Into the No-Zone

2

TARN WAS HERE

All I see, after I clamber into the cage after her, is a bunch of scratches on the grey-painted metal of the hull.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘These!’ Sky says, pointing.

Amazingly, it is the scratches she’s mad keen to show me. There must be hundreds of them, scored and gouged into the metal. Most are old and tough to see clearly, as if they’ve been painted over. Others are fresher or deeper, still shiny. Sky points out one set in particular, tracing the lines with a shaking finger.

‘Her tag,’ she says again, biting her lip. ‘Tarn was here.’

I lean in and squint, but still all I see is a bunch of random scratches. ‘How can you know that?’

Sky’s breathing catches and she stiffens.

‘Look, I believe you,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t see it, that’s all.’

She scowls at me. Again. ‘A tag is your mark. Only you and your mates know it; that way it can’t be traced back to you. In the camps we all tagged. The kick was to piss the guards off by tagging as many places as you could without getting caught.’ She stares into space and shakes her head. ‘Nobody tagged more than Tarn. My sister scratched her tags in places no one else dared.’

I can’t help wondering if she’s just seeing what she wants to see. No way I’m saying that though. Next thing I know, Sky’s back on her feet and shoving past me out of the cage.

‘There’s something else,’ she says.

I go to follow and my ribs take another shot, doubling me up.

‘After that, can I go and get patched up?’ I say.

Sky’s hunting for something, flicking her shiner beam about and muttering to herself. I hear her snort.

‘For a nublood, Kyle, you sure whine a lot.’

‘Just because I heal fast doesn’t make it hurt any less!’

There’s a loud clunk sound outside and the windjammer lurches violently. I have to grab the bars of the cage to stay on my feet, which doesn’t do my ribs any favours. Next thing, the floor sways and bumps under me. My guess is the tractor is hauling us away to a dispersal area in one of the Deeps’ side canyons.

Sky finds what she’s looking for. ‘Gotcha!’

As I make it out of the cage, Colm catches my eye. He nods at Sky where she’s messing with some device like a blaster crossed with a cleverbox. It makes a clicking sound. Looking satisfied, she aims it at the cage. The clicking swells to an angry howl.

‘Hear that?’ she says, like I’m deaf.

‘Kill it, will you?’ I say. ‘My head’s hurting enough as it is.’

She points the device away from the cage and it calms down.

‘Look!’ She shows me the screen on top of it.

‘What’s it show?’ Colm says.

‘Promethium-148,’ I read, slowly. ‘What’s that then?’

One of the techs looks around. ‘The old Earth name for darkblende. Those kids you rescued from that Slayer Facility – it’s the stuff they had them mining. Lethal stuff, toxic and hot. Pumps out loads of nasty gamma radiation.’

I scramble away from the cage triple-quick.

Tech guy sniggers. ‘Relax. We’re safe enough. The counter’s only showing raised rad levels. Nothing hard enough to burn us.’

I stare at him. He looks cool so I quit backing up.

And now I take in the eyeglasses, the tangle of headphones around his neck, the flame-red hair. I know this smart-arse from Bastion, the Gemini base hidden beneath the Blight shanty town. He’s the guy who picked up Rona’s distress call.

‘Hey, Ness, it’s me, Kyle.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He peers at my face. ‘What happened to you?’

I wipe my mouth. My hand comes away smeared with blood.

‘Forget that,’ Sky snaps, waving the counter-thing under my nose. ‘Darkblende gamma readings only show up inside the cage, and nowhere else. So this cage held prisoners contaminated from mining the stuff. Tarn’s tag tells us she was one of them.’ She grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘This Slayer transport has to be the one they shipped my sister out of the Facility in!’

I try to share her excitement, honestly I do. Only I’m hurting and my head’s still full of nasty thoughts from the fight.

‘That’s great.’ I force a smile. ‘But –’

‘But what ?’ she says, real low.

‘Look, I get it,’ I say. ‘This freighter here flew your sister out of the Facility. So what? I don’t want to piss on your fire, but without the crew to ask we can’t know where it took her.’

