by V J Kavanagh
He followed Penny to the timber-framed shops lining the street. As usual, a jeweller’s window entranced her. A falling population had resulted in an abundance of second-hand stock.
Her beaming face almost touched the glass, ‘Wow, look at that. Middle tray, second row down, fourth one in.’
He leant in, following her finger to a diamond solitaire ring, ‘I can’t see it, it’s hiding behind that ginormous price tag.’
The point of her elbow found his ribcage. ‘We both know where your credits go.’ Her head turned towards the Aegis. ‘Paying for that thing.’
Steve nodded at her necklace. ‘And that.’
Penny’s hand reached up to the silver pendant, the dolphin’s sapphire eye sparkled. She tiptoed and kissed him. ‘Yes. And that.’
Steve hadn’t bought it, but it was his to give away. Penny’s silver dolphin had an identical twin, buried in a small coffin at Saint Mary’s church on the outskirts of Peterborough.
He locked his arm into hers. ‘Come on, I’m hungry.’
The sign for the Blue Boar hung off the front of a crooked building; its brick filled oak frame had stood for over five hundred years. It wouldn’t have to stand for much longer.
Inside, leaded windows sieved daylight over wooden tables and chairs spread across a flagstone floor. Conversations and the aroma of home-cooked food wafted up to the low ceiling beams and glass lamp holders.
Steve veered towards the bar. ‘You grab a table, I’ll get the drinks. Usual?’
‘No, I’ll have a raspberry fizz please.’
He returned with two soft drinks and found Penny sitting at a window table.
A young woman in a coffee dress and beige apron appeared, carrying a menu board and a smile.
‘Hello, I’m Mary, welcome to the Blue Boar.’ Her voice carried the accent of a local and her glasses marked her as a Drone.
While Penny ordered, Steve stared out through the criss-cross windowpanes. You could almost believe in the Potemkin facade, almost.
An unwelcome voice drew him back to reality, ‘Penny!’
Her Uncle Celbrohn and three others had arrived at an adjacent table. Steve’s gaze flicked between Celbrohn’s twisted smile and Penny’s furrowed brow. Steve had met the obnoxious Uncle Celbrohn on several occasions. Average build, average height, with a mop of raven hair sitting over a razor-sharp face. His most striking feature was a shiny horseshoe moustache, the way he stroked it, the most disturbing.
Twelve years ago, Celbrohn’s in-laws had sold a successful chain of restaurants to a Continuity Baron, although not by choice. For six generations of investment and twenty-eight restaurants, they’d received two thousand credits and a five-thousand credits capital gains demand. Celbrohn had married into wealth and joined Continuity. He was still Continuity, but no longer affiliated to the plutocracy who profited from it.
The corners of Penny’s mouth strained upwards. ‘Hello, Uncle. I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Why? Didn’t you think I could afford to eat here?’
Steve felt Penny’s hand ball under his. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
Celbrohn dismissed her with a hand flick. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
Throughout the brief exchange, Celbrohn had ignored Steve, as he had done during each of their previous encounters. Penny’s head drooped.
Steve squeezed her hand. ‘Forget it, Pen, he’s always the same.’ Before she could respond, the food arrived.
The meal was excellent, and the melting chocolate pudding had the desired effect. Penny’s playful smile returned, the one he’d fallen in love with three years before.
They timed their exit to coincide with Celbrohn’s absence from his table. Outside, the lazy afternoon sun added to their relaxed mood. As Steve passed a window, he peered in. Celbrohn’s chair remained empty.
‘Hold up, Pen, I need the loo.’
‘Why didn’t you go while you were in there?’
‘Sorry, won’t be long.’
Steve walked back into the Blue Boar and turned left.
A myriad of recessed spotlights reflected off chrome fittings and glazed white tiles. On his left, a line of basins sat opposite the cubicles. He flicked on a tap and took out his MCD. An Advocate’s Mutable Control Device did more than pay restaurant bills.
He tapped the screen. This wasn’t the first time he’d passed Celbrohn’s biofield through CONSEC’s Continuity Protection Files. As usual he found nothing, and as usual that surprised him. The only member of Celbrohn’s family who didn’t have a CPF against them was Penny. Steve had deleted it.
