“Are they communicating in code, Jim?” asked Mojito.
The man called Jim nodded.
“How can you be sure they’re passing on the info you’re telling them to communicate?”
Jim cleared his throat. “We have two other black uniforms stand in the room, handcuffed. They call out the decrypted message as it’s being sent. If there are any inconsistencies, we shoot the telegraphist.” He sniffed, somewhat uneasily, and added, “It’s worked so far.”
Mojito laughed loudly. “Brilliant, Jim. Great work.”
Ana’s eyes drifted to the ‘Wraith Queen. She was nodding quietly, the hint of a smile curling her lips. She reached down beside her, for a cup of tea, and took a slow, thoughtful sip.
Do they even know I’m here? Ana wondered.
“There’s an awful lot of them, Your Highness,” Mojito said. “But, unless they’ve received significant reinforcements from what-was-Europe, I doubt they–” he spotted Ana, and suddenly stopped talking.
“What is it?” the Wraith Queen asked him. Her voice was raspy, one that might belong to a centuries-old Egyptian mummy returned from the dead, thought Ana.
“Not sure if we should discuss these things in front of…” Mojito jerked his chin towards the entrance, where she was standing.
The ‘Wraith Queen shifted her gaze upon Ana, who couldn’t help but look down. “And why the hell not?” the woman asked. She spoke with an accent. Yorkshire or something, Ana thought. “She’s the local Alpha ‘Wraith, int’she? Do come in, luv, please join us. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ana stepped forward, her legs suddenly stiff and heavy. The ‘wraiths on the floor shuffled around, making room for her. There were silent welcoming nods before Mojito reprised. “As I was saying,” he said, apparently doing his best to ignore Ana, “unless they’ve received substantial reinforcements from what-was-Europe, I believe we can say their numbers are stable. Not low—there’s a heck of a lot of them—but stable. Our advantage, right now, is that they think our advance has been halted.”
The ‘Wraith Queen nodded thoughtfully, taking another sip from her cup of tea. It was very difficult to take one’s eyes off her. Her hairdo was incredibly elaborate, combining braids and dreadlocks and little metal rings. There were also vast bald patches, sporting intricate tattoos. And beneath all the ‘wraith clothing and adornments, she had a Miss Marple quality about her—a quiet, little-old-lady air that made her surprisingly endearing.
She scared the hell out of her.
If the post-impact world had a face, thought Ana, it would be this. Insane, battered, old.
“Your Highness,” a woman sitting beside Ana said, “another positive note is that we’ve gathered a lot of weapons from the black uniforms. We’re doing okay when it comes to food supplies, too. The bastards travel with truckloads of canned goods. Painkillers and medicines, too. We raided their stocks, they’re been distributed among our people, along with guns, rifles and so on.”
The ancient woman laid down her tea, and stared pensively into the empty cup. “How many are we, now?”
“Roughly eight-thousand,” said Mojito. Ana gasped. Despite her fears, there was a comforting feeling in knowing there were so many of them.
“Good,” whispered the Queen. “Very good.” She peered up again, looking each of them in the eyes. When she met Ana’s, she stopped and smiled. It was a motherly, semi-toothless smile. It was also terrifying.
“So we have nowt to fear?” The question seemed to be directed to Ana, but Mojito spoke up, “Well, I think–”
“I know what you think, Mojito,” she interrupted him. “I was wondering what our sweet local Alpha ‘Wraith thinks of all this.”
Mojito threw his hands in the air. “But she hardly–”
“Shut yer gob, Mojito,” the Queen hissed. Everyone froze. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, al’right?”
Mojito nodded, staring down.
“In fact,” she continued, straightening her back (a movement which caused it to creak like an old floorboard), “why don’t you leave us alone for a while? I’d love to get to know our Ana a little better.”
The others clearly disapproved of this. Especially Mojito, who let out a frustrated sigh, and threw a dirty look at Ana. “Come on then,” the Queen said, waving her fingers in the air. “Chop chop. I’ll see you all later.”
