9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  Peter gave a soft grunt, but there was no further reply.

  * * * * *

  In South Ruislip, around six miles by road from Hillingdon Hospital, lies the airbase RAF Northolt. Established three years before the RAF itself, the airbase was instrumental in the Battle of Britain and has since been in the public eye for occasions such as the repatriation of the body of the Princess of Wales after the fatal crash in Paris and the return from exile of the train robber, Ronald Biggs, to be arrested the moment he stepped down from the plane.

  The roads around the airbase lay deserted. If there had been any attempt at storming the base by disaffected and infected protestors during the first days of the Millennium Bug, no evidence remained.

  A light snow had fallen overnight, dusting the roads and grass verges like icing sugar. The air was crisp and clear under a pale winter sun.

  Two cars pulled up to the base entrance and disgorged seven people. Out of the first car stepped Troy Bishop, Diane Heidler and George Wallace. Out of the second, came three of the men and one woman who had worked as groundcrew in Hong Kong and had travelled to the U.K. from that island in the Airbus piloted by Bishop.

  They had brought industrial-strength bolt cutters which made short work of the gates and they quickly entered the base.

  Bishop had not expected to find what he was seeking here and was prepared to travel further afield to other bases, but he was in luck. Sitting on the apron on the edge of the runway was a yellow RAF Sea King helicopter.

  “Not my colour,” he remarked. “But it’ll do.”

  “Search and Rescue,” said one of the groundcrew, a surly, thick-set man with inscrutable oriental features. “Not normally based here. Must have been flown in during the crisis.”

  Bishop paced while the groundcrew went to work on the chopper. Diane lowered the bag she was carrying—it made a dull clunk—and sat on it. Wallace stood and watched the groundcrew, saying nothing.

  The surly man walked over to them after about thirty minutes, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “It’s almost dry,” he told Bishop. “We’ll have to pump the juice by hand. Engine needs a bit of work. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  “How long?” said Bishop.

  “Three, four hours.”

  “Make it three.”

  The man shrugged and walked away. Bishop turned towards Diane.

  “We should be away by noon. Eat, piss, do whatever you got to do, but make sure you’re ready to go as soon as they’re done. Unless you’ve changed your mind about coming. . . . ?”

  She stared at him for a moment, her face expressionless. If Bishop was the type to feel uncomfortable under such regard, he would have started to squirm. But the only emotion he felt was impatience.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I’m coming.”

  Bishop nodded towards the helicopter. “Those things aren’t equipped with guns,” he said. “So we’ll need what you’re sitting on.”

  “You want me to check them over?” asked Wallace. “Give me something to do.”

  Bishop shook his head. “I cleaned and oiled them last night.” He glanced again at Diane. “You know how to use them, right?”

  “The handgun, yep. The Uzi, nope.”

  “It’s point and press, baby,” said Wallace with a grin. “Point and press.”

  Diane’s lips drew tight. Bishop had a feeling that she didn’t much care for Wallace. Or for him, for that matter. It made no difference to him, so long as she was committed to their mission. But of that he was uncertain, too. He had almost turned her down, but saw the sense in taking someone with him and he wasn’t exactly inundated with offers.

  “I’ll take the Uzi,” said Bishop. He pulled aside his jacket to reveal the worn grip of the pistol poking from the waistband of his trousers. “It’ll nicely complement this little darling.”

  He turned back to Wallace. “If you want something to do, give them a hand pumping the fuel.”

  Wallace opened his mouth as if to protest. He probably wasn’t used to taking orders from someone other than Milandra or one of the other Deputies, guessed Bishop. But then Wallace seemed to reconsider.

  “Yeah. Good idea, man. I’m getting cold just standing around.”

  “Right,” said Bishop to Diane. “I’m getting a little chilly, too.” He nodded towards the main building. “I’m heading inside. See if I can find some chow. You should think about doing the same. You’ll need all the energy you can get before this is done.”

