Surrogate Protocol

by Tham Cheng-E

  “It’s a score between us, my friend.” Marco alternates the pistol between Landon and himself. “Walk away while you can. Doesn’t matter we’re on different sides; I’ll even write something up for you.”

  “What score?” Landon raises his voice. “What’s there apart from the forgery?”

  “Leave us the Chronie and walk away.” Marco’s tone thickens with authority.

  “So you’ll have one less witness to your crime?”

  “Don’t bite off too much, John. Think of your family.”

  “No, Marco.” John locks his jaw. “This Chronie is my responsibility.”

  Marco flicks at a safety catch with his thumb. “You put me in a spot, my friend.”

  / / /

  This is it. This is the cue John has been waiting for. Thaddeus had warned of Marco’s notoriety and now that he has comprehended the state of their affairs he is convinced that Marco will suffer no compromise for the fulfilment of his objective.

  He still has options. But he also has scruples so he can’t just walk away. He has given his word to Landon, and now that word is funnelling him towards a dreadful decision.

  John stands at the crossroads wishing he had the time to explain everything to Landon. He thinks of Ginn and Fanny and makes up his mind. He has but one shot at it.

  “Nice knowing you, Landon,” he turns his pistol upon Marco and pulls the trigger.

  / / /

  A flash, and the air ripples to the shockwave of a dull report.

  John’s forehead bursts open in a spray of blood and bone. His broad, strong body folds and crumbles to the ground.

  Landon catches it all in a state of shock and denial, his senses acutely aware of every grisly detail. A debilitating numbness consumes him, as strong as on the day he broke his oath and ceded his family plot. He sees John’s lifeless body, the set of sad-looking, half-opened eyes below the bloodied cavity of the skull, and his soul descends into a furnace of guilt and rage. It seems an impossibility that John should die. It isn’t real. Maybe it’s the neuro-thing. Maybe it’s an illusion and this entire affair is nothing more than a bad dream.

  “Fastest gun in the west!” Marco guffaws and points his smoking weapon at Hannah. “I tell you she’s ten times faster! You’ve got to try her.”

  Landon sees fear and resignation in her, as if at an appalling discovery.

  “Lose the gun.” Marco tells Landon.

  His fingers open, and the pistol slides from his hand.

  Marco then slips in behind Hannah and speaks over her shoulder to Landon. “You know, Miss Alpine-One went through great lengths to cover you up but it wasn’t quite enough, was it?” He presses close to her and Landon sees her throat strain in a swallow. “I’ve been watching you, my friend, waiting for that perfect blunder to make it all official.” He turns and croons lavishly into Hannah’s ear. “Hullo, dolly. It’s been a long time.”

  The revelation strikes home like a head-on with a runaway locomotive. A spell of nausea besets him.

  “Voilà.” Marco throws open his arms and does another bow without taking his eyes off Landon. “You will remember me, you measly piece of shit.”

  The broad face, the sloping hulk of Marco’s once-toned shoulders, all bear a sudden, dreadful resemblance to someone. Landon’s mind settles like the dying ripples of a millpond. And from the depths of his memory a malevolent name rises.

  Khun.

  / / /

  Hannah’s chest heaves; her mouth twitches with inaudible speech. She senses Landon looking at her, probably wondering why she isn’t shooting him dead. Truth is she hasn’t prepared for this. She has grossly overlooked this possibility.

  When Arthur pulped that maniac decades earlier she had foolishly allowed CODEX to retrieve him. She could’ve stalled the whole thing so that he’d be dead by the time they got to him. She had the break she needed but she did nothing.

  And that’s where it hurts the most.

  “It’s amazing what a little Serum and lots of surgical reconstruction can do.” Marco slaps his belly and grins. “Gained a little weight but still me. Five years in a coma and another sixteen in a rehab tank. Do the math. CODEX would’ve left me to rot if I hadn’t kept them in check by withholding the location of my hidden omnicron. They can’t afford to lose such gadgets.” He laughs at his own humour, then his gaze abruptly freezes over. “I’ll make sure you never forget this, Arthur Lock.”

