Sixth Cycle Page 4

  He paused for a moment, looked down, and shook his head before jogging over.

  Sam gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “This way, Captain Phillips.”

  Phillips edged away. “I take it you’ve visited me?”

  A bloodcurdling scream echoed in the distance.

  “No time for this at the moment, Captain, follow me,” Skye said.

  She quickly returned to the entry point. Phillips tentatively followed, and Sam covered the rear. The guards at the rampart all stared open-mouthed at their new arrival. Skye felt sorry for him as he cast nervous glances at the pillboxes. She led him past more uniformed guards down the internal steps. They whispered to each other and glanced at him.

  Sam stayed on the rampart to organize the defenses in case of a secondary attack. Ross, now fully dressed in his tightly fitting dark blue tunic and matching trousers, strode along the path from his tower, flanked by two guards.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Skye said to Phillips. “We’re not bad people here.”

  “Depends on your definition of bad. Seems like you’ve all enjoyed treating me and my ship as a freak show.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  He grunted. “Thanks for saving my ass, by the way.”

  The two guards stopped a few yards short. Ross looked Phillips up and down. “Is it really you?”

  “I’m Captain Jake Phillips from Endeavor Three. Where am I?”

  “Omega. I’m Captain Wendell Ross, commanding officer of the stronghold force.”

  “I don’t know Omega, and I don’t know where I am. I know it’s 2205, you’ve been using me as an attraction, and there’s crazy people in the forest. You need to help me out here.”

  “Not until Governor Finch has decided what to do with you.”

  “For God’s sake, at least tell me what country I’m in?”

  Ross raised his finger and gestured the guards forward. Both ran either side of Phillips and raised their rifles. He glanced back to the wall, no doubt thinking about running. Skye would do the same in his shoes.

  It was typical of Ross to take this approach. He wouldn’t be considering Phillips’ mental state. He would be thinking about his value and how that could benefit him.

  Skye stood in front of Phillips. “He helped us defeat the attack. I saw him kill wastelanders.”

  Ross grimaced. “Meet me back at my tower after I’ve finished with Governer Finch, Skye. I haven’t finished with you just yet.”

  He turned and walked away. One of the guards jerked his rifle in the direction of the inner ring. “Get moving, Captain.”

  Ross spun around. “I’m the only captain in this stronghold. Don’t call him that again.”

  Phillips looked at her and half smiled before being led away. As strange as this meeting had been, Skye had larger things to worry about.

  Chapter Five

  Jake followed the man named Ross while the two guards continued to silently encourage him along with their rifles. Leaving the forest gave him a sense of relief, and these people didn’t seem half as crazy as the ones outside. At least not Skye and her male partner who rescued him from his sticky situation. He still couldn’t quite put his finger on their accent. North American at a guess, but not one he’d ever heard before.

  Hopefully the governor would be able to answer the main questions swirling around his head. His location, the whereabouts of his crew, what happened over the last 130 years, and an idea of the current situation on the ground. He didn’t know if the Fleet even still existed. Somebody around here would surely have the patience and knowledge to explain.

  Pillboxes and guards were evenly spread every hundred yards along the rampart that surrounded crop fields. He now understood the reason for it. The psychos in the forest weren’t the type to negotiate.

  A paved road led from a double set of iron gates at the perimeter to a centrally located residential area. A smaller internal wall, six feet in height and constructed with rocks and cement, ringed it, although Jake doubted it provided much protection. Ross led him toward it along a dirt track between two small fields growing carrots and turnips.

  They joined the paved road and headed straight for a Georgian-style white mansion in the center of the stronghold, around three hundred yards away. Jake wondered if the governor was playing Lord of the Manor and had organized his own form of feudal system in exchange for safety behind his walls.

  Wind turbines lined the route to the mansion. Their blades lazily rotated in the breeze. It looked like a poor man’s version of the Champs-Élysées in Paris. Jake took his last vacation in Europe before his mission, and loved traveling to sample different cultures. This trip gave his hobby an ugly new twist.

  Paint peeled off the scruffy wooden bungalows jammed tightly together along both sides of the road. Not half as spacious or well constructed as the ones in Epsilon, although by Jake’s estimate, this place was twice the size.

  Similar roads led off to the left and right. A group of small children dressed in green linen shirts and trousers played hopscotch along one street. A couple of solid-looking unbranded SUVs were parked on another.

  Omega had weapons, vehicles and electricity. Not all that bad if the world outside had turned to shit.

  Within a hundred yards of the mansion, the houses turned to basic-looking stores. The signs overhead simply said Vegetables, Dairy, Meat, Clothes and Bathroom. Nothing on the tables outside had a price attached. A woman stuffed spring onions, peas and a cauliflower into a straw basket and acknowledged somebody inside the store with a wave. She glanced at Jake being escorted down the road and hurried away.

  Ross entered the mansion’s wrought-iron gates and turned to the guards. “Wait here until I call you. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  He crunched up the gravel drive.

  “Is he always like this?” Jake said.

  The closest guard, a young man with a wispy mustache, sighed. “Pretty much. Easier to just do as he says.”

