Paolo passed a notebook and pen to Rourke. She scrawled notes, eyes tight with concentration. “Margot, you’re a life-saver. If you could find out anything else, I’d be grateful. Yes, it’s time to get you out. Don’t worry, there’s a plan.” She ended the call and exhaled.
“What did she say?”
“Margot ran searches against NatSec’s personnel database. She says it’ll look suspicious when they run an audit, she’ll have to be brought out.”
“Fob her the extraction RV and password,” Paolo replied. The measures in place were threadbare – no more than a passage to Kyiv. The agents knew the risks.
“Margot found two men called Tristian on the database, but one is in his fifties and lives in the Midlands. The other is twenty-six and attended Exeter University, which is in deepest darkest Wessex. His full name is Tristian Edward Gramercy.”
“Gramercy has NatSec security clearance?”
Rourke smiled. “Indeed, the bastard does. Margot says he underwent enhanced vetting because he works for a government contractor. That’s fairly normal, but when she accessed a linked record she hit a special marker.”
“A marker?”
“A trigger informing OCS the record’s been accessed. Margot’s certain it means Gramercy’s linked to an intelligence service. Possibly foreign.”
Paolo paced the room. “What does Tristian do that requires vetting status?”
Rourke wiped her brow. “He works for the Anglo-American Reconstruction Taskforce. He spends half the year in Wessex, the other half in…”
“…Langley, Virginia,” said Paolo. “AART is a CIA front organisation, has been for years. Dammit, Lottie Rhys was seduced by a US agent of influence.”
“Why?” said Rourke.
Paolo’s fob trilled, a message scrolling across the screen. “It’s the Command Committee. They’re corroborating Margot’s intelligence. They don’t have his surname, but they do have a subject called Tristian linked to the CIA. And there’s something else.”
Rourke mopped her brow, “for feck’s sake, what?”
“He’s a suspected Archangel.”
Rourke leant forward in her seat, eyes wide. “I’m not big on coincidences, Paolo. This whole thing is linked.”
“Of course,” Paolo replied, pacing the room. He rummaged in his pockets for cigarettes. “MADRIGAL. Why didn’t I see it?”
Sorcha’s eyes widened. “Does that mean the girl’s baby will be an Archangel too? Is that even possible?”
Paolo lit a cigarette. “All transhumans are meant to be neutered under international treaty, if the Rudenko-Xiaoping Procedure doesn’t render them sterile first. There’s also the science – the hereditary feasibility of germline DNA transmission and so on.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Rourke replied. “And neither should you.”
“You’re right, of course.” Paolo pulled one of the brainstem injectors from his belt pouch and passed it to the Irishwoman. “It’s time for you to see this, my friend.”
Rourke took the injector and popped the cap. The needle glittered, five inches of surgical steel. “Look at that bastard. I hate needles. Would you do the honours, Paolo?”
“Pull back your hair,” said Paolo pressing the needle-tip into the nape of Rourke’s neck. “Let the truth set you free.”
Twenty one
Monks crowded the vault, hooded and whispering. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, bathing the chamber with a lemony glow. Wild flowers garlanded the walls, incense burners smouldering. “Welcome to our monastery,” said Brother Samuel proudly.
“What’s happening now?” said Hooker.
“The Conclave. It’s how we decide things.”
The monks stood as Samuel stepped onto a podium. He raised his hand, eyes flashing silver in the candlelight. “I respectfully seek permission to address you all, Brothers and Sisters.”
“Aye,” they replied.
Brother Ranjit bowed. “Please, Samuel, go ahead. And to your friend, we extend a warm welcome.”
A hundred hooded figures clapped and ‘ayed’ their approval.
“Er, cheers,” said Hooker, joining Samuel on the platform.
Samuel cleared his throat. “This is Rufus Hooker. I knew him in my old life, when we fought in the Hate War. Hooker was brave, but we did terrible things. We are killers. Hooker went to prison and paid for his crimes. I fled, and did not. This is a constant source of shame. I would atone properly for my sins.”
“You were gravely injured, Samuel. Besides, we’ve all done things we regret!” cried someone from the back of the room. “The Hate War stained us all.”
