Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "The guard on duty is now asleep in your bed. We won't meet anyone else on this level until we get to the stairs. Do you mind pushing?"

  I took the handles of the wheelchair and walked along the corridor. After a few steps, I realised I was walking strangely. This was the first time I had gone any further than the distance from the bed to the bathroom, and my slight limp was now noticeable. The injury had long since scarred over, but even my enhanced healing ability couldn't grow back my toes.

  I looked at the walls. They looked different. They were light grey rather than olive, and there were no coloured lines indicating routes to different divisions. Had they changed the paint scheme, or was I on another level?

  As if she had been reading my mind, which she was, George spoke.

  "You're two levels beneath the one you used to live in. This area is used for medical facilities. There are operating theatres and traditional hospital wards where injuries can be treated in-house. Mental health care, too. Post-traumatic stress counselling, cognitive behavioural therapy, hypnotherapy - one of Station's specialities, as you know. Physical therapy, too. I had a weekly session here for months."

  We still hadn't seen a soul. If this level's layout was roughly the same as the one I knew, we should be a minute's walk from the stairwell.

  "You've been here months?"

  "Yes, nearly eight months."

  "How did Station catch you?"

  She chuckled again. It wasn't dismissive. George was amused. She gave off the air of someone who was having a fabulous time.

  "Oh, they didn't. I handed myself in."

  "You, hold on, what? Why?"

  She looked over her shoulder as I pushed her around the last corner. At the far end, I saw the security door leading to the stairs.

  "I needed something from Station, and I wanted to find out what they knew about us."

  "Us?"

  "Halfheroes."

  "There are more of us? Others survived?"

  "Of course."

  "What did you need from Station?"

  We had reached the door. I came to a halt. The thumbprint and code security protocols were still in operation. I hoped she had a plan.

  "I needed help to find our dad."

  As I gawped at her, I heard footsteps. I put my hand on the butt of the guard's gun.

  "Relax," said George. "Doctor Copson just needs to check his code. He keeps fretting about forgetting it."

  A worried-looking man in his sixties hurried up to the door. He smiled at George. It was as if I wasn't even there.

  "Hello George, how are you this evening?"

  "Very well, thank you, doctor. And you?"

  He stared at the keypad and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "Yes, yes, I'm fit and healthy, thank you. Um..."

  George smiled at him. "Four seven seven eight six, isn't it?"

  Doctor Copson smiled and punched in the numbers. He put his thumb in place, there was a click, and the heavy door swung open. He took a pace back, and as I pushed George through and the door started to close again, I heard him muttering. "Four seven seven eight six. Four seven seven eight six."

  The door shut behind us with a metallic clunk, and I looked at the concrete stairs, then at George in her wheelchair, then back at the stairs again. She stuck her tongue out at me.

  "And here's me thinking you're supposed to be strong."

  I lifted the chair onto one shoulder and took the stairs two at a time. George whooped with delight.

  "Show off," she said.

  I paused at the next level. She shook her head.

  "R&D. Which, for sixteen or seventeen years, has meant hybrids. This whole level is where they are kept and trained. I stayed away because my abilities can't touch them. Once, just once, I got close enough to become aware of a hybrid."

  She shook her head.

  "I can't reach their minds at all. They are so damaged...incomplete. Full of confusion, pain, and rage. Poor things."

  I remembered the sound I'd heard when the hybrid had bitten through my foot. I felt rather less sympathy for them than George did.

  I carried her up to the next level and set her down by the door. Another thumbprint scanner, another keypad for a code. But no sign of any help.

  George looked at her watch again. "We're nearly a minute early. You're making good time."

  The stairs didn't go any further up. This was Station's top level. The central lifts were the only way to the street from here. There were emergency stairs, but they could only be accessed from the same lobby as the lifts. That central hub was bound to be busy. I guessed that was when George expected me to punch a few people. If not there, at the security check on ground level.

  "You got it," said George, smiling.

  Right on schedule, there was a click, and the door in front of us opened, revealing a woman I'd seen a few times before. Her name evaded me for a few seconds, then I had it. Ward. I had never been told her first name. She was older, of course, her hair grey and cut short, the skin around her eyes furrowed. I remembered sitting across from her in lorry before running across a field towards a barn. Someone had been firing at us...it went hazy after that.

  "Good to see you again, sir." She saluted me. "This way, please."

  George raised an eyebrow at my expression.

  Ward turned on her heel and led us towards the lift. It was a two-minute walk, during which, our chaperone was saluted by half a dozen passing soldiers. She had obviously been promoted while I'd been dozing my life away. I wondered if Hopkins had moved on. Surely he'd be past retirement age by now.

  "Still very much in control, I'm afraid," said George, quietly. Her ability would take some getting used to. "Hopkins has built himself a little empire down here, and since the hybrids have proved their worth in certain deniable military operations, the government won't rock the boat."

  We reached the lobby where Ward led us straight to a lift, the doors closing. Catching sight of her, one of two men inside held the door.

