Elysium. Part Two (4 page)

On her first evening alone she had hauled the residence's large green sofa to the window, avoiding the painful spring that stuck from the middle cushion, and had watched the stars. On more than one occasion she would lean out of the window and survey the villages ramshackle of buildings as the cool air pimpled her skin. She looked at Priya’s roof, at her neighbours opposite, and to the pub along the street.

The Smuggler’s Rest.

The centre of the community.

She grew to understand the building’s importance and became proud of it as one might a local palace. She pondered on it for many hours, trying to place answers to the questions she had cultivated during her conversations with Reighn and George. Was the library of policies contained within? Were important discussions taking place as she looked upon it? Where did the council convene? They were questions that she alone seemed to ponder, Priya having, it seemed, no other interest than wondering what was happening in the outside world and brooding on how one might escape across the border. These fantasies of Priya’s reared into outbursts when she became drunk, though as the days passed into weeks she fell into sync alongside the gentle pace of the village, hiding her feelings and yet growing increasingly angry.

She too had been impressed with the size of her accommodation and laughed at the recollection of the previous apartment buildings she had shared throughout her life. ‘There’s so much room here!’ she said, walking about the house in a trance, ‘Finally, I’ve got somewhere to put all my stuff!’ She exclaimed sarcastically.

The first time it rained, Priya discovered a leak too serious for instant repair. Jack Little reassured her that it could be fixed soon enough and he added the job to a small, battered notebook. Meanwhile, he suggested she should take her belongings somewhere else.

Grateful for the company, Selina gave her the room above hers - a spacious attic with a view of the village better than that of the living room. She had considered taking it as her own bedroom, though at night the darkness was too complete,and she felt the stirrings of panic in her breast as imaginings of the
Tangaroa
’s prostrate companions leered at her from the gloom.

‘I’ll be out of here as soon as I can,’ Priya assured her, unaware of the emerging effect the shipwreck was having on Selina.

‘Nonsense!’ Selina said, flustered. She rushed to the cellar and retrieved one of the many bottles of wine supplied by numerous well-wishers. ‘I’d prefer you were here,’ she shouted up the stairs, knocking a bottle over. ‘I’m not used to so much room to fill with my own company.’

The bottle rolled into a corner where the light of the hatch above failed to penetrate. She watched as shadow cloaked it, and saw the pale flesh of a crewman’s hand clasp it.

‘It’s nothing!’ She whispered to herself, stepping toward the darkness. Her anger erased the hallucination and she crouched to pick up the bottle with a swiftness that contradicted her bravado.

Her fingers touched paper instead of glass, and she plucked it from a crevice in the brickwork before patting the ground and snatching up the bottle.

She backed away from the corner, the crewman was in there somewhere, watching her, she was certain of it.

She shuddered and retreated from the cellar, unfolding the piece of tattered paper. It was a letter of sorts, though one that had been crossed out and re-attempted again and again. The contents were different each time, though each paragraph began the same.

FAO Dr. John Camberwell, Belfast University.

RE:
.

John,

Since your departure there have been musings over the plans which you strictly chastised. I’ve refused to be any part of it, but I know that doesn’t mean a thing. They’ll find someone capable, someone willing to play their final game, and when they do you and I both know that no amount of regret or reform will undo what we’ve done.

Chapter Fourteen
.

Birmingham.

Tranter watched the evening skyline of Birmingham whilst waiting to be called into the conference room.

Behind him was an empty office, dark but for the shifting glow of a television which had been left on. The volume was low, yet Tranter could hear it easily enough.

‘
Seven weeks into the trial, six generals, four lieutenant generals, and three brigadier generals have taken the stand to answer for their part in the war crimes against the citizens of Cuba, Haiti, The Dominican Republic and Panama during the 48 Hour War, or Fangtooth Weekend, as the massacre has become known in the tabloids
.

‘
The conflict, which arose over trading rights between north and south America, quickly spiralled out of control after the assassination of Mexican President, Emilio Ramirez by U.S. National, Steven Rostler. The month-long legal battle that ensued over the retrieval of Rostler, awakened a fear-climate not known since the American-Brazilian nuclear standoff of the 20’s, and culminated in the illegal bombardment of populations of meso-America by Fangtooth Class Submarines, killing an estimated two million of the respective populace...
’

Two million, he thought. The number meant little to him. He had never seen a gathering of more than six, maybe seven hundred people. Two million was like imagining the shape of time.

