Infinity Drake 3

by John McNally

  “No dog.”

  “No, but the collar, Santiago. It must be out there somewhere. I can’t leave here and I don’t know where you found me. But you know. Would you look? I need you to help me.”

  “No!”

  “But you are allowed out!”

  “Primo says NO,” said Santiago. “Not safe for Santiago. The Master is here.”

  “The Primo cares for you, that’s right, but there is something more important out there.”

  “No for Santiago,” he explained. “No padre, no madre. Only Primo.”

  Watching in Carla’s hair, Finn felt pity for him; and connection too – a stab of sweet pain in his chest for his own lost parents.

  “SANTIAGO!” a voice yelled down through the hatch from the furnace above. Santiago leapt to compress the bellows and keep the fire in the kitchen white hot.

  “Give him the full Grandma,” said Finn above her ear. “Tell him somebody loves him.”

  “Santiago, listen to me,” said Carla. “There is more than just the Primo, the monastery, than all of this. There is a whole world of better things out there – there is even love.”

  Love. Santiago’s eyes shone for a second, then he thought better of it and shook his head, certain.

  “You are made of love,” Carla continued. “Everyone is. The other children love you. You were loved by the old woman who found you in the snow …”

  “Witch!” Santiago said and crossed himself.

  “And you had a mother and father too, once.”

  “No! Were jackals!” Santiago cried.

  Carla nearly choked on such cruel lies. “That’s bullshit. Who told you that?”

  “It is written!”

  “Where?” said Carla.

  “My face,” said Santiago, presenting his contorted features.

  Carla could have wept. Whatever else they did, they had to try and save Santiago.

  “Do it,” said Finn at her ear. “Go nuclear.”

  Carla put her hand in her hair and drew it out again.

  “Santiago, out there in the world people know many good things and they can help you, and the Primo too. But right now, we need you to help us.”

  She pointed her index finger at him. Finn was standing on the end of it, his spike in his hand.

  “Look, Santiago, look …”

  His eyes almost rolled back in incomprehension at the sight of the 9mm boy.

  Finn waved, in a guarded kind of way. Santiago’s eyes just got bigger.

  “I KNOW IT’S WEIRD, BUT DON’T FREAK OUT!” Finn yelled.

  “Angelli!” Santiago gasped.

  “SCIENCE,” Finn replied.

  ELEVEN

  FEBRUARY 20 20:52 (GMT). Hook Hall, Surrey, UK

  “The Blessed Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki,” announced Commander King.

  The image of the monastery hung in the air on the main screen in the control gallery of the CFAC. Around the conference table were technicians, scientists, engineers and thinkers – the full membership of the G&T – and on a series of screens beyond were the presidents of the USA, France, Russia and China, the chancellor of Germany and the prime minister of the United Kingdom.

  “Built by a famously cruel archbishop in the twelfth century – to the glory of God, and as a military outpost on the edge of civilisation. In the years since, it’s been Byzantine, Ottoman, Slav, Orthodox, the plaything of a mad Bavarian prince, then Austro-Hungarian, Nazi, Partisan, and finally Communist …”

  More images of the extraordinary castle flicked by.

  “… The Romanian military used it to test chemical weapons until it was abandoned in 1970, contaminated and out of bounds. Its current owner? A secretive Swiss foundation that went round buying up post-communist curiosities in the nineties.”

  The classic Zurich picture of Kaparis flashed up on screen. No further explanation was required.

  “The peasants speak of a terrible curse on the place and the remote valley it serves, believing the unquiet spirit of Saint Demetrius – a secret brother of Beelzebub – rules the place.”

  He called up the next shot. An armed Siguri patrol slogging through the snow and looking every inch a paramilitary force.

  “If such a spirit does roam the valley, then he’s paranoid about security. In 1996 the region was declared an area of threatened wilderness by the UN. It was closed to tourism and development and protected by its own force of rangers, generously funded by the Swiss foundation, which also owns 100,000 hectares around the site. They constantly sweep for radio signals and radar signature and comb the forests for any sign of life.”

