by Will Hill
“I’m Matt Browning,” he replied, putting his ID on the counter. “Who’s the Duty Officer? I need to speak to them, please.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the receptionist. “Dr Cooper is in the lab. Can I take a message?”
“No,” said Matt. “I’m sorry, but you can tell him I need to speak to him right now, on Zero Hour Task Force business. I don’t want to involve the Interim Director in this, but I will if you make me.”
The receptionist narrowed her eyes and, for a moment, Matt thought she was going to call his bluff; he suspected that Cal Holmwood would back his demand to speak to a senior member of the Department without notice, but that he would also not be thrilled about being forced to do so. The receptionist stared at him for a long moment, then lifted the telephone from her desk and dialled a number. She spoke quietly into the receiver, turning her head away from Matt and shielding her mouth with her hand, then replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Dr Cooper will see you,” she said. “I’m to take you through.”
She got up from behind the desk, her body language making it clear that there was literally nothing in the world she would less like to be doing than assisting him. Matt fought to keep his temper, which rarely showed itself, in check; when the receptionist waved her hand in a way that vaguely suggested he should follow her, he bit his tongue and did so.
In the wall behind the administrative desks stood three heavy white metal doors. Beyond them, the Science Division comprised three large research labs arranged in a semicircle, each one home to two of the Division’s six primary areas of research: Computational and Information Sciences, Sensors and Electron Devices, Human/Supernatural Research and Engineering, Survivability/Lethality Analysis, Vehicle Technology, Weapons and Materials Research. There was a large proving area at the southern edge of the Loop’s grounds, as well as ranges and experimental chambers of all sizes and specifications spread throughout the underground levels, all of which were highly classified. Access to the labs was controlled by a series of double airlocks, and the entire Division was monitored at a microscopic level; the complex of rooms was fully automated and could be locked down instantly in the event of a breach or an accident.
The receptionist unlocked the middle door and led Matt into a short corridor. At the other end stood the entrance to a grey airlock, identical to the one that guarded the containment block four levels below. She gestured for Matt to step inside and was making her way back towards reception before the airlock door had even closed behind him.
Matt fought back claustrophobia as the light inside the tight space turned first red, then purple. A billowing cloud of gas rushed up from vents in the floor and he shut his eyes, waiting for it to be over. When the roaring ceased, he opened them in time to see the light turn green and the inner door swing open, revealing a tiny man in a white coat with a big smile on his face.
“Matt?” he asked, extending his hand. “Matt Browning?”
“Hello,” said Matt. He took the outstretched hand; the man in the white coat pumped it up and down enthusiastically.
“I’m Mark Cooper, Director of the Science Division. It’s great to meet you.”
“Is it?” blurted Matt, slightly overwhelmed by the warmth of the greeting.
“Absolutely,” said Cooper. “Cal Holmwood shares some of the Lazarus Project reports with me. Amazing stuff, truly. It’s incredible what you’re doing down there.”
“Thanks,” said Matt. He suddenly found himself trying not to laugh.
“You’re welcome,” said Dr Cooper. “I met Robert Karlsson a few years ago, in Geneva. A great man.”
“He is,” said Matt. “We’re lucky to have him.”
“No doubt. Now what can I do for you, Mr Browning? I’m guessing it has something to do with our recent arrivals?”
“It has,” said Matt. “Can I see them, please?”
“Of course,” said Dr Cooper. “Follow me.”
The Science Division Director turned and strode away down the corridor, at a pace that surprised Matt; the man’s legs were so short he would not have predicted such speed was possible. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of doors with round windows at head-height. A sign was fixed to the wall beside them:
RESEARCH LABORATORY 2
HUMAN/SUPERNATURAL RESEARCH AND ENGINEERING
SURVIVABILITY/LETHALITY ANALYSIS
Matt followed Cooper through the doors and into the lab.
