Sorcha The Alien Book One

Chapter Fifteen

My legs ache and a film of sweat coats my skin and soaks my clothes. Fumes reminiscent of bleach and petrol travel up from the hole and make me feel light-headed. Each blink becomes longer, and I imagine my bed on Earth. The one I had as a child, filled with all my soft toys, my friends.

My foot slips, it slides off the rung and I fall. My hands grapple wildly for a handhold, and I stop myself, but not before my foot makes contract with Cantral.

"Sorry," I say, before she has chance to speak, "I'm really tired—"

"I can see a place we can stop."

A boom reverberates as Cantral steps onto a ledge. Every sound down here feels loud. Her hands find mine and she guides me deeper down this new tunnel.

I flick my torch on and instantly shade my eyes from the bright light. There's a chill in the air that makes me wish for a jacket and Cantral rubs her bare arms. Slowly my eyes adjust, blinking rapidly, and I see my whereabouts more clearly. Grey stone surrounds us, the ledge opens into a cavernous chamber and at the opposite end a black, metal door bars the way to adjoining caves, possibly.

My legs wobble and I sit on the floor with a gentle thud. "Do you think there really is a creature down here?" I shine my torch up to the ceiling.

Cantral sits next to me. "No—"

"But why would he say there was?"

Cantral laughs a little. "You saw what Daeanal's like, he's—"

"He's what?" I snap.

"He was made badly ... something clearly went wrong with him whilst he was in the incubation unit," Cantral says, and I glare at her. "Don't look at me like that, I'm not saying he shouldn't have been made. I'm just saying he can't be relied upon."

I don't look at Cantral, I don't shine my torch upon her face. The light illuminates the opposite wall and casts a thin, sodium-orange, veil over the entire chamber, the same colour as my bedroom in the middle of the night, lit only by the streetlamps outside. For a moment we're silent, I allow Cantral's words to marinate.

I want to challenge her, of course I do. But do I have the cognitive strength? Is it safe to potentially anger the person I need to ensure my survival? The answer to these questions is complicated, it always is.

"He can be relied upon to run a base." I pick the skin by my nails rapidly, I can't let this drop.

"Well, that's debatable," Cantral says, her arrogance and privilege shining brilliantly, "he has no battle entra; scientists are easy to control. Only the upper base is under his command, and that's mostly offices and potted plants. Fendan doesn't care about eradicating disease, that's a front to hide the true nature of this place. He feels sentimental towards Daeanal and gave him this role out of pity."

I shuffle away from Cantral. "Ohhh, I get it—" my quiet anger is replaced by something more powerful "—you're ableist ... Hate to break it to you, but I'm disabled. In fact, I'm remarkably like Daeanal."

Cantral laughs angrily. "I am not Able East ... who is Able East?" she says, struggling to pronounce the human word.

"It's discrimination against disabled people," I say, "you know, like me. He was right, you do need to be less entra."

A tornado of words gain momentum in my head. They blow and swirl and structure themselves into well composed arguments. I'm well versed at having to defend my right for existence. These internal augments rise whenever I hear something on TV, on social media or in the street, and regardless of whether I speak up, they're present.