by S. A. Tholin
"Actually, I might have a better idea." She didn't really think it was a very good idea at all, but it was better than waiting to see what would happen if Hammersmith and Constant clashed. "Hopewell, you up for doing some art?"
* * *
She took a first, tentative step into the tunnel. Elsinore had marked the locations of sensors and mines, and most importantly, the surveillance cameras. Eleven more steps and she'd be in plain view of one. Eleven more steps, hopefully none of them landing on a mine or some kind of horrible undetectable trap. Her imagination conjured up visions of bear traps, and she could practically hear the echo of crunching bone bounce down the tunnel.
"This is a terrible idea," Juneau muttered behind her.
"Come now, Major. You've been working with the good commander for months. Surely you must be used to terrible ideas and certain death by now," Wideawake said, his tone unpleasantly mocking. His sense of humour had always been acerbic, but recently, he hadn't been particularly funny. The pressure must have got to him, and Joy supposed she'd rather put up with the nasty jabs than a nervous breakdown.
Another step. Something whirred deep inside the tunnel. She froze, the stab of panic so sharp that, stars, maybe she was going to be the one suffering a nervous breakdown. The rock walls were so close, the space so dark, and the smell and sounds of the sea only made her tongue remember the taste of Skald.
She glanced over her shoulder. Constant was out on the cliffs, his Hyrrokkin trained on the blast doors for all the good it would do. Couldn't fire without shooting through her. Couldn't do anything but watch.
Wideawake was right behind her, blocking the view. His Tower armour's scales had changed colour from black to bright white, his cuirass emblazoned with a digital overlay of the Hierochloe logo. Joy had described Finn's uniform and Hopewell had done her best to recreate the design. It looked good. Maybe a little too good. So good that it was hard to look at Wideawake without being reminded of Finn, and so good that she couldn't look down on her own reskinned armour without thinking how silly it was that she was dressed as a Hierochloe security guard. That wasn't her job; it was Finn's. How unfair it was that she was living the life he had wanted; how unfair that her friends would never know her brother.
"Keep going, Captain," Juneau prompted.
Great. Fine. She took a step forward, and Wideawake touched her arm.
"Careful, Somerset."
Eleven steps into the tunnel. Twelve, and a floodlight switched on.
She raised her hand to shield her eyes. Hammersmith was in her ear, telling her to hold her position.
The blast doors rolled open, revealing the metallic walls of an elevator. Her hand went to her hip, but her holster and Morrigan were both with Constant. Whatever came next, she had to face unarmed.
60.
ARCHER
August 12th, 1577, 06:00
The text glowed in the air. Archer, yawning, rolled over and reached for the blaring alarm clock, only to realise that the noise was inside his head.
Low laughter came from the bunk opposite his. Faith Nordin, already dressed and her blonde hair perfectly styled, peered at him over her tablet. Her smile was as beautiful as it was annoying.
"Still not used to your primer, Tom?"
"No," he admitted, "and if you tell me you are, I'll know you're a liar. The h-chips weren't so different from getting a new phone or tablet. Just another machine. But this... it doesn't feel like using tech. It feels like breathing; like a brand new bodily function. To be honest, it feels like I'm not even human anymore."
"Well, that's sort of the point, isn't it?" Nordin put her tablet down. "That said, it could just be you need your morning coffee."
"Could be." He switched off the alarm and willed away the text. As disorienting as it was, he quite liked waking up to the time and date, and he made a note to add his location, too. If where and when were indisputable, then who shouldn't be so hard to remember. Not that he didn't know who he was, but for the work, it was important to stay on course.
He got up to wash. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Nordin leaving the room and wondered if he had snored. Jessica claimed he did, and he supposed his wife ought to know, but he hoped he hadn't. He didn't take his wedding vows lightly, but facts were facts: Jessica was light-years away, and the distance wasn't going to get any smaller. Nordin, on the other hand, was right here, and though a decade of marriage had added a few pounds to his physique, he still looked all right. No grey in his dark hair, and the new work clothes were flattering.
