Elysium. Part Two (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-One
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Stone Hill.

The land was showing the first signs of autumn. The trees were grudgingly shedding the first of their yellowing leaves to the wind, scattering them amongst the gutters and alleys of Stone Hill Garrison.

Tranter had never seen a border before, not outside of photographs and theatre news-reels. Even having worked in the field he had never seen one first hand, having either travelled by night or come to land via the sea.

Now that he saw one with his own eyes it brought his heart to his mouth. It was simply enormous.

He watched it, dumbfounded. How any nation could have afforded the construction of the thing was a miracle. Even without the troubles of the economy and the lack of capital it seemed unimaginable that there could ever have been a large enough workforce to complete the job within a thousand years. And yet there it was, spanning the entire horizon and reaching a hundred feet – a hundred and fifty at some points - from the wasteland below into the forget-me-not sky.

Eighty-seven point six million tonnes of concrete and iron rose out of the land in the form of an inverted triangular prism. Broader at its peak to hinder ascent and fortified with barbed wires and pikes, it was near impossible to cross, regardless of the surveillance points. Set in a grid formation at an interval of twenty feet were dark globes containing motion-sensitive cameras. Over the decades their casings had faded for the elements, though ninety per cent of them - according to the latest statistics - were still in operation. They each reflected a single point of light like a tarantula lying in wait of prey, and gave the concrete mass an eerie animation; a cold and indifferent gaze, as that of a lidless corpse.

His attention was drawn to a series of squat concrete buildings over a half mile from the camp. Orange lights were pulsing atop their roofs, the same that signalled curfew in Birmingham. These lights, however, warned of a craft approaching on a wide arc from the south. A Rhinox. Elephantine and ugly, with a hold th
e size of a cathedral, it was a sextuple-rotored helicopter designed to lift tanks and armoured vehicles into remote locations. He watched its course, lethargic and graceful, the giant craft wrenched at the earth beneath, so tremendous was its downstream, leaving a ploughed furrow in its wake.

The panes of the window began to vibrate as the Rhinox approached. Even at such a distance they could cause damage, and had been used, unofficially, to fly over enemy camps to decimate them. Prohibited from flying within a mile of populated dwellings, they were only ever discernible on the horizon of Birmingham. Seeing one so close now was nearly as great an experience as witnessing the border. The craft slowed as it neared the jumble of low buildings, enveloped by a cloud of churned soil and dust before disappearing.

For the duration of the week he and Toubec had attended meetings regarding a sweep of Mortehoe using troops rather than Dark Lens’, as whomever was residing in the area had become adept at hiding from them. They had been met by resilience from every quarter: the expense of the operation, the lack of equipment, the lack of topographical information, there seemed to be little in the entire arsenal of the military that could make possible a forty-five mile journey across empty countryside. Even the possibility of a helicopter fly-by of Mortehoe was met with grimaces, rubbed chins and pouts.

He had fought the argument before, years ago in Imaging when he had seen the woman on the screen in the corner of his eye. He had raged at his superior and been offered the same withdrawn expressions and half-hearted excuses. He wondered if history was repeating itself and thought of Stumm. Was Toubec going to receive a bullet to the temple? He could live with that, he thought.

The infantry of the garrison were cold and unhelpful, Tranter considered as the two of them sat alone in the mess hall, the only other being a serviceman sitting alone in the corner some way from them. Tranter had regarded him with suspicion for a while, but the mans constant checking of his watch and his kit bag stuffed beside his feet acted as evidence he were waiting to leave the place.

Not only had the infantry ignored them the duration of their stay, the officers - vital to the arrangement of their operation, were impossible to find, or otherwise continually laying obstructions in their way. He mentioned his thoughts to Toubec, and though she would have been hard pushed to deny it, she reminded him that the staff were following correct protocol, and that it was he who was asking questions he had no business asking.

‘Questioning them about their operations!’ She admonished him. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘
I wanted to know if they carried out their own work beyond the border. I can’t think of any other reason why they don’t want us over there.’ He had taken her to the window and shown her tyre marks leading beyond the perimeter gate and across the bridge of the no-man’s land channel. She regarded the muddy streaks for a moment; obviously he had touched a nerve by noticing it before her. She had no explanation for it; there was no reason for the military to head out beyond the border and into the quarantine zone.

The news
on the InterRail had reported that the Ministry of Custody was implementing several-thousand jobs to manufacture helicopters, and over the weeks he had overheard numerous conversations that lead him believe that the finances were coming, almost exclusively, from Stone Hill.

‘What on earth are they doing across there?’ She said, laying her fingers against the glass. He noticed the lack of acidity that usually accompanied her questions.

‘And how can they afford to fund construction of Rhinox when they can’t afford to use them to cross the border? He turned back to the lone infantryman. He was obviously listening to their conversation. Toubec followed his gaze and lowered her voice.

She turned to him and raised her brow. ‘They make out that they can’t afford to open the gates to get thro
ugh after all the cuts, and yet those tracks are fresh. Even I can see that. Rained on Monday didn’t it?’

‘Started on Sunday evening.’

She turned back to the border and inspected the tracks. ‘You’re right,’ she said, more to herself than to Tranter. ‘They are being difficult.’ She was silent for a moment and he watched her crows-feet deepen as she became lost in thought.

‘I need to make a call,’ she said, leaving greasy fingerprints on the glass as she left.

‘Who...? He started to say, though she had gone.

*

Michael Bowson watched the steam of the kettle rustle the flaking kitchen wallpaper. He waited until it whistled and flipped the switch, then poured it into a mug whilst stirring in a thick black caffeinated syrup. The viscous product clung to the spoon as he stirred until the heat dissolved it. Veins of crimson amber swirled until it was a deep, unified mauve.