  Her fingers squirm over the weapon she’d got when John made the switch. It carries the Neut on its hand-grip, and is armed with useless blanks. She can hit Marco with it. A well-placed blow will dislodge the jaw, send him into a traumatic shock. Then she can take his gun and blast his head open. There will be consequences—the Coterie will see to that. But she’ll risk it if it means getting Marco out of Landon’s way also.

  I’ve got him within reach, she tells herself. With a little distraction I might just—

  / / /

  A burst of searing whiteness tears out of her abdomen. There is the same report and shockwave, and the stench of ozone and scorched flesh pervades the air. She slides to the ground clutching the terrible wound. Marco kicks the gun out of her hand and sends it skittering across the tarmac.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Marco proudly waves his smoking gun. “It’s a Syntec P-5 that fires plasma pulses at an eighty-watt range. Serum-tech. Totally cool stuff.”

  Landon gawks and his mind spins, suddenly unable to comprehend speech.

  “It’s coming together so beautifully,” Marco orates to the heights above them. He addresses Hannah: “Don’t forget it was I who convinced the Seers of your worth. And it was I who got you out of Torment and back into service.”

  Hannah doesn’t look at him. She raises herself on an elbow and goes on gasping as a ghastly, partially-cauterized wound slowly bleeds out in a small pool around her.

  “Kill me,” Landon says.

  Marco turns sharply to him.

  “Kill me,” Landon says again, “and appease yourself.”

  Marco flies into wild, brutish laughter. “Being alive is going to be a hell lot tougher than death, my long-living friend.”

  While he is speaking, Landon lunges, his arms clawing at Marco. But the seasoned Agent makes short work of the gallant attempt by side-stepping and plunging his fist into Landon’s spleen, slamming the breath out of him. Marco’s glass eye falls out at the sudden movement and rolls away.

  Marco hauls Landon to his feet and presses his face close. Their eyes lock, and Landon defiantly holds his stare upon the cavernous rawness of the empty eye socket.

  “You will live and suffer for my pleasure, you spineless little squirt!” Marco’s spittle flies into Landon’s face. “You’re the pesky fly that’s been buzzing in my head for the last eighty years and now I’m leashing you up and plucking your little legs off one by one.”

  He drops Landon with another blow and paces around his victims, inspecting them, savouring their agony with a sadistic glitter in his remaining eye. He crouches beside Hannah and points at a writhing Landon with his pistol. “Maybe you could get him to kill you,” he tells her. “It’d be an easy cover for the Inquisition. A botched mission of a Tracker: killed while trying to kill.”

  He turns to Landon. “Bust out her brains quick and painless,” he says, jabbing the pistol mockingly into his own temple. “I’ve mashed up her guts so she won’t live very long. Used her up a thousand times over.” He puts a fresh cigarette between his lips. “She’s all yours now.” He flicks a lighter and holds it to the tip.

  Landon, bruised and defeated, painfully draws up his knees.

  Marco returns to his GTR, opens the door and drops into the seat with a gratifying grunt. “This is only the beginning of your pain, Arthur Lock,” he says in a coarse drawl. “And when you’re through with it I’ll return to dish out more.”

  The GTR gives a beastly rumble and reverses; its blazing headlights exposing the stricken bodies that lie in the cone of its illumination.
Once Marco speeds out of sight Landon hobbles over to Hannah and finds her breaths in flutters.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t know…” she croaks.

  “I’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “They won’t let us.” Hannah winces and points to her wound. “Press here.”

  Landon does as he is told. A lump of emotion chokes him up and smothers his speech. He bites his lip, grieving at the touch of Hannah’s torn body.

  Despite everything Hannah smiles and pulls him close. “You got the tenderness of a simpleton—and a good heart,” she says. “Yes, a good heart.”

  “No I don’t.” Landon squeezes her hand. “I’ve been a wimp many lifetimes over. In the years between us I don’t even know your real name.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Don’t tell me if you can’t.”

  “Ning Yan,” says Hannah. A wan, anaemic smile accompanies her reply. “I was born in 1712, Hubei. Grew up on the plains. We had a river there.”

