9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (25 page)

Tom glanced at his companions, waiting for them to say something. But Ceri was looking
at the man with a twisted, horrified expression on her face. She didn’t seem inclined
to join in the conversation. Peter was regarding the man intently.

“No,” said the man, though nobody had spoken. “Got to.”

He wafted his hands in front of his bloody face as though swatting away a bothersome
fly, then stumbled forward. Tom went to put his arms across him, afraid he was going
to fall.

“NO!” the man screamed in his face and Tom took a step back. “London!”

The man continued stumbling forward, brushing Tom’s shoulder as he passed.

“Let him go,” said Peter. “There’s nothing we can do to stop him.”

Ceri had started to cry, clutching her hands to her mouth and staring after the man
as he shambled away.

“Look at the state of him,” said Tom. “He’s not going to last an hour out here dressed
like that.”

“Maybe that will be better,” said Peter.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to persuade him,” said Peter. “But I can’t overcome the power of the Commune.
He’s been called. He has to go to London and there’s nothing any of us can do to interfere.
Come on, we need to carry on.”

Peter turned and started walking back to the Range Rover. Ceri followed him.

Tom looked at the man. He was now twenty yards away.

“Hey!” Tom called after him. “Everyone’s dead in London. Why don’t you come with us?
You’ll be warm. We’ve got food.”

The man didn’t give any indication that he had even heard. Tom watched him for a few
moments longer. Feeling sick, Tom returned to the Range Rover.

* * * * *

The engine of the Sea King sounded incredibly loud in the silence that had fallen
on London. Birds in trees around the airbase took to the air in alarm.

Wallace spoke to them before they boarded the helicopter.

“They tell me this thing has a range of almost seven hundred miles,” he said. “That
should be enough to find them and get back here in it. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Bishop. “But luck won’t come into it.” He looked at Diane. “Still coming?”

She nodded. In one hand, she tightly clutched the bag containing the submachine gun
and the pistol.

In a crouch that comes automatically when running towards a stationary helicopter
with blades awhirl, Diane and Bishop reached the machine and climbed aboard. Bishop
took the pilot’s seat and Diane strapped herself into the seat next to him, though
she would be no use as a co-pilot—she didn’t know the first thing about flying a helicopter.

Bishop donned a pair of earphones with a microphone attached and motioned to her to
do the same with the set that lay on the dashboard in front of her. When Bishop spoke,
she could hear him clearly above the drone of the engine and clatter of the rotors.

The helicopter lurched and jerked into the air. For a sickening moment, Diane was
staring through the glass windscreen of the chopper directly at the runway.

“Oops,” said Bishop. “I’m a little out of practice. But don’t worry, I’ll soon get
the hang of it.”

Diane was glad to hear it. She had only been in a helicopter once before, one that
had flown over the Grand Canyon. That had been a completely different-looking machine,
with a windscreen like a glass bubble. This one had a flatter windscreen, more like
a car’s, divided into five sections. She had been acutely aware that the helicopter
in the States flew on just one engine. Although she’d been informed that this one
possessed two engines, and they wouldn’t be flying over a mile-deep gash in the ground
during this flight, she nevertheless felt small and vulnerable.

The chopper smoothed out as it gained height and they began to fly north-west. Diane
relaxed a little. The yellow Sea King seemed more dependable to her than the black,
smaller, but quicker, nippier machine she’d been in before; more cumbersome, maybe,
but steady and reliable: a bumble bee to a dragon fly.

“It’s equipped with radar,” said Bishop, pointing at a circular screen. “But I don’t
think we’ll need it.”

“Why?” said Diane, her voice sounding tinny to her ears.

“Look where we’re headed.”

Diane looked. Ahead of them a low bank of cloud was approaching that seemed to stretch
away before her eyes, covering the whole country to the north. She lowered her gaze
and could see green fields beyond the edge of the city. The green did not extend far.
It soon gave way to whiteness.

“The snow’s melted in London,” said Bishop. “But not further up by the look of it.
That should slow them down. If we keep below the cloud, just high enough to avoid
trees and pylons, we should even be able to make out tyre tracks.”

“That doesn’t explain why we won’t need to use the radar,” said Diane. “There’ll be
thousands of survivors on the move. How will we know which is Ronstadt?”

“For a start, darling, the radar won’t tell us which one is Ronstadt either. But we’ll
know it’s him the moment we spot him.”

Diane bit her tongue to keep back the retort she wanted to shoot back at his term
of address. Instead, she said, “How will we know it’s him?”

