Chapter Twenty Three

Breakdown

"Where the hell is Hooper?" Lucas's voice demands loudly in the early morning light. Raising his head from the floor of the tent into which he was dragged again yesterday after his second stint in the punishment box, Malcolm tries to focus, and largely fails. He can't remember the last time he drank something, and the ache in his muscles is becoming almost impossible to endure. In some ways, he has lost any sense of connection with who he was before he found himself here, and can picture the colony, and those who live in it, with something approaching detached indifference.

Taylor's coming. He keeps on saying that to himself, but he can't really remember now who 'Taylor' is, or why he would come anyway. There's nothing here to come for.

Don't give up, Braveheart.

There it is again - his father's voice. But isn't his father dead? As far as he can remember, he was orphaned before he even left England, so why is he here now?

"You're not real." His voice is ghastly, his dry mouth changing the timbre and thickening the words, "You're just an hallucination."

Silence. He's not sure whether he's pleased or disappointed.

"Where's Hooper?" Lucas's voice again, sounding not that different in tone - he's as dehydrated as anyone else. But then, from what Malcolm can remember of last night, Hooper cracked up. The last of the rations got doled out, and he kept on going through the inventory over and over again, as though that would make a difference. He was demanding that people dig up the latrines and recycle what they found there…

"There's no sign of him anywhere." Katz's voice comes through - sounding equally bad, "I think he must've wandered out into the desert."

"Oh, great. How many do we have left?"

He was still in the box when it happened, but he heard people talking about it - or at least he thinks he remembers doing so - two men were murdered by colleagues last night because they decided, for reasons of their own, that the victims had full water canteens that they were keeping for themselves. How quickly order breaks down when essential supplies run out…

"I'll do a roll call."

The tent flaps are pulled back, and Lucas peers in, "You're still here, then. Glad someone is." He enters the tent and places another cup of water beside Malcolm, "Drink that. And bear in mind that, until I see some worthwhile progress on the terminus today, that's all you'll be getting."

The cup is half full, and it is drained in two swallows. Lucas ignores Malcolm's rather frantic attempts to shake out every possible last drop from it. They must be running out by now. After all, given that very few people are going to be able to get rid of much fluid from their bladders, the amount of water to recycle can only continue to dwindle. It's all being lost as sweat evaporates away from people's bodies - as they breathe it out in their breath. If they last another two days, then even that'll be a miracle. The fact that the rations are gone is meaningless. It's water that they need - and water that they lack. If he sees tomorrow's dawn, then he might well revise his decision to stay within the perimeter. Finding a predator to end it more quickly might well be the better option.

"Get to it." Lucas jerks his thumb towards the tent flaps, irritably, "If there's progress, you get water."

It takes every ounce of will he has to force his limbs to move. If he can barely even get up, then how the hell is he going to have even a hope of working on that blasted terminus? God, if he never sees it again, he'll be the happiest man alive.

He is sure he can see lights flickering at the edge of his vision as he sits down in front of the access panel yet again. He hasn't managed anything more than to mend the minor damage that Lucas inflicted upon the circuitry - that's quite literally all that he can do. Even if he could think more lucidly, there's nothing here that he can convert, rebuild or break apart to raid for components; and the lack of dexterity thanks to his dehydration would make it impossible for him to fit them unless they were more or less the size of a house-brick.

The laser scalpel drops from his fingers again, and he groans as he bends to pick it up. This is pointless…

Don't give up, Braveheart. When have you ever given up on anything in your life?

"You're not here." He says quietly, not looking up, "I'm just imagining you."

Perhaps. Do you want me to be here?

"I don't know. I haven't thought about you much more than I had to since I was a child."

Why?

"Because it hurt too much. You were dead - the last time I saw you, you told me you'd be back. I never saw you again, and my life broke apart."

But you put it back together again - and you overcame it.

"I can't overcome this. I'm losing my mind to dehydration and heat exhaustion, and imagining a conversation with my dead father; and tomorrow I'll probably be dead too, so what does it matter anyway?"

He retrieves the laser scalpel and tries to focus on the circuitry yet again. His hand is trembling as he lifts it, the muscles of his arms burning and aching. This is hopeless…

"I can't do this." He whispers, miserably, "I haven't got anything to replace the damaged parts, and the tools aren't right for the job. Why am I even trying?"

Because Lucas will punish you if you don't?