  Diane leaned her head back, pointing her face to the sun. As the morning wore on, the temperature was nudging above freezing and the dusting of snow had almost melted. “I’m fine by here,” she said.

  “Suit yourself.” Bishop turned and walked towards the airbase building.

  * * * * *

  Around one hundred and fifty miles north-west of RAF Northolt, the morning sun remained hidden behind thick cloud. A foot of snow lay on the ground, showing no signs of melting.

  Dusty bounded through it like a leaping dolphin, burying his face in it and sneezing.

  “May as well hole up for the day,” said Tom, kicking at the snow. “Plenty of logs for the fire, plenty of food, plenty to drink.”

  “Nope,” said Peter, buttoning his coat. “We have to keep moving. I want to reach the Lake District by nightfall.”

  “I won’t get far in the Jag,” said Tom. “Not unless we can find some tyre chains.”

  “Then we’ll all go in the Range Rover. Or. . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “I’ll go on alone.”

  Ceri appeared in the pub doorway, tousle-haired and yawning.

  “What?” she said. “What’s this about you going on alone, Peter?”

  Peter spread his hands. “Look,” he said. “I’ve told you that they’re coming after me. If you stick with me, you’re bound to be in danger. If we separate. . . .” He shrugged. He knew that he spoke the truth, but dreaded them following his advice. After years of being alone following Megan’s death, Peter had discovered that he preferred not to be.

  “There you go with the ‘they’re coming after me’ routine,” said Tom. “Who exactly are ‘they’?”

  “I need to finish my story. Then you’ll understand.” Peter knew that he was making it very difficult for them to refuse accompanying him, but did not chide himself for being sneaky. He had sat long into the night playing cards during long voyages in the merchant navy and had never bemoaned his luck with what he had been dealt, merely doing his best with the hand in front of him. He felt that he was doing the same now.

  “I think we should stick together,” said Ceri. “We’ve only just found each other.” She glanced at Tom, and Peter thought he could read desperation in her eyes.

  Tom sighed. “Yes, I guess so,” he said. He looked at Peter. “You’re not giving us much choice. I need to hear the rest of what you’ve got to say, even if it is utter bollocks.”

  “I can only tell you what has happened,” said Peter. “I cannot make you believe it. Okay, let’s get on with it.”

  They transferred Tom’s suitcase, Dusty’s basket and the remaining provisions from the Jaguar to the Range Rover. They added as many tins, bottles and packets of food and drink from the pub that they could fit in. Peter also packed the paraffin lamps into an empty crisp box that he squeezed onto the back floor of the vehicle beneath Dusty’s basket.

  After a hurried breakfast, they left The Barrel and Bell, Tom giving the light-blue Jaguar a last regretful look as Peter drove off.

  The Range Rover easily handled the snow; Peter didn’t even need to switch to four-wheel drive.

  He headed north.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Milandra had fully recovered from the rigours of the Commune. She had even resorted to taking a few hours’ sleep and had awoken refreshed and ready to face the next challenge.

  The hours of mental inactivity while she completed her recovery had given her time for introspection. A certain noti
on had grown more insistent of late, nagging at her to allow it in so that she could examine it. Once it had gained a foothold, it would never go away, not unless, having prodded, weighed and given it full consideration, she dismissed it as something for which she was not ready.

  She had not yet subjected the notion to a thorough examination. In truth, she was afraid to in case the outcome was not outright rejection. She suspected that, in fact, it might be the opposite: full-on embrace.

  She probed, looking for Grant. She found him in the downstairs lobby.

  Would you come see me when you have a minute? she sent.

  A few minutes later, Grant entered the suite.

  “You’re feeling better, then,” he said as he came and sat next to her. “Well enough to send for me as opposed to sending for me.”

  She smiled. “Fighting fit.”

