by Alex Scarrow
‘What? Seriously, did you just say … small children?’
‘An intelligence designed to be equivalent to that of a five-year-old child,’ he added. ‘We made our mistakes with earlier classes of eugenics … designed some to be far too intelligent for their own good. That’s the trick, you see? Engineer them to be clever enough to carry out the tasks they’re designed for and no more. If they’re kept simple-minded, it’s easier to keep them happy.’
Liam was busy digesting the fact that in this insane world there were baboon-dogs that could talk. Meanwhile, McManus wandered off to locate his junior officers and NCOs.
He turned to look at Bob, who shrugged and gurned a smile at him.
‘This is getting to be far too weird a reality for me,’ whispered Liam.
Bob nodded. ‘We must find them … soon. Before another wave arrives.’
CHAPTER 50
2001, Dead City
Food. There was food, of sorts. Sal watched the eugenic creatures hungrily devouring the scraps they’d scavenged on their raid. She could see several old and rusted cans being passed around, the labels that indicated their contents long ago faded or torn off. Rats, plenty of rats, caught and skinned … cooked over a small fire. Cobs of corn being stripped out of their husks.
She saw Samuel among the muttering cluster of creatures, organizing them, ensuring every creature in his pack had something to eat.
Pack.
That’s the term she’d used for them earlier. But now … now that she knew that at least some of these things could talk just like a human, and the others, well, they might not be able to talk, but they behaved with a clear intelligence … ‘pack’ felt like the wrong word to use.
Samuel came over to her and Lincoln with a handful of food items cradled in his thin arms.
‘You musht eat shomething or you will shtarve.’
He held a rat carcass on a stick. It was still sizzling from the fire. He offered it to them. ‘It’sh very good!’
Sal shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘God’s teeth,’ uttered Lincoln. ‘I can’t eat a rat!’
Samuel shrugged. ‘I will have it, then. How about shomething elshe? Corn?’
Sal nodded. It was raw, but then she realized she was starving. ‘Please.’
Lincoln nodded. ‘I have eaten corn raw before.’
Samuel handed them each a cob in its husk and then squatted down on his haunches to consume the rat.
The building’s coal cellar echoed with the sounds of eating, slurping, chewing, the grunting satisfaction of hunger being sated.
‘Samuel …’ said Sal quietly, ‘why … why are we here?’
The eugenic looked up from his carcass. ‘You are both our prishonersh.’
‘Did you say prisoners?’ asked Lincoln.
‘Yesh.’
Sal peeled the last of the husk away and hungrily nibbled some of the ears of corn off the cob. ‘But why?’
‘Sholdiersh … will be coming here shoon.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘One of the other bandsh, they killed shome people. Very shtoopid.’ Samuel looked at them. ‘Killed humansh, like you. That will make the sholdiersh come here. I know thish.’ He shook his head and casually slapped his forehead. ‘That wash very shtoopid.’
Shadd-yah … how human a gesture was that? It was just the sort of daft thing Maddy would do, exasperated and stressed out over something.
‘We are to be hostages?’ asked Lincoln.
Samuel cocked his head. ‘Hosh-tagesh? What doesh that mean?’
‘You will use our lives … to bargain for yours.’
‘Perhapsh.’ He nodded slowly, ideas forming and reforming behind his big eyes. ‘If we give you back, shafe and shound … maybe they leave ush all alone?’ He hunched narrow shoulders. ‘We don’t normally kill humansh. It meansh trouble. Shomething bad musht have happened.’ He carefully tore another chunk from the cooked rat.
Sal saw how carefully he chewed. Careful to keep the loose irregular flaps of his lips free of his teeth. She dared herself to ask.
‘What happened to your mouth?’
Samuel shook his head. ‘I wash birthed with a normal mouth. Jush like yoursh, Shaleena. I wash deshigned to work on machinery.’
‘Designed?’
