The Last Of The First (Halfhero Book 3)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Saffi looked back at her evenly.

  "I know," she said. "The way your brain works is why they brought you here."

  "But they didn't..." She remembered the unfamiliar handwriting on the note with the newspaper article. It had been forwarded from a nearby base, suggesting the sender didn't know her address. She felt for the pebbles of truth at the bottom of the stream. "It was one of them?"

  Saffi reached out her hand. "Something about your mind, Bardock. You have a power they need."

  Bardock stared at her hand in confusion. "I have no power," she said. "Nothing." She took a step away.

  Saffi stood up, but didn't come any closer. "When you were their age," she said, indicating the teenagers, her words low and urgent, "were you ill?"

  Bardock remembered the months of undiagnosable pain she had endured, confined to bed while her mother told her it was all in her head.

  "How?" she said, "How could you know that?"

  Saffi reached out her hand again. "I've just seen it," she said. "When I linked with them. They want you here, Bardock, for the same reason they wanted Daniel and TripleDee. Your father was The Deterrent. You're a halfhero."

  Bardock shook her head while her mind applied its superb skills to analysing the events of her own life. Absent father, a mother who would never talk about him, a family scandal. The agony she went through at puberty.

  "But..." she said weakly, "but I have no power, Saffi. No power at all."

  "You're wrong," said Saffi. She reached back to the girl on the ground beside her. She offered her other hand to Bardock. "Come on."

  As if in a dream, Bardock stepped forward and took her hand.

  39

  There was nothing there at first. A wide-open space, a twilight wilderness of dream-heavy clouds, where sinuous mist-dragons curled around her. She saw nothing but this twisting, writhing smoke. It pushed at her, seeking an opening, a way in, writhing against her legs like a cat, spiralling into her nostrils, clouding her vision as it searched for gaps between eyelid and eyeball. Her ears pillow-blocked, her throat spasming as it rejected the mist, coughing it out to circle and try again.

  It could not hurt her, she realised. But it wanted to. It wanted to.

  Pressure on her hand. A squeeze.

  Bardock looked down and saw darker fingers laced with her own. Tight. Squeezing.

  I'm here. Still here. In Craxton's field. It's Saffi's hand.

  She let her attention widen, the way she did at the beginning of an investigation, or when one of her paintings was still hidden in the blank, white canvas.

  She stood back. She didn't focus, she didn't categorise, she didn't judge. She just saw.

  Saffi was kneeling at her feet. The smoke was still there, but it had lost much of its unnatural solidity. It was hurting Saffi because she couldn't keep it out. It was snaking into her nose, her ears, her eyes, and mouth.

  Like an experienced cinematographer telling a story with one long take, Bardock zoomed out, pulling back, seeing more.

  The children were there now, each holding the hand of his or her neighbour, each individually, uniquely beautiful. Their strength, the bond between them manifested as a force strong enough to resist that which could destroy missiles, rip jets out of the sky, or lift an aircraft carrier halfway across the Atlantic.

  It was nothing magical. They didn't glow, these children. There was no mysterious white light, no angelic presence standing beside them in their hour of need. They were fighting, together, to keep the smoke out. Bardock looked at them and saw evolution taking an unprecedented leap. She saw humanity as it might be.

  And the Old Man was killing them.

  Now she was connected, she saw him as they saw him, an ancient, withered visage with blazing yellow eyes in whom the concept of mercy had long ago been reduced to ashes.

  She zoomed out. Pulling back, seeing more.

  The smoke poured from the Old Man, from his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his ears, even from his groin in a grotesque parody of procreation. He had forgotten how to give life. He came to destroy.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  TripleDee, breathing, but broken.

  Two jets burning. The corpses of those who had launched the missiles against the First.

  Daniel Harbin, stumbling, falling, weeping for his father. Her father.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  A temporary army base, the general in charge talking on the phone. Discussing the use of tactical nuclear weapons.