  “Can I ask you an honest question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “From Governor Finch? No, he’s all right.”

  The guard spoke genuinely, which put Jake’s mind slightly more at ease. He guessed the earlier theatrics near the wall were only to avoid the wrath of Ross. Every army or small force he encountered over the years had their own little Napoleon. It didn’t take long to meet Omega’s.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Omega? Since I can remember. I was born in the Zeta maternity unit, most citizens are.”

  “Is there a reason why the strongholds are named after letters in the Greek alphabet?”

  The guard tilted his head. “Greek alphabet?”

  “Forget it.”

  Jake looked at the house again and noticed four white plastic numbers 5973 attached to a metal bar hanging from the central window ledge on the second floor. “Do those numbers mean anything?”

  “It’s our population clock.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Please, Captain, stop asking me questions. You’ll get me into trouble.”

  A woman in a crisp white dress met Ross before he reached the main entrance. They held a brief conversation. She pointed at a dark alley to the side of the mansion.

  He turned and gestured the guards forward. “Bring him to the garden.”

  “This way, Captain Phillips.”

  Jake followed the guard over the gravel drive. The other trudged behind. He thought their royal blue uniforms made them look like toy soldiers, or extras from a theater production, although Skye and her partner showed that these people were far from useless. They carried out a quick extraction move without any fuss and efficiently dealt with the enemy.

  The path at the side of the house led to an acre-sized garden at the rear of the property. A seven-foot-high, darkly stained shadow box fence gave it privacy. The immaculately manicured lawn had a stone bird table in the middle of it. Evergreen shrubs stuffe
d the surrounding borders.

  These first signs of familiarity since waking felt abnormal. The scene here was out of place against what he had witnessed so far.

  A man with slicked back gray hair, wearing a purple turtleneck sweater tucked into his black trousers, sat on one of the chairs of an iron bistro patio set. He held a magnifying glass to his eye and gazed down at a cabbage white butterfly resting on a piece of black paper.

  Ross cleared his throat. “Governor Finch. This morning we captured Captain Phillips of the Epsilon display outside our walls during a wastelander attack. I believe he wasn’t part of their force, but have brought him here under armed guard as a precaution.”

  Jake decided to bite his lip for the moment. It didn’t take long to see exactly how Ross operated. A good leader of men would’ve found out the details from Skye and her colleague, and praised them. Instead, he kept the story generic, probably wanting to take any credit that might be coming.

  Finch placed his magnifying glass on the table and stood. “A wastelander attack? Are you sure, Captain Ross?”

  “Positive. My guess is that it’s random. A one-off. But we’ll stay alert, as usual. I’m more worried about Skye Reed spreading rumors about Sky Man.”

  Finch nodded in understanding. “Very good, Captain. I’ll speak to Skye. You keep up the excellent work.”

  “Do you want me to leave now?”

  “No. Stay here with the guards until I’ve finished with Captain Phillips.”

  “Yes, Governor.”

  The whole exchange felt incredibly false. Their tone and body language suggested they were friends. Ross clicked his heels together and took a couple of paces back.

  Finch extended a hand to Jake. “Welcome to Omega. I’m Alexander Finch.”

  He gave it a firm shake. “Captain Jake Phillips. I’ve got a lot of questions.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said and held his hand toward the bistro set. “Take a seat. I’ll be happy to tell you what I know.”

  A young teenage boy brought out a jug of water and two glasses on a tray. Finch poured them both a drink and passed Jake a glass. “I’ve seen you a few times during my visits to Epsilon. Did you escape, or did they throw you out?”

  “They chased me out. Fired a warning shot, but I think they wanted to capture rather than kill.”

  “Understandable. You account for twenty-five percent of their population.”

  “How does that work? I’ve seen your population clock. Do you all have those?”

  “Have you ever seen a caterpillar turn into a butterfly?”

  Jake frowned. “Not sure what you’re getting at?”

  “Let me explain,” Finch said. He crossed his legs and folded his arms behind his head. “The transformation of a caterpillar into an airborne creature of beauty is a perfect metaphor for change and improvement. For this to happen, it has to eat and grow in a safe environment.”

  “I’m not sure I’m with you.”

  “You better take a drink of water before I tell you the next part.”

  Jake tasted a hint of lemon. He glanced over his shoulder at Ross and the two guards. They looked bored. One of the guard’s eyes followed a fly around the garden. Maybe they’d heard Finch’s butterfly story a hundred times.

  “Does this have anything to do with your clock or what happened to the world?” Jake said. “I don’t know anything after 2075.”

  “I was getting around to telling you, but if you want the blunt version, so be it.”

  “Blunt is good. I’m flying blind.”

  Finch gave him a fake smile. “In January 2077, the world descended into nuclear war. Don’t ask me the politics; you’ll have to go to the library in Theta if you want to read the finer details. The Alliance struck most of the Axis’ silos and dumps in retaliation after a tactical strike in South America. In a final act of spite before admitting defeat, they fired every conventional warhead available at the United States, Canada, the UK and Australia. The leadership and most of the populations of the Alliance were wiped out.”

