Elysium. Part Two (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five
.

Stone Hill.

Tranter lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Outside the lights atop the border pulsed slowly, lighting his room and filling him with resentment. It had been a long and frustrating day in the company of Lieutenant Colonel Noriah, and the border-lights did nothing more than remind him that the garrison was the final authority here and even determined whether to grant him the right to sleep.

He had been finding it difficult not to think of Stumm the last weeks at Stone Hill, the military uniforms bringing to mind the Captain he had ordered across the border and ultimately condemned to death.

‘
For fraud and conspiring against the orders of superiors, you are found guilty
.’ The words of the judge resounded in his mind. He saw the courtroom in the plaster of the ceiling, grey and austere.

‘
For wilful neglect of duty, resulting in the death of an officer, you are found guilty
.’ The judgement had been unnecessary; he had known what the outcome would be before he had even replaced the handset on learning of Stumm’s death. From that moment he knew his life would be deviating toward a course less secure, and one most likely spent in a Judicial Reform. Not that the thought of prison had meant much for a long time, so appalled was he with the realisation of what he had done. Stumm’s dead. He'd kept on saying it to himself as though he needed repeated confirmation for it to be true.

For weeks the world was nothing but a mist of questions and guilt. He had never meant for Stumm to die, he had never even considered it could have been an outcome. And yet the drab walls of the police interview rooms and the equally bland cells which he had called home for several months were a testament to the fact that it was all too real, and all too final.

Therefore when the verdict was being announced in court, Tranter had breathed into his chest and known that it was all a pantomime. He was going to be locked up for a very long time and there was nothing that anyone could, or should, do about it.

‘
On the charge of murder in the first degree, you are found not guilty
.’

It took a moment for him to realise what had been said, though the judge had continued without the notion fully sinking in.

‘
On the charge of murder in the second degree, though it is the consideration of the court that you are directly and irrefutably accountable for the commission that lead to the death of a decorated officer, you did not overtly instruct Captain Stumm on how to cross the border at Bridgewater. Therefore the chain of causation that lead to death was not in your control, and you are found not guilty
.’

There was no sense of triumph accompanying the words. He felt eyes on him as though all were in disagreement, as though the words were intended for someone else. He blinked and looked dumbly around. His sentence was stated and yet he heard nothing. His mind raced, and he was overwhelmed by a ringing in his ears that remained as he was ushered from the courtroom to his cell, where his lawyer explained what was to follow.

He served only eight of his twelve month sentence in Walsall Judicial Reform, a period that slipped by uneventfully and without duress.

All the while he was in correspondence with Stumm’s family in Durham, proffering his remorse. They had seemed remarkably understanding, he had thought, and assured him that they held no contempt toward him. From their correspondence it appeared that the Stumm family had always been motivated to carry out that which they believed. He received letters proclaiming the Stumms had always put others safety before their own, that many had died in The Great Pathogen saving strangers with no thought of their own mortality, that many had been awarded Government Decorations, and so the death of their child, no matter how seemingly pointless, was one for a Stumm to be proud of.

Tranter had never shared their optimism, and although the court didn’t place the chain of causation at his feet, he had always known that Stumm had had few choices in crossing the border, and the route that had been taken had been the only route possible. In many respects he had assisted Stumm into the path of that ruinous bullet, as directly as pulling the trigger himself.

A carrier hummed past the window, swishing through a puddle and casting a fleeting shadow throughout the room.

He sat up suddenly, recalling his forgotten idea that had struck him some days earlier in the mess hall.

Throwing back his thin sheets he pulled on his shirt and trousers and opened the door. He squinted at the bright light as he stumbled down the corridor, stopping at Toubec’s room. He rapped on the door lightly, waited a few seconds, then knocked again, more forcibly.

There came a sleepy curse from behind and the door opened slowly.

‘Toubec!’ Tranter whispered, pushing his way in to her room.

‘What the hell? You can’t just...’

‘That pamphlet, the edition of
Medical Review
you were reading on the InterRail. Do you still have it?’

‘I...’ She turned on a sidelight, and for a moment Tranter thought she looked almost effeminate in her plain nightdress. ‘I think so. I didn’t finish reading it... But...’

