Provenance I - Flee The Bonds (8 page)

In the camera view’s periphery, the point of a poker scraped along the tiles and disappeared. An instant later, the darkened corner exploded in a flash of chartreuse. Funereal silence descended.

Behind the stove’s glass door, a log cracked, spitting flecks of incandescent orange into the swirling glow.

Several minutes passed before Morton reappeared, a white cube resting in his palm. He placed the cube on the stove’s top plate and stepped back. His head remained bowed, as if waiting for something to happen. The small blue disc atop the cube blinked frantically.

* * * *
 

Alerted by the crunching gravel, Francois tightened his grip on the Cogent and took aim at the approaching silhouette.

The silhouette stopped. ‘
Dego
.’

Francois relaxed.
‘
Terminé
?’

‘
Oui Monsieur
.’

Francois
stepped closer
.
Roustam wore Morton’s clothes and apart from the torn sleeve, the facsimile appeared intact. ‘Where is the HPU?’

‘It was damaged, sir.’

Annoyance stiffened Francois’s jaw. ‘Put Morton’s body into the old well by the stables. Bury Colette in the forest to the north and continue your duties with Lieutenant Merblayn.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Unfortunately for Colette, CONSEC had recorded her cloned identity in London. Had she left the chateau’s shielding, SIS would have traced the artificial’s identity to
Castiglione
and the battle would have been lost before it had begun. He would ensure, as he always did, that her family received his gratitude — and a credit line.

Francois turned and walked back towards the chateau. Thankfully, he had an alternative source of an SIS HPU. A recent recruit to the Resistance, their first Gold Agent, had worked at MP 14. His sister Jannae had also agreed to join, but only after Francois had threatened to report Gerhard Kalckburg to SIS. He had not enjoyed making such a threat, but in the battle for his nation’s survival; there could be no compassion.

He smiled up at the chateau’s moonlit facade. This was not the first time PSYOPS had investigated him, but it was the first time they had sent a spy as
glamoureux
as Kacee. Roustam had made the transformation into Morton, the HPU in his skull belonged to
Thibeauchet Technologie
, to the Resistance. The
nouvelle
Morton was
his
bodyguard and where Kacee Merblayn went, Francois Thibeauchet would follow.

01:24 SUN 22:10:2119

Intra Zone, Seine
-
et
-
Marne, France, Sector 2

With the stove’s radiant glow as its light source, the camera in Orangery
appartement deux
remained focused on the white cube and its blinking blue disc.

After four minutes, the disc blackened and stopped blinking.

The view changed, cream ceramic tiles glistened under stark ceiling lights. Morton halted at an oval wall mirror next to the hearth, pulled at the dry split above his right cheekbone and communicated without speaking.

‘Thibeauchet is building artificials.’

‘They will not be a threat to our Prefects.’

Morton plucked the warm cube off the top plate, turned it over and clamped it in his hands. Tormented creaking deformed into cracking; translucent matter oozed through Morton’s polymer-coated fingers and fell sizzling onto the stove. The silver double-T stamp of
Thibeauchet Technologie
split in two.

07:56 SUN 22:10:2119

Intra Zone, Wiltshire, England, Sector 2

Steve slowed as he approached the canal bridge. He didn’t normally jog on a Sunday, but Penny had had to leave early for work.

He lifted his vibrating MPS, and within the bridge’s shadowy arch, his eyes narrowed on the flashing icon. ‘Castle’ required immediate action.

After his shower, Steve made his way to the saloon. His MCD lay on the settee, its loaded book unread. That would please the Judiciary; along with many others,
Govern by Division
had been classified as Resistance propaganda.

He secured
Cool Breeze
and set off in the direction of
Rose Cottage
.

Terry answered the door and spoke in his usual apologetic tone, ‘Penny’s not here, Steve. She’s in surgery this morning.’

‘Yes, I know. Can you tell her I’ve had to go into work, I’ll call her later.’

‘Sure. Do you want a cuppa?’

‘Better not thanks.’

‘I’ll tell her as soon as she comes home.’

‘Thanks, I’ll see you later.’

Steve returned the way he’d come, passing
Cool Breeze
on his way to Lower Chilwyn. He suspected Terry no longer believed his cover story. Every time he mentioned the Food Ministry, Terry’s eyes searched his face. It couldn’t be helped; the truth would destroy them all.

