Elysium. Part Two (2 page)

‘Tranter, this is Sally Toubec.’

One of her monitors showed a small news window, the same channel that was airing in his office. The report of the trials had
been replaced by a run-down of the parliamentary candidates being considered for the berth of President of the proposed, and publicly abhorred, European Nation.

Tranter offered his hand, and asked if there had been any progress in the trial. Sally nodded tersely in greeting, but ignored his hand and his question, before turning back to her monitor. She tapped the keyboard three times and the screen switched from black to blue.

‘You’re familiar with the mutations of S18K4, Mr. Tranter?’ She asked, her voice deflated. She sounded as though she were sick of explaining this to people.

‘To a degree. Up to five years ago, yes.’

‘Five years? I suppose that will do.’ She sighed. ‘The D.L. you just had your hands all over came back from a circuit of the Cornish peninsular recently. One of the undergraduate teams was going through the code last week when they came across something peculiar. They sent it up here, we had a look at it, you were called, and now you’re here.’

She stood and offered him the screen. He lowered his glasses and stooped. The screen was nothing but a mass of random digits and unmarked tables.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I had to read field statistics, It’s changed a lot since…’

‘What you’re looking at here,’ Toubec said, snatching back her seat as though she had offered someone without a license to drive her car, ‘is a sample of four-hundred and six locations. These locations are where the D.L. stopped when it sensed, or thought it sensed, an anomaly. These anomalies happen all the time and we have to cross-reference them with other D.L. reports continuously. This one here, for example, has been flagged on four separate occasions, but when you get down into what was actually picked up you can see it’s the code of something that died naturally, probably a rabbit or something similar. Over the four separate instances you can see its emitting the elements you would expect from decomposition.’ She pointed at various number groups. ‘Increase in soil carbon. Phosphorus, potassium, calcium, etc. The pH of the cadaver decomposition island increases the soil nitrogen with each subsequent visit. Just a rotting carcass, nothing exciting.’

Tranter looked at the string of numbers, and wondered how he had ever known how to read it. When he’d been an undergraduate working in analysis, there were always labels to point you in the right direction. These days, however, it seemed as though people understood the code as well as any form of script.

‘If you look at this line,’ Sally clicked to a separate page and highlighted a passage, ‘that’s when things start to come alive.’

‘What do you mean? Without code. Just tell me what you’ve found.’

She looked up at him and fixed him with her gaze. ‘Someone’s making new strains of S18K4.’

‘What?’ Tranter straightened and turned to Burkett. ‘What the hell does she mean?’

Burkett took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket, placing one on the tip of his lips.

‘Not in here, Mr. Burkett.’ Sally said, unable to muster urgency in her voice. ‘You’ll blow the place to kingdom come.’

Burkett hesitated a moment, then lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, and gave Tranter a sheet of paper with two separate grid-references typed on it. ‘You know where these are?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’ He said, hardly looking at them.

‘You should do. They were in the report I sent you yesterday. This was one of the few places to show any sign of advance.’

‘You mean in East Anglia? Where was it?’ He clicked his fingers frantically. ‘Walsingham?’

‘No. Beyond the Wessex Border. In Devon. Twenty miles or so north-west of a town called Barnstaple. Village on the coast. Ring any bells?’

Tranter looked down at the grid-reference again. It couldn’t be. And yet, there it was.

Mortehoe.

Chapter Twelve
.

Guliven.

After five days at sea Guliven and Sean could see black land on the horizon, and the dark spire of the Ballycotton lighthouse piercing the indigo night.

It had been an arduous journey, one of the toughest Guliven had ever known. A fierce wind had chastised them on the first night, a howling north-westerly gale that made a mockery of their advance.

Their arms mutinied, every muscle in their torsos rebelled, and their legs revolted to have been made to endure such strain for so many hours. It had lasted all night, and yet by the break of morning it had ascended as quickly as it had befallen them.

Sean had slept for two hours while Guliven had kept their course, and then he had slept, waking with cramp and a warm midday sun on his face.

His knuckles still bled from the beating he had given his son and the salt of the sea bit at the torn flesh each and every time it sprayed at him. Had he been a man of conscience he may have seen it as Karma for his actions, some will of God punishing him, though he was a stony man who believed in nothing but force and nature.

Sean had arrived on the morning of their departure as Guliven had grasped his boy, flinging him into the grass. Sean dropped the boxes in his arms and ran across the garden as Guliven beat his son and kicked him hard. Guliven had been drunk, he could smell it on him, on both of them. What a family, he had thought, tearing Guliven away as Semilion, bewilderingly, arrived from nowhere.

Guliven had broken away from both of them in his rage and kicked Boen so hard in the back that for a moment he and Semilion froze, thinking the boy’s spine had cracked, though he continued to writhe in the dirt, blood streaking his face.

They tore Guliven away finally and dragged him to the pier. Semilion had berated him with curses while Samantha and Arabella crowded over Boen, who lay limply in the grass. He rasped as he breathed - bubbles of blood on his lips.