"Leave me alone." He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry, and instead he lets out a faint moan. His mind is starting to go - it must be if he keeps on talking to someone that isn't even there. He needs to have something he can show Lucas - something that at least looks like progress - and then maybe he'll get some water. Not that it'll be enough - but any amount is better than none.

"Where are you, Taylor?" Why didn't he take the opportunity to run when it was there? Why did he sit still and just wait for Lucas to check the interior of the rhino? He told himself that it wasn't worth the risk - that he couldn't have got more than a mile, if that…and now he's out here in the middle of a massive desert, dying of thirst. Such excellent life choices; Taylor would be so proud of his survival instincts - and the man regards him with barely concealed scorn as it is. No one in that bloody colony gives a damn about his safety or wellbeing. Why bother wasting resources to go in search of a man that nobody really likes anyway? That was why he kept silent about his burns - and he wishes he hadn't mentioned it to Jim Shannon. Admittedly the man hasn't spread it about…

He pauses. Isn't there someone else he told about that? Someone who does care about him? The only other people who really cared about him are all dead - his mother, his father…the best friend he had at Harrow…caring about him seems to just leave people dead. Perhaps it's best if he just gives up, then. No one else need to suffer because of him.

Oh, for goodness' sake Braveheart, you're better than this. Enough of the self pity! This is the lack of water talking.

Great. Now even his hallucination is telling him off. He'd cry - but he can't risk losing the moisture.

And then he remembers…Yseult, Max…the woman who loves him; the woman he loves. And he never thought he really would - even his feelings for Elisabeth couldn't come close to how he feels about her - and he'd forgotten her! How could he do that? She'll be counting on his coming back - she lost her husband when he went OTG, and, when he said goodbye to her, he promised, promised, that he would come back. Taylor will be coming for him. He knows that he will - and he needs to be still alive when the Commander gets here.

"Damn you," he berates himself, "if you can't survive for yourself, then do it for her, you idiot - for her!" Angry now instead of miserable, he retrieves the tools and tries again. It may be pointless, but if he can at least show some progress, then there'll be a cup of water for him, and he can try and work out what to do next once he's got at least some more water on board.

That's better.

"Oh, shut up."


Lucas reviews his work. It's not much; but he's found something that will do to recreate the connectors that were blown with the induction coils, and the cannibalised springs from some abandoned machinery nearby look sufficiently like replacements for Lucas to think that they'll do. They won't - but as long as Lucas thinks so, he'll permit Malcolm to have something to drink.

Following Lucas out of that gazebo is probably the hardest thing he's done all day. His legs are stiff and aching, whether he moves or stays still, and his head is pounding. There are no rations left anymore, and the remaining soldiers look mutinous, hungry and thirsty. Katz has gained himself a field promotion - as Hooper hasn't been seen since last night. The now-accepted consensus being that he must've wandered out of the camp overnight after he cracked up yesterday evening.

There was another suicide a few hours ago, or so the whispers that he can pick up mention. They're down to ten soldiers now, out of how many? Eighty? One hundred? God above, Lucas has led these men to their deaths - and now the last are facing the cruellest end that anyone could stand to endure.

The tent in which they have gathered was meant for a far larger number of people than it now holds, and the small group gathers around a table upon which sit fourteen water bottles - each numbered - that hold probably no more than half a litre each, "Is that it?" Malcolm asks, after a long pause.

Lucas frowns at him, but does not deny it. Seven litres of water left - and there are twelve people there. The ten solders, Lucas and him.

"My calculations are complete. All I need now is for you to finish repairing the terminus. Once that's done, the water problem will be over - we'll all be back in 2149 and there'll be all the water we could ever wish to drink." He smiles, magnanimously, "The first round'll be on me."

"My God…" Malcolm can't help himself, "You really are insane…"

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Lucas is glaring at him with venom, and he is quite convinced that his insult has cost him the cup of water he was banking on. He shuts his mouth, and waits as Nathaniel Taylor's mad son opens the first bottle, fills a metal cup, and hands it over to one of the soldiers.

As soon as each soldier has emptied the cup, he hands it back to Lucas, and moves away. No one is permitted a second cupful, it seems, and he is quite keen to make sure no one tries to sneak one. Discipline is obviously quite precarious enough as it is, without creating the conditions for a fight.

