The Making of Heroes

Prologue

Prologue

Shaking and tearful with anger and humiliation, David Mentmore sat on the bed in the naughty room. It was not fair! All he’d done was give Nelson a push. OK, it may have been a punch, but it was Nelson’s fault for being stupid. And he’d fallen down right in his way, so he had to step over him and his hand, he hadn’t seen the hand, so of course he’d trodden on it and as it was all squishy and pudgy he thought it was poo, so he’d had to stamp to clear it off.

But of course they’d made a fuss, as they always made a fuss, so now here he was.

Again.

David looked round at the familiar surroundings. The grey metallic walls, the bolted down bed, the bucket. No windows, of course; no room had windows. A door he couldn’t open. First time in, they’d given him some bedding but he’d ripped it up the best he could and wiped his arse with it, so now they didn’t bother with bedding. And if he ignored the bucket and smeared the walls, they just hosed everything down, including him.

It was a matter of pride to David that he spent more time in the naughty room than any of the other kids.

From outside there was a distant burst of laughter. David looked down at his hands. It wasn’t fair! He held back the treacherous tears. Babies! He was stuck with a load of babies!

But now he was eight he’d soon be moved on: another creche, another dumping ground for unwanted kids, where he would revert to being the smallest again. And then, probably in another ten years, he’d be sent to the Sparmy.

They might even try moving him soon: good! He’d be glad to see the back of them just as they would be glad to see the back of him. Tomorrow, it might even be tomorrow. And he was stuck in the naughty room.

David went over to the door and looked closely at it. Like all doors and walls it was made of sheet metal, somewhat rusty. And like other internal doors a simple latch kept it shut. But for the naughty room, the thin lever going between outside and inside, so the latch could be lifted from the inside, had been removed. All that remained on his side was a small hole. David stood on tiptoe and put his eye to it, then reached out and pushed his little finger into the hole. If he could squeeze it far enough he could lift the latch and the door would open and he’d be …. Free?

He had nowhere to go, no-one to take care of him. David sank back down on the bed. It was so unfair!

A noise made him look up. The door was opening and a large face looked in. Phoebe, from the kitchen. Soft and simple, always trying to give him cuddles, always looking at him with her great stupid eyes. He hated Phoebe.

But he was alone and she was here. David wiped his nose on his sleeve and gratefully ran over. Her arms and chest were all warm and squishy; it was like being wrapped in soft dough.

Her voice was tearful. “I can’t stay.” He wanted her to stay. “If they catch me … Oh, you’ve really done it this time. Here ….. “ She shoved something against his chest. “Best I could do…” The door closed. He heard the latch dropping back into place.

He looked down at her gift. A small milky lollipop, the sort they sometimes gave to babies to make them stop crying. Tupping useless, but David gave it a suck anyway, holding the hard plastic stick in his fingers and drawing a strange comfort from feeling the head disintegrating in his mouth. It didn’t last long. Pleasures never did.

Outside was a sudden running of feet and a burst of giggling, which quieted when they were directly outside. Even from his prison, David had a deadening effect on joy. Sourly, he looked at the door, then at his hands, then at the door again.

His spirits rose. He had a plan.

Staying awake, that was the problem. That, and knowing how much time had passed. The only light in the naughty room came from around the ill-fitting door and through the latch-hole, which sent a thin horizontal beam that hardly reached the bed.

But there was nothing to mark the passage of time. He knew when it was about 23, as he could hear the adults retiring. Phoebe could have visited him then, he thought. His stomach ached, so even another lollipop would have helped.

But she didn’t come.

So when all went quiet he started counting his breaths. In through his nose - one - and out through his mouth - two. In through the nose - three - and out through his mouth - four.

His breaths were long and slow. David closed his eyes to concentrate. Maybe five seconds each breath. So a minute should be sixty divided by five, equals ten breaths plus another two, so every twelfth breath should mark a minute.

And it made sense for his breathing to be as regular as possible, to make sure each one was five seconds long. So he started another count: in through the nose: one .. two .. three ..four .. five, out through the mouth: one .. two .. three ..four .. five, in through the nose: one .. two .. three ..four .. five, out through the mouth: one .. two .. three ..four .. five.. Why was he doing this? A yawn. Where was he, what was he counting? Why?

David yawned once more and fell asleep.

He opened his eyes. Something must have woken him: probably a distant coughing, or maybe one of those mysterious clanks and bangs that occurred as the V-City settled down for the night.

