“Sit there and be quiet, or I take the whole ear next time.” William glared at him, but made no further noise. They drove until dark. Matt did manage to get back onto the I78 and from there they found an old, abandoned motel. This place looked like it had been unused for a good 20 years or more. Feargal pulled in here so they could finish up whatever was possible. His primary interest was in finding whatever information he could about Leonor and China. As they settled in for the evening a fall thunderstorm broke and raged for a good several hours. The weather, along with the world, had become deranged over the last years. For about half an hour Matt watched this as he ate his MRE. Essio was tied to a chair against the back wall away from the windows—for although they had a roof and walls, the doors, and windows were gone and a hard wind was blowing an icy rain in through these.
Once finished, Matt turned back to Essio and went through his repertoire of blunt, sharp, hot, and cold. Nothing worked. Sitting down, sweating, in front of Essio on the soggy ground Matt wiped his hands clean and stared, balefully, at his friend. “You’d have done as much.”
“Will do.” Squeezed out through a bloody mouth; Feargal had used a shard of glass on the inside of it. Placing this in his mouth and duct taping it closed, Matt then struck Essio, repeatedly, about the head. When he cut the tape away, Essio had spat out a couple of teeth with the glass; there was—Matt was certain—a bit of tongue in the gore as well. Nothing changed. After this, Essio was utterly silent, excepting for grunts of pain. Giving up Matt let Essio sleep determined to finish the trip the next day—no matter what.
***
They were on the road shortly after the eastern horizon had begun to purple. It would be another long day on the road with William moaning, softly, beside him. He didn’t appear to be conscious but something in the hinterland of consciousness was fretting Essio. Matt wanted to rest the pup on the seat beside him, but couldn’t take the chance of William breaking the zaps and making a grab for this. So, he ended up keeping the weapon wedged between the driver’s seat and the door. Beneath his legs, and under the seat he kept a belt of fragmentation grenades—he did not need, nor could Matt afford another prisoner. There was, though, a lot more in the bed of the truck, but he daren’t bring it into the cab.
At noon they took a break at a picnic area with a roadside rest-stop; after checking to be certain there was no one about, Matt pulled Bill out, released his straps, and let him void in the pine trees where he could watch. As Essio finished, Matt strapped him up again with no resistance. While doing this he noticed the ruined ear—which was no longer a torn stump about the earlobe. The lobe had been fully restored—regenerated. “What-the-fuck.” Essio smiled wanly realising what Feargal had taken notice of. Matt looked around at the grinning face—the two incisors he knocked out the night before were breaking the gum line. They were growing back!
“Pays to be me.” The comment caught him a sharp knee to the gonads.
“There is an upside to this—I get to cut you down again and again. Sooner or later something won’t grow back or the pain will be such that not much of your mind will remain.”
Essio didn’t come back on that, but his smile faltered. This, Matt assumed, was why he’d been so docile throughout the night and the morning. Regeneration must take time and energy. Why he was wasting this energy at this time didn’t quite make sense—Essio had to assume there would be more of what the previous night had offered. It occurred, finally, as he pulled from the rest-stop what had happened was what had always consumed so much of Bill’s life from the moment he discovered women—vanity. His essential premise had always been women preferred a man that was well dressed and good looking. They could, and did, overlook everything else if these two were present. Even so, on numerous occasions, he was certain confidence and decisiveness were also important. Still, clothes and looks made the man for Bill. Perhaps he was right, but this never seemed to be so with China—but, then again, it was for Hannah; though Burda was as neurotic and self-destructive as they came.
The realisation was something Matt hoped to use to exploit Essio in the future. Even if the evening had been a failure there would be plenty of opportunities to attempt new and inventive deconstructions of his tissue in the belief that these would slowly erode Bill’s grip on his identity and therefore his determination. That torture was iffy, at best, did not bother him. He wasn’t troubled by the chancy nature of the data, nor by the ethical, problematical territory this opened for the pair of them. What had happened to the pair of them all those years since Zakara had returned appeared to have scrubbed the sentimentality from their lives. Matt chose not to consider what this was being replaced with. This wasn’t the first time he’d back away from introspection and the fear of what this might lead to—nor would it be the last.
For the second half of the day they drove in silence, not even so much as the radio. Bill hadn’t asked for this, but Feargal wanted nothing that might distract him from the road or watching his old friend. For after lunch, Bill had become more alert and on occasion Matt caught him worrying the zap straps on his wrists and legs. This had earned his old friend an elbow in the head a couple of times and twice more he pulled over to check the straps and once to add another to the legs—just to be certain.
The trip itself was still fraught. There were no more assaults but they did draw fire from some off-ramps. Perhaps they were warning shots, perhaps more—there was no way to be certain since Matt was determined to make it to New York before another night had passed. At Bridgewater, the pair ran into the first blockade of New York. At this checkpoint Feargal produced his diplomatic passport Jonah had given him. It was just a document with a 10 character alphanumeric key. The soldier scanned this and after a couple of minutes he was given a pass for the subsequent check-points.
