Zoid Page 3

  Three of its ribs are broken, there’s a gash at the top of its left leg that is deep but hasn’t hit the main artery, and its left wing is broken.

  It’s not as bad as I thought.

  I take out my medi-kit, then spray the glimmermouth’s chest with quik-heal to numb the pain.

  The glimmermouth exhales softly.

  Caliph’s sitting up on his hindquarters, so close to the glimmermouth that their snouts are all but touching. The glimmermouth doesn’t seem to mind.

  Next I lay pressure-gauze on its ribs and watch as the tensile material tightens around the chest. Bit of luck, the ribs should heal up fast.

  I take a closer look at the leg. There’s a lot of blood, but once I wipe that away the cut doesn’t look too bad. I squirt a line of synth-skin over the wound and press the two sides together.

  The glimmermouth reacts, but only with a slight flinch. It’s braver than I would be.

  ‘All done,’ I tell it.

  Once again the critter exhales softly. It’s almost as though it understands me.

  The wing is a bigger problem though. The wing bone has been shorn in two, and there’s a splinter jutting out through the skin. It looks horribly painful.

  There’s no room for error here. I’ve got to set the bone exactly right. If I don’t, then when it heals, the glimmermouth won’t be able to fly. It’ll just be stuck here on the ground at the base of the generator tower.

  Until it dies.

  My hands are shaking.

  I clean the area around the break and spray it with the quik-heal. Then I take a hold of the wing with both hands. Caliph snuggles up close into the crook of the critter’s neck and starts stroking its snout with one of its little paws.

  I lean forward. I brace my arms.

  ‘Three . . . two . . . one . . .’

  I pull the bone outwards, then round. The glimmermouth jerks and squirms as I push the two ends together.

  I feel them click into place.

  I lay a pressure-gauze pad on either side of the wing and watch as they mould themselves to the contour of the bone. Then I gently but firmly fold the wing back next to the other one.

  ‘All we can do now is wait.’

  Wait . . .

  Thing is, I can’t wait. I’ve got to find where the zoids have taken Bronx and Dek and Lina and the others. And this is all taking far too much time. Time they don’t have . . .

  The glimmermouth opens its eyes and stares up at me. I stroke the side of its head. Its snout glows as it makes a long mournful noise, deep and haunting. At first I think it must be in pain – but then I get it.

  The critter is saying, ‘Thank you’.

  I sleep. When I wake up I scan the tube-forest. The dense, dark tangle of pipes and cables flickers with heat-sigs.

  Critters not zoids.

  I set off to forage food and water, leaving Caliph behind with the glimmermouth, who is sleeping. The remains of the tentacled creature have attracted thousands of shiny purple insects. They swarm over the lumps of flesh in waves, devouring everything.

  I leave them to it.

  I spot several creatures feeding, but I leave them be. Live and let live.

  Course, zoids are another thing entirely. They aren’t alive. Zoids are the enemy. Zoids deserve everything they get. After all, they started this.

  Back when the Biosphere was launched, robots ran the ship, protecting and serving the human crew. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for us. But then something happened. Like I said, our Half-Lifes back at the Inpost couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell us what. But the robots changed, re-engineered themselves without the aid of humans.

  They changed their command protocols, their prime directives, even their appearance. Robots had been designed to look non-threatening. Sleek lines and curved shapes; some even had synth-skin coatings. But what they became, we humans no longer recognized as robots. Hard. Jagged. Deadly. And when they turned on us, we gave them a new name to match the sound of their weapon systems powering up.

  Z-z-z-zoid . . .

  I glance at my scanner again, to make sure. No zoids.

  Further on, I find more of the succulents, harvest and stow them in my backcan, along with a whole load of plump mosses and some pale yellow vine-berries that my wrist-scanner confirms are edible. It’s more than enough.

  Water’s no problem either. I come across a dripping coolant pipe. I fill my puri-flask and watch as the dark brown liquid turns clear.

  Back at the tower, Caliph and I eat well.