‘I’ll explain in a moment. Something’s been bothering me for a while... I’m sorry to have woken you,’ he added clumsily.

‘Don’t worry,’ she sighed, ‘I couldn’t sleep anyway.’ She opened the wardrobe and began unpacking her hold-all. ‘It’s an old copy, five years or so, ‘37 or ‘38. Probably horrendously out of date. Here.’ She held the dog-eared magazine up to him and he thanked her, rifling through the pages.

‘I didn’t have much to do on the InterRail,’ he explained as he turned the pages over, ‘so I was trying to read the pages that were facing me. Well, at least look at the pictures... Here!’ He turned the magazine round and handed it to her.

‘“
Nominations for the Beclere Prize for Virology’, 2137
.” What about it?’

‘The inset photograph at the bottom of the page. Doesn’t it look familiar?’

The photograph was a microscope-enlarged antibody, stained bright green and vivid against the black background.

She looked at the picture and although she said nothing he could see that her imagination was enflamed. She brushed passed him and sat on the corner of the bed, fervently reading the article. She read out loud the footnote beside t
he photograph of the antibody. “‘The inaugural prize, value £2,600, was awarded to Dr. John Camberwell, who lectures at the University of Dublin. He will be travelling to the Beclere Research Institute, Brussels, to lecture on the “Phylogeography and molecular epidemiology of an S18K4 antitoxin” in collaboration with the office of Professor Lars Scmichen, Vilvoorde University.”’

She thought for a moment, and then looked up at Tranter. ‘This antibody... It’s the predecessor of your ‘Blunderbuss’.’

‘You mean our new virus evolved from this?’

‘The antibody was created by Dr. Camberwell from the S18K4 virus... That’s what he won the Beclere Prize for. There are plenty of vaccines that each combat Carnivora Influenza, though it would seem as though this one was better than most.’

‘And this new virus, it would consume both the antibody and the S18K4 virus?’ Tranter asked.

‘Theoretically. Being a matter of conjecture, and with no means to verify it? Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you recognise this in the beginning? You just said this is five years old!’ He couldn’t escape the insinuation in his tone, and Toubec couldn’t fail to notice it, either. For all the haughtiness and arrogance that she carried around with her, she had overlooked something so patently obvious.

‘Are you joking?’ She balked. ‘Universities aren’t government bodies! It’s not our...’

‘You’re telling me this antidote to Carnivora was discovered up to five years ago and no-one in Research knows about it?’

‘I’m not telling you an antidote was discovered. This is a photograph of an antibody, that’s all. There’s no antidote without years of experimentation. And if I’ve not heard about it then it’s not even on the books to start trials at iCDO.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed. He stepped to the phone and picked up the receiver, punching the ‘talk’ stub. At last, they had someone outside of the military who might know something about the virus beyond the border. ‘Operator? Can you connect me to the Irish exchange please? Thank you.’

There was a moment’s hesitation. Toubec sat on the corner of the bed.

‘Hello, yes. I’d like you to connect me to Dublin University. If there’s no department of virology listed then connect me to reception, please. Thank you.’

There was another pause, longer than the first. Tranter turned and watched Toubec. She had taken a notebook and was scribbling on it. He was about to ask what she was doing when he was distracted by a voice at the other end of the line.

‘Yes, Dublin University? My name is Laur Tranter, Sub Manager of Topography and Imaging, Birmingham. I’m sorry to call so late but this is a matter of utmost urgency. I need to speak with Dr. John Camberwell.’

Toubec looked up from her notes and watched Tranter as he frowned.

‘Hello?’ He said, and then repeated himself before replacing the receiver.

‘What is it?’ She asked.

‘Nothing,’ he turned to walk from the room, ‘the line was faulty, that’s all.’

It was desperately obvious that Tranter was suddenly conscious of their being monitored and was impotent to state it. His sudden dismissive air, however, was too sudden a change in character to go unnoticed, surely. She called after him, stepping toward the door and following him to his room where she found him packing his bags.

He slipped her a torn piece of paper, saying. ‘I’m done here. They don’t want us across the border, they don’t want us here at all. And now the phones are going down. I’ve had it. I’ll be getting the 0600 InterRail. Stay if you think you can get any further with Colonel Noriah but if you want my opinion, we’re flogging a dead horse.’