By the time each soldier has had their cupful, there are two bottles left. Calmly, Lucas empties the last dregs of the twelfth, followed by some of the thirteenth, into a cup for himself, which he drains. Then he turns to look at Malcolm, who eyes him with desperation. He needs that water…needs it. He's been banking on getting it all day…

"Lucas…" he is almost in tears, "Please…"

Slowly, Lucas pours out the remaining water in the bottle, "I'm still wondering whether or not to give you this." He advises, coldly, "I could, of course, make you beg for it. On your knees. Would you do that?" He eyes Malcolm for a moment, "Actually you would, wouldn't you? You're that desperate."

Then he smiles, and starts to tip the cup, "Lucas!" Malcolm's voice rises in near-panic, "Please, let me have that water! Please! I can't finish the terminus if you don't let me have it! Please!"

"You want me to let you have it?" Lucas smiles, nastily.

Unable to speak, Malcolm nods.

"Fair enough. Have it." Rather than hand over the cup, Lucas flings the contents in Malcolm's face.

He doesn't care about how humiliating it might look, or how ghastly it might appear. Frantically, he cups his hands over the remains that drip from his cheeks, and tries to get them into his mouth - he'll even suck it from his shirt if he must…

Everyone is startled by a sudden, loud scream; but it's not Malcolm - it's one of the soldiers. Without any warning, the man turns and lunges at his neighbour, "Where is it? You've got a whole canteen of water! I saw you with it! Where've you hidden it?"

"I haven't got anything, you crazy bastard! Get your hands off me!"

And then the pair are brawling like madmen, the soldiers around them becoming almost equally suspicious of one another - has someone been concealing water? If so, who? Where?

"Stand down!" Katz is bawling, furiously, "I said, STAND DOWN!"

Then the two men crash over the table, sending the bottles flying in all directions. Everyone is trying to prise the two men apart, and no one notices the one remaining full bottle as it rolls to a halt at Malcolm's feet. Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and too desperate to care if anyone sees, he snatches it up, wrenches the stopper off, and gulps down the very last remains of the camp's water supply. That's it. From now on, they're all dead men…

If I get out of this alive…I swear to God I'm going to ask Max to marry meTaylor's coming. He won't give up on me…I know he won't. If not for my sake, then for hers. He lost her husband. He won't lose me…

He quickly throws the bottle into the midst of the tumbled mess, all about him oblivious to his act. Then, finally, Katz manages to pull the two combatants apart, hurling abuse in all directions. He is no leader - even in the best of circumstances; but then, would Hooper have managed any better?

By the time everyone is under control, and the table is righted, everything has gone horribly silent. His eyes angry, Katz starts to assemble the bottles back on the table. The last one - bottle fourteen - is beside the boots of one of the soldiers who was watching the contretemps. As Katz reaches for it, and finds it to be empty, he grabs the unfortunate man who has done nothing more than stand beside it, "You've emptied this, Soldier!"

"Sir?"

Katz says nothing. His eyes crazed, as he also loses his grip on his nerve, he snatches his pistol out of its holster, and shoots the man dead on the spot. Turning to the assembled men, who stare at him in silent horror, he points the weapon at each one in turn, his eyes unnervingly wide, "Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Fall out."

Their expressions varying from fearful to sullen, the eight remaining members of the Phoenix Battalion turn and disperse, their commander following in their wake.

Watching them go, Lucas turns to Malcolm, who is still standing in frozen horror, staring at the water bottle that he drained, that led to an unwarranted murder.

"Come on, Malcolm. Time to get back to the terminus. Don't you agree?"


Eleven people: that's all that remain of the troops that went into the Badlands. Staring at the hated terminus once again, Malcolm tries to find it in himself to continue. The half litre of water helped, certainly, but it wasn't anything like enough, and he can't get the sight of the blameless man being shot in retribution for his theft out of his head.

Don't give up, Braveheart.

"Oh God, not you again. You're just an hallucination. Leave me alone."

Lucas appears at the edge of the gazebo, "Who the hell are you talking to?"

"No one."

His expression vicious, Lucas grabs Malcolm's arm and glares at him, "That's the last of the water gone. We have six hours at most left to live - including you. You will repair the terminus. I will be back in one hour: if there is no progress, I shall have you pegged out on the sand in the sun for a reciprocal hour. Then you will be brought back in again to continue working. If there is no further progress in that hour, you will be returned to the sand for another hour. That will continue until you repair this damned machine. Do you understand?"