Nothing had changed, but his mind was refreshed and buzzing. His bladder was bursting, but he wasn’t going to use the bucket. No way. He’d get out and use the latrine. Even better, he’d pee all over the floor. Even better still, he’d pee on Nelson’s bed! With Nelson in it!

That would show them. That would tupping show them!

David padded over to the door and peered through the latch. Nothing. He stood on tiptoe and put his ear to it. Nothing. Good. Now for the door.

His plan - like all good plans - had come to him perfectly formed, each step laid out with absolute clarity. All he needed was to lift the latch and the door would open. To lift the latch he needed something long, thin and rigid enough to poke through the hole and lever upwards.

And now he was the proud possessor of a lollipop stick.

He put his small finger into the hole, just up to the first knuckle, hooked and pulled the door a fraction of an inch towards him. From the other side was a faint click as the latch eased and freed up.

Excellent. David took a breath and inserted the stick into the gap between his finger and the top of the hole. It slid through exactly as he had planned. David waggled the stick, felt no reciprocal pressure so pushed it a little further and tried again.

The weight on the stick told him the latch had lifted. He gave a little push and the door swung open.

Easy peasy.

He felt a swell of pride and stepped into the corridor. All was still quiet. He’d pee on Nelson’s bed and then …. Suddenly he was frightened. He might make it to the outside, but then they’d catch him and he’d end up back in the naughty room.

And he’d escape again. David looked down at the stick in his hand. To him it was no longer just a stupid lollipop stick, but a key. The key. His mind ran free for a moment. He’d be locked up, but he’d escape and do things (what he wasn’t sure) and they’d lock him up again, but he’d always escape and roam around the creche - maybe even outside - causing mayhem. And no-one would know how he did it.

The key. They’d search him, so he’d have to leave it in the naughty room. He went back in: it was easier to see now, with the light coming fully through the open door. But It was hard to know exactly where it could be hidden: the room was small and bare, with metal walls and a metal floor. No inconsistencies that could conceal a four inch lollipop stick. But the bed was an iron construction, with rusty angles and joins that didn’t fit very well.

Impatiently, David jammed the key between leg and strut and smeared it with rust mixed with spit. When he had finished it seemed to yell at him ‘I am here! I am here!’ but it was the best he could do. He went back into the corridor and carefully closed the door behind him, lifting the latch and allowing it to settle back down without a noise.

Now for Nelson.

His bladder was painful. David put his hand down the front of his tunic, grabbed, squeezed and held on. It only needed to stop the flow for a minute: that would give him enough time to go down the corridor and round the corner. The dormitory was on the left and Nelson’s bed, he knew, was the fifth down on the right. A minute? He could do it in thirty seconds. He could make it.

Bent over, half running, half stumbling, David went along the corridor as fast as he could and round the corner, almost falling in his haste.

He bumped into something hard, black and solid that let out a sudden swear word and swung round.

There were three masked men clad in black, standing outside the nursery. Bare arms with tattoos. Unlike any other men he’d seen except as villainous street toughs in H-Games.

For a full second, no sound was made.

Then David screamed and alarms fired into life and all was chaos and confusion and the lights came on and H-Guards appeared and adults were running and V-Screens pinged and children were crying and three dark shapes clattered out of the door and vanished.

And the load intended for Nelson ran down his leg, to humiliatingly puddle on the floor.

****

The raid had gone disastrously wrong. With a sick heart Spiker ran fast along the corridor, his light, soft-soled shoes making hardly a sound. To his left Thor - already breathing heavily - was struggling to keep up. And to his right Angel - head down, shoulders working - looked like an out of control bulldozer. And with his heavy combat boots sending reverberating echoes along the walls and down the tunnels, it didn’t matter how stealthily the others moved.

It seemed impossible to turn and hide or move fast and silently, so there was nothing else for it: they had to get to the exit hatch and vanish into the dead zone before they were caught. Which had been the original plan anyway, except they hadn’t expected to be pursued immediately or that Angel would wear boots that were only silent when walking.

Behind them came a shout. Spiker said “don’t look round, it’ll slow us down.”

Thor let out a groan. “I can’t keep this up.”

Spiker said “Shut up! Keep up! Not far now.”

Thor shut up. He kept up, just. He knew that ‘Not far now’ was a lie, but to his credit did not point that out.

Angel said nothing. His boots kept pounding.

