Shade's Children (10 page)

The sick bay was all gleaming stainless steel. Stainless-steel cabinets on stainless-steel walls. Stainless-steel fittings, stainless-steel floor. It had all the hallmarks of a room designed to be hosed clean.

A steel table, a great flat slab of metal, sat in the exact center of the room. A Winger lay strapped to it, festooned with tubes that ran into its nasal cavities and wedged-open mouth. One enormous eye was shut, the other open, pinned back with clips. Blue ichor oozed from several deep—but now hastily clipped—incisions in its chest and legs.

Two of Shade’s spider robots perched next to it, their forelimbs equipped with multiple grasping tendrils that now held surgical instruments. As Ella and Drum entered, one of them brandished a scalpel, the blade reflecting small suns in all the steel surfaces. Then the segmented limb moved with swift deliberation, and the scalpel cut down into the wing of the helpless creature.

It shuddered, and a single tear welled up in its pinned-back eye. The scalpel cut again. The other robot reached in with a pair of forceps and plucked out a small cylinder of gold-flecked metal.

It took the cylinder from the forceps with the anemonelike tendrils of its other forelimb and jumped down, scuttling between Drum and Ella to enter one of the cable ducts the robots used to move around the Submarine. Drops of blue ichor, fallen from the still-bloody cylinder, marked its passage.

“Fascinating!” exclaimed Shade’s voice, emanating this time from a speaker within the scalpel-wielding spider robot’s bulbous body. “So much more sophisticated than a Tracker. A much more complex biotechnical creation.”

“What did you take out of the wing?” asked Ella, moving closer to the vivisection bench despite the stench of ichor and excrement. Drum moved closer too, his face showing intense dislike of the whole proceeding.

“I don’t know yet,” replied Shade, hopping the spider robot up to the creature’s head and stabbing down with the scalpel again at a spot marked under its ear with a fluorescent marker. “It appears to be a device that converts some form of radiated power to some other form of energy. An antigravity device perhaps, because it is quite impossible for these things to fly without assistance. It really is very, very interesting.”

The robot sliced again and, taking up the forceps, withdrew a silvery sphere about half the size of a golf ball. This time the Winger’s body tensed into an arch, relaxed, tensed again—and groaned, spit and sound bubbling around the tubes wedged in its mouth.

“It’s trying to speak,” said Drum, watching the creature trying to move its misshapen mouth. Its open eye was moving too, the pupil off in one corner, staring. Staring at Ella.

“They can’t speak,” said Shade, the speaker in the spider robot buzzing with distortion, as if he were angry. “Only the Myrmidons have their battle language.”

“It’s trying to say something,” Drum insisted, his voice rising. He hesitated, then reached across and wrenched the tubes out of the Winger’s mouth, ignoring the twitch of the spider robot’s scalpel toward his hands.

The Winger coughed. It was obviously trying to speak, though its wide mouth and outthrust jaw were not designed to help with words. At first it sounded just like a gargle, or an insult. Then it became clear.

“El-la. El-la.”

The Winger was calling Ella’s name.

“El-la. Br-at. Me.”

It choked, blue froth dribbling from the corners of its mouth, while Ella stared at it uncomprehendingly. Drum reached out and picked up the largest scalpel from the tray next to the robot.

“Amazing,” said Shade, in a tone of passionless interest. “Removal of the unit next to the brain seems to break part of the psychophysical conditioning.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ella, her gaze still fixed on the Winger’s open eye, now washed with many tears.

“The brain of the boy used in the creature’s manufacture has retained some human memory, which has come to the fore,” replied Shade very matter-of-factly. “And he obviously recognizes you.”

“Brat?” asked Ella. “Brat? But…”

“Ye-es,” coughed the Winger, as if forcing the words out past a barrier of pain and terrible distance. “Me Br-at.”

“We must see exactly how the transformation is achieved,” said Shade, moving the spider robot closer. One tendril-ended limb reached out to caress the Winger’s head. “Find out more about the physical alterations to the brain…

“Kill me!” the Winger spat, spraying the advancing spider robot with spit and ichor, even as the tendrils picked up the fluorescent marker pen and began to mark its forehead.

“Ella! Kill meeeeee—”

The Winger’s voice suddenly stopped as Drum reached over and cut its throat with one rapid movement. It seemed to sigh then, blue ichor slowly dribbling out like spilled jelly from the gaping wound in its neck. Its open eye swung away from Ella to Drum, body and wings twitched once—and it was dead.

Ella stood still for a moment, then reached out, unclipped the eyelid, and closed the Winger’s eye.

“Good-bye, Brat.”