‘Yesh … made by shmart men in a faraway town called Oxford. They grow ush genicsh over there in them big vatsh –’
‘Genics?’ Sal frowned. ‘Do you mean you’re genetically engineered … things?’
‘You say you worked on machinery,’ said Lincoln.
He nodded. ‘Mechanic,’ he said with a hint of pride. ‘A mechanic genic. Very clever, me. My genic type fixesh broken machinery in factoriesh. Make them work very shmooth again. But … me and my big mouth …’
Sal figured he was grinning, but it was hard to tell.
‘I got in shome big, big trouble.’
Lincoln pulled corn from between his teeth. ‘Trouble?’
‘Yesh, one of the big worker genicsh got crushed and killed by one of the factory machinesh. I shaw what happened. It wash a humansh fault. The machine wash shet up all wrong. And I shaid sho. But the humansh wouldn’t lishen to me.’ He shrugged casually. ‘Sho I told all the manual-worker eugenicsh they should put down their toolsh and shtop working until they fixshed the machine and put it right. Otherwishe, there’d be another one killed … and another … and another.’
‘What happened?’
‘They shewed my mouth up with a needle and thread. Shaid I wash a troublemaker. Shee, they don’t like it when a genic talksh back at them! That and when they turned over my bunk room they dishcovered I had booksh. They didn’t like that at all. Didn’t like how I taught myshelf to read. Very dangeroush. Givesh all the other eugenicsh big …’ Samuel struggled to say the next word carefully. He just about managed to say it without a lisp.
‘… ideas.’
He took another careful bite. ‘They shtopped making the very clever type like me yearsh ago. Too much trouble with all the talking back!’
‘I still do not understand how they make you?’ said Lincoln.
‘At firsht, a century ago it wash breeding one animal with another to make new animalsh. “Shelective breeding” they call it. But now they know how to make a creature from nothing. I heard shomeone shay the shmart men in Oxford can play with the “code of nature”. Shome might even shay … it’sh the code of God! The proper term for thish technique, though, ish eugenology!’
Samuel finished his rat and discarded the wooden skewer with nothing more than the rodent’s blackened bones and a few rags of sinewy meat left on it.
‘They write thish code then they grow ush … jush like tomato plansh … in a big factory farm.’
‘Grow … like plants?’
‘Yesh … in large tub of shtinky gunky shtuff they call pro-teen growth sholution.’
‘Shadd-yah,’ whispered Sal, ‘just like Bob!’
One of the other eugenics called out Samuel’s name. ‘Uh-oh, shomeone needsh me.’ He looked at their uneaten corn. ‘Eat it. You will need your shtrength for later.’ He got up and padded across the cellar on his knuckles and flat feet, leaving Sal and Lincoln alone.
‘Good God, his story is remarkable,’ uttered Lincoln. He looked at Sal. ‘Grown, just like a field of beans? Unless he is making fools of us?’
Sal shook her head, biting into the corn cob again. ‘He’s talking about genetics … it’s a pretty big technology in my time. Everything’s genetically modified. Just like Bob.’
‘Bob? Your big friend?’
‘Uh-huh, designed just like these … then grown in a large tube of gunk.’
CHAPTER 51
2001, New York
‘Colonel James Wainwright?’
He refused to stand to attention and salute the British officer. The man had rudely, arrogantly, strode into his room without even the courtesy of knocking. Wainwright did, however, bother to look up from signing the stack of req
uisition forms in front of him.
The officer looked to be about half his age, barely into his twenties, and yet sporting a rank above his.
‘Yes, what is it?’
The officer bristled at Wainwright’s dismissive tone. ‘It is customary to salute a senior officer.’
Wainwright sat back in his chair casually and splayed his hands. ‘Well? What do you want?’
He didn’t recognize the young man’s face. He must be a relatively newly commissioned officer. The collar and chest insignia denoted he was from SSID – Signals, Security and Intelligence Division – the group of officers carrying out the inspection along this section of the front line.
