The Hunt for Pierre Jnr (22 page)

‘The council welcomes Colonel Abercrombie Pinter. Colonel, thank you for coming so promptly. These are extraordinary circumstances.’

‘They are indeed. It pleases me that you are taking such great precautions.’

‘I am glad you approve. Now, Colonel, we have all read your testimony regarding your part in the recent events. Do you swear that to be a true and accurate account?’

‘I do.’

‘Then I suggest we skip over an interrogation. We are, after all, not interested in finding anyone to blame. Time would be better served discussing what is to be done.’

Pinter raised his hands and clapped once. The sharp sound resounded around the room, focusing their attention upon him. ‘Your eminences, I believe that we are at a juncture here, and how we meet this challenge, how we go about what follows, will define the kind of people we are and what kind we will become. The kind of people we are.

‘Now, here’s what I suggest we do ...’

~ * ~

Days on the islands passed interminably slowly. Only the daily ministrations kept the residents phlegmatic and calm.

Their access to the Weave was limited to viewing and only that through the communal handscreens and larger monitors in the entertainment rooms.

Every day since the manifestation someone would rewatch the collected footage, staring open-mouthed at the smudge that destroyed a street. Others flicked through the forums and began to think that the islands were the safest place for them right now.

Pierre Sandro Snr was shunned by all but a small group who would play cards with him.

‘We should expect some freshies soon,’ one commented.

‘Yup.’ The circle nodded in agreement.

‘Hey, Pierre. When is that son of yours going to bust us out of here?’ another joked. Pierre Snr ignored him. He ignored everything to do with that boy.

Then he smiled, perhaps at the cards in his hand or at a pleasing thought. ‘He will come. And he will set us free when the world is ready for us.’

‘Senior, have you gone toxic? I thought you said he was a monster?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I did say that ...’ Sandro hesitated. That 
was 
what he said because it was what he thought. He hated that aberration for what it had done to them, especially Mary — no, Mary was fine. She had recovered. Pierre was out there making the world open for the return of psionics. ‘He is a monster, but at least he is on our side.’

The boy that nobody saw stepped away from the card players. He made a resident change the viewer to show the new Primacy council gathering at Den Haag and the reprised composition of his manifestation.

They watched the common screens in awe, silent with amazement. Some wept, tears drawing paths down their cheeks. Again and again they watched in rapture, never noticing that there was one spare chair in their circle where a small boy had joined them.

Pierre could hear their emotions. Any who felt a twinge of fear he turned. Any who wondered if it was really Pierre Jnr who had caused the destruction, he made certain. He left them without a doubt that what they were watching was the manifestation of their long-awaited god. He had come to save them.

~ * ~

He can control

people like puppets

~ * ~

Not all psis allowed themselves to be taken peacefully.

Seven: 24601 is on infra.

Nine: Odds are in place, Ten. Ready on your signal.

Ten: We have a go order.

~ * ~

He’d seen the speeches. He knew what it meant. Alone in his room he packed his things, taking what he needed from his wardrobe and the house pantry. Pierre had shown them the way. Simon Adderton would hide no longer, would pretend no longer.

He would join Pierre and fight.

His wife didn’t know about him. She would still love him, he was sure, but he wanted to leave before she came home. She would always be able to make him stay.

At the moment he was about to step out the door, the roof of his house disintegrated and five burly shadows dropped around him.

‘Nooo!’ Simon screamed, slashing out in a blind sweep. Three bodies fell to the floor, deep cuts through their armour.

Simon had never seen so much blood.

The door to his room blew off its hinges, heading toward him like a battering ram. He deflected and threw himself to the side as two more of the soldiers bashed their way through the frame, raising complicated weapons at him.

He pushed them to their knees and smashed their heads nose-first into the floor. He was about to crush their throats when he stopped. He didn’t know why. He wanted to kill the Services scum for attacking him. He wanted to lash out at something and they had come at the perfect time. His anger was pure and righteous, but first he needed to lie down. He lowered himself to the floor, his anger battling with this urge to curl up on the rug.

A man in black stepped through his bedroom door and knelt beside him, pushing a white oval toward his face.

‘No, please no!’ Simon shouted, but it was no use.

~ * ~

Okonta fixed the mask on 24601 and stood up to leave. The second half of his ten would arrive soon and could complete the collection. Something was wrong though and he couldn’t tell what.

He probed and found no one else in the vicinity. Where were the other MUs?

Okonta to Services: My team has gone silent. What is the command?

Services: Second and third squads inbound. Stay in position.

Okonta: Cut that, I’m going defensive.

Services: Concur. You may take unrestricted precaution.

Outside the bedroom, the lights of the house faulted suddenly. Beyond the bedroom doorway he couldn’t see through the black. Okonta listened for movement, pushed his mind out for sentience, but found no one there. That meant it could be bots out there waiting for him. But who could have organised a bot hit on his team? The target didn’t have that kind of influence and only Services ups should have known they were going to be here.

He bent down to one of the MUs and pulled the stumpy weapon away from the loosened fists. It was an ungainly, thick disc, with a handle on the flat side and six barrels attached to the front to point toward the target.

Okonta: Can you unlock this weapon for me? If it’s bots out there, I’m defenceless.

Services: Access granted. Use only as a last measure. Backup in minus four minutes.