  A village with military vehicles patrolling, waiting to hear if they have to evacuate.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  A double-decker bus on the road to town, its upper deck scratching against branches stretching high across the tarmac to touch the trees on the other side.

  Tractors in fields, sheep rounded up by a lad on a quad bike, a group of girls celebrating the end of exams playing rounders next to a glittering river.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  A town, a city, the people all different yet all the same. Amused or upset or disappointed or aroused or curious or wistful or determined or tired or making preparations or winding down or nervous or screaming or laughing or crying or singing or kissing.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  Jake. In her studio, looking at the work she had started before she left. There was no meaning to the painting. It was unfinished, abstract; shapes, colours, movement without resolution. But, as she looked at the half-smile on his face, she knew he had found meaning in the painting because of the way he saw it, and then

  she saw it through his eyes, and the painting was her showing him her mind, and he loved it, he loved it.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  And she had it. She knew what to do. She knew what her power was, and she embraced it. She was a child of The Deterrent.

  Keeping her focus wide, all the while pulling back further and further, seeing more and more, she reached back to Saffi, to the children.

  Come. Come and see as I see.

  Pulling back, seeing more.

  She invited them in, and they came to her, they saw the world as she saw it; they looked through her eyes, and she looked through theirs.

  Come and see.

  40

  Donald K. Sturgeon was upset. Angry, even. He only got together with his fellow retired postal workers twice a year. Once at Christmas and again in the summer.

  They had nothing in common other than working in the same place for most of their lives and retiring back when pensions were still worth something.

  Looking around the table in the same shabby dining room they had used since the Station Hotel had closed, Donald wondered why he bothered staying in touch. Ray was a golf bore, and Fran still couldn't meet anyone's eye. Graham had lost all credibility three years ago by suggesting the music of Glen Miller was jazz. If it wasn't for Joanne, Donald would have stopped coming.

  And now, they had added up the bill incorrectly. Ray had snatched it before Donald had a chance, declaring that twenty pounds each would cover it, plus another two for the tip. But Ray had ordered two bottles of wine with dinner and had drunk most of it himself. Fran had expressed her preference for a soft drink at a volume only audible by small mammals.

  Joanne had drunk her glass and demurred when Ray tried to refill it. He ignored her and topped it up anyway. Now, with a blob of tiramisu sitting alongside some soup in his moustache, he suggested they might go somewhere for a drink. He sounded as if he was including everyone, but he never took his eyes off Joanne. She shook her head.

  Donald felt the beginnings of irritation, mixed with regret. He glanced at Joanne and remembered the Saturday morning eight years ago when she'd dropped by with a homemade lasagne.

  "I heard about Martha," she had said, handing over the dish. It had been six weeks since his wife had moved in with his brother. "Just thought you might appreciate a little home-cooked food. And, well, we haven't all forgotten you at work. I'll be retiring at the end of this
month, you know."

  He hadn't known. Joanne looked too young. She was one of those lucky few who carried some of the freshness of youth into middle age and beyond. She smiled, said goodbye, took three steps down the path, then came back.

  That was when she'd put her hand on his arm. Her hand was small, her skin was cool. It was the first time anyone had touched him in weeks.

  "I'm having a little get-together to mark my retirement," she said. "Wednesday night. It would be lovely if you could make it." When she looked at him, he felt a lurch in his chest. "I would like you to come, Donald."

  He had nearly made it too, that Wednesday. He'd bought a bottle, taken a shower, put on his best suit, even shaved the hair that no longer grew on his head, but had migrated to his ears. Then he'd caught sight of himself in the mirror and remembered. He was a retired postmaster whose wife had left him because he was boring. Boring to look at, boring to talk to. Boring in bed.

  Donald had looked at the categorised record collection lining the shelves of his study, and at the jowled, sagging face in the mirror. He put the wine in the fridge, took off his tie, and sat down to watch the snooker.