  King called up a series of high-res satellite images of the ruins in more detail.

  “There are no outward signs of life, but look a little closer and you find tell-tale wisps of smoke and steam and –” an image of the dome flashed up – “a concealed microwave source that fires bursts of encrypted data at satellites throughout the day.”

  Another image of the monastery appeared, this one mashed with Li Jun’s Minecraft model.

  It was a perfect fit.

  “I have no doubt in declaring this a Kaparis site and the heart of his Tyro operation,” said Commander King. “We need your go-ahead to assemble an assault force. We will also be moving to an Operational HQ in Romania – the National Air Defence Base in Kluge.”

  Outside the control gallery, in the main body of the CFAC, technicians and military personnel were already dismantling equipment, getting it ready to pack up and ship out. The great hangar doors were open and two RAF Hercules transport planes had started loading. Engineer Stubbs was putting together a tool chest and fretting over spanners; Captain Kelly was assembling a wheelie-bin full of his favourite small arms; while Delta Salazar was preparing her personal F-22 Raptor.

  Only Al sat still, eyes closed and meditating, trying to think of a perfect sandy beach, trying to think off-topic, convinced that by ‘feeling’ his way forward he had made more progress in six hours than he had in the last six weeks.

  Back on screen, the Russian president demanded, “What other evidence do you have to support this assertion?”

  “Apart from the half-remembered ravings of a brain-damaged girl,” added General Jackman, the US military chief and an old sparring partner of Al’s.

  There was an audible tut from another screen – the comms link to Grandma’s six miles away – where the “brain-damaged girl”, Li Jun, had fallen fast asleep in front of Dr Who.

  “Li Jun’s recollections are fractured,” King responded, “but contain clear evidence of the type of brain programming we think all Tyros are subjected to.” He called up a detail of Li Jun’s model which showed a series of stick figures with lines leading from their eyes.

  “Tyros, just like her.”

  “What if she’s confused it with another of his ‘cribs’?” asked the British Prime Minister, employing a word he’d heard his teenage daughter use. “What if it’s just a barracks for these ranger types? Before you go in and start killing people, you’d better be certain – more than certain.”

  Al snapped back to the real world. “Nobody is running in and killing anybody! Exactly the opposite. We sneak up, we just … watch.”

  “Hey, this could be perfect,” said General Jackman, suddenly getting a bright idea. “You want intelligence? Send the girl back in there undercover!”

  “You will do no such thing!” Grandma protested. “She’s at the mercy of post-traumatic stress. Send in the girl! I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous!”

  “Just a suggestion, ma’am,” said General Jackman, who hadn’t been chastened like that since he’d accidentally shot his drill sergeant in the foot forty years before.

  “We will assemble a force but only take action if we are certain of outcomes,” said King.

  “Twice before, we’ve had a fix on Kaparis and he’s got away,” agreed Al. “He is an escape artist extraordinaire. Until we know exactly what’s going on, we wait.”

  �
�For what?” asked General Jackman.

  “For Li Jun to put the pieces together, for a sure-fire way of getting into that place,” said Al, adding after a moment, “and for a sign.”

  “A sign? What kind of sign?”

  “I don’t know yet – it’s not strictly rational, it’s emotional. But when I get there, I’ll let you know,” said Al.

  Before the General could raise further objections, Grandma interrupted.

  “What time is our car arriving?” She was starting to pack a few essentials into a bag. “I hope we’ll have a bed each. I hate to share.”

  Al did a double take.

  “Wait a minute … you’re not coming?”

  “Of course. I’m in charge of Li Jun.”

  “What? No! Who else is bringing their mum?” argued Al. “And anyway, no one’s ‘in charge’ any more – we’ve got to stop thinking in hierarchies, free up our energy …”

  “Nonsense,” said Grandma, and she gently began to wake Li Jun.

  “Actually, I’m in charge,” confirmed Commander King, checking his watch and bringing the meeting to a close. “Thank you for your attention. We’ll update hourly.”