It was huge: a rectangular space with a high, flat ceiling and tiled floor. The entire room was painted white; its walls and ceiling gleamed almost as brightly as the metal benches that lined the walls and the computer screens that sat atop them. At least a dozen men and women in white coats were bustling between a wide arrangement of desks, a long wall full of files and folders, and rows of machines that Matt recognised: gene sequencers, hologram projection units, powerful supercomputer cabinets, 3D virtual database racks. At the back of the room, a row of six cells was set into the wall, shimmering with the same ultraviolet barriers that restrained the occupants of the detention block.
“Welcome,” said Dr Cooper. “I’m sure this must look pretty unimpressive compared to the Lazarus labs, but we call it home.”
“It’s great,” said Matt. “What are your priority projects?”
“Right now, investigating the advanced physical attributes of the Broadmoor escapees,” replied Cooper. “Generally, the same as always. Tactical analysis of vampire strengths and weaknesses, analysis of the virus itself. We work in tandem with Lab 3. They apply our work to weaponry and defence development.”
“You use live subjects?” asked Matt. A chill ran up his spine. “I mean, other than the Broadmoor escapees?”
“We do,” said Dr Cooper. “Although I know what you’re thinking and you don’t need to worry. What we do here is nothing like what Professor Reynolds was up to.”
Matt had seen the interior of the original Lazarus Project labs; they had been nothing more than sophisticated torture chamber, where vampires had been eviscerated, destroyed and revived, and treated as nothing more than animals, all in the name of Reynolds’ headlong pursuit of a cure for their weaknesses, the precise opposite of what the rest of Blacklight had believed he was working on.
“I hope not,” he said. “What he did was inhumane.”
“I saw,” said Dr Cooper. “I led the team that cleared out the labs after he was killed. It still gives me nightmares.” He smiled, but Matt didn’t think the doctor was joking; not entirely, at least.
“There were two survivors,” said Matt. “A man and his daughter. Reynolds was about to destroy them when Jamie interrupted him. Do you know what happened to them?”
“Patrick and Maggie Connors,” said Cooper, nodding his head. “They were released as soon as the investigation into Reynolds was complete.”
“Really?” asked Matt. “We let two vampires go?”
Dr Cooper nodded. “The Interim Director ordered them released personally. Surveillance could probably tell you where they are, if you’re interested?”
Matt shook his head. “That’s OK. I just find it odd that they got released and now the whole Department is under orders to destroy the Broadmoor escapees. None of those men wanted to be vampires. It seems… inconsistent.”
“It’s a grey area,” agreed Cooper. “Cal’s doing his best.”
“I’m sure he is,” said Matt. His mind was threatening to run away with him, wanting to dig deeper at the moral questions that lay at the heart of Blacklight; he forced himself to focus on what he was there to do. “Can I see the escapees you’re holding?”
“Of course,” said Dr Cooper. “Follow me.”
Matt did so, weaving through the rows of desks and benches. Several staff nodded at him as he passed, but most were engrossed in their work; the atmosphere was much the same as it was in the Lazarus Project complex where he spent the overwhelming majority of his time. Dr Cooper led him to the cell at the far left of the row and stopped outside th
e UV wall. Matt joined him, then looked into the sealed room.
It was sparse, but was still a far cry from the transparent cubes in which the unfortunate victims of Christopher Reynolds had been kept; there was a bed with sheets and pillows, a chair with a small table beside it, a sink, and a curtained-off area that Matt assumed contained a toilet. CCTV cameras peered down from all four corners of the room, presumably positioned to record the treatment of the cell’s occupant. Which, in this case, was a man in his fifties, lying on his bed and reading a paperback book. He didn’t look up at Matt and Dr Cooper, even as they began to talk about him.
“Christian Bellows,” said Dr Cooper. “He was recovered in the Broadmoor grounds. Put up no resistance when they brought him in and has been no trouble since he got here. He just likes to be left alone.”
“What did he do?” asked Matt. “To end up in Broadmoor in the first place?”
