The Fail Safe

by Jack Heath

  Fero crossed the road, grumbling. In Kamau he wouldn’t have thought twice. But stealing from Besmari people felt worse somehow.

  He picked up one of the bags. A sign on the bin said: BAGS LEFT OUTSIDE THIS BIN WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED. That made him feel a little better.

  Up the street a pair of police officers were questioning a girl not much older than him. She looked around as if for help. She must have done something wrong, Fero decided. He averted his eyes and walked back to Wolf.

  ‘Come on.’ Wolf led him into an alley between a Moroccan restaurant and a drycleaners. The combined smell was like chicken nuggets dipped in whiteboard marker ink.

  They crouched behind an overflowing skip bin. Wolf tore open the bag. She discarded a dress and a pair of children’s shoes before she found an overcoat. She fiddled with the collar for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, gave it to him. There were some dark jeans in the bag – she gave him those, too. ‘See if these fit.’

  Fero pulled on the coat over his dirty grey jumper. It was only a little too big. When he changed out of his ripped black pants and into the jeans, he could feel Wolf looking at the scar tissue on his ankles. After resisting arrest at a political protest, Fero had lost a lot of skin being dragged behind a train while the Kamauan police chased him. That had been before he knew he was Troy Maschenov – it felt like a long time ago.

  He refused to let Wolf’s gaze make him uncomfortable. He pulled a woollen belt out of the bag and used it to hold up the jeans, feeling warmer already.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  Wolf had managed to get out of the tunnel before it collapsed. Her clothes were merely dusty. ‘I’ll be fine. Now, Vartaniev’s new office is above the chamber of commerce. We’ll cross the bridge and then head west. You ready?’

  Fero nodded. They emerged from the alley and walked up the street. The girl and the cops were gone. The breeze blustered up the empty street. They turned a corner, out of the wind. Fero kept the glasses on, but couldn’t see any more cameras. Wolf had picked a smart route.

  ‘Do you have any money?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’

  They were just passing a food stand. Smoky odours filled the cold air. Fero hadn’t eaten since the apple almost eighteen hours ago. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Wolf checked her watch and then dug some Besmari cash out of her pocket. She greeted the woman behind the stand in flawless Besmari. ‘Hello. I’d like a lemon chicken stick, and he’ll have . . .’ She looked at Fero.

  ‘A Besmari star,’ Fero said. In Kamau it was called a Kamauan prickle. It had only just occurred to him that it was exactly the same thing – a potato, cut into a star shape and deep-fried. Fero wondered which country had come up with the recipe first.

  The woman behind the stand dipped the chicken stick and the potato into the sizzling oil. ‘What do you think of the new guy?’ she asked chattily.

  Fero didn’t know what she was talking about, but he knew better than to admit that while undercover. ‘He’s okay,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Yeah, I like him,’ the woman said. ‘He’s just what this country needs.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with this country at the moment?’ Wolf asked.

  The woman looked suddenly terrified. ‘No. I mean – well, obviously we’re doing great. I didn’t intend to imply – you know. Anything.’

  ‘Our food is burning,’ Wolf said.

  The woman swore and pulled the two skewers out of the oil with trembling hands. She dabbed them with a paper towel and handed them over. ‘No charge,’ she said. ‘I insist.’

  Wolf smiled. ‘You’re too kind. Good day.’

  They walked away. Wolf handed Fero his potato star.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asked.

  ‘She thought we were undercover cops. A great way to get a free meal.’

  ‘I got that – but who’s the guy?’

  Wolf looked surprised. ‘You didn’t hear? Besmar got a new prime minister last week. Vladimir Dosslov.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fero suddenly felt like a visiting alien. There was so much he didn’t know about his own country. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Fero took a bite of his potato and felt the salt dissolve on his tongue. ‘Of course it matters, if he’s in charge.’

  ‘He’s not in charge,’ Wolf said. ‘The government swaps leaders every time it gets unpopular. That’s how it’s stayed in power for thirty years without changing any policies.’