Randomly, as they raced along, Spiker’s mind went off on a tangent. Spiker. Thor. Angel. What stupid names they gave themselves, or allowed others to give them. It made them sound like idiots. At least he had a spike for a weapon, but Thor? What was that meant to mean? And as for Angel, anything less angelic than him would be hard to imagine.

Thor grunted something. Spiker ignored him. Thor tried again “You should have spiked him,” he gasped “before he yelled.”

Spiker said nothing. There had been a moment when that would have been possible. A moment when a life could have been removed or a head punched into unconsciousness.

But it had been a boy, only a boy, looking so scared with his mouth open and eyes wide it had felt impossible to even move, let alone strike. And the boy had screamed and the moment had been lost and now they were running like frightened rats scurrying along a tube.

As long as they hadn’t discovered the escape hatch. If they had all this running was a waste of time, and they’d be waiting, probably with weapons more formidable than his spike or Thor’s knife. What Angel had was anyone’s guess. He’d probably try and kick opponents to death. But if the hatch hadn’t been found, they might still get away with it. The route they had taken had twisted and turned and would appear random at first glance. Spiker had memorised it, both forwards and back, and the wisdom of doing this was now paying off.

They gained an intersection, the long white corridors stretching out on either side. Spiker swerved to the left, dragging the others with him. Angel, making more noise than seemed possible, swung out in a wide arc, like a pebble on a string. When they had settled back to the steady pace he was some ten yards or so behind them.

Another junction and another change of direction. The shouts behind had not become louder, if anything they had diminished. They were now almost halfway: maybe they were going to make it. Well, make it to the hatch, anyway.

As if the dead zone, in the dark, represented safety. There would be approximately fifteen minutes of night remaining. In the original plan, where they carried the loot at a silent walking pace, they arrived in the dead zone just as daylight broke in through the high arched windows. They could even have waited, secure at this level, for the wash of sunlight signifying safety.

But now there would have to be no hesitation. They had to leave this floor, so if they reached the hatch - when they reached the hatch - there’d be no other option but to immediately drop through it.

Spiker shook his head as he ran. That boy. That damn tupping boy. A couple of minutes earlier or later and all would have been fine. Instead they would probably get killed here in the light or in the dead zone in the dark. Some tupping choice. But take one danger at a time. Survive this one, then survive the next. Then face up to the failure.

Hera would not be pleased.

Abruptly, Thor let out a shout. Spiker jerked back to the here and now.

In front of them, only some fifteen or so yards away, was a Sparmy soldier. Tall and formidable, with his feet planted solidly apart as he aimed a weapon at them. Automatically, Spiker categorised it. FlushGun 101. This was bad. It could destroy them all in an instant.

But ...

“Stop!” The soldier had a voice like iron, brooking of no dissent. Without thinking, they skidded to a halt. Angel, coming up fast, collided with Thor and the whole group staggered. “Down! On the floor. Now!”

Angel sank down. Thor was already bent forward, hands on knees, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

But … Spiker didn’t move. He remained upright, all senses heightened and on edge. His sight had always been acute. The soldier took one pace towards them and Spiker saw the FlushGun centre on him. Not that it made any difference: FlushGuns destroyed everything for seventy yards and more. In the confines of the tunnel, their lives would be snuffed out so thoroughly it would be as if they had never been.

But …. The soldier’s feet hovered just off the floor. His face seemed to slide as Spiker stared at it. Spiker made up his mind. “Tup you!” he said and walked forward.

The FlushGun fired, a ball of rancid, boiling, soundless flame enveloped the world. And was suddenly gone.

Spiker turned to Thor and Angel. “Just a tupping holo.” He walked through the soldier, feeling a thin wave of static as he did so. “A tupping H-Guard!” Exultant, he punched the air. He hadn’t realised quite how tense he’d been. His mind was afire. He reached into a pocket and withdrew three black spheres. About an inch across, somewhat slimy in texture, they wobbled on his palm. Stims. Black stims. The last throw of the dice, his final reserve. He’d banned the others from bringing stims, but ….

“Here!” He tossed one to Thor, one to Angel. He popped the third himself. It burst in his mouth like a flame and ran as fire down his throat, instantly pouring strength into his limbs and recklessness into his mind. Black stims lasted maybe ten minutes. After that they would be so completely drained of energy and thought it would be as if they were dead.

So, ten minutes to reach the hatch, drop through it and get out of the dead zone.

