Elysium. Part Two (8 page)

‘
Hold him, Dawn…’ Reighn said, easing her from his chest. ‘Hold him and love him. It might be his last night with us.’

His words faltered, and he felt tears spring to his eyes, but he wiped them away and pulled on his trousers.

‘Don’t say that…’ Dawn mewed pathetically as Reighn left to fetch Amber Summer from her home. She slowly moved towards William, fearing that her touch might sicken him further, and slowly she pulled him close. ‘Please don’t say that…’

Chapter Eighteen
.

Stone Hill.

Toubec sat at the small white table of her barracks room and opened her dossier pertaining to Mortehoe. It was a flimsy folder and she had studied it several times already, though she had faltered when asked questions relating to the strain of virus discovered at the locality, and didn’t want to be put in the same situation again.

The barracks room was small, airless, and possessed a thin window that let in nothing but grey light through its thick frosted glass. The bed was small and hard, though not uncomfortable, and in the corner of the room was a wardrobe, empty but for her bag that she had unceremoniously dumped at the bottom.

A circular halogen lamp hung from an arm over the desk, and she manoeuvred it to shed more light over the papers.

Her eye brushed over Tranter’s name on the first page, and she considered her temporary partner. So burnt and embittered by the past that he hated anyone who had risen further than he. Everyone, she considered, reflecting that few people had the year-long setback of prison and subsequent shadow on his résumé. He had been unemployable to any department that meant anything, and yet he was one of the old MoD boys. Imaging had probably been down a pawn in middle management, she supposed. Probably he’d been offered it as a stepping stone, though they all knew he would be there until retirement. Who wanted to place someone like him in a position of authority? He’d already shown how he reacted to rejection.

‘God,’ she whispered, ‘how did I get lumbered with him?’

She flipped the page, looking for the details of the new virus, and the numbers that went along with them. She’d always been good with figures and statistics, had always felt they made more sense than words. ‘It’s the language of lucidity.’ She had told her niece, Amile, when asked what the reams of numerical papers she had brought home from work meant.

‘Language of what?’ Amile asked, pulling a face.

‘Look at it,’ Toubec fanned out the papers and lifted Amile to her knee. ‘If you understand what it says then there’s no hiding behind ambiguity or poor description. You can’t get into arguments with numbers the way you can with language. The world would be in a better state if people spoke in binary, believe me.’

‘You’re weird,’ Amile had said, and Toubec’s sister had snatched her up, telling her not to speak to her aunty like that.

Even a five year old had her pegged as a freak. She laughed it off and told her sister not to worry, had thrown her brother-in-law a twisted smirk that exclaimed ‘the things kids say!’ And yet she had returned home that evening and wondered what people who had known her for years must think of her.

Her mother pestered her to meet someone and give her more grandchildren, even junk-mail asked her whether she was doing her part to repopulate, and yet she had always been a loner, never able to keep the interest of any man longer than five minutes, let alone the time it took to convince them they might like to spend their life with her.

That was fine by her though. While her sister was happy to live on government subsidy for the children she bore, Toubec felt destined for the rigours of vocation. She had been an apt student and had been told on several occasions, by teachers and employment agencies alike, that she had a talent for numbers that the defence ministry would snatch up.

It seemed, however, that snatching-up equalled seven laborious years of field work, and in that time she didn’t see a single numerical figure. What she did see was years of toil and suicide. Lots and lots of suicide.

It wasn’t the work so much that drove people to do it; all they were doing after all was clearing the landscape of a century’s growth, a process known as Survey Reclamation. It was the tools they had been given to work with.

The process was simple:

Greenjack’s, named for their lime-coloured immersion suits, took point-duty, filing out in front and testing areas that Dark Lens’ had highlighted as potential spots of contamination. They took more accurate readings and left silver helium balloons in locations that required sanitization before moving ever forward. The landscape, regardless where they went, shimmered like silver fish-scales.