A toilet flushed.
Celbrohn didn’t make it to the door. Steve spun around; grabbed the camel leather jacket’s lapels and threw Celbrohn up against the tiled wall.
With one foot jammed against the door he studied Celbrohn’s incredulous face, ‘It’s very simple, don’t ever upset Penny again.’
Celbrohn’s head arched back, red heat crept up his neck and flowed into the crevice of a sneer. ‘Or what?’
Steve released his grip and straightened Celbrohn’s lapels. ‘Or the next time we meet, you won’t see me.’ He left Celbrohn glued to the wall and walked out.
Penny had made it as far as the second shop, ‘Better?’
‘Much thanks.’
The black and silver patrol car screeched to a halt before they’d reached the fifth shop. Doors opened and slammed shut.
‘Hey, you!’
Penny’s face wilted; her body shrank. ‘CONSEC.’ She looked up, desperate eyes searching his, ‘What did you do?’
Steve held her shoulders and smiled. ‘Nothing. Wait here, I’ll sort it.’
Her face solidified. ‘No, you won’t. He’s my Uncle.’
Steve increased the pressure. ‘Please, Pen. Having both of us there will only make it worse.’ Impossible in fact.
Two Defenders waited by the patrol car. Celbrohn stood nearby, stroking his greasy moustache.
Steve stopped two metres away.
‘Good afternoon, officers.’
They wore the slate-grey tunics, black epaulettes, and utility belts of CONSEC Grey. On their left chest pockets, sunlight glinted on the CONSEC badges’ four steel rings. The black diamond patches on their left arms carried a bronze number; Barlton came under the jurisdiction of District 7.
Celbrohn stabbed a finger at Steve, ‘That’s him. That’s who assaulted me.’
The bronze chevrons pinned to the mandarin collar of the right-hand Defender ranked him a Sergeant.
‘Thank you, sir, we’ll handle this.’ The Sergeant stepped towards Steve.
‘It’s been reported, sir, that you contravened directive eleven-five-seventeen, which prohibits the use of unauthorised force against Continuity.’
‘I work for the Food Ministry and I thought the gentleman was someone else, a rogue trader. I’m sorry.’
Celbrohn’s chin jerked up. ‘Yeah right.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his Personal Network Phone. ‘It’s all here, every word.’
Steve returned Celbrohn’s smile. His MCD disrupted unauthorised visual and audio receivers within a ten-metre radius. The question as to why Celbrohn was recording would have to wait.
The Sergeant reached inside the patrol car and retrieved a portable BRD. Steve turned to block Celbrohn’s view and pressed his thumb onto the biofield icon.
The Sergeant’s head sprung up, his eyes darted between Steve’s and the reader.
Steve leant in. ‘Like I said, I work for the Food Ministry and I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.’
‘I understand, sir. Do you need us to take any further action?’
‘No thanks.’ Steve lowered his voice, ‘This incident is closed, and unrecorded.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Without further comment, the Defenders climbed into their patrol car and sped away. For the second time that day, Celbrohn remained glued to the spot.
Steve returned to Penny and smiled; relief dropped from her shoulders.
‘What happened?’
He wrapped his arm around her. ‘Mistaken identity.’
There was only one logical explanation for Celbrohn’s unblemished record. Someone had deleted his CPF and that someone had to be an Advocate — or SIS.
* * * *
Steve drove Penny back to Rose Cottage before returning to Cool Breeze.
He slumped into the settee, swapped the brown MPS for his platinum one and tapped the screen. A smile formed as he listened to Jason’s message, he and Penny would be having dinner. The smile withered, Kalckburg. Steve knew the name, and the consequences of what he’d persuaded Jason to do.
His MCD sprang to life, vibrating the metal tabletop that separated the two leather settees. He picked it up, ‘000000000000000’. Irreversible call ID.
‘Hello, Steve. My name is Alex Shundo. Jason asked me to send you a birthday present. Please do not open it at your party.’