Guliven sat watching his family darkly as Semilion prodded his shoulder and told him that he could have killed the boy. Sean would never pass comment on a man’s actions toward his family, but he didn’t agree with the way the new Runner treated his.

‘Do you want a salve on that?’ Semilion had said eventually with a sigh. Guliven looked down to his bloody knuckles and grunted refusal.

‘Right, well, listen here,’ he continued as the door to the house closed, the knocker clacking loudly as it did so. ‘Guliven? Gul, listen to me!’

Guliven looked up slowly, ‘Hmm?’ he said casually.

‘I’ve been up all night fretting about the last transmission sent by Camberwell.’

‘Why?’ Sean had asked, wrapping a length of rope in a hoop and flinging it in the pram they would fill with cargo on their return.

‘It just didn’t make sense,’ Semilion replied brusquely. ‘I need you to contact him.’

‘Will do.’ Guliven sighed, and Semilion produced a leather envelope that smelled of beeswax.

Guliven opened the envelope and read through the instructions, though Semilion paraphrased as though he couldn’t read.

‘Phone him on that number there, see it? You have to ask him to clarify what he means by a storm front. And more information about the threat that’s coming from the south-east.’

‘What threat?’ Sean asked.

‘I don’t know what threat, that’s why I need some bloody clarification!’ He leant back over the sheaf of papers in Guliven’s hand. ‘And tell him to send another transmission on this date, there... At that time, right?’

Guliven folded the sheaf and placed it back in the envelope. He rose and placed it in a heavy coat and pulled it on. ‘Got it. What if I can’t reach him?’

‘You must,’ Semilion said gravely, ‘For God’s sake Gul, you must.’

You must. The words stayed with Sean. As did talk of an unnamed threat in the south east. They were urgent words, and yet their progress was pitifully slow. It felt as though their homes were burning behind them because they had not the strength to row any faster.

The wind returned on the second night. Not as strong as before, though this time it remained, and stayed with them for another two days. Their sails were useless under such conditions, and the two of them rowed stoically, heaving slowly and repetitively whilst the pram they towed bobbed and rolled; their advance was minimal - maybe thirteen miles each day, and less than quarter that at night.

The fourth day was fine, and in the afternoon an easterly wind roused itself, and they spared no time in unfurling the sail. It ballooned and caught the wind before it had been fully rigged, and for several hours they skipped happily through the calm Irish Sea until dusk was nothing but a reminder of crimson on the horizon. Then the wind died, and they decided to use the lull to row long into the night unabated.

Morning found them both asleep. Guliven had taken first watch, though he had succumbed to fatigue not long after Sean had closed his eyes. They had drifted for several hours, though thankfully not far, and it hadn’t taken them long to reposition themselves on their original course, a new north-westerly growing at their bow.

By mid-afternoon they saw the haze of land beyond the horizon, the subtle change in the tone of blue in the distant sky that spoke of change in that which was below. They pushed forward, hoping to reach Ballycotton before night proper, though the persistent wind capsized their optimism, and they resigned themselves to another night at sea, the slowly encroaching land black and cold on the horizon.

The dark clouds had been thunderous and low throughout the day, scudding across the sky as though hauling a veil of rain behind them. By early evening they were replaced by a bank of grey that seemed like some vast and impassable mountain range before a field of cream. The rays of a golden dusk danced behind it and the wind lessened. They decided to spend their last evening at rest, and took it in turns to sleep, before pushing forward, the last leg of their journey taken under the cover of darkness.

They slipped quietly beyond the small, dark, nameless island that preceded the town, the towering lighthouse upon it blind in the starry night. It was still in use, unlike the one in Mortehoe, though was only ever used if the community were expecting a ship to be passing their way.

‘Eh,’ Sean said with a devilish gesture to the lighthouse, ‘what would you give for that to be swinging between your legs?’ He was too tired to say anything witty, and yet his tiredness had lent him a humour he hadn’t experienced in years. It was such a relief to be at their journeys end.

Guliven looked up wearily, not understanding the question. His eyes fell on the lighthouse. His hard face broke into a smirk and he began to chuckle. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘I’d give my wife her marching orders?’ They laughed like schoolboys tittering about breasts, their hoots and the clang of restless buoys the only sound in the still air.

Lights shined from the town and in the hills, sparkling like the sun shattering on dawn waters. It was a magnificent sight, both Guliven and Sean thought, turning to it constantly as they rowed peaceably into harbour - their oars grating wetly in rusting oarlocks.

Ireland had been spared the brunt of the first onslaught of plague. They had closed their borders early and operated marshal law at their boundaries. Illegal immigrants were ubiquitous, however, and no amount of patrolling coastlines could guard every shore. The plague found its way in, and yet was checked by swift quarantines and rounds of copper shells. From the outset news correspondents unveiled the severe treatment of those afflicted, and the unofficial quarantine camps of Craigue West and Bellacorick, but after the world around them began to turn to ash, after the last broadcasts of yellow powders filling streets and the tormented wails of dogs none cared what happened in the camps. None cared of the treatment of those afflicted. Just as long as the advance of the plague were halted.