“Easy. He’ll be the only one going north.”

* * * * *

The only sound that intruded above the purr of the Range Rover’s engine was Ceri’s
gentle sobbing. A little under a mile further on, they passed a car on the opposite
carriageway that appeared to have skidded off the road and struck a tree. Wisps of
steam still drifted into the air from the crumpled bonnet.

“He must have been driving that,” said Tom.

“He wasn’t the first, you know,” said Peter quietly.

“Not the first what?”

“Not the first survivor we’ve passed who’s been heading south to London.”

“I haven’t seen any others.”

“I haven’t seen them either,” said Peter. “But I’ve sensed them. Since they were called,
their minds have been open to me. Two or three passed nearby when we were in the pub.
That man was the second we’ve passed today. The first was a mile or two to the east.
That seems to be the limit at which I’m aware of them.”

The sound of Ceri’s sobbing had stopped. Tom turned round to look at her. She had
fallen asleep, half lying across the back seat, her head next to Dusty’s basket. The
dog was asleep, too.

Tom kept his voice low.

“What did you mean earlier when we were by that man? You said words to the effect
that he’d be better off dropping dead than getting to London.”

Peter thought for a moment. He, too, kept his voice low.

“Remember the part of the story where we—the ones who’d survived the journey from
the craft to land—held a Commune and called the inhabitants of Britain to Salisbury
Plain?”

“Ye-es.”

“Well, the same thing’s happening now. The remaining people of my kind, almost five
thousand of them, have held a Commune. That’s when everyone’s minds join together
and can reach out to influence dro . . . er, humans. We haven’t been able to do that
for a long time. Too many humans, not enough of us. And the human mind has grown too
powerful. The only reasons that the Commune has worked now is that the survivors are
weak and bewildered and alone. Even so, forcing them to go to London is about the
limit of what the Commune could achieve. As the survivors arrive and start congregating,
they will become stronger and the ability to influence will lessen further. And so
the reason for my comment about that man—I suspect that they are doing something to
the survivors as they arrive. Something that will give them complete control over
them. Something like. . . .”

“A lobotomy?” Tom’s hands clenched in his lap.

“I fear so. They will need to destroy or disable a good portion of the frontal lobes,
the areas of your brain that have most developed and that give you the ability to
keep us out.”

“Nice,” said Tom, struggling now to keep his voice down. He could feel the earlier
stridency trying to return.

“No,” said Peter. “It’s barbaric. I’d clench my fists too if I were you. But most
of my kind won’t see it that way. They still regard you as drones.”

“And you don’t?” Tom forced his hands to relax.

“No,” said Peter. “I married a human.”

“Megan was human?”

“Yes. She died in my arms of old age.
I
still looked the same as the day we’d first met.”

“Did . . . did you have children?”

Peter uttered a low laugh. “I couldn’t have given Megan children even if I’d wanted
to. She knew that and accepted it.”

“You mean, you can’t. . . . ?”

“Not in the same way. My kind seldom reproduces.” Peter’s tone suggested that he wasn’t
keen on talking any more about that.

Tom didn’t want to push him and make him clam up. He still had other questions.

“So, you can’t influence us except during this communion thing?”

“Commune. No, not really. We can give a little nudge now and again. Force someone
who’s wavering down a particular path without them noticing. But that’s about all.”

“Have you given me a little nudge?”

“Maybe just a little. To get you to agree to coming north with me.” Peter shifted
a little in his seat.

“What about Ceri?”

Peter glanced over his shoulder to check she was still asleep. When he replied, it
was in such a low voice that Tom had to strain to hear.

“Once or twice.”

“That’s why she so readily agreed to come with us. And earlier when she said she believed
you. . . .”

“Shh. Keep your voice down. Look, there’s a reason I want Ceri to stick with us that
has nothing to do with keeping us company.” He glanced back at her again. “When I
protected you from the calling at her house, I saw some things in your minds. I didn’t
look deliberately, you understand, but I couldn’t help but see them.”

“What sort of things?” Tom felt his hands clenching again and forced his fingers open.

“When we found Ceri, she was preparing to kill herself. She’d have done it that evening.”

Tom felt his jaw drop and closed it. “Are you serious?” was all he could think of
to say.

“Yes. And when you allowed me into your minds yesterday when we stopped for lunch,
I took another peek. That time was on purpose, but I wanted to see if she had pulled
back from despair.”

“And?”

“The blackness has receded a little, but is still very much present. We need to keep
a careful watch on her.”

“What about me, Peter? What did you see in my mind?”

