The Fly-By-Nights (2 page)

“Ned
Singer, you’re out of order!” declared Big Jon Lamon. “Your attitude surprises me, leaving much to be desired. Oh, I know you are a brave man and serve as the leader of one of our scavenger teams: a very important position. For which reason I might expect better from you. But dead men, you say? Without a full understanding of the situation? Is it possible you’re trying to condemn, to frighten the entire clan to death, Ned? No, of course not! So now if you’ll leave all your blustering out, maybe I’ll be allowed to finish up?! And, as I’m sure I recall saying,
no blame attaches!
How could it when no one could have foreseen or forestalled the ‘
problem
’ in the first place?”

“But—” Singer had started to protest yet again. Until:

“
Be quiet!
” The leader had roared, furious now. “Talk when I’m done, if by then you still have something to say.” 

And as Singer shrank down somewhat, growling under his breath but nevertheless shuffling back into the crush, Big Jon
had addressed a pale-faced, balding, nervous little man in the front rank:

“Speak, Andrew Fielding. Ned Singer has a question, even an accusation! And it seems to me that as the head tech you’re the best one to answer it; not only to inform Ned but also the clan in general: which was, of course, my main reason for calling you from your very important work. So speak now, Andrew, and let us
all
know how things are come to such a pass.”

While Big Jon was speaking, Singer had returned to his previous position central in the crowd, between Garth Slattery and a girl called Layla Morgan. Layla, a seamstress in animal-hides and a teacher to the clan’s younger children, was barely a year Garth’s senior; her mother was a long time dead—of radiation induced cancer—and her father had died just six months ago in a rockfall where new habitats were being excavated. While Garth had only rarely come into contact with her, he had always found Layla disarmingly attractive…

And meanwhile Andrew Fielding had begun to speak his piece:

“I can only report what happened, telling it as it was and as it is…” But the little man had no sooner started to reply to Big Jon’s request, nervously addressing the clan in general, than he stopped short to clear his throat, from which his initial sentence had emerged as little more than a croak. At which:

“Aye, go on, choke on your words—you little weasel!” Ned Singer muttered low under his breath, so that only those in his immediate vicinity could hear him. “Bone-idle tech that you are, with your ancient instruments and sputtering radios, your pills and powders whose strength was already on the wane five or more decades ago! Your only real work lies in servicing the generators! Other than that, what earthly use is a scrawny thing such as you? You should come out with me and my scavs one night, see what real work is!” With which Singer had elbowed Garth, almost as tall as himself, in the ribs, growling: “What say you, ’prentice Slattery?”

Garth had shrugged. “It seems to me that keeping the generators working is very important,” he replied, reasonably enough. “The refuge is vast and we have need of the light; down here in the dark no one could work without it! Also, Andrew Fielding is small, not sturdy enough to be a scav. So it’s probably as well that he’s a tech, with knowledge of radios and motors, instruments and…and other such things.” Feeling that he’d finished lamely Garth shrugged again—and noticed Layla frowning at him from Singer’s far side. Now why was that, he wondered? Probably because she considered his answer weak—or maybe she believed he shouldn’t have answered at all? Garth couldn’t say, and meanwhile Ned Singer had turned him a scowling, narrow-eyed glance.

“Huh!” The man gave a snort, then muttered half to himself: “A lesson learned, Ned lad: ask a pup for his opinion, expect a hesitant, wishy-washy answer…”

“Pup?” Garth bristled, but mainly from the tense atmosphere in the huge cavern, which was getting to him. “I’m sixteen pushing seventeen—which is old enough to go out with your scavs!”

“True,” Singer nodded, elbowing Garth again but harder this time. “You’re old enough to go out with us, but only as
my
apprentice—so watch your lip ‘pup!’ Damn me, but every time you open your mouth, it’s like I’m listening to your gimpy father!”

Garth drew a breath that swelled his broad chest…but on the far side of Ned Singer Layla Morgan had once again moved to the fore, from where she stared at Garth and shaped her expressive mouth into a silent warning unseen by Singer: “
No!
”

Good and timely advice, Garth supposed. And saying nothing, relaxing as best he was able, he kept the peace.

Meanwhile Andrew Fielding had been speaking
for some little while, much of which had now been lost to Garth. Still angry at Singer’s insults—more especially the reference to his father—he nevertheless succeeded in ignoring his bruised feelings in order to concentrate on the head tech’s comments. By which time Fielding was midway into a sentence:

“…background radiation has ever fluctuated; by day it increases naturally, most likely due to the influence of the sun. However, in the event of any unacceptable increase in levels in the water—an event outside every previous experience, but one governed by an ancient SOP—we are tasked with releasing anti-radiation compounds into the tanks and reservoirs, hopefully to absorb any dangerous excess. Alas, it should be noted that down the decades the potency of these infusions has suffered considerably…but of course we still treat our drinking water with what few chemicals remain—for what good they do—and in addition the water is always filtered before use…

“Many years ago, before my time—indeed in the time of my great-grandfather, also a tech—in order to conserve compounds that were even then scarce, the techs stopped treating and even monitoring water from the animal well. In those days such measures were deemed wasteful; the water, with a source deep in the earth, was always so very pure. Well, that was then. But—

