The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (36 page)

Helena’s mother, Francesca, was the first to
suspect what had happened. ‘What’s wrong, darling?’

The tears streamed down Helena’s face.
‘Nothing.’

Francesca put her arm round
her daughter. ‘I’ve never known you to cry about nothing.’

‘I don’t know how to tell you,’ wailed Helena.

‘Try saying, I’m pregnant,’
said her mother briskly. Helena wiped her eyes.’How did you know?’

‘Is it Lancelot?’

‘Yes.’ Somehow mothers always
knew. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Have the child, of course,’ said Helena
firmly.

Francesca took that for granted. She had
something else in mind. ‘Are going to tell him?’

That question had already
given Helena many a sleepless night. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

Though she would never say so,
Lancelot, in Francesca’s opinion, was a poor marriage prospect. For one thing
he was far too self-involved, and for another he was altogether too attractive.
Any woman who married him would spend her life fighting off the predators.
Besides, he had the look of a wanderer, and she doubted he would ever settle
down to family life. Her conclusion was that Helena would be better off saying
nothing about the baby, at least for the time being. This was, in any case, 2023,
not 1923; the world had changed, there were plenty of single mothers these
days, and precious few marriages. Why did Helena have to marry Lancelot? Why
did she have to marry anyone? The child could be raised by her mother, with her
grandmother’s help, and would have all the love and security in the world.

From there it was only a small
leap of faith to convincing herself that this pregnancy was no accident; it was
His will, a heaven-sent opportunity for her to shape her grandchild’s mind and
instil in it humility and a proper love of God. Francesca was a born-again
believer. When first married she had been, like Harold, an atheist, or at least
an agnostic. Later she had seen the light, and had chosen to follow the path
that led to redemption and everlasting life. So during the weeks that followed
she tried, though not too hard, to persuade Helena to break the news to
Lancelot. That much she saw as her Christian duty; she wanted nothing on her
conscience. Much to her relief, Helena stubbornly refused. She never doubted
for a moment that Lance would marry her if she were to tell him she was
pregnant; but she had her pride; she would have him on her terms or not at all.
Better to stay single than lure a man into marriage.

When the army posted Lancelot
overseas, it came as a shock to Helena. Still she said nothing.

Harold was puzzled. Why had
his daughter given up modelling? Why did she spend most of her time moping
around the house? It was not like her at all. She was an active and lively
young woman, normally never at home. What was going on? Francesca offered no
explanation. Not the most observant of men, he could not help noticing, around
the fifth month of her pregnancy, that Helena was putting on weight.

‘Does she have some woman’s –
um – condition?’ he enquired tentatively of his wife.

‘So you’ve noticed,’ said
Francesca in her condescending way.

‘What exactly is wrong with
her?’ ‘Nothing. She’s pregnant.’

Poor Harold took it badly. The
unthinkable, the thing that only happened in other families, had happened in
his. For a long time he raged against the man responsible for his daughter’s
predicament. When he had calmed down, he insisted on knowing who the father
was.

Francesca’s lips were sealed.
‘You had better ask Helena.’ ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘Why isn’t the bastard
here?

He’ll do the right thing, or
I’ll know the reason why.’ Francesca pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘The right
thing,

Harold? And what might that be?’

Francesca had a way of
ignoring the obvious when it suited her. ‘He’s going to marry her, the piece of
shit.’

‘You want your daughter to marry a piece of
shit?’

‘For God’s sake, woman, you
know what I mean. Anything’s better than being a single mother, isn’t it?’
Harold was an old- fashioned man with old-fashioned views.

Francesca lifted her head and
looked down her nose at her husband. ‘That, Harold, is a typical male macho
comment. I find it grossly offensive.’

‘I only want what’s best for
my daughter. I intend to see she gets it.’ He flattered himself that he still
had some influence with Helena.

‘Who is he, darling?’ he asked Helena.

‘Dad, it doesn’t matter who he
is. He just happens to be the father of my child. I’m not going to marry him.’

‘It all seems very
irresponsible to me,’ said Harold unhappily.

Helena slipped her arms round
her father’s neck. ‘Have I let you down?’