“There’s no monopoly on guilt in this place,” agreed another. “Who is without sin?”
“Perhaps his arrival is a sign?” suggested a third.
Samuel nodded his thanks. “Indeed, it might. Which brings me to my request. Brothers and Sisters, Hooker needs our help. There is a girl, a hostage, in the Commune International. I seek permission to take fighters ashore to help him find a way inside. We have no intention to make war, unless we are attacked first.”
“I say our help is boundless, if Mister Hooker has an Answer,” said Brother Ranjit.
“It can’t be no coincidence, Ranjit rescuin’ the man from the river,” said a monk at the front of the room. She was an elderly West Indian woman, silvery-white dreadlocks tumbling from beneath her hood. “Maybe he’s meant to be here? Maybe we’re supposed to help?”
Hooker nodded sagely. Thanks love.
Samuel folded his hands in his sleeves. “Perhaps, Sister. Could it be that there are invisible webs of synchronicity, interconnected by mysterious science? Spiritual physics, even? A new manifestation of spirituality, of the sort every religion has pondered since time immemorial. Ranjit believes the Archangels might even be a manifestation of this… evolution. But we need to ask Hooker. Does he understand the consequences of The Answer?”
Hooker glanced at his watch. “It would help if you asked the bloody question,”
Brother Samuel cleared his throat. “We come from all faiths and none. We respect the foundations of faith. We love all of the Gods and their Prophets.”
“Peace be upon Them,” intoned the monks.
“One of the values we appropriated, proudly, is that of Forgiveness,” Samuel intoned. “For without it, there is no future.”
The hooded crowd rose to their feet. Without Forgiveness, there is no future, they repeated. Several clapped, tears streaming down their faces.
“We’ve even been accused of being a bogus faith, Mister Hooker,” Brother Ranjit added, clambering onto the podium. “But are we, instead, post-religious in the accepted sense of the word? I don’t think peace and harmony are the sole preserve of the divine.”
Hooker wondered what the loon was talking about, but nodded politely anyway.
Samuel held Ranjit’s hand, a beatific smile on his ruined face. “The Answer, Hooker, is Forgiveness. Forgiveness is The Question. For us to help you, you must forgive. Forgiveness is sacrifice. It should cause pain, and puncture pride. When that pain heals, it will make you stronger – like scar tissue, binding a wound.”
“I say this is The Answer,” said a smiling Brother Ranjit, eyes gleaming. “Everyone in this room has forgiven someone who wronged them. They’ve all felt the sting of weakness and pride. Everyone has moved on. We have found… The Answer!”
The speeches strangely reminded Hooker of his prison shrink, but if he’d learnt anything inside it was when to keep his mouth shut. The monks clapped. Several collapsed into their chairs, happy tears in their eyes. Bottles appeared, cider and brandy and wine. If the Answer was a religion, Hooker reasoned, it certainly wasn’t the worst he’d encountered. Brother Samuel lowered his hood. “Rufus, your friend is being held by NatSec under threat of torture?”
“Yes.”
“You must promise to forgive those who took her. You must do them no harm, and ask them to do the same of others.”
“
Yes,” said Ranjit. “One person at a time. Absolution is a virus. A good virus. A healing virus.”
Samuel stepped closer to Hooker. “You’ll be held to this, Rufus. By powers both temporal and otherwise. Don’t make a promise you cannot keep.”
Hooker met Samuel’s gaze. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes you do, Rufus, but our choices are connected. Forgiveness is about the destination, not the journey,” Samuel replied. “Make a promise to my brothers and sisters.”
Hooker looked across the room. “The policeman who took my friend is called Bliss. I’ll forgive him. Okay, I might be a bit stern…” And I can’t see Leah being too merciful…
“That’s fine,” said Ranjit. “We said forgive, not necessarily love. That’s all we ask.”
Hooker pulled the mezuzah from a cord around his neck and kissed it. “This thing is very precious to me. I swear on it.”
The monks erupted in applause. Several climbed onto the platform, to shake Hooker’s hand and slap his back. “Forgiving doesn’t mean you have to forget,” said a woman with a heavily-scarred face.
