9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  “Why the Millennium Bug? In some ways, this is the easiest of your questions to answer. In other ways, the hardest. As I’ve already told you, we did not anticipate that we would be here for so long without the rest of our people following. We did not anticipate the rate at which humans would multiply. We did not anticipate the degree of complexity and intelligence with which you would evolve. We did not anticipate the level of savagery you would display to other species and to each other.”

  “Hold on a minute—” started Tom.

  “Hisht!” said Ceri. “Let him speak.”

  “Tell me,” said Peter, looking directly at Tom, “how would humankind have reacted to the appearance in the skies of a vast, black craft? To it landing and seventy thousand aliens disgorging from it? They look just like you, but aliens they are and as aliens they would be regarded by man. Would you—and by ‘you’ I mean humankind in general—would you have extended the hand of friendship? Attempted to communicate with them? To understand them? Or would you have reacted with fear and aggression, greeting my brethren with bullets and missiles? I’m not a betting man, but I know on which side the odds were stacked.”

  “I would hope with friendship,” began Tom, but Ceri shushed him again.

  “Nonsense. You know as well as I do that we would shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “That is precisely what we thought. We weren’t prepared to risk being wrong. Don’t forget, we’re talking about the entire remnants of our species arriving here on this planet. We would be too few, even seventy five thousand of us, and you too many, to be able to influence your attitude towards us. And we are not a violent species—we would have stood no chance against an armed assault by any one of the major powers, let alone all of them combined. So we agreed on a plan that we would put into action as soon as we received word that the Great Coming was underway.”

  “A plan?” said Tom.

  Peter reached into the bag by his feet, the one in which he had brought the camping stove into the cottage. He withdrew a shiny silver canister that looked to Tom like a thermos flask.

  “The plan was hatched at the end of the First World War when it became apparent to us that man’s warlike nature would never be moderated. When the Second World War broke out, any doubters among us were silenced. We worked on developing a virus, one genetically programmed to kill all but a very small percentage of mankind. One that would be so virulent and so deadly as to make the great plagues of the past like the Black Death seem like the common cold in comparison. As each new version of the virus was perfected, we each received containers.” He turned the canister over and over in his hands. “This was the most recent. This one has not been opened. All the others were and the contents—an organic powder—disseminated throughout the planet.”

  The room had grown so quiet and tense that the hissing of the paraffin lamps sounded loud to Tom’s ears. He could feel his fists clenching once more, his finger nails biting into the flesh of his palms.

  “The contents of that canister killed my mother. My girlfriend. My children from school. Ceri’s husband. Her son. Everyone we know.”

  Tom could not tear his gaze away from Peter. For once, Ceri did not tell him to be quiet. Tom felt a rushing of blood in his ears and a white hot rage surged through him, one he could not remember ever experiencing before. He stood and took a step towards Peter, his fists bunched and rising. . . .

  Peter’s eyes widened, but they weren’t fixed on Tom. As though from far away, Tom heard Ceri gasp and Dusty give a soft bark. He took another half a step towards Peter, but stopped in confusion as a noise intruded on his anger.

  The others had already heard it and risen to their feet.

  The clatter of an engine and the whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of rotors.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The line of buildings outside which the bronze vehicle was parked looked to Bishop to be old stone cottages. Opposite, stood a similar row. He scanned the surrounding area, looking for somewhere to land.

  “That road’s a little narrow,” he said. “The rotor span is too wide. And there are overhead wires. Might have to land in that field behind the cottages.”

  “Okay,” came Diane’s voice, sounding a little breathless. “You’re the boss.”

  “Better believe it, darling.”

  Bishop chuckled. Adrenalin coursed through his body, making him feel vital and invulnerable. If he’d been human, he reckoned he’d have a hard-on and the thought made him chuckle more. If there was one thing besides alcohol that Bishop envied the drones for, it was their sensuality—it looked kind of fun.

  He brought the helicopter in lower still until he could see the fronts of the buildings, keeping it horizontal so as not to stray near the cables that were strung across the road from the end cottage. He carefully swung the machine around to face the row of cottages outside which the vehicle was parked and hovered, watching. He daren’t go any lower here: the road between the rows of cottages had probably been built in the days before the petrol engine had even been dreamed of, this was such an antiquated country, and there was definitely no room for him to risk landing.

  “Look for movement in one of the cottages,” he told Diane. “If you see any, shoot.”

  Diane’s voice came back in almost a squawk. “Shoot? How am I supposed to shoot from up here?”

  “That small window next to you. It slides open.”

  A blast of icy air whooshed into the cabin as Diane slid the window open.

  “Jiminy cricket!” she exclaimed. “It’s freezing!”

  “Concentrate on those– There! Third one from the left. The front door’s opening.”

  Bishop swung the Sea King slightly to the right, bringing it more side-on to the cottages so that Diane could see them through the side window. The only problem was, his view was now obstructed.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded.

  “Someone’s looking out at us. A man. Oh! And a woman.”

  “Shoot them!”

  “I can’t—”

  “Shoot, you stupid woman!”

