Provenance I - Flee The Bonds (11 page)

Bo screwed up his face. ‘Always pick on the Russian, yes.’

‘Half Russian.’

Kacee rose. ‘Can I tag along?’

‘Not this time, sorry.’

She quickly recovered her smile. ‘No worries.’

He turned to Dee, ‘I’m going to suit up.’

Steve climbed the creaking stairs and followed the tired sienna carpet to his bedroom. He donned his protector suit before climbing into the semi-rigid phase suit. Its curved surfaces used an experimental biomimetic and thermo inductive material that would supposedly make them invisible.

Ignoring the helmet, he picked up his gloves and stepped out onto the landing. Kacee appeared at the top of the stairs and approached him, wide eyed.

‘Those new suits are amazing, how close do you have to be to reflect?’

Too close
. ‘About twenty centimetres, but it depends on the amount of reflected light from the donor.’

‘Can you switch it on for me?’

‘Sure.’ Steve reached under his armpit and felt for the keypad.

Kacee stroked her long fingers over his invisible arm, ‘Amazing.’

Yep, far too close
.

08:32 MON 23:10:2119

Black Zone, Barlton, England, Sector 2

Penny slumped into the emerald-green armchair, her arms flopping over armrests chafed to peridot. None of the staffroom chairs had fared any better; all showed their age and exuded the astringent combination of antiseptic and disinfectant that pervaded every corner of the hospital. Her head fell back, her gaze tracing the cracks. The ceiling, like her coat, had once been white.

The door squeaked open. ‘Hi, Penny, how did it go? Wanna a cuppa?’

Penny let her head roll forward and smiled. The crisp blue smock clothed the irrepressible Susan Thompson, a nurse famed for her wicked sense of humour and reflux inducing tea. ‘Fine, and yes please.’

While Susan headed for the kitchenette of cream laminate cupboards with ill-fitting doors, Penny’s gaze dropped to the stained coffee table and the pile of dog-eared medical journals. Her morning had begun with an appendectomy, complicated by the man’s sixty-eight years and the twenty-four hours since it had ruptured. He’d been bent double on arrival.

Susan busied herself by the sink unit, her voice carrying over running water and the whining kettle. ‘Mr Glendhall’s here.’

‘Where is he now?’

Susan’s blonde ponytail gave way to dimpled cheeks, ‘I think he’s in RR.’

Penny huffed. ‘Checking up on me probably.’

Mr Glendhall, the visiting consultant, appeared to accept the status quo more readily than others. Rumour had it he diverted hospital resources to his PURE clinic. Penny knew the rumour to be true but no one would listen, especially not to her.

Like many before him, Mr Glendhall had used Prevention Utilising Responsible Eugenics to increase his patients’ chances of joining Continuity — and his wealth. Penny was also aware of how private equity had squeezed non-profit into profit. Unscrupulous PURE clinics had become known as ‘
Paying Up Repairs Excess’
. The more you invested, the more you could eat, drink, and generally abuse your body. Longevity could be measured by the noughts in your bank balance, helped by the fact that PURE was tax deductible.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the line medical ethics had disappeared altogether. Competition for Continuity increased, bloodlines became investment portfolios and Transformation Yielding Performance Enhancements created a new breed of human. TYPEs.

She’d always assumed Mr Glendhall took his own medicine, his aloof and cold-hearted approach to those humans he deemed inferior were the classic psychological deficiencies of a TYPE.

Metal clinked against china, ‘He has two CONSEC men with him. The rumours must be true.’

Penny’s arms crossed her chest. ‘What rumours?’

‘Haven’t you heard? The Resistance, the attacks.’ Susan turned quicker than Penny expected. ‘Don’t look so worried. I doubt the Resistance are going to attack a hospital,
especially
this one.’

Penny accepted the animal-print mug of scalding sepia. ‘Thanks. Why are they here?’

Susan eased into the turquoise chair opposite. ‘Bodyguards I suppose.’ She slurped. ‘Ahh, just what the doctor ordered.’

Penny took a sip of the acerbic brew. ‘You bet. Which Defenders are they?’

Susan raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know; they all look the same to me. Pity Mr Glendhall isn’t more important,
then
they might be Advocates.’

‘You should be careful what you wish for.’

‘Oh I know. But they’re so hunky, and anyway, they’re only after the Resistance. A couple of nice girls like us would be okay.’