‘Of course you haven’t.’ He
kissed her. ‘I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.’

‘Then please don’t worry about me, dad.’

‘Is it anyone I know?’ He could not resist
asking.

Helena shook her head. She
didn’t want to lie but she didn’t want to tell him the truth either.

Harold was close to tears.
This was not what he had planned for his only child. A girl like Helena could
have married anyone, anyone at all. Why did she have to get involved with some
useless layabout? She was obviously ashamed of him, or she would have told him
who he was. Silly child. How could she think so little of herself? ‘You may
think I’m an interfering old fool,’ he said, ‘and I dare say you are right. But
why you dropped Lancelot I shall never know. He’s an exceptional young man. One
thing I do know, if he was the father of your child, he would never walk away.’

Helena was silent.

‘I always hoped that you two .
. . ’ Harold bit his lip hard, determined not to break down in front of his
daughter. Everything was topsy-turvy these days. Men behaved like girls and
girls behaved like men. The trouble was, when girls got themselves pregnant
they were the ones left holding the baby. He bared his soul to his friend, Ban.

‘Instead of finding God, my
wife would have done better to find her daughter a husband. You don’t suppose,’
he asked hesitantly, ‘that Helena and Lancelot might still . . . you know?’

‘No idea,’ said Ban. The last thing he would
ever speak to his son about was women. ‘Keen on the army. In his father’s
footsteps. More’s the pity. Brighter than me. Much. Ready to take the plunge?
Wouldn’t know. Know nothing about his love- life.’ Ban directed a shrewd look
at his old friend. ‘Whip off an e-mail? Helena preggers. That sort of thing?’

Harold shuddered. ‘Don’t do
that. She would never forgive me. Besides, it really isn’t Lance’s business, is
it? Why should he pick up the tab for another man’s dinner?’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘You know, Ban, old chap, I
used to dream of walking my daughter up the aisle. Always wanted to send her
off in style. Nothing too fancy, just something to remember. They say her
wedding day is the happiest day in a girl’s life. Isn’t that what they say?
It’ll never happen now.’ A lone tear rolled down Harold Pemberton’s face. Ban
was distressed for his friend. He wished he could think of something to say to
comfort him.

It was a boy. When Lancelot
returned home with his regiment, the baby was six months old. ‘Why didn’t you
tell me? We’ll get married right away.’

After all these months of
self-doubt and torment, Helena’s moment of truth had arrived. How many times
had she enacted this scene in her mind, imagining every word, every expression,
every nuance of meaning, hidden and concealed. Everything would depend on
Lancelot’s reaction. She had always known he would offer to marry her. The
question she asked herself: was he doing it out of a sense of duty, or because
he loved her? So direct and searching was her look that his eyes faltered; that
was already significant she told herself. Words were unnecessary when you loved
someone as much as she loved Lancelot. Avidly she searched for some indication
in his expression, his voice, his manner – anything that might give the tiniest
clue to what he was thinking.

She tested him. ‘What if I
were to tell you it isn’t yours?’ He could not hide his shock and dismay.

‘Would you marry me if you were not the
father?’ All too aware she was pushing him into a corner, she could think of no
alternative. For her it was the all-important question, and she had to ask it.

Lancelot hesitated. ‘Well, that would be
different, of course.

I would have to think about it
. . . even so . . . ’ She said flatly, ‘It isn’t your problem. It’s mine.’ ‘Who
is the man?’

And with that question it was
all over. ‘Do I know him?’

‘Perhaps you do, perhaps you
don’t.’ A bright smile. ‘Who knows anyone?’

‘When are you getting married?’

She looked away. ‘We are not getting married.’

‘How can that be? It’s his
child. It’s his duty to marry you.’ ‘His duty? You make it sound like a
penance.’

He shifted uneasily. ‘What I
mean is, I’m sure he wants to marry you. I’m sure he loves you.’

‘I told you, Lance, it’s not
your problem.’ She could see he was badly hurt; he had tried to hide it but it
was obvious from his manner. He thought ill of her for going to bed with
another man. She was bitterly disappointed in him. It was unreasonable of her
but she could not help herself. How could he believe her capable of sleeping
with another man? How could he think that of her? Didn’t he know he was
everything to her? Didn’t he know there never had been, never could be, anyone
but him? All she said was, ‘Don’t be angry with me.’