“I think you already know the answer to that one. She would have died anyway, you
do know that?”

“Lisa, you mean. . . . ?”

“Your mother.”

This time Tom allowed his hands to ball into fists. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Tom, I’m sorry, but—”

“Drop it!”

Tom stared out of the window, at the white fields and glowering sky.

Peter cleared his throat. “There’s a village signposted just ahead and it’s way past
lunchtime. Let’s go and find somewhere warm and dry to eat.”

Tom realised that his stomach agreed with Peter.

“Okay,” he said.

* * * * *

When Wallace returned from the airbase, he went to see Milandra in her hotel suite
as she’d requested.

“Bishop’s on his way,” he told her, “in a bright yellow helicopter.”

“Alone?”

“Nope. A woman named Diane something is with him.”

“Diane Heidler?”

“Yep, that’s it,” said Wallace.

“Interesting,” said Milandra. “I spoke with her at JFK. That woman is conflicted.”

“Unless there’s something else. . . . ?”

“No, George, that’s all. Thank you.”

She watched him leave and close the door behind him.

Diane Heidler
, she mused.
Very interesting indeed
.

When she had spoken to the woman in New York and probed, Milandra had caught a glimpse
of something before Diane had slammed the door closed on her. She couldn’t be sure
what she’d seen, it had been too brief a glimpse, but something told her that there
were far worse companions Bishop could have chosen. All depending on your point of
view, of course. But from Milandra’s point of view, there were far worse companions,
of that much she was certain.

Chapter Twenty

T
he cloud had lifted and the temperature had dropped. The snow had begun to form a
frozen crust, making driving trickier, even for the Range Rover. It was also a little
deeper as they progressed northwards and had drifted in places, making hedgerows resemble
green-crusted meringue. Peter switched to four-wheel drive and found the going easier,
though he remained cautious.

The village was only a mile or two off the main road. Peter pulled up in front of
the first row of cottages they saw and turned off the engine.

“Where are we?” came a sleepy voice from the back.

Peter turned and smiled at Ceri. “We’re stopping for lunch, sleepy head. You hungry?”

“Mm, could eat a horse.”

“Might be able to rustle up a tin of ham. Maybe beans.”

“Cold?” asked Tom.

Peter considered for a moment. “Well, the roads are getting quite treacherous and
it’ll be dark in a couple of hours. If they’re already after us, the weather conditions
will slow them down, too. Maybe we can safely stay here for the night. In which case,
there’s no rush so, hell, why not, let’s have hot food for a change.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Tom.

They broke into the first cottage that didn’t emit the sweet odour of spoiled pork.
The interior smelled dank and unlived-in, but was free of the stench of death. There
were no Christmas decorations, suggesting that the occupants had left before the Millennium
Bug hit.

Peter brought the camping stove and paraffin lamps in. When Dusty had finished relieving
himself in the icy snow, he followed them inside and spent the next thirty minutes
exploring every nook and cranny of the cottage.

They found sufficient tinned food in the kitchen to avoid dipping into their own rations.
There were even a couple of tins of dog food. In a tiny cupboard beneath the stairs,
Ceri discovered a portable gas fire with enough gas in its bottle to keep them warm
until morning. With that lit and the flickering glow of the paraffin lamps, the dampness
was driven away and the cottage took on a homely, comfortable feel.

As they finished the last of their tinned, but hot, meal, Peter readied himself for
further interrogation. Tom had been shooting him glances as they ate and Peter did
not need to read his mind to know that Tom was keen to learn more. He couldn’t blame
him; Peter would have wanted to know more if he had been in Tom’s shoes. He probably
would have been as sceptical as Tom, too.

Tom cleared his throat.
Here it comes
thought Peter.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old were you when you came to Earth, Peter?”

“I was one hundred and eighty-three. Little more than a boy.”

“And that was five thousand years ago.”

“Give or take a century.”

Tom snorted.

“How can that be possible?” asked Ceri. “You look about fifty.”

“Anatomically, we and humans are almost identical. Now that you’ve lost your pelts,
and your foreheads have expanded to house your developed brains, and your jawlines
have receded a little . . . But there are two major differences between us. The first
is that we can influence lesser creatures with the power of our minds and can combine
with others to exert greater power. The second is that we have the ability to regenerate,
using almost any source of energy to revitalise our cells. The sun—the Earth’s sun
in particular—is especially effective. We lived long lives on our home planet, but
nothing as compared to here.” Peter shrugged almost apologetically. “It was not considered
prudent to impart either ability when we created humans. Instead, you were given the
ability to reproduce at will and a keen instinct for survival. Too keen, I have come
to believe.”

