And All the Stars

Chapter Twenty

Cotton-headed, mouth dry, driven to consciousness by a Blue’s hunger, Madeleine cracked eyelids and winced at the assault of unrelenting sunlight. Then the full unpleasantness of memory intruded, and she bolted upright.

There was no-one near her. Not a sound, or any hint of movement. The strangeness of her location took her attention. She was on a single bed in an enormous curving room, bare except for carpet. Floor to ceiling curtains formed distant makeshift walls in both directions. The narrower curve of inner wall displayed signs for toilets. Behind her, nothing but windows.

Staring out – and down – over Sydney, Madeleine realised where she had to be. Sydney Tower, the tallest building in the city. Four doughnut-shaped floors which from the outside looked like a gold ice bucket balanced on a pole, crowned by a thick cylinder and antenna. The bed was out of place: this wasn’t somewhere people slept, it was a tourist site with restaurants and observation decks.

Her backpack and a spare bag of clothing were sitting a short distance away. She was still wearing the clothes she’d snatched on at dawn: sneakers, track suit pants and a white dress shirt held together by two misplaced buttons. Looking down at the shirt, Madeleine began to shiver in the warm sunlight, rubbing her arm as she realised the significance of the needle. She was too strong for the leader of clan Ul-naa to possess. The Moths had taken the others, and drugged the prize they could not use, yet would not give up.

A black balloon swelled in her chest. Fisher…Fisher must have gone downstairs and met a roaming Moth, then simply led others to where a clutch of free Blues slept. To the people who had become her comrades in arms, her friends. They were all gone. Arms wrapped across her face, curled protectively over her head, Madeleine wept in suffocated abandon. She had failed every one of them. All for one had become the only one.

Fight. Always fight. No matter how impossible the odds, no matter who you’ve lost, how you’ve been hurt. If there doesn’t seem to be a way out, look for one. If you seem to have come to an end, start afresh. Never, ever give up.

Fisher had been so insistent that Madeleine particularly had to go on, had foreseen with his usual clarity that her strength would set her apart. But being difficult to possess didn’t give her a path forward. These bare two weeks as part of a team had left her all too aware of her deficiencies. She needed Fisher to gather information, Noi to come up with a plan and three backups. Emily’s determination to fight, Pan’s madly inspired suggestions, and Min to poke holes in them until Nash mediated a resolution. They were supposed to have stood together, and found a way to win.

If she fought, these would be the people she killed.

No-one, human or alien, interrupted her tears. When she had sobbed her way to numb exhaustion the curving room was as still as when she’d woken, nothing but drowsy sunlight and dust motes, offering no guide to how to face what next. Madeleine could pretend that she found renewed determination, that her promise to Fisher spurred her to seek information, some plan or solution. But it was the Blue’s imperative appetite which got her off the bed.

It must be the same day, perhaps very early afternoon. A full day without eating would have left her single-mindedly focused on filling her stomach, a hair’s breadth from licking the floor. What she’d be like going without food for more than a day was something she’d never care to find out.

The presence of her backpack made the food hunt simple. Emergency cinnamon fudge, safely tucked in the front pocket beneath her clean underwear stash. She munched steadily through it, staring out the window at Hyde Park and the black rise of Spire, no less featureless despite her elevated view. No sign of movement. Pressing against the glass she tried to see the top of it, this thing which had brought so much death.

It was not true to say she felt numb. She felt hate. But it was formless, a resentment which had no sharp edges, stymied against acting by the consequences. If she stopped caring about the people they were wearing, Madeleine suspected that she would be able to kill at least a few Moths by swinging full-strength punches. She wanted something far more difficult: her friends, free, together, undamaged. Something she had no idea how to achieve.

If you want B, first do A. Which was great advice, but what she wanted was more like M – or X – when she didn’t know what the letters of the alphabet were, let alone in what order they lined up. But the thought helped. Instead of stumbling over how to do everything, all at once, she would step back from the big picture. Neither X nor Z – the destruction of the Spire – seemed at all possible for her to achieve alone, but if she first did A, perhaps she could find a way to B and to C.