It was a more convincing act, she thought, slipping the note up her sleeve and sighing heavily. Now it was her turn to put on a show.

‘Give it a few more days. We’ve got the photograph of the antibody, they can’t ignore that.’ It wasn’t enough. Whoever was listening in, or watching them, or whatever they were doing, would have to suspect nothing. ‘For God’s sake, why can’t you finish anything, Tranter? Too scared you’ll find yourself in a position of power again? Too scared you’ll have to take on the big decisions?’

He rounded on her and she could tell he no longer remembered this as an act. He was shaking, his eyes were glazed. He thrust a finger toward her. ‘You wouldn’t know the first thing about making big decisions, Toubec, sitting behind a screen all day, writing reports and filing them in triplicate.’ He straightened, and breathed deeply. ‘I made one decision. I didn’t even think it would save the world. I just wanted the glory of promotion. And all I did was...’

‘Laur,’ the word was uncomfortable on her tongue. He noted it and looked at the floor, aware of the performance he had momentarily forgotten. Could they hear? Could they see?

He stepped closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. He had expected her to be taught, her muscle like oak, but instead she was relaxed and welcoming. The uptight woman he had instantly disliked was as feminine as any he had known. What was he going to do next in this spectacle? Hold her? Kiss her? No, that would be irrational, that would set alarm bells ringing in their opponents minds, and they would find a way to stop them getting the InterRail...

‘I’m sorry,’ She said, and was in his arms before he had concluded his thoughts, her fingers spread and gripping his back tightly as he scooped her to the tips of her toes. What was he doing? was this still an act? Her nose was on his neck, he could feel her breath on his shoulder, her heartbeat against his.

They remained in one another’s arms for long seconds that felt more like hours, she gripping him tightly and he smoothing her back. This was dangerous territory, he thought, feeling arousal stirring within him, and he pulled away before he would have to make any fumbled apologies.

She held him in her gaze for a while, and then sighed. ‘0600?’

‘It’s for the best. We’ve tried everything we could. Let’s leave it to Stranghan. You’ll get your job back, that’s something to look forward to isn’t it?’

She raised her brow and nodded unconvincingly. ‘Goodnight.’

He jutted his chin and returned the awkward glance before she turned and made her way back to her room where she pulled the slip of paper from her sleeve and placed it against her notebook.

“
Dr. Camberwell is dead. We find our own way across the border.”

Chapter Twenty-Six
.

South-Easterly Wind.

Five knots.

A storm whistled throughout the night, wrenching leaves from trees and filling Mortehoe with sea-spray.

Although safe in the cellar, Priya could feel the wind outside pushing at the building above. The beams of the foundations groaned, and the rafters above trembled. With every gust Priya stopped her writing and tentatively looked up, expecting the entire pub to fall on her like a stack of cards.

It was three in the morning, and she had completed over half of the transcription. It spoke of paid men coming to attack the village, and though it didn’t mention of whom it spoke, it alluded to the suspected enemy.

Camberwell, for all the ciphers available to him, didn’t have one to describe aptly who would be coming, and so he had seemingly attempted to cobble codes together. He spoke of ‘backward accomplices’, and of ‘before companions’, and Priya supposed that this meant they would be attacked by someone they trusted.

She had put this to Semilion, though he didn’t know who Camberwell could have meant.

‘There’s no-one in the south. No-one. There are the men who fish over by Putsborough, but it wouldn’t be them… and they’re not in the south anyway. Camberwell mentioned that he met with people on a tour of some university’s in Europe. They would be south, but friends? Friends to him maybe, but I wouldn’t know them from a shitty stick!’

‘It’s possible they’re not from the south, simply coming from the south?’

‘We’re on the north-westerly coast. What would be the point of coming from the south?’

‘You’d never expect it. You watch the sea, whoever is coming knows that.’

Semilion fell quiet, and pondered on who he could afford to send to guard the south and southeast. He had men enough, but sending them out to defend meant the end of secrecy. He would have to tell them, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Once Priya had completed the transcript and he knew all the details he would convene the council and tell them everything he knew.