Here, though, Feargal was required to identify William; then to turn him over to the Troops for further interrogation. This hadn’t been expected and it was nearly a deal breaker until he realised no matter what he did they were going to take Essio. For the first time that afternoon this brought a smile to his friend’s face. In the end Matt gave up and released Essio to their custody with a warning about his regenerative capabilities and the further proviso that he was high up in the Transhumanist movement. There seemed no good reason to mention Zakara, since what would they know of him? If Matt alerted the team to another player this would only weaken his position with the UN—once this information filtered through. How long this would now take he was not certain, nor cared to find out. There was a lot he cared not to know—for the moment.
With Essio gone, he was turned over to UN Personnel in order to be escorted to a meeting of the Security Council.
***
“Security Council? All of them?”
“The permanent members—US, China, Russia, France, and the UK.” The diplomat answered. He was a balding, podgy man in his mid-50s with close set eyes, and a Hispanic complexion, but there was no trace of an accent. He wasn’t American, Matt could tell that much from the off.
“Hasn’t the Continent fallen?”
“The French government—most of the Cabinet—have removed to London.”
“How secure is Britain?”
“They collapsed the Chunnel and sealed their coastlines.”
“What of their Meta population?”
“Measures have been—draconian.” Didn’t like that word at all—sounded more like a Zombie apocalypse than what he’d seen so far. Admittedly, thanks to Thin Man and whatever crew he was running, some of the transformations have become eccentric—even folkloric—but draconian would only establish a precedent which would not help to bridge the gulf between species. After all, these are people and not mindless flesh-eaters.
“That isn’t going to help our cause.”
“Agreed, but the British have guaranteed once they’ve public order restored the other measures they’ve taken will be eased.”
“But not ended?”
“The Ambassador said ease
d. Presently, I am uncertain what, precisely, this word means.”
“What is it diplomatic for?”
“Do not interfere with the internal mechanisms of our State.”
“Fuck off—in other words.” The diplomat shrugged. “What of the rest of the EU?”
“We are in negotiations with the Meta governments now.”
“The governments are Metahuman?”
“There are few Archaics left—and they appear to be in the same situation as Metas in the UK, US, Canada, and other parts of the world.”
“They’ve had elections?”
“No, they are the same members of the government that had either been elected or appointed, the only difference is they have been transformed.” Matt nodded; had to have been something like that.
“Any news about how the Meta governments are going to relate to the remainder of the international community?”
“Some fragile democracies have collapsed, but most seem to be intact. For the moment the Security Council, and I believe the Americans, are taking a cautious approach.”
“Which is?”
“Hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst.”
“Such as the development of Meta-weapons.”
“Yes—especially after the Blaine Incident; you were there I believe?”
“Nearby, in Lynden. Afterwards, I met some of the victims of the mutagenic weapons.”
“There is more than one?”
“I meant more than one was used. Whether or not there is more than one type I cannot speak to. However, my assumption would be that if they do not have variants of these they soon will.”
“Why do you say that?” And Matt related what he had seen in Milwaukee and the rumours of what had been going on in the National Parks, as well as additional stories about the Rockies and Sierra Madres. “You may also wish to add to that the Appalachians.”
“But who would notice?” The joke was lost on the man, so Matt pushed forward. “Other countries?”
“Yes, there have been documented cases in the Andes, Himalayas, Carmel Mountains, Caucasus, Eastern Ghats, Hindu Kush, Japanese Alps, Khingan Mountains, Safed Koh, and the Taurus Mountains. There are other areas in question—such as the Gobi, Black Rock, Kalahari, Kara Kum, and the Negev. But the latest reports suggest the latter has been sterilised.”
“Does that mean...”
“Yes—sterilised.”
“So, we’ve come to that point so quickly?”
“Not so quickly—this has been on-going for about five years now. Governments and people have grown fearful. Especially after the fall of Europe; the fragility of modern states has taken everyone by surprise.”
“But to embrace the old ways so completely and with almost no objection.”
“As I said, people and governments are frightened. This is how frightened people behave.”
“I suppose.” Thinking of how his own family might be treated. Bringing in the Archaic governments was appearing about as dangerous as it was necessary. In the end, all Matt could do was to take a breath and forge ahead. “Perhaps this should wait until I’ve met with the Council. How long until we’re there?”
“Another 30 or 40 minutes.” And for the remainder of the ride they spoke only sporadically about the weather, the coming winter, concern about food supplies since much of the infrastructure had been compromised—another term from the diplomat. If Matt had been anxious about the winter before, he was very nearly terrified now. It wasn’t just Zakara and the Cinn they’d be fighting it would be hunger and, if his history were correct, disease would be chasing along behind this. As he stewed about this latest revelation they finished the trip in silence.
“We’re here.” Feargal looked out the window.
“This is the American Mission to the UN.”