  Grant looked at her closely, his eyes narrowing. “You’re looking well. Not tired. But there’s something different. You’re looking a little. . . .” He drew in a sharp breath. “A little older.”

  “Am I?” She was suddenly aware of how quickly her heart was beating. Racing almost.

  “What’s going on? Have you decided to. . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “Not fully, though I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it. Not properly, mind. Just skirting around the edges.”

  “Why now, when we’re so close?”

  Milandra glanced down at her hands in her lap. Her fingers clasped and released, fidgeting. “I am over the Commune.” She spoke slowly, uncertain of exactly what to say. “But I’m still tired. Dog tired. In here.” She pointed to her head. “And in here, where it really counts.” She brought her hand down and laid it on her chest. “How long have I been Keeper?”

  Grant didn’t hesitate. “Two thousand, six hundred and forty-two years.”

  “That’s three times longer than my predecessor. And I was the Chosen for almost a millennium. I took that station seriously, too. Unlike the present incumbent.”

  “We were fortunate when you were named Chosen. You have great strength, Milandra.”

  “Maybe once. It’s nearly all used up.” She leaned towards Grant and grabbed his hand. “Much of my strength has come from you, my good friend.” She squeezed his hand then released it.

  “That’s not true, but nice of you to say so. When will you decide for sure?”

  “Not yet. Not until the Great Coming. And if that succeeds, my mantle will pass anyway. It’s a burden I’ll be glad to shed.”

  “The incoming Keeper will take precedence?”

  “I shall insist on it. The Chosen may also be out of a job. Hmm. . . .” She straightened as a thought occurred to her. “I wonder if Simone has realised that yet. That girl keeps her true feelings carefully hidden. Keep an eye on her, Grant.”

  * * * * *

  Tom sat in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover. Ceri sat in the back with Dusty.

  Peter drove back to the main road. The Range Rover’s weight and the thick tread of its tyres gained it purchase in the snow, even on inclines, and they made slow but steady progress.

  “We’ll stick to the A roads for now,” Peter said. “They’re as likely to be as clear of obstructions as the motorways. Perhaps more so. Maybe we can pick up the M6 north of Birmingham.”

  “Whatever,” said Tom. “I want to hear the rest of your story.”

  “Me too,” said Ceri from the back.

  “Okay,” said Peter. “I’d got as far as the ancients’ craft crashing into the ocean, right?”

  Tom grunted.

  “Well then, I’ll continue. . . .”

  * * * * *

  The people of the planet with the dying sun determined to build their own craft, following the blueprint left behind by the ancients, but on a much smaller scale for which there were more than ample reserves of the ore. The craft would be manned by fifty people and would be large enough to hold one thousand drones.

  And what of drones? The distant people had long been masters of genetics and had developed the ability to create simple life forms, manipulating DNA to produce whatever characteristics they required. Science on Earth has progressed admirably but has barely scooped the surface of the fathomless well of knowledge possessed by the people. Comparing human advancement in this area would be like comparing a flea’s ability to fly with a hawk’s.

  The people had already created simple drones to carry out manual labour for them: mining minerals on the planet’s inhospitable surface, for example. Now they created more, imbuing them with strong survival instincts, and the ability and urge to reproduce. The drones were created broadly in the image of the people, but with sloping foreheads, hunched bodies covered in hair—for protection, until they learned how to clothe themselves—and with only the most basic organ to serve as a brain.

  Fifty millennia ago, the craft took off, carrying the hopes of the people with it. The journey was successful and the craft landed safely on Earth on the continent now known as Africa, in the region now covered by sand and known as the Sahara Desert. It was not a desert then, though. Much wetter, it was covered by grassland and shrubs. It became a desert much later following dramatic climate changes. The craft must still be there, buried beneath shifting sands.