‘I’d like you to work on this until it’s finished, Priya. Forget the crèche.’

‘Forget the crèche forever?’ She thought of Rosa and Briney, and the children she looked after. They drove her mad, and although they were an exhausting problem – they had become her problem, one that she felt was her own to resolve. Her question was somewhat anxious, though Semilion misjudged it as excitement.

‘We’ll see.’ He replied. He couldn’t help but smile.

‘Where I come from that means yes.’ She said almost indignantly, turning back to the books strewn across the table.

He turned to leave though she called him back. ‘What are these dots?’

He looked over the page. ‘I hadn’t translated them myself but they look like a simple break in the transmission to divide up the broadcast.’

Priya shrugged. ‘Never mind, I’ll work it out, I just thought you might know.’

He stepped back and left her to it, knowing that when she was finished with him she was truly finished with him, and would appreciate distraction like a wasp sting.

*

Boen woke from an uneasy dream, the clouds beyond his window grey and pink. The storm had rattled his pane all night, though now stars lingered in the dawning sky, and he lay for a few moments, trying to remember what had woken him. Eventually he turned his thoughts to the tankard beside him. He reached out for it, grimacing at the pain in his ribs, though he refused to relent. For the past week he had been exercising slowly: lifting books, raising his legs, sitting upright. Ever so slowly he was beginning to notice the difference. His fingers shook as he took hold of the tankard, and he spilt most of the contents as he brought it to his lips, but he replaced it with a triumphant sigh, before collapsing back into his sheets.

Today was going to be a big day for him. He would attempt for the first time since his beating to stand, and from then would begin the real struggle of rehabilitation.

But not yet. Even reaching for the water had knocked the strength from him. He would have to eat more, he considered, even though food made him nauseous.

He turned his attention to the window once again. What’s Eryn up to? He thought, knowing she would still be in bed, dreaming of anything other than him. His cheek twitched, and he reminded himself he was growing angry whenever he thought of her. She had risked everything to go to Lundy, risked everything for a dead man, and yet she hadn’t even tried to contact him.

Again he sighed, knowing full well that Semilion would have forbidden her to visit him, he probably even banned his name in their home, and yet she had known what they risked if they had been caught, could she not do that for him?

‘Leave it alone,’ he said, his voice still full of sleep. He had felt himself grow increasingly bitter as the weeks progressed, bitter toward his family, bitter toward the community, but he wanted nothing more than to keep a part of himself that was reserved for Eryn. A part that was untouched by blame, and spite, and self-pity.

A battle flared in his mind as to whether it was self-pity or whether his anger was justified, and again he was lost to thoughts of a thousand conversations that had provoked him across the years. Baron thumping him any time he laid eyes on him throughout their childhood, George abandoning their friendship as soon as Baron took an interest. He relived a moment in school, when Seb had loosened a stone and hurled it at his back. It had hurt for weeks, but not as enduringly as the verbal torment that had accompanied him throughout those years. Skin-ribs, grease-merchant, cow-son, shit-sniffer; the list was endless, and whilst he had thought the intended effect of angering him had never worked, they had twisted him into who he was today: shy, skittish, retiring, and lacking.

His door opened, and his glowering eyes snapped toward Arabella, who stopped in the doorway. He shook away his thoughts and whispered, ‘Sorry, come in.’

She slipped inside, easing the door closed, then swept across the room to him. ‘You sure you’re well enough?’

‘I’m not going to get any better laying here like a turd!’

She rolled an apple from her skirts and ordered him to eat it before they started, then brandished a knife and cut it into pieces for him.

‘You’ve lost so much weight, Boen,’ she said, her cheek furrowing with sympathy.

He breathed heavily as he chewed and swallowed, nausea stirring in him. He retained some of the apple in his cheek until the feeling subsided, then swallowed more. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to eat, even if it kills me.’ He replied, meeting her gaze.

‘I’ll tell ma, she’ll be happy to hear it.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ he snapped, grabbing her wrist. ‘I don’t want her knowing I’m getting better. I already told you, if she knows then pa will know.’

She lowered her eyes. She didn’t know what Boen had planned for their father, though she knew, and understood why, it would be terrible.