The young man stepped forward, pulled a chair out from under the desk and casually sat down. ‘Colonel Wainwright,’ he said quietly, ‘serving commander of the 38th Virginia Regiment.’
‘I know who I am, thank you.’
‘Let’s dispense with formality, if you wish. You can call me Rupert.’
Wainwright said nothing. He studied the young officer with barely concealed contempt.
‘How long have you been in command here, Colonel Wainwright … roughly?’
‘In command? Nine years, three months and seven days if you must know. But I’ve been staring across this infernal piece of river at the enemy for nearly twenty years.’
Rupert steepled his fingers thoughtfully. ‘A long time.’
‘Far too long.’
‘Well –’ the young man lowered his voice a little – ‘it should be a relief then.’
Wainwright looked sharply at him. ‘Relief?’
‘You know … things are in motion. The Powers That Be have a feeling this stalemate, this cold war, has run its course, served its purpose, and now they’d like to be finished with it.’
That caught Wainwright’s attention. He sat forward. ‘Good God, a truce! Is that what you’re talking about?’
Rupert chuckled at that. ‘No, of course not. A push, Colonel. A final push. And we’re going to make that push into the Northern heartland through what’s left of this pile of rubble.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry … did I say “rubble”? I meant through what’s left of New York.’
‘That’s madness! They’re dug in as deep as ticks on a dog’s back. Any infantry landing on the far side would be mown down –’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, old chap. Between the sky navy’s pounding and the experimentals we’ll be sending in alongside your boys, I think we’ll –’
‘Experimentals?’
Rupert smiled coolly. ‘Yes. Eugenics.’
‘You’re mixing eugenics with my men!’
‘Don’t panic, Colonel. These aren’t like the old varieties. Far more reliable.’
Wainwright stood up, leaning over his desk towards the young man. ‘We had a promise from High Command! A cast-iron promise! No more military-purpose eugenics. No more of those … those monsters!’
‘Tsk, tsk. They’re not monsters, Colonel. They’re just tools for a specific job. Just tools from our tool box.’
‘A tool, lad, doesn’t turn on its owner. A tool doesn’t rip to shreds the enemy, then turn on its handler and rip him to shreds … and then, when there’s nothing left to kill, rip itself to shreds.’
‘Oh, please, you’re referring to that Preston incident, aren’t you? That happened nearly twenty years ago. We have much more reliable behaviour inhibitors in our eugenics now.’
‘The men won’t tolerate this,’ said Wainwright. ‘My men won’t fight alongside them!’
‘Tolerate, did you say?’ Rupert stared at the Southern colonel coolly. Then eventually his face softened.
‘Well now, strictly speaking, Wainwright, they won’t be alongside them anyway … your chaps will be in the first wave ashore. Creating a bridgehead for the attack. Then –’ he smiled – ‘we’ll ship our monsters, as you call them, over and let them loose on the enemy.’
‘This is insane! I … I’m … I shall protest this through –’
‘Well now, here’s the thing. You can protest all you like, Colonel. And you can do it from your cell in Camp Elizabeth.’
‘What did you say?’ The mere mention of the military internment camp silenced Wainwright – a long pause in which his mind raced to determine what this Rupert might know about him.
‘That’s right. I’m actually here to relieve you of duty … and I suspect you’ll face a relatively prompt court martial.’
‘Why? What’s the charge?’
The young man cocked an eyebrow. ‘I think you know why, or would you like me to clarify that for you?’
Wainwright nodded. ‘I think you better had!’
‘Well now, you see, I have a file on you. Jolly fat one, actually. It’s been open for a couple of years now. Too many rumours floating around that you’ve gone soft on the enemy. We know you’ve had an unauthorized meeting with officers on the other side on several separate occasions. We know that several years ago you ordered the release of Northern prisoners of war to return –’
‘They were deserters! They weren’t fit to fight anyone. They just wanted to return home!’