Sky turns her gaze on Ness. ‘Tell Kyle what you told me.’

The tech’s eyes go extra big behind his glasses. ‘Hang on, Sky, I only said I’d take a look. I’ve got lots of other work to –’

She sighs. ‘Just tell him.’

Ness glances around, as if making sure his tech mates aren’t listening. ‘Okay, okay,’ he whispers. ‘So, like I said, I ran a scan on this jammer’s nav-track and the crew didn’t scrub its memory before our guys got to them. The data’s scrambled, to level seven at least. It’ll take some time, but I should be able to break it.’

We must be towed over a ditch or something because the floor leaps up under us. Ness staggers into me.

I push him away, harder than I need to. ‘What’d he say?’

‘He can hack into the transport’s navigation system and track where it’s been,’ Sky explains. And Ness nods.

Colm, watchful and quiet up to now, mutters something under his breath that sounds to me like a disgusted: ‘Great.’

Sky takes a deep breath and lets it out. Her green eyes drill into me. ‘So we can find out where the Slayer bastards took Tarn. Then go bring her back, like we agreed.’

Even though I saw it coming, I still twitch. ‘Just like that?’

I expect Sky to blow up at me. No. She just pulls her hand away and looks hurt. I’ve seen that expression a lot lately. Feeling guilty, I pick up the rad-counter from where she put it down.

Ness makes a grab for it. ‘That’s no toy.’

I fend him off, press the trigger and it starts ticking. Ness makes another lunge and knocks my hand. I end up accidentally aiming it at Sky. Only I must have the thing set wrong, because it howls so loudly I drop it. It hits the deck, squeals and cuts off.

Ness picks it up. ‘Look what you’ve done. You’ve broken it!’

Sky gives me her best scowl. ‘You’re such a gom, Kyle.’

The Deeps are a maze of narrow canyons between sheer cliff walls. In this main canyon we now call home, the cliffs to the east overhang a rocky shelf, forming an immense natural amphitheatre. That’s where all our tents and shacks are. The rocks below the shelf are riddled with caves and tunnels. These are too regular to be natural, but nobody knows who dug them out in the way-back-when before Wrath became a dump world and humans started arriving. Nobody cares much either. We just use them. Like this healer chamber I’m in now.

Shirt off, I’m sitting on an icy-cold metal table with my chest all strapped up. Rona’s bandage is wound so tight around me that breathing is a battle. Just my luck that it was my foster-mother on duty. I figure she’s strapped me extra-tight because she’s so mad at me.

I hate this room’s stink of soap, antiseptic and blood. It reminds me too much of the Facility lab where Slayer medics kept me prisoner, pumping my blood into my father, the Saviour.

Now she’s stitching a gash above my eye.

‘Kyle!’ Rona scolds. ‘Quit wriggling about, or I’ll give you a mirror and you can stitch the damn thing yourself.’

‘It hurts,’ I say, staring at the curve of needle she’s holding.

‘Course it bloody hurts. Taking on a combat instructor . . . you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.’ She frowns and leans in again. I feel the sting of the needle, a plucking at my forehead as she tugs the thread through. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘I lost my temper.’

‘Your mind more like.’

‘The guy was giving me a hard time,’ Colm says.

‘He doesn’t know you’re –?’ Rona lets the question hang.

We never talk about Colm and me being the Saviour’s sons. Apart from us, I think only Ballard knows. We leave that little detail out of the speeches he makes me give. Could be awkward, he says. Awkward? Colm reckons we’d be torn limb from limb.

It’s a constant worry that we’ll be found out.

‘If he knew that, you’d be sewing me into a body bag,’ I say.

Rona breathes out sharply, warming my ear with a tut. Six more stitches and she ties a knot and bites the end off. I brace myself to be bitched at – it isn’t the first time she’s had to fix me up.

‘Oh, Kyle,’ she says, sounding tired. ‘I know it’s tough with the grief you both get. But fighting will only make things worse.’

I squirm away, feeling all tight inside.

