Creation
The Auditor’s Apprentice
Frank Stonely
In memory of my friend,
Sue.
Missing our chats over the wall.
Praise for Frank Stonely
"The job of the novelist is to imagine a world - be it in a family, a house, or a city. Frank Stonely has gone one further. He's imagined a universe - and a pretty good job he makes of it, too."
John Lawton: Author of the Frederick Troy novels.
"If you've been wondering why the world seems to have gone to hell in the proverbial handcart, with this fantastical debut novel, Frank Stonely may just have come up with the answer!"
Zoë Sharp: Author of the Charlie Fox series.
THE AUDITOR’S APPRENTICE
‘Space contains a billion universes, each populated with trillions of galaxies, each galaxy packed with millions of stars, but each star strictly limited to one, life bearing,
blue planet.’
Hedrick 39841 – Director of Auditing
1
Pennsylvania Avenue
It was the early hours of a raw winter’s day when I arrived at sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. Hidden in the shadows of the Rochambeau Statue, I studied the brightly lit outline of the White House, tracing my route to the West Wing portico. I was shivering uncontrollably and had to steady my wrist to read the time. It was four thirty-two and my appointment with the president was at six a.m. The only problem was, the president didn’t know it.
Under normal circumstances I had the power to create and remove whole universes at the push of a button. And yet here I was, trapped in an alien body, relying on this human for my survival.
Apart from the rumble of a city at night and the distant wail of a police car’s siren, all was quiet. The White House lawns glistened with frost under the light of a full Moon that came and went with the clouds. The season’s first snowflakes were dancing in the air, forcing me to peer through half closed eyes. On Pennsylvania Avenue a Federal Protection Service SUV was parked, deliberately blocking the driveway gates. The vehicle’s two uniformed officers stood talking to a plainclothes agent holding a hand-held radio to his ear. Inside the gates were three Secret Service officers; two carrying Heckler & Koch submachine guns and a third, standing back, holding a German Shepherd on a leash, had a Remington pump-action shotgun resting on his shoulder. Are you sure this is a good idea? the voice inside my head asked. The question was rhetorical. If I was ever going to get off this planet alive, there was no alternative.
The agent finished his conversation and gestured to the gatehouse to be let back in. With my heart pounding, I left the shadows of the statue and walked directly across the avenue towards the SUV. The locking mechanism clunked and hissed as the right-hand gate slowly started to open. When the gap was wide enough, the officer standing inside the gate gestured with his weapon for the agent to come through. Now behind the SUV, I seized the opportunity and ran forward, following him through the gap in the gates. Immediately the German Shepherd sprang up and started barking aggressively. The startled handler readied his shotgun and glanced at his colleagues by the gate. As I passed through, the officer inside the gate looked directly into my eyes, raising his weapon as the dog continued to bark. The door of the gatehouse flew open and more armed officers ran out, machine guns cocked and ready. I was now surrounded by Secret Service officers, their eyes and weapons sweeping the area around me.
After what seemed like an eternity, a yelp came from the dog as the handler slapped its rump with the butt of his shotgun. The barking stopped. The officer by the gate relaxed and lowered his weapon, calling out, ‘Stand down. All clear. Close the gates,’ then turning to the dog handler shouted, ‘For fuck’s sake, Brad! Keep that fucking dog under control.’
‘It’s not my fault, it’s the rabbits! Rambo hears them running about in the bushes and just wants to go-get’em. I told the head gardener to gas the little fuckers last week.’
As the gates closed, I started to run towards the West Wing drive. Although now silent, I could feel the dog’s eyes following me until the curve of the drive blocked its view. Once out of sight, I stopped and leant against one of the trees that lined the driveway to catch my breath.
Keeping to the shadows, I walked up to the West Wing portico. Light from the lobby chandelier was streaming through the glazed doors onto the fine coating of snow that covered the steps. I paused behind one of the white stone columns supporting the canopy and peered into the lobby.
There were two figures inside. The male, the size and build of a heavyweight boxer, was standing with his back to the doors. The outline of a holster strap and the covert earpiece left little doubt to his occupation. He was in conversation with a petite female who was polishing an ornately-framed mirror hanging on the lobby wall. Smiling, she replied, the lobby doors concealing her words. As she stood back to admire her work, the agent placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off with a broad smile and a sideways come-on glance. He rolled his head back in laughter and followed her as she pushed her cleaning cart out of the lobby.
Once inside, I stopped and listened; the only sound was that of a distant vacuum cleaner. I walked briskly through the lobby, turning right, and then left into the corridor leading to the vice president’s office. I couldn’t believe my luck; there were no security staff about. I’d expected the corridors to be heavily guarded, even in these early hours. I quickly made my way down the corridor towards the outer office that linked the vice president and the chief of staff’s rooms and placed my ear against the closed door. There were distant voices, but too faint to be in that room so I reached down and slowly eased the door open. Sat at a desk with his back towards me was a Secret Service agent, busily flipping through the pages of a well-thumbed copy of Voluptuous. The agent started to speak, ‘Hey Jerry! Come and look at the mother-fuckers on this one. Jesus! If you stuffed your face between those you’d fucking suffocate. She’d have to call nine-one-one to get you out.’
