Children Of The Deterrent

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  They were built like me. Just shorter. And I couldn't see much sign of intelligence.

  Hybrids. If that's what they were, I wasn't impressed. If Hopkins had been trying to scare me, he'd failed.

  "Looks like they fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down," I said, with more bravado than I felt. "Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber."

  "Very droll. Trigger them."

  "Do what?" Then I realised that last remark wasn't meant for me. I swung back towards the hybrids. Their expressions changed, their pupils shrinking then expanding, their bodies shaking. I knew that feeling. Tweedledumber made a strange cracking noise with his mouth and spat something onto the floor in a spray of blood.

  It was his thumb.

  I looked back up. They were both staring at me now. Still without any obvious intelligence, but with purpose. Hey, a great white shark may not be able to solve a crossword, but he can take off your leg with one bite.

  They ran at me.

  Oh, shit.

  22

  I ran for it.

  I had to buy myself some time to think. I didn't know how strong the hybrids were, but if they were as powerful as they looked, I might be in trouble if they caught me. Especially as I had only managed half a night's sleep since the last use of my power. It wasn't as if Station would trigger me in turn, give me an adrenaline boost to match theirs. I wondered if I could outrun them. I could.

  They lumbered after me at a fast trot, but I easily outpaced them. The problem was, we were sealed in a small, L-shaped section of corridor. Each side of the L was about twenty yards long.

  I reached the second door and turned. The terrible twins were already round the corner. They were making a horrible, growling noise, more animal than human. The blood on Tweedledumber's face and the blood-gushing stump where his thumb had been made him look like a monster in a Hammer horror film.

  Their attention was focussed on me.

  "Can we talk about this?"

  Well, it was worth a try. But they weren't up for a chat. These boys were more basic. Kill or die. Binary logic.

  Like me a few hours previously.

  I timed my move well. As they narrowed the gap between us, I ran straight at them and jumped. I never thought I'd have cause to be grateful to Station's architects, but right then, I could have kissed them. Nice high ceilings, about twelve feet. Victorian, perhaps. I didn't have time to check for ceiling roses.

  I cleared their heads by about three feet, hit the floor and ran back the way I'd come. At the corner, I looked over my shoulder. They were slow to react, running until they reached the second steel barrier, before turning, snarling and spitting.

  My brain would have to get me out of this. I couldn't keep avoiding them indefinitely. I guessed I might be stronger one on one, but there were two of them, and I was tired.

  I scanned the first corridor. One door led off it. There had been two doors in the other side of the L. If the layout of the parts of Station I was familiar with was any guide, they would be dead ends. One or two rooms behind each door, but with lower ceilings. It would be much harder to avoid the hybrids inside.

  I kicked open the first door, hoping for weapons. I found a caretaker's cupboard, full of mops, brushes and cleaning equipment.

  A glance was all I had time for before I had to run for the steel door again.

  The twins stuck to their strategy, which consisted of running towards me while making horrible noises. I knew they intended to rip me limb from limb if they caught me, but I hoped they would hit their wall at some point, just as I always did. I didn't know when it might happen, and I couldn't afford to rely on it occurring before they got hold of me.

  I repeated the same trick, leaping over their heads. Tweedledumb made a grab for me, but his arms were so massive it made it hard for him to reach directly above his head. Luckily for me.

  I sprinted harder this time, giving myself time to kick open both doors in the other corridor. The first opened into a classroom, complete with whiteboard, TV, and a few rows of chairs. Nothing useful.

  I had read a terrible book back when I was overweight and working on my self-esteem. The author claimed I could have anything I wanted. All I had to do was ask the universe for it, and it would be mine. I wondered why the author hadn't asked the universe to make her rich rather than rely on millions of desperate people with anxiety or depression to stump up fifteen quid each. I knew the book was bilge, but at that moment, I admit, I asked the universe to send me an armoury packed with big, easy to use, weapons.