A was simple. A was looking around.

She began to explore, heading for one set of the curtains which shut away the rest of the doughnut-shaped room. Pulling them back she found herself standing beside a flight of stairs leading back and up. Beyond them, the inner wall was filled by a bar, all shining glassware, with a row of tall round tables and barstools set against the windows opposite. The shelves meant to hold bottles were empty, but there was a tray set out and waiting with a handful of muesli bars and a rectangular carton of long life milk.

The milk was open, the carton cool. Madeleine sniffed it suspiciously, then took a wineglass, poured out a sample and tasted it. Honey. She drank, and ate a muesli bar, and was glad of the emergency fudge, which allowed her to put two of the bars away for later. A carton of sweetened milk and a few muesli bars was not a generous serving for a high-stain Blue, and she thought through the implications of that as she moved on toward a line of elevator doors, and a spiral staircase descending.

None of the elevators worked. Unsurprised, Madeleine completed her circuit of the mostly bare floor, then worked her way through the other three before returning to her bed to make an inventory of the contents of her bags. Clothes, her sketchpads and various pencil collections. The two mobiles – her own and one looted from the North Building – were missing.

The tower was bare of both people and food. She found the entrance to a rooftop skywalk, and some small machinery rooms in the squat cylinder set on top of the ice bucket of the larger floors. A gift shop on the top main floor offered an array of key rings and magnets. The restaurants filling the lower two floors held endless potential kitchen utensil weapons, and water. No telephones. There were touch screen computers for tourists which would only tell her about Sydney landmarks, and drink machines which had been broken open and emptied. The Moths had gone to the effort of removing everything edible or useful for communication, turned all the lifts off, and left her to sit.

If they wanted her alive, they’d have to come up to feed her. That would be an opportunity. First, however, there were fire escapes.

Simply walking out of the tower seemed unlikely. Perhaps the Moths had left a guard down the bottom, and rigged an alarm to let them know she was on her way. That would mean a fight, but during her explorations the main thing she’d discovered was a quiet determination to find step B, and then step C. Pulling on a reorganised backpack, she found the nearest fire exit and pushed it open.

Stairs. Well lit, no movement or suspicious noises. She slipped through to the landing and eased the door shut on a gift shop toy placed as a block, then stood listening, looking. If there were traps or cameras she could not detect them. The plentiful supply of tourist information had let her know there were 1500 stairs and it would be a struggle to stay strictly alert all that way. Which was no reason not to try.

Five flights down, Madeleine stopped to gauge a change to the quality of light. The flat white had taken on a tinge of blue. A Moth? A Rover? She doubted one of the dandelion dragons would fit in a stairwell, but nor was it likely she’d seen all of the Moths' bestiary. The question was whether the best move was to fight, here in the narrow support shaft of a building unlikely to cope with holes being punched in walls.

She eased forward, pausing at every turn to steal glances around corners, the blue tinge growing stronger, dominant, until the stairwell took on an underwater air. And then it was ahead of her, no dragon or mermaid-dog, but…goo.

Wall to wall electric blue jelly. It completely blocked the flight of stairs below her, every gap sealed with luminous glop. There was no visible reaction to her approach, no tentacles lifting from the surface or sudden pulsing, just a steadily glowing barrier.

The fight with the Rover had taught Madeleine enough to not simply try to power her way through it. A very cautious finger punch suggested that it would absorb energy in much the same way the Rover had. A light tap with her shield nearly bounced her into the wall. The goo had defences.

Gritting her teeth, Madeleine considered the problem, then climbed back up to the nearest kitchen and returned with a jug of hot water and a knife. The hot water produced no response, while the knife…

The goo’s shield punch threw her up the stairwell. Rapid shielding bounced her straight back down to ricochet again off the glowing barrier, and only frantic easing of her shield prevented madcap ping-ponging. She collapsed on the landing above the goo and lay shaking, trying not to let her head fill with imagined injuries, only to have them replaced by guesses as to what was happening to Noi, to Emily, while she failed to get down a flight of stairs. What were the Moths doing with their stolen Musketeers?

