Underkill, p.3
Underkill, page 3
He broke off as Ann’s voice came suddenly from the speaker marked Patient Transfer Room. She stud. “The burns and multiple thoracics is here, Doctor. We’re putting him in cubicle Two.”
“Coming,” said Malcolm. To Telford he added, “No objection. Sergeant. You know your own job best.”
The new arrival was accompanied by two theatre nurses and a junior doctor who talked compulsively while they were transferring the man from the sealed and tented litter on to the air-bed in the equally aseptic surroundings of cubicle Two. The young medic knew his stuff, Malcolm noted, but he was quite obviously a stranger to the hospital and to this particular type of casualty. He kept talking in a quiet, unemotional and utterly monotonous voice about the patient’s condition on arrival in the theatre.
He said that according to the hospital’s grape-vine, which was more accurate and certainly more detailed than the news broadcasts, a six-man traffic control vehicle had crashed at the mouth of an underpass when cyclist traffic was at its evening peak. The police vehicle had already been on fire when it crashed and exploded in the mouth of the tunnel. A number of survivors reported seeing a protester carrying an empty rocket launcher—some kind of religious nut, judging by the things he had been shouting as he ran away from the exploding vehicle.
The incident could not have happened at a worse time.
Dozens had perished in the blazing pool of fuel from the vehicle’s ruptured tanks, but close on four hundred others had died of asphyxiation from the toxic fumes associated with the fire. They had been trapped in the wide, low-roofed tunnel by the pressure of rush-hour cyclists too impatient even to think about the reason for the blockage ahead of them. The casualties currently going through Admissions and Casualty were minor for the most part, people who had been a safe distance from the solid plug of burns and asphyxiation cadavers, or who had suffered because of the forcible redirection of traffic. But there had been an awful lot of relatively minor casualties, and the Sister-in-Charge of Admissions had her own ideas regarding the priorities on such occasions.
The sergeant, Malcolm thought, will have to wait a little longer for the Hesketh personal effects.
According to the theatre medic, their patient had been the only man in the vehicle wearing full protective armour, which included riot helmet, gas filter face mask, and seals which were supposed to give .a measure of protection against hand-thrown fire bombs. A cautious individual, obviously, considering the fact that he had been occupying the command seat in an already heavily armoured security vehicle. But his caution had paid off. When the missile opened up the vehicle he alone had been able to escape by crawling out of the blazing wreckage and through the burning pool of fuel to the safety of the raised pedestrian way.
Shrapnel from the missile had entered the patient’s chest and stomach in five places, but its force had been so diminished by the body armour that the wounds were nonfatal. However, the holes knocked in the armour had allowed entry to the burning fuel which had ignited clothing in those areas, and one of the fire seals at his right hip had burned through as well. In themselves the punctured wounds were not too serious, but the associated burns were going to make life that little bit more difficult for the patient and his nursing staff.
When they had been working with him for nearly an hour he began coming out of the anaesthetic and had to be given neomorph, which started him talking. “Look,” he kept saying weakly. “Look, look, look, look…”
“I don’t know who or what he wants us to look at,” said Ann. when he had been talking for about ten minutes, “but I wish he would vary the monologue a bit.”
“He was saying the same word,” said the theatre medic, “all the way in on the ambulance.”
“Look, look, save me…” said the patient in a half whisper.
“Don’t worry, Mr Sawyer,” said Ann reassuringly, “we’ll save you.”
The hissing of the air bed reinforced the sibilants in her words, giving them a strangely alien sound—as if behind the masks and gowns were people whose; antecedents had been lizards instead of apes. Malcolm shook his head in self-irritation and brought his wandering mind back to the job in hand.
Finally the patient’s transfer was complete. He floated on his cushion of air, nothing in contact with the burns and wounds but light dressings, and his arms and legs anchored firmly to the bed supports by padded cuffs so that he would be unable to dislodge the tubes which carried the intravenous feed, saline and indicated medication into his system. Ann had assigned a tall, greying nurse called Fallon to the special patient. She, too, appeared to be new to the hospital but was obviously very competent. Malcolm gave her instructions regarding observations and medication, then he returned to the monitor room and the sergeant.
“Anything to report?” asked Malcolm, fighting back a yawn.
Telford nodded. He said, “Most of the activity was in cubicle Two with Commander Sawyer, but then you know all about that. He is a very senior officer, you know, and I didn’t think a political assassin could get anywhere near a high-ranker like that. They say even his police guards have police guards. Will he make it?”
“He has a good chance,” said Malcolm.
“You don’t believe in committing yourself, do you, Doctor?” said the sergeant drily, then went on, “I thought his department might want me to talk, or at least listen, to him. But they said they had everything they needed on the incident and to forget about it.”
He sounded dissatisfied, almost aggrieved, as he spoke. Malcolm got the impression that the sergeant had been exposed to some inter-departmental cross-fire but would not, of course, dream of discussing his grievance with outsiders.
