How come there’s numbers all over? I says. They’re everywhere. I go back to the second map. The Waste, I says. An the Raze an south of the Black Mountains. I glance about. From the maps with their numbers so tiny an neat. To the table with its stacks of papers an books. There’s numbers on these papers, I says.

Numbered maps, says Jack. Numbered papers. There’s numbers on these rows of cupboards. A number on every cupboard. Did you notice the seed jars have numbers? It’s a plan, Saba. To plant.

I stand stock still. I stare at Jack, not seein him. Every hair on my head shivers. The tiny hairs on my arms. To reseed the earth, I says. This is what it’s all about.

This is why the locks an the guards, says Jack.

The resettlement party, I says. This is why they was headed to the Raze. It explains the new bridge at the Eastern Defile.

It explains why DeMalo was with ’em, says Jack.

That worn leather bag strapped over his chest. His hand went to it, touched it from time to time. As if to make sure it was still there.

I bet he was carryin the seeds, I says. He wouldn’t trust nobody else.

He’d wanna be the first one to sow, says Jack. To teach the Stewards how to grow an care fer whatever it was.

One blade of grass at a time.

He actually meant it. He can actually do it. A new world. A healed earth. With grass an trees an crops to have food enough fer all. But not fer all. Only fer them he deems worthy. His Chosen ones.

My head’s tight with tryin to make sense of this. I open a book. I stare at the letters I cain’t unnerstand. The words they make tell DeMalo what to do. If only we could read these, I says. Tommo reads some. Maybe if we brought him here, he could—

That’s detail, says Jack. We don’t gotta read to know what this means. DeMalo will rebuild the bridge an be sowin seed in the Raze within a couple of weeks. He’ll start with test beds, I figger. To see what takes an what don’t. Hell, he might of done that already. He’s planned this real careful. With this seedstore an his book knowledge an fear an guns to power the project—Jack sweeps a hand at the maps—he’ll make everywhere jest like New Eden. A green paradise of slave labour, all controlled by him. Yes sir, yes my lord, yes my master, my king. With nobody old or sick or weak or anybody less than perfect. He’ll decide who’s fit to live.

While the hive pumps out endless Steward drones to work work work work work, I says. His Chosen Ones. What a lie. They’re slaves too. You jest cain’t see their chains.

We’re silent fer a moment, lookin at the maps.

We thought it was jest New Eden, I says.

The tyrants I’ve known don’t think small, says Jack. Their ambition is usually their undoin. But none ever sat on a arsenal like this one. If anybody can do this, he can.

We gotta stop him now, I says. Before it gits beyond us. There’s numbers all over these maps. There won’t be nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to live free or be anythin or do anythin other than what DeMalo decides.

There won’t be nobody runnin, says Jack. Fear’s a powerful weapon. If people fear you, you control them. Most of these New Eden folk ain’t never known freedom. An they never will know it, unless we win it fer them.

I reach fer Jack’s hand. It’s warm an strong. A hand to hold on tight to. We stare at the wall. At the future laid out so starkly. A future earth, a future people controlled by DeMalo.

Yer right, I says. He can do this. He has the will, the belief an the power.

Case closed, Jack says. We kill him. I go back inside the Tonton right away.

No no, I need to think, I says.

About what? He looks at me in disbelief. How can it not be clear to you yet? DeMalo needs to go. Speakin of which, he says, we need to go. It’s easy to lose track of time down here. The new guard shift’ll show fer duty at dawn. We wanna be well away by then.

In silence, we crank the wheel an close the great door. We press the cracked roof plank into place an scuff away the fallen dirt on the ramp. If we don’t leave cause fer him to look up, DeMalo might not notice the damage. Jack sets the tumbler lock dial back to where we found it.

Now the light from outside that streams down the stairs ain’t moonlight. It’s dawnlight. Pale an uncertain.

Told you, says Jack.

As I douse my torch, I hear it. Faintly. From inside the bunker. My heart jolts. Then it starts racin. I grab Jack’s hand an make fer the stairs.

He frowns, pullin aginst me. Hang on, he says. I hear music.

I don’t hear nuthin. We gotta go, I says.

He shrugs me off. Yeah, he says. Sounds like it’s … comin from that room. You must hear it. Listen. There.

Faint but unmistakable. It’s music. My eyes meet his. It’s too dangerous, I says. Please, let’s jest go.

He stares at me a moment. Then he takes off at a run. Towards DeMalo’s white room.

I hare after him. Through the rooms with the bunks in the wall. I know this music. I heard it before. It’s the sound of his visions. DeMalo. He’s here. In the room. There ain’t no guards, the bunker door’s open. Anybody else would come lookin fer the cause. Not him. He’s playin with us. Drawin us in.

I’m jest in time to see Jack reach the door. Reach fer the handle. His shooter held next to his head.

Jack! I says. Don’t!

He dumps his torch. We’re in total blackness. I inch forwards, feelin the wall. I got my gun at the ready. My throat ticks with fear.

A line of light glows as he cracks the door open. Then, slowly, slowly, it widens. Gentle light spills out. Light an birdsong an sweet stringbox music. That’s all though. No outcry. Nuthin else.

Saba! Jack calls to me softly.

I hurry to join him, still tense, still alert. But there ain’t no need fer our shooters. We’re the only two people here. Jack stares in confusion. So do I, but fer a very different reason. Dawn glows on the walls of the room, all around us. The air that was dead is alive with music.

The light brightens an brightens to the gold of fresh mornin. The music grows louder an quicker. The walls leap to life. Jack starts with surprise. An, jest like I remember from before, we’re soarin above grasslands, lush an green, with a bird’s-eye view of the world below.

What the hell is this? he says.

Great herds of beasts thunder the plains, with snow-topped mountains in the distance. It’s still magical. Incredible. Unimaginably beautiful. Last time, I wept. This time, I don’t. It’s DeMalo’s vision. But without DeMalo.

I got no idea, I says.

Jack’s tried to touch one of the shaggy big-horned creatures as it leaps from crag to crag. Jest like I did when I seen it. Suspicion darkens his face. Visions, my ass, he says. This is Wrecker tech. That trickster sonofabitch.

Eagles fly beneath his hands as he feels the walls. Seekin to know how they work. Far from bein overcome like I was, he takes little notice of these glimpses of a long-gone world.

It’s like the walls hold the memory of the past, he mutters. Somethin must set it off. With the lights, it was us, our movement did it. But this was playin already, so what triggered it?

Trigger. Light. Memory. Suddenly I remember. The tiny pinprick of light in the ceilin.

As it grows to a weak beam, I start to see DeMalo. He stands in the centre of the room, right unnerneath it. He lifts a chunk of clear, glassy rock. The light beam latches onto it. The rock begins to glow with a faint pink light. But not jest the rock. The whole room. The light grows stronger. Birds begin to sing.