Mind Warp Read online

  For Rick

  MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Contents

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  SCAVENGER ZOID

  SCAVENGER CHAOS ZONE

  My name is York. I’m a scavenger. I’m fourteen years old . . . I am on a mission to save mankind . . .

  These are the words I keep repeating inside my head. I have to. They’re all I’ve got to hold on to. But it isn’t easy.

  I never knew the Earth first hand. All I’ve ever known is the Biosphere. Back in the Outer Hull I used to watch vid-streams and holo-sims of the planet we left behind. And I’ve walked through the Mid Deck bio-zones where deserts and rainforests and polar wastelands from Earth were recreated. I even got to swim in a man-made ocean.

  But it’s not the same as the real thing. It can’t be. Trouble is, it’s as good as it can get. The Earth died and this is all we’ve got left.

  The Biosphere was built a thousand years ago to save everything worth saving from the dying planet. Humans, critters, eco-systems; thousands of years of wisdom and knowledge. To help it all run smoothly till we find some far-off planet to make our new home, there are also the Half-Lifes – our ancestors from the Launch Times, whose consciousness was uploaded into mind-tombs. And an army of robots.

  They’re the problem. The robots. Five hundred years ago, something went wrong with them. No one knows why. Not even the Half-Lifes. But the robots rebelled. They changed themselves into killer zoids, turned on humans and tried to wipe them – wipe us – out. A war between the two sides has been raging ever since. Zoids versus humans.

  And we humans are losing.

  We’ve always fought back as best we can. Of course we have. And for centuries we managed to hold them off. But recently things have been getting worse. Instead of killing humans, zoids in the Outer Hull have started capturing them, to find out what makes them tick. And it’s tipping the war in their favour.

  Like I say, I’m a scavenger, which means I get to hunt down zoids, zilch them and strip them for parts. But there’s more and more of them with every day that goes by, and fewer and fewer of us. It’s only a matter of time before we’re wiped out completely and every trace of human existence is lost to the universe. Forever.

  That’s why I’m on this mission. To find out what went wrong. And try to put it right again.

  So here I am, on my way to the centre of the Biosphere. I’m with Belle. She’s a zoid, but she’s not like any other zoid I’ve ever come across. She looks human, acts human. She’s my friend. The two of us had a hard time of it in the Mid Deck. There were situations I didn’t think we’d survive. But we did. Just. And now we’re together, heading for the deck at the very centre of the Biosphere: the Inner Core.

  The last thing I remember is the lid being closed on the black pod back in the Mid Deck. It’s a container to keep our bodies alive while our minds are downloaded into the memory banks of the Biosphere’s central computer. My head is spinning with everything that Belle has just told me.

  ‘The Core is the Biosphere’s brain.’

  I take a moment to let that sink in. One huge computer that controls all the systems on board.

  ‘In the past it was accessed by Half-Lifes. They were the main link between the crew and the Core. But that system has broken down. Now the only way to find out what has gone wrong is to turn our own minds into digital impulses so that we can explore the memory banks for ourselves.’

  Which means we’ll be just like the Half-Lifes. And how will that feel? I wonder. But before I can ask, Belle has continued.

  ‘The original Half-Lifes formed a part of the Core’s network. It recognizes them. But it won’t recognize us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I mean, York,’ she says, and her eyes lock onto mine, ‘we will be intruders. If the Core detects us, it will attempt to trap us in any way it can. With energy pulses, mind-warps, thought-cages, fractal mazes . . . And if it succeeds, it will erase our minds. Delete us. These pods will keep our bodies functioning, but we will cease to exist.’

  My grip tightens on the side of the pod. The Outer Hull and Mid Deck were dangerous, but this . . . Sluice it! I curse under my breath. It sounds terrifying.

  ‘So how do we avoid being detected?’ I ask her.

  ‘I will hack into the central command network and disguise our digital signatures as I guide us through the memory banks,’ she says. ‘I will create a thought environment that you can understand – a ladder that we’ll climb down – as well as sensations you’ll recognize and be able to hold on to. But remember, York,’ she goes on, ‘to pass undetected you must control your thoughts. Concentrate on who you are. If your mind wanders, the Core will detect us before we get a chance to enter its memory banks and find out what went wrong. It will identify us and attack us for what we are . . .’

  ‘And what is that?’ I ask.

  Belle leans back and lowers the lid of the pod. Just before it clicks shut, I hear her voice.

  ‘A virus,’ she says.

  We’re in some kind of shaft. A massive vertical shaft that’s echoey and dark and seems to have no sign of an end to it. I can’t see the bottom. And I can’t see the top either. I’m just going down and down and down, using this ladder that’s bolted to the wall, clinging onto the rungs as tightly as I can.

  My arms are aching. My hands are blistered. Leastways that’s what it feels like.

  But they can’t be, can they? Not if it’s all in my mind.

  Except they can. And are. I can see the blisters! And my legs are shaking . . .

  Hot swarf! Belle’s done a good job. My body might be in the Mid Deck, but this feels so real.