Drum dropped the scalpel on the table and stood back while the spider robot stood frozen, as if Shade couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“There was no need for that!” he finally snapped. “Valuable data will be lost.”

“It was Brat,” said Ella, hand still touching the Winger’s ugly head. “Just at the end. He knew who he was, he could feel what you were doing….”

“It was a Winger,” said Shade in a disgusted tone. “Any personality relict was purely temporary. I could have found out so much….”

“You would have gone on cutting him up, keeping him barely alive,” interrupted Drum. “Even when he knew who he was and could feel everything you did. You’d even cut one of us up if you thought you’d learn something.”

The spider robot froze again as Drum spoke. When he finished, it hopped down from the table and disappeared into a conduit, steel claws scratching. In silence Drum and Ella watched it go, both of them wondering how Shade would react.

Finally he spoke again, through the usual hidden speakers in the floor and walls. He spoke softly, as if he didn’t want to seem angry or unsettled.

“Drum, you accuse me of something I would…I could never do. Waging war against the Overlords is of paramount importance, but the preservation of certain human ideals is also my priority. You are my children…. I simply seek the best for the greatest number of you.

“The Winger on that slab is no longer human, even if some buried humanity emerged from it for a while. Brat was lost to us two years ago. He was dead then. You may have thought you were being merciful to a friend…. In fact, you were only abetting the enemy. Don’t you see that?”

Drum didn’t answer. He looked down at the splayed-out figure of the Winger, the loosely clipped wounds, the blue ichor pooled on the table. Then he looked up at the ceiling, shook his head—and walked out.

“You understand, don’t you, Ella?” Shade continued as the hatch closed. “It is distasteful but necessary work. Drum should not have interfered.”

“I…don’t…know,” whispered Ella, shaking her head, her chest suddenly tight. “Brat…but information…the more we know…”

“Yes, yes!” cried Shade. “You have it exactly. But it is a hard realization, overcoming one’s emotions with rational thought. I think you should go and rest. Besides, I have to get cleaned up in here so I can operate on Stelo.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing serious,” answered Shade breezily. “Some Winger cuts on his right arm and cheek. He’s sedated now. A few stitches and he’ll be up and about in a few days. A week at most.”

“Good,” replied Ella dully. She felt suddenly very tired, worn out more by the last half hour than the day in the creature-dominated world outside. “I’ll…I’ll get going. By the way, we left the instrument ball and the data CDs from your old lab in the changing room….”

“Yes,” said Shade. “I already have them and am assimiliating the data. It fills in some very important gaps. Very important gaps.”

“Also that artificial intelligence you mentioned,” Ella continued, suddenly remembering that she hadn’t given a full report. “It was still working. It was a lot more sophisticated than I expected…almost human…”

“Human?” chuckled Shade. “I would hardly describe Leamington as human. But we’ll go through your full report in the morning. Good night, Ella.”

“Good night, Shade.”

Gold-Eye stopped outside the hatch that led to the four-bunk room where he’d stayed the night before, but Sim waved him on.

“You’re in Sixteen-A tonight, Gold-Eye,” he explained, looking down at the clipboard he carried everywhere with him. “Twelve-A is a Lottery room for the next couple of days. You can probably hear them going at it now if you stick your ear to the bulkhead.”

“Going at it?” asked Gold-Eye, mystified. He stepped up to the door and was about to place his ear against it when Sim shook him gently by the shoulder and pointed him back down the corridor.

“I was joking, Gold-Eye,” he explained. “Look, I know you’re tired and hurt and everything, but it might be worthwhile if you checked out a couple of lessons tonight. I mean, you are at least fifteen, I’d say…. You ought to know…”

“What lessons?” asked Gold-Eye as Sim’s voice petered out.

“Come on. I’ll cue them up for you. ‘Sex Education One’ and ‘Two.’ And ‘Basic Contraception One.’ It’ll take about two and a half hours…but I think you’ll consider it time well spent….”

Gold-Eye followed the still-talking Sim to one of the screening rooms, taking in about every third word. He’d realized earlier that Sim just liked to talk and you didn’t really have to listen.

Outside the screening room they passed three other people Gold-Eye hadn’t met yet—and didn’t get to this time. The two girls and a boy went past without a word, exhausted and anxious faces showing that they were more spaced out than intentionally rude.

“Stelo’s team,” explained Sim. “Rosie, Marg, and Peter…”

“Petar!” exclaimed Gold-Eye, looking back at the departing trio. “Name like brother.”

“Really?” said Sim. “Well, their team leader, Stelo, got hit badly today. Something to do with the Winger they captured. I guess they’re going to check him out. Which reminds me—you’re listed to report to sick bay first thing tomorrow—when you wake up. How do you feel, by the way?”