“Almost killed a postman,” said Dr Cooper. “He had come to believe that the man was planning to kill him, so he attacked him with a kitchen knife.”
“Jesus.”
“He’s a paranoid schizophrenic,” said Dr Cooper. “We have his treatment records and his pharmaceutical schedule. Don’t worry, we’re looking after him.”
“Does he understand what’s happened to him?” asked Matt. Bellows looked calm and relaxed, like a man lying on the sofa in his living room.
“Yes,” replied Cooper. “We had to tell him the truth. He has a long history of delusions and his new surroundings could have played dangerously into that. He understands that he is ill, with an extremely rare disease, and that we’re treating him. He made peace with it quite quickly.”
“So he’s cooperating?”
“Yes,” said Dr Cooper. “Which is more than I can say for the other one. Come on.”
Matt followed the Science Division Director to the next cell. It appeared to contain the same furniture and fittings as the one Christian Bellows was lying in, but where his had been neat and tidy, this one was a wreck. The bed had been stripped and thrown against the wall, the table had been smashed to splinters, and the curtain surrounding the toilet had been torn down and shredded. In the far corner of the cell a figure was huddled, its arms wrapped round its knees, its head lowered.
“Alex Masterson,” said Dr Cooper. “He was picked up breaking into a chemist’s in a town about fifteen miles from the hospital. He fought, but they managed to subdue him. We’ve kept him sedated since he was brought in.”
Matt surveyed the wreckage of the cell. “It doesn’t look like it,” he said.
“It’s been rather difficult,” said Cooper. “The standard dosages don’t work, or at least not consistently. We’ve never had captive vampires as powerful as these two. I suspect we have nothing that would work on Valentin Rusmanov.”
“Probably not,” said Matt. “So you’ve examined them both?”
Dr Cooper nodded. “We’ve found no physical differences between them and other vampires. We think it must be the virus itself.”
“What did he do?” asked Matt, his voice low. He was staring at the dark ball pressed into the corner of the cell. The vampire was motionless; it was impossible to tell whether he was even awake.
“Masterson?” asked Cooper. “He committed a series of rapes in the nursing home where he worked. He’s a sociopath, pure and simple. Doesn’t understand why what he did was wrong.”
“Good job he was picked up,” said Matt, his stomach revolving slowly.
“I suppose so,” said Cooper. “Might have been better if they’d just destroyed him. But at least he can’t hurt anyone if he’s here.”
Matt shook his head sharply, trying to clear it. Although this place was a far cry from the blood-soaked nightmare that had been the first Lazarus Project lab, the sense of sickness, of banal, miserable horror, was just as palpable.
“You said there are no physical differences?” he asked.
Dr Cooper nodded. “Like I said, we think it’s something in the virus itself. There’s a well-established correlation between age and power, and the theory has always been that the virus continues to mutate inside the carrier after they turn, increasing their strength and speed over time.”
“Right,” said Matt. “But that doesn’t explain this.”
Or explain Larissa, he thought. She’s frighteningly strong. And fast. And she’s barely been turned three years.
“I know,” said Dr Cooper. “Do you have a theory, Mr Browning?”
Matt nodded. “I do,” he said. “And if I’m right, it’s bad. Really bad.”
“How can I help?”
“You said you examined them,” said Matt. He spoke slowly, as though carefully considering each word. “I assume you interviewed them as well?”
“We did.”
“What do they remember? About the night they were released?”
Dr Cooper shrugged. “Very little. Doctors, nurses, needles. Violence. Red eyes. Neither of them could give any specifics.”
“What about their bites?” asked Matt. “The ones that turned them. Were they still visible when they were brought in?”
“No,” replied Dr Cooper. “But then they almost never are. If the newly-turned has fed, the bite will usually have healed.”
“OK,” said Matt. “Do you have a terminal in here I can use?”
“Sure,” said Dr Cooper. “Over here.”
