood-to.

  ‘Starflyer docking ...’

  There was the slightest of bumps. A whirring. A thud as a lock slid into place.

  ‘Starflyer docked. ... Sir, are you ready for the airlock to rotate?’ Welks asked.

  ‘As ever, Welks. Open her up.’

  There was another thud, followed immediately by a hiss as the air in the airlock and the docking tunnel equalised. Gradually the outer airlock door swung back and came to rest against the wall revealing a large white letter ‘A’ on a green background.

  Scat peered over Smithy’s head and into the tunnel. It was empty, but the dark grey outer airlock door on the starflyer was already open, revealing a brightly lit interior. A shadow fell across the doorway, but no one was in view.

  The rebel’s ORF ‘escort’ stood in two lines either side of the V4’s airlock door, their weapons at the ready. They fidgeted. They were psyched up for a hot entry.

  Khan waited for Scat to give him the all clear to move past them and into the tunnel, but Scat was not giving the signal.

  Smithy looked back over his shoulder. Scat shrugged. He was exp
ecting a reception of some kind. Instead they were at the door to an empty house.

  Smithy broke the silence. He shouted down the corridor.

  ‘Permission for the Earth Representative to come on board.’

  Scat frowned at him. Smithy shrugged.

  ‘I heard someone say that in a documentary, Scat,’ he said quietly.

  The silence continued. Eventually Khan pushed off from the back wall and headed into the tunnel, just as an ORF officer appeared at the other end. He had one hand inside his jacket. The other held a hand grip to stop him spinning in the zero gravity.

  The officer caught sight of Khan and noticed the badge on his lapel. His eyes flashed. He stopped adjusting his under-suit and tried to hold out a hand but thought better of it.

  He eventually managed a salute.

  ‘I’m so very, very sorry for the delay, sir. We’re a little short-handed, I’m afraid. I’m Lieutenant Alfred H Day. Welcome aboard.’

  23

  Dragon Park, Constitution

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ Bing said woozily, holding a hand to his head. It felt as though he was pushing brains back inside his skull. The bump was large, soft and squidgy. ‘Are you sure you didn’t bang your own head?’

  Goosen stared at him. Outside the shelter, the wind had died down but the rain continued unabated. The puddles had grown into large pools. It was difficult to walk on the soft ground now without sinking up to one’s ankles in mud.

  ‘I’m fine, Bing,’ Goosen replied. ‘And you can thank me for hauling you out of that thing any time you like.’ He pointed to the shuttle’s cockpit. It was just visible behind a curtain of rain.

  Bing got up on an elbow and looked out.

  ‘Are you saying we came down in that?’

  Goosen gave him a long, slow nod, waiting for everything to fall into place for him.

  ‘We did, Bing. Just you and me. It was a short trip.’

  ‘And we came from an LM?’

  ‘Yup. The V4. The Trevon rebels’ newest flagship.’

  Bing tried to shake his head, but stopped abruptly.

  ‘Can’t be right. I’m not the volunteering type. Why the blazes are you calling me Bing? And what’s that awful smell?’

  Goosen’s face froze in mid-smile.

  ‘Because that’s what you’re called, Bing. At least it’s what you call yourself on your employment card. But we call you Pug, on account of your round face and startled, little eyes.’

  Bing felt his face. It looked like that was news to him—the face or the name, either one.

  Goosen saw Bing’s mind trying to turn, but given the concussion, the cogs were probably turning very slowly. He gave him some more time.

  ‘It’s Tillier Bing, actually,’ Goosen continued. ‘Are you sure you can’t remember it? It’s a lousy name. I’d remember it if it were mine.’

  ‘No, sorry. I’ve got nothing ... What do I call you?’

  ‘Andrew Goosen. Or Birdie. My close friends call me that on account of my size and gracefulness.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Bing asked through a blinding headache. ‘And what did I call you?’

  ‘Well Birdie, of course!’

  Bing squinted through half-closed eyes and tried to study Goosen’s face.

  ‘Nah! Sorry, Birdie. I got nothing there either.’

  Goosen sighed.

  ‘Well at least you haven’t forgotten the English language, that’s a good sign. Do you recall being Welsh?’

  Bing dug an ear out with a finger.

  ‘Welsh? Why the hell’s name would I be Welsh? I’m not an endangered species, am I?’