“Fine,” replied Gold-Eye, which meant that his head and finger hurt a lot but not enough to stop him from doing anything—which was close enough to fine, as far as he was concerned.

Sim led him into the screening room—a large area divided into six cubicles with individual privacy hoods. One of the cubicles was occupied and sealed, the others vacant. Sim led him to one and showed him where to sit, and how to touch the view screen or speak the control words.

“Display ‘Sex Education One,’ ‘Sex Education Two,’ and ‘Basic Contraception One,’ in that order,” Sim said to the view screen. “Check.”

“‘Sex Education One,’ ‘Sex Education Two,’ and ‘Basic Contraception One,’” said a cheery female voice, as the titles of the selected lessons flashed up on the view screen. “Say ‘Ready’ or press forward when you wish to begin.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Sim, backing out and lowering the privacy hood. “Enjoy!”

“Ready,” said Gold-Eye absently. He’d heard the word sex years before in the Dorms, but he’d been so young. Still, there was always plenty to learn….

Gold-Eye was very tired the next morning. He’d watched “Sex Education Two” two and a half times before Shade had cut in and ordered him to bed.

He had trouble talking to Ninde and Ella over breakfast too, finally understanding certain physical urges and desires that had been with him since they had first met. But as neither were in the Lottery, he knew they didn’t want to have sex with anybody, so he might as well forget it. Or try to.

Drum wasn’t on the Lottery list either, Gold-Eye had noted. Which was odd, since every other male was. Perhaps he had been, Gold-Eye thought, and didn’t like it. Personally, Gold-Eye had been quick to pass the contraception exam first go and had put his name down on the Lottery list seconds later. Now it was just a matter of time….

Trying to suppress that thought was difficult, he found, particularly as Ella took him around the mess room where they ate breakfast, introducing him to everyone there. Including six other girls…women…of whom four were in the Lottery. He couldn’t help wondering what they looked like with their clothes off, which made it very difficult to say hello.

Fortunately, Sim came and took him away straight after breakfast for more sword practice and then a series of lessons in the screening room on various topics, including spoken English and creature identification.

More sword practice and some gymnastic-style exercises followed after lunch, Sim pushing Gold-Eye to his physical limits, with Shade’s disembodied voice occasionally joining in to encourage or chastise.

After dinner, Gold-Eye had yet another lesson. A lengthy one on first aid, including cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR), a technique Gold-Eye found particularly interesting after his experiences in the storm-water drains. After that, he fell into bed, totally exhausted and aching all over.

The next three days followed the same pattern, with so many lessons Gold-Eye had very little time to explore his new home. He did manage to talk to other people at mealtimes. There were more than thirty of “Shade’s Children” all together, but never more than twenty or so were in the Submarine at any one time. The others were out, gathering food and supplies or carrying out one of Shade’s information-seeking missions.

He also spent some time talking to Drum, since Ella spent most of her time with Shade or in training, and Gold-Eye was still somewhat shy of Ninde.

Despite his exhaustion, Gold-Eye still kept a careful eye on the days left till the next Lottery draw. In four days he would be in one of the bunk rooms with Rosie or Cael or Suze or…

But on the third day the lessons suddenly stopped, and Gold-Eye found himself once again in Shade’s control room, sitting on the sofas with Ella, Drum, and Ninde.

This time the holographic image of Shade was already there, at his desk. A rat robot’s eyes gleamed under the desk, and a spider robot clicked backward and forward behind Shade’s chair like some small footman pacing behind a king.

Four sets of odd-looking headgear were on the desk: thin metal crowns of steel etched with very fine patterns of gold lines. Wires trailed out of the crowns to small plastic boxes about the width of two of Gold-Eye’s fingers.

Shade indicated the crowns with a wave of his hand and smiled, revealing all his glossy, splendid teeth.

“Fruit of our labors,” he declared. “The data you brought back, coupled with my existing research, has led to a major breakthrough. My new Deceptors!”

“What do they do?” asked Ella.

“I have discovered the basic source of the Overlords’ power,” Shade continued, frowning at the interruption to his prepared speech. “Put simply, the silver globes you see atop various tall buildings—Projectors—are beaming out a form of radiation that has several effects. First, it slightly warps this reality, changing certain physical laws—and it is this effect that I believe was used to remove the adult population in the first place. It also allows your Change Talents to work. Second, devices implanted or even grown within the creatures allow them to take this radiation and convert it into various kinds of power. Antigravity for flight, supercharged muscles, enhanced senses, and so on.