An irritated reply came from within the chief of staff’s room, ‘Some of us are working! I’ve got to get this comms link up and running by six. You guys have got it made, sitting around all day watching the rest of us do all the work.’
‘Chill, Jerry, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. You’ve gotta come and look at these, they’re unbelievable!’
‘They’ve been Photoshopped!’ Jerry’s muffled voice paused for a few seconds then said, ‘Ya-know when I was at school learning all this techie stuff, nobody told me I’d spend the rest of my life crawling around under some big dick’s desk. Now come and do something useful, hold this cable out of the way for me.’ The agent got up from the desk and sauntered into the chief of staff’s room without taking his eyes off the huge breasts on page fifty-four.
I silently crossed the room to a door which accessed a long corridor. All was clear, but the sound of voices was getting louder. There were six doors ahead of me; two on the left leading into the deputy chief of staff’s office and the Roosevelt Room, and three on the right, giving access to the senior advisors’ offices and the president’s private dining room. The door at the end of the corridor connected with the Oval Office suite.
I walked quickly, almost jogging, towards the president’s dining room. As I approached, I realized that the voices were coming from the Roosevelt Room and stopped to listen at the door. The conversation involved two males and a female who was clearly in command. ‘This happened thirty minutes ago and you’re only telling me now, today of all days!’ she ranted.
‘It was just a spooked guard dog, ma'am. Nothing happened, so there was nothing to report,’ said voice two.
The thi
rd voice joined in, supporting his colleague, ‘I heard it over the Net too, ma'am. A guard dog saw a rabbit down by the west gatehouse and started barking. The guys down there responded, just in case. The only reason it was logged was that FDS officers were involved. I’ve checked with surveillance; no alarms were tripped, the cameras were clear… there was nothing to report!’
‘Yeah! Well, I’ve heard that before. I remember nine-eleven, when I was a rookie. The intel we got that morning was so ridiculous nobody did anything about it. That’s not going to happen on my watch! What’s the time?’
‘It’s almost five, ma'am.’
‘Okay, the president’s staff will be here about five thirty and he’ll be at his desk at six a.m., as usual. I want more cover up here; four on the west colonnade, four around the Rose Garden. Get more agents in here, and at the lobby entrance. Put the house on general alert.’
‘Shall I get air cover up, ma'am?’ voice two said, trying to compensate for his blunder.
‘No! For God’s sake, no! If we have helos sweeping the grounds the press will jump all over it, it’ll be on the TV news by six. No, we go to level Blue, without creating a fuss. When we’re sure it was just rabbits, then we can relax.’
As I moved away from the door I heard voice two giving instructions over the Net for the reinforcements. Crossing the corridor, I eased open the door to the president’s dining room. A wedge of light projected into the room and swept across the floor as the door opened.
In the centre of the room was a mahogany dining table, with eight matching chairs set around it. To the right was a Chippendale sideboard with a collection of silver framed family photographs surrounding a small, flat-screen television. The door to my left accessed a small connecting corridor leading to the Oval Office.
I suddenly realized the curtains at the windows were open, so quickly closed the door, plunging the room back into darkness. I stood for a few seconds recalling the layout of the furniture and my path to the connecting door. I started across the room but after only a few paces drove my right thigh into the corner of the table and, letting out an involuntary cry, found myself tumbling to the floor, dragging over two of the dining chairs as I went.
The deep pile of the carpet absorbed my fall and I lay motionless, convinced that someone must have heard me. I got to my knees and, groping around in the darkness, found the upturned chairs and set them back on their feet. Then, I made a second attempt to find the door, this time inching forward with outstretched fingers. Easing the door open, I felt my way into the connecting corridor. Ahead, the Oval Office door was framed by a bead of escaping light, to the right was the president’s study and opposite this was my objective, the president’s private bathroom.
Groping my way along the wall, I slid through the bathroom door, almost slamming it shut as I leant back against it. Holding my breath, I stood for several seconds listening, not quite believing that I had managed to get this far undetected.
I found the light switch and flicked it on, initially having to squint until my eyes became accustomed to the glare. The room was surprisingly small; to my left, was a counter with an inset basin and gold mixer tap, accompanied by a neatly arranged selection of men’s colognes and two upturned water tumblers. Set against the rear wall, was a Victorian-style lavatory fitted with a rosewood seat and cover.
Filling one of the tumblers, I stood staring into the mirror, trying to convince myself that this was a good idea. But there was no alternative. Indirectly, my kind, were responsible for every violent act humans had ever committed. And this was my opportunity to put things right, my opportunity to change the course of humanity. But to do that, I needed the president’s help.
2
Freshers’ Class
Professor Dina stood in the lighting gallery watching the excited young students file into the lecture theatre below. This was Freshers’ Class, an introductory lecture he gave each year designed to motivate and inspire the new intake. Dina’s lectures were renowned and always well attended, his style was theatrical, his interaction with his audience exciting and at times, terrifying.