‘I was fond of you,’ he said.
‘I thought you knew that.’ Tears filled her eyes and she turned away to hide
her face.

The reproach was more than she could bear.

There was, he thought, nothing
more to be said. What right did he have to say anything? It was not as if they
had sworn to be faithful to each other, though somehow he had assumed they
would be; he had expected better of her. She was not the girl he took her for.
What was worse, she seemed to treat it all so lightly, as if it were something
of a joke. He wondered about the man. He hated him, and his hatred was like a
physical pain. If ever he met him, he might not be able to control himself. If
he saw him now, he would kill him.

‘Can I see the little one?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’ She left the room
and came back holding the baby.

Gently he touched a plump
cheek. ‘What do you call him?’ ‘Galahad.’

He held out his forefinger,
and the baby squeezed it in its tiny hand. Lancelot smiled.

Helena smiled back. Her heart
was being wrenched in two. ‘You like children, Lance?’

‘I should like to have a son.’
Not that he had given it much thought until now. ‘Some day I hope I shall.’

‘Some day?’ Not today, not
tomorrow, not the day after, not ever.

‘It’s perhaps a little soon
for me,’ he said, uncomfortable with the subject. ‘I still have things to do.’

‘What sort of things?’ ‘Oh,
you know.’ ‘Saving the world?’ ‘Something like that.’

When they said good-bye, her
courage almost failed her. She wanted to cry out, ‘It’s yours! Galahad is your
son!’ But she did not. What would have been the point when his plans so obviously
did not include her? Still, the temptation was there, and no doubt always would
be. After all, he had a right to know he was a father, she told herself. Was
that not sufficient reason to be honest with him? It might have been if she
were not so angry and disillusioned. She hardened her heart. He deserved to be
punished for doubting her, he deserved to be punished for not loving her
enough.

It was a long time before she
saw Lancelot again and she missed him desperately. She began to neglect
herself, not bothering to dress, often not bothering to eat. This Helena was a
very different woman from that bright-eyed, self-possessed young model who once
went briskly about her business, happy with whom she was. Strong enough for
both of them, Francesca took care of Galahad, and scolded her daughter back to
health. ‘A mother doesn’t have the luxury of being weak. Your son needs you.
Without a husband, you will have to be more of a mother, not less.’ She was
right, of course, though that did not make it any easier for Helena. She
resented her mother for always being right.

‘I’m going to tell Lance,’ she said defiantly.

It was the last thing
Francesca wanted. Yet knowing how stubborn her daughter could be, she did not
argue with her. ‘It’s your decision, not mine, darling,’ she said dutifully.
‘I’m only here to help.’

‘I can’t tell him,’ said
Helena, backing down immediately. ‘You know I can’t. I just wish I wasn’t so
alone.’ She knelt down, laid her head in her mother’s lap and sobbed.

‘You are not alone, darling.’ Francesca
stroked Helena’s hair. ‘You have me. As long as God lets me live, I shall be
here for you and Galahad.’

‘It’s Lancelot I want.’

‘I know, I know,’ said
Francesca soothingly. ‘I’m afraid you will just have to get used to doing
without him. Believe me, child, he isn’t worthy of you.’

Helena shook her head. She
knew differently. It was she who was not worthy of him.

Every day, morning and
evening, Francesca fell on her knees and gave thanks for this gift from heaven.
The boy would be as much her son as Helena’s, more so in fact. For she, not
Helena, would be the one who would see to it that Galahad dedicated his life to
God. And Galahad would be the perfect man, a man whose power came not from this
world, but from his Father in heaven.