“Twelve days ago the farmers notified us of a slight deterioration in the health of certain of the beasts. Without delay, we techs examined these animals, discovering that they suffered the first symptoms of radiation poisoning! We immediately separated out every affected animal and bird, seeing to it that they were destroyed, and at once isolated the tank of initial influx from the overflow system, thus preventing any further spread of the contamination. Moreover, we cut back on the already limited supply of water to the lake; as Big Jon has mentioned, the fish are barely edible and continuing to maintain their habitat only depletes our human needs…” Here Fielding had paused and drawn a rasping breath, then very quickly continued:

“Obviously affairs were now most serious. But, so as not to cause alarm, only Big Jon and the heads of the various affected crafts were initially informed. Now: from the beginning we kept a close watch on the second tank of influx from the wells, regularly monitoring the radiation level. On the fourth day we discovered a taint, but so slight it was scarcely worse than normal background radiation levels. Nevertheless we isolated this tank also; which was just as well, for in four more days the radiation levels had increased to lethal degrees!

“All of which events were reported to Big Jon Lamon even as they occurred. Which brings us up to date. We techs continue to be vigilant, of course, but as for now…there you have it.”

In the crowd Ned Singer had grunted: “There we have it, eh? None of which addresses the so-called problem!” A number of the people close by had turned to stare at him, nodded their agreement, a few of the men muttering low and even cursing.

From his elevated position on the loading bay platform, Big Jon had been aware of this disturbance in the otherwise stunned assembly, and so was quick to intervene before full-scale panic set in. “Now hold!” he called out, “Listen to me! Andrew Fielding’s techs are not the only ones who have been working on this. Since first learning of the situation, I’ve debated a course of action with the elders and brought into play a contingency plan of sorts—as I shall explain in just a moment.

“But first…I would like to remind you of something that happened eleven months ago, when we received a radio message—our first human contact in a great many years—from the people of a refuge far to the north: an event that caused much excitement in the clan at that time.

“Reception was poor; we couldn’t be certain of the precise contents of the message, which seemed to be a request—even an entreaty—
for
people!
By which I mean human reinforcements for a refuge decimated by fly-by-night depredation! Though the message was weak and fragmented, we learned this much at least: that the folk of this distant community had been attacked, suffering enormous losses before finally destroying the local swarm; also that they now offered safe harbour to anyone who could find his way to their co-ordinates. Moreover, head tech Fielding believes these co-ordinates are known to us, from marks made by our forebears on what few pre-war maps have been preserved!”

Here pausing to let all of that sink in, Big Jon Lamon had relaxed just a little, relieved to note that the various family and craft groups had now begun to talk excitedly among themselves. For finally they had recognized at least something of how certain of his previous statements now made sense. And so for a quarter-minute Big Jon had stayed silent, letting the buzz gain momentum as it rippled through the crowd…

II

Garth Slattery’s thoughts, memories from a comparatively recent life which now seemed a thousand years in the past, were abruptly interrupted when the trundle swayed, lurching over an uneven mound of stony debris. Garth’s father, Zach, grasped his shoulder to hold him steady.

“Asleep, were you?” Zach inquired.

The trundle had steadied up and Garth shook his head. “Day-dreaming,” he answered. “Thinking back in time, to the Southern Refuge. Compared to this journey, it no longer seems such a bad place!”

His father nodded. “Then I’d advise you to think of what we might have at journey’s end. It’s no good dwelling in the past, Garth. Especially one that’s burning in a cold, invisible fire, or perhaps beginning to shine a little, back in that great dead hole in the ground!”

“As you say,” Garth had to agree. “But I know you too well, Father, and that your occasional talk of a future Eden is meant only to buoy me up. And really there’s no need; I’m only young, but as I’ve often heard you say, hope springs eternal. Well, it does in me anyway; and I want you to know I neither despair nor fear for whatever lies ahead—though I suspect that you do, if only for my sake…” He paused to offer a frustrated shrug, and then went on: “I think what I’m trying to say is that I’m hopeful, and that I
do
have plans for the future.”

With which he almost unconsciously glanced across the weapons rack in the trundle’s central aisle, to the row of seats on the far side where Layla Morgan sat beside Ned Singer, just out of earshot by reason of the trundle’s banging and rattling. 

Garth’s father noticed, smiling as he correctly interpreted his son’s glance and something of his “plans for the future.”

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable over on that side, eh?”

It was no good pretending; Garth had given himself away on too many occasions recently; and as he knew his father, so Zach knew him just as well, if not better. And sighing, he answered, “Layla can’t seem to decide who she likes best, me or Ned Singer. Older and more experienced—the important leader of a scav team, at least as was—Ned may be more to her taste.”

“Maybe so,” said Zach, “but I noticed it was Ned who seated himself beside Layla—not the other way around. As to who she likes best: you’ll never know unless you ask her. And remember, we mate young in the clan, for children are our future—assuming we’re to have one! As for Ned Singer: you should watch out for him. Ned’s too excitable and has a bad temper; doesn’t like to be beaten, not at anything. He had a wife, taken by disease. She was a frail thing and I didn’t know her well. There were no children, and…I don’t know, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but from what I saw of her she seemed to bruise too easily…”