  The drones were sent out to begin to colonise the planet and the fifty people who had journeyed with the drones sent back messages from the craft. Messages of joy, of how fertile and virgin and ripe the land was, of how perfect a new home it would make for the people. And the sun; they waxed lyrical about the sun. How bright and yellow and life-giving . . . They urged the construction of a new craft, one big enough to hold the entire population, and for them to follow without delay.

  But the people prevaricated. While they rejoiced that a safe haven had been found to which they could flee when they needed to, many felt that the need had not yet arisen. Some were afraid of change; some were afraid of having to start over again in an alien landscape. Self-interest overruled the common good.

  Then, within less than a year, the messages from Earth stopped. Whether the craft’s systems had ceased functioning or whether some calamity had befallen the fifty, nobody knows. Their last message had contained no hint that they were facing some threat or menace. If they did die, their experiences and memories were never absorbed into the collective—the distances were too great for them to pass. The naysayers used the ceasing of the messages as an excuse to delay further, arguing that the haven may not be so safe after all.

  Over forty millennia passed. It took an increased awareness of how much their sun had expanded, how red it had become, and a sharp increase in the devastating solar activity for a sense of urgency to re-establish itself in the people’s consciousness. Yet still the people were divided and a consensus could not be reached for leaving en masse. Instead, a compromise was agreed. Another craft would be constructed, one large enough to hold ten thousand people: around one eighth of the total population. We are not talking about a large civilisation.

  Around five thousand years ago, the new craft landed on Earth. Although the braking systems were effective, the ability to steer a large craft within a planet’s gravity was rudimentary and the craft landed in the ocean, not on dry land. But it landed safely, creating a small wave that only affected the first few miles of coastland on the nearby land. The ocean was the North Atlantic and the nearest land turned out to be the British Isles.

  From the reports of the topography of the planet transmitted by the first craft, the possibility of landing on water had been anticipated. The craft’s interior fittings had been moulded to be waterproof if immersed in water and fitted with simple buoyancy aids. They could be used as very basic boats, though with little means of propulsion or directional aids. The ten thousand people ripped out these fittings and took to the seas. A message was first sent back to the home planet that the craft would have to be abandoned and it was left to its own devices. Presumably it sank to the bottom of the ocean for it was never seen a
gain.

  The majority of the ten thousand made landfall on the coasts of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and South Wales. Some were swept into the Bay of Biscay and ended up in France. Some landed in southern Ireland. Around three hundred and fifty were lost and their psyches absorbed into the collective.

  It quickly became apparent that during the intervening forty-five thousand years the drones had been busy. A sentient, bipedal species had already evolved on Earth when the first craft landed in Africa. That species had been completely eradicated by the drones, partly through interbreeding, mainly by conquest. The drones’ instincts for survival and propagation had been firmly instilled at their creation. Those instincts had developed and branched into other areas, for now violence and a talent for destruction lay at the core of the drones’ being.

  As pre-arranged, the surviving people made for the spot where the majority had gathered. This is the area now known as Salisbury Plain. With the loss of the craft, the people had no way to communicate with their home planet. The distances were too vast and their numbers too few to be able to communicate through Commune. But they still had sufficient numbers to hold dominion over the drones. And the drones’ brains, though greatly developed from the basic organ they had been created with, were still sufficiently primitive to permit coercion. Then, at least, though that would not be the case for much longer. The people held a Commune and called the drones of the British Isles to them.

  The drones, a ragtag collection of warring tribes, came. The people used them to build a beacon that would transmit to the home planet and guide the remainder of the people to their new home.

  That done, the people dispersed and waited for news to come that the bulk of their people was following. They knew it would not happen immediately—a new craft large enough to transport seventy thousand people would have to be constructed—but none of them anticipated that it would take another five thousand years before they received word.

  During that time, the drones developed further, the rate of development increasing dramatically in the last three hundred years. The people’s ability to influence the drones had been all but lost as the drones’ brains grew bigger and more complex, and the drones’ numbers increased and kept increasing, swelling until they crowded the surface of the planet like ants on a discarded apple.