  ‘Or your sense of humour, by the sounds of it. Do you remember anything about your time on Trevon? Working in the police comms department? Breaking gang codes? Anything at all?’

  Bing looked a little startled.

  ‘The friggin’ police?’

  Goosen leaned back against the tree but quickly sat forward again when he felt rain trickling into his shirt.

  ‘Just what do you remember, then?’ he asked.

  Bing closed his eyes. Goosen did not know whether it was from pain or in an attempt to dig a little deeper into his memory. He saw Bing’s expression change from quizzical to a sudden realisation.

  ‘Leaving Constitution ...’ He stopped.

  ‘Yeah? Well leaving Constitution is a good start. But you’ve come full circle. You’re back on it again.’

  Bing sat bolt upright, scrapping the top of his head on the underside of the raft.

  ‘Ah, noooo!’

  ‘So you’re pleased to be here, I see,’ Goosen observed, pulling Bing back to lie him down again. ‘Take it easy and don’t get so agitated.

  Bing was not listening.

  ‘Oh, flippin’ heck,’ he said as though he had really screwed up. ‘And when are we leaving?’

  Goosen flicked a finger a few times through the end of the shelter. Bing followed it.

  ‘As I said: we came down in that.’

  Bing gave a slow groan and stared up at the shelter. Both hands went up to cover his face.

  ‘I don’t frigging believe this.’

  Goosen looked at Bing’s head again. It was a nasty knock. He couldn’t understand how he got it. They were both securely strapped in at the time of the crash. He wouldn’t have gotten that knock when the airbags exploded. Maybe something flew around the cabin on impact.

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s broken, Bing. But it sounds like you’ve lost a fair chunk of memory. How long ago were you on Constitution—before you left it under what were obviously dubious circumstances?’

  ‘Er, I’ve no idea. What date is it now?’

  Goosen replied with a guess, not daring to turn on his graf: it would alert the local telecom provider and he would be inundated with special offers. Worse, Lynthax would get a fix.

  ‘March 2nd, I think, 2210. What date are you on?’

  Bing squinted for several seconds. He held a hand up and pressed a thumb against fingers. He appeared to be counting.

  ‘Jeeze. I’m still on ‘06 or ‘07. I think. Maybe late ‘06. If I recall rightly ...’ He stroked his stomach and brought himself up short. His eyes widened. ‘Oh, no! Birdie?’

  ‘What?’ It sounded like Bing had found a memory. ‘Well?’ He waited on an explanation, but all Bing could do was grab Goosen by the arm.

  ‘You’ve got to get me off this frigging planet. I’ll join the police again, even the frigging rebels: just get me out of here.’

  Goosen pouted and shook his head.

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere, Bing. Except sideways and on foot. And only as soon as you’re able.’

  Bing looked out of the shelter. He cast his eyes around the empty spaces between the massive trees.

  ‘Where the frig to?’

  Goosen had given that careful consideration.

  ‘That way,’ he said, pointing through the trees. He then looked up at the damaged canopy and followed a broken line of branches back to where they had first entered the forest. ‘Around two klicks from here. I was going to take a look at the other shuttle myself, but didn’t want to leave you here on your lonesome. My guess is if there are survivors, they’ll know more than we do about where we are. We can follow them. Take it from there.’

  Bing gave a facial shrug. That made sense.

  ‘So when you’re ready we’ll leave. I’ve packed a couple of bags with a few things,’ Goosen added. ‘I’ll use the life raft to tow the light-tug along.’

  ‘Light tug?’ Bing could not understand how a light-tug might be considered essential survival gear.

  ‘Oh, right. We haven’t discussed that part of our story, have we?’

  ‘What part? Come on Birdie, this is no fun. Help me out here.’

  ‘We were attacking Lynthax’s head office. One of the Venture Raider’s RAVs took us out.’ He waited for a reaction. He got one. Bing struggled to get to his feet.

  ‘That freaking settles it. Now we’ve got to get out of here.
You were attacking Lynthax’s head office? Here? On Constitution? Don’t you know what kind of a crap-storm that would provoke?’

  Goosen curled his lower lip.

  ‘Well I guess it’s the same kind of crap-storm that comes from doing the same thing on Trevon and G-eo.’

  ‘We did what?’

  Goosen rubbed it in.

  ‘You actually came along for the ride when we took out G-eo. You pressed the button that fried the building.’

