by J M Hemmings
‘As we must,’ the Duchess murmured. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a lightning streak of rage flicker briefly across Nathan’s eyes, but she said nothing.
She turned and led the others through a series of corridors and down two flights of stairs, whereupon they arrived at a pair of large steel doors, guarded by five troops who were armed to the teeth. The leader of this contingent stepped aside and saluted the board members, while a guard punched in a code on a panel on the wall. The doors opened with a hiss, revealing an empty room the size of a basketball court, at the centre of which was a huge Perspex cube, inside which, on a stark and plain prison cot, dressed in the orange garb of a jailbird, sat Aboubakar. His face and body were covered with many deep, partially healed scars; the wounds William’s tiger claws and teeth had inflicted on him had been deep and severe.
‘Wait outside,’ Nathan grunted with curt authority to the bodyguards, who obeyed the order in stoic silence as the three board members walked into the room. The doors hissed shut behind them, and then the trio headed towards the transparent prison cell, striding with the confident step of those who wield enormous power.
‘Well, well, well,’ Aboubakar growled in a snarky tone. ‘Look who it is, the Three Stooges. Have you come to read me my last rites? Perhaps offer me a final meal before you put a bullet through my skull? If so, I’d rather have a muscular, well-hung young hunk to play with in my last moments, if you don’t mind.’
‘We’re not here to offer you a last meal or any other parting gifts, Aboubakar,’ Nathan said, taking the lead immediately. The expression he wore on his face was calm and measured, with just the slightest hint of a diplomatic smile evident in the curve of his lips. ‘But we do want to talk to you about William Gisborne. Tell us what we want to know, and we may consider forgiving your failure to bring him to us.’
Aboubakar laughed, the harsh baritone booming rattling the walls of the Perspex prison with its volume.
‘You Huntsmen are not known for your forgiving natures,’ he said, still chuckling. Then, abruptly, his expression changed into one of cool aggression. ‘So, forgive me if I don’t believe a single poisonous word that crawls out of your reptile lips, you cold-blooded snakes.’
Nathan’s temper was rising; it hissed and sizzled with the desperate hunger of hot acid reacting with naked metal. He stepped back, clenching his jaw, and allowed Tarek to take over.
‘Aboubakar,’ he said in his gentle, soothing tone of voice, ‘As-salamu alaykum.’
Aboubakar’s eyes blazed white in their sockets.
‘You make a mockery of those words,’ he snarled. ‘I will not greet the likes of you with terms of respect.’
‘You, talking of respect?’ the Duchess smirked, butting in. ‘Well that’s rich, isn’t it, coming from a former smuggler, swindler and pirate.’
Her words were dense with the ponderous weight of moral authority, and Aboubakar could say nothing to counter this. Instead he turned his face away and slumped his shoulders; defeat, resignation and an acceptance of his imminent demise seemed to have settled on him, numbing his feelings and slowing his responses as surely as if it had been a heavy snowfall covering a statue; the eternal stillness of death issued its clarion call to him.
‘Akhī,’ Tarek said smoothly, ‘you may not trust us, and that is perfectly understandable given the position you’re in, and the history between our kind and yours, but to be honest, I don’t think that you have any other option at this point. You remain at our mercy—’
‘Mercy?! Ha! That is a word that does not exist in the vocabulary of the Huntsmen,’ Aboubakar spat. ‘Still, shayatin, you and your fellow serpents are correct. I have no choice now. I am … I am at your mercy.’
Tarek smiled and clasped his hands together.
‘And mercy it shall be, akhī! You—’
‘Stop calling me that,’ Aboubakar growled. ‘I’m not your brother.’
The smile on Tarek’s face remained unwavering despite Aboubakar’s surliness and defiance.
‘Regardless of that,’ he continued, ‘what I was saying is that we do wish to continue working with you, despite your recent failure to kill or capture Gisborne.’
‘Come on,’ Aboubakar scoffed, ‘all of you knew beforehand that he would never consent to come willingly with me. The mission you sent me on was a farce from the get-go.’