Penny’s eyes narrowed. ‘When have you met an Advocate?’

‘When I was training, four of them came in for jabs.’ Her wistful eyes drifted up. ‘Do you think they’re picked for their looks.’

‘Yes, so they can seduce idolatrous woman like you and sleep their way to your secrets.’

‘Oh goody.’

Penny shook her smile; ignorance truly was bliss.

The door squeaked and a slate-grey uniform entered, rifle held ready. Penny peered over her mug, her chest heaving beneath her coat.

The Defender’s hostility scoured the room before returning to the open door, ‘Clear.’

Penny lowered her mug and set it on the table. ‘Who were you expecting in a hospital?’

The upright frame of Mr Glendhall marched in, wearing his sartorial trademark tweed suit and pale yellow bow tie. He probably wasn’t unattractive, but it was hard to judge beneath the contempt he exuded. ‘That’s enough of that, nurse. These gentlemen are here to protect me.’

Penny stood. ‘This is a hospital, Mr Glendhall. It is hardly conducive with patient recovery to have armed Defenders patrolling the wards.’

Glendhall stroked back a forelock of ashen hair. ‘I will remind you
again
, Nurse MacGillson, that this is not
your
hospital. Your responsibilities start and end with treating patients. Are we quite clear about that?’

‘Yes, Mr Glendhall.’

‘Good.’ He removed a gold MCD from his jacket pocket and tapped the screen. ‘Oh yes, you have a Mr Jackson in RR, appendectomy.’ His raised eyebrows demanded a response.

‘Yes, he was operated on this morning.’

‘Why are you treating him with cloxoracillin?’

‘Because he had a periappendiceal abscess.’

‘Was the cavity irrigated with saline?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll repeat the question, Nurse. Why are you treating the patient with cloxoracillin?’

Penny’s justification floundered on the threadbare blue carpet. Her head rose to meet his inquisitorial stare. ‘Mr Jackson is sixty-eight years old, peritonitis would have killed him.’

Glendhall pocketed the MCD and folded his arms. ‘Nurse MacGillson, why do you consistently infringe directives? Cloxoracillin is a controlled antibiotic; it is solely for use in ER — solely for Continuity.’

Penny matched his posture. ‘I see only patients, Mr Glendhall.’

His smile was at best condescending. ‘We are all dedicated to the preservation of life, which is why we have directives. I have instructed the RR manager to remove the IV.’

Heat flowed into Penny’s cheeks, ‘Will you be attending Mr Jackson’s funeral, Mr Glendhall?’

‘Oh come now nurse, this is medicine not theatre. Decisions like this have to be made every day. Mr Jackson is a Dro—,
not
Continuity. He has, I’m sure, devoted his life admirably in service to Continuity, but now . . .’

‘But now his time has come.’

‘Articulated in your characteristically blunt style, but yes, he is sixty-eight years old, his genes are flawed. It was only a matter of time.’

Mournful memories filled Penny’s eyes. She’d cried every day for a month after her mum’s death. She’d cry no more. ‘I assume we can continue with pain relief.’

‘Of course, we’re not inhuman. I will however be submitting a report,
again
.’

Susan eased up. ‘Nurse MacGillson only does what she thinks is best for the patients, Mr Glendhall.’

His pinched expression softened. ‘Your loyalty is commendable Susan, even if misguided.’

Glendhall spun and strode out, the door squeaked shut.

Penny turned to Susan and smiled. ‘Thanks.’ It was a strange fact, but fact never the less. Susan was a junior nurse, Penny a critical care executive, as qualified as any doctor. Yet in every way that mattered, Susan was her superior.

09:52 MON 23:10:2119

TF 16, Hampshire, England, Sector 2

Dee adjusted his protector suit’s utility belt in the Aegis’s mirror-like quarter panel. Steve’s car was yet another fringe benefit of going to the Academy.

He spun towards the gritty footfalls.

Steve wore his contagious smile. ‘A hundred thousand credits and she’s yours.’

He returned the smile. Even if it was Steve’s to sell, Dee couldn’t afford it. That required a goldtop credit line.

They crossed the courtyard into an adjacent field and followed an old farm track; their combat boots crushing the dewy grass running down the middle. On either side, centuries of tractor wheels had left deep ruts of caramel water and glistening mud.

Dee broke the silence, ‘So whatta ya think of her?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who man, Kacee. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’ Dee had noticed her interest in Steve.