‘Sometimes you have to fight. You don’t understand.’

‘I understand all right.’ She hands me my blood-spattered shirt, and rubs her eyes. ‘I’m just sick to death of fighting and war.’

‘Ballard says we’re winning,’ Colm says.

‘Don’t you start! If we are winning, it doesn’t feel like it. All us healers see are windjammers bringing us cargo bays piled high with wounded fighters to patch up. There’s no end to it.’

She’s not wrong; we’ve all seen them. It’s six bigmoons now since the Facility raid and I guess it’s like Murdo says – you go poking a stick into a wrathmite hole, don’t be surprised when the bugs swarm out and bite you. The word reaching us out here in the Deeps is that Gemini’s taking some serious heat. The Saviour’s Slayer army has gone on the offensive, trying to wipe us out. The Blight is a smoking ruin and Bastion has been evacuated.

Rona sighs. ‘So many die. Maybe they’re the lucky ones.’

‘You call dying lucky?’ I say.

She looks through me. ‘I had one nublood kid in here a week ago. Gut-shot. Screaming and bleeding all over the place. We fixed him up. He healed so quickly he was sent out again.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I say, confused.

‘Is it? He was back yesterday. Blaster-burnt this time. What must it do to these kids’ heads, being so badly wounded, patched up and sent back out to fight, or die? They’re all so . . . young.’

Younger than me. Yeah, I know.

‘You can’t fight wars without taking losses.’

If Sky were here she’d be nodding, but Rona snorts as she swabs stuff on to my stitches.

‘Oh, listen to you. Those losses have names, and mothers too. But I’m wasting my breath. You won’t listen. The young think that dying only happens to other people.’

I duck away from her swabbing. Whatever she’s putting on me stings like crazy. ‘You’re saying we shouldn’t fight?’

She dredges up a sad smile. ‘I’m not. Kyle, I’m a healer, not a fighter. Even when I was your age I couldn’t kill, whatever the cause. That’s why I served the way I did, looking after you.’

Before I can stop her, she messes up my hair.

That does it. I have to tell her.

‘They hate me. Colm too. We train the same as they do, but while they go off to fight we sit on our hands, safe here. You should see the looks they give us – like we’re cowards!’

I glance at my brother. He seems more interested in the floor.

‘That’s nonsense. You serve in other ways, that’s all.’

I taste bile in the back of my throat.

‘Yeah? Tell them that. Making stupid speeches for Ballard. Him banging on about what a hero I am. Why can’t we be fighters like the rest of them? Fighting Slayers would be easier.’

‘Now you’re being stupid.’

‘At least we’d know who our enemies are.’

Rona clicks her tongue. ‘Your work is important. So is Colm’s. People here are scared and anxious. We’ve taken a hammering and Ballard needs you to remind people that we can win.’

She goes to help me into my shirt.

‘I can manage.’ I jump down from the examination table.

‘Suit yourself.’ Rona starts tidying away the bits and pieces of her healing trade. ‘Do you want something for the pain?’

‘No. I don’t want anything. I’m done here.’

I struggle into my shirt, even the buttons wanting to fight me.

‘How’s Sky?’ Rona says, watching.

‘How should I know?’

My foster-mother’s grey eyes meet mine. ‘She was here not long ago, fired up about something. I told her where to find you.’

I hesitate, wondering if Sky’s said anything to her. I bet she has. She’s here loads – they get along big time. Rona never says it, but I know she wishes Sky and me would get back together again.

‘Sky’s got a lead on her sister,’ I tell her reluctantly.

‘That’s great news!’ Rona’s face brightens. Only now she must notice my scowl. ‘Don’t you think?’

How can someone who’s seen forty summers be so dumb?

‘She wants me to help her rescue Tarn and bring her back,’ I say.

‘Ah. You did say you would.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t. Ballard would never allow it.’

‘You’ve asked him?’

I scowl at her. ‘There’s no point.’

‘Why not?’ Rona says. ‘If you find Tarn, there’s a good chance you’ll find the other missing nublood children too.’