  The glimmermouth, however, is another matter. I need to press on, but I can’t just abandon it. The thing is, it can’t eat what we eat. It needs flux-glitter, and since it can’t fly, it can’t feed. I hope its injuries heal before it gets too weak.

  Caliph’s concerned about the critter too. He starts squeaking insistently.

  ‘I know it’s hungry,’ I say, ‘but what can I do? There’s no way I can get it enough flux-glitter.’ I pause. ‘Unless . . .’

  I climb to my feet. I’ve had an idea. It’s a long shot, but I’ve got nothing to lose.

  ‘Stay here,’ I tell Caliph.

  With my kneepads and boot-hubs magnetized, I climb the side of the tower. I stop at the vents and peer in through the slats. The generator is humming, and through my recon-sight I can see clouds of flux-glitter all around it.

  And, yes, just where I thought I’d seen it before, is a purple power cable coming out from the generator and connected to a network of external power lines.

  I take the boltdriver from my backcan and quickly undo the vent-panel at the side of the tower. The panel slips from my grasp and clatters to the ground far below. Thrusting my arm inside the tower, I try to get hold of the cable.

  But . . . it’s . . . just . . . out . . . of . . . reach . . .

  I climb up onto the vent-frame and push one leg through. The inside of the generator tower is cramped and grimy. Every surface I brush against is covered with a thick layer of greasy dust. I brace my boot against a rivet on the front of the generator and stretch forward.

  My hand closes around the end of the cable. I grip it, try to turn it. It’s slippery with the grease, but I feel a slight movement. Squeezing as tight as I can, I push and turn. All of a sudden there’s a soft click as the end of the cable disengages, and the whole lot comes away in my hand.

  The cable is like a thick length of hose. One end is still connected to the generator and, once I adjust my recon-sight, I see the flux-glitter gushing out from the other end like water. I take care. If I accidentally touched this end, the shock would burn me to a crisp in an instant.

  Slowly, gingerly, I ease myself out of the generator space. Then, holding the cable away from me, I climb back down the tower. Caliph takes one look at the cable and darts away, hissing. The glimmermouth, on the other hand, is spellbound, its red eyes fixed on the end of the cable and the swirling mass of flux-glitter it can see pouring from it.

  ‘Hungry?’ I say.

  Holding the cable in both hands, I reach forward until the end is almost touching the glimmermouth’s snout. It starts feeding, sucking in the dense cloud of flux-glitter and gulping it down. Soon it isn’t only the tip of its snout that’s glowing, it’s the critter’s entire body.

  And as it eats, it gets stronger. The change is amazing. It’s turning a rich golden colour, while its eyes, which had grown dull, gleam ruby red. It flexes its shoulders. Its chest expands. It pulls itself up onto its hind legs.

  Caliph squeaks with encouragement as, wobbly but upright, the great glimmermouth steadies itself. Its wings begin to stir.

  ‘You can do it,’ I whisper.

  It lifts its head, then slowly raises its wings.

  Tentatively at first, but with growing confidence, the glimmermouth starts to flap its wings. Back and forward. Up and down. I can feel the air move. Caliph dances about excitedly.

  Then the creature turns away. Its eyes are wide. Its snout twitches.

  It must be wonderin
g where the rest of the flock has got to.

  Its raised wings tremble. It braces its legs and launches itself off the ground. With long, powerful wingbeats the magnificent glimmermouth soars up into the air and disappears into the gloomy forest of pipes and tubes.

  I stare after it. There’s a lump in my throat. To think that it almost died. I’m happy that I was able to save its life, and even happier that it is able to fly.

  And yet, despite that, I’m sorry to see it go. I’d grown attached to the critter.

  Caliph had too. I turn and hunker down next to him. Pull him towards me; stroke his head, his chin, his back.

  ‘We’d best get going,’ I tell him. ‘Before . . .’

  I look up. See movement. The glimmermouth. It’s coming back!

  Caliph leaps away from me. And as the critter comes down to land, he jumps up and perches on its shoulders. The glimmermouth turns, fixes me with its red eyes.

  And I understand. ‘You’re sure . . . ?’

