No Direction Home (24 page)

She seemed to sigh, as if in despair at the extent of his knowledge. ‘You are substantially correct, I'm afraid, at least in all the major elements. How much of that is deduction on your part and how much actual concrete data?'

‘Mostly drawing conclusions, to be honest. If you're going to establish a colony on another planet, you'd want to take as many individuals as you could to ensure genetic diversity. OK, apparently, you could have a colony of only a couple of hundred people but still have enough for long term diversity if you've chosen a sufficiently wide range of genetic backgrounds, but the more you have, the better. The two thousand who are going to be frozen in the cryogenic chambers would be more than enough, but if you've got a way of taking more, all the better.' He shrugged. ‘It makes sense, that's all.'

‘Indeed. You've obviously gone into a good deal of research over this.'

‘Well, I do have something of a vested interest in it, don't I?'

‘Especially now… Very well, Inspector, you are essentially correct, as I said. Your only major misconception is assuming we are taking embryos in cryogenic storage. Instead, we have stored DNA templates of approximately ten thousand individuals, ready for transporting to PlanetFall. They will have to wait until we have established the cloning technology sufficiently on Terra Nova for so that they can be thawed and quickened, I believe the term is, but, as with the colonists in the cryochambers, their human originals have also been selected on the basis of their own aptitudes and their usefulness to the colony.'

Sounds suspiciously like genetic manipulation to me…
‘There's no guarantee that they'll turn out the same, though, is there? Isn't this a Nature versus Nurture situation? Surely a lot will depend on their circumstances as they grow up, what sort of education they get, how healthy their surroundings are? Just because you're genetically identical, doesn't mean you'll turn out to have the same skill set as each other if you've had different upbringings, does it?'

Ms Guedioura gave him a long, intent look. ‘You really
have
been doing your research, haven't you, Inspector?'

‘Not really. Going to Oxford tends to broaden your outlook on life, one way or another. And reading a lot of science fiction, come to that.'

‘Nevertheless, you are absolutely right about the potential problems of these cloned individuals – if that is not a contradiction in terms. Their upbringing will be completely different to that of their donors – the people who have allowed us to store their DNA templates. So, while the donor might have been a talented biologist, for example, there is no guarantee, as you say, that the clone will even be interested in biology when it grows up. Indeed, the chances are that very few of the clones will live up to the standards of their donors, even though the majority of them will at least have equivalent IQs. All that can be said about it is that it's the best approach we've been able to come up with.

‘However, what we have been discussing is mostly out there in the public domain to a greater or lesser extent. What I am about to tell you is Absolutely Classified, do you understand?'

‘Understood.'

Again, she hesitated, as if gathering her thoughts, then she said, ‘These clones – how much more might they offer to the colony if they were to be given the memories and knowledge of their donors?'

‘You mean copying the donor's memories and then transferring them into the clone?'

‘Exactly.'

It was his turn to stare now. ‘You mean, it can be done?'

‘We are very close to it, yes. It's apparently a matter of storage memory at the moment, but I'm told that is a soluble situation. What remains problematic is transferring the memories into the clone.'

‘Because you haven't created a viable clone yet.'

‘Exactly. And before you ask, there is no question of attempting to transfer these memories into a normal human being.'

Normal human being… Clones. So, as far as you're concerned, there's a difference already, is that it? How will these clones be treated when they are finally ‘quickened'?

Not my problem, thank goodness… Well, not yet, anyway.

‘When would these memories be transferred anyway? At what age? Would a newborn – or quickened – baby be able to process those memories?'

Yet again, she hesitated, then said, ‘I am not at liberty to tell you that.' Suddenly, unexpectedly, she smiled. ‘Mostly because I don't know the answer myself. I'm not sure the scientists themselves know it either at the moment. However, I am sure you can see the implications of this memory storage technology falling into the wrong hands, in terms of genetic manipulation.'

Was she reading my mind?
‘I think I can, yes. You could take a suitable clone and download the knowledge of a Nobel Prize winner into it. By the same token, it could be the memories and skills of a trained soldier – or simply give him enough intelligence to be a road sweeper. It could be
Brave New World
made real, with Alphas, Epsilons and everything in between.'