‘We suspected he would not cooperate, but you must understand that we had to at least try. There are many things that we would love to interrogate Gisborne about … even though we realise that the chance of taking him alive is very slim.’
‘You knew that he would fight to the death rather than be taken alive. I was just an expendable pawn in the game, and if he had killed me it would have been a victory for you nonetheless; one less beastwalker on earth for you to worry about.’
Tarek chuckled softly and remained silent for a few seconds; he could not deny the veracity of Aboubakar’s accusations.
‘In any case, we still need your help, Aboubakar,’ he eventually said. ‘I do hope that you will cooperate. Things will be much easier for everyone if you do.’
‘And if you don’t,’ Nathan added as he stepped back into the conversation, now that his temper flareup had receded somewhat, ‘we can put you through a lot of pain. Intense and immense pain, the likes of which I don’t think your mind can truly comprehend until it’s been there. You know how far we can push things while still keeping that big ol’ heart of yours beating. I think you have a good understanding of our capabilities, right son?’
‘I’ll cooperate.’
The words crept from Aboubakar’s lips like dung beetles emerging from a mound of faeces. Nathan clapped his hands together once and beamed a broad smile at Aboubakar.
‘Excellent choice, son, excellent choice. Well, in that case, get yourself ready to fly! We’re sending you out to China! The scientists and engineers in one of our tech companies, MANMO-M Technologies, have just made an incredible breakthrough, and we need your help to develop the product to its maximum capabilities.’
Aboubakar remained sullen and silent.
‘What’s the matter?’ Nathan asked with a toothy grin. ‘Cat got your tongue? Not excited about going to the Far East and being on the forefront of technological development? Well, no matter sonny boy, you will be when you get there. And don’t you worry, we’ll make sure you have a real pleasant flight. We’ll get some jacked-up chippendale dudes in nothing but their tighty-whities to be your flight attendants, how about that?’
‘I’ve agreed to cooperate. I have nothing more to say to you,’ Aboubakar muttered in a low tone.
‘We’ll send in some people to assist you when the plane is ready, and I’ll get the guards to bring you a good ol’ hearty meal. I hope you’re a fan of Southern Cajun fare.’
Aboubakar lay down on his cot with slow, measured movements and stared blankly at the ceiling, not bothering to reply.
‘Let’s go,’ the Duchess said. ‘We got what we wanted.’
They all turned around and started to walk out of the enormous room. As they did, Nathan pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled his wife.
‘Honey bunnykins,’ he said with a smile as she answered, ‘I’m done a lot earlier than I thought I would be, so get one of the servants to keep the beef roast and bacon piping hot for me. And remember to make sure that lil’ Sam says grace nicely.’
He put the phone back in his pocket, but as they stepped into the elevator to take them back up to the ground level, it buzzed again.
‘Deveraux,’ he said. ‘Hold on a sec, I’m stepping into an elevator.’ They waited in silence as the elevator took them up to ground level, and when Nathan stepped out he resumed his call.
‘The local Indians are talking of organising a social media campaign, sir,’ the voice said on the phone. ‘They’re really stepping up protests against the expansion of our cattle ranching land into the Amazon. Last night they vandalised five of our bulldozers – they ripped all th
e electrics out and poured sugar into the gas tanks. It’s gonna take three days to get an expert out here to repair them.’
Nathan sighed.
‘Well, we gave them a chance to shut the fuck up and vacate the goddamn rainforest peacefully. Since they’ve gone an’ spit in our faces, I guess it’s time for Plan B.’
‘Make them … vanish?’
‘Damn straight. Nice and quiet like, but make fuckin’ sure that every single one of them “disappears”. Dispose of the bodies somewhere remote, and for God’s sake don’t be fuckin’ idiots and burn the villages down. Make it look like they packed up camp and moved elsewhere. But don’t you leave a single one of them dirty vermin alive. Those subhumans better all be at the bottom of a pit by the end of today.’
‘Understood, sir. Consider it done.’
‘Call me when it’s all taken care of.’
