by David Gullen
‘Halifax, listen–’
Halifax barged Wilson aside. Gould flung his arm over his head, his eyes fixed on Halifax. His hand found the FaF gun. He pulled the trigger. The bullet buzzed through the leaf litter, arced back on itself and slammed into Halifax’s chest.
Gould screwed his eyes shut against the blast. Heat rolled over him. He heard Wilson’s short, high scream, the crash of branches and the slower, ponderous creak of falling timber. Half blinded by the flash, Gould limped away.
A sparse litter of twigs, needles and leaves pattered to the ground. Gould listened intently and waited for his vision to recover. Nothing stirred. Urgency grew within him. When it became unbearable he rose to his feet and looked around.
Halifax was smoking boots, his torso an empty cavity of splayed ribs and spattered gore. Ayesha lay where she had fallen, Gould helped her to her feet. She groaned and opened her eyes.
She saw what was left of Halifax and shuddered. ‘Where’s his friend?’
Gould pointed to a pair of legs pinned under a fallen tree. Alive or dead, he was going nowhere.
‘They followed us up from Salem,’ Ayesha said. ‘This is one epic clusterfuck.’
‘Time to go,’ Gould said through gritted teeth. His wound burned with pain but his fear was greater. LeBlanc had vanished and the para-humans still hunted them through the forest. Hurriedly, Gould bandaged his wound while Ayesha fashioned a crude crutch.
Keeping to cover, watching each other’s backs, they fled through the silent trees.
An hour later they found the vehicles. By morning they were in a motel on the outskirts of Vancouver. They cleaned up, shared a hot shower and screwed just to get warm. No oral, no finesse, just straight, energetic sex.
On the edge of orgasm, Gould said, ‘We’ve still got the three hundred.’
Ayesha bucked her hips, locked eyes with Gould and came like a woman having an earthquake. Deep inside, she understood what Gould meant when he said ‘We’.
Afterwards, Gould dozed and woke feeling refreshed. Ayesha walked naked across the room and fixed coffee. He watched her, enjoyed the sight of her clean brown skin, the muscles and tendons moving on her flanks, the curves of her ass, the way her sleek black hair slid across her skin.
Realising he was watching, Ayesha spread her legs, bent over and shook her behind. As she straightened she made sure her hair fell over her damaged cheek.
‘So,’ she said as she carried the coffees back to the bed, ‘Who the fuck is Mandy?’
- 66 -
Crane had achieved some truly amazing feats in his life but there was still one thing left to do. Right now, standing in the study of the lodge at Million Pines, a home that was remarkably modest considering his near unimaginable wealth, he thought about that final task and realised how simple it would be to achieve. The main reason was that he urgently wanted to do it.
‘How do you want to do this?’ Crane said. ‘I can set up a trust, create a new over-holding, or just sign it over.’
Novik rolled the shaft of the white-fletched arrow between finger and thumb. Slowly, it dawned on him what Crane was saying. ‘You’re going to give it to me?’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
It was what Josie would have wanted, their wildest dream come true.
Benny watched them intently. He looked less than happy.
‘What’s it going to be?’ Crane said. ‘Ellen’s waiting, we need to do this quickly.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Please don’t say cash.’
Novik looked down at the arrow. Soon he would have the near infinite resources of the Crane Buisplex at his disposal: people, industries, even whole nations at his beck and call. Everyone would want to be his friend, he could have anything he wanted, any time of the day.
He thought of Josie under her tree.
What he wanted was to finish the job they had set out to do. To buy everything that had ever been made and give it all away. In fact it would be easier than that because soon he would own most of it anyway. He could do what they had always talked about – break the system, throw it down in the dust, wipe the slate clean and start again. He would do it in Josie’s name. It would be her legacy.
Except the more he thought about it the less it felt like a good idea.
In fact, it sounded dreadful.
He paced across the room and looked out through the pine woods. People had fought and died to bring him to this moment. If he went ahead millions and millions more would suffer. His was the kind of plan that had only sounded good when it was unachievable, the pipe-dream of an impractical dreamer. It was, in fact, a typical Novik plan.