“Mr Hesketh is quiet and the nurse won’t tell me anything else about him,” Telford went on. “The overdose has been talking, quite sensibly, about her work with the disaster relief team in Africa. Things went very badly there and an awful lot of natives died who shouldn’t. She was talking less sensibly about her John…”
“First meal break,” said Ann as she came in with a tray of sandwiches and two steaming cups of brown stuff. “I thought you two might prefer something here, where you can keep an eye on things, instead of in the duty room. Most of the patients are stable and I have someone with the others, but if anything happens unexpectedly just hit the buzzer.”
Malcolm nodded and the sergeant said awkwardly, “This business with Mr Hesketh came up so quickly that I didn’t think to bring ration tokens. The coffee will do fine, Sister.”
“Nonsense,” said Ann. “We are issued with rations for patients as well as staff, and the majority of the patients are on IV feeds and unable to eat. But if it bothers you, think of the food as a donation from your colleague in Two. Besides, that stuff isn’t coffee. We have a theory that they make it from…Why, Sergeant, with your face mask and helmet off you’re quite handsome! I’d expected you to look much older, somehow. Maybe you have prematurely aged eyebrows.”
“Thank you, Sister,” said Telford around a mouthful of sandwich.
Ann left for the duty room and her own meal, and Malcolm said, “Were you going to tell me about Tommy, Sergeant?”
“Yes,” said Telford. “Nurse Caldwell played along. We couldn’t make the questions too specific, you understand. Children like Tommy tend to feel very subjective about a mother or foster mother, if they are lucky enough to live with one. We didn’t want to frighten him…”
He broke off to stare at the cubicle Seven monitor, which showed the boy’s head rolling from side to side on his pillow while he mumbled, “No good. You’re no good, boy. You poor apology for a potential citizen, you can’t even…”
Neomorph could deaden the pain in his chest and fractured limbs, but it could do nothing against the remembered pain of childhood.
Tommy was having a nightmare, as everyone did from time to time, about school…
Chapter Three Natural Resistance
“…You are a stupid, sneaking, snivelling, wretched boy,” said the Senior Educator in his quiet, angry voice. “You are nine years old and you still act as if you had just come out of nursery block. Have you no self-respect at all, boy?
“Nobody likes walking the wheel,” he went on, “but your wheel is one designed for a child half your age, and little more than a toy. Yet you cry and faint and don’t make enough power to light the room much less help run the machines. All you want to do is the tidying and cleaning jobs where you can work by yourself, because you say your classmates are a bit rough on you. Or you hang about when the older boys are at advanced classes. But remember, boy, the knowledge of mathematics and reading and writing is not a gift. It is a privilege which must be earned, by hard work.
“Perhaps a few of our boys will eventually become technicians or planners or medics. But we are not one of those mamby-pamby schools whose pupils see their parents for an hour every week. We are in the business of producing the future power walkers, food processors and artisans, the. kind of law-abiding, responsible, hard-working citizen which enables this city to survive. Do you understand that, boy?”
Tommy said, “Yes, sir.”
“The most important things you are taught in school are obedience and respect for your seniors and, later, for your fellow citizens and their property,” he continued in the same soft, frightening voice, “Obedience and respect for property are the two hardest subjects to teach because the young have a natural resistance to them, but learn them you shall, and in particular, obedience to the commands of those in authority whether, as now, it is your Educators or, in later life, the security officials or work leaders.
“I have already tried on several occasions to overcome your natural resistance to work by physical chastisement and by allowing you to spend a night locked in the exercise yard. This time I propose making it three consecutive nights in the yard. It is cold at this time of year, and frequently wet, and I’m told that you are the kind of imaginative boy who frightens himself easily. Fine. Perhaps the combination of physical discomfort and psychological pressure will make you decide that it is better to…”
“With respect, Senior,” said the aged Educator who had brought Tommy to the Discipline Room, “there is a health problem with this boy. Last term, if you remember, we lost rather a high proportion of pupils. To keep down the yearly average we should not risk…”
“Oh, very well,” said the Senior Educator. “We will avoid punishment involving exposure. Personally, however, I think you are far too lenient with your boys, Educator. Perhaps this one will benefit from a few weeks in the pasture with a group five years his senior, a group which has no intellectual potential at all. Should a serious injury or worse occur, it will not be due to administrative punishment but be directly attributable to the boys around him. And now boy, get out of my sight!”
While he was being taken down to the hot and steaming underground pasture, the old Educator explained its purpose and how it fitted into the organisation of the School. Not many Educators did that, and Tommy was grateful because it made him understand what he was doing and helped him not to make mistakes.
In common with most Schools, this one was built and run like a city manufacturing and living complex, only smaller. Its centre was the power room, where the generators were kept turning by boys of all ages walking the wheels to supply electricity, and where the Educators were so keen on the practical work that very little theory was taught. Tommy did not understand everything the old Educator told him, but he did know that the power walkers with their red armbands worked the hardest and were the best liked, and that the boys who wore the brown armbands of the pasture had less work to do but were liked least of all.
The smell of the power room did not stick to the boys the way that the pasture smell did.
Tommy did not think he would have trouble tending the livestock. They were mostly cows and chickens with only a few horses which were used by the Senior and top Educators.