‘You see the problem? We have to ensure that this technology does not fall into the hands of either New Dawn or EarthCorp, both of whom would almost certainly misuse it.'

And the UN won't? OK, I work for them and they're a damn sight better than New Dawn and EarthCorp, but I don't have any illusions about them using whatever tools they think will get the job done – in a good cause, of course, or at least that will be their rationalisation. Maybe they'll take more persuading to do it, but if it comes to the crunch, they'll manipulate these clones to their own ends, the same as anyone else.

‘You realise that it will eventually do exactly that, Ms Guedioura?' he said. ‘Once the genie's out of the bottle, there's no putting it back. We should have learned that with the atom bomb, shouldn't we?'

‘I'm afraid I have to agree with you on that, Inspector. However, our brief is to protect both elements of Project Demeter – the clones and their digitised memories – at least until we leave Earth orbit.'

‘Which isn't for another two years yet. Do you really think we can keep it hidden from them for that long?'

‘I do know we have to try, Inspector. We–'

The sound of an explosion smashed into the room, the concussion shaking the building. Reacting instinctively, Vinter leaped out of his chair, and vaulted across his desk, pulling her out of her seat and onto the floor, flattening himself alongside her. ‘Stay down!' he yelled, his ears still ringing.

‘What–'

‘I said,
stay down!
' He looked quickly around, trying to think clearly. The blast had come from the ground floor, probably the reception area and now that his hearing was beginning to return, he could hear the crackle of gunfire.

Jesus Christ… we're under attack! And my gun's in the fucking drawer!
But to reach it would involve putting himself in full view through the large plate glass window and although nobody was shooting through it at the moment, he had no intention of giving them the opportunity.

Hold on a minute… I don't remember this bit at all…

He shook his head to clear it, wondering where the random thought had come from, then looked up as his office door opened, sighing with relief as he saw it was Sergeant Vunipola, sidearm in hand, who was beckoning to them. ‘This way, sir and ma'am!'

Guedioura looked at Vinter, her eyes wide; he nodded. ‘Do as he says, but keep your head down!'

She nodded dumbly, then scrambled to her feet and ran towards the door in a low, shambling run, with Vinter just behind her, shielding her, half expecting to feel the impact of a bullet in his back all the way out into the corridor.

‘What's going on, Sergeant?'

‘We're under attack, sir. They smashed through the doors with an armoured car and then piled in.'

‘How many?'

‘At least a dozen.'

‘Any indication who the hell they are?'

‘Not so far – they're not showing any insignia.'

‘OK. Is the Panic Room manned?'

Vunipola gave Khalida Guedioura a meaningful glance, then said, ‘The
Citadel
is secured, sir.'

‘OK. Take Ms Guedioura there. I'm going to take a look from the gallery.'

‘Sir. This way, ma'am.' Vunipola took her arm and led her away from the sound of shooting. Vinter moved towards the gallery overlooking the main Reception Area, ducking down alongside Lieutenant Munoz, who was using a small sniper periscope to peer over the retaining wall, with two UNSEC patrolmen next to her. The gunfire seemed to have slackened off, momentarily, but he resisted the impulse to look over the parapet himself.

I don't remember this either…

What the hell was going on in his head? He forced himself to focus. ‘Situation?' Vinter asked her.

‘I count fourteen attackers, sir, all armed with automatic weapons. They've used stun grenades and seem to be killing anyone they see.'

‘Tear gas?'

‘Not so far. They–'

Vinter never heard what she was going to say, because the next moment, there was a shattering detonation behind him, much louder than any so far and something slammed into his back with hideous force. There was an instant of white-hot agony lancing through him before the blackness descended, but even then, he was aware of that disembodied voice in his head again…

So that's how it happened.

*****

He awoke instantly, sitting up straight in the bed, stifling a scream, and looked around, taking in the reassuring surroundings; he was back in his quarters on
Terra Nova
and it had simply been a dream. No, not a dream, he realised slowly – a memory. One that had left him still shaking.