He wondered what kind of person set out to do something they knew would never work. A fool like him, yes, but Josie was so much smarter, always able to see the long view. She must have known from the start, but why–? He already knew the answer. She had gone along with it because she loved him.
So that must be part of her legacy too.
Still a part of him argued that after all the pain and loss he had endured he had a right to days in the sun, warm sand and surf, a white beach, the houses and servants and yachts, aeroplanes and cars. Hadn’t he earned it? Didn’t he deserve it?
How he needed Josie now.
He was alone and he had one chance to get it right, to use all this power and wealth like a sky-hook big enough to lift the entire world to a better place than it could ever reach before.
Josie would say keeping it all to himself was not the answer, changing ownership was not the answer. He needed something new, something… If he really was going to give it all away –
When they first met Benny he had said they were like butterflies with wings to start a hurricane. Novik felt more like a caterpillar, forever consuming. It was time to stop hoarding, time for the monkey to open his fist, let go of the peanut and take his hand out the jar. Only then could things change. One person couldn’t be trusted with this, it was too big, too vast even for governments or nations. It had to be everyone, all in it together. He could only think of one answer. In his mind he saw Josie smile and he knew he was right.
‘I’ve had a better idea,’ Novik told Crane.
‘Then hurry up and tell me.’
Novik told him.
‘Wow.’ Marytha’s mouth hung open. ‘Wow, oh wow.’
Silently, exuberantly, Benny punched the air.
‘I like it.’ Palfinger Crane immediately went to his desk. A projection of the United Nations Logo appeared, followed a few moments later by the exhausted grey face of Mikhail Lobachevsky, the Secretary-General.
‘Hello Mikhail,’ Crane said.
‘Palfinger, a pleasure as always. My friend, if this is a social call I must cut you short. Mexico City is a radioactive wasteland, the USA and the European Union are at war, and Permanent Larry has just passed over northern Cuba. My office has the atmosphere of a certain grain silo on the Volga.’
Crane absorbed the sombre news. ‘I have something to say.’
Lobachevsky gave a weary smile, ‘I hope it is nice.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Crane said. ‘I want to make a donation.’
‘Thank you,’ Lobachevsky said wearily. ‘As ever, it is much appreciated, however small. What can you spare today?’
‘All of it.’
Lobachevsky squeezed his eyes shut, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I, ah– I beg your pardon?’
‘I want to give it all to you, Mikhail.’
‘All?’ Lobachevsky quavered.
‘Everything.’
Only Crane could give that word full meaning. It carried its own echo.
Everything.
Everything.
Everything.
Everything.
Lobachevsky stared back from the screen. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered.
‘Nothing.’ Crane spread his hands, ‘I already have it.’
‘Ha-ha, you are making fun of me.’ Lobachevsky clapped his hands slowly. ‘Great joke, bad timing.�
��
‘Mikhail, I’m serious.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes I am. For goodness sake, how hard can this be?’
Lobachevsky stared, open-mouthed. ‘You mean it?’
‘I do.’
‘Really?’
‘Mikhail!’
Lobachevsky frowned ferociously. He picked up his handset and put it down again, he tidied the papers on his desk and rearranged his pens. When he looked up, he seemed to be surprised to see Crane still on his screen.
‘Mikhail, I haven’t got all day,’ Crane said.
‘Whew!’ Lobachevsky placed his palms on his desk. ‘What can I say? Thank you. I am humbled, words do not exist–’ Overcome by emotion, Lobachevsky wept as only stout middle-aged hard-drinking Russian men burdened by great responsibilities can. ‘Tovarisch,’ he sobbed incoherently, and blew his nose, ‘spasibo, tovarisch, spasibo.’
‘Mikhail, listen, it will take some time,’ Crane said. ‘I’ve gifted my personal possessions to the position of Secretary-General with immediate effect, but you have to accept. Once you do, it will initiate fiscal and legal cascades that will propagate around the world.’