  Now, as Joanne opened her purse, Donald looked back at Ray and held up his forefinger.

  "Now, wait a minute. Joanne had the early bird special, as did I. That's a fixed price for two courses and coffee. Neither of us had a dessert. That's twelve pounds-fifty each, plus drinks. I had tap water, and Joanne had one glass of wine.

  "Fran had wine," said Ray.

  "She doesn't drink, Ray. Do you, Fran?"

  There was a small squeak from somewhere between Fran's cardigan and her perm.

  "Now, I'm sure we don't mind rounding up a little," said Donald, "but as you drank nearly all the wine plus two large cognacs, I don't think we should pay for them. We're all on fixed incomes, as you know."

  Ray was going puce. A big man, he was used to getting his own way. As a post office employee, he and Donald had occasionally butted heads.

  "You're not my boss anymore, pal," said Ray. "Put your hand in your pocket for once, you tight-fisted sod. God, you always have to have everything worked out to the last bloody penny, don't you?"

  That was unfair. Donald had, in fact, mentally rounded up his contribution to the nearest fifty pence.

  Enough was enough. Ray was a loud, obnoxious bully, Fran was a mouse, and Joanne, well, it confused Donald to think about Joanne. He'd had enough of these stupid dinners pretending they were all friends when they had nothing but their work in common. Since no one was paying them to spend time in each other's company these days, why keep up the pretence? He stood up. Time to end this farce.

  "Shut up and listen, Ray Cartwright. I've had just about enough of—"

  He stopped talking. For a heartbeat, all conversation in the restaurant ceased. When it resumed, something had changed. Donald looked at his finger, pointing towards Ray.

  Then he looked up at Ray's red face.

  They both burst into laughter.

  The absolute foolishness of their quarrel was crystal clear. The awareness of their differences didn't disappear, but Donald's perspective changed in an instant, as if someone had thrown ice-cold water over his head.

  Ray was a human being. Donald had never spent any time considering what that meant. It meant Ray had been born to two parents. Through a combination of his genetic inheritance and the circumstances of his early life, he developed a personality which, like Donald, Fran, or Joanne, appeared to differentiate him from others. Appeared to. The epiphany that had struck Donald at the corner table of the Albert Hotel dining room was that, in all but the most superficial sense, he was Ray. And Fran, and Joanne.

  How had he forgotten that he was a short-lived creature sharing a thin slice of time with other short-lived creatures?

  Donald felt his connection with everyone in the restaurant, everyone in the kitchen, in the lobby, in the rooms upstairs, in the street outside, in his country and every country. For a fraction of a second, it was as if a silver thread stretched from his heart to every other human on the planet. If he could have seen the Earth from space at that moment, would he have seen a shining, blinding web stretching across the entire globe?

  "I'm sorry," said Donald, already knowing the words were unnecessary.

  Ray reached over and shook his hand.

  "I'm gay," said Fran, "but I never told anyone at work."

  "We know," said Ray, Donald, and Joanne.

  "Bring your girlfriend at Christmas," said Joanne.

  "Why wait until then?" said Ray. "Let's get together more often."

  "I'd like that," said Fran. "You could bring your wife, Ray."

  Ray nodded, thoughtfully. "Yes," he said. "I've got a few bridges to mend there, but it's about time I started."

  Donald put a twenty-pound note on the table. Ray laughed again.

  "It's on me this time," he said. "I always take advantage."

  They parted at the door, reluctant to go their separate ways. Donald waited a few seconds, then called out.

  "Joanne?"

  She waited while he caught up.

  "Donald?"

  He took her hand. She didn't stop him.

  "Would you like to come and look at my record collection? It's west coast jazz from the nineteen-fifties."

  She planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "I thought you'd never ask."

  The Utopia Algorithm had hurt Cynthia Ganfrey, but she was a resilient woman. Some might use the word ruthless. Or callous. Let them. She didn't care, so long as they were poorer than her when they said it.

