‘Like dogs,’ the Prime Minister added.
‘What?’
‘I said, like dogs. A better example than paedophiles – we wouldn’t try to create
them
. But dogs: well, savage canines were all the rage in my father’s youth. Rottweilers, pit-bulls, dobermans. The inbreeding that went on! They couldn’t give birth normally and would kill their owners. Had to be destroyed, whole breeds. If that’s what you suspect, dear Prince, do set your mind at rest. Extra work has indeed been commissioned to improve the fighting qualities of our soldiers, and civilian guards. But we can rely on their obedience. That’s inbred too.’
‘Obedient to whom?’
‘To the state, of course. To elected and appointed authority. They take an oath. And they’re genetically programmed
not to break it
.’ The Prime Minister clapped his hands together and looked mightily pleased with himself.
The book he had read on the Maglev came back vividly to the Prince. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Like the German hierarchy. The colonels, the field-marshals. They took an oath to the state and could not break it. So Hitler lived.’
‘And, if I remember my history, they died. The renegades, that is.’
For a long moment a dreadful silence filled the room. The band had moved on; the hammering had come to a halt. Then the sound of marching boots scrunched below the window. The Prime Minister rose and motioned the Prince to join him. Reluctantly Marius complied; he had no choice. The two men gazed out at the sunny scene below.
‘See? They’re going to check the basement for bombs.’ The Prime Minister pointed. ‘Beefeaters, with docile dogs. Bit of pomp and circumstance. Relic of Guy Fawkes’s time. More of your renegades.’ He seized Marius’s sleeve and tugged to emphasise his words, his face thrust close. ‘Don’t you join the rebels, Prince. We have them taped. Infiltrated – oh,
yes
. We know what they’re up to before they do. Why should you care? Just as long as you’re one of us.’
The gaudily dressed guards disappeared into an underground tunnel, their sinewy animals straining at the leash, tongues lolling. Slowly Marius and the Prime Minister straightened and walked back into the room. The interview was over.
Sir Lyndon Everidge swung Marius round to face the unmanned camera, then grasped him warmly by the hand and slipped his other arm round the younger man’s shoulders. His
eyes, a few centimetres from Marius’s, were red-veined, the irises palely blue. Gently but firmly the Prince was propelled towards the exit.
Marius shook off the enfolding embrace and tried one last time. He was beginning to hyperventilate; his words tumbled out jerkily, as if from a computer whose memory was fragmenting. ‘I am troubled, sir. Not just the genetic industry. Hijacked. Whole of the Union – being taken over. Énarques in charge – unelected. Apparatchiks. Plus their clones. News suppression, no debate. Bland acceptance. Terrifying. Driving me crazy.’
‘Now don’t bother yourself any further, my dear chap.’ They had reached the door, which opened noiselessly at their approach. A microscopic flicker suggested that they had also been watched through a peephole. Yet when the door was wide open no one was visible. ‘You
are
one of us. So is your beautiful fiancée. Why bother about the little people? Why trouble yourself about rights for terrorists? Leave that to the fanatics. They’ll get their comeuppance. Our aims are far wider. Our legacy to our children. A clean healthy world, the human race free of suffering and poverty. Who could ask for more?’
The door closed firmly behind him and Sir Lyndon strolled off, whistling, in the opposite direction. Marius was left, shaking, in the empty echoing corridor. As he shambled down the steps and outside, he knew the answer to the Prime Minister’s taunts. ‘You don’t care about any of that, you evil bastard. But I do. I want a society in which the little people matter. Even prisoners,’ he whispered brokenly to himself. ‘Where choice exists. Consent is sought. Opportunity exists for everyone. The press never rest. And this ancient Parliament isn’t a bloody fancy-dress show, but
works
.’
He felt a dreadful shame, matched by a burning sensation in his gut. His next words he said aloud, to the curious glances of passers-by.
‘A society free from fear. In which the elite are the servants. Not the masters.’
He was no longer ambivalent. He would play the jester no more, or go along with the pretence. It had been too damned easy to assume that governments were on the side of the angels, that those arrested were obviously guilty, that the state was doing them a kindness in apprehending them and protecting its electors to boot. Trials might be held in open court, lawyers might be well known and erudite. But the whole system was rotten to the core, all the worse for its sugar coating. The stench filled his nostrils.
