"Stand down."
I hadn't heard anyone move outside, but, in my mind's eye, I saw dozens of guns trained on the doorway, soldiers ready to rush me if Hopkins gave the word.
He walked across the room and sat on the stairs. I sat on the pile of cement bags.
"I won't lie to you, Daniel." I suspected he was about to do just that, but he was more subtle. He gave me an edited version of the truth. It would be decades before I found out all of Station's dirty secrets.
"Your father was not quite as pure as his press office wanted the country to believe, I'm afraid. We became aware, well after the events in question, of some of his, er, extra-curricular visits to women. We did not appreciate the scale of the problem until news of the first pregnancy appeared in a national newspaper."
He nodded at me. "Your mother's pregnancy, Daniel. As far as we know, she was the first. I admit we were gravely disappointed when she shared her news with the press, but you must remember that we thought, at the time, that she was lying."
"You had your chance to do the right thing," I said. "She called, she wrote, I've seen the letters. You did nothing."
Hopkins was impassive. "Daniel, we received dozens of letters every day for years suggesting all sorts of nonsense about The Deterrent. Your mother's claim seemed no different. When we discovered that The Deterrent had, indeed, been promiscuous, we began to monitor all the women who had contacted us."
"You spied on them?"
"Not all of them. Even if we had wanted to, we do not have unlimited resources. In the interests of national security, we tapped your mother's telephone, and we checked on you regularly after your birth. Once a month, at first, then annually. When you started school, we stopped visiting, as you had shown no hint of the abilities you now possess."
I said nothing. I thought there was an element of bluffing going on. How could this man know anything about my powers? Mum didn't know about my abilities, just that I'd grown over half a foot over the summer and become a lump of solid muscle. No one had seen what I was doing at Tilkley Park. I was pretty sure of that.
When he saw I wasn't going to comment, he continued.
"The intelligence we received suggested that your abilities became apparent during adolescence. I understand you experienced puberty recently, Daniel?"
I went red.
"Since making that link, we have traced other women in our files. We can only find those who previously contacted us. There may be many others who told no one that they were visited by The Deterrent. Daniel?"
I looked at him. He held my gaze.
"Of the twelve children we've found, nine of them have gone through puberty. They all died. In the cases where we were able to perform post-mortems, the bodies displayed dangerous internal changes, rapid-growing tumours that shut down vital organs."
I didn't think he was bluffing now. Somehow, I knew he was telling the truth. I don't mean that in a kind of woolly, new-agey I just, like, you know, got a feeling kind of way. I thought it might be another ability linked to my physical changes. My mind felt sharper, somehow, more engaged with reality, and I found I could tell a great deal about people from their facial expressions, their posture. I had seen an interview on the news a couple of nights ago and had known that the politician being questioned was lying.
Hopkins was telling the truth. Or, at least, he believed he was, which isn't always the same thing.
If he was right, I wasn't an only child anymore. There were half-brothers and half-sisters out there somewhere. Or, at least, there had been. They had hit puberty, and it had killed them.
"Daniel, we don't believe you're in any immediate danger, although I'd like you to check in with our medical staff as soon as possible. And I want you to know that the soldiers outside are only here as a precaution. I'm here to make you an offer. A chance to find out who you really are, and to serve your country, if that's what you choose."
He kept talking, but I was tuning him out and thinking fast. The last thing he had said had been a lie. There would be no choice. I knew he intended to bring me in, and he was telling the truth about serving my country, although I didn't much like the sound of that. I never wanted to be a soldier. I had a feeling I wouldn't be very good at taking orders. Especially from a mustachioed prat like Hopkins. No, when he talked about serving my country, everything in his voice, face, and body told me I would do so with, or without, my consent. I didn't know how he could be so confident they could force me to do anything. I didn't intend hanging around long enough to find out.
The rotor blades were louder. If I was going to do something, it would have to be soon. If I left it any longer, I'd be up against whatever the helicopters were bringing, and the soldiers I'd already seen. And if they managed to take me in, they'd lock me somewhere so secure I'd never get out. Then they'd have all the time in the world to experiment on me, which was surely what they intended to do. And who would ever find out? I mean, after the way I left, Mum wouldn't be expecting a call or a postcard.
"What do you say?"
Hopkins had reached the end of his pitch.
"Come outside, Daniel. We have transport on the way. Ever been in a helicopter? I can answer any questions you might have while we're in the air."
He motioned towards the door. He was used to being obeyed. Everything about him radiated the arrogant assurance of a man well versed in wielding power. Often, when someone exhibits that much confidence, it becomes difficult to resist. Hopkins showed no doubt. He knew I would walk through that door with him.
I made up my mind, grabbed him by the throat and squeezed as gently as I could, making sure I closed his windpipe but didn't snap his neck. His eyes bulged in outraged disbelief, he went an interesting colour, then sagged in my hand. I lowered him to the floor.
I hoped that my plan's simplicity might compensate for what it lacked in other areas. I reviewed it.
The plan: run like hell.
Yep. Good to go.