The report continued, though he was focused on the streets of Dead Zone far below the government building. He had lived in Birmingham his whole life, in one district or another. St. George’s, Dentend, even a few years over by Brentwood Cemetery. It was a rough metropolis, one of only seven in Britain that had risen from the ashes of The Great Pathogen, and one of five that had survived the consequent rebellions. It was a totalitarian city, complete with a police battalion surrounding the outskirts and several regiments, tank-units and helicopter detachments patrolling both day and night.

The dusky tower-blocks loomed oppressively over Smethwick and Victoria Park, like the ribs of some rotting carcass rising from the earth. Monuments of a former age, they were habited and yet ill-maintained for lack of architectural knowledge. All around them were the towering reminders of a time that surpassed them in almost every technological facet. Buildings crumbled without hope of repair, roads cracked and bulged, sprouting undergrowth, and yet they worked around it - pushing to the back of their minds that it had once been different. Some didn’t even know that it had been different. With each child’s schooling came a day when they were taught that theirs wasn’t the most advanced of generations, that there had been an age far superior, and it always came with a sobering notion of setback that some - amazingly - even denied.

He watched his brooding reflection in the dark glass, the city-scape superimposed against his features.

The sudden pulse of the curfew beacons distracted him and he instinctively checked his watch. It was nine o’clock.

He saw a flash of light in his periphery. It was succeeded by muted gunfire. Several bursts. Down a narrow street in Dead Zone a unit of infantry disappeared into a tenement block. He loved Birmingham for its protection, and yet he hated it for its stark ugliness and iron-fisted bureaucracy, as a child loves the caring atonement of an abusive father.

‘...
Over the next four weeks, although Mexican authorities have refused to reveal the details of those on trial, it is suspected that a further forty-three United States officials will take the stand while the militias of meso and southern America occupy north American states
.’

‘Tranter?’ Burkett’s secretary whispered as she opened the conference room door.

He cleared his throat and thanked her before entering the room. He was greeted by fourteen blank and unfriendly faces sitting at a large oval table.

At the head of the table sat Derritch Stranghan, Director General and Chief of Operations. Grotesquely obese, Tranter could barely bring himself to look at him, though he gave a brief nod of greeting as Stranghan smoothed his tie repeatedly over his belly, as though waiting impatiently in a restaurant.

‘Now, this is Tranter?’ Stranghan croaked.

Burkett tapped the cigarette of his ash into a tray and doffed his brow at Tranter. He turned back to Stranghan, pushing a file of papers into his gut. ‘You can see his profile on page seventeen.’

‘Balls to page seventeen,’ he said, pushing the file across the table. ‘The man’s right in front of me.’ He turned his small black eyes on Tranter. ‘Tell us yourself why you’re here. And keep it brief, we’ve already been here four hours.’

Tranter looked about the room. Every eye, every disinterested, spiritless eye was on him. He was loathe to speak publicly, especially about his own past. There was nothing for it, however. The quicker he began the quicker he would be out.

‘In ‘36 I was middle management in the Imaging Department over at Handsworth Park. Basically, keeping to the point, I was certain I’d seen activity coming from this area,’ he pointed at the projected map of Mortehoe on the wall, ‘and yet no matter how much we tried to find subsequent evidence there was nothing more than what I had apparently seen.’

‘Why couldn’t what you’d initially seen be proved? It was all recorded, no?’ Stranghan interrupted.

‘It was, sir... But you have to remember it was when the old forty-five Trog was being replaced because of its... Temperamental character.’

Stranghan shot one of the nameless suits a deep look. Tranter supposed the man had been in some way responsible for the design or construction of the forty-five model of Dark Lens; the heated propellant coils of which had been located foolishly close to the recording equipment, resulting in the
more-often-than-not “noiration” that had earned the forty-five the moniker: ‘Troglobites’, or more commonly ‘Trogs’, for their blindness.

