The Chosen Seed (6 page)

‘It has crossed my mind.’ Heddings looked tired at the thought of what was to come.

‘To sum up: you’re looking for a male who fits the physical description. He’s probably single, and will have recently quit a relatively high-powered job. I say “quit” because the big companies are becoming increasingly like the police – they test their employees regularly, every month or every other month. So he was either diagnosed by his workplace, or privately, but either way he will have had to quit. My bet is that he was diagnosed privately – he’s strikes me as a man too much in control to allow his employers to know something like that about him first. He would rather resign of
his own free will. He doesn’t have many friends. Perhaps he once had some religious affiliations, but not for some time. He’s far more interested in his own power than that of any higher authority. He’s not a drug user. He will have been infected sexually, but not through a typical relationship; I would expect from a sex worker.’

‘Don’t you think that’s odd, though?’ Armstrong asked. ‘I mean, if he’s so controlled, then why the hell didn’t he wear a condom?’

‘The same question has been bothering me, and I don’t have a clear answer. If I had to put money on it, I’d say his sexual preferences were for those underage – and I mean
very
underage. I think the purity would attract him, as well as the sense of power it would give him. Perhaps he didn’t think he needed protection with a child.’

‘Get on those diagnoses too.’ Armstrong was already writing as Ramsey spoke out loud. ‘There can’t be that many new cases among children.’

‘This man sounds more charming by the second.’ Heddings had aged in the course of the briefing. ‘I’ll speak to the boss, but I expect we’ll be organising a press conference for tomorrow morning. It’s best this comes from us than via a leaked source.’

‘It’s going to be chaos out there,’ Hask said softly.

No one disagreed.

Chapter Seven

‘I
don’t see why you’re insisting on showing this again.’ Mr Bright sipped his coffee. ‘We saw it two months ago.’ He kept his tone light and his gaze steady as the TV screen replayed the images.

‘Perhaps if we keep showing you,’ Mr Craven sneered, ‘then you’ll actually start to believe what you’re seeing instead of just ignoring it and hoping it will go away.’

Mr Bright smiled. Mr Craven did not look well. It was no secret that the Dying had found him, and though Mr Bright always felt the loss of one of their number, he wondered if he’d grieve at all for Mr Craven. There had always been something decidedly unpleasant about him. Solomon had never liked him; said he was too similar in nature to
him
. He didn’t have
his
strength of course, but the cruelty for cruelty’s sake was definitely there. Still, the Dying was the Dying, and despite his exterior cool, Mr Craven would be feeling the fear. No wonder he was so absorbed by the people in the film.

The fear, Mr Bright had discovered, was proving dangerous. In recent weeks he’d felt his grip starting to loosen slightly. There were far too many murmurs of dissent making their way back to him. The cohorts weren’t meeting regularly; it was becoming an ‘each to their own’ situation, and perhaps the only thing unifying them was the growing
belief that Mr Bright was no longer up to the job. The loss of Mr Bellew had not helped. He had been a general back in the old days, and many had followed because he had encouraged them.

Mr Bright had tried to keep a lid on the true story of Mr Bellew’s fall, but the rumours were rife and many were now staring at him with visions of
coup
in their eyes. He looked again at Mr Craven’s pale, thin cheeks. Thus far they’d avoided the promotion of a new fourth to the Inner Council, but when Mr Craven went, new members would be unavoidable, and the First Cohort was not currently over-flowing with friendly faces. He wondered how any of them had the arrogance to think they could do any better than he could.

His delicate coffee cup still in his hand, Mr Bright let his gaze drift back up to the screen. There he was, Detective Inspector Cassius Jones, tumbling into the back of the car that had screeched to a halt at the end of the road by the building site. The door flew open and he was pulled inside. It was the same CCTV footage that the police had studied, but they wouldn’t have seen what Mr Bright was seeing and what had disturbed the others so much. The Brightness – the
Glow
– it poured across the screen from the driver’s seat, and when the door opened for Jones to get in, more gold streamed out.

‘We know it’s an emissary,’ Mr Bright said. ‘There were already rumours of one. I don’t see why you are so fixated on this as if it were some kind of surprise.’

