The Last Of The First (Halfhero Book 3)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Well, she gave us until tomorrow morning," said Daniel. "It must have worked, right?"

  Sara shook her head. "I don't want to rely on it. Abos. How much time before they're ready?"

  "It will be faster now," said Abos. "A few hours. Onemind has formed while they are growing. The link is established. Their brains are developing more quickly. We all share resources. That is how I know what I am. Who we are."

  "The First?" said Saffi. Daniel had promised to describe his experience.

  "Yes, The First. The onemind is unlocking our species memory. We are not just individuals. When we are onemind, each of us contributes towards a larger consciousness. Onemind provides memories, but there is much missing. There are only nine of us. There should be thousands."

  "Thousands?" said Daniel. "There are thousands of you?"

  "I do not think so. Not anymore. Many have been lost."

  "Look," said Sara, "I know this is incredible stuff, but we might all be in prison, or dead, within the next few hours, so please shut up."

  Even Abos looked surprised. Sara pointed at him. "Is there any way of speeding up the growth process?"

  "No. But they will be ready before the deadline tomorrow morning."

  "Okay," she said. "I hope that will be enough. Our trump card is you, Abos. They don't know you're conscious. Could you take them on - if we backed you up?"

  Abos looked out at the massive aircraft carrier.

  "Yes," he said. "I think so. But they are heavily armed. I do not wish to provoke a conflict which could lead to the destruction of this ship. People will die. And until the others are fully grown, they are vulnerable. Better to wait. With our full strength, we can get away without loss of life."

  "That's settled, then," said Sara. "Let's get something to eat. We need to rest. Someone should stay here on the bridge to keep watch. Saff, why don't you take the first shift? Daniel, you relieve her at seven."

  Everyone sniggered apart from Abos.

  Sara rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up."

  Abos raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. "I will rest now for two hours. Then I will watch. I will not need any more sleep."

  "I'll stay with Saffi now," said Daniel.

  The others left in silence. Neither Saffi nor Daniel spoke for a few minutes. Then Daniel told Saffi everything he'd seen when Abos had shown them the onemind memory.

  "Their planet was dying?"

  "Yes," said Daniel. "I guess so. At least, it was getting too cold for them to survive. But the memory was incomplete."

  Saffi looked at the sky. "And somewhere out there is the rest of his species."

  "If the ships got through. If they found another planet where they could start again."

  "Well," she said at last, "at least that answers one question. There is intelligent alien life out there."

  17

  When the Old Man arrived in London, it was mid-afternoon. It had been decades since he'd flown for any distance. He was hungry. Starving, in fact. And confused. After so many lifetimes alone, to learn that others may have survived, that his people were returning...

  It must all be connected to his Purpose, but he had lived so long he no longer knew what would happen when they returned. When he found them, it would become clear. It must become clear.

  The air above London was thick, and he felt his throat clogging with particles of burned fuel as he descended. His anger grew as he came closer. The city was vast and, just as had been the case in New Delhi, the earth was covered with stone, brick, and glass. Here and there were green patches, where humans had allowed nature to remain, in a controlled, repressed form.

  He coughed and spat black dirt. So much had changed, and, so far, none of it was for the better.

  Below him was an open space between the buildings. He headed towards it.

  The usual crowd of tourists were feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, throwing overpriced seed, posing for photos as the birds perched on their arms and heads. The stone lions at the base of Nelson's Column looked on.

  A tour guide gathered her group around her before continuing a well-rehearsed spiel.

  "We're now in front of the famous fourth plinth. The other three plinths have held statues since they were first built. The two at this end are larger because they were intended to display equestrian statues. Indeed, as you have just seen, the third plinth shows King George the Fourth on his horse. Unfortunately, the money ran out for the fourth plinth in eighteen forty-one, and the planned statue of William the Fourth was never erected. Since nineteen ninety-nine, the plinth has been home to various modern pieces, even—once—for ordinary members of the public, who applied for a slot via a website and could do whatever they liked while they were up there. My favourite was the lady who described the sexual inadequacies of her ex-husband in great detail. She was funny."

