Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "The most telling piece of evidence is, surely, that the clothes would have been ripped from your body if you had run across the park. At that speed, it's simple physics."

  That little piece of speculation distracted me momentarily, I confess, as an image of Abos shedding his clothes as he ran came into my mind. I must get myself a boyfriend. This is getting ridiculous.

  "Your skin is different to ours, Abos, but when we checked your blood, it was as human as mine. I wonder...I wonder. Might it be that your skin is also human, that, in fact, other than your size—which is unusual but not unheard of—you are, actually, completely human in your physical makeup? If so, then either the material which made up the cylinder still surrounds your body in some way, like an invisible outer layer of skin, or..."

  His voice trailed off, and he stared up at the roof of the car, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly.

  Harris looked like she was about to speak. I put a warning hand on her arm and shook my head. I'd seen McKean like this before. He was thinking, not having a seizure, but if you'd never seen him deep in thought, you could be forgiven if you assumed the latter. Eventually, his mouth stopped moving. He smiled.

  "No. No, that might not be right. Another possibility is brain function. We know you're using more of your brain than the rest of us."

  During the few days I had been away, Abos had been submitted to a battery of medical tests. Father told me that one of these involved a revolutionary new piece of equipment that can photograph the brain. The scan of Abos showed activity in parts of the brain which are almost dormant in humans. Although, as Father reminded me, our understanding of human brain function is still at a primitive level. He believes this is an area of scientific research which will undergo a revolution in the next hundred years. Meanwhile, Abos may be accessing parts of the brain that the rest of us can't. McKean was warming to this idea in the car.

  "If it's brain function that enables you to do what you do—control your body and, to an extent, your surroundings—then you may represent the future of our species, Abos. You could be a few more steps along the evolutionary path."

  He carried on speaking like this until the car came to a stop. He was only thinking out loud, but it was as if the possibilities had so excited him that he had to vocalise his thoughts or risk forgetting them. When the driver turned off the engine, he lapsed into his more customary silence, much to our relief. I've tried to convey some of what he said here, but he used terminology which was beyond me and, at times, babbled so quickly that I couldn't keep up.

  I looked out of the window. We were outside my house.

  Father appeared at the door. He walked down the steps and waited. When Abos got out, he smiled and shook his hand. Abos responded naturally. He was a fast learner.

  "Welcome to our home, Abos."

  Harris and McKean waited in the kitchen while Father and I gave him the tour. I said little. It was an odd experience, following them around my house, hearing it described room by room, Abos ducking as even the high Victorian lintels were too low for him.

  Father sounded like an estate agent showing a house to a ten-year-old foreign dignitary.

  "And this is the larder. In here, we keep various foodstuffs and, I believe, some cleaning equipment, is that right, Cress? Yes, yes. Good. Ah. Some food is tinned, which seals the food in an airless environment, keeping it fresh until required. We also have dry food in here, and staples such as sugar and flour. Flour can be used for the baking of bread and, er, suchlike."

  Suchlike. I believe this may have been the first time Father had seen the inside of the larder.

  Abos seemed particularly interested in the stairs, stopping at the bottom and looking at them, following their progress upwards. I realised he had only seen one floor of Station. This was the first staircase he had ever seen. After a few moments hesitation, he followed Father up, and I trailed along behind.

  Father started this part of the tour in the bathroom, so I took a moment to check my bedroom. I don't know what made me do it, really, and I know I will find it hard to explain what happened next. I looked in and saw my dressing table, the jar of cream, the brush and makeup, a couple of scarves hanging on the back of the chair. The bed was made, my nightgown on the pillow. The nightgown suddenly seemed absurdly unfashionable and frumpy. In the middle of the bed was Mr Tedkins, a stalwart of my childhood and still much loved. I felt a warm flush on my neck. My room looked like the room of a spinster, an old maid, not a woman just shy of thirty.

  I backed out and shut the door behind me. When Father and Abos emerged from the bathroom and looked as if they might head my way, I gave a brief but firm shake of my head to Father. He looked a little confused but steered Abos away to his own bedroom. I stayed on the landing, picking up snatches of their conversation. Abos must have asked a question.

  "Well, yes, indeed, it is wider than yours. This is called a double bed. You're quite right, it is designed for two people. I was married for many years and—"

  "Peter and Jane's mother and father are married. They love each other and have children. What is love?"

  Although I listened carefully, as it's not just Abos who would like the answer to that one, Father did little more than stammer and cough, mention the human drive to reproduce and something about societal norms, then attempt to move on to a different subject. As much as I adore him, Father seems as emotionally stunted as the rest of his generation much of the time. Not that I'm one to talk.

  "Where is your Mrs Lofthouse?"

  "She died, Abos. Many years ago."

  "What is died?"

  Sometimes it's easy to forget that Abos only knows what he has been told, what he has read, or what he has worked out for himself. The books I had left with him were all aimed at children under ten. None of them covered death.

  I heard Father begin to pace, then stop. I walked quietly to the doorway and saw Father standing at the window, looking out. Abos was behind him, reading the titles of the scientific journals on the bookshelf.