Bloody hell… no wonder Vinter didn't want me to remember that. I can't say I blame him…

But what had happened next? That memory was still missing – and if it was anything like this, he was not sure he wanted to find out now. There were no reports of the incident in any of the files aboard, which implied that it was probably New Dawn that had staged the attack; all he knew was what Vinter had told him, that he had been paralysed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair from that day on. Had Munoz and the two patrolmen survived? Or Guedioura? Vunipola?

Actually, that last one was easy to check; he activated his comp and called up the database listing the colonists in the cryochambers.
Guedioura
– yes, she was there, so at least she got out alive. No sign of Munoz or Vunipola, but then there wouldn't be, because they were nowhere near senior enough to make the cut…

And, even if they had survived the attack, they were long dead anyway, by now.

He sat back, staring sightlessly at the screen. He wasn't supposed to have had that memory at all, but obviously it had been there anyway, ready to show itself in his dreams – how many more were lurking somewhere in his head, ready to spring out at him without warning?

If this had been anything to go by, did he honestly want to remember any more?

His in-ear comm sounded, bringing him abruptly back to the here and now. ‘Vinter here.'

Ferreira's voice spoke.
‘Get to Three Gamma immediately. There's been a shooting incident.'

Three Gamma – the cafeteria.
Shit…
‘On my way.'

*****

It's starting already, even sooner than I thought…

‘The area is secured, sir,' the young lieutenant reported, with only the slightest tremor in his voice, but his pale, shocked eyes gave the lie to his attempt at professional detachment. Mind you, Vinter couldn't blame him… He nodded briefly to the officer and pushed past him into the cafeteria, sizing up the situation in a series of long scans from left to right, only distantly noting the six New Dawn soldiers who had taken up position around the room. To his left, a young woman lay sprawled across a table, face down, a row of bloody wounds stitched across her back; as he took this in, he had to step carefully over the body of a soldier, lying spreadeagled on his back, his head and shoulders half blown away by the bullets that had cut him down, a single eye staring sightlessly upwards. All around him, bodies were strewn across the tables, chairs and floor of the cafeteria, civilians and soldiers alike.
Jesus… I doubt if anyone will ever call this the Savoy Grill again.

But this was the one he was looking for, a soldier in full New Dawn uniform, on his back, his body ripped apart by bullets from at least four automatic weapons, still screaming defiance as they had cut him down, ending his berserker spree… Even though he realised the futility of the action, Vinter crouched down and felt for a pulse.

‘Vinter here,' he said.

‘Report,'
said Ferreira's voice in his in-ear unit.

‘Target is confirmed dead.'

‘I'll send in the med team.'

Vinter sighed. ‘OK, but I think it's a bit too late for that. He did a pretty thorough job.'

‘How many?'

He rose to his feet and counted the bodies, although he had already done that on his first scan. ‘Fourteen.' Fourteen people, most of whom had probably gone to the cafeteria for breakfast before going on their shift, the same as always, and now they were dead…

‘Shit…'
he heard the murmured obscenity, so unusual for Ferreira, and realised just how much this had affected the other man.
‘Confirm fourteen.'
The voice was back under control now.

‘Confirmed.'

‘Very well… Report to the bridge.'

*****

Vinter folded his arms impatiently as Ferreira watched the footage from the surveillance cam for the third time; the main door suddenly thrown open, Ramirez – the soldier who had gone berserker – striding purposefully into the cafeteria, sweeping his weapon from side to side in a continuous fire, his face completely contorted in a rictus of hate and incandescent rage. When the weapon's magazine was exhausted, he had simply replaced the clip in a series of movements that were so precise, they might have been taken from a military text book, then had simply carried on firing, concentrating now on those nearest to the exit, still moving with that same purposeful tread and almost robotic concentration, only changing direction when the door behind him opened and three armed troops appeared, already opening fire. Ramirez had staggered drunkenly backwards, then there was more firing from the exit as other troops arrived, spinning Ramirez round, his gun still firing, before it was torn from his grasp as the fusillade of shells ripped into him and it was only then that he finally went down. He had made one last effort to reach the gun he had dropped, reaching out what still remained of his right arm before his head slumped to one side and, at last, he was dead.