Samuel turned to a gnarly little monk. “Brother Francis, ready the boat. Warn the shore party,” he said.
“Weapons, Samuel?” Francis replied.
“Yes, issue weapons.”
“I thought you lot were all peace and love,” said Hooker.
The monk called Brother Francis grinned. “Don’t mean we’re mugs.”
“There’s a proud warrior-monk tradition,” Samuel added.
Brother Francis went to hop down from the podium. “Hooker?”
“Yes?”
“You’re gonna keep your promise, right?”
Hooker nodded slowly. “I am.”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
They hurried to a platform, where davits held a rigid inflatable aloft. Another monk appeared, passing weapons among the group. Hooker was given an ochre robe and a vintage rifle. Samuel lowered the RIB. “Let’s go,” he said, outboard motor growling.
The Thames was choppy, the wind bringing hot ashes and the smell of cordite. There were five of them, armour concealed under woollen habits. Brother Ranjit knelt at the prow, a staff in his hand. “What was that?” he said, wincing at a jack-hammer noise.
“Smart munitions,” Hooker replied, flipping down his goggles. “Eviscerator drone, prob’ly.”
A golden cloud mushroomed skywards. “That was a big bastard,” said a monk called Brother Cormac, a stringy Irishman.
Brother Samuel checked his medical pack. “Rufus, the Commune’s run by anarchists called the Black Rifles. They’re led by a Spaniard, Ignacio, who’s a hard bastard. But we’ve no dispute with him or the squatters. We don’t want to be fighting. D’you understand?”
“Just get me inside the perimeter. I’m not asking anyone to fight.”
“We will if we’re attacked, although most wouldn’t raise a hand against an Answerer,” Samuel replied. “Even the Goon kids ignore us. I’m not sure I can say the same about street leagues.”
Brother Ranjit’s hands rested on the rifle across his lap. “If the leaguers want to fight, they won’t find us wanting.”
“Feckin’ roight,” said Brother Cormac in a broad Dublin accent, scratching a tattoo-covered neck. Under his robes he wore knives of every description, strapped to leather cross-belts. An old M4 carbine lay across his lap, a leery smile on his face.
“Brother Cormac was in the Foreign Legion,” said Samuel. He motioned at the other monk in the boat, “and Brother Francis served in North Africa.”
“1st Rifles Commando Group,” said Francis proudly. “Answerers don’t fight often, but we never come off second best.”
“What about you, Ranjit?” said Hooker. “Where did you learn to fight?”
“Southall,” he replied. “During the war I fought with the Singh Militia. We drove the Sons of the Caliphate all the way up the Thames Valley. I was at the Siege of Reading.”
“At the end?” asked Hooker. Everyone knew of the Siege, a bloody slaughter many considered the Hate War’s bloody zenith.
“I was there when they martyred themselves,” he nodded, eyes downcast. “The Jihadists were misled. I forgave them all.”
Samuel piloted the boat into a gap in the river wall, nudging its prow onto a concrete ramp. The riverside was protected by a fence, its gate draped with razor wire. Signs in a dozen languages warning people to keep out. “That doesn’t apply to us,” said Ranjit matter-of-factly, “we have a key.”
“How so?” asked Hooker.
“We trade here, with the locals,” he explained, a note of pride in his voice. “Chickens and bees and home-brewed beer. We also make tools and clothing.”
“And I grow the best old-school skanj in the ‘goons,” Cormac chuckled, “better than Merseyside artisan shite. Don’t know what the fuss is about.”
Brother Ranjit pulled a metal key from his robes. He hopped nimbly from the boat and unlocked the gate.
“Follow me,” said Samuel, plugging a steel carving of an outstretched hand onto the tip of his staff. He swivelled it, blue flame rippling from the fingertips. “It shows we’re Answerers,” he smiled. “Although you could bash someone’s head in if you had to.”
“You can use it to light ciggies, too,” Francis added.
The shore party walked along the ramp, which led to an escarpment north of the Commune’s perimeter. It was protected by a wall of rusting vehicles topped with of razor wire, a high earthwork berm visible beyond. Samuel held his quarterstaff high, bathing him in pale blue light. “Answerers!” he called into the gloom, “we mean no harm.”