  I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. A pulse of light, followed by another, and another. There’s a crackle, and a fizzing ball of energy shoots past my ear. The air around me ripples in its wake.

  Belle’s just below me. She looks up.

  ‘Concentrate on the ladder, York,’ she says. ‘One rung at a time. Don’t be distracted.’

  I focus on the ladder in front of me.

  I hear the clunk of my heels as they come down on the rungs. I feel the coldness of the metal beneath my fingers. I lick my lips and can even taste the saltiness of sweat on my tongue.

  But still I’m aware of fizzing and crackling and the background hum of the Core operating all around me. It’s as though it’s alive. The sounds are outside and inside me at the same time. And they’re making it so difficult to concentrate.

  ‘My name is York. I’m a scavenger,’ I murmur. ‘I’m fourteen years old . . .’

  ‘That’s right, York. Hold on to those thoughts,’ Belle tells me. ‘We need to access the memory banks before the virus scanners find us.’ She pauses. ‘A portal is approaching. Let go of the ladder when I give the word.’

&nbs
p; My palms are sweating, the salt making the blisters sting as I grip the metal rungs.

  ‘And, York,’ Belle says, ‘it’ll be like you’re in a holo-scene. But wherever you are, keep to the reality of that scene. Don’t walk through walls. Or locked doors. And make sure you don’t let anyone walk through you . . .’

  Suddenly, way below me, so far down it makes me dizzy to look, there’s a glow in the darkness. It gets brighter. Fast. There are rings of light, circles in circles, as pulses of energy come hurtling up towards us. For an instant everything’s lit up. The shaft. The rungs. The look of concern on Belle’s face.

  Then it’s too bright. It burns my eyes. It makes my head throb. Dazzling. Blinding. I screw my eyes shut but it makes no difference.

  ‘Now!’ Belle shouts.

  I’m back in the Outer Hull. At the Inpost. Or rather, no, not the Inpost. Not the one I grew up in. But definitely an Inpost.

  It’s kind of familiar but different. Rooms and corridors lead off a central circle, and the air’s loud with this throbbing hum.

  I look round for Belle, but she’s not here. And there’s no one else I recognize.

  The men and women I can see – and there are lots of them – are in standard-issue kit, their kneepads and shoulder-shields gleaming in the overhead arc-lights. Some of them have protective gloves on. Others have their hoods raised, or are wearing helmets, headphones clamped to their ears.

  They’re all working hard. Menders are carrying out repairs to torn clothes, broken gadgets and weapons, damaged armour. A gang of four growers are plucking red berries from bushes in a grow-trough and dropping them into baskets.

  No one greets me, or even looks up, as I walk between them. Then I realize why. They can’t see me.

  I come to a workshop area with salvagers busy dismantling scavenged zoid parts. One of them’s having problems detaching the individual hub units from a urilium spine. He’s grunting with effort and cursing under his breath. I see the problem at once.

  The parts are from a K47 model, and with a K47 you have to work from bottom to top. He’s trying to disconnect them in the wrong order.

  ‘Not like that,’ I tell him, but he can’t hear me either.

  I wince as his boltdriver skids and cuts into the shiny metal casing. If he’s not careful, he’s going to break the whole thing and leave it useless.

  ‘Let me show you,’ I say, and reach out instinctively – only to see my hand passing through his hand, and the urilium spine. Or maybe it’s his hand passing through mine . . .

  Whatever, I’m invisible. No one knows I’m here.

  I make my way to the central Counter. Inposters on downtime are standing at the bar or seated on stools, drinking mugs of bev and satzcoa, or glasses of something fizzy. The atmosphere’s happy. Rowdy even. And there in the middle of a large group is someone I do recognize.

  It’s Bronx!

  But it’s not the Bronx I know. This one is younger, his hair thicker and cropped shorter than I remember. I want to say hello, to tell him what I’m up to. But it’s just not possible. When he looks my way, his gaze goes straight through me. He’s telling some story or other, and the men and women around him are listening carefully, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling.

  ‘. . . which is when I decided it was high time I made myself scarce,’ he says, and shrugs, and the others explode with laughter.

  I move on.

  This Inpost is bigger than the one I used to call home, and nowhere near as scuzzy. The floors have been recently cleaned. The tech-sheds and mech-galleys look as though someone actually looks after them. And when I arrive at the living area, it’s nothing like the cramped sleep-quarters I remember, with their skimpy sleep-pods and overflowing lockers.

  There’s space here. Lots of space. Enough for singles, couples and family units to live separate from one another. There are proper beds, gleaming vapour showers, cupboards and shelving, hover-sofas and recliner chairs. People are sitting, relaxing, chatting. Men, women, children. And the throbbing hum is quieter here, which means no one’s having to shout.

  I cross the room and pause next to a small girl who’s sitting on the floor, a piece of paper in front of her. Her tongue’s sticking out the side of her mouth as she concentrates on the picture she’s drawing of a great big monster.