  "Death is the inevitable end to life," began Father without turning. "Taking humans as an example, we live approximately seventy to eighty years. Our bodies grow in childhood, then, very gradually, begin to decline. From our late thirties onward, there may be thinning of the hair, some wrinkling or flaccidity of the skin, and decreasing muscular strength. In most animals, once the ability to reproduce has gone, death follows shortly afterwards. Humans are unusual in this regard although much of our increased longevity can be attributed to our advances in medicine and increased knowledge about the benefits of balanced nutrition and regular exercise. However, although the average lifespan of humans continues to rise, it is still limited. Death is inevitable. The body shuts down, the respiratory systems fail, the heart no longer beats. Our brains cease functioning. The body, once death has occurred, is no longer able to sustain its form and will begin to rot. We bury our dead."

  After a pause which must have lasted a few minutes, Abos spoke.

  "The body dies, yes. What happens to the person? The person is not the body, perhaps?"

  Father turned. His eyes were bright with tears. He didn't see me. I wondered, not for the first time, about the sadness he hides behind his formality. He's kind, patient, and loving towards me, but I've always felt locked out from the man that Mother must have fallen in love with. And yet, here he was, opening up to someone not even human. Perhaps it's easier to be vulnerable in front of someone who can't understand your pain? I don't know. I stood in the dark hallway, out of sight, watching and listening.

  "Perhaps. It's hardly my province, Abos. Science is my speciality. I study facts and only draw conclusions when the facts support them. Thus, I believe that the person is the body, and dies with it. There is no evidence to suggest otherwise."

  Abos turned his head and looked at the double bed again, but said nothing.

  The last bit of drama occurred as we were leaving. We were about to get into the car when we realised Abos was missing. One moment
he was walking down the steps towards the car, the next he was gone. He had moved so fast in Finsbury Circus that he had seemed to vanish. If he had pulled the same trick, he could be anywhere.

  Harris looked sick. He was her responsibility.

  Next door's dog saved the day. Not normally one for barking, he erupted in a burst of frenzied yapping. Mrs Cole, our elderly neighbour, let her terrier have the run of the garden during the day, and that's where the noise was coming from.

  I ran up the steps and let myself in through the side gate, Harris and the others following. Our garden, like many others in this part of London, isn't large, so when I rounded the corner of the house, it only took me a couple of seconds to see that it was empty. I looked over the fence at Tupper, the terrier. He was jumping up and down with excitement, his eyes fixed on a spot above my head.

  I looked up.

  The first thing I saw was the soles of a pair of army boots, about six feet above me. They looked brand new. Abos had finally picked up the promised handmade pair a few days earlier.

  He was standing on thin air, looking into my bedroom. He glanced down at me.

  "You forgot to show me your bedroom, Cress. It's very nice."

  Nice. Another Peter and Jane word. For some reason, it made me angry. In fact, I felt frustrated and upset, although I can't explain why.

  "Get down this minute."

  Abos obediently floated down and joined me. By that time, the others had arrived, and their expressions as he sank to the ground were full of wonder, awe, disbelief, suspicion, and fear. Harris, if possible, looked even more ill than she had when he'd vanished. She may have been considering the report she would have to deliver to Hopkins.

  I, meanwhile, was pointing my finger at Abos as if he was a disobedient child.

  "You should not have done that, Abos. It was wrong. You should have asked me."

  I spun on my heels and walked off.

  I've thought about it all day. I still don't know what I was so upset about.

  17

  Daniel

  Often, you don't get to decide when one chapter of your life comes to an end, or when a new one begins. Sometimes, those decisions are made for you. That's been the case for most of my life. I was an overweight, shy kid. One day, that was over. I became a young man with superpowers, trying to work out my place in the world. After that day at Tilkley Park, that was over too.

  I ended up working for the same secret government department that my father had worked for. Willingly. Or so I thought.

  My memories from the moment I passed out at Tilkley Park to when I started working for Station are confused, hazy and full of gaps. I know I spent a long period in what I thought was a hospital. After that, I moved to my own windowless room.

  I have no memory at all of changing my mind, trusting Hopkins and agreeing to work for Station, but it happened.

  The first clear recollection I have from that time is of walking into the mess hall with Hopkins and sitting with other soldiers. I was dressed like they were. I felt that this was where I belonged.

  That sense of belonging lasted for four years. Then, one terrible night in Shoreditch, that was over too. And the chapter that followed was the worst of my life.

  I was the only member of the crew with enhanced abilities. That made me an outsider. The other soldiers had lives beyond Station's concrete walls. Husbands or wives, partners, children. Friends. Hobbies. Not me. I wanted their friendship, their approval. They were my unit. And yet I can't remember a single name.

  Station was my life. I ate there, worked there, slept there.

  Station looked after me, treated me well. And they helped me manage my "condition". Another early memory: they explained why it had been necessary to capture me by showing me photographs of other children of The Deterrent hadn't been as lucky. I saw ribcages torn apart by rapid, uncontrolled tissue growth. I saw the broken bodies of those who had, one day, suddenly risen into the air, able to fly but unable to stop themselves, until their power was exhausted and they fell to their deaths. I saw one girl whose brain had expanded inside her skull, pushing cartilage out of her nostrils and forcing her eyeballs from their sockets.