Nobody at the School was important enough to be allowed a car.
The old Educator was very stern, but sometimes he would answer questions instead of telling the boys what to do. Tommy said, “Sir, I can’t walk the wheel for more than a couple of hours, honest. But I might like working with animals, especially young animals or small animals. Can I ask to do that outside?”
“In School,” the Educator replied, “you are being prepared to live as a grown-up among other grown-ups, as responsible and law-abiding citizens. You are far from ready to go Out-side, and we will not talk about it.”
They were in the pasture by then and the Educator waited until the bigger boys noticed Tommy, then left him without saying anything. They both knew that anything the old man might say about not hurting the smaller boy would have had the opposite effect.
But it was not too bad, after the first week. Tommy had a hard time with two of the boys, Billy and Herb, who were expert at leaving bruises where they did not show. Then suddenly they changed. They began protecting him from the other boys in the group, and one night he found out why.
Billy and Herb each took an arm and held him tight, but did not kick him or even hurt him. Billy said, “You can stay alive, Tommy, or the old man will find you in the morning looking like one of the horses had trampled all over you. The Senior doesn’t like you enough to ask questions, and if you run to an Educator to tell tides, the same thing will happen to you. Right?”
Tommy said, “Right.”
“The old Educator, the one who calls you son sometimes instead of boy, is on the main gate tomorrow,” said Hilly.
“Early, when the waste-carts come to take away the useless stuff. We want you to fool him. Tell him there’s been an accident and we have fallen down a loading chute and jammed it, and the waste is piled on top of us. He’ll believe you. While he’s digging down to find us, we’ll have plugged it with something else, we will squeeze through the other chute and hide under the wagons, or run, whatever looks best. At that time of the morning there is heavy traffic, bikes and pedestrians, you’ve heard it. We can get away somewhere and hide until dark—”
“You mean,” said Tommy, “you’re going Outside?”
“We’re going Outside,” said Billy.
“But you can’t,” said Tommy. “Nobody even thinks of doing that. You’re…you’re not ready and—”
Billy punched him, not very hard, in the chest for giving him an argument. Then he said that it was not just the weaklings like; Tommy who were picked on and punished because the Senior took a dislike to them. Billy and Herb were over fourteen, less than two years from the age of full citizenship, and the Senior Educator was always telling them that if there had been a level lower than Low they would qualify for it with great difficulty. They were moved between the power room and the pasture, nowhere else, and were given no classroom work at all for the lectures on civil obedience. They were coming up to final Year and the Senior had not even hinted at the things a newly-qualified citizen should know, or even given them a few hours on the School bicycle in case one of them rose to be a skilled worker. There had been no man-to-man talks like some of the other boys had been given, only constant reminders that they were no good.
But they listened to some of the Educators talking together and they had found out a few things about the Outside. Life there was no stricter than life in the School, the work was no harder, and there was room to move up. Billy and Herb were large for their age, and could pass as young adult citizens if they were careful. They could work at the Lower jobs until they knew what they were doing, and then they could go to night classes in one of the adult Schools run by City Security and try for an up-grading to Mid-Lower or maybe even technician level. They would have to be obedient and respectful and everything a good citizen should be, but they had been learning those things since the First Class.
“Can I come, too?” asked Tommy.
Herb laughed until Billy thumped him and said, “It will work better with Tommy’s help, remember that, so he can come if he wants to. But Tommy, you will have to run fast to keep up with us, and you can’t pass as an adult. Maybe it would be better if you stayed.”
Tommy had no friends in the School and, after he deliberately fooled the old Educator with Billy’s story, he would have only enemies here. Tommy felt sorry about what he was going to do to the old man, but he said, “I want to come.”
The escape went exactly as planned. The old Educator believed Tommy and ran to the blocked chute, pushing the handle of a long broom into the waste and calling to the boys who weren’t there to grab hold of it. Suddenly he looked up and saw Tommy with his legs hanging over the lip of the other chute, and he realised what was happening.
“Don’t, son!” he called loudly. “Please…!”
But Tommy was already sliding down the chute, his narrow shoulders barely touching the sides, to land on the stinking carpet of waste at the bottom of the cart. The driver was inside the School somewhere, so he jumped to the ground and began running after the others. They were about fifty yards away and running very fast. Tommy ran, too, but looked back for a second at the School—a big, dirty brick wall with cleaner squares when; the lower windows had been bricked up. The Old Educator was hobbling after him, but he was outrunning the old man just as the big boys were outrunning Tommy.
“Come back, son,” the Educator was shouting. “I won’t tell on you. Please come back. You don’t know what you’re doing…” But the traffic noises from the main road were making it harder to hear him.
The road was full of bicycles and a few horses, and the pavement was crowded with hurrying pedestrians. Everybody looked angry and nasty and very like the Senior Educator. Tommy began to feel afraid. But he could not go back now. He wanted to cry with the pain in his chest, but he tried to run even faster as he came to the street corner so as not to lose the other boys.
He ran right into the back of a citizen.