  Fero wanted to maintain his cover, but he couldn’t let her criticise his country. ‘The Kamauan government has been in power for almost twenty years,’ he pointed out.

  He expected Wolf to argue, but she nodded. ‘And the government that preceded it was almost identical,’ she said. ‘The roles are such that anyone can hold them with the same results. It’s like a merry-go-round – the people step on and off without having any effect on its direction.’

  Such talk was practically treason. Fero couldn’t imagine she would dare say it within Kamau’s borders. ‘Then why are you here?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t think it will change anything?’

  Wolf looked at him as though she didn’t understand the question. Suddenly Fero realised where he knew her from, and why he had recognised the way she moved but not her face. He had seen her before, wearing a mask. She was the one at Irla’s rally. The one who threw the brick at the speaker and got all the protesters arrested.

  ‘I’m not trying to change anything,’ Wolf said. ‘I make sure nothing changes.’

  Then she kept walking, as though that explained everything, and no other point of view was worth considering.

  Fero wanted to argue, but he knew she couldn’t be convinced. She was a bit like Troy Maschenov had been, he realised.

  He pushed that thought away before it could do any harm.

  LIFT OFF

  The Premiovaya chamber of commerce stood tall over the river and the surrounding streets. The top half of the tower was flat glass, like a giant blade, and the bottom half was rounded concrete, like a gigantic handle. It was supposed to look like a sail, but locals called the building ‘the meat cleaver’.

  ‘Is Vartaniev expecting me?’ Fero asked.

  ‘Not even slightly,’ Wolf said. ‘I expect he’ll be stunned when he sees you. But don’t stick around. Just give him the package, let him inspect the contents, and get out.’

  ‘How do I get out? Won’t he want to debrief me?’

  ‘Yes, but he thinks you’re on his side. Tell him you need to go to the bathroom first, and sneak out the front door. Security here isn’t as good as it was at the facility in Tus. You did us a favour when you trashed it.’

  That was mostly Cormanenko, but Fero didn’t say so. ‘Why am I taking the white list directly to him and not to a regular Teller?’

  ‘Because you think several Librarians are undercover in the Bank and are on the list, and one of them might intercept it.’

  ‘How do I know that if I haven’t seen the list myself? You said he would expect it to be sealed.’

  ‘The person who was selling it told you,’ Wolf said.

  ‘I bought the list?’

  ‘No. You stole it from the seller.’

  Fero shut his eyes. It was a convoluted lie, but fortunately he didn’t have to tell it. He would just walk in, ask to see Vartaniev and tell him the truth – that the list was fake.

  ‘Where will you be?’ he asked.

  ‘Right out front, waiting for you.’

  Where Vartaniev’s people could easily grab her as soon as he tipped them off. She had saved his life in the tunnel. Didn’t he owe her at least the chance to escape?

  ‘That seems risky,’ Fero said. ‘I can meet you over in the park.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Wolf said. Fero thought he saw the beginnings of suspicion in her eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Wait out front – just make sure you’re ready. If this goes wrong, we may need to leave in
a hurry.’

  Wolf nodded. They crossed the street at the traffic lights and turned right. Wolf kept walking as Fero peeled off towards the entrance to the chamber of commerce. A pair of glass doors parted and he walked in.

  The air inside was almost uncomfortably warm. Natural gas was plentiful in this part of the world. This was bad for the environment and for the people – Kamau and Besmar had been relatively peaceful neighbours until fighting broke out over gas fields on the border in the nineteenth century. Those gas fields were now depleted and Besmar was mining further north, but the conflict was ongoing. At least the buildings were hot in winter.

  Two burly men in security windbreakers stood just inside the doors. They appraised Fero as he passed, but didn’t stop him.

  A chandelier lit the spacious reception area. Abstract paintings decorated the walls. A receptionist in a vest and tie sat behind a large black counter, but most people walked straight past him to the lifts.

  As Fero strolled towards the counter, the receptionist looked up, placed his hand on the telephone and smiled politely. ‘Hello. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Ulrick Vartaniev. What floor is he on?’