‘Still drinking that crap?’

Michael turned, somewhat startled. Few people came to the office on Sundays. It was Ashard Brindle, the firm’s accountant. While he muttered a simple ‘Uh, yeah,’ he recalled Ashard telling someone he’d be in over the weekend to settle some things.

‘My wife tells me there are a thousand different chemicals in this, what's it called?’ He picked the tin up and inspected the label, ‘Aribica Blend, and five hundred of them give cancer to rats.’

‘If that were true and we could prove it,’ Michael raised a brow, ‘then this Solicitors would be made.’

‘That’s true. I don't know what she thinks she knows about it anyway, she’s a mechanic over at the Co-Operative. Probably read it in a pamphlet.’

Ashard replaced the tin and retrieved another, before spooning a red gel into another cup.

‘Can’t believe I have to come in today. You know how much Richards spent this month?’ He asked, pouring water over his cup and dousing the work-surface. ‘God knows what he’s been up to but I’ve got to cook the books so much I'll...’

‘You’ll what?’ Michael laughed. ‘Come on, what's the analogy?’

‘I was going to say ‘I'll have to take the batteries out of the fire alarms’.’

‘That is weak, Ash. Even by your standards.’

They both grinned while Ashard dabbed at the work-surface with a dish cloth. ‘You got much on today?’ He asked eventually.

‘Just keeping on top of things. And I've no heating or water at home.’

‘One of the perks of having a job, huh? Get to enjoy luxuries such as drinking water.’

A dull trill sounded from outside the kitchen and Michael instinctively scooped up his drink and moved toward it.

‘Drink later?’ Ashard called as Michael hastened his pace down a grey corridor to his office.

‘Come find me around five.’ He shouted back, kicking his door closed and spilling his drink as he snatched the phone from the hook and jabbed the ‘talk’ stub with the earpiece.

‘Bowson.’

‘Michael?’ Toubec sounded distant, as though she were fighting to be heard over an avalanche.

‘Sally! Christ, it’s been ages. I was worrying about you.’

‘I wrote you, didn't you get it?’

He laughed, she couldn't have seen the news reports of the Union Mail Service strikes. ‘No, and you’re not likely to get anything here soon. The strikes are worse than ever.’

‘I thought it might happen, but... Well, we don't have much coverage of news here.’

‘Can you talk about what you're doing?’

‘Michael? What did you say? The line is terrible.’

‘I asked whether you can talk about what you're doing.’ He lifted his steaming drink and sipped, recoiling from the heat.

‘I'm not doing anything. I'm stuck here with a complete dolt...’ She sighed. ‘That’s not fair. He’s not a complete dolt, but I just don't... Did I tell you why he was demoted?’

‘Constantly. I think you told me again instead of saying ‘goodbye’.’

She laughed. ‘No I didn't. ‘But Michael, it’s just so frustrating. We're not getting any help this end. They’re playing the card that they don't have the resources to get us across the border. We sit in conference after conference, TeleLinking other garrisons to see what they can do, and guess what? They can't help either. And yet... And this is the joke, it's rumoured here that its Stonehill funding this new Rhinox manufacture initiative. They can pay for two hundred bloody helicopters to be made, and generate seven-thousand new jobs, but can't afford a sodding sweep of a village fifty miles away.’

‘They’re not just helicopters, are they.’

‘That's not the point though, is it?’

‘I guess. Anyway, how are you coping?’

‘Depends who you ask. I'm ok. Look, Michael, I've got something to ask.’

‘Go on,’ he sat down and grabbed a pen, ‘I'm listening.’

‘No one here will speak to us. The higher ranks are stonewalling us behind a facade of assistance, and the privates have obviously been told to keep their distance. I need you to find someone who's served here, someone whose...’ Her voice was overwhelmed by an echoing crackle.

‘Sally? The lines gone again. Are you still there?’

He waited for a few moments until the crackling was replaced by a pulsing dial-tone, and then set the receiver slowly into the headset.

‘Find someone who’s served at Stone Hill.’ He said to himself.

He knew exactly where to start. The one place outside of a garrison you were always likely to find a former squaddie or two.

Prison.

*

Tranter stared from the mess hall window, waiting for Toubec to return. Across the garrison infantrymen went about their business, several stepped from barracks toward the communication tower, two more had pulled up in a carrier and were stepping out, laughing over some matter. An officer stepped in their path and they stood to attention as he casually saluted and continued. They were all acting normally and yet, he thought, there was something in the air that was ubiquitously secretive.

‘“A set of lies agreed upon.”’ He said to himself, his breath fogging the glass.

‘Sorry, sir?’ Said the young private whom had previously been secreted in the shadows. He had left them and advanced toward Tranter when Toubec had departed.

‘Nothing, just quoting Bonaparte.’ Tranter replied, turning.

‘“History,”’
the young soldier mulled. ‘"Nothing but a set of lies agreed upon." That’s right, isn’t it?’ He joined Tranter at the window.

‘Something along those lines.’

‘I think ‘lies’ may be a strong word, don’t you?’ He said after hesitating. ‘There are many perspectives relating to why anything happens, and yet we take only one viewpoint and label it ‘the truth’.’

Tranter noted the kit bag at his feet. ‘Going on leave, are you?’

‘I’m being transferred to Southampton.’

‘Really! I was under the impression there was no form of transport capable of such vast distances.’

The young officer snorted with a smirk, then chose his words carefully. ‘I shouldn’t be saying this, sir, but you’re fighting a losing battle with Colonel Matloff. Whatever power you think you have over him from the government, he has more.’

‘What happens across the border, private...?’ Tranter said bluntly, extending his hand.