He put his phone away and shook the hands of Tarek and the Duchess as they stepped out of the elevator into the hangar, where his Range Rover was parked, with his driver waiting.
‘Well, that was nice and smooth, wasn’t it?’ he remarked jovially. ‘Got that big ol’ rhino as submissive as a lil’ puppy-dog. We’ll meet again tomorrow, but for now I bid you good night, because I have a lovely family dinner to get to. Adios, my friends!’
29
MR MA
8th October 2020. MANMO-M Technologies Testing Facility B-24, outside Shenzhen, China
Grim-faced troops, armed to the teeth, waited with assault rifles shouldered as the transport helicopter landed, its twin blades pulsating a deep, thrumming beat across the rooftop. Behind them Mr Ma and Mr Wang stood waiting, silent and expectant, while the chopper’s whirring blades started slowing down after the engines were cut. Mr Wang had his finger on the trigger of the MP5-K concealed within his suit jacket, but he didn’t think he’d need it.
The chopper doors opened, and there he was: Aboubakar, his ankles and wrists cuffed, looking sullen and defeated, his dark skin dulled with a greyish tinge, and his face as haggard and drained of life as brittle, sun-corroded plastic.
A soldier from the helicopter led the big Cameroonian out, while the troops kept their firearms trained on him all the while. Orders were called out, soldiers shifted positions and technicians in lab-coats waited with keen anticipation. Mr Ma stared at Aboubakar as he was escorted along, his gaze that of a crocodile eyeing out an oblivious antelope drinking from a murky river.
‘Well sir, here he is: the first beastwalker test subject for the D-Immz chip implant,’ Mr Wang said.
Mr Ma responded with some rapid-fire sign language gestures, which prompted a subtle smile from Mr Wang.
‘Yes sir, yes indeed. It could very well be a groundbreaking moment, this. If we can get the chip to work in this one’s head, and we can actually achieve full control of his thoughts, movements and actions, we would be one step closer to the ultimate goal, wouldn’t we? Of course, you’re right, we do still have to find them, and yes, the various Mothers have been hidden for centuries, with their locations still frustratingly secret … but we are closer, so much closer than we’ve ever been. Remember sir, it’s not only control of the present we can achieve in this subject’s mind. If Ms Wang’s theories are right, we will eventually be able to get inside his past as well. We can mine his memories, sir, all four-hundred-and-seventy-three years of them. And even though he was never associated with the Eastern Council, there may well be some invaluable clues as to the location of the lost Mothers, and everything else we’re seeking.’
Mr Ma and Mr Wang watched as Aboubakar was led into the facility, and after the troops followed him down the stairwell the pair of them stood together, staring without speaking at the rising sun – a red ball of burning plastic dangling on an invisible thread, smouldering in the distant wool-cloud of smog that smothered the artificial mountain range of skyscrapers on the horizon. Mr Ma eventually made a few gestures in sign language, and Mr Wang nodded slowly in agreement.
‘That’s right sir. It is a new dawn for us, a bright, fiery dawn for the Huntsmen. Soon we will have no more need of the Alliance, no! But your second point is brilliant; how much better it is to enslave them completely, to turn them into robots that we can control than it is to merely exterminate them! A new day is dawning for us indeed, sir, oh yes, it is dawning as we speak … with all its blood-red promise.’
***
Aboubakar sat alone in his cell, a loose, meaty fist curled against his lips, his eyes locked with defeated resignation at the white walls. Everything was white in here – the walls, the door, the bed, the furniture, the curtains, the bedding, as well as the medical gown he had been made to wear. The only trace of colour, the only living thing in here was him; his body, somehow still breathing, maintaining the functions of life, his ancient heart still pumping blood through his veins, as it had for almost five hundred years.
Despite the undeniable presence of life, though, death was all he could see. Its cloying darkness saturated his senses, clinging like mildew in spite of the painful, almost paralysing brightness of the room. He could taste the mould of the grave-soil on his tongue, could feel the suffocating weight of six feet of damp earth pressing down on his body, could smell the sourness of the onset of rot on his flesh. Was it merely imagination, this dark shroud in which he was enveloped … or was it a premonition?