Marius found himself leaning against an ancient wall, its stones warm to the touch. His breathing came rapid and shallow. His heart hammered inside his ribs; his temples throbbed, stars flashed and danced before his eyes. Had it been high summer with a blazing sun, he might have suspected a touch of heatstroke. The smell of the Cuban cigars returned and he retched.
He struggled to regain control. That old urbane superficiality might have enabled him to hide the truth from himself, but it had also been a useful carapace. He glanced fearfully over his shoulder. In
there
he had been too vulnerable – too unguarded. That had been immensely foolish.
Such cynicism. Such a blatant invitation to join the conspiracy – but the
wrong one
. By contrast with the Énarchy and their friends – of whom, it was now obvious, Sir Lyndon was one – the efforts of Solidarity seemed childish and hopelessly outclassed. Spartacus had been correct all along; the Prime Minister was firmly in the other camp. What made Marius
groan was the open invitation to himself to stay with that same elite; an appeal to the worst, laziest, casual elements of his personality. Lord, how superficial he must have seemed, especially to the rebels. He banged his fist against the wall in frustration. And Solidarity wanted him as a leader?
But that decision had been taken. Whatever his personal hesitation about his suitability, he had accepted. He would not let them down.
On the journey into London he had faced up to his own fear. Then, it had been the fear of the unknown, of which the most significant ingredient was his own untried courage. That anxiety no longer detained him; in a crisis, he felt he could act with as much bravery as any man.
His judgement, however, was another matter. So far, it had been proved hopeless at every turn. That lack could be excused by a shortage of information, or of experience in moving in the undergrowth, but he could hardly claim not to know these men. Indeed, it was he who had insisted on the verbal confrontation with the Prime Minister. And it had been a miserable failure. Except to confirm the nightmare, that the top NTs were abrogating to themselves a gross power that could turn them and their class into unassailable tyrants.
Did they know he was not ‘one of us’? Winston had reckoned so; the data, or rather the mismatch of data and fact, had not been difficult to find, once the search had been made. Then had the invitation to stay put been genuine? He suspected it had. It would suit the Énarchy and the upper castes to keep their ranks intact, not to have him openly defect. No news was good news. And they’d prefer to keep his status a secret. Apart from anything else, the infiltration into their caste of a complete outsider would take some explaining.
That offered a faint beam of hope, long term, if his defection became a public matter. The question might be raised in some thoughtful quarters as to whether, if a mongrel non-NT could rise to high office with his lack of reformed genes going unnoticed, the expense and expansion of Porton Down were really so essential. Sooner or later there had to be a backlash. Those without the funds for enhancement would demand entry for themselves to the higher grades of the civil service. It had been like that once, when open competition was the norm. It could be that way again. If anybody wanted it.
But the programme existed precisely because everyone wanted
that
. Anyone hostile or suspicious – and some ultra-religious sects in Europe did take their cue from the United States – was not forced to make use of it; but their numbers were few. Like hand cream and garden pesticides, like cosmetics and hair tints, like face-lifts and Maglevs and
air-conditioning
, the clamour for consumer goods was overwhelming. What was first rare and prized became a luxury, then a necessity. The damage, the resources diverted and wasted, were discounted. By definition, scientific advance was progress.
The Prime Minister had been arrogance personified. In his mouth, the official justifications were like maggots. ‘
Our aims are far wider. Our legacy to our children. A clean world, a society free of suffering and poverty. Who could ask for more?
’ But governments throughout the ages had touted such sentiments. Wise or incompetent, democratic and despotic. Empty words, unless made wholesome by good practice.
The fact that the main genetic programme had been under official control for over half a century was trotted out to allay all fears.
Pro bono publico
. Why not? What could go wrong, if an intelligent cadre exercised responsibility, honourable souls with the highest
motives?
Everything. Marius groaned and shook his head, as if to clear the desperate worries that shrieked at each other in his brain. He had been blind. But seeing was horrible.