  The receptionist’s smile suddenly looked forced. ‘I’m afraid no one by that name works here.’

  The two security guards from the doorway looked over, hearing Vartaniev’s name. One of them started walking towards Fero.

  Vartaniev would have a code name. Fero rifled through Troy Maschenov’s memories and found nothing helpful. But the receptionist clearly knew whom Fero was talking about.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Fero said. ‘I must have the wrong name. Would you mind telling your superiors that Troy Maschenov is here?’

  ‘Certainly.’ The receptionist typed something into his computer. He glanced up at Fero, possibly comparing his face to a photo on the screen. The guard reached Fero and stopped, looming behind him.

  ‘You can take the lifts up to level eight, Mr Maschenov,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Fero walked over to the lifts. The guard didn’t follow, but he could feel his gaze on him. The receptionist was talking rapidly into his phone, but Fero couldn’t make out any words.

  Rather than a call button there was a touchscreen with every floor marked. Fero selected the eighth floor and a message appeared on the screen: PLEASE BOARD LIFT 4.

  The lift doors opened almost as soon as Fero reached them. He guessed the lifts didn’t have to stop so often if the passengers requested floors before they boarded – all the passengers going to level three could be directed to the same lift, for example. But it was unnerving to be boarding a lift with no buttons on the inside. There was just an emergency switch and a display indicating the current level. He was the only passenger travelling to the eighth floor. The doors slid shut, silencing the outside world. The sinking feeling in his gut a moment later was the only indication that the lift was moving.

  He was nervous. What if Vartaniev held him responsible for the damage to the old headquarters? What if he didn’t understand about the brainwashing? Since his recruitment, Troy had been the best Teller he knew how to be. But for the past two years he had been missing in action. He dreaded Vartaniev’s assessment as to whether his best had been good enough.

  Level four. Level five. Level six. He watched the numbers tick upwards and tried to ignore the sense of doom building at the back of his skull. A camera watched from a glass bubble in the corner.

  The lift pinged as the doors opened onto the eighth floor. Two more security guards stood in the doorway. They might as well have been clones of the ones downstairs.

  ‘Step out of the lift,’ one said.

  ‘I was planning to do that anyway,’ Fero said. He walked through the doors, put the package on the floor and raised his arms.

  ‘What’s in the envelope?’ said one of the guards as he patted Fero down.

  ‘Documents,’ Fero said.

  ‘We’ll need to take a look.’

  ‘I imagine that Mr Vartaniev will want to see them first.’

  The guards looked at each other.

  ‘He’s fine, boys.’

  Fero turned his head to see Ulrick Vartaniev approaching down the soft grey carpet of the corridor. He was a tall, rough-looking man with a flat nose, straight teeth and clean-shaven skull. He wore a dark pinstripe suit and a pale blue shirt. No tie.

  ‘Troy,’ Vartaniev said.

  ‘Maschenov.’ Vartaniev’s voice rang out across the crowded mess hall.

  Troy stood. He could feel the other cadets watching him, wondering where he was about to be taken. Wondering if they would be next.

  This was the final exam. If he passed, he would be a Teller. If he failed, he would be kicked out of the academy. Either way, he would never see this room again.

  The test seemed to take about three minutes. After each cadet left the mess hall there was about two minutes of silence, then a distant bang. A minute later, the next name was called.

  ‘Target practice,’ Yuri had guessed. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘We’ve done target practice,’ Troy had said.

  ‘Maybe the bullseye is really far away this time, and they only give you one chance to hit it. They want to make sure we can handle the pressure.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a gunshot,’ Verner had whispered. ‘It’s some kind of explosion. Maybe they make the cadet defuse a bomb.’

  ‘If that’s the case, every single person has failed so far,’ Yuri had replied.

  Standing in the mess hall doorway with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Vartaniev looked grim, but that was nothing new. Troy walked over and snapped out a salute.

  ‘Sir,’ Troy said.

  Vartaniev nodded and led him out of the mess hall, through a winding corridor and up a narrow staircase. The walk took forty seconds, which gave Troy only eighty seconds until the bang, whatever it was.

