Maximillian Fly, Page 3

  The third Vermin emerges from Mama’s china cupboard and stops dead, taking in the scene. There is a brief silence and then it screams. Its voice-screen changes the scream to something unearthly and I seize my moment. I raise my arms and wave the bloodied shirts in front of me and then I launch them into the air. The netter snatches them up and I hope the Vermin will leave. But they do not. The netter stuffs the shirts into the bag that hangs from its waist belt and they all stay put, staring up at me—they have seen that I am not a Night Roach after all. Now it is not going to be so easy.

  So I must raise the game. I take a step down toward them and they mirror me with a step backward. Another step down, another step back. And another. I become suspicious: their movements are too practiced. This is some kind of maneuver.

  K

  A scream comes from below. High and thin, like a slipped note on a flute, it pierces the air. It’s the Roach, I know it is. I remember how Tomas told me he once saw one cornered by some Enforcers. They pulled its arms off and it screamed like the kettle we used over the illegal fire. I can’t bear to think about the Roach losing its arms, I really can’t. But I must, as Mom used to say, stay focused. I must hide the DisK. Because any minute now the Enforcers will be trashing the house, looking for us.

  But the room is so empty. I don’t know where to hide it. I panic and shove the DisK deep into the pile of blankets beneath the eaves and hope that Mom would think I’ve done the right thing. It will be fine there, I tell myself. Once they’ve got us, they won’t be looking for anything else.

  M

  The netter gives a high-pitched whistle and suddenly all three are running at me like rats. I am glad of this attack, for I do not want you, my young watcher, to think that I kill without provocation. I drop down into the fight stance. I take my stiletto dagger from its sheath beneath my underwings and then I make the noise that all Wingless ones fear. I hiss.

  The hiss of a Roach is a distressing frequency, but I suspect the Vermin have earplugs, for they do not react. The netter pulls a long, thin dart from a holster at its waist and throws it at me, aiming at the vulnerable segment gap between my abdomen and thorax. It is a deadly throw. I turn just in time. The dart flies through my inner underwing and lands point down into the floor, where it stays, quivering.

  Please note that I now act in self-defense.

  The Vermin are gathering for the kill. They expect success. Of course they do. I look fragile, I clatter, my upper limbs are stick-thin and, yes, you can easily twist them off if you get the angle right. However, I have a surprising strength and I am not afraid to use it. I advance down the stairs at high speed and throw my weight against the two forward Vermin; they fall against the banisters and there is a sharp splintering of wood. I half leap, half glide, down the remaining steps targeting the despoiler of Mama’s china. It understands the score and once more it screams in terror. That is the last sound it makes.

  I am upon it. My weight slams it to the floor and I ease my stiletto blade into the join in its armor plates under its left armpit. I push downward. It is done. Silent and clean. And, as yet, no blood. Mama’s floor is free of effluent, though strewn with a thousand glittering shards of porcelain. I pull the blade out and wipe it on the CarboNet. I get to my feet and turn to see the remaining two Vermin staring at our little tableau.

  The ex–searchlight holder says to the netter, “Get out, get out!”

  The netter demurs. “But we haven’t got them.”

  “Because the Roach already had them. You’ve got the shirts. It’s proof.”

  “Not enough,” says the netter.

  I decide they can discuss the finer points of their nasty little mission elsewhere. I raise my wings and advance upon them with my stiletto. They turn and run, racing out of my wrecked door, which hangs broken upon its hinges. I look back along the passageway and see the dead Vermin lying across the threshold of Mama’s storeroom. The Vermin is now leaking blood. I sigh: yet another human to clear up after. So much . . . seepage.

  I drag it out to Thin Murk and return to my despoiled home.

  I need a dust bath.

  K

  It’s been silent now for ages. But I’m ready. And now I can hear footsteps on the stairs. They’re coming for us.

  I flip open my combi-tool and a blade glints in the moonlight. I flatten myself against the wall, waiting. I hate these people. I hate them for what they’ve done to what was once my family. I know I won’t win, but I’ll get one of them if I possibly can.