  The universe said no. The next room was an office. Unless the psychotic twins had a fear of staplers or were dangerously allergic to A4 paper, I was out of luck.

  I barely made it over them the next time.

  My brain chose that moment to put a useless image into my head. I'd had a retro-style arcade game at home, and by far my favourite game had been Donkey Kong. It had just occurred to me that all those hours perfecting the art of jumping over barrels rolled at me by a giant gorilla had been excellent practice for timing my leaps over the heads of the Tweedles. And to think Mum had said I was wasting my time like the lazy, fat little shit I was. Just goes to show.

  As if the Donkey Kong comparison had given my subconscious time to work up a little magic, a useful fact chose that moment to surface. Drain cleaner contains hydrochloric acid. Or was it sulphuric? I hadn't been paying that much attention in science class. I just knew drain cleaner was bad. Which, in my current situation, meant good.

  As I ran, I looked into the cleaning cupboard. There were four shelves, and I only had time to check one as I shot past, my pursuers thundering after me. I started with the bottom shelf and checked the next shelf up on each subsequent pass. Naturally, the drain cleaner was on the top shelf.

  I was planning what I needed to do as I jumped over the twins' heads one more time. My timing was off. Tweedledumb got a meaty hand on my ankle and slammed me to the floor, coming down with me.

  I managed to get my arm up and take some of the force out of my fall. If I had been concussed, I'd be dead. As it was, I was able to kick out with my other foot. I felt it make satisfying contact in the middle of Tweedledumb's head, spreading his nose across his face. If anything, it actually improved his looks.

  I felt his grip loosen but still couldn't pull my left foot away. I put my right boot on the edge of the left and pushed hard. The boot came off, Tweedledumb still hanging on to it. I scuttled backwards, but Tweedledumber was quicker. He fell onto my leg and, without a second's hesitation, sank his teeth into my foot.

  The pain was immediate and unprecedented. I had once had anaesthetic wear off during a root canal, but that was an absolute pleasure compared to the messages my nerve-endings were currently sending to my brain. I screamed, then looked on in disbelief as the misshapen creature bit through skin, muscle, sinew, and bone. I remembered the day I'd taken a drill to my toe with no result other than a ruined drill bit. What kind of power could push teeth through my flesh?

  I saw his lips meet, and I was abruptly released. He had three of my toes and part of my foot in his mouth. He spat, then fought his twin over the grisly tidbit.

  I skidded backwards on my arse, then stood and hobbled as fast as I could back to the cleaning cupboard. I knew I wouldn't be doing any more leaping today. No more jumping any barrels. It was nearly game over.

  I grabbed the drain cleaner as the twins grew bored with their prize (or ate it, I don't really want to think about it) and resumed their pursuit.

  Childproof caps. Why? I mean, I know why, I understand the logic, but wouldn't it make more sense to lock the sodding cupboard if you've got a toddler?

  I had run out of coordination, patience, and time. Lucky I'm so bloody strong. I ripped the cap away from the bottle as they came round the corner, held the five-litre container between my palms, and waited, despite every instinct in my body screaming, "DO IT NOW!"

  When they were close enough for me to smell their foul breath, (foot and
toe carpaccio, anyone?) I tilted the container and squeezed it flat, its contents spraying directly into the Twins' faces, before throwing myself to one side. My bleeding foot sent fresh waves of agony up my leg.

  The Tweedles took no evasive action at all, still completely focussed on their crippled prey. The drain cleaner went into their eyes and mouths, and the reaction was instant. They clutched at their faces making guttural sounds of pain, fingers scrabbling at their flesh, leading to their fingertips burning.

  Despite being blinded, they weren't done with me. Tweedledumber was closest to where I had fallen, and he reached out, stumbling towards my position. This was what I had been hoping for, and I swept my leg across his ankles, bringing him down on his front. Immediately, I leaped onto his back and rolled, wrapping my arms around his chest. He was so wide I could only just get my fingers together across his ribs, interlocking them and holding tight.