Behind were the Dust Rangers, officers equipped with powder-guns. The barrels some two meters long and requiring both hands to wield it. A second officer carried the bulk of the gun behind, and a third held the large sack of Crenatin Four, the agent provided to decontaminate the land.

Great billowing plumes of purple dust filled the air, settling on flowers, animals, and weeds alike. Eventually the powder burnt through everything, eradicating anything that might be lingering in sap or blood alike.

Behind the Dust Rangers were the Flames, students mostly, or interns, who tailed the entire company setting fire to the land in their wake, and finally the Powder Monkeys, who dusted the scorched earth with a white powder that nourished the soil. Policing all of them were regular army stock, known as Tasiers for the large circular lenses of their gas masks. They were the only division who rarely succumbed to the effects of the earth scorching agent, simply because they were allocated weekly shower privileges, preventing the accumulation of toxins and subsequent manias that were so prevalent throughout the other divisions.

The process of Survey Reclamation was simple, and yet the progression was always pitifully slow.

It had been reputed for years that Crenatin Four was a hallucinogen, one that would give officers, from Powder Monkey to Greenjack, the direst of waking nightmares. It was agreed, after much debate and little research - by the company that produced the toxin - that there were hallucinogenic properties to the product, but nothing that a sturdy gas mask wouldn’t counter. Indeed, the reports of delusions petered out for some time, maybe even a year – the year Toubec had signed up – before the serious delirium began.

Further testing, testing that wouldn’t happen for another four years due to a stalwart belief in the first report, showed that it was a build-up of Crenatin Four in the skin that caused its victims to suffer acute and incurable depression. Those four years were terrible ones for anyone who worked in the field, whether they suffered the effects of Crenatin Four or not.

Toubec had never succumbed to it, never suffered depression for the toxin, though she had felt its cold grip after seeing half her colleagues take their own life in the space of a week, and hundreds more who died before Crenatin Four was withdrawn.

She had resolved then to fight her way out of field work. Push her way through Flame, Dust Ranger and Greenjack, the acrid smell of Crenatin Four and corpses her daily perfume, until she was safely in a musty office in Birmingham reading through pages of numbers.

She had made it, finally. The room she had wound up in hadn’t been musty, it had been loud with the rattling of ill-fitted pipework, and a radio with a broken sound-dial stuck on full. The biting stench of raw sewage clung to the atmosphere from a burst duct outside her building, though it was better than the horror she had trained in. Had her office been inside the burst main it would have been preferable to her years in fieldwork, and now she found herself back in the past, about to head into contaminated land with a man who was brash and reckless, and who had already gotten one officer killed.

She thought again of her niece and smiled. She smiled at the thought of telling her sister she had met someone, an undergraduate studying law.

‘Get out of here,’ her sister had punched her lightly on the arm.

She had met Michael some weeks after her promotion from field commission. It had been a casual meeting, a friend of a friend. Toubec had found little in common with those she had grown up with – most had taken advantage of the small fortune that could be accrued by becoming a government baby factory, though she had found a common interest with Michael, who was researching the legal ramifications of the Crenatin Four scandal.

He was handsome and engaging, and she managed to hold his interest for longer than five minutes. She actually held it all the way back to her flat, all through the night and the following day. She continued to hold it, four years later, much to her disbelief, and yet, she felt as though she was holding him back.

He had finished university and completed a subsequent Master’s degree, and joined a firm in the north of the city. He was settled, and could think about things like marriage and children. She, on the other hand, constantly expected to be kicked out the door and replaced. Turnover was high in Analysis, what with people vying to get out of the field, the same as she had. Employers knew it, and used it to control their staff.
She had to prove she was crucial to the running of Analysis before she could allow herself the freedom of a normal life. And yet, she thought, looking around the small cold barrack room, look how easily they had demoted her. It had taken no more than thirty seconds to tell her she was being posted to Stone Hill, and if she protested she would find herself back on field commission permanently.

She heard laughter outside of her room and suspected, from the timbre of their merriment, that some of the infantry had travelled into the local village to drink.