He stepped onto the tram station’s deserted platform and looked up at the message board. The next tram was due in two minutes. Magnetic cushioned rail trams enabled Continuity to move between Zones. Drones lived in the Intra Zones and used buses to travel to work in the Black Zones. They never entered the inner Zones, unless feeling suicidal.

Right on schedule, the tram swished into the station, its procession of carbon fibre cars hanging from the overhead lines like plump black cherries.

He authenticated at the car’s central console and sat in a window seat.

As the countryside streaked by, overweight clouds burst, splattering the windows. Beyond the rivulets, the fleeting landscape greyed. In the not too distant future, it would all be dead; all buried under five metres of ash.

Steve stretched his legs and allowed his introspection to wander around the plastic interior. An eclectic range of advertisements covered the walls, spa weekends, music concerts, fine restaurants, exclusively for the consumption of Continuity. Television entertained the Drones; the Resistance called it control. They were wrong — its correct name was Subliminal Cognitive Pacification.

A chime drew Steve back; they’d passed under the M25. The bland voice filled the car, ‘You are now entering the Black Zone.’

He’d thought about calling Jason, but decided against it. He didn’t want to get involved in Jason and Dee’s love triangle. Besides they’d meet up soon enough, then they’d be no escape.

Twelve minutes later the tram entered Paddington Station.

Steve alighted and under the vigilance of the Spotters skimming overhead, headed for the exit.

He climbed into the first taxi in the rank. ‘Piccadilly Circus, please.’

After turning into Edgware Road, the driver spoke into the rear-view mirror. ‘Off to see a show?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh yeah, which one, Johnny Smith’s? It’s alright on the telly, but you can’t beat the real thing.’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Well whatever, you’re going to get wet.’

‘What?’

‘You ain’t got a brolly.’

Steve’s focus bored into reflected eyes. ‘You’re very observant.’

The driver broke eye contact. ‘Sorry, friend, no harm meant.’

‘I know.’

Drones travelled on buses, Continuity in taxis. Everyone knew this — including the Resistance. The situation had become so dire that many drivers asked for their fares in advance.

Steve noted the driver’s receding hairline. This meant he was either a Drone, in which case he shouldn’t be driving a taxi, or someone who’d run out of credits before PURE could eradicate the alopecia triggers. Steve assumed the latter but prepared for the former by reaching into his jacket and unclipping the Cogent, although the thought of discharging a million volts of plasma inside a taxi didn’t exactly fill him with joy.

They passed Marble Arch before turning right into Park Lane and stopping in front of the checkpoint’s sabre-toothed barrier. A burly CONSEC Grey Defender strode out of the concrete bunker carrying a BRD, his XH-34 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. His two colleagues followed; their rifles weren’t slung.

After authenticating them both, the Defender raised his arm. The razor-sharp teeth retracted into the wet tarmac. They’d gained clearance for the Blue Zone.

As they drove along Park Lane, Steve looked across at Hyde Park; its boundary marked by two rows of decaying concrete posts. The electrified razor wire had long gone, but SIS occasionally used the posts to hang a very public warning.

When the statue of Eros came into sight, Steve reached out and tapped the separator screen. ‘Anywhere on the right will be fine.’

The taxi pulled up alongside the glistening wet pavement and the driver made eye contact through the rearview mirror. ‘That’ll be three point seven credits please.’

Steve swiped his MCD over the meter. ‘Take enough for you and your wife to see Johnny Smith.’

‘Thanks, thanks a lot.’

Despite his brisk pace, by time Steve reached Trafalgar Square, he was soaked. He turned into the Mall and its palisades of elephantine concrete blocks that funnelled everything and everybody towards Admiralty Arch. The Red Zone checkpoint.

Metal bollards guided pedestrians to the three central arches. Steve entered the middle arch’s narrow corridor. Above his head, a feeble light strip added to the musty gloom. Three metres in, horizontal steel rods barred the way. He stopped. Behind him, a second ladder of rods scraped across, cutting off any escape. He shivered; the sodden jumper clung to his ribs.

A woman’s voice leached into the claustrophobic trap, ‘Please turn towards the red light.’

Steve turned left to face a full-height black panel.