Taking deep breaths to calm herself, Madeleine began to reassemble her fragmented determination, to force herself look at the moment as an achievement. Easing shields to control ricochet had been something they’d only begun to explore during their combat practice sessions. Watching the possessed Blues fight had made clear the Moths' ability to control much of the shield bouncing, and the Musketeers had been attempting to modulate the intensity of the shielding to cushion an impact rather than rebound. Madeleine had struggled to make any progress. She could manifest the shielding on just one side rather than all around her, which meant she no longer paralysed herself when swiping to shield-punch, but her skill level was a rough equivalent of doing embroidery while wearing gauntlets.

Step B was obviously shield practice.

Twenty-four hours later, Madeleine’s plans and ambitions had contracted to a singular focus: food.

The Moths had not come to feed her. It didn’t make a great deal of sense, since if they’d wanted to kill her there would be no need to go to the time and effort to clear out two entire restaurants, including cleaning away any plates and glasses in use on the day of the Spire’s arrival. It would have taken a team of people – Greens most likely – to have so thoroughly removed everything edible.

Madeleine’s hunt had so far won her a tomato sauce squeeze packet. She scanned the compact, curving kitchen, searching for missed possibilities, her gaze settling on an industrial-sized toaster. A quick examination located a sliding crumb tray, specked and dotted with charred bounty. Madeleine shook everything loose into the palm of her hand, licked that clean, then began dotting crumbs with a finger which trembled.

All but black scrapings remained when, disgusted, she threw down the tray and dashed out of the kitchen. She did not want to be this. What would come next? Rats? But, no, all the warm-blooded animals in the region had been finished off by the dust. It would be cockroaches.

Pounding up the stairs to the third level, she ran along the curve of windows, intent on the grandly mature gesture of throwing herself onto her bed. And stopped so quickly she fell to her hands and knees. On the bar counter a new tray, another carton of milk, three muesli bars.

One part of Madeleine was incandescently furious. It was a pitiful serving for a Blue. Even before the stain it would have been an inadequate day’s meal, and the idea that this was all she would have to combat stain-fuelled hunger made her want to yell and throw things, left her frightened for what state she’d be in after another day. The rest of her wasted no time on anything but gulping down milk.

Honey-sweetened again, this time with a trace of butterscotch which, even when that sounded a note of caution, was not enough to stop her draining most of the carton before coming up for air. As she gauged the dregs, a sledgehammer of heat hit her squarely, providing a full and unavoidable explanation for the additional flavour. Spiked.

For long moments Madeleine simply stood, breathing deeply as the alcohol surged through her, but then she snatched up the muesli bars and headed around the curve of the floor toward her vastly empty bedroom. An awareness that there had to be a reason to spike the milk filled her with panic. At minimum, when drunk her ability to control her punches and shield would be near non-existent. Already the world had tilted.

Stumbling past her bed, she headed to one of the curtains which divided the circular level into segments, and pulled it all the way to the inner wall. Then she slid to the floor behind it, a makeshift hiding place. Tucking herself in, fumbling with the cloth in hopes of making it appear its fall was uninterrupted, she tried to still her shaking.

It occurred to her that she could have tried to make herself vomit. The alcohol had hit her almost immediately, but expelling most of it would surely lead to a quicker recovery. But then she would be back to licking toasters.

Determinedly she ate one of the muesli bars and drank the rest of the milk, placing her energy needs above the problem of even more alcohol. Should she fight, when the Moths came? Shields would be too risky, punches more a question of how much she was willing to damage her eyrie prison. She might get lucky and hurt them, but lashing out wildly would not get her friends back. Unless she was on the verge of being completely lost, she would have to restrain herself, try to learn more.