The weapon hummed and clocked the readings to green. His symbiot accessed the operational embed of the gatling hand cannon and Okonta held it pointed at the open doorway.

‘Hello, assassin,’ a woman’s voice called from above.

Okonta splayed his legs and released the gatling on full throttle. Most of the energy went straight up into the sky through the hole in the roof. Only a small crumble of dust and prefab fell down.

‘Tsk, tsk. That’s no way to treat a friend.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’ll give you a choice, Okonta. Join me or die.’

Tamsin?

Now you’re getting it. Quickly. Which side would you be on if you had the choice?

You can’t.

Haven’t you ever thought about freedom?

Of course.

It’s wonderful, Okonta. You could never dream it
...

Services: Agent, report. What is happening there?

Time to choose.

Yes, I want to be free.

Brace yourself.

Okonta’s symbiot shook on his arm, and was instantly striped with cuts as Tamsin shredded it as quickly as she could. The botlock reacted, releasing toxins into his blood and heating ready to explode. Tamsin continued the lacerations until the shell was destroyed.

He had nearly blacked out by the time she dropped from the hole in the roof. She was a blonde freckled woman he didn’t recognise. He felt upward through her face.

‘Tamsin?’

‘Hold on, Okonta. All you have to do now is not die.’ She pulled a brace of syringes from her pocket and began stabbing them into his shoulder and chest.

Is that really you, Tamsin?

Sure it’s me. Don’t let the disguise fool you.

The injections kicked in, counteracting the poisons and enlivening his body with artificial enthusiasm. He stood up.

Quickly now, we have to get you transfused before these wear off.

What about him?
 he asked, nodding at the body lying unconscious on the floor. Okonta bent down to remove the man’s mask.

Wait.
 Tamsin touched his arm. 
I have a better idea.

~ * ~

It had been a week since the incident, three days since he had said goodbye to Geof Ozenbach. Peter Lazarus remained isolated in the medic tent of the remote Services compound. He waited as his body healed and his memories trickled together. He woke and passed out many times, and his sentience was continuously impaired from medication.

Sometimes he’d waken with a blank mind and it took him time to remember who he was and where. Sometimes he passed out with an image of eyes looking deep inside him.

His healing was rushed as much as it could be. With such extensive damage though, it became a hierarchy of priorities that had to be fixed one at a time.

Anchali fed him six times a day with a variety of protein fluids and chewing paste. She would ask him standard questions that nurses ask their patients, such as, ‘How are you feeling today?’ and he would try to answer with a nod. ‘Does it hurt when I do this?’ Nodding made his head swim and he would groan.

‘Don’t push yourself, Mister Lazarus.’ She smiled.

It was as she held straws to his lips or sponged his body clean that they hurried through as much real conversation as they could. She couldn’t linger at her duties without raising suspicion.

What is happening in the world?

Officially I am cloistered, as are most of the soldiers here, but from what I’ve heard there still isn’t any official statement for what happened under the Dome yet.

That is odd, isn’t it?

Yes and no. The Primacy is shifting, so those who were responsible are not commenting until the next council is in place. There is a lot of speculation.

And I bet none of it is close to what really happened. They’ll want to keep it secret.

We won’t let them.

How can you stop them
?

Whispers, Pete.
 
As
 
soon as I get relieved, I’ll spread the truth.

The truth ...?

The visions beset him again and he went into a fit. The last thing he heard was the alarm of his bedside machines and Anchali calling for the doctor.

Each time he awoke, the pieces slid into place, though not always in the same way. Those staring eyes that held him in thrall; the squeezing pain and the moment before, when he was waiting on an everyday street.

As time went by, his telepathic reach slowly came back to him. They kept the building clear to one hundred paces so mostly he could sense nothing until the nurse came to visit and he would count her steps as she approached: seventy-nine, seventy-eight, seventy-six ...

Anchali,
 he would call. She was a good nurse and the kind of woman who liked everything to be kept neat and tidy. Especially herself.

Twenty-two, twenty-one ...

Without even passive Weave access, Nurse Anchali Risun was the only person he had any contact with. He tried communicating with Geof through his symbiot, but received no response. He could not even be sure his messages were received. He wondered what could be happening. Was Geof alive? Had Services blocked them? Was he choosing not to respond?

Peter and Nurse Anchali had many long, silent conversations while he was unable to move. Twice a day she would gently dab his body with a soft cloth and massage the muscles that weren’t too bruised to touch. He had never been so pampered in his life.

‘How are we feeling today, Mister Lazarus?’

‘Please, call me Peter.’ 
Why are you the only person in this hospital?

This is only a temporary building. Just for you.
 ’That wouldn’t be protocol, I’m afraid.’ She smiled as she said this, professional-friendly.

With only one nurse?

No. Just the only one you’re allowed contact with. I’m a sacrificial lamb, which they think I don’t know. The others only come when they put you under. Let me reassure you, there is a team of doctors rushing your recovery along.

Pete found it incredibly difficult to be alone since the incident. As soon as the nurse faded from him, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two ... his heart rate elevated. Panic would set in and trigger a chemical dose from the machines around him. When he recognised that he panicked whenever he lost mental contact, he began to wonder about himself. He recalled being more of a private person. He’d spent his life drifting from place to place, using travel to hide, making no lasting contacts. That was a psi’s life, wasn’t it?