Although, putting on a lab coat over his grey sweater, he realised that he did miss the old company logo. The sweetgrass had felt like a stronger connection to Earth than the sun-wreathed astronomical symbol. It was easier to form connection with the small and specific than the big picture, he supposed. Just one of the very human flaws that made it possible for governments to wage distant wars and for admirals to carpet-bomb continents. One of the very human flaws that, hopefully, the primers would correct.
* * *
"So, how are we doing?" He sat down at his central desk in the control room, surrounded by wall-mounted monitors streaming live footage from across the galaxy. A dozen pairs of silver eyes turned towards him. "Ready to execute on McShane?"
"McShane is a no-go," said Oliver, the head tech. "Hebridean forces moved in on Dublin last night. As a response, Galloglass bombers strafed the city."
"Christ. Their own capital?"
"If you think that's bad, don't read the news from the outer colonies. Anyway, most of Dublin's a crater – including 1460 Liscannor Road."
"A shame."
Liscannor Road had fulfilled all their criteria. It was a pleasant residential area situated within spitting distance of both exclusive river apartments and charity-funded tenements, and a nearby primary school made for potentially powerful optics. Subject Alpha, Imogen McShane, hadn't been quite so perfect – single and childless, for starters, but her nursing job was a bonus, and best of all: she was incredibly beautiful.
Well. Had been until last night, at any rate. Now she was just another casualty, and Archer might have felt sympathy if he hadn't already seen so many people perish in similar ways. At least Subject Alpha had died quickly. His own parents hadn't been so lucky, and–
–and he shouldn't be thinking about them; his therapist had told him that trying to picture their final moments would do them no good and him plenty of harm, but he had read about what raiders from the Black Six did to their captives and–
"Here you go, sir." One of his team's junior members set a cup of coffee on his desk. Too milky and overflowing. Dishwater-brown coffee ran in runnels down the cup, across blocky text that read COFFEE FIRST, SCIENCE LATER, and made a wet ring on his desk.
"Thanks," he said, deciding not to make a fuss about the spillage. Nordin had been right; he realised that as soon as he took a sip. Coffee first, science later, indeed. "So, Subject Beta?"
"Subject Beta is primed and ready."
"If I may make a suggestion..." Nordin stood in the doorway.
"Go ahead."
"Subject Gamma is en route home from a mining conference off-world. That gives my department a lot of great material to work with. We can tie it into the Xanthe origin story, really give that a boost. Plus, I have some interesting ideas on how to use Gamma's imperfections – her infidelity, the husband's gambling problems – as purity promoters. I know we're not at that stage yet, but it's important to lay groundwork."
"Will the subject be in position in time?"
"Even London traffic's not so bad that she won't make it home from the spaceport before six o'clock."
"All right. Subject Gamma it is – but prep Beta as well, just in case." He pulled the coffee cup close, felt the heat travel up through his fingers. So hot it hurt, but he couldn't help but think it wasn't hot enough. "You all know what to do. You were all there for Xanthe – fantastic work, by the way – and this is just more of the same, only a touch more delicate. Let's get
to it."
* * *
Lunch was served, but Archer couldn't taste the food no matter how much brown sauce he slathered on his cheese-on-toast. He wanted to call Jessica, talk to Matthew one last time, tell him that his daddy loved him very much, but it was too late for that. Too late for anything other than to keep going, full speed ahead.
At five o'clock, the chairman of the board addressed the station via the secure comms link.
"...what begins in violence will end in harmony. Humanity can continue as it has for millennia, or it can be set on the right path. Our sacrifice will ensure that future generations will never have to endure the pointlessness of war..."
Archer tuned the speech out. He'd heard most of it before – hell, he was pretty sure that the 'future generations' bit was straight out of the proposal he and Nordin had presented to the board a couple of years ago. He didn't need reminding, and more importantly, he didn't need convincing.