  There was a morgue one level under my quarters in Station. Hopkins showed me some of the bodies. He talked about scouring the country, searching for The Deterrent's children, only to find disease and death.

  There had only been one other exception. A girl they had brought in just as the symptoms of her power started to show. Hopkins opened a folder containing a photograph of a girl in her teens, propped up in a hospital bed, smiling.

  "We had hoped to help her survive puberty, maybe learn more about the power she had inherited. Unfortunately, she lapsed into a coma shortly after her first menstrual cycle. We kept her alive for nearly three months, but she never regained consciousness. It was hugely disappointing."

  I was still looking at the photograph. So full of life.

  "That's terrible," I said, then I registered the word he'd used. It broke through the customary fog of confusion I lived with at that time. "Disappointing? You were disappointed?"

  "Devastated." He arranged his features into an approximation of sadness. Then he took the photo and slid it back into its folder.

  "What was her name?"

  I watched him struggle to remember.

  "Kate." I had a feeling he'd just made that up.

  The visit to the morgue is one of the memories I was allowed to keep.

  There are flashes of memory from that time. Sometimes, when I'm drifting off to sleep, I remember a humming sound, a kind of buzz in my head and a woman's voice, a kind voice, telling me that Station would take care of me, Station was good, Station was right, I would feel good if I worked for Station.

  According to George, Station is a world leader in the use of chemically assisted suggestion programmes. Brainwashing, to you and me.

  My brain, during my four years working for Station, was thoroughly washed. Washed, rinsed, spun, dried, and washed again. I was one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating whenever they rang my bell, doing whatever they wanted me to do.

  After six months, I was put to work. I remember the build-up to a mission, the briefings, the preparation. But as hard as I try, I draw a blank if I try to follow a memory past the point at which Station has blocked it. The few moments I can picture are tantalising or scary. I remember sitting in the back of lorries with a platoon of soldiers. Once, I was in the belly of a huge plane, in the dark, clipping my parachute's release mechanism to a line as the cold wind roared in my ears.

  I remember nothing of the missions themselves. I've trawled the internet since, read speculation about the assassination of certain of our country's enemies, deep in hostile territory, under seemingly impossible conditions. Was it me? Possibly. I've also seen the reports of the disappearance, or deaths, of suspected halfheroes. Me again? I wish I could be sure it wasn't.

  George said perhaps memory loss was a blessing in some circumstances.

  The only mission I remember in every terrible detail is the last one. When someone reached into my mind and pushed away all the structures Station had so carefully built. When I suddenly saw what I was doing, and what I had become.

  18

  It was 4 am. I was in the passenger seat of a police van. Dawn was still hours away and, despite the fact that I was keyed up, my knees bobbing up and down against the dashboard, some 4 am magic still managed to seep through the tension. It's a dark, disquieting hour. It doesn't matter who you are, or where you are. At 4 am, nothing feels entirely real, which is a good thing as this is when the human capacity for regret and remorse is strongest.

  Luckily, there wasn't much time for navel-gazing. At two minutes past the hour, the radio on the dash crackled into life, and the visibly intimidated police officer crammed in beside me picked it up.

  Police officers speak to each other in code. I never did bother to learn what meant what. He said a couple of things along the lines of a "ten eight-three," and a "DX
7," then turned to me. "Time to go."

  My handler was sitting in the next van along. Every mission had a handler whose job was to babysit me and, when ready, switch on my power button.

  The power button was another Station trademark, along with brainwashing and moustaches. It contained a mixture of drugs—I know adrenaline was one of them—kept in a tiny canister inside my upper arm, ready to release its contents when triggered remotely. Hopkins told me it would help me to control my strength and aggression. This was a perfect example of Station doublespeak as it actually did the opposite. The moment my handler pushed the power button and my body experienced its effects, my inhibitions went out of the window along with my instinct for self-preservation and personal moral code.

  Whatever instructions I'd been given dropped into the front of my mind and nothing else mattered. I knew what I was going to destroy, or who I was going to kill.

  I had dreamed of becoming superhuman. Station made me sub-human.

  My handler that night was an older man, with cold eyes and an expression that suggested he knew someone had just farted and I was top of his list of suspects. I'd never seen him before. I rarely saw the same handler twice. It was Station policy.

  He wound down the window.

  "Ready?"

  "Yes. Wait until I reach the wall and make sure you give me the full five minutes before you let anyone follow."

  He waited.

  "Sir," I added.

  "You know your route?" He was excited or anxious, I couldn't tell which. I had an intuition that he was pretty high up in Station's pecking order. Which meant tonight's mission was a big deal.

  "Yes, sir."

  Once I was in, speed would be important. The police vans faced the side of a warehouse. It was a single floor brick building divided into four units. The target wasn't in the first building, she was in the third. My briefing had warned that she and her companions were not only armed, but had explosives they wouldn't hesitate to use.