“I can’t see anyone,” said Hooker.
“Samuel’s eyes,” said Francis. “They’ve got better night optics than your goggles.”
The monks approached the wall of junk, gaps filled with a mixture of concrete and rock-foam. “Over here,” said a raspy voice.
A group of women and children huddled nearby. The voice belonged to an injured tactical, her leg crudely bandaged. “Never thought I’d be glad to see Answerers,” she rasped. “We need to get out of here sharpish.”
“We will help you,” said Ranjit. The civilians nodded their thanks, clothes torn and faces dirt-streaked. Children cried, gently shushed by their mothers. Samuel pulled his hood over his face to avoid scaring them.
The tactical eyed the monks warily. Sixtyish and hard-faced, a scar running from her forehead to lip. Probably an ex-Taskforcer, thought Hooker. “These are my prisoners,” she growled. “You see, if they’re under arrest I’ve got authority to move ‘em away.”
“Yeah, but they’ll still get charged on the other side,” said Hooker. “I saw your Chief on the omni, he said everyone would be done under Section Twelve.”
“Fuck him, clueless bastard. When was the last time he set foot on a two-way range? I’m letting ‘em go soon as we’re clear of this shithole. I’ve had enough of this bollocks.” The tactical ripped the NatSec badge from her armour and hurled it into the night. “Fuck, that hurts,” she groaned.
“Hold on my love,” smiled Brother Cormac, swinging a medical bag from his shoulder, “you’re in pain.”
The tactical nodded her thanks as the monk passed her an autojet. “Morphine,” he said, “good stuff.”
“Do I have to forgive someone now?” the tactical replied, teeth gritted.
“Wouldn’t hurt, would it?” said Cormac. “Give it a try, eh?”
Hooker knelt next to the tactical. “How d’you end up here?”
The tactical studied Hooker for a moment. “Do I know you?”
“Might do. I was Taskforce,” Hooker replied.
“Which one?”
“TF-17.”
The tactical winced. “Gordy Rice’s pirates? Wish they were here now – my squad broke when the leaguers attacked. I got rushed by a gang of pups from the Urbanskis. Anyhow, two civvies dragged me away. Then someone let off a bomb. Before it stopped working, my fob was broad
casting casualty figures into the hundreds.”
“What happened to the pups?” asked Hooker.
The tactical mimed trigger-pull. “Got ‘em with my back-up piece. Six less scum to worry about. Slipped on their blood and broke my leg.”
“She killed them all,” said one of the women. “Even the injured.”
“Injured man can pull a trigger,” the tactical shrugged. “I can feel the morphine working now…”
“She saved our lives,” said a dark-haired woman. Her accent was French. “We knew a way through the barricade. We thought we might find a boat here.”
“A way through? Can you show us?” said Brother Ranjit. “You can hide in our monastery, we’ll take you to Essford in the morning. To the Red Cross station.”
“You’d do that for ‘em?” said the tactical.
“Why wouldn’t we?” said Samuel, face still shadowed by his cowl. “Just think about forgiveness. That’s all we ask.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” said the Frenchwoman. “Follow me.”
The other women spoke urgently in French, Hooker guessing they were trying to persuade her to stay. Then they hugged, the children starting to cry. “Get on with it,” said the tactical sharply, “the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll get back. And take care, for fuck’s sake.”
Then the night roared, fiery globes hammering the tower and palisade. “What the hell was that?” said Brother Francis. “Eviscerator,” said the tactical matter-of-factly. “Wouldn’t want to be on the other end of that bastard thing, it’s got a mind of its own.”
“I can see marksmen, hidden on balconies,” said Samuel, silvery eyes gleaming. “The drone’s strafing their positions.”
The tactical tapped a screen on her wrist. “They fly an X-shaped vector. I reckon you’ve got five minutes before it comes back on station.”
“You heard her – let’s go,” said Hooker, pointing at the wall of rusted vehicles.
Samuel hefted his staff. “Ranjit, you and Cormac stay and look after the civilians. Francis, you come with me and Hooker, OK?”
Ranjit went to say something, then nodded. “Of course, Samuel.”
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 17