Without a word Spiker turned and began running, the map of their route unfurling in his mind without conscious effort. Two lefts, a right, then straight over. This was easy. He should have punched the boy unconscious and the raid could have continued: might even have been successful. They would have been welcome back as heroes and Hera would smile again.

Two lefts, a right, then straight over. Easy peasy, peasy easy.

They nearly, nearly made it. The hatch was in front of them, a square recess in the floor, the loop of a handle fitting so snugly it could only be spotted if you knew exactly where to look.

In his stim-fuelled arrogance Spiker missed it, but the change in his footfall from an almost inaudible whisper to a hollow echo alerted Thor. Even with a black stim still pulsing through him, Thor was already looking for an excuse to stop. He did so. “Yo!” He called. “Here!”

And a mile behind them, unheard, was a succession of polite coughs, as if to catch the attention of a disinterested listener.

Thor slumped to his knees and began scrabbling forward for the handle.

The first bouncing bullet ricocheted over him and found Angel.

On hearing Thor’s shout, Spiker had stopped and turned. Angel looked down at a red stain spreading over his chest. A second bullet slammed into his shoulder, spinning him round before the third spread his brain into a fan-like pattern on the wall.

But Spiker was already moving. Before Angel hit the floor Spiker had grabbed hold, keeping him upright, making him a shield as he charged back.

Thor was still kneeling, a confused expression on his face, holding the hatch open with two large hands. Things were moving too fast for him. As if in a trance his eyes watched Angel drifting like a ghost towards him. Through the opened hatch the darkness of the dead zone swirled like living smoke.

A bullet pinged past, then another and another. Bewildered, Thor looked down, peering into the hatch as if he had all the time in the world.

Spiker yelled “follow me!” and - still firmly grasping Angel - dived, both of them plunging into the silent blackness of the dead zone. Thor, suddenly aware of what was going on, sprang to his feet, moved to the side and sat on the edge, his feet dangling down into the blackness.

Somewhere, there was the top of the step ladder they had used. He just had to find it. He never did. A bullet caught him on the arm and as he twitched and lifted it in pain, the second powered into his chest.

Lifeless, he slid - almost gracefully - after Spiker. And in so doing saved his life.

****

She had come, she claimed, through the dead zone at night, clutching the baby with both arms, running on light feet in the dark. A door had opened, spilling light, showing the Spides. Many many Spides, she said, moving sideways and forwards with their strange gait, halfway between spider and crab. Head down, eyes half closed, she had run to the door and tumbled through to run and run down the stairs and along corridors until she was exhausted and reeling and stumbling.

The dogs had howled and she had cried and called and banged on shut doors to no avail, but when the baby had woken and whimpered, a door had opened and both were safe.

And Kzar had heard, for at that time Kzar had always heard everything, and - sedately - as if he had all the time in the world - the street boss had come and sat and listened to the girl as she told her strange story. Of having no history, no memory of a previous time before waking with the baby in her arms, and a feeling of terror that compelled her to run until she was safe.

And Kzar had said “You are safe now. Come with me. I shall look after you both.” And then to the woman who had opened the door, and was even now staring with wide eyes at the baby, “A thousand Creds, and my protection.” and she had begun to shake her head, but then her man stepped forward and he and Kzar shook hands, creds were jolted and the deal was done.

And a year later, almost to the day, the girl died for no apparent reason, as street dwellers did (and still do).

****

The best scavengers are small, wiry and tough, with an almost uncanny knack of finding items of interest and value. However Pickford was tall, ungainly and lazy. So when he found the flat rectangular object, he did not think too much of it. But he put it in his bag and took it to the broker, who shrugged and jolted Pickford five creds and put it on his stall.

Some days later a small group walked past: Kzar’s niece, with two Clansmen and the orphan who was sometimes with her but often not, who - rumor had it - wasn’t quite right in the head. He stopped and turned, his eyes - blinking rapidly - focussed on the object. His arm moved, his finger pointed.

The others had walked on a few yards, before stopping and returning.

The girl said “C’mon moron” and attempted to move him on, but the boy broke free, ran over and grabbed the object, hugging it to his chest.

The broker, knowing who they were and knowing what was expected, shrugged, smiled and and held out his palms in the universal gesture of ‘help yourself you bastards.’

The girl acknowledged this with a quick, sharp, insincere grin, paid nothing and they all walked on.

Part 1