Ignoring the door and the window, I ran headlong at the wall, putting my shoulder to it and crashing through in a cloud of brick dust and debris.
Then I ran like hell.
My plan relied heavily on the element of surprise. The doors and windows were being watched, but I doubted the soldiers were keeping their eyes on the walls.
I had failed to factor in the reaction times and expertise of trained soldiers. My unusual choice of exit gained me about a three-tenths of a second head start.
I sprinted for the fence. It was about a fifty-yard dash, which I could make in six seconds in optimal conditions. The conditions weren't optimal.
The first tranquilliser dart hit my shoulder after I'd covered just a few yards. Then a second hit my right buttock. They both bounced off. So far, so good, although I stumbled a little. On my right, I saw two men set off at speed, carrying something between them, aiming to intercept me before I reached the fence. I could see they wouldn't get there in time, so I discounted them.
Other figures burst out from concealed positions and braced rifles against their shoulders.
"Hold your fire!"
Hopkin's second-in-command must have been ordered not to shoot me. That was good. Not being shot was good.
I corrected my stumble and picked up my pace. A soldier on my left started swinging something. I ignored him and sighted my launch point about four strides away. There was no way they could anticipate how far and high I could jump, so all I had to do was—
My legs abruptly snapped together, something smacked into my shins hard, and I went face-first into the gravel. I took a couple of seconds to roll over and react, which gave the snipers plenty of time to hit me with more darts. They stung a bit, didn't penetrate my skin, but delayed me enough for the first two soldiers to reach me. They threw something. A weighted net came down on top of me.
I heard the sound of running footsteps. They were going to rush me. I was extremely glad I had eaten the bananas and malt loaf. Breakfast. The most important meal of the day.
&n
bsp; I felt the buzz start as I fought back.
When I had been training, I had focussed on one task at a time and used whatever strength I needed to accomplish it. I hadn't forgotten how it had felt waking up in a field after destroying Piss Creature's car. Giving in to the temptation of using all my strength was fun—there was no other word for it— but, in retrospect, it was dangerous. Trying to satisfy an insatiable appetite for destruction by thumping inanimate objects was one thing, but how much control would I be able to maintain against flesh and blood?
The rotors were louder now.
I flexed the muscles in my legs and felt the rope tying them break. They had used a bola to bring me down: multiple weights at each end of a rope which, when thrown, would wrap itself around the target. Illegal in the UK. A covert military outfit using illegal weapons? Shocking.
The net was next. It wasn't normal rope, it was made of some kind of flexible metal, strands of the stuff wound together forming a tight webbing. I tore it like paper, even as the two soldiers reached me and clubbed me in the face with their rifle butts.
Ignoring my assailants, I stood up and faced the fence. Just a few paces more and I'd be clear to jump.
I registered the fact that the rotors were now very loud as two ropes dropped from the air and soldiers swarmed down from the belly of the helicopter like hyperactive spiders. Spiders with guns.
I looked up. The side of the helicopter was open, and I could see a burly man crouching behind an enormous machine gun. He was pointing the painful end at me.
"Daniel!"
I looked over my shoulder. Hopkins was made of stern stuff. He was holding a megaphone and walking towards me.
"Please stop running. We don't want to hurt you."
One of the men with the net saw his chance at that moment and clubbed me from behind with his rifle. I flinched, turned and punched him in his chest. I heard ribs break as he left the ground, flew through the air, hit the fence and bounced back half the distance before coming to rest on his front. He didn't move.
"Back away!" barked Hopkins, and the remaining soldiers retreated, their fingers still on the triggers of their weapons.
"Hold your fire. You have your orders. Daniel, don't move."
It was too late. That last blow to my head was one too many. Even though I could see I was outnumbered and out-gunned, my brain was way beyond making rational decisions.
I ran. Straight towards the helicopter. And jumped.
The face of the guy behind the machine gun was a picture. I didn't know what orders he had been given, but I imagine they didn't cover dealing with a superstrong assailant who could leap twenty feet straight up (using the top of the fence as a springboard) and join him in his aircraft. He took the most sensible course of action possible under the circumstances. He looked at me as I hauled myself in, and jumped, grabbing a rope and rapidly lowering himself to the ground.
I tore the machine gun free of its rivets and, grabbing the barrel, smashed it over and over into the metal floor. Bits flew off, a few rounds exploded, then the barrel snapped off. I threw it out.
By then, the pilots had realised something wasn't right. They had to choose between flying off with me on board or landing as quickly as possible.
We hit the ground hard, straddling the fence, and I realised I was back where I started. I was past caring by then, and I ran towards the armed men.
"Fire!" Hopkin's voice. It seemed that the orders had changed. As I reached the first two men and swung my arm, sweeping them to one side and knocking over three more, I felt sharp pains in my legs a fraction of a second before hearing the rapid fire from my left.
I looked down at my legs. Shredded cloth flapped over my skin, which was red, but unbroken. That answered my question about bullets. They couldn't penetrate my skin. But they bloody hurt. A lot.
