I should have wiped my sword. That was the thought which flashed through my brain: I should have wiped my sword. But, slimy though it was, I raised it anyway. I took a step forward until I was shoulder to shoulder with my dad.
Perhaps it was a stupid thing to do. Dad’s zapper had enough power in it to wipe out a dozen shuttles: what did he need me for? The trouble was, I didn’t think. I acted instinctively.
While Yestin followed Haemon through the door, I braced myself to meet the shuttle’s attack. I was so stupid. It never occurred to me that I might get another electric shock if I struck at the same time as Dad. But that didn’t matter, because all at once . . .
. . . it passed us by.
It glided straight past, without pausing.
Whsst!
Stepping back, we watched it careen towards the starboard junction, past the Bridge, past Merrit, oblivious to our presence. Then it turned a corner and disappeared.
There was a long silence.
‘Maybe . . . maybe it’ll turn around?’ Merrit finally whispered.
‘I don’t know.’ Dad’s astonishment showed on his face. I had never seen him at such a loss. We all stood there gaping – Dad, Merrit and I – until Yestin’s brittle voice broke in on our stupor.
‘Quenby?’ he said, from inside the Bridge. ‘I – I think you’d better come here.’
Mum gave a little start. She was still wedged against a door flap, holding it open, so she only had to turn her head to glance inside.
Next thing, she was struggling to enter. ‘Merrit!’ she exclaimed. ‘Merrit, hold this door open for me, will you?
Give Dygall a hand.’
I looked up at Dad.
‘Should that have happened?’ I asked.
He shook his head, slowly.
‘I thought those shuttles were like . . . like Natural Killer cells,’ I went on. ‘That’s what Mum said, isn’t it?
Why should some attack us, and some not bother?’
‘I don’t know, Cheney.’
‘Do you think they’ve heard about your zapper, somehow? Do you think word’s gone round?’ Receiving no reply, I added, ‘They can’t be using our wrist band signals to locate us. Beniah wasn’t even wearing one, and he was killed.’
Dad lifted his shoulders. Though his mouth opened, no sounds emerged.
It was Dygall who spoke.
‘Uh – Tuddor?’ he gasped, red-faced from holding the door for so long. ‘Tuddor, Quenby wants you.’
She was inside. But Dad wouldn’t follow her until everyone else had. He took over Merrit’s station, throwing himself against her side of the door and nudging her through the hole. Then he relieved Dygall, placing his foot where Dygall’s shoulder had been. He had his back pressed against one door panel and his foot pressed against the other. I don’t know how he did it. He must have been far stronger than I’d realised.
He told me to crawl under his bent knee, and I did as I was told, squirming awkwardly onto the Bridge after I’d thrown my sword in ahead of me. I flapped about helplessly for a moment, before Dygall helped me up with his free hand. I noticed his sick expression at once.
‘What?’ I asked, whereupon he jerked his head. Across the room, Mum was attending to someone – someone who sat on what had once been a chair. I recognised the man’s long neck. His hunched, narrow shoulders. His lanky limbs . . .
‘Arkwright!’ I exclaimed. Behind me, Dad echoed, ‘Arkwright?’
As I sprang forward, however, Dygall grabbed my arm.
‘Don’t,’ he choked. ‘You don’t want to see . . .’
It was too late, though. I had already seen. I had seen the filmy cataracts over the eyes. The lolling head. The web of filaments attaching one hand to the Interface Array – or what was left of the Interface Array. My mother had turned away from it, covering her mouth.
‘Oh God,’ she whimpered. ‘Tuddor . . .’
‘What?’ Dad had climbed into the room. ‘What’s happened?’
‘He – he -’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No – I – I don’t know -’
‘You don’t
know
?’
‘Tuddor . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘He’s plugged himself into the Array.’
I caught my breath. Merrit moaned. Dad said, sharply, ‘Well, unplug him, then!’
‘I – I can’t -’
‘What do you mean, you can’t?’
‘He must have used that old intravenous cannula.’ Mum was practically whispering. Her hand had moved up to her forehead. ‘I can’t believe it. That thing was a museum piece – he must have seen it in the surgical theatre -’
‘What are you talking about?’ Dad was beginning to lose control. Perhaps he had seen the way Arkwright’s body was half-submerged in slightly swollen tissue. ‘Will you get him the hell
out
of there?’
‘I
can’t
!’
‘Why
not
?’
‘Because he’s part of it now!’ Mum cried. At which point she spun around and vomited onto the floor.
When Inaret whimpered, I drew her close. Though half of me was in shock, the other half seemed to be functioning. I knew exactly what had happened. I knew exactly what to do. I gave Dygall a poke in the ribs. ‘Haemon,’ I said. ‘Yestin. Out.’
‘He – he was trying to access CAIP,’ Yestin croaked. ‘Cheney -’
‘I know. Come on. Merrit? Bring Haemon. We can’t stay.
There’s no point.’
‘But -’
‘It’s too late,’ I said softly. ‘Don’t you see? He’s done it.’
‘Done what?’ my father demanded. ‘Would someone please tell me what the hell’s going on?’