 Arthur strapped himself in. Somewhere in
the dim light of the cabin was Merlin, words leaping from his mouth, eyes
shining like two moons. As the craft took off Arthur was thrust back in his
seat. A loud roaring assaulted his ears and a light as brilliant as ten
thousand suns stabbed his eyes. His lips splayed on his teeth, monstrous hands
gouged his cheeks, and a cruel vice clamped his limbs as he sped like a bullet
through the dark tunnel that links this life with the next. Suddenly there was
light. The roaring stopped, and his body was floating free, tumbling in slow
motion in a void of silence. Voices showered down on him like space dust. ‘Open
your eyes, we’re here. Open your eyes, we’re here. Open your eyes, your eyes,
your eyes.’ As his head cleared, the scatter of voices merged into three, then
two, then one voice. And that voice said, ‘Open your eyes, Arthur.’

The next world was even more
breathtaking than the one he had just left. But then he realised, with
something like a pang of disappointment, that he was still alive, and that the
voice was Merlin’s voice telling him to look down.

‘Where are we?’

The magus did not answer
directly. ‘What do you think of it?’

Arthur looked down and
marvelled at what he saw. ‘Incredible.’

‘I thought you might like it,’ said Merlin
smugly.

Far below, in the middle of
the blue Atlantic ocean, shimmering in the sunlight like a pearl, was an
island, and on the island was a great city, a vision of some future age, the
embodiment of a dream. What astonished Arthur, apart from its amazing beauty,
was the perfect symmetry of its layout. Obviously it had been planned with the
greatest care, and for some specific purpose.

As they approached the ground,
he saw that all the buildings were white and geometrical in shape, pyramids and
squares, rectangles and spheres. The sole exception was what appeared to be the
ruins of an ancient castle; a corner tower, crumbling walls, and the remains of
an entrance gateway. At regular intervals around the perimeter of the island
stood clusters of white columns, tall and slender, each crowned with a halo of
antennae moving silently and purposefully, like the feelers of a giant insect
probing the sky. As he watched, a silver sphere flashed in the sunlight,
hovered in the still air, and accelerated away. In an instant it was gone.

‘What was that?’ asked Arthur.
‘A Nimble. Like ours.’

‘Which is?’

‘A fighter aircraft,’
explained Merlin. ‘The acrobat of the sky, as the name implies, and fast, very
fast.’

‘How fast is fast?’

‘About Mach seven,’ said
Merlin sneaking a sideways glance to observe Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur knew something about
force ‘G’ and the pull of gravity. Surely that sort of speed would tear a man
apart. ‘How can a pilot survive at Mach seven?’

An airy wave of the hand. ‘All in good time.’

The moment they touched down,
the belly of the Nimble gaped. Arthur followed Merlin down the short ladder.
Merlin beamed. ‘Welcome to Camelot.’

Arthur felt a surge of
excitement unlike anything he had known before. So this was Camelot! The tall
white buildings seemed to hover over him like benevolent spirits, the grass was
greener and the flowers more beautiful than any he had ever seen, an avenue of
trees inclined gently in the breeze as though bowing to him, and in the distance
the sea whispered his name. They climbed into the only visible means of
transport, the Hovercart, a compact buggy with huge wheels moving on land, or,
depending on the terrain, a few feet above it. As they passed the buildings,
Merlin murmured from time to time what Arthur assumed was a reference to their
functions: ‘Command Control . . . Robot Centre . . . Naval HQ . . . Airforce HQ
. . . Computer Network . . . Satellite Control . . . Bunkers’ . . . and
finally, a name that sounded like NIWIS.

They were outside a building
shaped like a perfect pyramid. Arthur was hoping Merlin would stop, but he
drove on. ‘Aren’t you going to show me round?’

‘That’s what I’m doing,’ said Merlin evasively.

They passed a spherical
building. ‘I would have liked to see what goes on in there,’ said Arthur.’

‘All in good time,’ said
Merlin, intoning the phrase like a mantra.

So frustrated was Arthur that
he was tempted to jump from the vehicle and take a look for himself. The
problem was choosing the right moment to jump. Merlin was an erratic driver,
and Arthur could never be sure when the Hovercart would lift off and when it
would touch down. He decided it was too risky, so he had to be content with
asking, ‘When will the time be good?’ to which Merlin replied enigmatically, ‘You
will be the one to decide that.’

‘That rectangular building
over there.’ Arthur pointed. ‘It says NIWIS over the entrance. What does NIWIS
mean?’

‘Nothing Is What It Seems,’
said Merlin, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur was intrigued. ‘What happens in there?’