They stood, bowed and made their way towards the tent’s opening. Just as Mojito was stepping through it, the Queen called out to him. “Mojito,” she said, “one thing, m’dear. If you ever undermine my authority like that, huffing and puffing like a little whiny brat, I’ll have your balls chopped off and fed to the pigeons.” She paused, as if something had just occurred to her. “If indeed you do have any balls left, that is. The way you’re behaving, I’d say you don’t.”
Ana held her breath. She watched as Mojito bowed his head and whispered, “Yes, Your Highness,” before slipping quietly outside.
“You’ve got to keep them on their toes, y’know luv?” She smiled to Ana, who tried to smile back. The Queen sat back, her spider-like hands clasping each other. “He’s a good lad, really. Just a bit spoilt.”
A good lad who tortures innocent prisoners, Ana thought, while she nodded quietly. It was time to tell the ‘Wraith Queen that she intended to step down from her role as Alpha ‘Wraith. She was sorry, of course, but she really needed to leave. There was no need to tell her she disapproved of torture (she suspected the old lady had nothing against it). But she could say that she felt like leaving, finding her own way in the world.
But before she could begin, the woman said, “These men in black… they decimated your Pack.” Ana dipped her chin, pushing away the thought of Luke, of the friends she’d lost during the attack on Bately. “And,” the ‘Wraith Queen continued, her voice soft, “believe me, they’ve caused us no end of bother, all over England. Whole Packs slaughtered. Butchered like beasts and left to rot in the rain.” She shook her head, a braid in her hair swaying gently from side to side. “I’m sure you’ve lost friends… and the look in your eyes tells me you lost loved ones too, m’dear.” She held out a bony hand and placed it upon Ana’s, patting gently. Ana forced herself not to pull back. “But another thing I’m sure of, Ana, is that you’re no whiny little brat. You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”
Not knowing what else to do or say, Ana nodded.
“Wouldn’t you want to get back at these people? Get rid of them once and for all?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Very good… As you yourself informed us, their leader is in the small town nearby… Bately, isn’t it? So, here’s what I think: you managed to keep this Pack together, despite all it’s been through. You stuck through it all, bravely taking the lead. You deserve a reward, child.”
Tell her you want to leave. Do it now.
“I…” she began, feeling the sudden urge to flee that insane tent, the whole ‘Wraith Army. Get out of there, be alone.
The Queen raised a finger, silencing her. “Wait, dear. Let me finish.” She leaned forward, and Ana felt her rotting breath against her skin. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve decided that you are going to be among those leading the attack on the Warden. Our new attack on Bately.”
Ana’s jaw dropped.
“But before we get to that,” the Queen continued, “there’s a wee little mission I’d like to send you on. A very important one.”
Just days ago, she’d have cried for joy at hearing this. But so much had happened, so many things had changed. This was the exact opposite of what she wanted now.
“And, lass…” the Queen said, leaning back again, her smile now menacing, “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Chapter 14
Mordor
As far as evil bad guys went, this one was a bit of a let-down.
Sean observed the balding man as he paced back and forth beyond the blast door. The remaining hair on his head was a mess, a tangle of reddish tufts jutting ou
t in all directions. He wore office clothes, quite clean but very creased. There was something endearing about him, like the fun neurotic guy in a film. Except for the gun, of course. That wasn’t fun at all.
He held it tight, knuckles white and shaking. There was none of the expertise with which Jeremy handled his weapon in this man’s movements. They were stiff, awkward, as if he were as afraid of the pistol as Sean was.
He, Checkmate and Jeremy were standing in a small section of one of Atlantis’s corridors. The man (Jeremy had called him ‘Walscombe’), had guided them there via the PA. Once they were standing where he wanted them to be, they heard the hiss of two hatches—one in front of them and one a handful of yards behind them. Walscombe had imprisoned them, cutting them off from the rest of the base. But that didn’t seem to have cheered their captor up much.
“Shit!” Walscombe said. Sean watched as he brought his hands to his head, noticed the gun—which he had apparently forgotten all about—and actually let out a little terrified shriek.
“Shitshitshit!” he swore again, throwing menacing glances above him, apparently cursing the Almighty.