  A great deal more cash than usual had been in her accounts on the day of Titus Gorman's cyber attack. She had lost tens of millions of dollars. It had taken her over six months to rebuild, by calling in debts from those she knew could not repay them. Ignoring their appeals to her non-existent compassion, she forced dozens of her previous business-partners to turn over real-estate in lieu of the cash they couldn't produce.

  Now the value of land was going through the ceiling as the United States reverted to the partly Darwinian, partly feudal, system that had enriched the few at the expense of the many for generations. And Cynthia was ready to resume her place at the high table.

  She skimmed through her emails, many of them thinly disguised attempts at begging. Some not-so-thinly disguised. Please read - we need the land to build our school! The poor children of Detroit need—

  The poor children of Detroit need to find another sucker.

  She pressed delete.

  "Miriam!"

  Her PA scurried into the room. Miriam scurried far more these days, ever since Cynthia had agreed to re-hire her at fifty percent of her previous salary. Miriam was a capable woman, but she had been quick to jump ship the morning of Titus Gorman's ruinous algorithm. But the rich were shedding staff, not looking for more, and Miriam had crawled back after a week.

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Call the governor's office. Tell them I have a meeting tomorrow morning, so he must rearrange."

  Miriam consulted her Globlet.

  "According to your schedule, the meeting with the governor is all you have tomorrow."

  "Correct," said Cynthia, "but the governor needs to be reminded of who really runs this state. He'll rearrange to suit me."

  "Yes, ma'am." Miriam went to leave.

  "Oh, and Miriam?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "The begging emails are still getting through. I don't want to wade through crap like that. That's what I pay you for."

  "Yes, ma'am. I'll get on it. Is that all?"

  It should have been. Cynthia had turned away in her ten-thousand dollar leather and chrome executive chair and was about to wave her hand in dismissal, when it hit her. Her jaw dropped, and she allowed the chair to swivel through three hundred and sixty degrees until she was again facing a now wide-eyed Miriam.

  "No, that's not all."

  Cynthia sprang out of her seat, walked over to Miriam and put her arms around her.

&n
bsp; "I'm sorry, Miriam," she said. "I've been a complete shit."

  Miriam didn't disagree, but her arms came up, and she hugged Cynthia back.

  "I can't increase your salary," said Cynthia, her mind working fast to readjust to the certainties that had just made become clear to her.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Call me Cynthia. Move into my house, Miriam. I barely use the east wing. You and your family can have it rent-free. I can't increase your salary because I'm about to have much less money. Okay?"

  "What, er, did you just, um, the east wing?"

  "Yes, the east wing. We can share the swimming pool. Yes or no?"

  Miriam recovered enough of her wits to say yes.

  "Good. Pull up a chair. Let's go through my email trash folder. I believe there are two planned hospitals and three schools in jeopardy because I own the land. We need to put that right."

  "Yes, ma—yes, Cynthia."

  "Oh, and let's call the governor and tell him I won't be supporting his campaign. Then reach out to that independent candidate—Betsy—and tell her she'd better think about what colour carpet she'll want in the governor's office when she's elected."

  Cynthia reviewed her mental health, wondering if she'd been drugged or had a stroke. After all, it had taken four ghosts and the threat of an unmourned early death to convince Scrooge to stop being an utter bastard.

  "Miriam," she said, quietly. "You felt it too, didn't you? Whatever just happened?"

  "Yes. Yes, I did."

  "Interesting. I just want you to know, I'm still me. I'll still be a shit. Just not a complete shit."

  It lasted less than a second, the moment that changed the world. Bardock let her mind become a conduit through which the children of Craxton's field reached out to every human being on Earth. In less than a second, every individual alive experienced what it might mean to live someone else's life. Everyone else's life.

  It turned out you didn't have to walk a mile in someone else's shoes before you stopped judging them. You only had to glimpse the truth of their existence for a moment.