“The main buildings haven’t the security any longer—resources have been stretched to the breaking point. This is far more secure.” Cracks were showing in all governments, why should the US be any different?
“How much longer do you believe the world governments can hold out against the Metas?” The question appeared to deeply disturb the man, but he rallied from the stricken expression and withdrew into the banality of a statistician with an algorithm.
“Given the pace of transformations and pressure this has brought to bear on government agencies, politicians, the military, business, and the global economies a conservative estimate would be a year—from this time.”
“Certain your estimates may be trusted?”
“They could be overestimated, even under—there has been some debate on the variables expressed in the formula. There is a general consensus concerning the outcome and its timeframe.” That was the word Matt dreaded above all others—consensus. Read, here, bandwagon syndrome. Though science had fought against this brand of groupthink meme, Matt found it an elegant expression of the animal spirit buried in us all.
***
Deposited outside a conference room, Matt was turned over to a new minder. “Mr. Feargal?” The first time in a long while anyone had gotten his name right from the off. The woman’s accent was a flat mid-western affair but pleasantly articulate and a little on the smoky side of Jazz—probably a personal confabulation of his own. She was about 40ish with dun hair, severe eyebrows, chocolate brown eyes, and a tight mouth. The latter thought was busy with a practiced smile; behind this though was a PA’s calculus at work. What he worth remembering? Of course, he was addressing the Council but his appearance didn’t particularly enthuse one. Although the narrative was Feargal’s the script was clearly incised on the features. He was not approved of.
Matt nodded. “I’m Samantha Benton, Assistant to Ambassador Brendan Skiff. Would you follow me?” Suddenly all was becoming very real. With the weight of the reality, Feargal’s appearance, the last five years of his life, the goals of his father, and his position in the food chain all became a force that was weighing down on the top of his head. The neck, which had always been a stiff one, was feeling brittle and overstrained. With a dry mouth he nodded, followed, and adjusted his now dirty and blood-flecked coat. Not exactly how he should be presenting himself, but there was no time for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Whatever they needed to know wasn’t going to be waiting on the pleasantries.
Did they ever wait on these? He didn’t know and, suddenly, cared a great deal. Then he was on the other side of the door.
Though a large rectangle, the room contained a prodigious oval table around which sat the members of the Council. Benton, in her tight and frosty brown wool skirt suit, led him to the empty end of the table—what seemed a great distance from the others. Before he sat, the woman introduced the others.
There was Brendan Skiff, first. He was a 50 something from somewhere in the South, that much was apparent. The man appeared pleasant enough but there was something harsh and brutal pushing back against the windsor knot which appeared a little too domineering for his small, roundish face. Following him was Antonina Razin, of the Russian Federation. The woman was hardly 40 and seemed almost younger, with blonde hair pulled back, but not harshly. Beneath the pant suit her body appeared firm and forbidding at the same time. The eyes were a harsh German blue, and the skin flawless porcelain.
Next was the Chinese Ambassador, Zhang Hu. They wore the hard face he was familiar with from the news and just about all Chinese politicians wore when they didn’t know the camera was on them. The UK’s Jacob Lloyd was next and they seemed perfectly at ease in their environment. But that could have had more to do with the fact that Matt was Canadian and felt an emotional kinship with the Brit he would never experience with the others. Second guessing himself had become so common Matt no longer took much notice of this. Finally there was Hugo Pinel, the French Ambassador. As an Anglo-Canadian there was an innate distrust of anything French. This wasn’t so much a conscious prejudice as a deep-seated cultural bias which had many historical antecedents, but no longer a distinctive locus. For all the innate distrust,
however, Matt found nothing to particularly dislike about the man. He was a typical Gallic bon-vivant with iron grey hair, an affable smile, and impeccably turned out in the way it is only possible for the French to be.
Looking them over, after the initial greeting, he smiled as he sat and waited. The Ambassador Hu began the interview. Interview? From the hop it was more interrogation. “Thank you,” in an almost neutral English accent, “for joining us here today Mr. Feargal.” Again, the name was perfectly pronounced. There was something coming around the corner and straight for him.
“Director Salt gave me little choice.” No matter what, Feargal wasn’t prepared to be less than what he was.
“I do not understand?” Ambassador Pinel responded.
“Director Salt did not enquire whether or not I wished to be involved in this relationship.” There was a sly look on the Russian Ambassador’s face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“We,” Ambassador Lloyd followed up the silence, “were unaware of you and your connection to the emergence of the Metahumans in Dilmun, Ontario until only recently; then only because of Director Salt’s information. But he promised you would explain the details once you were here.” There followed another awkward pause in which Matt wondered, vainly, if it were possible to make a break, or whether or not it would be possible to shine them on with some Transhumanist plot in the form of Jonah. In the end, though, it was apparent Feargal needed them as much as they needed his Intel. The Council wouldn’t like it—perhaps weren’t even ready, yet, to believe it.
“Yes, I suppose I’ve little choice any longer.”
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 21