She idly thought of Michael and one of the first cases during his apprenticeship: a squaddie hauled over the coals for fighting in a nightclub. Michael had told her that it happened constantly, that it was rare to find a town near a border that wasn’t a hive of altercations between locals and visiting military on leave.

She wondered if any of the privates returning tonight had drawn blood or raised their fists in anger. They advanced, stumbling, down the
corridor outside, their elbows scraping across the walls as they hooted and shushed one another.

She stiffened as they neared her d
oor, then sighed relief as they continued to their rooms.

Turning down to the dossier
on the table, she closed it and retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk drawer. She missed Michael, and would write him a letter and let him know she was safe and well, and suffering the most interminable of commissions.

Chapter Nineteen
.

South-easterly wind.

Ten knots.

The morning was bright, the sky white and ethereal. The first thing Selina saw was a quizzical robin sitting on the windowsill, its black eyes alert. She sat up, alarming the bird; it flapped and fell from the window and dove for a safer perch upon a nearby roof.

She drew the curtains closed and made her way to the kitchen where she lit the wood burner, setting a small iron kettle on a hook above it.

She and Priya had been given many provisions when they were initially escorted to their homes, the villagers providing tea-leaves, sheets, cutlery, towels, and utensils. Food had been especially baked for them; sweet meats, dried fruits, smoked fish, waxed cheese and jars of preserves. With the two of them now in one house, their larder had enough to last months.

Opening a drawer she reached to the back and retrieved Richard Kelly’s crumpled letter. She read the opening again, then tried to read the remainder that had been heavily scrawled over in a peak of frustration. It was indecipherable, except for a sentence that looked as though it read: “
help, John, you’re the only one who ever could
.” and a brief phrase, “they’re
so scared of the world
.”

She flattened it out on the worktop, idly wondering if she should take it to Eryn. Would she know more about it? She still felt uncertain about showing it to Priya, especially after seeing her skulking about in the night. What had she been up to anyway? Looking for a means of escape?

She took a mug from the cupboard, and leaned against the sideboard before cursing herself. She’d forgotten fire wasn’t permitted during hours of daylight. She took a flask of water and doused the flames, her need for a cup of tea increasing tenfold.

She heard the floorboards above, instinctively snatching up the letter and returning it to the back of the drawer.

Before long Priya was making her way down the stairs. She appeared at the door, her linen night-dress baring her knees. She put her hands to the small of her back and stretched, then pulled at the rough fabric she was wearing. ‘I feel like a potato.’

Selina looked at her, the light of the living room window silhouetting her in the dress. She looked away and willed herself not to blush.

Priya saw and smirked at Selina’s demure, near puritan demeanour. ‘Morning, honey,’ she teased before padding into the kitchen, her feet sticking slightly to the scarred linoleum. ‘Did we decide who wears the trousers after all?’ She took hold of Selina’s hand, interweaving their fingers. ‘Only I’m desperate for a cup of tea and I would like to keep you on your toes if you’re to be my wife.’

Selina smiled thinly, and unhooked their fingers, sitting at the table in the centre of the room.

‘No hot water, I’m afraid.’

Priya blinked, and then raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, right, I forgot about that rule. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make do with cold water. Yum.’ She took the empty water flask and Selina laughed, explaining she had thrown it over the fire. Priya rolled her eyes and disappeared into the cellar to collect more.
When she returned she said, ‘You know? You’ve never spoken about whether you left a relationship behind in New Zealand.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Selina bridled, ‘I was with someone a few months before I left but, well, he wasn’t the most monogamous of men.’

‘Ouch,’ Priya said, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

‘I found out about his various indiscretions afterwards of course, though he still had the nerve to tell me that of all of them I was his favourite. Complete bastard.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just thought it was...’

‘What the hell is that noise?’ Selina said, screwing her face and stepping past Priya. ‘It’s driving me mad.’

‘What noise? I don’t hear anything...’

‘Listen... it’s like...it’s like wasps eating wood.
Can’t you hear it?’