  I scramble up onto the glimmermouth’s back and grasp hold of its shoulders. On either side of me, the great wings begin to flap. Then, with a lurch, the glimmermouth launches itself back into the air.

  We dip for a moment and I’m frightened I must be too heavy. But then the powerful wings start beating rhythmically, powerfully, and we soar high. I glance across at Caliph, then up ahead. The tube-forest seems to stretch on forever. But now, up here, high above the tangled chaos, I’m able to think clearly at last – think like a scavenger.

  And I smile as a plan starts to form . . .

  Flying. I’m flying!

  The nearest I’ve come before is tube-surfing. This is different.

  This is amazing!

  The warm air in my face – buffeting my skin, ruffling my hair. The feel of being airborne, from the gentle tilt and sway as the glimmermouth glides and wheels, to the heaving stomach-churn I get each time it goes into a dive or soars up high.

  And the most amazing thing of all: it’s so fast. The ground rushing past in a multicoloured blur below me; the light panels speeding by above my head; flux towers and power pylons looming up on all sides as we sweep between them.

  All at once, the landscape below changes. This is it. The end of the tube-forest. A great chequered plain spreads off into the distance. It’s like a circuit board, but on a vast scale.

  The glimmermouth cranes its neck around and looks back at me. Then it turns away again. Holding its shoulders, I tighten my grip with my right hand – and the glimmermouth glides smoothly to the right. I tighten my left hand. It glides to the left. I lean forward, it flies lower. I lean back, it flies up.

  Not only am I flying on the back of the glimmermouth, but it’s letting me control its flight.

  I keep my earpiece pressed into my ear and my recon-sight lowered. I concentrate. I listen. I keep my eyes peeled.

  Suddenly my earpiece bleeps an alarm. I look round. The bleeping gets louder. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a heat-sig directly below. Blood red. It’s just what I’m looking for.

  A killer zoid with a memory module.

  I lean forward. I pull the last two gunkballs from my pocket as we swoop down towards the zoid. The zoid looks up . . .

  It’s big and mean-looking. Definitely a killer, though not the most recent upgrade. There’s no compartment in its chest, which means that this one hasn’t been designed to abduct humans like the ones that attacked the Inpost.

  Just to kill them.

  The killer zoid raises one arm and fires.

  ‘Hot swarf!’ I mutter as a blade of laser fire just misses me.

  I flick the detonator switches on the gunkballs. The glimmermouth wheels around directly above the zoid. I reach down and slap the gunkballs onto the zoid’s dome-shaped head.

  The glimmermouth soars up into the air.

  The explosion is muted – a kind of muffled flupp. The zoid’s head explodes. The flashing lights go out. The weapon-arms go limp and it keels over.

  I’ve got a short time before other killer zoids arrive on the scene to see what’s happened. A short time to get the info I need.

  The glimmermouth lands and I climb from its back. I look down at the zilched zoid lying on its front at my feet. Its head’s been shot to pieces, but the body – which is where the important stuff’s kept – is still intact. I scan the zoid’s bolts. I remove the back panel.

  Behind the smooth cover are the motherboard, the input/outport docks . . . and a self-destruct mechanism.

  I groan. It’s been activated. I’ve got even less time than I thought.

  I inspect the motherboard – identify the weapons centre, the movement hub . . . And there it is, the memory module. I press my scanner against it and see the memory download.

  Suddenly my head fills with the sound of bleeps coming from my earpiece. I look up. Through my recon-sight I see half a dozen blood-red heat-sigs heading across the plain, straight for us.

  I grab the scanner and jump onto the glimmermouth’s back, Caliph clinging to my flakcoat. We soar up into the air. Just in time.

  There’s a colossal explosion as the zoid self-destructs.

  We’re buffeted by the shock waves of the blast. The glimmermouth rolls and tumbles in the air, forcing me to cling to its back for dear life. But when the creature rights itself, I smile.

  The bleeping in my ear has stopped. The other zoids must have made it to the killer, and the explosion has destroyed them. Every single one.

  Below me, the end of the circuit-board plains approaches. I lean forward and scrutinize the view ahead through my recon-sight.