"Primaterre protects us all," the chairman concluded, and the station crew echoed the phrase. Archer too, even though he didn't need to. He was aware that the phrase was one of the many pre-programmed triggers, and being aware of the priming was enough to break it. He didn't feel compelled to repeat the words, nor did he get to enjoy the euphoriant effects.
The time was now 5:30, and Subject Gamma's taxi-boat approached the elevator that would take her to her apartment underneath the Thames.
5:38, and she used her primer to unlock her apartment door.
"Oliver, double-check that we're recording."
"Capturing the feeds of multiple cameras. We're good to go."
Okay. Archer took a deep breath and tried not to think about how close to his own son Subject Gamma's children were in age. Outside the station's walls, the world had ceased to exist; that was the perspective the psychiatrists had told them to adopt. There were no people but the station crew. What he saw on his monitors – the husband greeting his wife, the children watching fish swim past their living room window – they weren't people. They were subjects.
"Execute."
It was 5:53 in the afternoon, and Naomi Winstanley of 1146 Westcott Road set down her bags as the first drop of blood trickled from her right eye.
* * *
January 21st, 1578, 00:00, 56°18'01.7"N 12°27'01.2"E
"That's everyone, Archer." Nordin stood in the tunnel, shining a flashlight at his face. "It's time to seal the station."
"It's not everyone." His primer listed the names of the missing, but he didn't need its assistance. He had put together the crew; these were his people, and twenty-three of them had yet to turn up. "Half the psychology department aren't here yet, and your own department's missing people too."
"Not to downplay the importance of Marketing, but the project will survive without those people."
"I'm not worried about the project, Faith. I'm worried about them."
"Of course you are, but there's no point. The only reason they wouldn't be here is because they're dead or dying. Things are so crazy out there... but we knew it was going to get worse before it gets better. They knew that. If they had wanted to play it safe, they'd have got here months ago."
"All right." He took one last look at the sea. Smoke drifted in like a bank of fog from across the bay. Gunfire came from the southeast, heavy and relentless. The majority of Talien Castle's mercenaries had primers, but the few holdouts had been fighting for days against the onslaught of the 'possessed'. Cameras around the town, as well as inside the Talien Castle compound, captured the drama. Nordin and her people collected and edited the footage before sharing it to the galaxy, each leaked snippet a carefully curated narrative.
As Project Manager, Archer had some sway, and even though there were no people outside the station – only subjects – it was surprisingly difficult to sit and watch subjects kill each other less than a kilometre away, in the seaside cafe where he'd taken so many lunches, and on the beach where he'd taught Matthew to swim. He'd asked Oliver to send the trigger in batches instead of broadcasting a blanket signal, to give at least some people half a chance to escape. Nordin had liked the idea – high drama – but less than a day later, all transports off-world had been suspended. There would be no more evacuations. Anyone still on Earth was dead, one way or another, and all Archer had managed to do was prolong their suffering. Nordin had still been pleased, though. Said that it'd be good for the project that the galaxy saw that even the powerful Talien Castle weren't immune to possession, and that the demons seemed to relish the deaths of the impure mercenaries. Good material, she'd called it.
"All right." He walked back through the tunnel, stepping inside the elevator. "Seal it up."
* * *
January 23rd, 1578, 13:35, 56°18'03.0"N 12°27'02.9"E
Archer was halfway through his lunch when the call came over the open company channel.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Jane?" He coughed, dropping his toast.
"Archer? Oh my God, it's so good to hear your voice. I'm here with Natalia and Welsh. You wouldn't believe..." Her voice cracked, hoarse with tears. "You wouldn't believe the things we've been through to get here. But we're outside now. On the cliffs, because we didn't want to trip the security measures, but Archer, there's still people here. They've been following us for miles. I can hear them coming down the path, Archer; you've got to open the doors."
