Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  I couldn't prevent myself leaning forwards. Even in private, Father had never speculated along these lines. He put down his notes and paced in front of the blackboard.

  "Time travel is a meaningless theory, as there is no logical basis for it." He scanned the room, but no one pushed him on the statement. "I could spend the rest of the day explaining why, but you asked me to guess. Likewise, the idea that this came from another planet. More feasible, but still unlikely. We saw no evidence of a craft, and the cylinder has no means of propulsion."

  "Might it not be the final component of a rocket-based ship? Like the moon lander?"

  Father nodded, dubiously. "It's possible, yes, but there is one huge flaw in that theory. Yes, the cylinder may be constructed from material that could withstand the heat generated when entering Earth's atmosphere, but let me remind you once again that it has no means of propulsion. It would have fallen at a velocity between two and four hundred miles per hour before striking the ground in the middle of one of the most densely populated cities in the world."

  The university lecturer in him was fully present now, and he had picked up a piece of chalk, quickly sketching the imaginary trajectory of the cylinder as it headed for London.

  "How many reports did the authorities receive that day from witnesses to this event? Thousands? Hundreds?"

  No one spoke. We all know a rhetorical question when we hear one.

  "None. And when the cylinder was discovered, there was no physical evidence of an impact. No evidence at all. Gentlemen,"—he does that sometimes, forgets I'm there—"I do not believe that the item came from beyond this planet."

  He picked up the board rubber and erased his diagram before drawing a horizontal line halfway up the blackboard. He drew an x about three inches below the line.

  "No. The only hypothesis that makes sense is that the cylinder was already there. The new building in Marsham Street is to be a tower block, which means much deeper foundations than the building it is due to replace. The construction company uncovered the cylinder when they reached a depth of just over five metres. Material found at that depth in other parts of the city has been dated around the end of the Roman occupation of Britain."

  The original questioner spoke up again almost immediately.

  "You're suggesting the item has been in that location since about 400 AD just waiting to be discovered. And it's been dormant during that whole period?"

  Father frowned. "I'm suggesting nothing. You asked for a guess. Now you have it."

  "It doesn't help us much," said another man. "We're no further forward."

  "Hence my reluctance to guess. Can we move on to something vaguely empirical?"

  I'm not sure if his audience realised that this was also rhetorical, but if anyone had intended to ask another question, Father gave them no time to do so.

  "We do have a theory about Abos's recent development which fits the currently known facts."

  "Abos?"

  Father grimaced. He had taken to using the name along with everyone else, but he couldn't hide his embarrassment when he explained it.

  "Amorphous Blob Of Slime." He waved a hand in the air as if to distance himself from the name, then quickly moved on.

  "One of our team developed a nosebleed on the eleventh of June. Some of the blood touched the cylinder and was absorbed by it."

  I smiled a little at Father's slight obfuscation. It wouldn't do to admit that a pair of top scientists had resorted to fisticuffs.

  "Absorbed how?"

  "Good question, and another which we lack the knowledge to answer. However,"—Father raised his hand to deflect an objection—"we can speculate in this instance, based on observation."

  He started to pace again. This was a sign of great excitement although anyone who didn't know Father well would never have known it.

  "Whatever the composition of the cylinder, we now know it has an organic element. We believe the blood started a process which led to the rapid changes we have recorded in the weeks since then. The cylinder is acting very much as a bird or reptile egg does, providing sustenance to Abos as he grows. In a sense, the blood fertilised the egg, but the process is asexual. The blood contains genetic information, which has been used to create an organism almost identical to a human."

  "A clone?"

  "No. A clone would be an exact copy of the original. Abos's physiology is based on Doctor Roger Sullivan, but there are noticeable differences between them. The main difference is scale. Doctor Sullivan is Five feet, eleven inches. Abos is seven feet, one inch."

  There were a few sharp intakes of breath around the table.

  "Doctor Sullivan is in average physical condition for a man in his late thirties. Abos has the physique of a man at least fifteen years younger. He looks like a trained athlete. It seems that the cylinder, in this egg-form, has provided energy to enable Abos to grow a body based on Doctor Sullivan, but without imperfections, and on a larger scale. The body itself stopped growing over a month ago, but if the foetal analogy still holds up, we believe brain development continues."

  "This is all very well, Professor Lofthouse, but what's next? What happens when...Abos wakes up?"

  "Ah." Father stopped pacing. "We're back in the realm of guesswork."

  "What I'm asking, Professor,"—it was the original questioner—"is whether this thing is a threat? What does it want? Is it friend or foe?"

  Hopkins stood up.

  "Gentlemen." (With Hopkins the sexism is deliberate. He doesn't like me. Then again, I don't think he likes anyone. He just reserves a special store of contempt for females.) "We don't yet know whether the item is an opportunity or a danger. But it is contained within the most secure facility in the country, deep underground, guarded by the most highly trained soldiers in the British army. If the item is hostile, I can shut down this wing within seconds. If necessary, I can shut down the entire facility. And, as you are aware, Station itself can be destroyed if the Prime Minister orders it."

  Father looked up sharply at that. Hopkins nodded.