He stood there, dishevelled, confused, exhausted. He looked so old.
It occurred to me that he wasn’t as well informed as the rest of us. Not about Arkwright, anyway.
‘Arkwright wanted to wipe our details off CAIP’s database,’ I informed him. ‘But he couldn’t access the programs. Now he has.’
‘Oh, Cheney . . .’ Merrit sobbed.
‘It must have just happened,’ I continued, with a dawning sense of wonder. Slowly, I scanned the faces around me: Merrit’s, a mask of agonised guilt; Dygall’s, taut and chiselled and stripped of all softness; Yestin’s, as white as salt. Inaret’s was turned up to me – at the sight of her wide eyes and flushed cheeks, something that was wound tightly around my heart abruptly unravelled. I bent down and gathered her against me. I started to shake. ‘That’s why the shuttle went straight past,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t you see?
It can’t detect us any more. It doesn’t have the target information. It doesn’t know we’re human beings.’ A wild, unwieldy sensation was bubbling up inside; I found myself kissing Inaret’s hair, again and again. ‘We don’t exist any more!’ I blurted out. ‘We’re invisible! They can’t see us!’
Dad wasn’t convinced. ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he protested.
‘No,’ I had to concede. After all, I didn’t have proof.
Just a deep-rooted gut feeling. ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I’ll be sure soon.’
Then I made him open the door for me, and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. Only three minutes elapsed before an OTV arrived to clean up the mess outside, failing even to notice me as it slowly consumed one shattered carcass after another.
By the time it had finished its work and moved on, Dad was ready to believe the unbelievable.
We were safe, at last.
The battle was over.
A long time ago, Plexus was our servant. It did whatever was required of it. It obeyed our every request, and was designed to provide us with every comfort. We were the masters of this ship. It was our support and our instrument.
There are some who believe that this fact should be forgotten. To recall it, they say, is to cling to a delusional and dangerous vanity. We are no longer the masters here. The processes of this ship no longer revolve around our needs, like planets around a sun. We are now merely parasites, dependent on whims and loopholes. The food produced, at irregular intervals, by the dispensers on board does not appear for the purpose of feeding
us
. It is there to maintain some kind of balance in the complex systems that keep this great creature functioning. The cleansing capsules in the bathrooms release their rays and exfoliating scrubs, not for our benefit, but for the benefit of Plexus. If we happen to be present during an unscheduled release, then we can count ourselves lucky.
We are of no importance, here, and should take care to remain that way. As long as we live unregarded, like the bacteria in our own guts, then we can continue to live. Dwelling on a distant past won’t help us to survive. On the contrary. For our peace of mind, such as it is, we must put aside any hope of a return to the Golden Age by forgetting that it ever existed.
This is what they say, some of the Second Generation Shifters. They know nothing of the old Plexus. They grow impatient of the First Generation, and our fading memories. Some of them never even met my father, though most can recall my mother. She lingered long enough to see us build a life, of sorts. She even delivered my daughters – and helped to rear them. She taught Merrit to be a mother; Inaret, too, when her time came. And Siri, another Shifter who miraculously survived. We found Siri hiding in a cargo bay, much later. I report this as a footnote, because Siri didn’t play much of a part in the battle we fought.
Neither did Caromy. We never discovered what happened to Caromy. All we know is that she perished, along with one thousand, four hundred and eighty-six other human beings.
She lives only in my memory, now. My memory of a past that some of us have already rejected.
Dygall’s sons, for instance: they’ve rejected it. They don’t want to hear about the old days, or about Earth; they’re interested only in the present. Perhaps they’re wiser than I am, those tough little urchins, with their hard mouths and unreadable eyes, and their father’s blazing red hair. Perhaps they’re right to challenge my leadership. I’ve made mistakes – I know that. Perhaps I’ve wasted time and energy trying to restore conditions that I should have abandoned the moment we lost control of Plexus.
But one thing I do know: I’m right about this chronicle. This is no vain and purposeless exercise. This is the history of our people. And if, as I suspect, Plexus ever responds to its ancient programming, drawn to the first habitable planet that it reaches, then my grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, or great-great-grandchildren, will need this account, and all its appendices. There’s nothing useless about the knowledge that I have scraped together here. We can’t afford to abandon the little we’ve recovered about geology, and philosophy, and the navigable universe. This knowledge is the sum of our humanity; without it, we’re little more than the OTVs and shuttles and RALs that share the ship with us (tolerantly enough, now that we no longer exist).
So I have placed on record this story of our transformation. It’s a moral tale, to some degree. We have learned, most painfully, that our command of life was built on fragile foundations – that pride, in effect, comes before a fall. That there will always be change, no matter how hard you might strive for stability. And that, like me, you may have a destiny you can’t escape.
Be warned, all of you.
Life is a force that cannot be tamed.
Catherine Jinks is a medieval scholar and prolific author for teenagers, children and adults. Her books have been published to wide acclaim in Australia and overseas and have won numerous awards. She loves reading, history, films, TV and gossip, and says she could write for eight hours straight every day if she had the chance. Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW with her husband and daughter.