  "Where's the big cock?" A middle-aged woman with a Nigerian accent was waving her handbag. "My sister told me there was a giant cock."

  The tour guide was unruffled. "Well, it's true that the fourth plinth displayed a bright blue cockerel for a while, but that was a few years ago."

  "Oh, bloody hell," said the woman. "I have brought my camera and everything. And now you tell me I can't see the big cock."

  "I'm afraid not, madam," said the tour guide. "We all understand your disappointment. As you can see, the plinth is vacant. The planned sculpture of our future king kissing The Deterrent was deemed a little too controversial. Still, I'm sure we'll have exciting news regarding its replacement any time now."

  "A tall Buddhist with golden eyes," said a small man with an ice cream.

  "Well, that's an interesting idea, sir. You could always suggest it to the commissioning body." The tour guide laughed at her own joke. No one else did. She had lost their attention somehow. No one in the group was looking her way at all. They were all gawping at the empty plinth. She turned. There was a tall Buddhist monk in orange and saffron robes standing on the plinth. And he had golden eyes. Like The Deterrent and the titans.

  "Where the hell did he come from?"

  She hadn't addressed the question to anyone in particular, but the short man with the ice cream answered. "He dropped out of the sky." There were nods of agreement from others in the group, and dozens of other tourists were hurrying over.

  Various voices spoke at once.

  "Is he a titan?"

  "They don't have Asian titans, do they? Just white ones."

  "I thought they all looked like the president, only fit and good looking."

  "I don't think he's a titan."

  "Who is he? Miss, who is he? Miss? Miss?"

  The tour guide realised the question was being addressed to her.

  "He's one of those street magicians, I believe," she said. "You know, hidden cameras and the like. I'm afraid they're popping up all over the place."

  Some of the group looked around for cameras while a few of them burst into applause.

  "Please don't encourage him," said the tour guide, wrinkling her nose as if smelling something bad. "They usually don't have a licence, they get in everyone's way, it's all very annoying. Just ignore him."

  The monk jumped down from the plinth, walked up to the group and plucked the ice cream from the small man's fingers, devouring it in one bite before striding away.

  "Rude," said the man.

  "They're all the same, bloody magicians," said the tour guide.

  "Are there any other big cocks we can look at?" said the Nigerian woman.

  The Old Man needed more food, fast. He had made an uncharacteristic error, flying across continents without making sure he had taken on enough energy. The ice cream helped a little, but the short boost was gone too quickly. He stumbled as he reached the edge of the square, then sat down.

  The pigeons around him fluttered away, then returned as he lay down on his back, dizzy and nauseous. He turned on his side and watched them eat seeds from the dirty concrete. Reaching across, he scraped seeds towards him, picked them up
with shaking fingers, and transferred them to his mouth. He repeated the process a few more times, snatching as much as he could from under the pecking beaks of the indignant pigeons.

  "That's gross, man. Really."

  He looked up and saw a boy of eight or nine years watching him with fascination.

  "I mean, you're eatin' off the floor an' everything. S'gusting. You missed a bit. By your ear."

  The Old Man shifted and scooped up the seeds the boy was pointing at. He didn't understand much of what the child was saying. The language had changed beyond recognition during the centuries since he'd last been in Britain.

  "You gotta 'spect yousself, man. Ain no one gonna 'spect you if you don 'spect yousself. D'ya get me, tho'?"

  The Old Man wasn't sure if the boy was speaking English at all. With an effort, he pushed himself up into a half-sitting position. His head hurt, and his vision was getting blurry. Not good.

  A pigeon waddled past with the insouciant manner unique to the feathered denizens of Trafalgar Square. The Old Man's hand shot out and grabbed it. Still assuming it was under no threat, the bird didn't voice any protest, just waited placidly to be returned to the ground, where it could have a nice shit and eat more seeds.