  The reply overwhelms Landon. He finds it ineffably astounding— the centuries of her existence, the mystery of her origins, the delicate ring of that lovely name. There is so much to share and yet time is draining away between them so quickly, so cruelly.

  “What’s yours?” Hannah asks in a laboured exhalation.

  “Aldred.”

  “So you remembered.”

  “My journals—” he says.

  “You don’t look like an Aldred.” She chuckles weakly. “Sounds like an old man.”

  “Yes, it does.” Landon laughs with her and withdraws briefly into himself. “John said he’s got back-up. Maybe we could wait it out and—”

  She shakes her head. “Help me with something, Arthur.”

  He snuffles and swipes his hand across his nose.

  “Take care of that old man for me.” She cradles his arm. “Bed 8-C, Loewen Lodge. He’s the only truth left of the lies I’ve lived. I moved him there so we could make contact.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Why ask what you already know?”

  “I want to know if it’s true.”

  “Why does it matter now?” Hannah looks wearily away. “Quit asking and hold me. It’s getting very cold.”

  Landon pulls her to him, and in his arms she feels fragile and ethereal, like a wisp of vapour that could vanish in a blink of an eye. The lustre in her beautiful eyes dims as life goes on ebbing from her body despite the pressure he keeps on the wound.

  “Nice of you to offer yourself to Khun.” She smiles. “He might have just shot you.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Always a darling.” She touches his cheek. “And a fool.”

  Landon’s eyes burn and glaze up. “Fool?” He snuffles. “Who’s the one bleeding out?”

  Hannah convulses painfully in laughter. “I’m finished, you airhead.” She closes her arms over his. “You know, that Transfusion thing could be worth a try.”

  “No, we should live on and find a way to fix this together. We can, we got plenty of time if we keep the Serum inside us.”

  “They’ll be here soon.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  In an unexpected gesture of affection Hannah pulls Landon down to her and plants a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. Overwhelmed, he holds it for no more than a couple of seconds before a torrent of emotions assails him and breaks him down into a weeping wreck.

  Mustering all her strength Hannah lumbers to her feet, her wound dripping, and shuffles a few yards ahead to retrieve her own weapon and Landon’s pistol. Landon rushes forth to render assistance. He takes one of the guns and carefully lowers her against a stack of damp plywood sheets nearby and sits down on the spot of ground in front of her.

  She nods at the pistol in his hand. “Ever used one of those?”

  Landon drops it as if the metal burns. “Don’t. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  “No, we can work something out.”

  Painfully, Hannah retrieves the pistol. She puts it into Landon’s hand and positions its barrel over the spot between her eyes. Landon tries to jerk it back but her arm holds firm and unyielding as a rod of steel. She clasps her hand over his and locks it in place over the pistol’s hand-grip. He attempts a savage twist but still he fails to dislodge the weapon.

  “If John speaks the truth then you must go to them.” Her tone rings resolute and cold. “Only they can keep you away from Khun.”

  “Please…” He tugs feebly at her grip. “It doesn’t mean I have to shoot you…”

  “I would’ve done it myself. You’ll be doing me a favour.”

  “Oh God…Hannah, they could fix you. You might still live.”

  “What use would they have for a wounded Tracker?” Hannah strains to raise her voice, now sounding a trifle vexed. “If I live Khun will have me kill you all over again. I know that.”

  “I’ll speak to them, I’ll tell them everything—”

  “It’s not going to happen, Arthur.” Hannah clasps tighter at his hand that holds the pistol. “No faction of CODEX would risk exposure. They’d do me in on the spot and if that had to happen—” She pauses and gathers herself. “I’d want you behind the trigger, Arthur.”

  Aggrieved, Landon winces. “I’m Arthur no more and you know it.”

  “To me you’re always Arthur. It lets me remember the swell times we had.” She lifts the pistol in her other hand, holds it sideways and jams its barrel into the spot below Landon’s chin. The move startles him. “Now,” her voice drops to a bellow. “You will deliver the shot or I will.”

  Landon’s face contorts. Sorrow rushes in like boiling surf and dashes against his heart. Once more he tries to yank his pistol away from Hannah’s head, but against her Serum-charged strength his efforts amount to nothing.

  “Go to them,” she says.