I turned and faced my attackers, reaching behind me and grabbing one of the soldiers I had just knocked over. I got a good hold on the front of his combat jacket, then hurled him like a javelin. It was a decent shot, taking three more down.
I felt more pain, in my back this time. What had happened to aiming at my legs, then?
I turned and saw Hopkins pointing a handgun at me. So much for his fine talk about not wanting to hurt me. When he saw he had my attention, he fired straight into my stomach. I howled with rage and went for him.
He sprinted back to the office, darting through the door. I was there three seconds later, just in time to see him jump through the window, screaming, "now!"
The grenade came in through the door behind me.
I didn't even have time to acknowledge my stupidity before it burst apart with a loud crack, filling the enclosed space with smoke.
The smoke smelled like French cheese. And that was the last thing I remembered.
15
Cressida
September 5th, 1978
My first session with Abos took place this morning. As Station's lift has no visible cues to help me gauge how fast it's descending, I still have no idea how far underground we are. There are other levels below us, accessible only by stairs behind doors which require codes to open. I've never asked what's down there. Station is built on secrets, and too much curiosity might, I suspect, be rather a dangerous indulgence.
Abos has been assigned living quarters on the first level, the only level the lift stops at. The same level as the lab, just a two-minute walk along the orange line corridor. To navigate the Station labyrinth, we all follow the thin coloured lines painted at waist height on the drab walls. They seem to use the same colour system as the Underground - or perhaps it's coincidental. Following the red Central line leads you to the office of the Colonel and his staff. The black Northern line reputedly leads to a weapons testing area. I was very firmly discouraged from following it when I looked for the nearest toilet during my first week. If you are hungry, the purple Bakerloo leads to food, which makes me wonder if the architect or designer had a sense of humour.
So today, I followed the navy blue Piccadilly away from the lab to an area about a three-minute walk away. I had never been inside those rooms before - they had always been locked. Whatever they had contained before had been cleared away, and the space, as one of Hopkins' men put it, "re-purposed". What an ugly expression.
The rooms themselves still smell of fresh paint. The soldiers tasked with decorating showed no imagination, using the same drab olive green that covers almost every wall in Station. Occasionally, perhaps as an attempt to stop us going mad with the sheer monotony of the colour scheme, a grey wall makes an appearance. A more likely explanation is that they only use grey when they've run out of olive.
Hopkins has allocated three rooms for Abos. One is a small bedroom, another a functional washroom with sink, toilet and shower. The biggest room, which was probably used as a storeroom judging by the shelves, contains a metal desk and two chairs. Light comes from a single, bare bulb overhead. Not a picture on the wall. I rolled my eyes when I walked in. The whole place has all the charm of a police cell.
Abos was waiting for me, sitting at the desk. It wasn't a small chair, but his bulk made him look like a grownup squeezing onto a child's chair at primary school.
He smiled when he saw me.
"Cress."
He didn't stand up, but his face was still nearly level with mine. I looked at his throat, but couldn't see any sign of where the bullet had hit his skin.
"Hello, Abos. It's good to see you again."
He didn't reply. I put out my hand, and he looked at it, blankly.
"This is one way that we greet each other. Hold out your right hand."
Abos mirrored my action and lifted his left hand.
"That's your left hand, Abos."
He dropped his hand and lifted the other.
"Right hand," he said.
"Yes." I put my hand in his, used my left hand to move his fingers into place. Then I gently moved both of our hands up and down the traditional British two and a half times.
&
nbsp; "We call this 'shaking hands'."
He nodded. I took the other chair and sat at the end of the desk. There was a small pile of books waiting for me. I had to submit them to Hopkins' office for approval before being allowed to use them, although I questioned how much dangerous sedition might be found in the pages of the Ladybird ABC, or Read and Write with Peter and Jane.
I smiled up at him in what I hoped was a brisk, professional way.
"Before we start, I have a question."
Abos didn't respond at all to this. I'm still struggling with the idiosyncratic ways he interacts with me. Questions and answers are a case in point. In response to a question, he rarely reacts at all. Father mentioned this in the pep talk he gave me before I started this first lesson. Father is unsure about how much, if anything, can be read into Abos's facial expressions, or his choice of words. Because he looks very much like us (I didn't interrupt, but I wanted to add, "yes, just taller, more handsome, bulletproof, able to move objects with his mind and with beautiful eyes like the colour of treacle") and he speaks the English language doesn't mean he is like us. I reassured Father, mentioning mushy peas. He looked confused.
"What is your question?" I haven't described his speaking voice, have I? It's as if an aristocratic European had been taught the English language from a young age, but had never used it. Now, years after mastering it, he is called on to speak English constantly. He does it perfectly, but there are strange pauses, the odd hesitation, sometimes an odd use of a familiar word.
"Why did you ask for me, Abos?"
"For what did I ask for you, Cress?"
I took a few moments to unpick what he meant, then gave up, and rephrased my question.
"You told Professor Lofthouse and Colonel Hopkins that you wanted to see me."
He nodded at this, a very human gesture.
"Yes. To see you, and to hear you. To speak and listen."
"Why?"
Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1) Page 9