Priya lifted her chin, ‘Yeah, I can now you mention it.’ The noise had been pulling at the back of her awareness but now it was clearly
noticeable. ‘What is it?’

For a moment they both listened to the rapid tapping that had no discernible source. Priya stealthily moved from room to room, returning to the living room and declaring that it was loudest in there.

Selina stepped to the window and peered through the curtain before immediately recognising the source of the drumming. At the uppermost corner of the window was a small box from which protruded a needle vibrating against the glass. Semilion had shown them the contraption on the initial tour of their homes, and had warned them to keep the windows and curtains closed should it ever sound.

‘It’s the signal that one of those spheres, those Blackeye things, has been spotted.’

Priya moved toward the window, drawing the curtains before peeling back the partition. She looked over the rooftops and towards the bay, but couldn’t see anything. ‘Might not even be anywhere near here. Might be over at Woolacombe.’

Selina was at her shoulder, searching also. ‘How long do we have to wait?’

‘Until this thing stops tapping I sup... Ah, there! I see it, look.’ She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. Selina followed her gaze.

‘Where?’

‘It’s moving down the high street... towards the Smuggler’s.’ She watched the large black orb drift along the street as though it were cotton riding the breeze. ‘The wall’s in the way, I can’t see it... no, there it is, it’s in the Summer’s back garden. It’s stopped...’

Selina stepped away from the window, placing her hands on the back of the sofa. ‘What’s it doing?’ She turned back to the kitchen, suddenly remembering the fire she had doused, would smoke be pluming from the chimney? She took a few tentative steps but saw there was none.

‘Nothing, it’s not doing anything.’ She drew the curtain back a little. ‘Not that I can see anyway.’

There was a long spell of silence, Selina feared something incriminating had been dropped in the long grass. ‘It’s moving on,’ Priya said, ‘it’s behind... I can’t see it... I think it’s gone.’

They both exhaled, waiting for the needle to stop rapping on the window pane.

‘Is the window upstairs closed?’ Selina whispered. Priya nodded in reply.

‘And the curtains?’

Priya thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I don’t think so... But there’s nothing to see up there anyway.’

They remained quiet for a time, Priya gazing out of the window and Selina waiting cautiously behind the sofa.

After a few minutes Selina began to idle about the other villagers, whether any were outside and how they were warned of the Blackeyes presence. She remembered Semilion mentioning something, though the memories of her first days seemed to be consumed by adrenaline.

Priya stepped away from the curtains, leaving the curtain slightly parted.

‘Pri, maybe you should draw it?’

Priya turned and shrugged, ‘It’s fine, it’s not coming back.’

‘Famous last words,’ Selina replied, somewhat annoyed by her tone. ‘How about you?’ She found herself asking, her irritation provoking her to ask a lingering and unspoken question.

‘Hmm?’

‘You were married and you never...’

‘I wasn’t married!’ Priya said indignantly, doing a bad job of feigning laughter. She lowered her voice. ‘I mean, I wasn’t!’

‘Come on, the third finger, your wedding finger,’ she snorted and nod towards it, ‘there’s a band of pale flesh. You were obviously married for quite a while,’

Priya said nothing for a moment and then shrugged. ‘There’s not much to say.He didn’t want to come. I think he’d wanted to end it for some time but... well, it was a good excuse as any for him to finally do it.’ She made a hiss and a clicking sound and said, ‘He was the first thing in my life that had been stable, and, well... When I boarded the
Tangaroa
I promised that I’d erase him completely and make a new start.’

Selina thought an apology would have been inappropriate. She had intended to pry. She looked at her feet, willing the right words to fall in to place, though when they didn’t come she decided saying nothing would be best.
‘Come on,let’s have some breakfast while...’

She froze as the dark globe rose in the parting of the curtain. Priya slid away, her back to the wall, as the Blackeye ascended noiselessly into view. It eclipsed the morning light as it filled the window. A single green lens began to revolve and fix the room with its impassive eye.

