“None, apart from this,” Maria said.
“Give me the address, let me know if you find anyone, and I’ll take it from here.”
“And let them slip through our fingers?” Meakin said. “With all due respect, you’re a relic. We haven’t been this close in two years, and I can’t let you turn it into a dog’s dinner with your archaic techniques.”
“With slightly less respect," Luke said, “you're not thinking this through. The strap’s only been used once, to follow me. What's the owner’s assumption if a bunch of claycops raid its current location?”
Meakin scowled, sat back in his chair, and folded his arms behind his head, revealing damp patches on the armpits of his shirt.
Lynch slowly nodded. “They’ll know they just identified an undercover agent.”
“My guess is they left it there for a reason,” Luke said. “And if you haven’t caught them in ten years, they won’t be stupid enough to hang around.”
“This is the kind of nuance we’ve been lacking. Are you heading over now?”
“I’m not bumbling into a potential ambush or openly exposing myself to whoever it is. Confirm if you pick up any heat signatures, and I’ll deal with it after I’ve interrogated McClaren. Right now, I think we’d all benefit from sleep.”
Chapter 15
A message notification beeped on Luke's smart-strap. He stretched his aching neck after an uncomfortable sleep on the cell's bouncy plastic mattress and twisted his wrist toward his face. Maria had sent a note saying she’d be down in two minutes with breakfast and that McClaren had been unplugged at Wandsworth prison and delivered to the PCC.
Luke scrolled through McClaren's personal file again. The convicted bomber chose to defend himself during his trial; historically an arrogant mistake which typically killed any chance of a reduced sentence. The footage, DNA at the scene, and witness accounts made it a straightforward case. During sentencing, McClaren lectured the judge about personal freedom and how he’d enjoy a pure life away from technology once free.
After considering the information, Luke decided on a dire consequences strategy for his interrogation. He’d pump up the fear levels of non-cooperation to see how much McClaren valued his life compared to his beliefs.
Footsteps approached along the corridor. He crossed the cramped cell to a sink, splashed his face with cold water, and swallowed a tablet. A faint whiff of stale body odor lingered around him, meaning a shower and change of clothes took priority after breakfast.
Maria entered the cell, fresh-faced with brown hair flowing over her shoulders, and she looked far more appealing than the two bowls of light green slop she carried on a tray, along with spoons and two headsets. She set it down on the bed. “Sleep well?”
“Better than the food looks, which isn’t saying a lot.”
“It tastes like crap. That’s why I brought headsets.”
Luke prodded his finger into a bowl, licked it, and grimaced. “Cold broad beans? I’m guessing a VR program mimics a different taste?”
“Smell and texture too.”
“Do you use it a lot?”
“Most people outside Zone Seven eat using semi-immersion. Why bother cooking beef stroganoff when a bowl of vegetables and a headset cut out the hassle?”
“Cooking isn’t a hassle. I’ll make you a wicked chicken curry one day.”
Maria smiled, powered up the headsets, and passed him one. “It’s not like we can’t eat out. VR’s a healthy convenience and allows us to maximize our crops, simple as that. Do you want your eggs fried, scrambled or poached?"
“Fried. May as well go for the least healthy option under the circumstances.”
“Coming right up.”
Luke’s strap pinged with a meal invitation. He accepted without thinking, and realized Maria had gained his trust. An ideal scenario for future cooperation as effective communication relied on it. He placed on the headset, the visor’s HUD registered a personal connection, and he waited.
A smell of fried food filled the room. Maria scooped slop into her mouth, chewed with her eyes closed, and let out a satisfied moan. Luke grabbed the other spoon and took a mouthful. The odd texture, like fluffy mousse laced with rubber balls, wasn’t similar to fried eggs, but it had an authentic taste with a hint of pepper.
They both quickly finished their meals and took off the headsets.
“First impression?” Maria asked.
“Pretty good, thanks, but we best get down to business. I need some non-Timetronic clothing and a wash before I interrogate McClaren.”
“The changing room usually has a box of unclaimed stuff. It's up the stairs, first on your right.”
“Excellent. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Maria reached out and gently wrapped her hand around his forearm. “You can talk to me if you want?”
“I’ll brief you on our way back to Zone Seven,” Luke said and broke free of her grip. “McClaren might provide a lead.”
She moved close again and said in a softer voice, “I mean, what happened to you. It can’t be easy jumping fifty years ahead. Losing family, friends …”
Luke met Maria’s concerned gaze. For a moment he sensed she saw straight past his job, reputation, and history, and viewed the real person deep inside; a person who didn’t have much beyond superficial skills and a logical brain programmed for intelligence work. A wave of paranoia hit him and he backed away from her.
Former colleagues and terrorists never looked beyond his exterior, and it suited him. Psychologists, with fake frowns and leather-bound pads, attempted to deconstruct him during his time in hospital but he had blocked them out. With Maria it was different, she could see him, and none of his previous experience helped him understand why.
“Luke, are you okay?” Maria asked.
He rapidly shook his head and told himself to fall back on his guiding principle. The terrorist threat transcended any personal emotions and he had to shut them out. Clear objectives gave him structure and a way forward with tangible goals.