“Can you be killed?” asked Tom.

“Oh yes,” said Peter. “If both our heart and brain are destroyed at the same time—through
oxygen deprivation, trauma, fire, extreme cold—we die. Thus we have lost over half
our number. But if only our heart is damaged, or only our brain, provided we have
a power source that can be readily accessed—sunlight, for instance—we will recover.
I fought in both world wars. Countless civil wars and conquests. I’ve been stabbed
with dagger, spear and sword. I’ve been shot six times. But I’m still here.”

“What if your head was chopped off?”

Peter thought for a moment. “Yeah, that’d work.”

“If what you say is true,” said Tom, “how come we don’t know about you? How could
you keep such abilities hidden from us?”

“It is easy to hide less than five thousand amongst seven billion. Of course, it was
not always thus. Humans numbered far less in centuries past. We have not always escaped
notice.”

“For example?” said Tom.

“Well, like I said, almost any source of energy will suffice for us to regenerate.
In times long past, during long European winters when sunlight and food were in scarce
supply, some of my compatriots grew sufficiently desperate for sustenance that they
resorted to a ready supply of energy—human blood. Some were caught and killed. Quite
effectively, too. Stake through heart and decapitation.”

“What, you’re bloody Dracula now?”

Peter smiled. “The cloves of garlic and fear of the crucifix are artistic inventions,
but fresh human blood is remarkably rich in energy. Do not look like that, Tom. I
have never indulged and have no intention of starting now.”

“Glad to hear it.” Tom jumped to his feet. “I’m going to the car to fetch a beer.”

“Bring the vodka, too, please,” said Ceri. “Listening to this stuff’s enough to drive
anyone to drink.”

Peter watched Tom go, unruffled by his lack of belief. Before too long, Peter suspected
that Tom would have every reason to believe everything Peter had told him. Better
for Tom that it be delayed as long as possible.

* * * * *

Bishop steered the Sea King on a north-westerly bearing until they were well clear
of Greater London and passing to the north of Oxford. Then he turned to face west
and the Welsh border. As they passed over Gloucester, Bishop’s voice came over Diane’s
earphones.

“Keep your eyes peeled from here on, darling. That’s Wales up ahead, where they were
last seen. I’m going to meander up the border until we pick up their trail.”

His term of address once again grated on Diane, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
She stared down at the ground, looking for tracks in the snow. They had already seen
a few vehicles driving steadily south; four-by-fours, Bishop informed her, from the
easy way they handled the snow. Diane nodded and said nothing; she wasn’t really sure
what a four-by-four was—she had thought it was a cut of wood. They also saw one or
two vehicles that didn’t look so steady, weaving across carriageways, progressing
south in a series of jerking, sliding motions. The sight made Bishop laugh.

They flew low enough for Diane to be able to make out that a person got out of one
car and stood watching them as they flew by. Bishop ignored them: they had been driving
south so didn’t interest him.

They flew over a river—the Severn, Bishop told her—that didn’t seem as wide here as
the two motorways she could make out from her vantage point. White, deserted motorways,
dotted with the occasional dark knot of abandoned vehicles.

Bishop turned the helicopter and followed a main road towards Hereford. He circled
the still town and then seemed to choose another road to follow at random. But when
Diane glanced at the compass, she saw they were heading due north.

She had almost forgotten the purpose of the journey, was beginning to enjoy gazing
down on the peaceful, white world, when she heard Bishop draw in breath sharply.

“There!” he said.

It took Diane a moment to spot it. Even when she did, it took her a moment longer
to realise that it was what had excited her companion. A set of deep parallel lines
in the road outside a small village.

“I can see tyre tracks,” she said. “But how do you know they’re theirs? The tracks
could be leading south,
into
the village.”

“No. They’re on the right side of the road.”

“No, they’re not. They’re on the left.”

“I meant the
correct
side of the road. They drive on the left in Britain, darling, like in Australia.
Ronstadt has lived here for at least sixty years. Even with the roads to himself,
he’d instinctively drive on the left. No, those tracks are heading out of the village.
North. But let’s make doubly sure.”

Diane gasped as the helicopter swooped around and down. Bishop brought it to a hover
what seemed to her like mere yards above the roofs of the buildings.

“There!” said Bishop, a note of triumph in his voice. “That pub. The tracks start
there. From next to that blue car—a Jaguar, I think. Yep. They must have stayed the
night in the pub, it snowed overnight and they left this morning. We’ve got them,
baby, we’ve got them!”