  The Old Man bit its head off and drank its blood before flipping the body over, ripping it apart and wrenching its bloody breast apart with his teeth.

  The boy watched, his face slowly breaking into a smile.

  "Oh, man," he whispered, "that is dope." He reached into his pocket and fished out his phone, pointing the camera towards the Old Man as he grabbed a second pigeon and eviscerated it.

  "Badass," breathed the boy, his face a picture of admiration.

  The Old Man looked up at him, blood covering his mouth and chin. The phone was an unfamiliar device, but the boy was pointing it towards him. Possibly a weapon. He waved his little finger, and it blew apart in a cloud of glass and plastic.

  The boy looked at his bloody hands and the remains of his phone.

  "The fuck?" he said, then dropped the last few pieces, tilted his head up to the sky, and wailed, "DAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDD!"

  A big man appeared at the crying boy's side. He carried a large sandwich in one hand. After a flurry of dialogue back and forth, which the Old Man did not try to follow, the newcomer stepped forward, his shadow falling across the robed monk. The Old Man was sucking clean the ribs of a third pigeon. He was already feeling much stronger.

  "My boy says you busted his phone, Buddha boy. What are you gonna do about it?"

  The Old Man may not have understood the words, but the tone was clear. He ignored the provocation until the smell of the sandwich wafted his way. Then he put the third headless corpse down and stood up to his full height. The boy's father, with a heroic effort of will, didn't flinch when the monk, his face smeared with blood, stared down at him with emotionless yellow eyes.

  "Um. Just saying, yeah, you broke his phone. You should buy him a new one. You hearing me? You owe my boy a phone."

  With inhuman speed, the Old Man snatched the sandwich from the boy's father. He took a big bite and chewed, still looking at the man. Then his other hand shot out and pulled a wallet from the man's pocket. He opened it, took out the banknotes, then let it fall to the floor.

  "Dad! Dad! He took your money! And your sandwich! Kick his arse, Dad! Kick his arse! Dad! Where are we going? Why don't you beat him up? Dad, owww!"

  The Old Man turned his back and walked away. He was still hungry. And he needed to learn the language. Which meant a new body.

  He walked down the first side street he found, avoiding the wider thoroughfares, which were as busy with vehicles as New Delhi's had been.

  Outside a large window, he paused. People were eating, sitting at white tablecloth-covered tables, talking and laughing. As new people came to the door, a well-dressed man greeted them and showed them to a table. Wracking his brains for the few words he could remember, the Old Man entered. The well-dressed man approached, stopped, and looked at the tall, dirty monk with blood smeared around his mouth. The rest of the room fell silent.

  "I require... repast. Food, if you please," said the Old Man.

  The well-dressed man shook his head, his voice low and urgent. "I'm sorry, sir, we are too busy, we have no tables available."

  The Old Man couldn't understand what he was saying. He held up the banknotes and pointed at a vacant table. "If you please," he repeated. "Food now."

  The Maitre d' had been confronted with awkward situations before, but a Buddhist monk was a first. He walked the man to the door, one arm on his elbow, trying not to breathe through his nose. For a second, the robed figure didn't move - it was like trying to push a block of stone. Then the monk acquiesced, leaving the restaurant without further incident.

  The Maitre d' didn't like the look the man gave him with those weird eyes of his, though, not one little bit.

  Six hours passed before the Old Man went back to the restaurant. He had eaten well enough, taking food from people as they walked the streets holding sandwiches, fried meats, vegetables, and various sweet morsels. A few had protested, but one look at the Old Man had dissuaded them from pursuing the matter.

  The restaurant was nearly empty when he got back. When he had been ejected earlier in the day, he had checked the alley running along the side of the building, finding a large metal container used to hold uneaten food, much of which was rotting. Perfect for his purposes.