Merlin muttered something rude
under his breath and put down the Hovercart with a thump. ‘I find it difficult
to drive this thing and talk at the same time. I’m not saying it’s your fault,’
he added hastily. ‘The fact is, even when I’m not talking,

I’m a poor driver. Always thinking of something
else.’ He stared accusingly at Arthur. ‘You were asking me something. Ah yes.
NIWIS. Well, the technology is new, but the idea is as old as warfare itself.
The aim is to make the enemy believe whatever we want him to believe, to see
what we want him to see, to hear what we want him to hear, and of course not to
see or hear what we don’t want him to. Deception is a deadly weapon and NIWIS
has developed it to a fine art.’

Arthur’s attention was
distracted by a group of short squat people several hundred yards away. ‘Who
are they?’

‘Robots,’ said Merlin casually.

Arthur peered at the magus
suspiciously. Was he joking? ‘Did you say
robots
?’

‘I did.’

‘What exactly do they do?’

‘Pretty much everything,’ said
Merlin. ‘They have many different functions. For example there are maintenance
robots, surveillance robots, land robots, sea robots, pilot robots, tracking
robots, destroyer robots, pilot robots . . . ’ His forehead ridged in thought.
‘Who else now . . . ?’

Arthur was not sure he had
heard right. ‘Pilot robots!’ ‘That’s right.’ Merlin blinked innocently. ‘It’s
no joke, I assure you.’

‘No, of course not,’ said
Arthur, a touch embarrassed for having thought it might be. Something clicked
into place in his head. ‘Just now I asked you how human pilots could withstand
Mach Seven. Are you saying that . . .?’

‘I am,’ said Merlin. ‘In any
military operation requiring high speed flight, a robot pilot would fly the
Nimble.’

For a while Arthur was silent,
absorbing what he had learned in his short time on Camelot. Whatever Merlin was
up to, it was certainly extraordinary, as he might have expected of the magus;
it was also disturbing. Ahead of the Hovercraft now was a building perched on
one short, thick pillar, then another exactly the same, and another and another
– a whole cluster of buildings that looked like a field of huge white
mushrooms. ‘Those low spherical shapes,’ said Arthur. ‘What are they?’

‘The entrances to underground
bunkers and pens,’ said Merlin.

‘What’s in them?’

‘Scuttles,’ said Merlin.
‘Nimbles. Eclipse.’ The shadow of a smile crossed the face of the magus as he
watched Arthur wrestling with the strange names. ‘And last, but not least, the
Kraken.’

‘I already know that Nimbles
are your fighter aircraft,’ said Arthur. ‘What about the others?’

‘Scuttles are basically
transport aircraft, very versatile and highly manoeuvrable, designed to operate
in difficult terrain – mountains, forests, deserts, you name it. Eclipse is a
giant cigar-shaped aircraft. It has a huge range and can carry a small army
together with its weapons and transport. It also has highly accurate long and
short-range missiles, satellites and various UAV’s, and serves as a flying
observation and communications HQ. Incidentally,’ said Merlin, who was
obviously thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘all our aircraft are capable of
vertical take- off and landing. The Kraken is another giant, a sea craft,
basically the equivalent of Eclipse. Its weapons systems are as potent as an
armada of battleships, and it has the advantage of being able to operate both
on the surface and underwater.’

Arthur’s brain felt as though
it had been sliced into thin onion-like layers, all expanding rapidly in
concentric circles. But where the centre of the onion was, and when the circles
would stop expanding, he had no idea. ‘Is this all your doing, Merlin?’ he
heard someone say, someone with a voice very like his.

‘With a little help from my
friends,’ said Merlin, with a wink. The Hovercart landed with a thump outside a
low, white building. ‘Command Control,’ Merlin volunteered. ‘Come and have a
cup of tea.’ The lighting inside the building was dim with a bluish tinge.
Arthur followed Merlin down a long, bare corridor into a room that he assumed
must be his office – a small desk, several computers and wall monitors, books
and papers, a sink, a few plates, mugs, a kettle, a fridge. All very sparse and
functional, yet somehow radiating energy, the energy of the magus.