Before Diane had time to object to his latest form of address, her stomach dropped
as Bishop brought the Sea King up sharply and turned it to face northwards once more.
He set off in the direction of the tyre tracks.

* * * * *

Tom offered Peter a beer, but he refused. He seemed content with soft drinks. Ceri
once more downed a large slug of spirit, but only sipped at the refill. It was she
who asked Peter another question.

“Peter, what’s ninety-three multiplied by six hundred and twelve?”

Peter blinked. “I haven’t a clue,” he said. “Why are you asking?”

“Oh, just wondering if you’re really that much more intelligent than us.”

Peter smiled. “Ah, I see. Actually, we’re not more intelligent than you, at least
not individually. We certainly were once, long ago, but not for centuries. Collectively,
however . . . that’s a different matter. You see, we have no use for books or records
or computers. Well, not for storing knowledge in any case. All our knowledge and skills
and experiences, and those of our ancestors, are pooled and held by one of our number
who is known as the Keeper. If we die, our memories pass to the Keeper and are added
to the pool.”

“And if the Keeper dies?” asked Ceri.

“They will pass to another of our number who has been selected to succeed to the Keeper.
She is called the Chosen.” He shrugged. “The titles aren’t important. What those holding
them do is. They don’t have to be female, but tend to be.”

“What if the Keeper and this Chosen die at the same time?” asked Tom.

“The knowledge will pass to one of us, though he or she won’t be prepared to receive
it. I don’t know how they would cope—it has never happened.”

“If you were to drown tomorrow, all your memories would pass to the Keeper?”

“Yes. Her name is Milandra. I last saw her before the Second World War, in Florida.
I like her.” Peter smiled wryly. “Tom, I do wish you’d stop asking questions that
involve me dying in some horrible way.”

Tom was struggling to keep his scepticism in check, but couldn’t help returning Peter’s
smile.

“You mentioned a beacon,” said Ceri. “You said you made the drones build one in Salisbury?”

“We felt it prudent,” said Peter. “When we entered this solar system, there had been
some debate about which planet was the right one. The ancients’ records were a little
vague on this point. We obviously chose correctly, but didn’t want to run the risk
of the rest of our people choosing incorrectly. Since we could no longer send messages
home without our craft, a beacon was required. That’s why we called the drones to
us and set them to work.”

“Ha!” said Tom. “I can guess what comes next. You’re going to tell us that the beacon
is Stonehenge, right?”

Peter nodded. There was no hint of playfulness in his expression. “And it will need
to be reconfigured. I suspect that this will be one of the tasks to which your fellow
countrymen will be put.” Peter looked as though he was about to say more, but then
changed his mind. He got up to refill his glass with orange juice.

Tom took the opportunity to relieve his bladder. When he returned to his seat, Peter
was talking about his home planet.

“ . . . underground cities and pyramids and domes. It’s no coincidence that many of
your own ancient civilisations erected similar buildings.”

“How far away is this planet?” Tom asked.

“Four hundred and seventy-nine-point-four light years, to be exact.”

“And the rest of your people set off, what, two or three weeks ago?”

“Yes. We expect them to arrive in around five months’ time. May or June.”

“Huh. Almost five hundred light years in six months. Not possible. It’s why they’re
called light years.”

“Not possible within the normal laws of physics, no. But such laws don’t pertain outside
the gravitational pulls of compact solar systems like this one and our home system.
How can I explain? You’ve heard that the universe is expanding?”

“Ye-es,” said Tom. “So what?”

“Well, it’s true. Mankind has made huge strides in its scientific knowledge of late,
though it has barely completed the first hundred yards of a marathon. But it has got
this right: the universe
is
expanding and at a much faster rate than the speed of light. The ancients knew how
to harness that expansion—to tag onto it. How best to imagine it? You’ve seen a leaf
floating in a swollen stream, perhaps bobbing in slack water? Then, the current takes
it and it’s swept away like a swimmer in a riptide. In order to be that leaf we needed
knowledge and materials. The knowledge was provided by the ancients in their black
tablets; the materials we already possessed. Of course, it wasn’t enough merely to
know how to join the current; we had to know how to escape it again when we reached
where we wanted to be. That knowledge the ancients provided, too.”

“Dark energy,” said Ceri. “You’re harnessing dark energy.”

Peter nodded. “Very good, Ceri. I’m impressed.”

Tom looked at her and raised his eyebrows.