Seated behind his desk, Mikhail Lobachevsky looked very small. He studied his desk monitor and read fast. ‘All right. I see it, and… I accept.’ He pressed a key then sat back and blew out his cheeks in an expression of pure joy.
‘Thank you,’ Crane said.
‘Thank me? Palfinger, today the world changes forever. Finally we will be able to do… all we ever dreamed. I will inform the secretariat immediately. Then I shall drink some vodka. A lot of vodka.’
The UN logo replaced Lobachevsky. Faintly in the background The Girl from Ipanema played.
‘I don’t feel any different,’ Crane frowned, then laughed, ‘I thought I would. Bianca is going to be surprised. No more hand-outs for her, she’ll have to get a job.’ He laughed, ‘I suppose I will too.’
Moments later every phone in the lodge began to ring. Guinevere Snarlow’s sounded inside her jacket over the back of a chair in the medical wing, the phones of the dead airmen rang in the hallway.
The UN logo flickered, froze, broke into multi-coloured blocks and was replaced by Cheswold Lobotnov, Secretary of State of the United States of America.
Lobotnov sat at a leather-topped desk in a dimly-lit office. Fingers steepled he gazed intently from the screen with an aura of supreme intellectual authority.
A large insect crashed into the desk lamp and fell on its back. Lobotnov flicked the madly buzzing creature away with his pencil and resumed his brooding pose. ‘You fool, Crane,’ he said darkly. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’
Crane told him.
‘Gah!’ Lobotnov slammed his small fist down on the desk. The sudden movement started a fit of sneezing. ‘Fuck it,’ he said as he groped for a tissue. ‘And fuck you too.’
The screen blurred, the speakers squawked and General Andriewiscz glared into the room. He appeared to be naked. ‘ANDRIEWISCZ’ was stencilled in black pen on his muscular, grey-haired chest, and four stars on his shoulder.
‘Give me the President,’ Andriewiscz growled.
Crane discovered he was in an elevated mood somewhat above that caused by drinking champagne yet below actual euphoria.
‘I’m afraid I’m busy right now,’ Crane said. ‘Can you call back later?’
‘It’s not a request.’
‘Where’s Chandra Smith?’
‘Sitting on the runway at Vancouver until I tell him otherwise.’
Crane paled at the news. Chandra had to come, without him Ellen would still die. ‘President Snarlow made a promise. I expect you to keep it.’
‘Put her on.’
‘Andriewiscz, I can’t. She’s been hurt, she’s sedated.’
Andriewiscz’s eyes narrowed, ‘What happened?’
‘There was a shoot-out. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
‘Put her in the chopper. Send her here.’
‘The aircrew are dead. I can show you if you don’t believe me. Let Chandra’s flight through. I have a comprehensive medical facility, he is one of the best trauma surgeons in the world.’
Andriewiscz knew when to make a tactical retreat. ‘Deal.’
And so the future became inevitable. Andriewiscz would retrieve Snarlow, she would recover and return to the White House. And it would start all over again.
Nobody noticed Novik slip from the room.
On screen, the General turned to one side and spoke to a man naked except for a section of tarpaulin worn as a kilt. ‘Clear airspace. Fighters engage on my explicit command only. There will be absolutely no mistakes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man saluted and turned away.
Now everyone could see Andriewiscz wore a piece of green plastic sheeting round his waist. In the background a squad of naked men and women swatted and stamped at flying insects.
‘General, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened?’ Benny said.
‘Those puking tree-huggers in Europe. Gutless lesbian hippy liberal pussies don’t have the balls to fight a normal war, they get bugs and creep-crawlies to do it for them.’ Andriewiscz’s already angry face congested with rage, ‘We’re not through.’
‘It can get pretty cold at night,’ Crane said.
Marytha watched the naked soldiers run and leap. ‘It looks pretty cold right now.’