‘Hasn’t Ballard got enough on his plate?’ Colm says, as he sets off towards the exit tunnel. ‘Like making sure Gemini survives.’

Rona sighs. ‘I was just thinking of Sky, that’s all.’

‘All Sky thinks about is Tarn,’ I say, unable to hold it in.

‘You’re wrong there,’ Rona says, shaking her head, lips pursed. ‘Think what Sky’s been through. She doesn’t shout about it, but she still cares for you. Take my word for it.’

‘If you say so.’ I go to follow my retreating brother.

‘And I thought you cared for her,’ she says.

I look back. ‘I do. Or I try to. These days, it’s . . . tough.’

‘Try harder then. You two should squabble less and talk more. Sky was there for you when you needed her, remember? And she needs you, more than you know.’

‘Are you coming or what?’ Colm calls.

Rona smiles, but it’s a troubled smile. Even I can see that.

‘And please, no more fighting,’ she says. ‘I’ve enough to do without stitching you up. Another windjammer’s on its way.’

She goes back to cleaning and tidying.

Colm is waiting for me where one of the shafts leads up towards the surface, leaning against the wooden ladder.

‘What was that about Sky?’

‘Nothing. Let’s go find Squint, then feed the dragon.’

3

RUMOURS

These days of early firstgreen, with dayshine sticking around longer, warmth in the air and leaves uncurling on the trees, Squint is put to work in the hidden fields down-canyon. Alongside some half-starved fourhorns, our food growers have him hauling ploughs and wagons. We worry he’ll pick up damage we can’t fix, but don’t get a say. Funny how it works. Nobody wanted the rusty metal and burnt-out electronic junk that Colm and I cobbled Squint together from. Sneered, they did. Yet soon as they saw him up and running, they stole him off us. Requisitioning, they called it.

For the cause. Everything for the cause.

When we find Squint he’s done for the day, lashed to a ground-anchor while a man hoses mud off him. He sees us coming, whips his tail about and buzzes his head off.

‘How’d he do?’ I ask.

The man shuts off the water and shrugs. ‘Not bad. Crashed on me once in the morning. Worked fine after it warmed up.’

‘Do you need him tomorrow?’

‘They don’t plough themselves.’ The man glances at the fields, stubble sticking up into the gloom under the camo-nets.

‘Okay,’ Colm says. ‘We’ll check him over.’

The man nods and hurries away. No thanks or nothing.

Soon as he’s gone I pull a bone-carved tube from my pocket and blow gently into one end. It makes a hissing sound.

Squint’s head lifts and his tail thrashes.

Colm grins. ‘Do you have to?’

‘I do.’ I blow the whistle much harder now, three times.

Squint hurls himself towards us, ripping the ground-anchor right out of the ground as if it were fixed into butter. He very nearly knocks us both over with all his excited jumping up.

‘Pleased to see us, huh?’ I say, trying not to laugh because laughing hurts, even with my ribs strapped.

‘Thought you’d dumped the jumping-up code,’ Colm says.

He’s laughing too now as he tries to fend Squint off.

‘I stuck it back in again.’

‘Why? You like being covered in mud?’

‘It’s fun, him making a fuss. Like having a dog.’

After a struggle I unclip Squint from the anchor trailing behind him. Squint calms down and drops into his ready-state crouch, hydraulics hissing. I pocket the whistle and watch Colm as he goes and screws the ground-anchor back into the dirt. Me, I’d leave it where it fell, but not him. Same skin, different thinking.

‘Good little boy,’ I tell Squint, scratching him behind his ears. Not real ears of course, just microphone mounts.

He hoots, sensing my touch.

‘You do realise it’s not alive,’ Colm says. Like always.

It’s been a tough day and I almost get cross with him, but catch myself. I think Colm’s often too clever for his own good; he thinks I’m too hot-headed. Rona says we’ve only had six months’ practice at being twins, unlike the other idents here who’ve had a lifetime, so we’ll both still be working it out. Whatever. All I know is that looking and sounding the same is easy; putting up with the differences is harder. I’m trying to get better at that.