  I rolled him face-to-face with his blinded twin, whose wild punches now found a target.

  They fought each other with insane ferocity. I held onto the back of Tweedledumber as he punched, kicked, jabbed, tore and bit, while receiving the same treatment. The air was speckled with droplets of blood, and all I could hear were snarls, panting, and the ripping of flesh. I clung on to my perch as if my life depended on it, which it very much did. It was like riding a bucking bronco designed by HP Lovecraft.

  It seemed to take forever, but gradually, the fight lost some of its ferocity, the blows coming less frequently. There was so much blood on the floor I was amazed they were still conscious. Then I remembered how much of it had likely poured out of my foot and wondered how I was still conscious.

  The killing blow came from Tweedledumb, who had been pummelling Tweedledumber's neck. With a nasty, permanent-sounding crack, something gave in Tweedledumber's throat, and I loosened my grip as he rolled away. He emitted one last croak that sounded like an outraged frog.

  I may have cramped his style somewhat by clinging to his back for the entire fight.

  There was still the surviving Tweedle to deal with. He was gasping now, his acid-blinded eyes a reddened, bloody mess, his fists swinging in front of his face. I didn't move. His movements got progressively weaker as he wound down like a clockwork monkey.

  About ten seconds after he stopped moving, I leaned over and prodded him. Nothing. He was dead.

  I dragged myself over to the wall and leaned against it, my sight blurring. I wondered how much blood I had lost. I also wondered why it was my foot didn't hurt anymore. In fact, I couldn't feel my left leg at all. Was that good? On balance, I thought, probably not.

  It was almost a relief when the gas hissed in from the vents in the wall. My head sagged, and the floor smacked me between the eyes.

  23

  Cressida

  November 13th, 1978

  It's been a horrible couple of months. I haven't felt like writing at all. Everything is going wrong, but I am powerless to do anything about it. I keep reminding myself that I am working for my country, that national security is at stake, and that my opinion counts for nothing in Station.

  But still.

  Abos has changed.

  I didn't notice much the first few times I was allowed to speak to him. With Carstairs present. It was the fourth Friday meeting that upset me.

  The first thing I noticed over the weeks was that Abos was asking even fewer questions. I've got used to leaving gaps after telling him something so that he can digest it then ask a question. He's stopped doing that. He seems much less curious about the outside world than before.

  Oh. I have to be honest, don't I? This is my diary, after all. It's the way he looks at me that's the real problem. Or rather, the way he looks at me compared to the way he used to look at me. On the third Friday, he didn't make much eye contact at all. Then, the following Friday, he actually looked me up and down. In a kind of calculating way. Oh, God, Cress, just say it. It was sexual. The look he gave me lingered on my breasts. I was horribly uncomfortable, it just felt inappropriate. Then I glanced at Carstairs and felt worse. He was watching Abos's face with interest and making notes.

  Someone else has taken over Abos's education. I had assumed that would happen. It's not as if I'm remotely qualified. But I still felt hurt. I'm struggling to come to terms with my diminished role in Abos's life, and having him look at me like I was a piece of meat really didn't help.

  I say 'education,' but I'm not sure that it's the correct word. Abos talked a little about what he had learned recently. He spoke about the British Empire, but as he spoke, it became clear that he considered the Empire to have been a golden age. According to Abos, the world at large had misunderstood Great Britain's colonial incursions, by considering them as hostile and damaging to the countries affected. On the contrary, he told me, the world had missed an opportunity to embrace the values of the greatest nation on the planet. To listen to him, you'd think they should approach us, cap in hand, begging for the opportunity to put the queen on their banknotes and start drinking tea.

  During this horribly skewed diatribe, I looked across at Carstairs again. He shook his head. I'm still on probation, was the unspoken warning. I didn't know what to do. I still don't. So they're giving him a white-washed version of our nation's history. It can't hurt, can it? Abos was speaking from the moment he was 'born', so I'm confident he's intelligent enough to draw his own conclusions. He's no pushover.