He did not know, and did not care to think too much on it either. All that he knew was that his life had ended when they had taken his lands and his businesses. Without those he was nothing; he had nowhere to go, nobody to turn to. His friendships had always been fleeting, and had almost always been with mortals. People he could sleep with or make business deals with, or drink and do drugs with. There had rarely ever been a deeper connection, and besides, he had never felt the need to have one; he was a man for fast, intense flavours, for fireworks that burned spectacularly for an instant against the night sky and then vanished. Mortals, with their mostly limited sets of experiences and perspectives, constrained by their short lifespans and minimal exposure to different views, cultures and places, could hold no great fascination for him. And while he certainly had more to talk about with members of his own kind, he had never been able to forge a deep, meaningful relationship – whether platonic or romantic – with any of them. Perhaps it was his own fault; perhaps he was merely a superficial specimen, interested only in the physical, the fleeting; a slave to quick gratification and empty sensory pleasures. A seeker seeking, ever seeking something, something undefined, something not yet found.
Something he never would find now. It was all over.
If he had ever made a true friend or two among his kind, perhaps they would have come to rescue him from this, he suddenly thought with a sharp pang of regret.
Or, perhaps, they wouldn’t. Maybe, beneath those veneers of honour and selflessness some of his kind seemed to enjoy parading about, perhaps they were just as shallow and self-centred as he was. He certainly wouldn’t risk his neck to save someone else, so why would anyone else do such a thing for him?
No, this was it. He had played the game for a long time; for centuries he had thrown the dice, had played the cards, and somehow, somehow he had always managed to come out on top. Sometimes just by the skin of his teeth, but he had not yet lost.
Not until now. The thing was, in this game you only got to lose one time – that was it. In the casino of life, there was no exit. Once your fortune had been squandered, you may as well lay down, curl up and wait for death on the game floor.
Abou was jarred from these dark thoughts by a lock turning in the door. He looked up and watched as two doctors in scrubs and surgical masks entered the room.
‘Please, come with us,’ one of them, a bulky Chinese man, said.
It was an order, not a request.
Abou could shift into his rhino form right now and kill them within seconds if he so wished, but what would the point be? There were soldiers waiting outside to pump him full of bullets if he tried anything l
ike that. Still, wouldn’t that be a better way to go out than being the subject of some sort of twisted medical experiment? He knew that someone like William, Zakaria or Njinga would fight until their last breath in this sort of situation. They would not have even allowed themselves to be taken alive in the first place.
But I am not them. I’m not a Rebel warrior. I’m a self-centred coward. I must accept this … and all of the consequences that will arise from it too.
He stood up, brushed off the front of his medical gown, and padded meekly along behind the doctors as they led him out of the room.
***
Mr Ma and Mr Wang were positioned above the operating theatre, watching intently as the surgeon used his mechanical bone-saw to remove a section of Aboubakar’s cranium. Mr Ma kept his eyes locked on the surgeon’s hands as he took off the top of the beastwalker’s skull and gestured to Mr Wang in sign language as he observed the procedure, spellbound.
‘Yes sir, it is remarkable indeed,’ Mr Wang commented, ‘and I can understand just how eager you are to delve into the secrets of that five-hundred-year-old brain down there.’
Mr Ma, with his gaze still focused on the surgeon as he went about his work below them, replied with a few more gesticulations.
‘Certainly sir,’ Mr Wang answered. ‘I’ll call Ms Fang up here at once.’
Mr Wang stepped away from the ledge into the darkness that surrounded the circular viewing area and made a quick call to Ms Fang, who was working in another area of the building. A few minutes later she arrived, slightly flustered and out of breath; it was almost embarrassingly apparent how eager she was to ingratiate herself to Mr Ma. The old man was still staring at the ongoing surgery when she arrived, and although she greeted him with a bright, chirpy smile he did not bother to acknowledge her presence. Instead, he fired off some rapid sign language gestures to Mr Wang, who then turned to talk to her.