  The men exchanged nods with Ward as I pushed George into the lift. Not subordinates, then. Not in uniform, either. Specialists of some sort.

  "This is where I leave you," said Ward, and saluted me again as the lift doors closed. I had no idea what George had been doing to her, but Ward had obviously not seen me as me. I wondered who she thought I was.

  I glanced at our two companions. If they were specialists, I doubted it was medicine or psych. They were both powerfully built and stood with a kind of relaxed readiness that made me nervous. Trained. Dangerous. Something about them reminded me of my handlers. I wondered if that's what they were - but for the hybrids. It would take a certain ruthless, cold efficiency to do that job. They looked just the types.

  One of the men was looking at me. He had quite a full beard, despite the fact that he was in his mid-thirties. He was either some kind of eccentric, or fashions had changed since I'd been locked away.

  I didn't like his expression. It was as if he thought he knew me, but didn't quite believe it.

  I nudged George. Beard spoke.

  "Why would Lieutenant Colonel Ward salute a sergeant, Sergeant?"

  I nudged George harder. She made an odd sound.

  "He asked you a question." The second man was taking an interest now. He was clean-shaven and had a conspicuous neck tattoo. Maybe that was a fashion thing too.

  I calculated we had about thirty seconds until the lift reached the ground floor. Neck Tattoo was closest to the control panel and the alarm button. Beard was still looking, and I still didn't care for his expression.

  "Um," I said, stalling for time and giving George a little shake. I glanced down. She was snoring.

  Looked like I was on my own.

  Beard's gaze wandered from my neck down to my feet. The guard who'd taken my place had been a big bloke, no mistake, but no one got close to my measurements. The T-shirt under my jacket had ripped when I had put it over my neck, the jacket itself was half open as I couldn't wear it any ot
her way, and—most telling of all—the trousers stopped three inches short of my boots. Which were killing me.

  When his eyes flicked up to my face again, I saw the sudden recognition there. He reached for his handgun.

  "It's—"

  My elbow caught him in the stomach and knocked every last bit of breath out of him. He collapsed to the floor just in time for me to slap Neck Tattoo before he touched the alarm. He slammed into the side of the lift, then dropped.

  At that moment, there was a ting, and the doors slid open in front of Station's security detail.

  Station was very, very determined never to allow any kind of security breach, so they had three layers of defence set up at street level. The first—a long desk, behind which two retired Station operatives boosted their pensions by dealing with members of the public who had wandered in by mistake—was purely cosmetic. There was a large metal turnstile that could only admit one at a time, and an internal wall that hid the rest of the lobby from view. Anyone who approached the desk was filmed, and the feed from the cameras monitored by operatives in a secure room downstairs. They were the second layer.

  If the operatives running the second layer thought there was a possible threat, they had two options: soft and hard. I had made a joke about that during my early days at Station, but it had earned me a withering stare from Hopkins. Not that I'd seen him come up with any other stare. As far as I knew, the withering stare was the only stare in his arsenal. Stick to what you're good at, I suppose.

  The soft option was two armed soldiers approaching the desk and suggesting the interlopers leave. Station had only used that option twice, and it had proved effective. Both occasions had been provoked by confused foreign tourists who didn't know they were being asked to leave. The international sign of having a loaded gun pointed at you had worked a treat.

  The hard option, as yet unused, brought down steel shutters at every door and window, locked down the lift and stairs, and brought eighteen additional armed soldiers to deal with the problem. Should that be insufficient, gas was available. And, as Hopkins always made clear, should that final layer ever be breached, an alarm would go off in Whitehall, a phone call would be made, and Station would be buried under a hundred thousand tonnes of rubble.

  There were some State secrets that were never intended to see the light of day.

  All in all, Station's security arrangements were frighteningly thorough.

  There were two things in our favour: my power, and the fact that the entire security operation was designed to stop people getting in. No one had ever considered the possibility that someone hundreds of feet underground in the most secure facility ever built in the UK, surrounded by armed soldiers and hybrids would even consider, for a second, the possibility of trying to get out. They'd never make it more than a few feet.

  They hadn't counted on George.

  I knew I would have to make this quick. I'd only have a few seconds before the alarm was triggered.

  If the alarm was triggered.

  Perhaps there was another way.

  As the lift doors slid apart, I put the side of my foot against Beard—he was still gasping—and flipped him into the side of the lift, where he went quiet as he fell on top of his colleague. I pressed the button to send it down again.

  I had never been more grateful for my broad physique as I hunched over George's wheelchair and pushed her out, hiding the inside of the lift with my bulk while the doors slid shut behind me.

  There was one man waiting for the lift. He tried to go around me as I stepped out, but I grabbed his upper arm.

  "Are you a doctor?" I pointed at George. "She's had a seizure. I need help."

  Her snores undermined my case, but by then I could hear the sound of the lift starting its descent.

  "No," the man looked at my shoulder, "Sergeant, I am not a doctor. And, according to your uniform, you work for me. But I don't recognise you. What's your name?" He looked down at George doubtfully, and stepped away, his hand moving closer to his gun.