‘Even this morning … a little bird told me you received a visit from across the river. I’m afraid this really won’t do. With the build-up for the offensive we really can’t afford to have a front-line commander who’s in the habit of taking tea with the enemy.’
Wainwright stared at him. ‘You are relieving me of my command?’
‘With immediate effect, I’m afraid.’ The young officer offered him an insincere shrug of sympathy. ‘Now, there’s two ways we can do this. I can summon a squad of my chaps to drag you out, kicking and screaming. Not very dignified. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your boys seeing you leaving like that. Or we can do this like proper gentlemen. You’ll assign a temporary regimental commander to cover, you can gather whatever personal effects you want … and we shall leave together.’ He smiled. ‘It would be far better for you and your men that way, I think.’
Wainwright glanced at the open door. He could see the hallway outside, the pooling of light from an overhead bulb and the shadow of a soldier standing to attention.
His or mine?
The young man stretched a white-gloved hand across the desk towards him. ‘I shall need your side-arm, Colonel, if you don’t mind?’
Wainwright unzipped the holster, feeling the firm grip of the revolver in his hand. ‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come without a fuss … but, listen to me, you can’t send in eugenics alongside my men. It’ll be a massacre!’
‘We need proper regiments on the front line now, Wainwright, men prepared to fight. Not traitors like you, or cowards … or these semi-literate peasants that you call soldiers. There will be British troops in the vanguard once we have a toehold. But your peasant militia will be the ones going in first –’
The gun was suddenly in his hand and the room already booming with the fading echo of a single shot fired before he had a conscious thought of what he’d just done. Through the cloud of dissipating blue-grey smoke he saw the young man staring back at him. A third eye in the middle of his forehead, puckered and red and spilling a small dark trickle of almost black blood down his surprised young face.
His mouth flapped open with a gurgle. ‘You … you …’ was all he managed to say before his eyes rolled upwards, showing just the whites, and he toppled over on to the floor. One booted foot began to drum, post mortem, against the leg of his desk.
Wainwright aimed the gun at the doorway as the shadow outside jerked and moved. A head suddenly appeared round the door, that of his ginger-haired adjutant. He stared goggle-eyed at the gun, then at the still-twitching young man.
‘You … just … shot … a British officer?’
‘Yes, Lawrence, I do seem to have done that.’ Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. ‘How many men did he bring?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Canteen, sir.’
‘Arrest them.’
‘Arrest them?’
‘You heard me. Confiscate their weapons, strip them of any radio equipment and lock them up in the stores bunker. Then … then –’ he balled his fists, tapping them against his desk insistently, urging his racing mind to focus properly – ‘then I want you to double the guards on our command bunkers and gun emplacements. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out.’
‘Sir.’ The lieutenant turned to go.
‘And, Lawrence?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Pull all the cables in the radio room linking us to the communications hub.’
‘All of them?’
‘Every last one!’
He was sure the British were going to miss their officer soon enough and word would find its way back that there was trouble brewing … but the longer he had for that news to travel the better.
The young lieutenant looked pale. ‘What’s going to happen to us, sir?’
‘Nothing good, I’m afraid. I must talk to the men.’
‘Shall I have them assembled?’
‘No … no, not yet. I need to go and see someone first.’ He looked up at Lawrence. ‘Not a word to anyone about this yet, do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘And lock this room up. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’
‘Where are you going, sir?’
‘To meet the enemy.’
CHAPTER 52
2001, Dead City
‘God’s teeth! ’Tis a freak show,’ whispered Lincoln.
Sal found herself nodding. She estimated there were about a hundred and fifty of them in the abandoned Albion Theatre. Rows of stained and faded burgundy velvet seats, sprouting tufts of stuffing through ripped seams, faced a stage made of damp and rotting wooden boards beneath a partially collapsed roof. Moisture dripped from above with a steady tap-tap-tapping and the waning afternoon light cast slanted rose-tinted rays down into the gloom of the auditorium.