Into the No-Zone - Eugene Lambert Sign of One trilogy

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he sets off towards the exit tunnel. ‘Like making sure Gemini survives.’

      Rona sighs. ‘I was just thinking of Sky, that’s all.’

      ‘All Sky thinks about is Tarn,’ I say, unable to hold it in.

      ‘You’re wrong there,’ Rona says, shaking her head, lips pursed. ‘Think what Sky’s been through. She doesn’t shout about it, but she still cares for you. Take my word for it.’

      ‘If you say so.’ I go to follow my retreating brother.

      ‘And I thought you cared for her,’ she says.

      I look back. ‘I do. Or I try to. These days, it’s . . . tough.’

      ‘Try harder then. You two should squabble less and talk more. Sky was there for you when you needed her, remember? And she needs you, more than you know.’

      ‘Are you coming or what?’ Colm calls.

      Rona smiles, but it’s a troubled smile. Even I can see that.

      ‘And please, no more fighting,’ she says. ‘I’ve enough to do without stitching you up. Another windjammer’s on its way.’

      She goes back to cleaning and tidying.

      Colm is waiting for me where one of the shafts leads up towards the surface, leaning against the wooden ladder.

      ‘What was that about Sky?’

      ‘Nothing. Let’s go find Squint, then feed the dragon.’

       RUMOURS

      These days of early firstgreen, with dayshine sticking around longer, warmth in the air and leaves uncurling on the trees, Squint is put to work in the hidden fields down-canyon. Alongside some half-starved fourhorns, our food growers have him hauling ploughs and wagons. We worry he’ll pick up damage we can’t fix, but don’t get a say. Funny how it works. Nobody wanted the rusty metal and burnt-out electronic junk that Colm and I cobbled Squint together from. Sneered, they did. Yet soon as they saw him up and running, they stole him off us. Requisitioning, they called it.

      For the cause. Everything for the cause.

      When we find Squint he’s done for the day, lashed to a ground-anchor while a man hoses mud off him. He sees us coming, whips his tail about and buzzes his head off.

      ‘How’d he do?’ I ask.

      The man shuts off the water and shrugs. ‘Not bad. Crashed on me once in the morning. Worked fine after it warmed up.’

      ‘Do you need him tomorrow?’

      ‘They don’t plough themselves.’ The man glances at the fields, stubble sticking up into the gloom under the camo-nets.

      ‘Okay,’ Colm says. ‘We’ll check him over.’

      The man nods and hurries away. No thanks or nothing.

      Soon as he’s gone I pull a bone-carved tube from my pocket and blow gently into one end. It makes a hissing sound.

      Squint’s head lifts and his tail thrashes.

      Colm grins. ‘Do you have to?’

      ‘I do.’ I blow the whistle much harder now, three times.

      Squint hurls himself towards us, ripping the ground-anchor right out of the ground as if it were fixed into butter. He very nearly knocks us both over with all his excited jumping up.

      ‘Pleased to see us, huh?’ I say, trying not to laugh because laughing hurts, even with my ribs strapped.

      ‘Thought you’d dumped the jumping-up code,’ Colm says.

      He’s laughing too now as he tries to fend Squint off.

      ‘I stuck it back in again.’

      ‘Why? You like being covered in mud?’

      ‘It’s fun, him making a fuss. Like having a dog.’

      After a struggle I unclip Squint from the anchor trailing behind him. Squint calms down and drops into his ready-state crouch, hydraulics hissing. I pocket the whistle and watch Colm as he goes and screws the ground-anchor back into the dirt. Me, I’d leave it where it fell, but not him. Same skin, different thinking.

      ‘Good little boy,’ I tell Squint, scratching him behind his ears. Not real ears of course, just microphone mounts.

      He hoots, sensing my touch.

      ‘You do realise it’s not alive,’ Colm says. Like always.

      It’s been a tough day and I almost get cross with him, but catch myself. I think Colm’s often too clever for his own good; he thinks I’m too hot-headed. Rona says we’ve only had six months’ practice at being twins, unlike the other idents here who’ve had a lifetime, so we’ll both still be working it out. Whatever. All I know is that looking and sounding the same is easy; putting up with the differences is harder. I’m trying to get better at that.

      ‘Don’t you listen to him, Squinty,’ I say.

      Squint beeps twice, which means ‘I don’t understand’. Work-bots only recognise verbals like Lift, Forward, Drag and Drop as standard, but we’re working on that. His crude vox-box doesn’t run to speech, only beeps, hoots and whistles. What we really need is to get our hands on one of those flash units out of a windjammer, the ones that warn the pilot if she’s stalling or landing with the gear up. Splice one of these in and he could talk.

      ‘What d’you think of his new leg? Not bad, huh?’

      Colm hasn’t seen Squint’s new foreleg yet. This one’s by far the best I’ve scavved yet, and a decent match to his other legs too.

      ‘Where’d you get it?’ He sounds impressed.

      So he should be. The casings are hardly rusty at all, just some light pitting. The hydraulic lines look good too, no patches. Look real close, there are even some shiny bits on the pistons.

      ‘Traded welding work for it with one of the steam-winch crew.’

      ‘Maybe he’ll walk straighter now.’

      ‘He does,’ I say, pleased. ‘C’mon, let’s go. It’s getting dark.’

      ‘Shouldn’t we check him?’

      ‘No. I’m beat. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about him crashing. You’d crash too if you had two brains.’

      See, no way could we scav a proper processor for Squint. Too rare. Too valuable. Instead we patched together two half-trashed boards nobody wanted. The least damaged one acts as master, passing stuff it can’t do to the other board. Only sometimes they trip over each other, and that’s when poor Squinty crashes.

      Colm shrugs and we head off together. I click my fingers and Squint follows along, still dripping.

      Night settles on the Deeps as we walk and dark shadows pour in to flood the canyon. We skirt round the big cavern at the bottom of the cliff where off-duty fighters hang out. You can trade rebel-minted creds in there for snacks, or – if you’re dumb enough – for gut-rot liquor brewed from potatoes. In the smoky lantern light I see the place is heaving with people already.

      ‘Big crowd,’ I say. ‘Wonder why?’

      ‘Let’s go find out.’

      ‘Later maybe. We should feed the dragon first.’

      Truth is – my head’s still too dark to want company. And Stauffer might be in there on crutches, or some of his psycho mates. So we carry on to the kitchen tents, raid the bins and bag some fresh chicken

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