  FEBRUARY 20 20:46 (GMT+3). Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki

  “Tables! Schnell!” One of the cooks yelled midway through the great feast. “Clear the decks!”

  Carla followed a crowd of Carriers into the dining hall where the noise struck them like a wave, the air vibrating as three hundred Tyros shoved dirty plates and cutlery down six long refectory tables, a process they yobbishly enjoyed, leaving the Carriers to catch as much of it as they could before the surplus crashed to the stone floor around them.

  Carla grabbed an armful of dirty plates and got out quick.

  At the head table sat the tutors and, on the remains of an ecclesiastical throne, was the Abbot, reanimated and restored to size, smiling benignly, made idiot by the recent events.

  CRASH! Another Carrier collided with Carla and sent her plates flying. As she bent down to gather her load, a great gasp went up, followed by a mighty roar. Finn ran to the back of her head to see what was going on.

  The Tyros were all facing one way, focused on one thing. There, blinking to life, hanging in the air like an alien of evil intent, was a ghostly hologram of Kaparis, live and exclusive from the heart of the mountain, his head clad in its pixelating optical array.

  “Oh my god …” said Finn, awed at the sight.

  A pair of eyes spun round the optical array and took in the scene.

  “Hail, hall,” uttered the hologram.

  The hall responded with a spontaneous warlike “HAIL!”

  Finn scrambled back to Carla’s ear as she rose to stagger out with her plates.

  “Back! Grab something and get back in there!” Finn demanded as they hit the kitchens again. Carla grabbed a jug of water and re-entered the hall, just as Kaparis was incanting, “I ask mankind for nothing. I ask you, Tyro, for everything. I found you, I formed you, you are my presence, my instrument. Those that have fallen, we honour. Those who have failed, we curse.”

  “AMEN!” returned the Tyros. Finn could see tears in their eyes.

  “Father Abbot, bring forth your new champions.”

  The Abbot, still in awe, stood and began reading a list of names. As each was announced, a Tyro stood, their table-mates bitter at their promotion. Seven were called in this way, then the Abbot added the title “Valedictorian” to a final three: a musclebound beefcake called Barabbas; a towering blonde called Amazon; and a smirking boy called Pan, lithe and nasty, an elfin cut-throat.

  “You are the chosen ones. You are the ones who will undertake the ultimate mission.”

  “This doesn’t sound good,” said Finn at Carla’s ear.

  “For years, I have dreamt of this, have worked for this, every hour of every day. We have struggled and sacrificed much.”

  Beside Kaparis, another hologram glittered to life, a hologram of Finn—

  “Whoa!” Finn instinctively shrank back into Carla’s hair. Shocked to see himself. Beside Kaparis. And at such a scale … frozen with his spike raised to strike, the image captured by a nano-bot somewhere in the Forbidden City.

  The Tyros hissed and spat.

  “For months we have fretted over Infinity Drake. We were right to. For we must know our enemies to defeat them, embrace those we hate most. We must obsess and seek out every possible weakness, and sometimes, when we do, we discover the most unexpected things …”

  As Kaparis spoke, Finn saw a series of scribbled notes begin to float, projected, across the ceiling above him. Notes Finn felt he knew, in a hand he knew. Equations and questions and “L = Place?”

  “A breakthrough has been made that will leave our enemies in the stone age.”

  The hologram of Finn began to fade.

  “The future has become clear. History is bunk. It has been rendered irrelevant. The G&T are finished, they have been left behind. Infinity Drake is lost and gone for ever. We can abandon him as he was once abandoned by his father.”

  Damn Kaparis, thought Finn as his image disappeared altogether.

  “I am the future. And I will not desert you.”

  Damn Kap—

  Finn stopped the thought dead as he realised with horror what was happening.

  “Get out!” Finn yelled so suddenly that Carla nearly dropped the jug of water.

  “He knows I’m here!”