The tower felt like it was swaying.

Fingers tangled in her hair, hauling her from behind the curtain. Jolted from a doze, Madeleine cried out in pain, twisting to see her attacker. Gavin. Or, rather, the Core of the Five of the Ul-naa.

She tried pulling away, but her hair provided far too good a handhold, and he wrenched it agonisingly, slinging her forward so that she tumbled to the blank expanse of floor by the windows. Head spinning, she found herself face-to-face with an enormous, streamlined muzzle. A dandelion dragon, multi-layered wings fanning slowly, the bulk of it apparently draped over the roof of the main tower turret as it dangled over the side peering in at them.

"In future, you will not hide," said the Moth, and she shifted to face him. "You will drink and you will wait here."

His tone was curtly assured, allowing for no possibility of anything but obedience. He clearly believed he could dictate her behaviour. The words in future lit her attention.

Dizzy, and on the verge of being sick, she refused to cower, attempting a little of Noi’s blunt defiance: "Go to hell."

The Core slapped her. A light, casual backhand as if he were cuffing a misbehaving dog. "There are no choices here."

Face stinging, increasingly angry that this alien so clearly did not consider her a person, Madeleine worked to speak without slurring: "I’m not killing you right now because I liked the boy you’re wearing. But you’re making it very difficult."

It got under his skin, just a little: she could see the suppressed annoyance. Then he straightened, and she gasped as that annoyance hammered down on her: a cascade, a torrent. It hurt, was suffocation with needles, and she collapsed down, a small part of her recognising the sensation, though her brief experiments with Fisher had as much resemblance to this as a brush stroke had to nail gun fire. The third power, turned to an onslaught of prickling anger. She could feel his vicious enjoyment of her reaction, and his triumph, a barrage of gloating elation, increasing as Madeleine tried to make herself as small as possible, to curl into a ball, to find some way to keep him out.

Unable to summon any defence, she retreated into darkness.

Madeleine woke, warm beneath the bed’s quilt, still herself.

It was not quite a surprise. There would have been no reason to speak of where she should wait in future if the Core had been on the verge of taking complete control, though she was full of a certainty that that…bombardment of identity was the beginning of a process which would leave her a shell, a vehicle driven by alien will. Instead of all at once, he – it – would possess her by degrees.

Almost, she could still feel him. As if the air itself could taste of triumph gone stale, of emotion, soul, self, spirit, turned to some tangible substance which could rain down on a person and hurt and hurt–

Madeleine shuddered, again curling protectively, then forced herself to shift, to sit up. Outside the tower it was dark, the curving array of windows showing city lights and stars. She had been put to bed and left till next time.

Inevitably, she was hungry.

Feeling fragile, and terribly alone, Madeleine tried to imagine how the Musketeers would deal with this situation. Fisher would point out the link between her experiments with him and the use of alcohol. The Core had learned of this and starved her, then set out spiked milk to interfere with her control.

Right, Noi would say. So all we need to do is not take the bait next time, and then slam the bastard when he shows up.

Steal his dragon! Pan would suggest.

Like that’s going to work, Min would put in. Besides, he knew Maddie had taken the bait. There must be cameras.

So we get the old carton, fill it with water, and have it ready to fool them. Noi would give a little nod, confirming the plan.

If they wait long enough, I won’t be able to do that, Madeleine thought. I won’t care if it’s spiked, I’ll just care that it’s food.

You can. Emily would take her hand, and give her a look of tremulous faith.

Then Nash would offer an understanding smile. You have two muesli bars left, he would point out, and have yet to exhaust the possibilities of the kitchens.

But does that mean I’m willing to kill Gavin? She had no answer, nor did she know what she would do about the dragon, if she did manage to fight off the Core.

"I’m having imaginary conversations with my friends, because my friends are all possessed," she said out loud, and made herself get off the bed.