*

‘What... Do... I... Do?’ Selina implored through grit teeth as the Blackeye levitated behind the curtain. She had never seen one so close, but knew that Priya had witnessed them before in Bahrain, and hoped she might know enough about them to render her invisible to them.

Priya had her back to the wall, her neck craned to catch a glimpse of the machine. ‘It hasn’t seen you yet... It’ll head back to its depot the moment it does. Slowly get behind the sofa, slowly! Don’t make any sudden movements...’

Selina took a tentative step toward the sofa, which was only a little way before her but a seemingly unimaginable attainment. Leaning forward, she transferred her weight and a groan squeaked from the floorboards. At once the Blackeye, which Selina had assumed had been facing her, now rotated to reveal a cluster of glowing lenses of various design, and a sonar that fanned into a silver disk. Selina slid to the floor and scrabbled to the back of the sofa. A bright green laser lit the heavy curtains, though only penetrated the small partition, the thin ray slowly swept over the floorboards, scanning every inch of the visible room, before returning at the same pace and switching off. The cluster of lenses revolved, clicked, and then a second beam, bright blue in colour, caressed the furniture with a grace that was almost admirable.

The warning contraption continued to vibrate against the glass, impossibly loud in the presence of the scrutinising sphere. She willed it to stop, or for the Blackeye to move on, but both persisted; it’s great shadow dominating the room, while the buzz of the needle chattered incessantly.

For long minutes the machine remained unmoving and silent at the window, its green lens returned and fixed the room as though willing something to happen. Both Selina and Priya remained frozen, hardly daring to breathe.

Powered only by a tiny solar cell, the warning contraption began to lose its urgency, and a minute later it had stopped altogether. Selina wondered if it was too late, whether the Blackeye would comprehend it as being an artificial sound, whether the recording would now be taken back and analysed by some sound engineer in the depths of the nearest government building.

She wondered if this was the life the villagers lead, constantly on tenterhooks, wondering if they had been heard or seen by a regime hungry to take everything they had once owned. On arriving she had been dumbfounded that they had lasted a century without being discovered, but now she could barely believe that they chose to endure it.

At last the gloom lifted as the Blackeye withdrew. They both waited for a moment, and then Priya checked the window and closed the small partition before lightly stepping to the kitchen and drawing the curtain in there also. She returned by the skirting boards, where the floorboards creaked the least, and waited until they could bare their voiceless anticipation no longer. It was Selina who spoke first, her voice timid and barely audible.

‘Do you think it saw me?’ she said.

Priya blew her fringe. ‘God, Sel... It was close. That green laser lit your hair as you dropped out of sight, but I don’t know if it was enough.’

‘But it didn’t shoot off like you said it would. There’s a chance it didn’t see me, right?’

Priya said nothing, but looked troubled. After a while she said, ‘If they have to hide themselves away with the stress of those things finding them day in day out its no wonder we got such a frosty welcome.’ She sighed deeply. ‘It’d be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? If we got this place discovered after a month.’

Selina swallowed, she didn’t think unfortunate was a word that bestowed the sentiment of gravitas she would feel if it were she who revealed Mortehoe after its hundred year seclusion. Repulsive, was more apt. Disastrous! Monstrous even. But not unfortunate.

There they remained until cramp forced them to move. Slowly they abandoned whispered tones, and after a half hour of uneventful waiting Selina opened the curtains. She caught Semilion disappearing behind a fence before he re-emerged and turned toward the house. He looked about nervously, and walked brusquely until he was at the door.

She opened the window and was about to call to him, but he saw her and waved her back inside angrily.

‘Never shout out when those things are around!’ He spat when he was inside. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with shadows.

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ she said, deciding not to tell him about their close encounter. She hoped Priya would think the same.

‘What in God’s name happened?’ he said, running his hand over his smooth pate. ‘It was at your window for near five minutes!’

‘We don’t know,’ Priya said, stepping into the room, ‘but it didn’t see anything, we were upstairs.’