Less than four thousand people succumbed to the S4K18 virus in Ireland, an almost unnoticeable fraction compared to other countries in the west, and that result had meant that business continued with relative normality.

Electricity flowed, bulbs burned, cars and buses chugged along maintained roads, even funds for a new monorail branching the entire country had been found. Whilst the rest of the world had been dragged back into darkness, Ireland had retained a semblance of civilisation. Limited natural resources saw the regression and abandonment of several areas, and the greatest financial crisis the economy had ever known hadn’t spared them, hadn’t even been merciful to them, yet they trudged ever forward like the walking wounded.

The country was closed, and became a locked down state. They effectively enforced an international trade embargo and passed laws that made entering or leaving the country punishable by death.

It was that notion that stilled the men’s laughter, both hearing a splash to their port. They watched the darkness for a time, before continuing more cautiously.

Close to the harbour they heard a bell ring twice, and knew that they had been spotted. It was either Brian or Tom, Guliven thought, the two watchmen who guarded the harbour for interlopers. Another bell rang in the distance, a response to the first, it sounded lazy, like the half-hearted ringing of a buoy’s bell.

The harbour was full of skiffs, catamarans, drifters, row-boats, dinghies, tugs and trawlers. Sail, steam and motor boats alike, they all bobbed calmly in the harbour before a small town of pastel buildings. The wind roused the flags atop their masts and lines, filling the air with the sound of fluttering.

Guliven liked it here; it made him think this must be what Mortehoe would have been like in the past. Electricity burning, lights brightening the night, the vibrancy emanating from the public houses, with little care for who might hear.

‘That you, Kelly?’ Tom said, climbing down a ladder to take their rope.

‘Guliven,’ he replied quietly.

‘Ah, Gully, how’ve ye been?’ He reached out to take the rope Guliven offered and tied it to a large ring on the harbour wall.

‘Apart from my wind-burnt face? Well... Tom, this is Sean Colt, he’ll be helping me from now on. I’m the new Runner, see?’

‘We bored ol’ Kelly, did we?’ Tom said with a laugh and returned to the top of the ladder. ‘Or is it that he couldn’t handle the drinking that goes on after hours?’

‘If that’s the answer then it was a severe course he took in avoiding it. He died near three weeks ago.’

‘No,’ Tom said, surprised. ‘Kelly? Dead? I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true,’ Guliven continued, ‘as true as my face and arse are raw. Heart attack. Out like a light.’

‘A shame... A real shame. We all knew Kelly. Liked him, too. Told him he were more a Ballycotton man than whatever you call yourselves in that... Kibbutz of yours. Well, it happens, I suppose. Ned Blarney dropped down dead only two months ago, though he was in his sixties... Kelly were a young man, in his prime. And fit too...’

Guliven had ascended the ladder, and saw Tom better for the lights dotted along the harbour. He was in his late forties, with a wild shock of grey hair tied in a ponytail with a shoelace, and a nose that had been on the receiving end of too many knuckles. He wore a grey jumper two sizes too large for him, quarter-length trousers and sandals, and he bobbed from foot to foot as though readying himself to spar.

They clasped hands and greeted each other warmly, before he introduced Sean properly and spoke a little of the journey they had endured.

‘We were expecting you last night,’ Tom said, nodding, ‘though it was no surprise when you didn’t show. Will you be taking the usual or is there anything else you need?’

‘Just the usual, though I did promise my wife some sugar.’

‘One of the perks, eh?’ He nudged Guliven in the arm and lead him to a cargo crate secreted behind several abandoned skiffs. He opened the crate, which screamed as metal rubbed metal, then flicked a switch as he entered, dousing a large stock of crates in cream light.

‘It’s all there, as usual. You can either go through it now or have a drink and do it in the morning, it’s all the same to me.’

‘Sean?’ Guliven said, eyeing the boxes. He didn’t much fancy checking the pile now.

‘To be honest, I just want to have a whiskey and get myself laid. Does that girl with the red hair still serve at the Blackbird?’

‘Jesus, you’ll have to be more specific, man.’

‘We’ll stay the night,’ Guliven said, and the three retreated back outside, the door scraping loudly and reverberating in the quiet. Guliven looked over the harbour and the scores of vessels swaying gently, their flags rustling and the water lapping against their hulls. There was one amid them that caught his notice, a rusting tug with a deep orange bow. He’d seen it before, though he couldn’t place where.

‘Let’s be off then,’ Tom said, distracting him. He’d probably seen the vessel on a visit here in the past, though why it would stand out to him now he didn’t know.

They stepped back up to the main walkway of the harbour and made their way into the town when Guliven realised from where he recognised the tug. The thought hadn’t finished forming in his mind when two large men barred their way. They were between the reach of street lamps, and all of them were doused in shadow.

‘Who’s that?’ One of them asked. Guliven recognised his voice. It wasn’t Irish, but had the drawl of a Lundian.