“Luke!”
“Sorry, still a bit dopey after waking.”
Luke turned, left the cell, and focused on his immediate priority. He charged up the steps, authenticated through the security door, and entered the changing room. It only took a minute of searching between rows of lockers to find a pine box stuffed with clothes and footwear. He rummaged through the contents and found some relatively clean blue jeans, a red polo shirt, and a pair of boots in reasonable condition.
The stylus he had snatched at the facility fell out of his cargo pants while he stripped off. He picked it up, grunted at the minor sentimentality it evoked, and slipped it into the pocket of his new jeans as a macabre souvenir.
After a quick shower, he returned to the basement.
Maria stood outside the cell. “Feeling better?” she asked.
“Top of the world. Got anything to take notes?”
“A scroll, why?”
“Join the interrogation and record McClaren’s responses. I might miss something.”
“No worries. Hey, you're not going to…” She broke eye contact. “Forget about it.”
“I’m not going to what?” Luke asked. She remained silent and pretended to read her strap, though he could see it was on a desert island screensaver. “Maria, trust is a two-way street. Spit it out.”
“I read about the ways we used to make people talk. Waterboarding, stress positions, walling. I’m not sure I can—”
“Not today,” Luke interrupted before she got too far into the realms of fantasy. “History used to be written by the winners. It changed to a more factual version of events around the turn of the century. I'm not saying it never happened, but claims are exaggerated.”
“So you didn’t …”
“No, I didn’t. I’d waterboard someone in a heartbeat if I thought it was the only way to save innocent lives, but we have better options. Psychological is more powerful and productive than physical.”
Maria visi
bly relaxed then led Luke along a polished corridor, and through a thick metal door. A female guard stood behind a lectern, next to a wide staircase that descended into darkness.
“We’re here to see Kevin McClaren,” Maria said. “Casola and Porterfield.”
“Observation room three,” the guard said. “Make sure you put him back when you leave.”
“Any other visitors since his unplug?” Luke asked.
The guard shot him a suspicious glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Maria said. She gripped Luke’s arm, more firmly than in the cell, and pulled him toward the steps.
“I needed to know,” Luke said.
“It’s standard prisoner procedure for direct transfer to confinement. He’s only here to see us. It’s straight back to Wandsworth after we’re done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
They descended to a dark walkway. Ten steel doors ran along the left side, each with a yellow electronic number above casting a weak shaft of light against the opposite wall, making it look more like a squalid Amsterdam brothel than a temporary prison.
Luke followed Maria to number three and she opened the door.
McClaren lay star-shaped on a padded 45º platform, his pale face partially concealed by a VR headset. Semi-circular steel bands secured his wrists and ankles while transport system electronic stimulation wires dangled from his black rubber suit.
The screen above had a view of a man looking down at his body, standing in chest-high water. A small black fish swam up and nibbled his knee.
McClaren’s left leg twitched.
Luke took a step back to observe both at the same time. On screen, the feet moved across a seabed, throwing up small clouds of sand, and stopped by a bushy column of gently swaying seaweed. An eel slithered out and bit his right toe. McClaren’s right leg twitched.
“What the hell?” Luke said.
“It’s controlled VR,” Maria said. “You can’t disengage.”
“Everyone in confinement is attacked by virtual sea life?”
“There’s tons of different scenarios. A prisoner gets cycled between meals and automatically returns to the one that induces the highest heart rate. I used to watch a guy we called The Sopwith Camel. He was strapped to the wing of a biplane that dived toward an erupting volcano.”
“You watched for entertainment?” Luke asked as he continued to view the screen. A shark fin sliced through the water's surface toward the man. “I didn't have you pinned as a sadist.”
“I only watched as a kid. Funnily enough, it slashed prison crime by fifty-percent and it’s not like you can see their faces.”
The shark fin dipped. A heart rate monitor on the bottom left of the screen jumped to 150 beats-per-minute. Luke reached over and yanked off the headset, revealing the full face of a balding middle-aged man.
McClaren gasped and opened his eyes. He gave Luke a wild-eyed stare, struggled against his restraints, and scanned the observation room.
“Mister McClaren,” Luke said. “I’ll give you a minute to settle down before we conduct our business.”
Maria took a rolled piece of black metal from her pocket and unfurled it. It snapped into a stiff rectangle, and an electronic screen blinked to life. Luke ignored the misgivings he had about the solitary solution and reminded himself he faced a man prepared to blow up a cultural icon.
McClaren’s breathing gradually eased and his hands unclenched. “Am I free?”
“I'm afraid not,” Luke said. “I'm here representing the government and have bad news. In accordance with the Resource Act of 2087, your status has changed. There's no easy way to say this—”
“Cut the Machiavellian horse shit,” McClaren snapped, flashing a capped set of yellow front teeth and a streak of pseudo-intellectualism. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Sir, I'm just doing my job,” Luke said, keeping a calm and officious demeanor. “Due to the increased strain on resources, all treason and terrorist related life sentences have been upgraded to the death penalty. I’m here to take your last statement, and you have the right to a final meal.”
