Dawnrunner

The journey west to the Adelaide station draws more attention than I had anticipated. Wherever we go people stop and turn to look at us – some lean together to whisper, others shout and wave. Some, children in particular, point excitedly at the car with the Dawnrunner insignias. The traffic thins as we reach the A8 National Highway, a nearly-empty road illuminated only by headlights and the occasional lamp. Already the lights from the city begin to fade into the distance and a heavier darkness settles over us. What cars there are begin to move aside as we approach, as though we’re a police patrol car, only somehow more threatening.
About twenty minutes out from the border with District 6, we arrive in a town called Kaniva. The car veers off the main road at a roundabout and finally comes to a stop in front of a red-roofed building, with a huge sign in front declaring: “Kaniva library redevelopment – proudly sponsored by the GEPHR.” Sitting on a suitcase in the shade of the sign is a young Asian girl with neat brown hair wearing a simple top and jeans.
The driver gets out of the car without turning off the engine. “Ms May-Lee?” he calls to the girl, who seems so nervous she almost falls off her suitcase as she tries to stand and nod emphatically at the same time.
As the boot opens to accept the new suitcase, I pull instinctively on the door handle, but the door remains firmly shut. I shoot a puzzled look at Rachel, who offers a borderline-tipsy shrug in return. The next moment the door is opened from the outside and the girl climbs inside, sitting down opposite us.
“Hi!” Rachel cries, a little too loudly for the comfort of the close quarters. I cringe outwardly, both from the noise and embarrassment. The girl’s wide eyes are red and barely contained behind her thin glasses.
“Sorry,” Rachel placates, more quietly. “You must be Christine?”
“It’s Christy,” the girl answers, fiddling with her glasses.
“Hi Christy,” I say, smiling. “My name’s Carliah, but you can call me Carli. The loud one’s Rachel.” There’s a soft kick to my ankle, but I don’t stop. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Christy attempts to smile back. “It’s nice to meet you too,” she offers.
“It says in the file you’re a doctor?” Damn it Rachel, so soon?
“PhD,” Christy answers uncomfortably.
“But you’re so young!” she continues, ignoring my ‘give-it-a-rest-Rachel’ stare. “You can’t be more than 20.”
“24,” she corrects. “I was in uni by the time I was 18, and I completed my PhD in structural engineering in 6 years.”
“That’s... incredible,” I say, genuinely impressed.
Christy stops adjusting her glasses and starts picking at her nails, with her eyes on the floor. Rachel shoots me a concerned face, and takes a sip of something I hope is water.
“Christy, what’s the matter?” I ask. Her eyes leave the floor for a split second, glancing over her shoulder towards the driver. I follow along, just in time to see him turn away from the rear-view mirror and back to the road. What happened to his military concentration? I wonder.
“If I had never studied, I would not have been accepted as an SR. Then I would not have to go on this assignment.” The stress is clear, and it sounds as though she’s been crying.
I sit back in my chair, reeling. I’m the last person she needs to be talking to right now. Mercifully, Rachel chooses that moment to be bold.
“Sweetie, it’s ok. You’ll be safe, I promise. And you might even get to see the sun.”
Christy shakes her head quickly, almost violently. “I am being sent to Hong Kong to join the engineering team that is repairing damage to the receiving station there. I will not go anywhere else and I will not see my family again for 18 months!” Her palms race up to her eyes, pushing her glasses high on her forehead, and the sounds of soft sobs fill the car’s passenger space.
Part of my subconscious feels like it is going to pass out. I know immediately it’s the same part of me that always rebelled against the idea of joining the SR.
The Special Resources are an elite group of people that offer their training and knowledge in return for government sponsorship in education, medical and the right to buy land, among other things. The voluntary service offered to anyone with qualifications at the tertiary level. Those who accept become part of the Global Effort’s army of skilled individuals, from scientists and doctors to electricians and metal-workers, able to be sent at a moment’s notice on ‘assignment’ anywhere in the world, for any reason, for a period of up to 2 years.
With a morose surrealism I realise that the woman sitting across from me in the car is living out my worst nightmare. I sit frozen, unable to speak, grateful only that Rachel seems similarly stunned: the last thing either of us needs is more of her good-intentioned optimistic candour. Christy, meanwhile, has composed herself to some extent, though her eyes are redder than before. The three of us ride in silence as the car clears the guard station at the border wall between Districts 3 and 6.