  It’s green and purple, with a fat rubbery body, odd-looking jointed limbs and a square head. It looks like some kind of a critter that’s morphing into a zoid. Or the other way round. Then, as I watch, the girl picks up a stubby crayon and colours in the mouth and eyes bright blood red.

  At the far side of the living area there’s a door that leads into a small, dimly lit room. I peer inside. And there’s something else I recognize in there. Two tall black casings, curved and domed, with faces shining out of them.

  Half-Lifes.

  One is a man with a black crew cut and a square jaw. The other is a woman with long blonde hair and laughter lines at the corners of her eyes. They’re the two from my old Inpost, the ones who showed me the vid-streams from the Launch Times, and who were always there for me when I had any questions or problems.

  I take a step forward, wondering if they can see me. But no. They don’t know I’m here either.

  I’m surprised by how they look and sound. Back at the Inpost, the pair of them were suffering from thought-fatigue. Their images would break up. Their voices kept crackling and fading into white noise – and even when you could make out what they were saying, the advice they gave was becoming less and less trustworthy as their minds went . . .

  Then a voice comes from somewhere behind me.

  ‘That’s it, York,’ it says.

  I spin round and head back into the living area – and notice for the first time the young man and woman sitting on one of the hover-sofas. In the woman’s arms is a baby in a pale blue playsuit. The woman’s smiling as the baby feeds from the bottle of milk she’s holding. The man’s smiling too.

  ‘That’s it, York,’ he says again as the baby slurps. ‘Drink it all up. Make you big and strong, just like your daddy.’

  And something inside me sort of melts. I feel like laughing and crying at the same time. It’s me I’m looking at. With my parents. The parents I never knew properly because . . .

  Right then, a siren sounds. Loud, rasping. Orange lights start flashing.

  The Inpost is under attack.

  Suddenly everyone’s on their feet. There’s running, shouting. But no panic. It’s like they’re going through some well-practised exercise.

  ‘Evacuate the turbine banks!’

  ‘Secure the Half-Lifes!’

  Bronx strides into the room. ‘Follow me!’ he says.

  He gathers everyone together and leads them back along the corridor. Someone seizes the little girl, who’s clutching the picture of the monster in her hand and crying. My parents go with the rest, my mother shielding baby me as best she can.

  And big me goes with them.

  The Counter’s packed now. Everyone’s busy. Some are carrying info-pods and memory-stacks, vid-screens and holo-units. Others have boxed up the Half-Lifes and are struggling under the weight.

  An evacuation’s in full swing.

  One man’s in charge of it all. He’s tall and muscular, with a white brush cut and thick grey beard, and I realize I know who he is. Seth Donahue. I’ve never met him before, but Bronx talked about him often enough. ‘Best darned leader we ever had,’ he would say, and my heart misses a beat as I remember what happened to him.

  ‘That way,’ he’s urging the fleeing Inposters, his voice calm and reassuring. ‘Careful with that Half-Life. Front guard, take up positions.’

  Ahead of him, a group of men and women form a semicircle, and half of them drop to one knee. I recognize some of them from the workstations, but they’ve swapped their tools for weapons now, and at Donahue’s command they start firing down a corridor on the far side of the Circle.

  They’re defending the Inpost, though I can’t see what f
rom. Then a huge metal figure stomps into view, and I gulp.

  A killer zoid.

  Like the urilium spine I saw earlier, it’s a K47 model. Two legs. Arms; kitted out with laser weapons. A swivel head with sensors at the front that are vulnerable to grenbolt fire and absent in later upgrades. It lurches towards us, laser fire zinging.

  And it’s not alone. Another one appears behind the first. Then another. They’re tooled up and returning fire, blue laser bolts criss-crossing the air.

  The bev machine explodes in a shower of scalding liquid. The Counter goes up next, the marble and chrome blasted to a mess of jagged shards and molten droplets. Lights explode. Holes are zapped in walls, the ceiling . . .

  And people!

  They’re dropping to the floor as the killers’ lasers find their mark. Sisters, fathers, friends, cousins, wives . . . One after the other. There’s panic now all right. The well-ordered exodus is breaking down. People are shouting, screaming, wailing as they run for cover.

  Except there is no cover.

  The Inpost has been overrun. The killer zoids are driving the defenders back.

  Seth Donahue keeps barking commands – until he too is hit. He slams to the floor, a hole in his chest. Bronx checks him over, his lips thin as he confirms he’s dead. Then he stands up straight.

  ‘This way!’ he bellows, and I swear he’s aged ten years in the last five minutes.

  More killer zoids are coming in through a breach at the back of the turbine banks. Six. Seven. We’re trying to exit through a tunnel between two mech-sheds. But there are too many people and the tunnel’s too narrow. A jostling crowd has gathered, scared and muttering.

  ‘Quick!’ Bronx urges them.

  Another killer zoid comes into view, lasers firing. I duck. So do my parents. But not quickly enough. And I cry out as they drop to the ground; first my father, then my mother.

  It’s like I’m watching it in terrible slow-mo. The shock in their faces. The way they hit the ground, then fall still. Their eyes are open, but they can no longer see. They’re dead.