The cocky expression faded from McClaren’s face. Maria tapped her scroll.
“I don’t believe you,” McClaren said. “You’re not the first government apparatchik who’s tried to bully me.”
Luke sighed, partly because of the act, but also because he imagined Meakin standing over the prisoner, issuing clumsy threats. “I've another five prisoners to process today. If you don’t want to make a statement, that’s fine with me. Would you like a meal?”
McClaren stared into Luke’s eyes, searching for a truth he wouldn’t find. The mistake most terrorists made was thinking they were smarter than everyone else. The few who possessed real intelligence made minions like McClaren do their bidding.
“Would you like a final meal?” Luke repeated. “Options are limited, but I’ll try to accommodate your request.”
“You’re serious …”
“Look, I’ve got sympathy with your cause, but it ended two decades ago, and I’m simply here to do a job. They’re already preparing the execution chamber at Wandsworth.”
“So that’s it? No appeal or plea for clemency?”
Luke shook his head and rested his hand on McClaren's shoulder, making sure the terrorist got a full view of the forearm scarring. “It's 2093; that ship sailed years ago. If it's any consolation, I hear you don't feel a thing.”
“You’ve served time transport time, Judas.”
“My crime wasn’t against the State,” Luke pretended to check the time on his strap. “I’ll ask once more. Would you like to make a statement or have a meal?”
McClaren closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The false realization had probably dawned and he faced the simple truth most idealists hated when it came to the crunch: their life was more important to them than their beliefs. Only idiots died for extremist causes.
“I need an answer, sir,” Luke said.
“Is there a way out? If you show me evidence what you say is right."
Luke moved closer to McClaren and keeping his voice low said, “Voluntary contrition gets your sentence commuted back to fifty years. The bombings stopped years ago so you’re not selling anyone down the river. Give me a name and I'll see what I can do."
“Her name goes with me to the grave.”
The revelation only cut the field of suspects to fifty percent of the adult population. Not sufficient enough to leave the PCC with a solid lead.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,” Luke said. “I’m here by legal obligation.”
“Are we done here?” Maria asked Luke. “You’ll drop us in the brown stuff again.”
Luke feigned a grim expression and bowed his head.
“Not the name,” McClaren said. “Anything but that.”
“I don't know the details of your case,” Luke said, "Did you steal any government resources? You need to specifically admit the information and apologize.”
“We need to go,” Maria added.
“I’m sorry,” Luke said and reached for the headset.
McClaren’s eyes darted between Luke and Maria. “The Waltham Abbey warehouse. Fertilizer. Tell them I’m sorry.”
“Anything else?”
“What more do you need? Go see for yourself.”
The only thing Luke needed was a weapon. He had the actionable information he required to proceed, and McClaren could return to serving his transport time, safe in the knowledge he wasn't facing capital punishment.
“Is that enough?” McClaren asked.
“That’s enough,” Luke said.
“Wait—”
Luke placed the headset back on McClaren, his limbs relaxed, and the screen above him returned to an image of the sea.
Maria rolled up her scroll and shoved it in her thigh pocket. “What’s next?”
“We find out who followed me from The Mega Dive
and take a trip to Waltham Abbey. Something tells me the two are linked and we’ll know soon enough.”
Luke turned toward the door, not wanting to witness any more virtual attacks, and suffered a tinge of sadness at consigning a fellow human back to the same fate he had suffered. But if anyone deserved it, it was a man prepared to inflict terror on the population. More importantly, if the terrorists were still taking fertilizer from the warehouse, he had the perfect opportunity to catch them red handed.
Chapter 16
Luke strolled past King’s Cross station’s giant, double arched facade and along a gloomy side street. He had scouted the perimeter of the disused transport hub during the afternoon, casually walking amongst pedestrians, and discovered a boarded up entrance hanging open. The last GPS coordinates reported from the suspicious strap, before it detached from the network, placed it in the vicinity of the internal platforms.
On the opposite side of the road, somewhere in the darkness behind a third-floor window of the Great Northern Hotel, Maria looked on. Her job was to message if anyone followed him inside. Two groups of teenagers had entered and left the station during their last six hours of observation, and Meakin messaged saying the drones detected no other heat signatures, confirming whoever left the strap didn’t hang around.
Eight people walked along the dark footpath, going about their business in the blandly named Zone Three. Luke waited for them to disappear before taking one last look in either direction, and he slipped behind the thin, wooden board.
Bright moonlight shone through the station’s barrel-vaulted glass and steel roof, casting a patterned grid across the ground. He drew his Timetronic-issued 9mm semiautomatic pistol from his concealed carry holster and held it in a two-handed grip. Lynch didn’t hesitate when granting his weapons request before he left the PCC, and had promised again that his team would stay out of the investigation.
Luke kept to the shadows along the left-hand side of the station and headed for the platforms. Metal tables and chairs lay on their sides in front of the shattered remains of a coffee shop window. The other outlets had their shutters pulled down and secured with rust-speckled padlocks. Maria had told him the station closed thirty years ago after the pod network went live, and King’s Cross was due for redevelopment after the government completed the Millennium Dome residential conversion.
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