‘Come, come.’ Mr Dublin smiled gently. ‘It’s not that simple, is it, Mr Bright? There has never been an emissary here before – they have been rumours only, the stuff of myths and legends.’ He sat down, careful not to crease his linen suit. ‘And I know as well as you do that most of those
rumours were started in one or other of your offices to keep us all toeing the line. I always respected that.’

He flicked a finger in the direction of the still image. ‘But this? This is not a creation of your mind. This really is an emissary. And if an emissary is here, then perhaps
he
isn’t far behind.’

‘I understand your concerns, Mr Dublin.’ Mr Bright maintained the twinkle in his eyes despite his exhaustion. Why did they think they needed to tell him what to do? He had always been the thinker; he was always ahead. He was the Architect.

‘Of course we need to find out what the emissary wants,’ he said. ‘Clearly they are not here to speak with us, or they would have come directly. Perhaps
he
is just curious to see how we have got along in all this time. Maybe
he’s
having a moment of boredom. The emissary may well leave without ever contacting us.’ He carefully put his saucer down on the desk. ‘I am, of course, doing all I can to locate them, but as you can imagine, that is not the easiest task.’

‘Why would they save Cassius Jones? Why would the emissary even know who he is?’ Mr Dublin’s voice was as soft and languid as ever, but Mr Bright was not fooled by it. He had the bit between his teeth, and he wasn’t going to let go simply because of some reassuring words.

‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the elusive child?’ Mr Dublin finished.

‘Perhaps,’ Mr Bright said. There was no point in denying the possibility.

‘And what did you do with the child, Mr Bright?’ Mr Dublin asked. ‘His existence used to be a matter of record, at least for the Inner Cohort. What made you decide to hide him away? Or did he die?’ Mr Dublin leaned forward. ‘I don’t wish to be challenging. I haven’t always agreed
with you, but I have always respected our order. However, I cannot help but wonder at the wisdom of having the location and condition of the boy known only by you.’ He paused. ‘He may boost morale if you could perhaps show him, at least to us. Explain his importance.’

‘That isn’t possible at this moment in time.’ Mr Bright had known that this was coming. He could understand them resenting his secrets, but he had promised the First before he slept that he would do what was necessary, and that did not include sharing their plans with the cohorts. Plus, he was tired of the weight of their expectations. Currently the child was merely a rumour; to make him more than that at this stage could be foolish. If he unveiled his plans and they didn’t work, then the child would become another nail in his coffin.

‘I don’t care about the child,’ Mr Craven snapped. Mr Bright was sure there were flecks of blood in the spray of spit that flew out with the words. ‘You’re missing the point.’

‘And that is?’ Mr Dublin asked. Small lines pinched at his naturally smooth face. Mr Dublin was clearly no more fond of Mr Craven than Mr Bright was.

‘The emissary is
here
. If the emissary can get
here
, then why can’t we find the Walkways to get back? What is going wrong with the Experiment? If we can find the emissary, then maybe we can find a way home.’

‘This is home,’ Mr Bright said.

‘No.’ Mr Craven shook his head vehemently, ‘
This
was a mistake. We should never have fled.’

‘You were young. I think perhaps your memory of events is no longer clear.’

‘With all due respect’ – Mr Craven’s face fell somewhat short of a smile – ‘you and I are in very different positions. And I am not alone, as you know. The Dying is coming to
all of us – even you, Mr Bright, one day. You won’t be so keen to stay here then.’ He let out a long breath and the stink made Mr Bright grimace.

‘I think mad Mr Solomon was right.’ The fight had gone from Mr Craven’s voice and now he spoke as if only to himself. ‘This whole place is dying. Mr DeVore says the Interventionists are barely projecting any more. The data stream is a jumble of darkness and infrequent nonsense images.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ Mr Dublin cut in before Mr Bright could. ‘We know that the Interventionists are having their own problems. They’ve been changing since they arrived – this could be another phase for them.’

Mr Craven snorted. ‘The only difference between the Interventionists and us is that they
want
to be dying. If I have to die, I don’t want to do it here, not like this. Not so
small
.’

‘Please.’ Mr Bright raised his hands. ‘This is getting us nowhere. We’re all agreed we need to find the emissary; that must be our priority.’ He flashed a look at Mr Craven. ‘And just because the emissary has
got
here, it doesn’t mean she knows the way back.’