  Vartaniev led Troy to a row of steel doors with numbers engraved on them. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. ‘Don’t disappoint me,’ he said. He unlocked a door and pushed Troy inside, then followed him in.

  It was a cell with chipped concrete walls. There was a barred window, too narrow to let in much light. A man in a prison uniform made from rough brown fabric knelt on the floor. His arms were chained behind his back. A black cloth bag covered his head. A hammer lay on the floor, just out of his reach.

  Vartaniev held out an MP-443 Grach pistol. ‘Kill this man,’ he said.

  Troy felt as though the world had started rotating on a different axis. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘To demonstrate your loyalty to Besmar.’

  ‘But . . . what did he do?’

  Vartaniev pressed the gun into Troy’s hand. ‘That’s not your concern,’ he said.

  Troy noticed for the first time that the room smelled faintly of vomit. Perhaps the last cadet had thrown up during this test. Troy thought he might do the same. He had known that at some point he might need to kill for his country. But not an unarmed man, and not so soon. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘You were prepared to let Yuri drown in the river because I ordered you not to intervene. This is no different.’

  It felt different. But Troy, in his panic, couldn’t articulate why.

  ‘Maybe this man blew up a school and murdered hundreds of Besmari children,’ Vartaniev said. ‘Maybe he’s a walking bioweapon, carrying a virus which will kill millions if he lives long enough to incubate it. Maybe he’s the one who killed your father.’

  Tears stung Troy’s eyes. ‘Is he?’

  ‘You don’t know. All you know is that I am ordering you to shoot him in the head.’

  The gun seemed to weigh as much as the moon. He could hear the prisoner’s shaky breaths.

  ‘Please,’ Troy said.

  ‘Someday, hundreds of Besmari lives may depend on you doing exactly what I say, when I say it,’ Vartaniev continued. ‘Even if it doesn’t seem to make sense. Even if it’s scary. Even if it feels wr
ong. I need to know that you will follow my orders without question. That you will have faith.’

  Troy didn’t have the power to save this man’s life. If he refused to pull the trigger, he would be sent home – not that he had a home to go to – and the next cadet would kill the prisoner. Or the one after that. Or Vartaniev would.

  He had heard what must have been a gunshot after every cadet left the mess hall. Everyone else had passed this test.

  ‘Don’t think,’ Vartaniev said. ‘On the battlefield, thinking gets you killed. Just act.’

  The prisoner lowered his head. Troy thought he might be praying.

  To drive away the fear and guilt, Troy recited the lyrics of the national anthem in his head. Our mountains beautiful, our rivers mighty. He took aim at the prisoner’s head. Our people, strong and brave.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Click. The firing pin had been removed.

  ‘Very good,’ Vartaniev said. ‘You’re ready.’

  He picked up the hammer and struck the steel door. Bang.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Vartaniev said.

  ‘You too,’ Fero lied.

  Dozens of memories floated to the surface. Fero couldn’t force them down again. Seeing Vartaniev brought it all back.

  Troy had tried to cut a Librarian’s throat. He would have succeeded if Cormanenko hadn’t shot him. She hadn’t lied about that. Afterwards he had been deemed incompetent and expendable, so Vartaniev had sent him to kill Noelein. That was true, too. Even knowing that this was a suicide mission – eight other soldiers had died in previous attempts – Troy had followed his orders. By then, that was all he knew how to do.

  Fero had tried so hard to remember. Now he would give anything to forget. It wasn’t just the Librarian’s terrified face as Troy raised the knife. It was the lack of guilt or uncertainty in Troy’s mind. If he had killed the Librarian – a human being, who had once been a giggling baby, who probably had family and friends who loved him – he would have slept soundly. After the debriefing, he would have all but forgotten the incident.

  For the first time, Fero wasn’t angry at Noelein for robbing him of his identity. Fero Dremovich may not have been a real person, but at least he wasn’t a monster. When the Library brainwashed him, they had given back some of the compassion that the Bank had scrubbed away. He would have been grateful if he hadn’t been so terrified.