Malcolm stares at him, partly because he is starting to see double, but also because the sun is setting, "You can try - but what's the point if there's no sun?" he asks, his words slightly slurred. For a moment, he wonders if there was alcohol in that water he drank.

Lucas utters a wordless snarl of frustration and stalks away.

Nicely done, Braveheart.

"Stop calling me that. You lost the right to call me anything when you broke your word." He fumbles with the tools and tries to raise them to the interface. Except he can't quite work out whether his hands are in the right place - his hand-eye coordination seems to be going.

How did I break my word?

"You told me you'd be back. I never saw you again. Didn't I tell you that this morning? Or was it yesterday? I can't even keep track of my conversations with my own imagination anymore."

I told you only what I thought to be true. You thought the same - just a few questions. I wasn't to know what questions they were, or that my answers meant nothing. They just wanted names; more people to indict. All they had were rumours of past associations that were of no consequence, and which I'd long since abandoned, but that was all they needed.

"I lost everything. Everything. Have you even the first idea how that feels to a child? I was only ten! You were my world - and then you were gone! Fathers aren't supposed to do that! You were supposed to be there for me until I'd grown up - and I had to do that on my own!"

And it wasn't worth it? What about your life here? What about your girl? Would you have found her if things hadn't happened the way that they did? You overcame your loss and prospered, didn't you? Living in a pristine world, with clean air and a hopeful future? You could make us grandparents…

"Stop that!" He looks about, unsteadily, "Fat lot of good it is giving me a pep talk now! I'll be dead before the end of today, and there's no sign of anyone coming to rescue me. So stop filling my head with dreams that I can't make a reality! How the hell can I have children with Max when I'm not alive to father them?"

He's dropped the tools again, but when he tries to reach them, his balance fails and he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

"I can't do it any more, Da," he whimpers, miserably, "I can't keep going. I just want this all to stop…"

Don't be afraid, Braveheart. Whatever happens, I'm with you. Hold on to that. Hold on to the love of your parents - even if we're not there anymore. We still love you…

And then he is still.


Flattened out on a low escarpment, Taylor looks down with his vision enhancers, "Is it me, or are there no sentries on the perimeter?"

"I said they were finished." Mira murmurs, quietly, "They lost a whole platoon's worth to disease from tick bites a year ago until they realised that they needed stop rolling their damn trousers up, not to mention sending patrols out too far at night. If they've run out of water, then the words 'death throes' might not be too far from the truth."

While they aren't particularly close, the stillness of the night is more than enough to help the sounds from the camp carry up to their ears, and the sound of a violent argument is impossible to miss.

"That doesn't sound good." Jim observes, "Sounds like discipline's gone to hell."

They continue to listen as the shouting dies down, only to all jump in shock at the sound of a pistol shot.

"Yeah." Taylor mutters, "Discipline's gone to hell." He turns to Mira, "Where's the terminus?"

She points in the failing light, "Down under that large canvas awning. They kept it there to try and keep the sand away from it, and the sun off it. Lucas tried to get one of the soldiers to look at it - he was a bit of an amateur electronics enthusiast - but it didn't help."

They continue to watch as people emerge from a large assembly marquee. Taylor counts, "Christ, Shannon - there's nine of 'em. No sign of Malcolm or Lucas, but unless the others have gone another way, we've only got nine people to deal with."

Jim stares at him, aghast, "There must've been ten times that many when they went north…"

"It's a hostile environment." Mira mutters, without sympathy, "They had no idea what they were coming into. Once they lost us, they lost the only people who know how to survive here without relying on high-tech. Hooper must've lost half his troops in the first year, because he didn't know what he was doing, and wouldn't ask the people who did."

"This is going to be easier than I thought."

"Unless that shot was Lucas killing Wallace." Mira says, almost spitefully, "Are you still regretting having Skye try to do your killing for you?"

"He wouldn't. Not while he thinks that terminus is still useable." Jim counters.

"And if he's finally realised it isn't?"

"Stop that. The pair of you." Taylor growls, "The only way we'll know for sure whether Malcolm's still alive is if we go down there and find him. Given that they're down to nine soldiers, as far as we can count, getting to him isn't going to be as hard as I thought. As soon as night's fallen, we split up and go in. Take the soldiers down one by one - silently - and then sweep the camp to find Malcolm and Lucas - in that order: Malcolm is the priority. Make sure you have water in case he needs it. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Be ready to move out."