  He held the helicopter steady, ready for the report of the pistol. It sounded shockingly loud in such a confined space, even with headphones on, and he jumped a little, making the helicopter jerk. Diane shrieked.

  “Did you get them?”

  “No . . . I’m not sure . . . I. . . .”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bishop was almost shouting. “Unbuckle and take the controls.”

  Diane’s mouth formed a perfect ring when she swung around to look at him. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “I can’t fly this thing!”

  “You just have to hold it steady.”

  “No! I can’t. . . .”

  “Aaarggh!” Bishop put all of his frustration into the yell. His left hand, which had moved to the buckle of his shoulder straps, went back to the controls. “Fine! We’ll have to land.”

  * * * * *

  Peter ran to the front door and swung it open. He knew that he wasn’t exercising caution, but had realised the moment that he heard the engine that they were undone. He hadn’t counted on the pursuit coming by air.

  He felt Ceri rush to his side.

  “Peter, what are you doing?” she hissed, as though she might be overheard. “They’ll see you.”

  He glanced at her. It might have been the glare of the sun off the snow entering the open doorway, but she looked as pale as milk.

  “They know where we are,” he said. “They’ve been following our tracks in the snow.”

  Ceri’s hand clasped over her mouth and her eyes widened.

  Peter leaned forward and squeezed her other hand. “Be brave. I need to see what sort of chopper they’re in.”

  He moved to the open doorway and peered out. He was aware of Ceri standing alongside him.

  A bright, yellow helicopter was hovering about twenty yards in the air directly in front of them. It was turned slightly away and he could see an arm protruding from the
open side window. Peter drew in a sharp breath; he hadn’t expected it to be so close. They must have been too engrossed in their discussion to have heard it until it was upon them, or the snow had deadened the noise of its approach. Probably both.

  Two noises sounded almost at the same time. A dull thunk! as something thudded into the stonework above their heads, bringing down a light shower of snow and stone dust; a pop! like the sound of a champagne cork being drawn in an adjoining room.

  Peter grabbed Ceri’s arm. “Back inside!”

  He pulled the door closed behind them and returned to the living room, meeting a dazed-looking Tom coming towards them.

  Ceri grabbed Tom, about-turned him and gave him a shove in the back that sent him stumble-walking back into the room. He seemed to shake himself and turned to face them, the stunned expression replaced by one of fear.

  “What’s happening?” he said. “Is it them?”

  Peter nodded. “But they’re in a search and rescue chopper.” Ceri raised her eyebrows. “I was in the merchant navy,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Um,” said Tom. “So. . . . ?”

  “It’s not armed,” said Peter. “Though the people on board have guns. They shot at us.”

  Ceri uttered a low moan and would have fallen if Tom, who was closer to her, hadn’t flung out an arm to steady her. Peter felt a little relieved; at least Tom had come around enough to perhaps be of some use.

  “H-how many people?” asked Tom, his voice as unsteady as Ceri’s legs.

  “Can’t tell. At least two.”

  “Why don’t you speak to them?” said Tom. “You know, inside your head?”

  “Too risky,” said Peter. “If I probe them, I’ll leave myself open. They’ll be able to see our plan.”

  Tom blinked. “We have a plan?” His eyes widened. “Do you have guns in the Range Rover?”

  “No guns,” said Peter. “Besides, I haven’t fired one since 1945. I’ve forgotten how.”

  “But you have a plan?” said Ceri. She seemed to have recovered a little poise and shrugged off Tom’s hand after giving it a brief squeeze.

  “It’s not much of a plan,” said Peter. “For a start, we can’t stay here. They’ll simply land and walk in. We could barricade ourselves in, but we don’t know what sort of firepower they have. A lot more than the popgun they just used, I’ll bet. Our only chance lies in outrunning them in the Range Rover.”

  “We can’t outrun a helicopter,” said Tom.

  “Actually, we probably are faster than a Sea King, but not in this snow and we can’t travel in straight lines like they can,” said Peter. “But they’ve come from London in that thing and it’s unlikely they’ll be carrying spare fuel as it would be sort of self-defeating: the more weight they carry, the worse the fuel efficiency. We topped the Range Rover up less that ten miles back so it’s well over two-thirds full. So long as we avoid wide open spaces where it can fly alongside us and they can shoot at us from the windows, if we stick to country lanes and trees and steer clear of main roads, we might be able to avoid them for long enough that they have to go in search of more fuel.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “You were right,” said Tom. “It’s not much of a plan. They could have friends nearby who they’re radioing as we speak to tell them our position. They could land near a car and come after us by road. They could drop hand grenades on us. They could—”

  “They could do all that and more,” said Peter. “But unless either of you can come up with something better, it’s all we’ve got. And we need to get moving. Now! I can’t hear the chopper.”

  In a whirlwind of activity, they flung on their shoes and coats, Dusty bounding between them and trying to lick Tom and Ceri. Peter extinguished the paraffin lamps and replaced them in the bag, together with the camping stove and the silvery canister. He didn’t bother switching off the calor gas heater.

  “Ready?” he said and received two answering nods. “Tom, keep Dusty close. No looking round when we get outside. Concentrate only on reaching the car and getting in.”