Jeremy let out a soft chuckle. Despite being trapped, he appeared to be far more in control of the situation than the stressed out bloke beyond the hatch. Checkmate stood behind Jeremy, as if seeking protection, nervously eyeing the gun in Walscombe’s hand.
Somehow, Sean had expected this eerie base to be ruled by a dark, mysterious figure. Some sort of modern-day Sauron. Who else could run this whole base on his own? Or set creepy traps like the one they’d fallen into and, most of all, be described by Jeremy as a dangerous enemy?
Walscombe was running his free hand along his face, stretching the skin downwards, eyeballs showing and mouth gaping. He looked like he was about to burst.
He’s no Sauron, Sean thought. More like a hobbit.
But his experience as a hacker had taught him to never underestimate people’s ability to pose a threat. This guy might have come across as a hapless nervous wreck, but there was likely a lot more to him than that. After all, it did take a crafty mind to come up with a trap like that—two armed corpses and a gas leak. Sean nodded inwardly. Crafty and bloody twisted, too.
“What are you planning on doing with us, Walscombe?” Jeremy asked. As always, his tone was firm and confident. “Maybe you could—”
“Oh shut up, man.” Beyond the thick glass, Walscombe pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, tortured sigh. When he looked up again, his eyes paused on Sean. The boy noticed hostility in that look, but perhaps more than that, Sean sensed despair and confusion. He wondered what he himself looked like, this teenager in a black hoodie, imprisoned behind a futuristic blast hatch. Then, Walscombe’s gaze shifted to Jeremy, and something changed. His lips became a thin, hostile line and pure hatred poured out of his eyes.
Jeremy has done something to him. But what? What could he have done from across the ocean, to piss this man off so much?
“Look,” Jeremy began, extending his palms in the air, his tone benevolent. “The boys here haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for a long time. You have us trapped, we’re no threat, at this point, are we? Perhaps you could—”
“No threat?” Walscombe let out a little hysterical laugh. “You’re kidding, right? What about the fucking Rambo machine gun you have there?” He gestured towards Jeremy’s assault rifle, hanging from the hippie’s shoulder. “That’s pretty darn threatening, right?”
With a single, elegant motion, Jeremy slipped the weapon off and held it outstretched before him, as if he were offering it to Walscombe. Then, he turned his back to the hatch, walked all the way to the opposite one and carefully placed it on the floor. Then, he returned to them, smiling.
“Now,” he said, “unlike you, I am unarmed. Here’s an idea… you manoeuvre these stylish blast doors of yours, and cut the rifle off from us, so there’s no way I can get a hold of it.”
Walscombe sighed, “Yeah? Then what?” He seemed to be asking himself as much as Jeremy.
“Then, you free us, and allow these young boys to eat something.”
Walscombe’s eyes were narrow, a small vein pulsating on his forehead. When he spoke, his voice was low. “You deserve to die, old man. For what you did to Ivan.” He raised his gun, aiming it at Jeremy’s chest. Although Sean doubted a bullet could pierce the glass that separated them, it still gave him a chill. “Ivan was a good man.”
Checkmate looked at Sean inquisitively, and he raised his shoulders. No idea what they’re talking about.
Jeremy nodded. “Perhaps, I suppose. Although I had absolutely nothing to do with that, personally. It was sad.” He hung his head slightly. “Very, very sad.”
Walscombe raised an eyebrow. “You had nothing to do with it?”
Despite his hostility, Sean picked up a note of hope in Walscombe’s question. As if he wanted Jeremy to be telling the truth. As if all he really wanted was to set aside his gun and forget about this mess.
“I didn’t, no,” Jeremy insisted.
“But you are… involved with those who did it?”
“No point in lying,” Jeremy said through a sigh. “Yes. I am. But as I said, I would have wanted Ivan to live.”
What are they talking about? Sean wondered. Who the heck is Ivan?
“You’ve still got blood on your hands, old man,” Walscombe said.
Sean almost chuckled. Jeremy had effing rivers of blood on his hands, that was for sure.
But somehow, Jeremy’s words had calmed the atmosphere a bit. Walscombe’s gun was now pointing to the ground, hanging limply from his hand.