‘Don’t you listen to him, Squinty,’ I say.

Squint beeps twice, which means ‘I don’t understand’. Work-bots only recognise verbals like Lift, Forward, Drag and Drop as standard, but we’re working on that. His crude vox-box doesn’t run to speech, only beeps, hoots and whistles. What we really need is to get our hands on one of those flash units out of a windjammer, the ones that warn the pilot if she’s stalling or landing with the gear up. Splice one of these in and he could talk.

‘What d’you think of his new leg? Not bad, huh?’

Colm hasn’t seen Squint’s new foreleg yet. This one’s by far the best I’ve scavved yet, and a decent match to his other legs too.

‘Where’d you get it?’ He sounds impressed.

So he should be. The casings are hardly rusty at all, just some light pitting. The hydraulic lines look good too, no patches. Look real close, there are even some shiny bits on the pistons.

‘Traded welding work for it with one of the steam-winch crew.’

‘Maybe he’ll walk straighter now.’

‘He does,’ I say, pleased. ‘C’mon, let’s go. It’s getting dark.’

‘Shouldn’t we check him?’

‘No. I’m beat. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about him crashing. You’d crash too if you had two brains.’

See, no way could we scav a proper processor for Squint. Too rare. Too valuable. Instead we patched together two half-trashed boards nobody wanted. The least damaged one acts as master, passing stuff it can’t do to the other board. Only sometimes they trip over each other, and that’s when poor Squinty crashes.

Colm shrugs and we head off together. I click my fingers and Squint follows along, still dripping.

Night settles on the Deeps as we walk and dark shadows pour in to flood the canyon. We skirt round the big cavern at the bottom of the cliff where off-duty fighters hang out. You can trade rebel-minted creds in there for snacks, or – if you’re dumb enough – for gut-rot liquor brewed from potatoes. In the smoky lantern light I see the place is heaving with people already.

‘Big crowd,’ I say. ‘Wonder why?’

‘Let’s go find out.’

‘Later maybe. We should feed the dragon first.’

Truth is – my head’s still too dark to want company. And Stauffer might be in there on crutches, or some of his psycho mates. So we carry on to the kitchen tents, raid the bins and bag some fresh chicken guts, her favourite.

Halfway up the trail to where she’s penned we stumble across a pack of youngsters playing the Peace Fair game. A bored-looking older boy has been roped in to act the Slayer and do the Cutting and Unwrapping. Two little girls, so spit-alike I bet their own mother can’t tell them apart, are already wrapped. The ‘twist’ will have a cut drawn on her forearm under the bandage, the ‘pure’ won’t. I played it when I was little, but it freaks me out after seeing the horror of the real thing. And they’re not supposed to be playing it, not here in a rebel camp.

I can’t help scowling. ‘Can you believe that ?’

Colm shrugs. ‘They’re just kids.’

The guessers turn their backs and the older boy swaps the two wrapped girls about. They squeal with fear and excitement. And now the guessers start clapping and chanting.

‘One good, two evil! Cut them, bind them, unwrap them!’

The older boy sees us. He grins and shrugs as if to say, This wasn’t my idea, puts a finger to his lips for the girls to stop squealing and calls to the rest that they can look again. As they turn, he pulls out the knife for the pretend Unwrapping and brandishes it.

‘One good, one evil!’ he hisses. ‘Which is which?’

The kids shout their guesses, spit flying from their mouths.

I grab Colm’s arm. ‘I don’t want to see this.’

‘It’s only a game,’ he says, but lets me drag him away.

The stone-walled corral is built into the cliff ’s overhang. By the time we get there it’s full night-dark, but just enough of the bigmoon has hauled itself above the western clifftops to throw some useful shine down. Colm hangs back, looking after Squint while I creep up to the gate and peer through it. A lump of darkness stirs at the back wall. I hear a hiss, a warning rattle of neck feathers, her chain scraping. We only call her a dragon for fun of course. Really she’s a sky lizard. And not just any sky lizard – she’s a queen. Twice the size of the males, ten times as vicious.