  Peter strode to the front door, the bag clutched tightly under one arm. He opened the door again and looked out. The sound of the helicopter was much fainter, coming from somewhere behind the cottage.

  “It sounds like they’re landing in the fields at the back,” he said. “Come on, then. Let’s do it.”

  In single file, Tom running in a half crouch so he could keep a tight grip on Dusty’s scruff, they hurried to the Range Rover.

  * * * * *

  Placing the pistol between her knees, Diane gripped the shoulder straps tightly with both hands as Bishop brought the helicopter in to land on the snow-covered field. At the last moment, she closed her eyes, then allowed her breath to escape in a deep sigh as he brought it safely to a halt. She drew it in again sharply when she felt the machine lurch a little, but it was merely settling on the grassy tummocks that must have lain beneath the snow.

  Without switching off the engine, Bishop flung off the earphones, unbuckled his shoulder straps and grabbed the Uzi from the bag.

  “Wait here a moment!” he barked.

  She watched as he jumped lightly to the ground and set off across the field towards the back of the cottages. The snow came over his ankles. He made for the end cottage, the one furthest away from where they’d seen the people, and climbed the wooden fence that bounded the field. She saw him stiffen and crouch, raising the Uzi to shoulder height. Diane tensed, her lips drawing tight.

  Beyond Bishop, she saw movement. A large, bronze vehicle appeared beyond the end of the cottage and passed quickly out of sight. Bishop lowered the Uzi and fiddled with it, before turning and retracing his steps over the fence and across the field at a run. He climbed back into the helicopter, his cheeks flushed, dropped the Uzi on top of the bag and replaced his earphones.

  “They’re making a run for it.” He sounded incredulous. “There’s three of them. Ronstadt and two drones.”

  He fumbled at the buckle of the shoulder straps, forcing the clasps home with clicks loud enough for Diane to hear above the whirl and clatter of the helicopter.

  “Did you shoot at them?” she asked.

  Bishop glanced at her. To her surprise, she saw something that seemed quite out of place in his expression: embarrassment.

  “Tried to, but nothing happened.” Diane felt the blood drain from her face, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’d forgotten to remove the safety.”

  She turned away so that he wouldn’t see her puff out her cheeks. She felt her stomach lurch and watched the ground recede as Bishop took them back up.

  It was easy to spot their quarry; it was the only thing moving in the landscape. The vehicle was not too distant, appearing and disappearing momentarily as it passed between houses at the other end of the village.

  Bishop flew towards it and began to circle, keeping the bronze car in sight. But he could not get close to it. The village was too cramped, the houses too close together; too many power lines criss-crossed the air. Clearly, underground cabling was rare in this part of the world.

  The vehicle did not move quickly. From their height, it seemed to be crawling along. It skirted the edge of the village and then took a lane out of the village. The lane was bounded by skeletal trees on one side, and a row of electricity pylons to the other. The pylons stretched away to the horizon, seeming to follow the line of the lane for as far as the eye could see.

  Bishop continued to describe lazy circles with the helicopter, unable to drop lower due to the trees and pylons.

  “Shit!” came Bishop’s voice through the earphones. “The sly bastard!”

  “What?”

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s taking a leisurely drive in the countryside, making sure he sticks to lanes like this one with trees and pylons stopping us getting too close. If he’s got plenty of gas in that four-wheeler then he can probably outlast us.”

  “How long can we keep this up
?”

  Bishop glanced at the array of dials in front of him. “Another hour or so, darling. Two and a half tops. We won’t be travelling all the way back in this bird, either. We’ve already used up more than half our juice.”

  Diane let out a deep breath, hoping she sounded disappointed. She was still uncertain precisely how she felt, still not sure why she’d volunteered to accompany Bishop. Something like an inner voice, some instinct, had suggested it and she had obeyed. When she’d met Bishop, she had immediately noticed the ready sneer into which his mouth could twist and, without needing to probe, she felt cruelty wafting off him like cheap aftershave. It had taken her back a little when he readily agreed to her going with him. Now she was starting to feel a certain reluctance to see him get his way.

  “I guess we’d better turn back, then,” she said. “Get as far as we can and then put her down. We should easily find a car to get us the rest of the way back to London.”

  “Hmm,” said Bishop. “That would be a good idea if I was the sort of guy who gives up easily. But I’m not.”

  “But what can we do?”

  “Well, I can get us close enough for you to blow out their tyres with the Uzi. . . .”

  “I told you—I have no idea how to use one of those.”

  “Yeah. Guessed you’d say that. That leaves only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna force them off the road.”

  * * * * *

  The Range Rover trundled along the lane, the snow crunching beneath its tyres as the frozen surface churned. The softer snow beneath presented little challenge to the vehicle’s road-holding capabilities at this speed and with the four-wheel drive engaged. All Peter had to do was keep the vehicle in the centre of the narrow lane: at either side, snow had banked into low drifts against the drystone walls that ran both sides of the road.

  In the passenger seat, Tom constantly craned his head from this side to that, front to back, as he tracked the progress of the helicopter.

  Ceri also kept glancing out. Her colour had returned, but she was very withdrawn. Only Dusty seemed unconcerned, napping happily in his basket.