The enormity of his own position began to dawn. If an appeal to the Prime Minister was indeed seed cast on barren ground, what next? If Spartacus’s assessment were to be trusted – and he had been spot on so far – what followed was violence. Not on the part of the evilly bred guards, or the dumb soldiers, but on his own.
And if the PM’s claim about infiltration was even partly accurate, then he might be seized and dragged off at any moment.
A shadow fell across his feet. All pretence at sophistication abandoned, Marius crouched, his back to the wall, in utter terror. His mind juggled about randomly, independent of any tug of logical thought. Some fundamental instinct made him scrabble inside his tunic pocket. His security clearance at the entrance had been, as was usual for Hon. Members, perfunctory. That had its advantages.
An electric vehicle of outlandish design, a mid-twentieth century tail-finned Dodge, had halted at the kerb. The tinted back window opened and a head poked out.
‘Thought I’d find you around here,’ Bill Strether called. ‘Want a lift? Did it go well?’
The back door opened and Marius, dazed but relieved, stumbled into the cool interior. The car glided smoothly away, heading west.
‘Your lovely wife-to-be,’ Strether said, carefully. ‘Lisa. Had a call from her. She told me where you were so I came past on the off-chance. Any joy?’
Marius shook his head. Slowly he slumped back into the creased leather seat, his eyes half closed. At the corner of his mouth a line of spittle showed; he found a tissue and wiped his lips, as if to rid himself of a dreadful taste. Then he reached inside his jacket and took out the small, hard object from his breast pocket.
‘I should have used this on him,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Maybe I should use it on myself.’
Strether peeped then recoiled with a spluttered oath. On the Prince’s lap, held loosely in his hand but with the safety off, was an object he had seen before: the Prince’s silvery personal gun.
Colonel Mike Thompson switched off his powerbook and closed it. He needed to think, but not to communicate his thoughts to anyone. You never could tell with any kind of electronic equipment; it was too darned simple for someone within reach to hack into, even – with the latest gadgets – from an apparently safe distance.
‘God grant me the strength to change what must be changed, the courage to leave what needs no change, and the wisdom to know the difference,’ he remarked to himself, but his craggy face, its desert tan bleached by the months spent in the city, had a sardonic cast. He was seated at a plain wooden desk in his office. He searched in the drawers and found dusty sheets of paper and some ballpoint pens and pencils. The pens were dried out but one of the pencils had a workable point. He began to make a list.
The office was peaceful, situated on the inner courtyard of the Ministry of Defence. A grade three room, he had been told as the key was handed over, a cut above the usual accommodation. That concession probably impressed the bearer of the news, an ancient
doorkeeper in a grubby green tunic, more than himself. Its decor did not interest him; the faded prints on the walls, of bewigged heroes posed against a background of swirling battlegrounds, clutching the reins of wild-maned white stallions, were as unreal as if they had depicted Martians – though the kind of warfare they waged, in which politics, greed and ambition were the driving forces, was much the same as his contemporaries’. The main difference was in the weaponry, its fire power, its accuracy. And the type of soldiers they led.
Or was that so? When Blücher’s Prussian cohorts marched on to the field at Waterloo and saved the day, Wellington had been predictably grateful. He had reviewed his own troops at dawn. ‘I do not know what effect these men will have upon the enemy,’ he is reported to have said, ‘but by God they frighten me.’
Mike Thompson was certain he could trust his own units, particularly those who had served with him in the desert and elsewhere. They were seasoned campaigners; regular soldiers, professionals who had chosen the military as a career. Conscription was still common in border regions, but only for the reserves. Like himself the officers were NTs, but he had inculcated in them a questioning, liberal attitude. It made him more comfortable, gave them self-respect, encouraged initiative, and was superb for morale. In his units there were no sex scandals, no courts martial, no bullying or stupid drunkenness or drugs. Gays and lesbians served with distinction; men and women worked side by side with focused concentration on the task in hand. He would not tolerate or condone bad behaviour and neither did his subordinates. They knew, as did he, that readiness was all. Nor were they the only such units in the Eurocorps: his brother and sister officers, the French, Spanish and Germans especially, schooled alongside him at Sandhurst, operated in much the same manner. The knowledge eased his mind now, as he pushed himself to consider the strange, apparently unconnected pages he had downloaded on to his powerbook and their implications.