The Adelaide station, one of only three places the Dawnrunner stops while inside the Sanctuary, is a massive complex visible from outside the city limits when the dome lights are at full strength. The new multi-level building, constructed after the cataclysm and bearing the insignia of the GEPHR, combines the local-servicing Keswick Rail Terminal and the former Adelaide Parklands Terminal. The two transcontinental train services – the East-West running Indian Pacific and the North-South running Ghan – are enshrined in picture memorials along the walls of their former home. Under the reclamation of the Global Effort, the station has found new fame as birthplace of the Dawnrunner.
A public-access road from the East leads to the above-ground parking for local passengers. A raised bypass takes us to the opposite side, where we stop in front of a second entrance protected by a secure gate and a manned guard station. The window to my right opens automatically, revealing a guard holding a small scanner.
“Good morning ladies,” the guard says in a practiced, impassive tone. “If you could please look into this device one at a time so we can confirm your identities.”
The retinal scans each last about 5 seconds. When we finish, the guard attempts a smile. “Thank you,” he says, “And welcome to the facility.” With the sound of heavy metal grinding, the secure gate retracts into the ceiling and the car moves slowly forward.

Twenty minutes pass and the three of us are escorted down a long corridor by two guards carrying sidearms. There are no windows or doors, but it is brightly lit and there are pictures on the wall showing different GEPHR officials, including one image of General Lowe shaking hands with the former Australian Prime Minister. The corridor opens onto a raised walkway that stretches out into a cavernous space. Rachel moves towards the glass wall that runs along the walkway’s edge and gasps. Coming up behind her, I look out and feel my own breath catch.
Several floors below us the Dawnrunner sits waiting to accept passengers. It is sleek and black, easily 20 carriages long, with a sloping front that chases the floor and a wide glass windshield. The same white-red-and-black plaques that decorated the car appear on every third door, while smaller signs designate the individual carriages as belonging to MR, SR or Reserved passengers. A hundred men and women in service uniforms run around the platform, doing everything from cleaning windows to loading baggage. I scan the luggage cars for our pink and purple backpacks, but don’t find them. At the end of the walkway, an elevator is waiting to take us to the platform.

“This way please, Doctor,” says the lead guard, turning to Christy. He opens a door to one of the carriages marked ‘Special Resources’, and for a moment I’m afraid she’s going to burst into tears again. “You ladies are in the next section,” he says with a wave to a second man who is short and shaved bald, and who leads us to a door marked ‘Reserved.’
The carriage is small, with a single bed on either side of the aisle and space for luggage overhead. The furnishings are beautiful red leather and wooden boards along the walls, in stark contrast to the functional metallic design of the exterior. Each bed has a temporary label attached with one of our names on it, and our bags are waiting in the compartments overhead. At the door, the guard pauses with his hand on the frame.
“The train will be leaving shortly, so please make yourselves comfortable.” He indicates to a small screen set into the wall. “Use this to communicate with your attendant if you require refreshments or meals.”
The unmistakeable sound of an electronic horn fills the complex, and every guard in the vicinity touches their earpiece in unison. The short man suddenly looks very serious as he says “Please, remain here,” and closes the door.
Rachel sits down on the bed, apparently uninterested in whatever is going on, leaving me to look out the window. At first I don’t see anything, until I glance up at the walkway on which we were standing not 10 minutes before. In our place are at least half a dozen more guards, each with much larger guns than the ones our escorts were carrying. In the centre of the group is a man wearing a very expensive black suit and matching tie, whose face seems somehow familiar. It takes me a moment to realise it’s the same man I saw in the photograph in the corridor, standing opposite the Prime Minister: Commander-General Lowe. For some reason I can’t fathom, the most powerful man in the world – the leader of the Sanctuary and Head of the GEPHR – is getting on the train with us.