‘Thank you, please remain still.’

A vertical strip of crimson traversed his body, made a repeat pass and disappeared into the wall.

‘Thank you, Captain Arrowsbury. You are cleared to proceed.’

As Steve exited the corridor, a hard-faced Gold Agent made steely eye contact and quoted, ‘Nature of business in Red Zone.’

A Prefect hummed closer.

The shimmering glow of Steve’s ID card dissipated when the Agent took hold of it.

‘Welcome to the Red Zone, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ Steve glanced up. Rain dripped from the Prefect’s dirty yellow carcass, while an ionised blower kept its lidless eye clear. It pivoted, passing close enough to wash him with its rancorous exhaust.

He took the short walk up the Mall before turning left towards an impressive three-storey building of grey stone and red brick. The Food Ministry. Deep below its foundations, it served an altogether more clandestine purpose. Special Operations Headquarters, Sector 2.

Steve swiped his ID card and the heavy oak doors swung back to reveal the mosaic-tiled foyer, its left-hand wall held captive two pairs of metallic doors.

With a cursory look over his shoulder, he stepped into the lift, swiped his ID and pressed the second and third floor buttons simultaneously. The lift descended. When it stopped, Steve swiped his card again. Behind him, a panel slid open.

Dry sterile air pervaded the khaki corridor, its bare walls broken by two doorways on each side. He reached the second doorway on the right and pressed the BRD.

Steve’s narrowing gaze pondered the op’s room silent emptiness. SOHQ’s ubiquitous battleship-grey walls rose from a sea of navy carpet tiles. To his left, two rows of three metal desks aligned perfectly. Even their viewscreens stood in rank and file.

Only one desk dared to differ. A brass plaque read,
‘If we are all created equal, why am I the boss?’
Steve smiled; the Quad had bought it to commemorate Jason’s promotion. In a drawer somewhere was the gold plaque of Advocate Commander Sector 2, but Jason had thought theirs’ more appropriate.

Steve wheeled right towards six high backed chairs that curved around the semicircular glass table. He took his seat opposite the blank viewscreen and authenticated. The table’s built-in display glowed, one icon flashed. Steve shifted in his chair and tapped the icon. The empty office was unusual, the emergency ‘Castle’ call a career first.

The viewscreen illuminated and the CONSEC rings melted into the head and shoulders of Admirals Smithson and Choo. Steve straightened his back.

Choo spoke, feet first as usual. ‘Why did you take so long to respond, Captain?’

‘I was on my boat, sir.’ CONSEC Command believed Steve lived with Jason and that
Cool Breeze
was a weekend hobby.

Admiral Smithson flicked Choo a sideways glare and sighed. ‘I’m afraid we’ve bad news, Steve. Jason died yesterday.’

Steve’s head emptied, his gaze dropped from the screen.

Admiral Smithson continued. ‘We don’t know all the facts, but we think it was the Resistance. This wasn’t the only assassination. Resistance attacks are on the increase in all Sectors.’

Choo’s tone held no solace. ‘We know Commander Valenbrotti broke regulations and gave his identity in public. Did he contact you?’

Steve’s mind disengaged, selfish thoughts entwined his grief. He didn’t want things to change, not yet.

‘Commander!’

Steve lifted his head. ‘No, sir.’

Choo’s inky eyes pierced his. ‘You are Advocate Commander of special operations for Western Europe, Sector 2. Captain Thibeauchet of Quad sierra-four is your new 2IC. Your appointment is confirmed after assessment on next mission. You will brief Captain Thibeauchet tomorrow and then begin PreOps.’

Choo paused, his face mellowed. ‘I know you like Commander Valenbrotti, but he is gone. Your duty is to Continuity. The investigation is not your mission, do you understand?’

‘Perfectly, Admiral.’

Steve understood, but it made no difference. He’d find Jason’s killer — and burn them.

Admiral Smithson smiled flatly. ‘I’ll download the mission brief to your Quad bin. Good luck, Steve, and keep safe.’

He was sure Admiral Smithson had wanted to say something else.

Steve pulled his ID and mused at the reception screen.
Why hadn’t they mentioned the broken rings?
Answers tumbled around his mind. He reached in and plucked one out. The Resistance had infiltrated CONSEC and murdered Jason.