  TWELVE

  FEBRUARY 21 01:32 (GMT+3). Monastery of Mount St Demetrius of Thessaloniki

  In the library shacks, the Carriers slept, indistinguishable lumps beneath sackcloth and wise old words.

  But not Carla. Finn paced and sulked in her hair.

  “Don’t you see? He’s goading me!”

  “We don’t know anything for certain,” she whispered.

  “He can’t help himself. He’s here because of Baptiste,” said Finn. “He thinks I’m here – and he’s up to something down there! We’re going to have to destroy him. It’s our destiny.”

  “Our destiny? My destiny is extra cello lessons,” said Carla.

  After walking out on the feast, she’d holed up in the cellars until Olga found her, by which time the show was over.

  “Kaparis himself, just the other side of some rock … Do you know what Al or Delta would give to be here now?”

  “We’ve got to try and stay calm, and we’ve got to try and get some sleep, in case we have to make a run for it in the morning. Don’t let him get inside your head,” said Carla.

  Finn flung himself down in Carla’s head instead, in a tuft behind her ear, and lashed himself into place with some of the hair. He closed his eyes, but there was Kaparis, looming large.

  “Do you know what he’s done to my family? He kidnapped my grandma, he tried to ruin my parents, he’s tried to blackmail my uncle, he’s tried to kill me – a lot – and he’s got this report on my dad,” said Finn.

  “Or he’s forgotten all about you,” said Carla.

  “If that Boldklub henge is operational, he’ll find me in no time.”

  “How?”

  “Nano-radar. He just has to shrink a conventional radar and he’ll find me. Everything nano is super-dense. Anywhere out in the open, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “Well then, he would have found you already, so either it can’t be operational or he can’t be looking for you.”

  “Or he’s just a sick bully and he’s keeping me dangling and getting ready to pull the trigger any second,” replied Finn.

  “If he is, then you’re giving him exactly what he wants,” said Carla. “Stop thinking about him. Relax – that’s the only thing that will infuriate him right now. There are only three ways to defeat a bully: imagine them on the toilet; imagine going to the toilet on them; and never give them what they want! Now go to sleep.”

  Deep beneath in the belly of the mountain, the white Boldklub orb spun and glowed, and Kaparis worked his new magic, bringing the future hurt
ling towards the present, breaking the received laws of physics and recasting them, testing them to the limit, and finding there was no limit to what this technology could now do …

  “Reductio ad infinitum8,” he breathed.

  He could see a world without end … but he had to start somewhere.

  Drake.

  “Bring me my champions.”

  FEBRUARY 21 01:58 (GMT+3). C-130 Hercules, Romanian airspace

  The C-130 Hercules transport planes began to lose height as they descended to what was about to become the G&T Romanian Command at the National Air Defence Base outside Kluge.

  As they touched down, an official reception committee sent by the Romanian president was waiting on the tarmac. While Commander King got out to shake hands, everyone else remained inside the mobile headquarters – technical and military experts brainstorming the options, satellite specialists ordering ground-penetrating radar to overfly the site, drone specialists wanting to create a swarm.

  Al offering to give people back rubs.

  FEBRUARY 21 02:14 (GMT+3). Airbus A300, Romanian airspace

  “Fifteen … fourteen … thirteen … twelve … eleven …”

  At a cruising altitude of fifty thousand feet, six members of the équipe bleu of Le Commando Hubert9 prepared to jump from the cabin of an Airbus A300 airliner travelling at 450mph.

  Just eight hours before, Commander Henri Clément had been pulled out of the final of the Declasse cup, Europe’s premier fencing competition.

  “Ten … nine … eight … seven … six …”

  He was joined by five of his top operatives. The Commando Hubert was a strict meritocracy (what had the revolution been for, after all?) – it just so happened that every member was staggeringly good-looking, with high-maintenance hair, esoteric pursuits, and an appreciation of the very finest food and wine.

  “Five … four … three … two … one …”

  The target was to be approached with the utmost caution – a HALO10 drop from a regular commercial flight, modified and fitted with a catapult to spit them clear of the fuselage.