Dim greyness shows through the clouds, filtering through the thick air, diluted a thousand times before reaching her. Nuala looks up from the ground, and slows.
She's here. She'd been walking all morning as if asleep on her feet, she had never realised she had come this far.
And now . . . she's here.
She not sure what she expected. Perhaps the towers growing straight out of the very earth, soaring kilometres in the air. But she stands among what look like . . . vines. Black plastic and alloy plants sprout from the ground, leading like the roots of grass along the packed dirt toward the . . . city. It's like a city. Like the picture her mother had showed her, of how people of the past had believed the future would look, crystal towers reaching for the blue sky with bridges, archways, highways spanning between them. So incredibly high that one could live and die up there without ever seeing the ground.
These crystal towers are black, and still distant to her. Closer up, the vines lead into larger and larger tangles, winding around smaller structures that Nuala cannot find words to describe. Gradually, they become bigger and more complex, until they are tall, straight and covered all over in webs and nets of black vines.
She can hear the towers humming. She can see drones moving, crawling and scuttling along the strands of vine between the black crystal stalactites and the smaller gems around them. Black, and shining in the dim grey light.
Slowly, slowly, she begins to walk closer.
(what do you plan to do once you get closer?)
She hesitates.
(what exactly do you think you're doing here?)
I've got to help - somehow.
(how?)
Shut up.
Nuala tries to think. Can she free a human from the power plant? How can she reach the towers, let alone a . . . what do the others call them? Pods. Grapes.
The vines. If those spider-like machines can scuttle up the shiny black cables, surely she can.
Tightening the straps of her back pack, she steps up to the vine beside her.
~~~
Ken sits on the edge of the bunk, glaring at Simon on the bed opposite. The fluorescent light in the ceiling shines a sterile whiteness throughout the school sickbay.
"I told you I was fine."
Simon almost laughs.
"A freaky dream is one thing, passing out and falling down a flight of stairs is another. I don't care how tired you are, you're never like this."
Ken looks away, embarrassed by his friend's concern. His best, and pretty much only, friend.
"You don't have to stay here."
"Would I voluntarily go back to class if I had another option?"
"True."
Awkward silence. Simon turns and lies down on his back, folding arms behind his head.
"Relax Kenny. If you fall asleep you can bludge the rest of the day."
But he doesn't want to fall asleep again. He's scared of what could ensue. He lies down anyway. He and Simon are the best of friends, but they barely know each other any more. Ken can't admit what he fears. He can barely define it himself.
Staring at the ceiling, he tries to think of something to say.
"Simon?" The sickbay door is shut, but still he whispers.
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever wonder if the world isn't real?"
"Umm. No, not really."
"Why not?"
"Why should I wonder? It just leads to headaches."
"Why shouldn't you wonder? There's no proof that this isn't all a dream."
"There's no proof it is."
"Nothing's for certain. The only thing you can know beyond a doubt is the fact that you doubt in the first place."
Glancing across the room, Ken sees a smile flicker over the other boy's face.
"Cogito, ergo sum. You've been reading too much of Sophie's World."
Ken smiles back.
"At least I've read it."
Silence. He focuses on a flyspot directly above him. Their breathing seems loud in the hush. His breathing. He realises he can't hear Simon. Kenneth's breathing is loud, even. Thick. Think. He knows this sound. He's heard it recently.
(the dream)
No! I don't want to dream
(ha ha ha)
I don't want to sleep
(you're not asleep. this isn't a dream Kenneth. you're beyond that now)
Beyond? No! let me wake up!
(this is the most awake you've ever been)
Simon!
(he can't hear you. he's not here)
Red murk. He chokes down panic at the tight, cramped feeling of claustrophobia. His eyes are wide open, stinging with the slime getting into them
(the blood flesh bone liquefied and warmed and)
His arms are wrapped around his chest, his legs drawn up close to him. He floats in this warm murk
(blood)
and tries to allow the machine to breathe for him.
Machine? Where did that come from?
~~~
Higher and higher she climbs, muscles bunching then stretching as she reaches out and up for the next irregularity of the shiny alloy surface. The tangle of cables sway, and sometimes all she can find to grip is her own hand, reaching all the way around and grasping her own fingers in an effort to stay on. How far up she is, Nuala can't say. She doesn't dare look down.
How far until she can reach the vertical side of that tower? Another hundred and fifty meters at least. Hugging the vine, Nuala lays her cheek against it. She thought it would be cold, everything in this world is cold.
But it's warm. And humming, throbbing, like an artery, a vein.
Keep moving. Keep your mind off it. Hum. Venture a few words as you reach out an arm to pull yourself higher, as you grip with your legs to the sides of this
(artery)
vine
(filled with BLOOD)
made of black alloy
(BLOOD!)
it isn't so far now. You've come so far
(for NOTHING!)
don't give it up. Keep moving.
"Hey sunshine . . . I haven't seen you in a long time . . . "
(will you ever see it Nuala? will you?)
~~~
(float. try and relax)
Why?