“They’re hungry, Walscombe. Feed them and not me, if you like. But do.”
Walscombe looked down and drew a long, slow breath.
“All right then. Wait here,” he muttered. He left them, shoulders hunched and head hanging like those of a man walking to his execution.
* * *
Sean had read The Lord of the Rings at age twelve.
Opening the book for the first time, little did he know it would, one way or another, come to define him. There were such things, in life: apparently random choices or actions, sometimes as simple as picking up a book, that ended up changing the world forever.
For Sean, the step from literary magic to the magic of programming was a short one. Deep caves and dangerous dragons became hidden servers and giant corporations. Enchantments took the shape of code on a screen, while staff-wielding wizards were hackers sitting at their keyboards.
He loved the sense of adventure, the discovery of the unknown. The knowledge that even a humble hobbit could become an epic hero. His Hobbiton had been Bately.
And now, as he paced silently along the smooth floors of this secret base, he missed the small, close-minded town he had grown up in. The one before the meteorites, the Affliction, before Jeremy. And before this insane voyage across the ocean. If this was adventure, he’d had enough of it. It was one thing to be typing away at his keyboard, back at home, cracking passwords and solving challenging problems. Doing it here, in this dark, gloomy place, was a whole different matter.
Was this how Bilbo had felt, walking beside Gandalf? This fear of not knowing exactly what was required of him, what his fate would hold. The simple, burning desire to just go home?
He looked at Jeremy. Was he his Gandalf? He had the beard and the long hair, sure enough. But Sean was pretty sure Gandalf wasn’t a skunk-smelling machine-gun happy murderous bastard.
And who was Walscombe, this man that walked behind them, pointing a gun to their backs? Why did Sean somehow feel he was one of the good guys, despite the weapon?
“Left,” Walscombe said, guiding them through Atlantis.
Maybe, thought Sean, I should call it Mordor. Or has Bately become Mordor? Or the whole world?
Jeremy was walking happily along, as if all were just fine, Checkmate stiff and scared. The base stretched out around them, vast and motionless. To live here alone, Sean thought, would be enoug
h to drive a man insane. Maybe the strange sympathy he felt for Walscombe was misplaced. Maybe it just felt good to meet someone who hated Jeremy. Take the two corpses in the room with the gas-leak, for instance. They might have been suicides, or deaths from the Affliction, sure. But it wasn’t entirely unlikely that Walscombe had murdered them, right?
“Stand still,” Walscombe said, interrupting Sean’s thoughts. “Faces against the wall.” They lined up next to a large double door, and watched as Walscombe pulled out a magnetic stripe card and swiped it on a sensor nearby. The doors opened, and beyond them Sean saw a large mess hall, or cafeteria.
Walscombe stepped aside, tilting his head towards the door. “Go on.”
Sean saw row upon row of empty tables, with chairs neatly tucked beneath them. He wondered if this was Walscombe’s work, a strange and pointless desire for order bringing him to tidy the place up.
At one end of the room, a breakfast buffet was laid out. Tea and coffee thermos jugs, cups and saucers, small packets of crackers, jams, butter. As if a party of business people were about to enter the room and hold a meeting.
“Sit down there,” Walscombe gestured towards a table. “Don’t move.” His voice wasn’t threatening, just tired.
They sat and watched as their host walked over to the buffet, hardly even bothering to check on them. “Tea? Coffee?” he asked.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” said Jeremy. “Two sugars would be great.”
“Not you,” Walscombe said, without turning. “The kids.”
Sean and Checkmate traded glances. They both asked for coffee and something to eat.
Walscombe nodded and began placing things on a tray.
At the table, Checkmate leaned forward, and whispered to Jeremy, “What are we going to do?”
Jeremy patted him lightly on the hand. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
Sean eyed them both then turned back to Walscombe, who was making his way back across the room. He was having trouble balancing the tray on one hand, while carrying the gun with the other. Sean felt his chest tighten. When Jeremy told them not to worry, Sean’s first reaction was to panic. Watching Walscombe place the cups and dishes on the table, he suddenly made a decision.
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