  There are six vast rectangular pools laid out in a long line, light gleaming on the surface of the water. Except it isn’t water.

  It’s acid.

  The air’s got this pungent odour to it that’s bringing tears to my eyes. Caliph can smell it too. His nose is twitching and he’s crouched down, rubbing his paws up and down his face. The glimmermouth’s snout has irised shut.

  I know this place. Leastways, I’ve heard about it.

  The Acid Lakes Sector. The edge of our world. No one from the Inpost has ever ventured beyond here. Not even Bronx. We’ve always kept to the tangle and twist of the tube-forest – where there’s food and water and places to hide.

  Not like these lakes. They give off fumes so strong, you get too close and they’ll melt your eyeballs and dissolve your lungs.

  The Half-Lifes call them ‘digesters’. In the Launch Times, all waste matter – animal, vegetable or mineral – was gathered up by refuse-robots and deposited in the acid, where it would dissolve, while duct pipes criss-crossing the lakes’ surface sucked up the fumes and recycled them as fuel and biosoil.

  When the Rebellion began, the refuse-robots upgraded themselves and became zoids, along with the domestic-robots, recreation-robots, gardening-robots – in fact, any robots that had been designed to directly serve humans. After the Rebellion, the zoids turned the duct pipes off and left a thick, poisonous scum hovering over the surface of the lakes.

  The fumes didn’t bother them. And it’s us humans who are the waste matter now.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell the glimmermouth, leaning right back and squeezing its shoulder tightly with my left hand.

  The glimmermouth flaps hard and soars up high, then wheels around in a broad arc. Below me, all trace of life has vanished. Nothing could survive in this corrosive environment.

  We skirt the edge of the line of lakes. Wisps of noxious steam dance on the surface of the acid, but we’re too high for the fumes to bother us and the glimmermouth flies on with strong, steady wingbeats.

  The acid lakes fall away behind us. Ahead lies a new, unfamiliar landscape. The hull lights high overhead are dimmer. Instead, the light comes from domes that mushroom up from the ground and glow. Power cables sprout from all directions, connecting the domes to each other in a vast network. Pulses of light pass along the cables in glittering streams, and there is the low, pervasive hum of cooling systems, tho
ugh the air feels hot and clammy.

  Down below, I spot a huge, low structure through my recon-sight. It has no static and there are no discernible heat-sigs. It looks like some kind of hangar. I bring the glimmermouth down to land on the roof.

  Caliph lets out a little squeak and jumps down from the creature’s back. I do the same.

  I take the opportunity to check the memory download from the killer zoid.

  ‘Play zoid download,’ I tell my scanner.

  At first the screen is blank. Then images appear and the action unfolds in reverse. I’m watching the zoid’s eye-cam.

  There’s an explosion. Then I see myself plucking the gunkballs from the zoid’s head, flying backwards on the back of the glimmermouth, Caliph beside me, the three of us shrinking to a small dot. The focus of attention jumps to a forest of receding tubes and pipes.

  This isn’t what I’m looking for.

  ‘Search central memory bank,’ I tell the scanner.

  It flashes up tiny screens – hundreds of them – from throughout the sector. They’re the eye-cam downloads of the various zoids. I see pipe clearance, solder repairs, cable laying . . .

  ‘Search red signatures only,’ I say.

  The screen freezes as the scanner narrows its search.

  Then ten red eye-cams appear. I scroll down them, then stop. My stomach gives a lurch.

  ‘Play,’ I tell the scanner.

  I’m looking through the eye-cam of one of the killer zoids that attacked the Inpost.

  There are the Inposters. Dozens of them. Familiar faces. Lev, who serves satzcoa and bev at the Counter; Sala the gardener and her friends, Effi and Spalding; Misha the watchman, who monitors the perimeter screens; Tara, Delaware, Fitch . . .

  They’re inside some vast building I don’t recognize. Most of them are penned up together; seated, standing, pacing back and forth. The force field that imprisons them glows a silver-red. Among them I see Bronx. And Dek, whose arm doesn’t seem to be bothering him now. And Lina.