  “Not without you.”

  Hannah pushes the pistol farther up his chin. “I’m counting down, Arthur.”

  He quivers, tears now rolling free. But his eyes remain hard and still.

  “Three.” the apathy in Hannah’s voice rings chillingly.

  “Hannah, please…”

  “Two.”

  “Oh, God…Hannah…”

  “One.”

  Landon shuts his eyes.

  The report ranges to the heights of the viaduct above them. The wind abates, the rain thins. And in the wake of it all, a heavy, haunting stillness envelops.

  40

  JANUARY 1856

  That day—how could I forget?

  Ning Yan, her dark hair in a chignon, glowed in a burgundy silk dress with tucks arranged in ascending tiers from the hem of her skirt. Fifteen-year-old Vivian sat beside her in the gharry and stuck out her head as they drove past groves of bandicoot berries and Chinese violets. The morning sunlight winked at her through the leafy canopy and the edges of her bonnet fluttered in the wind.

  “How do you like the dress?” said Ning Yan.

  Vivian’s cheeks dimpled. “It’s hot and tight at the waist.”

  “That’s how European dresses are. I thought you might want to try them on at least once for the garden party, before we return them to Mrs Watkins.”

  The gharry wound along a roadway of dirt, amid luxuriant foliage and treetop canopies. They came upon a small river; its waters flowing so slowly they looked like they were stagnant. Masses of dhobies speckled its banks, beating out carpets and dashing their laundry against corrugated wooden boards. Those who had finished threaded up the slopes with full baskets over their heads.

  The gharry swerved to avoid a small herd of goats before turning onto Orchard Road—an avenue of tall bamboo hedges that fronted plantations of nutmeg, pepper and gambier. Rumps of vegetation rose on either side as the gharry drove past a large Chinese cemetery and towards the district of Tanglin. On a hillock sat a bungalow. The gharry rumbled up an incline, negotiated a bend of gravel and came to a stop before a large, white portico
where two empty hackney carriages and their Kling peons, having deposited their passengers, were just departing.

  Vivian lugged the copious fabric of her skirt carefully down the steps as her Mama paid the wallah. A turbaned Sikh dressed in a tunic and white gloves conducted them, with courtly decorum, towards a magnificent garden bathed in the bitter fragrance of nutmeg and mangosteen.

  The garden was styled in the English fashion: manicured hedges, palms, wild almonds, fruit trees wreathed in flowering shrubs and creepers, heliotropes in all kinds of vivid colours and plaster Doric columns tipped with bowls of rare orchids. There was even a pond with duckweed and giant specimens of Victoria regias.

  Ning Yan made her way across the lawn in brisk, elegant strides, her porcelain skin and her beauty at once commanding the attention of many European men who sat in chairs drinking port in their tutups and sunhats. The ladies preferred to roam the lawns in their Edwardian wardrobe and silk parasols, and Ning Yan headed for them. Vivian kept alongside her Mama, capering at the thrill of the occasion.

  Along the terraces that skirted the bungalow, guests lunched on rice and curried fish in the breeze of punkah fans pulled by dark-skinned peons. Here and there maidservants in white tops and black silk trousers hustled, ferrying dishes and pouring wine. An eight-member brass band sweltered in a Victorian gazebo and played See-Saw Waltz.

  It was a Saturday—the perfect excuse to hold a business luncheon instead of having to work till noon. The Europeans on this island generally profited from lives of excess, many of whom needing to work no more than five hours a day. Tennis, cricket, tea dances and garden parties occupied the rest of their time.

  Ning Yan arrived at the luncheon table and presented herself to a group of ladies. The spread of delicacies did not interest her at all. Vivian, on the other hand, was already goggling at the food. A lady in a lavender summer dress strutted up to them.

  “You must be from the Society,” she said.

  Being well-versed in the European etiquette, Ning Yan performed a commendable curtsy and displayed the propriety required of the occasion with remarkable aplomb. “It is such honour, Mrs Langfield. The Straits Welfare Society sends its regards and gratitude for your generous contribution.” She took the lady’s hand daintily and their fingers touched. “I am Lucy, the Society’s administrator.”