  M

  I drag myself up the last flight of stairs to the attic, where my next batch of trouble resides—the young Wingless ones who have brought misfortune and woe to my door. But do not fear for them, for I know this situation is of my own making. It was I who took them into my house. It was not they who forced their way in and it was not they who destroyed Mama’s precious collection. It is not their fault. I must remember that. I am a good creature. Not bad. Tick-tick.

  I reach the top landing. I pause to prepare myself, and then I move toward the room where the young ones are hidden. I unlock the door and push it open. It is oddly silent. The brother lies where I left him, eyes closed, clutching the bear, but of his sister there is no sign. I take a step forward and suddenly I see a flash of steel coming toward me—it is a knife and attached to its handle is the female. This is treachery most foul. I throw myself backward, out of the door, away from the blade, I lose my footing and find that I am rolling down the stairs. As I bounce from step to step, I consider both the perfidy of the Wingless and my own foolishness.

  K

  Oh my days. It was the Roach. I stabbed the Roach. No, no, no!

  I race down the stairs. The Roach is lying on the landing below, rolled into a cylinder of carapace. This must be what a Roach does when it’s dead. I’ve killed it. I kneel beside it and stroke its smooth, iridescent wings. They feel nice, like warm plastic. “I am sorry,” I whisper. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was them. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.”

  I think of Mom, Dad and Tomas: all gone in their different ways. I think of Jonno upstairs bleeding because I made him take his shoes off and now the Roach is dead on the floor and we all know why that is. I find I’m crying again. My tears drop onto the beautiful indigo carapace and run down its delicate grooves.

  M

  I lie in my shield position and hope the girl will go away. And then yet more fluid, warm and salty, comes trickling into the gaps in my carapace and seeps into my cut underwings. It is unbearable. I uncurl.

  K

  The Roach is alive! Without thinking, I throw my arms around it and I feel it flinch as though I have hit it. I rock back on my heels and I apologize over and over. I tell it I thought it was an Enforcer. I tell it how scared I was. And then I ask if I hurt it. The Roach shakes its head; then very slowly it gets to its feet and walks laboriously up the stairs. I follow. Its back has a look of resignation and I push away an image of how Dad looked as he waved Mom off to work that last night. Memories make no sense anymore.

  M

  As I painfully climb back up the stairs I know I have a decision to make. Do I throw the young fugitives out of my house and return my life to its peaceful, well-ordered ways? That will be worse for them but better for me. Or do I let them stay and disrupt my life still further? That will be better for them but, oh, so much worse for me.

  How I wish I had not set upon this ridiculous course to prove to you my goodness. Why should I care what you think of me?

  Enough of this.

  They must go.

  Chapter 7

  The DisK

  K

  I climb the stairs behind a cross carapace and I know that what I have done is what Dad used to call a “deal-breaker.” I follow the Roach’s resentfully folded wings into the attic room and I see Jonno huddled beneath the blankets, his face taut with pain. I know there is no way he will survive a night outside in the city. I hear the Roach’s tick-tick sound—which I
am beginning to understand is a mixture of anxiety and annoyance—and I know it is about to tell us to go. I have a split second to get in first and say something that will change its mind. But what?

  It is the flowery curtains that do it. From somewhere deep in my memory I hear Dad reading me a story called The Gentle Roach. I remember that in the story the Roaches used strangely formal language and greeted one another with their hands crossed over their abdomen combined with a small bow of the head. So that is what I do. I cross my hands over my SilverShip sweatshirt and give a respectful bow of my head. When I dare to look up, I see two sparkling gray eyes regarding me with a bemused expression. Quickly, before the Roach has a chance to tell us to leave, I say in what I hope is a suitably formal way, “No words can express how sorry I am for my actions. I am devastated to have caused you pain. From the bottom of my heart I thank you for saving me and my brother. We will always be in your debt. My name is Kaitlin Drew and I am honored to have met you.” Then I bow my head.