(let your lungs expand with the oxygen you aren't breathing for yourself)
Why?
(don't let the claustrophobia get to you)
Why not?
(don't push your hands against the membrane above you)
But I must get out of here. I must get free.
(don't move or they'll see you and know you're not sleeping)
Who's They?
(them. the machines)
~~~
The tangle of cables begins to unwind as it reaches the tower, splitting into smaller strands and leading into the black wall like roots of a tree into the ground. Thinner and thinner, the vine sways further with every move she makes.
Nuala moves forward slowly, very, very carefully. She's balancing her weight over a cable as thin as her upper arm.
Freeze. There in front of her, one of the scuttling drones. Like a light grey spider the size of her head. It moves toward her, tiny claws in its feet hooking into the alloy.
She tries not to move. Her legs wrapped around the cable and crossed at the ankle, and her hands gripping it tightly, she ducks her head and holds her breath.
It crawls right over her. Sharp claws like the points of razorblades prick her through her clothes and she hopes the drone doesn't tear her backpack. Then, it's gone.
She relaxes.
And almost falls.
She swings under the cable, still with her knees hooked over it and her fingers grasping . . . pull up, grab! Wrap fingers tightly around that warm metal and plastic.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn . . . " Nuala rolls her eyes at her own stupidity. How close is the tower now? She cranes her head back - it looks even weirder upside-down. Only a little further.
Moving like a monkey, Nuala continues on, feeling more than a little stupid.
~~~
He looks up through the murk. Beyond the immediate glow he can see nothing, only darkness. One would think this is a dream.
How long have I been here?
(years)
But wait, above. A shape. Something pale against the endless darkness.
Simon?
~~~
She clings to the side of the pod, gripping the slippery metal. Heat rises from the pink membrane covered bubble, making the air ripple around her. She tries to look down through the tangle of black cables surrounding the . . . person.
There's a person in there. Like the fields with rows upon rows of babies in artificial wombs, this is a person - a boy near her size.
Nuala looks up along to the next pod, and wonders how she didn't recognise the pale shape before. A person. In every one of these millions of pods. How many people are enslaved?
~~~
He strains to move
(don't move!)
reaching up his arms
(they'll see you!)
He pushes weakly against the surface.
Hands meet his. The figure above him tears apart the skin and reaches in to pull him up. Electric shocks of cold stun him, but he moves, raises his head. Somebody else's hands pull at the black pipe that reached down his throat. It comes out, and his air goes with it.
Waist deep in the slime he throws his head back, mouth wide open. He takes in a huge frozen breath, burning his lungs. AIR!
Nuala holds the boy up, sitting on the edge of the pod, her hands under his armpits. He's barely conscious, his eyes are half closed. Slime drips off his bald head, she tries to wipe some off his face.
Then, a rush of cold air. She turns her head, another machine. Larger than the drones, it hovers in front of them. With a snap legs unfurl, arms reach for the boy's neck. She grabs at it, tries to pull it off, but a claw reaches around the back of his head and unscrews the plug - the plug? And then as suddenly as it came, the machine goes.
The boy convulses as black cables begin to pop out of him. Nuala holds on, tries to hold him still, but he's slippery and his flailing pulls her into the pod with him.
He opens his eyes completely as he feels hands on him. When he is still he collapses against the person holding his head above the slime, weak and suddenly unable to move.
A sound. Behind him.
Then they're moving, sliding and slipping and surrounded by water and there's a hand holding his mouth closed and then they fall.
Submerge. Water, thick and greasy and freezing cold, over his head. Hands pull him up. He can't breathe. He feels himself pulled by an arm around his chest, and he tries to swim, kicking weakly.
Nuala drags him out of the water onto a narrow rock ledge. The boy is limp, still. Automatic responses come into play. Turn him on his side, tilt his head downward and clear the airway. Water trickles out of his mouth. Turn him on his back, listen and feel for breathing (try and ignore the fact he's naked). No breathing. Tilt his head back, pinch his nose and exhale into his mouth twice. Check for circulation. Thank God, the pulse is there. Continue with breathing.
A cough, he jerks underneath her. Nuala turns the boy onto his side again. He's covered in small metal circles, all down his spine and . . . everywhere.
He opens his eyes slowly. He's freezing. Rolling onto his back and staring up, he sees a face above him. A girl.
"Am I dead?" he manages to ask.
"You damn well better not be," the girl grins. It's so hazy, all he can see is a pale shape leaning over, close to him.
"What's your name boy?"
This isn't a dream. You've finally passed beyond the veil and into the next realm. Who are you?
He stares up at the girl.
"I can't remember."
"Try to."
Something like a memory comes to him. Something like a vision of the future.
A black bird soaring above the clouds, tearing the sky apart with its wings.
"Raven," it's little more than a whisper. He tries again. "My name is Raven."
Then it's all black.
~~~~~~~
I'm sorry this took so long to come, it wasn't easy to write.
The Latin translates into "I think, therefore I am." All hail Rene Descarte.
Also, I apologise for all the blood in this chapter. I think I've been reading too much Stephen King.