  Except...he's changed. He was looking at Carstairs for approval occasionally. It was so strange. Like a child checking with a parent.

  And when Abos wasn't looking at me as if he wanted to see me naked, he wasn't really looking at all. Those golden eyes stared right through me as if I were invisible.

  It sounds stupid, I know, but I feel bereaved. Where has Abos gone?

  Diary, my immediate impulse was to leave Station. I feel rejected. But I'm old enough to have stopped acting on first impulses a long time ago. I examined my motives for leaving and found them wanting. I was being selfish. Abos is surrounded by scientists and the military, living in an underground bunker. I'm the closest thing to a 'normal' person he has. He may not know it but he needs me. At least, I think he does, and that will have to do. I'm staying.

  24

  January 1st, 1979.

  Happy New Year. I'm still here.

  Everything changed for the worst when Carstairs turned up, and it hasn't got any better.

  From Station's perspective, Carstairs' work with Abos has been a success. I don't know if I was being naive, or wilfully ignoring the obvious, but Station obviously intends to use Abos as some kind of supersoldier. When I brought this up with Roger last week, he shrugged.

  "More of an international ambassador for Britain, I guess."

  "An international ambassador who is bulletproof, can fly, and has superpowers?"

  "Well. Yes. Why not?" Roger lit his pipe. I can't believe he's taken to smoking a pipe. It's such an affectation. It makes him look older. He's let himself go over the last few years, his pot belly growing as fast as his hair has receded. I can hardly believe I was ever attracted to him. The contrast between him and Abos is so pronounced now that no one would ever guess the source of Abos's DNA.

  Mike and McKean have been working on a theory about Abos's use of genetic material. From the blood Abos has allowed them to take, they found nothing other than what they'd expect to find in a human. Mike suggested taking a skin sample - something they have been unable to do up to now, as Abos's skin is so unyielding. Since Abos's conversion to the Great British cause (such cynicism, Cress), he has been more willing to cooperate fully, and he used his own fingernail to provide a skin sample. Mike found two distinct types of cells. One type was human, the other was not. The type which was not human has not yielded any more information, as it is impossible to break it down still further, and the laboratory instruments—which are the best available—are unable to unlock Abos's secrets. The team's report to Hopkins concluded that future technological developments may one day
discover how skin can be mostly human, yet bulletproof. They take the long-term view of scientists.

  Hopkins does not.

  He burst into the lab just after Christmas, holding the report between two fingers as if it were so distasteful he could hardly bring himself to touch it.

  "You are supposed to be the best scientists working in the fields of chemistry, biology, genetics, and technology. Correct?"

  No one was sure if this was rhetorical or if Hopkins required an answer. Either way, he didn't wait long enough to get one.

  "If this is the best you can do, you'd better start considering other careers."

  He flicked through the report and quoted it.

  "'Although current computer processing speed is not yet sufficiently powerful, we believe that the next decade may bring advances capable of producing machines that can model the cellular complexity of The Asset's skin samples. Even if this proves possible, there is, as yet, no way of reproducing anything close to the biological material we have sampled. We can merely express awe at the subject's capabilities, and hand our findings to those who will come after us.'"

  Hopkins paused and gave us the full benefit of his cold sneer. "We can merely express awe?"

  He closed the report and made sure he had everyone's attention.

  "You will be handing over your findings sooner than you think if you don't start producing results. The military opportunities afforded by The Asset is unprecedented, but he is one individual. Work harder. Find a way to reproduce these abilities. I am halving annual leave until further notice."

  No one said a word. I looked around the room and became painfully aware of how much has changed since Abos was first discovered. The excitement back then was palpable, the sense of being present at such a historic moment. Now, the excitement has been replaced with a kind of resignation. When Hopkins dropped the report on the floor and walked out, no one protested. I looked at each face and saw defeat. Then we all went back to work.