Merlin bustled about making
tea while Arthur tried to regroup the moving parts of his brain. From the
Hovercart he had seen numerous people either walking along paths or chatting
outside buildings and guessed there were a lot more of them inside those
buildings, probably also in Command Control where he and Merlin were now. What
was it Merlin had said when he first showed him round his ‘facilities’ at
Glastonbury?
Yes,
I
do
have
helpers,
men
and
women
who will one day be actively involved somewhere
else. People
who share
my
beliefs
and
are
dedicated
to
the
cause.
What exactly, Arthur
wondered, was this island? Where was it? Who lived on it?

‘A lot of questions,’
responded Merlin, though Arthur had not asked them. ‘First let me tell you
something about the island.’ He handed Arthur his tea. ‘It was deserted for
centuries. Later, much later, a man lived here alone, a man who had inherited
the island. He lived and died here.’ Merlin sipped his tea, his green eyes
staring fixedly at Arthur over the rim of his mug. ‘Once, they say, this island
was a kingdom ruled by a great king.’ A sly look. ‘Do I need to tell you who
that was?’

Arthur ignored the bait.
‘Those ruins that I saw when we were landing . . . was that his castle?’

‘So they say.’

‘It’s just a coincidence,’
murmured Arthur to himself. ‘It has to be.’

Merlin made no comment.

‘Surely someone must have
spotted what was going on here?’

‘No,’ said Merlin. ‘Not from
the air?’

‘No.’

‘From the sea, then?’ ‘No.’

‘It seems you have had the
most incredible luck,’ said Arthur mischievously, knowing full well that Merlin
did not believe in luck.

The magus was clearly stung by
the suggestion. ‘Luck has nothing whatever to do with it.’

‘Explain then,’ said Arthur.

The magus sat proudly erect.
‘No one can see the island, unless I choose to let them see it.’

Even coming from the magus
that sounded like an empty boast. ‘Why not?’ said Arthur.

‘Because,’ said Merlin
tantalisingly, ‘it is mantled.’ Arthur sighed. Yet more riddles. ‘What does
that mean?’

‘It means the island cannot be
detected, either visually or any other way.’

‘What if a ship ran into it?’

‘That couldn’t happen,’ Merlin
assured him. ‘It would be diverted without even knowing it. I have taken care
of that.’

‘I don’t see how you can hide
the island from satellites,’ said Arthur.

‘Oh but I can and I do,’ said
Merlin smugly. ‘No prying eyes, wherever they are, can penetrate the island’s
mantle.’ It was a simple statement of fact, and knowing the magus, Arthur had
no doubt it was true.

Was there nothing the magus
had overlooked? ‘Who knows about this island?’

‘I do. You do. My friends do.’
Arthur was curious. ‘Friends?’

‘The people who work here.
There are not many of them yet, but there will be more – scientists and
researchers, doctors and surgeons, teachers, engineers, constructions workers,
architects and others. All experts in their field.’ The
crème
de
la
crème
as they say.’ Merlin’s huge eyes shone. ‘Not only are they the
best, Arthur, these men and women believe in what we are doing. Otherwise they
would not be here. They are convinced that Camelot is the only hope for the
world.’

‘You say there will be more,’
said Arthur. ‘When?’ ‘When the time comes.’

‘When will that be?’

An apologetic shrug. ‘I’m
afraid I can’t answer that.’ ‘Why not?’

‘Because, Arthur, it depends on you.’

Frustration piled on
frustration. It was as if Merlin were standing on the far side of a deep chasm
beckoning him. He was tempted, but he was also fearful. How could he get across
without plunging into the abyss?

A thought occurred. Politics
had taught Arthur caution. ‘These friends – are they confined to the island.’

‘They are free to come and go as they please.’

Strange that Merlin should be
so relaxed about it. ‘Are you not afraid someone might give the game away?
Either deliberately or accidentally.’

Merlin nodded his head in
approval at the question. ‘We have taken care of that too. No one can leave
Camelot until they deposit the relevant part of their memory in the memory
bank. The bank decides what they take with them and what they leave behind.
Once they have done that, they are free to go, and of course to return.’