Despite the soundproof glazing, the noise from the auditorium filled the gallery. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a rowdy bunch on your hands, Professor,’ the technician said, as he took the handwritten lighting schedule. ‘Are there any of your special effects I should be aware of this year?’ he asked as he flipped through the pages.
‘If I told you that it would spoil the surprise,’ Dina replied with a wry smile.
As requested, the light level in the auditorium was low and atmospheric, while the stage and the podium were in darkness. None of the students noticed the professor, dressed in a flowing, black academic gown, step up onto the podium to face the auditorium. Grasping the edges of the gown, he slowly raised both arms until his outline resembled an enormous bat. With head bowed to the point where his face was almost hidden, he stood in silence.
One or two groups of students standing by the stage became aware of his presence and hurriedly took their seats. Others in the aisles turned to see why conversations behind them had stopped and then also hurried to sit down. Soon a blanket of hushed silence fell over the auditorium as the lights slowly dimmed to darkness. Then, accompanied by a deafening boom from the sound system, a single spotlight snapped on, the beam of light producing a sharp, bat-like shadow on the backdrop of the stage. The students jumped in their seats as the sound waves thumped into their bodies.
Suddenly the stooped figure, with one rapid backward swirl of its wings, changed into the tall, imposing figure of Professor Dina, the academic gown replaced with a full-length scarlet cloak. As the students gasped at the sudden transformation, the professor knew he had the full attention of his new intake.
‘Creationists,’ he called out, pausing dramatically. ‘Welcome to GOD’s Academy.’ The principal’s voice was strong and deep, filling the theatre without the need of the sound system. He stepped off the podium, which slid magically across the stage and out of sight. Slowly he walked forward and called out, ‘Lights.’ Instantly, the spotlight was replaced by the auditorium lighting. The professor took a few seconds to survey the young faces before addressing his audience. ‘I see before me Creation’s academic elite. The best of the bunch… the pick of the crop… the bee’s knees… la crème de la crème,’ he paused before continuing, emphasising each word, ‘or… so… you… think!’ The room was now silent, the freshers’ excitement replaced with a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation.
Professor Dina was a handsome creationist and stood almost three metres tall. His body was humanoid in shape, with the exception of the tail, which was as thick as his wrist and hung from the base of his spine to just behind his knees. Although considered elderly by some of his colleagues, he still had a youthful, almost athletic appearance. The ears on his jackal-like head were tall and erect without a single grey hair. The snout below his emerald green eyes was long and strong, the tips of the canine fangs glistening in the light as he spoke. The only indication of age was the thinning hair of his mane, which was no longer thick and vibrant like those of the young male students before him.
Dina was always smartly dressed. Today he wore a pale blue linen kilt held at the waist with an ornately embossed, gold-buckled leather belt. His legs were uncovered but the leather sandals he wore were as elaborate as the belt about his waist. Beneath his scarlet cloak was an emerald green waistcoat, almost identical in colour to his eyes and hanging from a light gold chain around his neck was a pair of half-rimmed spectacles.
Dina relaxed his stern expression and called out, ‘If you please!’ Silently a lectern rose out of the floor and a huge blackboard descended behind it. Dina walked to the lectern, ‘To leave this Academy with a first-class honours diploma, you will have to obtain in excess of fifteen hundred academic credits over the next twelve years. Quite some task.’ He curled his lips into a smile, ‘So, I am going to give you a helping hand, for the next hour we will have a question and answer sessio
n, to see if all that hard work your pre-Academy teachers undertook has paid off. It will work like this; for every question you answer incorrectly, you will exchange seats with the person directly behind you. For every question you get right, you will move one seat forward.’ He paused. The atmosphere had become more relaxed and the students were now passing comments and glances to each other.
A male student several rows back put up his hand, ‘Professor,’ he called out. Dina scanned the auditorium, initially failing to see the raised hand. ‘Professor!’ the student repeated now waving his hand enthusiastically.
This time Dina spotted the fresher. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘Daniel, sir, but it won’t-’
‘Name and index!’ the professor snapped, ‘I want everybody to introduce themselves with their forename, family index and specialist subject. Please start again.’
‘I’m, Daniel 42, sir. Studying galactic engineering.’
‘Well, Mr. Daniel 42, how can I help you?’
‘It won’t work, sir,’ he called out. ‘What happens to the people on the front row when they get a question right, or the back row if they get one wrong, where do they go?’
Professor Dina was inwardly quite pleased at Daniel’s observation, but now was not the time to be handing out praise, ‘Mr. Daniel 42, maybe if you had waited for me to finish what I was saying, all would have been made clear to you.’ Dina returned to the podium and addressing all the students said, ‘What I was about to say, before I was interrupted, was that those in a front row seat who answer correctly, should move to the rear of the room and vice versa. At the end of each round, all those sitting on the front and rear rows will receive five academic credits.’
Creation- The Auditor’s Apprentice Page 1