  M

  I have a book. It is called The Gentle Roach. On the inside page it says: To Maximillian with love from his papa. No one has ever spoken to me like this before. I am quite discombobulated. Tick-tick.

  K

  There is no reply. I risk a glance up at the Roach and see it looking at me in bewilderment. It makes another tick-tick sound, but it does not speak. I am desperate for a response, so I bow yet again. “I know we have brought trouble to your door,” I say, “but I would be eternally grateful if you would allow us to remain here tonight.”

  Tick-tick is the only response.

  It’s not looking good. With my heart pounding in my ears I wait for the Roach to pronounce sentence on us. I watch Jonno’s blanket rise and fall as his breath comes fast and sharp with pain and I hear the Roach’s tinny little cough. I look up into its flat, sloping face and try to read its expression, but it isn’t giving anything away. And then, echoing what I have done, it crosses its top limbs over its thorax and folds its single middle limb neatly below, as one would hold an arm in a sling. It gives a low, slow bow, then straightens up and begins to speak.

  “I, Maximillian Fly, bid you welcome to my home.” It pauses and then adds, “For tonight.”

  Tears of relief rush into my eyes and I bow my head to hide them.

  “The blood,” the tinny voice continues, “must be stopped.”

  I look up, unsure if this is a condition for us staying or if the Roach—I mean, Maximillian—is concerned for Jonno.

  Maximillian answers my question. “It is dangerous for a small person to bleed so much,” he says patiently, as though I don’t understand that bleeding is bad. “Therefore I will bring the necessaries.” I watch him walk out of the room, his wings still neatly folded but now, it seems to me, in a more relaxed fashion. I sit down with a thump beside Jonno, feeling as floppy as Tedward with his DisK gone.

  Maximillian returns with a red box and very gravely hands it to me. Inside are all the usual first aid things plus a few bits and pieces I don’t recognize. I make myself look at Jonno’s foot. It is worse than I expect; there is a sliver of glass stuck deep into his heel. I grit my teeth and pull it out with tweezers. Jonno yelps and gloops of blood ooze onto the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maximillian shudder—I think he is trying not to be sick—and he passes me a cloth that smells of spirit. I clean Jonno’s foot with it and then Maximillian hands me a roll of thin but strong transparent tape. I pull the edges of the wound together, crisscross it with tape and then, under Maximillian’s instructions, I raise Jonno’s foot up and press hard on his heel. Jonno yelps like a puppy but he lets me do it, and at last his foot stops bleeding.

  J

  It’s gone. The glass in my foot has gone. It’s got tape all over it and the Roach brought the tape. His head touched the ceiling and his antenna got stuck in a crack in a beam.

  K

  Maximillian Fly bows and tells me that he is going now. He has, he says, an important meeting to attend but he will be back later. I bow in return and wish him a pleasant night. And then he is gone.

  And now I am kneeling at the attic window, the DisK safely in my hand, and I am looking out onto the night world of our city. It must be a clear night Outside because beyond the haze I think I can see the fuzzy bright blob of the moon. Sometimes I wonder what the sky would look like if we did not have the Orb protecting us from the deadly Contagion Outside. I think it would be wonderful not to be trapped beneath a huge force field, however good for us it may be.

  The Orb makes the fog fall every night, but it is late today and I can still see a landscape of rooftops spread before me, shining in the dampness like the wings of a Roach. This part of the city is near the center. The houses are tall and the street below—the Inner Circle—is wide, with its borders home to a good crop of spinach. Most of the houses are empty now, but people still use them to grow food. I can see potatoes sprouting in sacks hanging from windows opposite, green things like broccoli and kale in wall boxes and even strawberries hanging down from the gutters. We learn about seasons at school, but there aren’t any beneath the Orb; fruit and plants grow whenever they want to.

  Last year, when we were still a family, we lived on the edge of Hope in a tiny cottage next to a farm. We had fields at the back all the way out to the foot of the Orb and we had a garden where we—well, Dad mostly—grew all kinds of stuff. I grew carrots and even Jonno liked those.