  Bing slumped back down onto his butt.

  ‘Then I’m a dead man twice over.’

  That invited comment.

  ‘So what made you so popular the first time around?’

  Bing stayed mum. He stared at the light-tug.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he replied. It was almost a lie. Bing had ghostly images, but he preferred to keep them to himself.

  Goosen watched Bing stroke his stomach again. Over the past few years, he had noticed Bing did that when he was undecided about something.

  ‘When do you want to start out?’ Bing asked.

  ‘As soon as you’re ready, Bing. The rain is easing.’

  ‘Then how about now?’

  24

  The sky was clearing. In the small gaps in the canopy above him, Matheson saw streaks of blue where only hours ago there was a monotonous grey. He forced the pace. The others tried to keep up, but injury or poor footing caused them to fall behind. Occasionally Matheson turned around, urged them on and waited a few seconds, but with the dark pools of water beginning to stir, he was anxious to leave the shallow depressions behind them.

  He rubbed his black eye. It was a lucky punch. Rolf was good with his fists, he had seen that before. Maybe he should not have leaned over the little tyke to say goodbye. Well, no matter. He was alive, and Rolf was almost certainly dead. The rats were claiming the survivors, one by one, hour by hour.

  The break in the clouds was the good news: with any luck Welwyn’s emergency services would be on their way—if only to search for bodies.

  The bad news was they had left the crash site some four kilometres behind them. Matheson had heeded Benson’s warning and wanted to find a more substantial area of higher ground, to get as far from the dark, black pools and the newly forming swamp as they could. But the ground appeared flat all around them: only the growing pools had shown the way to elevated ground. It was hit and miss. Often a piece of dry ground would disappear beneath them as the water rose, forcing them to switch across to something that appeared more substantial. It was tiring.

  Now they were cut off from the crash site; they could not go back, and the water levels continued to rise, consuming much of the surrounding area. So they were pressing on.

  Matheson was now standing on firmer, dryer ground, a foot or so higher up. This stretch of ground appeared to run off for several hundreds of metres, twisting and turning through the forest, though it was barely a refuge: without the quickly forming pools of water, now merging to create vast lakes, he would not have noticed it. But he was now high enough up for his boots to squelch rather than splash as he walked. He no longer wasted energy by wading.

  More importantly, he was putting distance between him and the thrashing of the mud fish as they awoke from their seasonal slumbers.

  By all accounts the rains preceded a feeding frenzy so violent there was nothing like it anywhere else in the human universe. The feastings were the most significant event in the forest’s cycle of life and one of its natural wonders. It was when the mud fish broke free from the boggy ground and became aquatic again, eager to spawn, that they were at their most vulnerable. This was the time the swamp rats descended in their millions from their hollowed-out tree dens to converge on the pools to overwhelm anything that splashed or thrashed about. Even the forest deer knew to make their way out onto the plains during the feasting seasons.

  Maybe so. Matheson just did not want to be close enough to see it.

  He took a minute to empty his boots of water and wring out his socks. Fifty metres behind him, Benson waded into view, his face streaming with sweat, clothes soaking wet. As he caught up, Matheson set off again along the narrow line of higher ground.

  Benson paused to arch his back and suck in the cold humid air. He looked back along the route he had taken to see a third man looking back over his shoulder, waving a hand at Johnson. Looking exhausted, the third man turned back around and pushed his legs slowly through the water, holding his cap clear of the water with one hand, and his bag with the other. He tripped on a submerged root, and disappeared. His head broke the surface for a second, but went back under. The bag floated away. Johnson pushed past it, reached down and lifted the man to his feet again.

  They were 30 metres from dry ground. It was not far. They just needed to stay on their feet, not get stuck in the mud, or get caught up in the roots. Benson watched them set off towards him again, urging each other on.

  Then the water began to thrash wildly. The two men pulled up and spun around to see the swamp explode around them.

  Mud fish tails whipped the water into froth. Silver bodies shot clear of the surface, curled, flicked and dove back into the swamp. The noise of the splashing grew. It filled the forest and drowned out speech. Benson’s shouts did not carry; Johnson was hit in the face; the other man slipped backwards to disappear into the foaming pool.

  Vibrations tickled the tree roots sending messages into the giant, hollowed-out tree trunks.

  And above them the canopy burst into life.