  "I shaved, sir," I said, rubbing my chin. "I had a big old beard. Bushy great thing. That's probably why you..."

  He took half a step closer, squinting to read the name badge on my chest. I hit him. A very light uppercut, pulling my punch as much as I dared. Didn't want to kill him. His eyes rolled back. I caught him and lowered him to the floor.

  "Medic!" I called. Two armed soldiers ran in from the ready rooms concealed behind the internal wall.

  "What happened?" One of them knelt and took his pulse.

  "Some kind of fit, I think. He grabbed his head and fell over."

  The other guard talked into his lapel, calling for medical assistance. I grabbed the front of my jacket and read the name badge upside-down.

  I pushed George away. The first soldier called after me.

  "Sergeant! Where do you think you're going?"

  I stopped and shot him a glare.

  "You seem to have this under control. Colonel Hopkins ordered me to get his god-daughter back to the hospital, and I have a taxi waiting. Would you like me to stay here with you instead? Perhaps you could help me explain to the Colonel how I let her miss her dialysis appointment?"

  He hesitated. No one wanted to attract any kind of attention from Hopkins. Ever. He thought for a second, then waved me away. I'd only taken three steps when he called me again. I turned, forcing an exasperated look onto my face.

  "What's your name, Sergeant?"

  "Marmagradible," I said. Well, you try reading something upside-down under pressure.

  He stared at me.

  "It's spelled the way it sounds."

  I walked to the turnstile without looking back, holding up my security card as I got closer.

  "She's not well," I said.

  A security guard trotted over and opened a gate at the side so I could wheel her through.

  Ten seconds later, I was outside, hailing a taxi.

  George opened her eyes as I eased the chair into the cab.

  "What a lovely sleep. Did I miss anything?"

  29

  Cressida

  October 5th, 1979

  It's been a while. I half-thought I'd never write in this diary again.

  I was transferred to the Ministry Of Agriculture six months ago. I collate data on fluctuations in land supply, and my boss makes recommendations to the minister. It's completely mindless work, but it requires concentration and an eye for detail. To my great surprise I enjoy it. I come home pleasantly tired and never give a moment's thought to what passes across my desk once I leave the office.

  I sometimes consider the university education I passed up and wonder what might have been. I've never believed that life follows some sort of plan, that things happen for a reason. No. I was present at the scientific discovery of the century, hence, I missed an education and a more stimulating career. I have regrets, but I can live with them.

  I have consciously avoided thinking about Abos, although my dreams refuse to play along with that decision.

  As for Father, our relationship has been dented somewhat, but blood is thicker than water. We find other things to talk about. Perhaps, eventually, we will be able to repair some of the damage.

  I'm only writing now because of what Father announced after dinner. My head is still reeling. I should have known that what he told me was inevitable at some point.

  Abos is about to go public.

  Tonight, a press release will land on the desk of every national newspaper, as well as every correspondent from around the world covering British news. Both the BBC and ITV are included. They will be given access so that they can broadcast the event live.

  Abos will be presented to a world that has no idea he exists.

  They are calling him Powerman. How utterly ridiculous. Father had the decency to look embarrassed when he told me.

  Father said I could go if I wanted to. The invited audience includes, as well as the press, ambassadors from the world's governments, representatives of our own gov
ernment (most of whom were only told of Abos's existence today), and senior figures from the highest echelons of Britain's army, navy, and air force.

  And me. Somewhere at the back. In a woolly hat, a thick scarf, and a pair of sunglasses. If he happens to glance my way, he won't recognise me. Maybe he's forgotten me anyway.

  Tomorrow evening. Broadcast live across the globe. Powerman. Good grief.

  30

  October 6th, 1979

  The announcement was scheduled for five pm, and all three British TV channels rearranged their schedules so that they could show it live. I travelled with Father in a Station car. We didn't know where we were going until we got there, although as we got closer, it became clear where Abos was making his debut.

  Wembley Stadium.

  Security was tight, and we passed through three checkpoints before being allowed to enter the stadium itself. A wooden stage had been erected on the pitch, and public address system—the sort they use for rock bands—was stacked in two towers on either side. There was one microphone, but other than that, the stage was bare. The pitch was spotlit.

  We filed in and took our places, Father showing me to the back row in the stands before he headed towards a row nearer the front. I was seated with members of the foreign press, most of whom knew each other and were exchanging pleasantries. I saw a few shrugs in answer to the same question being asked, over and over, in multiple languages: "Why are we here?"

  There were almost two hundred people present according to my rough count. Ridiculous in a venue the size of Wembley. I craned my neck and looked at the backs of the heads nearer the front. I recognised Hopkins straight away. His seat was central and, as I looked away from him, I caught sight of Carstairs walking along the same row to join him. He looked up, and I shifted to one side, glad that the Irish journalist in front of me was wearing a large bobble hat.

  There were only two TV cameras there, one BBC, one ITV, which surprised me at first. Then I noticed that both cameramen were shadowed by a soldier making sure they were filming the stage, not the crowd. They would not be allowed to show the faces of Station personnel.