Andriewiscz stared out of the screen. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll re-equip, we’ll refuel. Until then there’s plenty of wood for some damned big fires. We’ll keep things warm. Right now, the whole damned world looks like a marshmallow. I have my orders, we’re still coming.’
‘Who we got on the lines, Rik?’
‘Let’s find out. Hello port… nineteen. Who’s waiting on port nineteen?’
‘Hello Rik, hello Ralf. Can I say that I’m a big fan of your show?’
‘You just did, and you either have exquisite taste or you want something. Share your name, friend.’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Ralf, we got a shy one. My friend on port nineteen, as a regular listener you’ll know we not only respect, we also guarantee, your privacy. I can see from your connection socket you’re… Actually I can’t see anything. That’s like – hang on – that’s totally secure. I’m in awe.’
‘I didn’t think you could do that, Rik.’
‘Ralf, our caller’s doing it, so you must be. Whereabouts are you, port nineteen?’
‘I’m on the road.’
‘And what can we do for a mysterioso stealth gypsy tonight?’
‘I’m lonely, Rik. And I’m looking for some advice.’
‘We’re full of advice, aren’t we, Ralf.’
‘We’re full of something. Spit it out and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Well, I have this friend–’
‘And who hasn’t got a friend like that? I know Ralf has.’
‘Rik, I know him like I know myself. What kind of trouble has this friend got himself into?’
‘He’s going to die.’
‘Woah. Right. I’m damned sorry to hear that. Is it the big C?’
‘It’s OK, Ralf. And it’s sunshine. The sunshine is killing him.’
‘This might be a silly question, but why not stay indoors?’
‘Oh no, I have to be outside, under the sky and on the open road. Wait, I mean, HE has. That’s what he wants.’
‘It’s all right, we understand. Look, we chew the fat and play music, I don’t know what decent advice we can give you.’
‘What – what HE wants to know is what should he do? He’s got a year to make sense of things, understand who he is, what life is all about.’
‘Help me out here, Rik.’
‘Well… I think your friend should live for the day. Have fun, see the sights. He should find a good woman. Better still, a bad woman, a dirty, open-minded woman–’
�
�Um – a woman?’
‘Yeah. Maybe two.’
‘But– My body isn’t–’
‘Yes, my friend?’
‘You’ve really helped. I have to go.’
‘What was that, Ralf?’
‘Damned if I know, Rik. Let’s have some music.’
– Rik’n’Ralf’s Podneck Redcast
- 67 -
The medical rooms were silent except for the soft hum of instrumentation and Ellen’s slow, frame-assisted breathing. Novik watched her vast chest rise and fall, and wondered if he actually had the balls to do what he had come to do.
Ellen was visibly smaller. She was still huge but you could see some differences. Her face had begun to emerge from the puddingy folds and slabs of surrounding flesh, her hands and wrists were less cuffed and dimpled. She gave a long, heavy sigh, opened her eyes and squinted at Novik.
‘Hello, Ellen,’ Novik said.
‘Hi.’ Ellen’s voice was high and thin, she tried to sit up but the exoframe wouldn’t let her. ‘I remember you. You helped my father.’
‘I’m Novik. Don’t try to move.’
She frowned. ‘I feel funny.’
‘You’ve been sedated.’
Ellen screwed her eyes shut, ‘It’s something else.’
‘You’re losing weight. We discovered a cure.’
Ellen became very still. A tear glistened in her eye, ‘Am I still going to die?’
‘Chandra Singh is on his way. He thinks you’ll be all right.’
‘This cure, is it very expensive?’
Novik smiled. ‘Yes and no.’
Weary again, Ellen closed her eyes. ‘Being normal…’ She slept.
The painkillers had taken the edge off Guinevere’s injury and her hangover. It wasn’t so bad, and the oxygen tube compensated well for her collapsed lung. Better still, she had heard Crane’s conversation with Andriewiscz from the phone in her jacket. Chandra Smith would patch her up, Andriewiscz would retrieve her, and they would move to plan B, or C, or Z. Whatever. She’d think of something. There was only one way out of this and that was forwards.