  I stare into the darkness trying to figure out where our old house would be, but it’s hard to tell. In the distance I can just make out the soaring, elegant shapes of the skylons—masts that create the force field for the Orb—on the edge of the city. We lived near skylon number three, but they all look the same, so there’s no way of knowing which one was ours.

  I’m trying not to look at the Bartizan tower, but it is hard to ignore, sticking up so high, black and misshapen like a rotten tooth. It was once the city’s water tower and was something to be proud of because it gave everyone fresh water drawn from the artesian wells deep beneath the chalk on which we are built. But now we have to take our water from the street pumps—if we can get it—while the Guardian of the city lurks at the top of the Bartizan tower in luxury and watches us, day and night. The Bartizan has its own skylon on the roof, which I can see rising up so high that its tip is hidden in the haze. It is there, in the control panel of that skylon, that this DisK belongs. Mom sacrificed her life to get hold of it, and now I have to make her sacrifice worthwhile. The thought of Mom draws my gaze back to the line of lighted windows that run around the top of the Bartizan. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. Because one of those windows is where they throw the Astros off.

  Suddenly the ghostly white shape of a Night Roach glides by the window, so close that I can see the green glint off its big compound eyes. I duck down, terrified. They say that Night Roaches are created by the Bartizan to make us afraid of going out at night, but being indoors is no protection. Night Roaches break through windows and take children from their beds. It happened to a house along the alley after we went into hiding. I can still remember the sound of breaking glass. And the screams.

  I pull the flowery curtains closed and tiptoe over to Jonno. I put my hand on his forehead like Mom used to do when we were ill. I don’t really know what I’m feeling for, but his skin is dry and cool, which surely is a good thing. I check his foot and it is clear of blood and the tape is secure. The attic room feels quiet and peaceful and I think about how lucky we are to be here still. I wrap myself up in the pile of blankets under the eaves and lean back against the wall, my head jammed under the sloping ceiling. The DisK lies heavy in my hand. It is a little buzzy as though it is alive, and I don’t want to let go of it because it makes me feel close to Mom. As I snuggle deeper into the blankets I realize that this is the first time I’ve felt safe for a whole, long year. And then I think about what happened a year ago, the day after my birthday, when everything fell apart. . . .

  It was late in the
evening when my older brother, Tomas, had a huge fight with Mom and Dad. He stormed out and he didn’t come back. And then, in the early hours of that morning, Mom and Dad woke me and Jonno up. They led us out into the night fog, through the silent streets to a horrible house by the solid waste works. Dad had the key to two rooms in the basement. This, he told us, was to be our new home from now on, but he wouldn’t tell us why.

  It was awful in that basement. Jonno and I were not allowed out at all. Jonno caught a cold and grizzled pretty much all the time and no matter how much I asked Mom and Dad what was going on, they refused to tell me. And Tomas never came back.

  Mom just carried on working as usual. She did night shifts as a nurse in the Bartizan hospital—the only hospital in the city. It was for Bartizan people only, of course. Mom didn’t like working there but it was, she said, a good job and we needed the money. But each night she left I was afraid she would never come home. I think Dad was too.

  I’ll never forget the last few hours in that sad basement. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of Dad playing a lament on his flute. It sounded so, so lonely. I must have gone back to sleep because the next thing I remember Mom was home and tiptoeing over to Jonno’s bed. I watched her very gently take Tedward—only Mom could have done that without waking Jonno—and then creep out. I went back to sleep and when I woke up again Tedward was back with Jonno.

  There was a weird atmosphere that morning. Dad was really jumpy and Mom seemed kind of crazily excited. Later, while Dad was doing reading practice with Jonno in the kitchen, Mom took me aside. She told me that Tedward was a very special bear and that if something happened to her, I must be sure to look after him.

  I felt so angry. “You’re treating me like a baby,” I told her. “Just like you did with Tomas. Mom, you have to tell me what’s going on. Dad was so worried last night that he was playing the lament.”