  "Security is my concern, Professor, there was no need for you to know. If Station is compromised, our last line of defence is to detonate the charges planted in the office block above our location. The entire complex would be buried under tonnes of rubble."

  I coughed. Several heads swivelled my way in surprise as if to see me there. Men.

  "And how do we get out, if that happens?"

  "We don't, Miss Lofthouse. Thank you both for your time today."

  And with that, we were dismissed. Both of us were quiet for the rest of the day. It's a sobering thought. If Abos is deemed to be a threat to national security, we might all die down in those charmless catacombs by Liverpool Street Underground Station.

  August 29th, 1978

  Oh. OH. It happened. He's awake.

  Take a deep breath, Cress.

  I'm still shaking. I can't stop myself.

  I've been sitting at that table, day after day, waiting for a change. Watching Abos stretching his impressive physique, his Roger-like face an impassive mask. Although I'm present at a scientific miracle, I've had to remind myself of that fact now and then, because, honestly, I've been bored. I could only admit it in these pages, but it's the truth.

  I've taken to bringing paperbacks into work with me. Lurid, cheap, and corny romances, but they are easy to put down and pick up again without losing the thread. We watch Abos in shifts, and when it's my turn, I dig out my book and read. I wish they'd do something about the covers. It's bad enough that I'm enjoying stories about strong, arrogant, dominant men proving impossible to resist. The heroines may seem feisty, intelligent, and strong on the outside, but introduce a muscular builder called Tom, who's rebuilding his life after a spell in prison, and suddenly, it's all furtive glances, breathless exchanges, and heaving bosoms. Not that I'm in any position to criticise - I can't get enough of it, I'm ashamed to say. Emily Pankhurst owes me a big slap.

  I sit on the far side of the table, so the guard
s at the door can't see the book cover. This morning, after checking Abos for any changes, I allowed myself to get immersed in a scene where Clara, the kitchen girl, was rudely asked by her employer to clean his shoes while he was wearing them because he was late for a meeting. She's secretly studying to be a doctor and suspects her boss has early rheumatoid arthritis, but she doesn't know how to broach the subject while kneeling in front of him as he stares down her blouse. Okay, it's trash, I admit it, but there's something about it I like. Don't judge!

  I was enjoying this passage and wondering why it was getting warmer in the lab when I was struck with the feeling that someone was watching me. Growing up with a scientist father, I'd asked him about this sensation before, as it seemed to defy logic. He had been dismissive - not unkindly, but firmly.

  "You probably imagine you're being watched a dozen times every day, Cress. One time in fifty, you look up sharply, and someone is staring right at you, so you give credence to the theory that, somehow, you felt the weight of their attention without the use of your normal senses. You conveniently forget the forty-nine previous occasions where no such coincidence occurred. You also fail to take into consideration the possibility that your sudden movement, when you raised your head to look up, may have caused someone to glance your way."

  Which is all very well, but when the feeling came over me this morning, it was so powerful that I deliberately didn't look up right away. I stopped reading, gently removed my glasses, then slowly raised my eyes to watch the soldiers on either side of the door. Neither of them was looking at me, just talking quietly to each other. As I looked across the table at the far end of the room, I abruptly became aware of the only other possible candidate that might have provoked my intuition. I believe I stopped breathing for a few moments, then allowed my eyes to drop and refocus on the table right in front of me.

  Abos's eyes were open. His eyes were as golden as an autumn sunset. And he was looking right at me.

  There was a protocol for this moment. We had all discussed it. On the desk behind me was a button which, when pressed, would cause a red light to flash outside the lab door. An alarm would also begin to sound, although the subtle sound that had been chosen for it was designed to attract attention, rather than cause concern or panic in either us or Abos himself.

  I didn't press it. I ignored the protocol. I couldn't stop looking into those eyes.

  I started breathing again, albeit in shallow gasps, wet my lips and prepared myself to speak. This, after all, was the moment when humanity would first communicate with a being outside of all known species. This could be an alien visitor, a theory which still had some traction among the Station hierarchy, despite Father's scepticism. I had a flash of panic remembering Neil Armstrong's slight fluffing of his own line when stepping onto the moon's surface. I thought of the way I had felt when I heard Doctor King's "I have a dream" speech. I made a huge effort to compose myself. I was determined to make this good. I smiled at his beautiful face and prepared to make history.

  "Hi, Abos," I said, "are how you?"

  Oh, God.

  Abos swung his legs around and raised himself up to a seated position facing me. I was dimly aware of the soldiers reacting, one of them hitting the button by the door. The low-key alarm began to sound.

  Abos smiled at me. He smiled. At me. I felt the blood drain from my head, pinpricks of light appearing at the edges of my vision.

  Then he spoke.

  "Hi, Cress. I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

  He had a wonderful voice, and his accent was British, which I only thought about later. I suppose I had expected him to sound American, like Roger.

  As I fainted (I know, I know, how embarrassing and nineteenth century of me), the last thing I saw was his beautiful naked form springing from the table and catching me as I fell sideways from my chair.