“Having discovered the true nature of the Projectors—a breakthrough worthy of a Nobel Prize in bygone days—I have created these devices. They use the Overlords’ own power and turn it against them. When you wear a Deceptor, you will be practically invisible to the creatures, because the device reflects Projector power in such a way that it baffles their sensory augmentation.”

He smiled again and leaned back in his chair, chest inflating with obvious pride in the steel-and-gold contraptions.

No one spoke for a moment, as each digested Shade’s information. Then Drum raised one hand, the scars from his near drowning still starkly red on his palms.

“If they use this Projector power,” he said, pointing at the black boxes connected to the crowns, “why the mobile-phone batteries?”

“You weren’t listening, Drum,” Shade replied, the smile disappearing. “The Deceptors reflect the Projector radiation in a particular pattern. Unfortunately, for this prototype at least, electrical power is required. Hence the mobile-phone batteries you so cleverly identified.”

“How long will they last?” asked Ella, raising her hand and speaking at the same time.

“Six…or seven hours,” said Shade. “They lasted for eight and a half hours in test conditions…but there is a faint possibility that battery use will increase the closer you get to a Projector. Go on…pick them up…try them on. They’re adjustable at the back.”

The crowns were not as flimsy as they looked, and were reasonably comfortable once they were adjusted. In use, the batteries would fit in a belt pouch, the thin power cable clipped taut and worn down the back.

“Good,” said Shade, when everyone wore a crown. “As you can imagine, these Deceptors will allow us to move into a new stage in our campaign against the Overlords. Thanks to this adaptation of their own technology, you will be able to enter one of their strongholds and steal their secrets.”

Only Ella met this assertion with equanimity. Drum frowned and leaned forward, great elbows resting on his knees. Gold-Eye looked at the others to see how they were taking it. Ninde grimaced, indicating that no one could get her anywhere near an Overlord’s stronghold.

“Which stronghold are you thinking about?” asked Ella calmly.

Shade smiled. He made a gesture with his right hand, like a conjurer about to reveal a rabbit, and a laser stabbed down from the ceiling to the right of his desk. Motes of light twirled around it and formed into a hologram of the bay. It was a bird’s-eye view, above the twisted remnants of the bay bridge, whose middle third was bent into the deep blue water.

Shade gestured again, and their viewpoint changed. They left the bridge to travel farther out in the bay, toward the point where it met the open sea. Halfway, their view zoomed in on a small rocky island that dominated the narrowest stretch of water. Two old stone towers, joined by a flat-roofed building, took up most of the island. Each tower was a checkerboard of yellow sandstone and shadowed cannon ports—and each was topped by the silver globe of a Projector, casting reflections like shoals of fish on the blue-green waves that washed around the island.

As they watched, a very large Winger flew in high and made an almost vertical descent to land on the flat roof of the center building. As at the University, it was carrying an Overlord, which quickly climbed off its back. This one’s armor was bright, blinding red, and it wore a cloak that moved like fire, all red-and-yellow tongues of flame. Its helmet was pyramidal, with a dark visor stark against the hell-fire red.

“Red Diamond,” remarked Shade. “Going home to Fort Robertson. It seems to live there. The only such residence I have been able to locate. Fort Robertson also has the only Projectors that aren’t sixty stories up.”

“How are we supposed to get out there?” asked Ella. She tapped the crown on her head. “Even if these things confuse their senses, they’ll still see us….”

“No they won’t,” interrupted Shade. “Projector power is used in a very fundamental part of their sensory integration. The Deceptors totally scramble that. Besides, you will go at night. I doubt very much that there will be any Ferrets on Fort Robertson, or any other creatures for that matter. I have had the island under observation for many years without seeing the Wingers fly in anything but Red Diamond or occasionally some other Overlord.”

“So are we supposed to swim out?” asked Ella. “I could probably make it, and Ninde…”

“No, no. I wouldn’t ask you to swim!” exclaimed Shade. “You’ll take one of the inflatable boats from this Submarine. My little helpers have patched one up and converted an outboard motor to electric power. It will serve the purpose well.”

Ella and Drum exchanged glances. Both had experience out in the bay with boats and knew it wasn’t safe or easy except in the calmest weather.

Neither spoke, but all four of them realized that Shade wanted them to go somewhere potentially even more dangerous than the rest of the city, somewhere where no one had been before, though it was only a few miles out into the bay. Even if they did get there safely, the chances of a safe return were very slim.

Shade seemed oblivious to this, leaning back and smiling with the air of someone who expects general enthusiasm to break out at any moment.

Finally Ninde raised her hand and asked the question everyone wanted to know.

“What do we do when we get to Fort Robertson?”

“Didn’t I say?” Shade smiled. “I want you to steal a Projector.”