  “So the Axis won in the end?”

  “You seem to be forgetting the sealed envelopes that are carried in the safes of your orbital bombers and nuclear submarines. They were opened, and the instructions told them to fire on the enemy. After the dust settled, three-quarters of the world had turned into radiation zones, the rest lay in ruins.”

  Jake swallowed hard. He never expected the world as he knew it to end like that. He always thought that the weapons ensured that a war wouldn’t happen. They were supposed to be a deterrent. He had almost come to terms with the fact that most of the people he knew were long dead. Finch's recounting of events rubber-stamped it.

  “A lot to take in, Captain Phillips?” Finch said.

  “You can say that again. So where are we, and what’s left?”

  “We’re in North America, and our eight strongholds are all that’s left for hundreds of miles. At the moment, we’re in the chrysalis stage.”

  Jake shrugged. “The chrysalis stage?”

  Finch slammed his glass on the table. “Don’t you know anything about butterflies?”

  He seemed a few spoons short of a full set. Jake didn’t want to anger Finch and end up back in the forest. “I’m sorry. You said that eight strongholds are all that’s left. What about the psychopaths I met in the forest?”

  “There are only cows in this world,” Finch said while wiping his hand with the bottom of his sweater.

  Jake didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. He waited for Finch to continue.

  “It’s an acronym, Captain. I assume you know what an acronym is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Citizens, Outlaws and Wastelanders. Citizens live in the strongholds and are the remnants of the civilized world. Outlaws live in the hills and mountains. They threaten our rebuilding efforts through thievery and murder. Wastelanders are survivors from the edges of the radiation zone. They quickly evolved to be aggressive and generally hunt in small groups, but have low intelligence. In the last few years, they’ve started coming north in small numbers.”

  “Why do you think they’re heading north?” Jake said.

  “My best guess is that they’ve run out of local food sources and are searching for more. Unfortunately, when they see our strongholds, they invariably attack. Thankfully, they’re not clever enough to coordinate themselves, and we can deal with the small groups.”

  Jake sat back and puffed his cheeks. He still didn’t have any answers to his personal situation, but the bigger picture was clear. Finch kept referring to the strongholds as a collective group, which meant he could be close with Epsilon.

  “How are the strongholds organized?” Jake said.

  “We all produce different goods and trade through a neutral party. He decides the cost of produce, goods and materials based on output. If the clothes and shoes from Zeta are in demand, he drops their value. If Sigma can’t produce enough building material, he ups their value so they can keep supplying their town with our crops. Epsilon makes weapons and metal objects, Theta has a chemical plant, Omicron produces vehicles, Lambda makes energy and electricity solutions, Kappa makes alcohol, tobacco and has a fish farm. That’s how our world turns. It’s not important now.”

  “Who’s the neutral party? Sounds like a big job.”

  Finch’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He’s called the Trader. The strongholds started out as pockets of survivors. As they grew and got in touch, they all agreed to produce different things to supply each other. It avoided any stronghold spreading themselves too thinly, and guaranteed a regular supply of items needed to start forming a civilized society again.”

  Jake got the impression that he didn’t like the arrangement, but decided against questioning that part. Every society had their own problems, and one built under such dire circumstance could easily be excused for early teething problems.

  “But the strongholds couldn’t agree on a trade price?”

  �
��Exactly. This was before my time, but to settle matters, the eight strongholds signed a treaty, giving a neutral person the power of our economy. They survey the state of each town, check their produce levels and ensure a balance is maintained. We’re on our fifth Trader at the moment. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “What about your population clocks? A guard outside told me the numbers on your mansion—”

  “Manor.”

  “Sorry, manor, is Omega’s. A newspaper in Epsilon mentioned that if they couldn’t find a way to increase trade, they’d have to cut theirs down.”

  Finch laughed. “They’re fools. We all have population limits, set by the Trader, based on how many people we can accommodate. Resources are limited, and we don’t want strongholds packed with the starving and diseased. Omega is currently set at six thousand. It used to be two thousand until I expanded and rebuilt our defenses.”

  “Do you turn people away? Is that how Outlaws are created?”

  Finch emptied his glass while maintaining eye contact. He exhaled, waved the boy over, and pointed to the tray.

  “It’s dangerous to make assumptions in this world, Captain. I’ve never had to turn people away. If other strongholds can’t find ways of expanding, I suppose they might; you’ll have to ask them. Today our clock reduces by one after a murder in the forest.”

  “Nobody beats the clock,” Ross said from behind him.

  Jake turned to him. “Meaning?”

  Finch snapped his fingers. “It’s a turn of phrase. Everybody dies. Citizens of Omega are given a stamped set of dog tags. That’s their clock identification number. Life expectancy nowadays is not what you’re accustomed to. We still don’t have the same kind of medical treatments, and the dangers outside the walls are growing.”

  Jake wondered what would happen if Omega had a rush of births, but decided against asking. Irritation rose in Finch’s voice when he went into detail. He decided to change the subject and would find out more about how things worked through some of the people around Omega, if they allowed him to stay.