  11

  September 3rd, 1978

  Today, I was told I'd be allowed to spend time with Abos again. After my initial reaction and subsequent debrief, Hopkins was against letting me "engage with The Asset," at all. He never referred to Abos as anything other than "the item" before now. I'm not sure I like this new term any better.

  According to Hopkins, I am too much of an unknown in this situation. I am no scientist, I am only here to record events as they unfold. It's a good job I've been thorough in my duties. At least Hopkins couldn't claim I was incompetent. Still, for a few days, I thought I would be sacked. Hopkins considered my response to Abos to be a demonstration of civilian female frailty, and he suggested my immediate transfer. Father, McKean, Mike, and Roger argued against this, but, ultimately, they have no power in Station.

  I was sent home. I moped. Even the kitchen girl and her arrogant but irresistible employer couldn't hold my attention. All I could think about were those incredible golden eyes.

  Don't get the wrong idea, dear diary. Just because Abos looks like a perfected version of a man I once found attractive, and he has beautiful eyes, does not mean that I am experiencing some kind of silly romantic delusion. I do not know precisely what Abos is, but I can be sure of one thing he is not: human. I have watched him change from a large bowl of unappetising mushy peas to a strong, handsome man with the body of a Greek god. But I still remember the mushy peas. I must never forget the mushy peas.

  Last night, Father told me the good news. He was pleased but also a little wary. I found out why when he broke with tradition and, after pouring his own J&B, took out another glass and poured one for me. We sat in front of the fire. Today was the first day I've lit it since Easter.

  "I'd like you to come back, Cress," he said. "Let's start the educational programme you suggested. Primary school level."

  "Don't tell me Hopkins has had a change of heart? I didn't even know he had a heart."

  "I don't believe that man is capable of changing his mind. I've never known anyone less flexible. No, Cress, he doesn't want you back."

  I stared at him, confused. He took a long swallow of his whisky.

  "Abos wants you back. He asked for you."

  I took an even longer swallow of whisky. J&B whisky is very close to the colour of his eyes. Oh, dear, I'm still doing it.

  "How? When?"

  "It started yesterday. We have all tried speaking to Abos, but other than saying hello and exchanging basic pleasantries, he has very little to say. He shows no real curiosity, allows himself to be prodded and poked around, but is strangely passive, makes no demands."

  Father told me how they had managed to get a blood sample. At first, needles would snap when they tried to do it, but when Abos showed signs of understanding what they needed, he took the needle himself and slowly pushed it into a vein. It was all for nothing, though, because the blood was type O, and showed no abnormalities.

  "He let us run basic physical tests but showed no interest in them. Then, this afternoon, he turned to me and said, 'Where's Cress?'"

  All my whisky had gone. Father topped me up.

  "He stopped cooperating on the remaining tests, but he continued to ask where you were. I asked if he would like you to come in tomorrow, and he said yes. Hopkins has agreed, although all teaching materials will have to be cleared by his staff before use."

  I grinned. The smile I was trying for was meant to look calm, professional, and controlled. It was supposed to reassure Father that I would be fine. I really don't think the grin helped at all.

  He stood up and paced a little. He scratched his earlobe every few seconds. This meant he was excited and worried. I could tell there was something he hadn't yet told me, and he was looking for the right words. It was very unusual for Father to struggle this way. The last clear memory I have of him in a similar fix was when he told me about Mother's illness.

  "Just tell me," I said, and he stopped pacing. "I'm twenty-nine years old, Father. I'm not a little girl anymore."

  He smiled at that and managed to stop pacing although his hand went to his earlobe again.

  "Abos was shown around certain areas o
f Station today. Hopkins took personal charge of the tour. He showed no curiosity and didn't question anything. When we got back to the lab, I pushed at the door, but it didn't open immediately."

  I nodded. The lab door was steel. Solid, heavy and, often, tricky to open without putting your shoulder into the job.

  "Abos was right behind me. He gave the door a push. It came off its hinges, buckled slightly where he had pushed it, and ended up halfway across the lab. The two soldiers on duty lifted their weapons, but Hopkins shouted at them to stand down. Abos just walked in as if nothing untoward had happened."

  My grin seemed even less appropriate now.

  "Cressida, we know virtually nothing about this creature. You're my only daughter. You're all I have left of Mary. No one can force you to do this. I'm not at all convinced that you should. But you're right, you're not a little girl. It's your decision."

  I remembered the smile on his face when he looked at me. Father was right, we don't know what Abos is. But I can't believe he would hurt me.

  "I'll do it," I said.

  12

  Daniel

  Tilkley Park looked different at night. The security lights were triggered by a motion detector, but, since only three small lights still worked, the intended effect was lost. Once inside my favourite office building, the lights clicked off again. I waited for almost an hour before concluding no one was coming to check.

  I looked out of the window. It was a dark night, but even the shadows seemed to have deeper, more suspicious, shadows. I could have sworn I saw figures moving on at least five separate occasions, and I held my breath, staring into the blackness without blinking.

  For someone who, it seemed likely, couldn't be harmed, I was bloody scared.

  At about two in the morning, I curled up on the floor in a foetal position and cried like a giant baby. Eventually, exhausted and unable to think straight, I fell asleep.