The nameless suit made a show of not noticing Stranghan’s beady eyes, but revoked his facade by clearing his throat and looking meekly at his dossier.

‘The recording I received was in such bad quality that it only took one more replay to render it useless. Even the photos were little more than blurred static.’

‘So what was it you saw that made you so interested in Mortehoe?’

‘I saw someone amidst all the interference and monochrome. It was out of the corner of my eye and only for the briefest of moments, but I can tell you she wore a light coloured dress and had fair hair, but when I looked at the screen she was gone. I replayed the tape but there was nothing but noise.’

‘No-one in imaging could clean it up?’

‘No-one.’

Stranghan growled and slumped in his chair. ‘Go on.’

‘I was convinced I’d seen something but my supervisor wasn’t inclined to believe me, and neither were his superiors.’ He hesitated. This was the part he dreaded repeating, even though it was all on file and most in the room were already aware of the sensation he had caused. ‘I set an operation in progress without authorisation. I opened up communication with Intelligence and recruited a military Captain, sending them into the field.’

‘Only your Captain died. Isn’t that right?’ Burkett said, with somewhat more satisfaction than was necessary.

‘Yes, sir. That’s right. Three years ago come September.’

Stranghan was taking an interest now. He’d leant forward and was thumbing through the file he’d discarded. ‘And this Captain... Stumm, was it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What happened?’

‘Shot, sir. Trying to evade the border. The report says a boat was stolen in an attempt to skirt the coast at Bridgewater, but the military opened fire and, well.’ He left the words hanging. The thought of Stumm’s death struck him afresh with each recall.

The whole affair had cost him his job at Imaging, placed him squarely on a hopeless career-path, and knocked the salary from under his feet. He now earned little more than he did in his early twenties as a student.

Stranghan looked up from the file. ‘Demoted, were you?’

‘Yes, sir. Quite impressively so.’

Stranghan looked at him intently, and though everyone’s attention was on Tranter, he could feel only the blaze of his. ‘It seems to me,’ Stranghan said after rubbing his waxy chin, ‘that you’ve been done a disservice, Tranter. You were willing to stake your reputation on what you thought you saw, and it turns out you were right.’

‘Three years later, yes. Though I haven’t been told what’s happening down in Mortehoe, sir. All I know is that it’s believed the S18K4 virus is being manipulated in that area.’

‘That’s all we know also,’ Burkett replied, nodding at Stranghan’s secretary, who passed Tranter a copy of the file.

He leafed through a few pages. It was a dossier of the data collected from the Mortehoe site.

Stranghan continued, turning to Burkett. ‘Who’s the analyst who brought this to your attention?’

‘Sally Toubec, sir.’

‘Any field experience?’

‘A year in Southampton, sir. I believe she spent a year on the Isle of Wight as part of her PhD.’

‘Part of the Corringham Team was she? That’s good enough for me. Get a message to her office and tell her she’s being temporarily demoted.’ Stranghan’s sharp eyes rounded on Tranter again. Tranter looked up from the dossier and straightened. ‘And how would you like a temporary promotion, Tranter? Seems only fair that you should finally have some reward for spotting something amiss in Mortehoe, even if you did kill this, er, Captain...’

‘Stumm, Sir.’ He said haltingly. ‘… And thank you, sir.’

He left the conference room with the documents under his arm, and sat down in the first seat he came to. Birmingham was shrouded in darkness now, and he watched the sparse lights of the city, a rush of memories making him tremble slightly.

Capricious bastards, he thought, leaning forward and running his fingers through his hair. He had avoided all thought of Mortehoe for so long, it having consumed him so fervently in his former life; now they were thrusting it back in his lap as though they had always wanted it so. Capricious, inconsistent bastards. Stumm could have been spared if they’d have listened before. He might be the head of Analysis by now, had he not been sent to prison and hurled back down the ladder.

He stood, remembering whom he was to be partnered with for the duration of their investigation to Mortehoe. Sally Toubec, the humourless patron of frigidity whom he had disliked so quickly.

Who better than to journey into plague infested territory with than her? He considered, wondering if the liquid nitrogen that emanated from her personality might keep them safe.