Jane Kempinsky, senior zoologist and all-round nice person. Archer didn't know her well, but his wife had taken their son round to Jane's place for playdates with her kids on numerous occasions, and they'd returned with foil-wrapped plates of homemade cookies often enough that he knew she was a fantastic baker.
"Um, Jane."
Nordin, seated opposite him, shook her head, mouthing: just cut the connection. But he couldn't do that. Could he?
"Archer, please. They're coming. They already got Phillips, and oh God, he's still screaming, Archer."
"I get it, I do." He'd seen it a thousand times, and if he connected to the above-ground surveillance network, he could probably see Phillips too. "But Jane, the purge of Earth started last night. They released the virus into the air over twelve hours ago."
"Just open the door, Archer, please."
"Jane, you helped develop the virus. You know what it does."
"We probably haven't been exposed yet. We... we're wearing protective suits."
Nordin shook her head again, this time mouthing: liar. He looked at her, her eyes as beautiful as they were cold, and then looked at his toast. How much better his day had been when he had taken the first bite. How much worse it had got since, and it struck him that perhaps this was what it was going to be like from now on: bad getting worse in bite-size chunks.
"Have you received instruction on how to use your kill switches?"
"Archer, you bastard, you open this god damned door right now."
"I'm sorry, Jane, but if I open that door, I risk the lives of everyone in here. I risk the project and the Prime Mover. You know I can't do that." And you're being cruel by asking me to. A stray thought, but how reasonable it seemed: he wasn't the bad person here, she was. Yeah. Maybe that's how he'd be able to live with it.
"You can't just sacrifice us–"
"Why not?" Nordin interrupted, her voice as clear as a brook. "We're already sacrificing billions. You think you're more valuable than everyone else dying out there?"
"You think you are?"
"I think I got here in time. Punctuality is purity."
"Please, I'm begging you–"
"Look, Jane," Archer said, beginning to feel a little annoyed at her unreasonable attitude. "If you really are wearing protective suits, then I suggest you find somewhere to hide. In less than a week, ninety-nine percent of Earth's remaining population are going to be dead. If you can hold out until then, you'll be safe. Once the virus has been neutralised, we can let you in. All right?"
Jane's response didn't make much sense, but when she started to scream, Archer did what Nordin had tol
d him to do and cut the connection. He could only hope that Jane did know how to use her kill switch.
* * *
July 19th, 1578, 07:30, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E
"Could you give me a hand, please, Archer?"
It was the first time Nordin had ever asked for his help, and as he obliged, he noticed a slight quiver of her lips. Also for the first time.
"It won't even be like falling asleep," he told her, pulling the straps around her wrists taut. "The cryo pod's panel is going to close – and then it's going to open, and you'll be telling me to get on with it, but it'll already be over. Centuries gone by in the blink of an eye."
"Except it won't be in the blink of an eye. Time will pass. The pod could malfunction. You could screw something up. And when I wake, I'll be totally out of the loop."
"You could look at it as a fresh start. Leave your sins here and wake up to a better world."
"The world we made," she said, managing a small smile. "Couldn't have done it without you, Archer."
"Or you." He pressed a button, and the cryo pod's panel began to slide shut. "See you on the other side, Faith."
* * *
July 31st, 1578, 03:34, 56°18'01.9"N 12°27'01.4"E
He watched Jessica's last message on repeat while driving around the station. The underground tunnels went on for miles, and when the car ran out of juice, it took him nearly half an hour to walk back to the central area.
A dark channel ran through the station. He stopped on one of the steel gantries set into the natural bedrock walls and leaned on the railing. Submerged spotlights illuminated the water, covering the ceiling in an eerie pattern of reflected waves.
The control room overlooked the channel. A dim blue glow from the adjacent laboratory filtered through its narrow windows. Almost like moonlight, but it was something far better – the light of a brighter future.