Step C was beginning to resolve. She would assume there were cameras – at the very least where she slept, and the bar where they left the food. She would hide and conserve her muesli bars as long as possible, and hunt for any scrap which had been missed in the clearing out of the kitchens. She would do her best not to fall for spiked milk traps in future. When the Core came again…hopefully by then, she’d have some idea what step D might be.

Scanning the ceiling, Madeleine failed to spot cameras, and headed into the bathroom to clean up and change clothes. If she was going to use the old milk carton to fake drinking spiked milk, she’d need to smuggle it into place. There would surely be somewhere she could hide it behind the bar.

Heading around the curve to check, Madeleine stopped short, confused. There was a new tray, mounded high with packages. Did this mean they weren’t going to starve her? Surely the Moths didn’t expect her to obediently get drunk on command?

She approached the bar cautiously, scanning for traps, cameras. There was enough food for days: a stack of frozen pizza, pasta, a box of meat pies, cake. The cardboard was damp, everything well on its way to defrosting. There must be some kind of time constraint to the identity assault. The Core couldn’t do that to her every day.

At first insensibly relieved, Madeleine moved on to unhappily wondering how many days this food was meant to cover. This would give her more of a chance to practice shields, but if it, for instance, was supposed to last her for a week, she could still be brought to a state of driving hunger. Common caution led her to prepare a relatively small portion of the frozen gnocchi, and stash everything else in the second floor kitchen freezer. Then she went back to her bed, and debated whether it was worth blasting holes in the ceiling in the hope of destroying any cameras. Sydney Tower really was an excellent choice for a prison – she was tremendously wary of damaging it.

After thinking the problem through, she simply alternately pushed and dragged the bed around the curve of carpet, to the far side of a dividing curtain. Drawing the curtain halfway, she hoped that would put her at the wrong angle for any cameras. Then she fetched her backpack and surreptitiously tucked the muesli bars into the front pocket.

Her sketchpads and pencils took up half the space in the backpack. She touched the spine of one, but didn’t take it out, hadn’t opened any of them since she’d woken in the tower. Looking at images of friends found and lost would be unbearable.

Someone coughed.

In the still isolation of the tower, that faint, distinct sound was a clarion call. Madeleine sat frozen, listening for more, trying to gauge direction. She thought, perhaps, above. It wasn’t close. Standing, she circled to the elevators as quietly and rapidly as she could manage, to jab the buttons. Nothing.

Moving back to the bar, she picked up the long knife she’d abandoned after her attempt on the goo, and forced herself to slow, deliberate movements, up the straight stair to the fourth floor, pausing at its head to survey. The fourth floor was less clear than the third, with a raised inner section, an information booth, gift store, touchscreens, even an area with lockers for people heading out on the rooftop Skywalk. It was not until Madeleine had left the head of the stair and started clockwise around the circle that she saw him. Fisher.

In a chair moved from the locker area and set so he could gaze in the direction of the Spire, he sat legs stretched out, posture weary. His glasses were folded on a closed book on the floor beside him, and she could see his face reflected in the window: brows drawn together in one of those frowns which made him look furious. So familiar, and so wrong.

What could she do, to get back the person who was so incredibly precious to her?

"The knife seems a little redundant."

Madeleine started, and saw that he – the Moth controlling Fisher – was watching her in the thin reflection in the window. She looked down at the knife, decided that she was more likely to hurt herself with it than him, and put it on a nearby counter.

"I don’t have a key to the lift," the Moth added helpfully. He hadn’t turned, had straightened in the chair, but continued to watch her via the reflection. He held himself so like Fisher, had that quality of attentive contemplation.

Her mouth so dry she could barely speak, Madeleine asked: "Why are you here?"

"Oh, I have various threats and ultimatums to deliver," he said, with a faded hint of amusement. "The theory being that you’re less likely to attack me. But before we go on, there’s something you should know."

"What?"

In the reflection his eyes met hers, inexplicably sad.

"You’ve never met Fisher."