‘She’s an Evaluator, trained to prise open your memory lockers and have a good rummage.’

‘She can rummage through mine anytime.’

‘That’s exactly why PSYOPS chose her.’

They trampled the grass for another two hundred metres before wheeling right towards a line of trees linked by strands of sagging barbwire. Steve looked down at his MPS before pointing into the forest.

Twisted beech, fat oaks and slender birch grew out of a carpet of burnt orange leaves. Dee knew their names, because Steve had insisted on telling him. He wasn’t that interested, but played along. He did have happy memories of chasing Michelle around Marine Park with a frog dangling between his fingers. This wasn’t Brooklyn though; this was boring old England.

Dee continued to follow as Steve wove a path through the tangle of trees, ferns, and fallen branches. The toes of his combat boot pointed downwards, slid under the crispy leaves and cleared any twigs before setting down. When he made it into Citadel, he’d get to do this somewhere else, somewhere far away.

Steve pointed to the base of a birch tree and a clump of bright red mushrooms with white specks. ‘Amanita muscaria, commonly known as fly agaric. So called because crushing it in milk was supposed to attract and kill flies. Hallucinogenic
and
toxic.’

‘If you say so.’

Steve halted and switched on his paternal frown. ‘Fungi are the most abundant living organisms after insects; it stands to reason that the new world will also have fungi. Some of which may be lethal.’ He turned away. ‘That’s why you’ll be asked questions about fungi, and trees, during your Citadel assessment.
’

After thirty minutes, the forest abruptly stopped. A twenty-metre copper mat separated the tree line from a chain link fence. The disused water treatment plant sat in a square cut into the forest. Through the rusting fence, Dee scanned the three concrete bunkers that ran the centre line. Years of neglect had streaked them in dark green slime and ragged patches of grey and yellow lichen had infected the walls like the pox.

He instinctively looked up. A golden leaf floated down through still branches. His head arched back and in the absence of any distractions, his mind's eye pried into his darkest locker. Colossus exploded through the dismal cloud, a screaming ball of murderous fire.

Whatever it took, he and his sister wouldn’t be here to see it.

‘Dee?’ Steve pointed. ‘We’ll call that the northeast corner, let’s go in and set up.’

Concrete paths crisscrossed the treatment plant, forming square islands of overgrown rubble, collapsed wooden structures, and rusting pipes. Dee followed a cracked path to the door of the first concrete bunker. About the size of a singlewide garage, the bunker had no windows and the only means of entry was a galvanised door. He pushed, screwing up his face at the grating squeal. Above the outline of machinery, dimness sieved through four skylights spattered with algae and dead leaves. Dee sniffed; rancid oil clung to the stagnant air.

Moving to one side, he allowed Steve, and daylight, to peer in before stating the obvious. ‘Two corners obscured by machinery.’

Steve gave him one of his parental nods. ‘Well spotted. We’ll call this one A One and the others two and three.’

After inspecting the three bunkers, they followed the path back to the entrance.

Once there, Dee extended his MCD and dragged icons onto the compound diagram. ‘We put one Pree in each corner, two on the gate, and two CDs in each bunker.’ His finger traced a line from the northeast corner to the tree line. ‘We run a laser corridor from the vertex to the tree line; half a metre wide should do it. Whadda ya think?’

Steve’s studious expression remained fixed on the screen. ‘All looks good.’ He expanded the diagram and pointed at the concrete bunkers. ‘What about an HS on each of these to simulate the OTs?’

Dee grinned. ‘Sneaky.’ Steve had an irritating habit of always being one step ahead, almost as irritating as when he pretended he wasn’t.

Outside bunker A1, Dee opened his ruckall and removed a black plastic box. The padded interior held two rows of black metallic cylinders separated by two larger cylinders. The larger cylinders were roughly the diameter of a baseball and three times as long, their two halves joined lengthways. The Holo-Sims Smalls were half the diameter and a third as long. An HSS would produce a holographic image of a human; a Holo-Sim Large could in theory, project a skyscraper.

A rusting fixed ladder gave Dee access to the flat roof. When he reached the centre, he cleared a space amongst the rotting leaves, positioned the HSL, and pressed one of the illuminated buttons.

The HSL glowed, the light intensified and a hologram shimmered into view. Fifteen seconds later it was ready. A seven-metre high replica of a CONSEC observation tower, complete with full spectrum security cameras.