The phone on the desk rang and Mr Bright stared at both Mr Dublin and Mr Craven for a second before answering. Whatever the call was, at least it had ended the difficult conversation.

He listened to the excited speaker and then smiled. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there shortly.’ He put the receiver down and allowed for a moment’s dramatic pause.

‘Well, gentlemen.’ His eyes twinkled and golden
Glow
sparkled triumphantly at the edges. ‘It appears that the First has woken.’

Chapter Eight

T
hey were in the pub by half-five, but night had fallen so heavily that by the time they were on their second drinks it could have been midnight. Each time the door pushed open to let red-faced and runny-nosed customers in or out a blast of icy air swirled around the tables, so dry it hinted at snow. It was a perfect nearly Christmas evening.

Hask stared down at his vodka and tonic. He’d made a half-hearted effort at drinking, but his stomach wasn’t really in it. Beside him, Ramsey’s pint was barely touched.

‘This time tomorrow,’ the American policeman spoke quietly, ‘this place will be empty. Don’t you think?’

‘Probably. Worse than that, they’ll all be at home wondering about who they spoke to or slept with last night or last week.’

‘The test centres will be flooded. I guess it’ll at least give the government some real idea of the spread of Strain II through the population.’

‘You think?’ Hask leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his vast belly. ‘I’m not so sure. Most people don’t actually
want
to know. How many tests did you have before the bug came along? When it was just plain old less-complicated HIV?’

Ramsey didn’t answer.

‘I never had one either.’ Hask smiled softly. ‘But if I said
I’d always played safe, that would be a lie. I just
hoped
I was fine, and thought that those things tended to happen to
other
people. Poorer people.’ He sighed. ‘This man is trying to level the playing field.’

Groups of people laughed and joked around them, filled with the optimism that comes with the approaching end to a year and the start of a fresh one. In some ways, Hask envied their ignorance – at least for this evening.

‘Sometimes I get the feeling that the world is on the brink. There’s a strange atmosphere everywhere, haven’t you noticed?’ Ramsey picked up his pint and took two long swallows from it.

‘This is London. There’s a different atmosphere every ten minutes, depending where you are,’ Hask said.

‘Not like this: it’s in the air. It’s as if I’m half-seeing something from the corner of my eye – something big that we’re all missing. But then it’s gone, and I’m not sure if I’m just going slightly mad.’ The American’s face was taut and his eyes dark.

‘Are you okay?’ Hask watched him carefully. ‘Maybe you need a couple of days off. You’ve been overloaded of late, and it’s about to get worse.’

‘It’s okay, doc.’ Ramsey laughed gently. ‘I’m not going crazy. It’s just a weird feeling of unease inside me – like I should know something, but I don’t. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out.’

‘Maybe it’s the Cass Jones issue.’

‘Yeah, that’s definitely playing on my mind.’

‘I wonder where the hell he is.’

‘He’s nothing if not resourceful.’ Ramsey grinned. ‘Maybe he’s in the south of France sitting out on the deck of a boat somewhere.’

‘Not with his bank accounts all frozen.’ Hask sipped his
vodka. He paused. ‘That always struck me as odd.’

‘What?’

‘Cass isn’t stupid: surely if he were going to go on some murderous spree, he’d have put some money somewhere, in case of this situation? It’s not as if he’s anywhere near broke. Why didn’t he shift a hundred grand somewhere we couldn’t stop him getting to it.’

‘There’s a lot that I don’t understand.’ Ramsey leaned in, focused now. ‘Did you see all the info Perry Jordan had gathered for him? He definitely believes there was something suspicious about what happened to his brother’s kid, and looking at everything, I don’t blame him.’

‘But do you think he killed those two men? Bradley and Powell?’ It was the key question, the one the two men had avoided asking of each other since the case exploded. All the evidence pointed to Cass, that was indisputable, and maybe in the early days that had blinded them both to their gut instincts, but now that the dust was settling, Tim Hask knew what he believed: Cass Jones may have killed in the past, but he wasn’t a
murderer
. Cass Jones was an honest man, despite all his efforts to be otherwise. The question was, did DI Ramsey feel the same?