  He checked the front of the building. The Maitre d' was supervising the cleaning of the room by a servant. The Old Man moved to a shadowed doorway along the alley and waited.

  The servant emerged first and hurried away. A few minutes later, the back door opened again, and the well-dressed man came out. He turned to lock up.

  The Old Man looked both ways before crossing the alley. All was quiet. He lifted his hand as he walked, and the Maitre d' grunted as his body was pushed against the door by an invisible force.

  The Old Man twisted his hand in the air when he was two paces away and caught the body as it fell, the neck cleanly snapped.

  Holding the corpse by bunching up its shirt and jacket in front of the ribs, he jumped eight feet, landing in the stinking container and pulling the lid down after him. He took the blood he needed from the wrists and, as it poured onto his skin, he stopped breathing and willed the process to be as fast as possible.

  The sun was rising when he climbed out of the container and put on the well-dressed man's clothes. He was bigger than his victim as always. The dark suit jacket wouldn't fasten around his chest, and the trousers finished three inches above his shoes. Such ill-fitting clothes would draw attention.

  Crossing three roads, he made his way back to a shop he had seen the previous afternoon. He went in through the rear door, the lock splintering as he pushed it open. An alarm shrieked into life, and he looked around in shock until he found its source and silenced it.

  He located suitable clothing, dressed and looked at himself in the mirror. He was Caucasian now, bearded and tall. It was satisfactory.

  By the time the Old Man had walked to Regent Street, the pavements were already busy with commuters. He took a coffee from one of them and a cup full of thin porridge from another, then made his way to Euston Square Gardens.

  On a bench under a silver birch tree, he listened to the complex, musical song of a blackbird in the branches above. Some sounds echoed through the centuries unchanged.

  The Old Man looked at the timepiece on his wrist. It was 6:55. He had checked the opening hours of his destination the previous day but decided against going in until he had an English-speaking body.

  Two and a half hours to wait. He let himself lapse into a low-energy state, his pulse slowing and his thoughts ceasing. He did all this despite his excitement. There were others like him. He had almost forgotten there would be others. That knowledge had been lost along with his Purpose. Today, he would banish some of his ignorance by visiting the biggest repository of information in the country.
>
  The Old Man was going to the library.

  18

  Abos stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes, his breathing deepening. No one else could sleep. TripleDee, after an hour of turning from one side to the other, walked through to the middle container and started watching Blade Runner. Ten minutes later, Sara came in.

  "Harrison Ford," said TripleDee. "Is he human, or one of them?"

  "Long time since I've watched it," said Sara. "It's supposed to be ambiguous, isn't it?"

  "I always thought it was obvious."

  "Really? So which is he?"

  The radio beside the computer crackled into life. "Guys, this is Saffi. They're coming now. Wake Abos and get up here!"

  By the time Abos, TripleDee, and Sara had joined Abos on the bridge, ten boats were three-quarters of the way between the Smithwatson and the Liberace. Two helicopters were flanking the container ship, and Daniel was watching them through the binoculars.

  "A dozen in each boat, maybe ten on each helicopter," he said, handing the binoculars to Sara. "Abos?"

  Abos looked at the approaching boats. His body grew still.

  "I need you," he said.

  Daniel looked at him. Somehow, Abos carried his unique Abosness from body to body. The Asian man standing beside him looked to be in his late twenties, but Daniel had no problem accepting him as his father.

  "What can I do?" he said, then realised Abos hadn't been speaking to him. Daniel could sense onemind forming, but—this time—he wasn't invited.

  Behind them, on the main deck of the Liberace, the top layer of forty-foot containers was moving. Like the teeth of a giant zip opening, the containers in the centre tilted and moved away from each other. Over six hundred containers peeled apart and toppled outwards, plummeting into the ocean with a series of crashes that made the ship roll. The Seals' smaller boats rocked from side to side as the heavy wake reached them. Daniel could see them taking evasive action, turning from the Liberace and powering away for a short distance, to avoid being hit by the falling cargo.