He led Matt to one of the long metal workbenches, flipped a monitor up out of its surface and raised a keyboard into place. Matt lifted himself up on to a stool and logged into the Blacklight network; Dr Cooper watched silently as he accessed the Zero Hour restricted section and navigated into one of the many folders containing raw footage of the Broadmoor attack.
“Do you know which wings they were being held on?” asked Matt.
“Bellows was on D wing,” replied Dr Cooper. “What are you looking for?”
“I’ll show you,” said Matt. He opened a file called D_WING_MAIN_CORRIDOR and watched as silent black and white footage began to play. The camera was positioned above a long corridor, in the middle of which a male nurse was pinned against a wall as two patients tore at his throat and chest. Blood pumped out, horribly dark beneath fluorescent lights, as he was dragged to the floor and fallen upon. A doctor ran for his life, his eyes wide, pursued by a patient with a scalpel in his hand. The patient’s eyes blazed almost white and his mouth was twisted in a snarl of pure joy.
“Christ,” said Dr Cooper. “That’s horrible.”
Matt didn’t reply; he was watching the footage closely, waiting for what he was looking for. Two naked patients strolled down the corridor, past the twitching remains of the nurse; their eyes glowed, and their bodies gleamed with sweat. Matt hit PAUSE, freezing the image in place.
“There,” he said. “Look.”
“What am I looking at?” asked Dr Cooper, leaning in closer to the screen.
“This is minutes after the attack happened,” said Matt. “These patients have only just been turned. So where are the bites?”
Dr Cooper narrowed his eyes and leant in even closer. “I don’t know,” he said, eventually. “I can’t see any.”
“Me neither,” said Matt, his voice trembling. “And I think I know why.”
The doctor straightened up and looked at him. “Why?”
Matt turned away from the screen and faced him. “Because there aren’t any,” he said. “The Broadmoor patients weren’t bitten.”
Dr Cooper stared at him. “They… weren’t bitten?”
Matt shook his head. “Look, we know the bite itself isn’t what turns people. The plasma that coats their fangs initiates the genetic change; the bite is just how it normally gets introduced into the bloodstream. I think you’re right about the virus, that it evolves and increases the power of the vampire it has infected, but I think there’s more to it than that. I think that when older evolutions of the virus are introduced into a victim, the turn begins at a more advanced stage. My friend Larissa was
bitten by the vampire who is supposed to be the oldest in Britain, and she’s already stronger and faster than almost any other I’ve ever seen, even though she was only turned a few years ago. I think there is a direct correlation between the age of the attacking vampire and the speed with which their victims develop.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Dr Cooper. His eyes were wide, his skin pale. “If they weren’t bitten, what the hell happened to them?”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Matt. “My guess is they were injected. With plasma from a very old vampire, that had evolved to the point where it could make the newly-turned this powerful.”
“Valeri Rusmanov?” asked Dr Cooper. He was visibly trembling, as though he was about to faint.
“No,” said Matt. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I’m afraid not.”
49
PIECES OF THE PUZZLE
Cal Holmwood looked up from the report he was reading as someone knocked on his door, and sighed. It often seemed as though there were simply not enough hours in the day for him to deal with everything that he was expected to deal with, and he found himself yet again full of admiration for Henry Seward, who had run the Department with a smoothness that he was only now beginning to realise had been remarkable.
“Come in,” he called, and set the report aside.
The door opened and Andrew Jarvis stepped through it, his face tight and pale.
What now? wondered Holmwood. It won’t be good news. It never is.
Jarvis was the Surveillance Division representative on the Zero Hour Task Force and was widely respected within the Department. He had been recruited from GCHQ, the agency that monitored communications and provided intelligence analysis for the Security Services, and had quickly risen to second-in-command of Surveillance; the Division’s Director, Major Vickers, had joked on several occasions that he could almost feel Jarvis’s breath on the back of his neck.
“Captain Jarvis,” said Cal, forcing a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” said Jarvis, stopping in front of his desk. “But I thought you should see what’s just appeared on my desk.”