Steve stared at the MCD screen. Alex Shundo was a senior SCITECH on Provenance and Jason’s procurer of entertainment equipment that utilised proscribed technology. The Council had retarded technology on Earth to prevent the Resistance obtaining tech weaponry. It had been successful, although its adverse effect on education and healthcare had also helped to increase the Resistance’s popularity.
He’d never met Alex, which according to Jason was at Alex’s request. Steve suspected it was more to do with Jason’s desire to cut out any competition. Whatever the package was, Jason didn’t want it opened in public.
His gaze narrowed on a flashing icon, Jason again.
The message decrypted.
He sank back into the settee. The broken rings meant the Resistance had infiltrated CONSEC; their suicidal attack would not be far behind. Command placing him under a watch order could relate to one of two things. He was being assessed for Citadel or SIS had arrested Gerhard Kalckburg. The first involved his joining the Advocates in cryostasis on Provenance, the second his execution.
14:43 SAT 21:10:2119
Intra Zone, Seine-et-Marne, France, Sector 2
At the far end of the salle bleu, the viewscreen above the marble fireplace flickered into life. A grid of eight squares appeared within its gilded laurel frame, each one filled with a male face and each true identity known only to Francois. He placed his palms on the polished tabletop. ‘Lannes votre rapport.’
‘Heightened security at SF 12. Containers seen off loading into bunkers. Unable to verify cargo.’
Francois tapped his MCD screen. Storage Facility 12, Antwerp. ‘Continue surveillance. Davout?’
‘MP 14 production is now twenty-four hours.’
‘Continue surveillance.’ Francois had plans for MP 14, a Prefect manufacturing plant in the centre of Sector 2. Once guarded by hundreds of Defenders, it now guarded itself. ‘Suchet.’
‘Intelligence on new phase suit frequencies . . .’
It took ten minutes to receive the reports. Everyone spoke of increased activity and the Resistance’s recruitment drive continued to impress. Francois’s latest artificial variants were children, released that morning into capital cities throughout Sector 2. They would prove a valuable recruiting tool, invoking suppressed emotions and twisting people towards the Resistance. He leant back and smiled. Soon he would have what he needed most. An army.
‘You must begin to train with the APR immediately.’ His collaboration with SIS had given the Resistance access to proscribed technology. Their latest acquisition, an Accelerated Projectile Rail gun, would be their Prefect exterminateur. The irony pleased him; the Council were, albeit unknowingly, arming the Resistance.
His eight Marshals acknowledged. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bon. I have sent your orders for operation ‘Danzig’. Massena, how many?’
‘Four-hundred and twenty-seven, sir. Many have CONSEC experience.’
Francois’s head bobbed, ‘Excellent.’ He could not attack Provenance without SIS, nor could he trust them. Numerical supremacy would be his greatest weapon. ‘Au revoir et bonne chance.’
The faces within the gilded laurels sank beneath the chandelier’s mirrored reflection. Francois’s ancestors would be proud; his father and mother had been. After many abortive attempts, their laboratories had succeeded in creating a human destined to rule. Not least because Francois would outlive his generation by hundreds of years.
Favourite memories, and he had many, included those on their sun-baked terrace. Gazing out across the glittering bay of Cannes while listening to his father and the other Marshals plan Resistance operations.
In 2082, the Council voted for a unified Continuity with English as its official and only language. National identities would not be transferred to Provenance. That was not acceptable to his father or the other industrialists who had joined him and transformed the Resistance from a disparate group of ill-disciplined Drones to a global militarised organisation.
Wealth had bought Francois more than happiness. He controlled Sector 2, and soon la force majeure. In his new world, the people would not forget their heritage, or those who had fought to preserve it.
Francois’s back straightened, the Special Investigation Service icon flashed on his MCD. A portrait silhouette spoke. SIS Command were known only to themselves.
‘Our interrogations are complete. The trigger is an Advocate named Stephen Arrowsbury and the correction algorithm carrier is a SCITECH doctor, Alexander Shundo. Your task is to protect the trigger and locate the second component of the key, a silver dolphin pendant. We have updated your network records. You are an Advocate Captain transferred to Sector 2 from Sector 1. Has the PSYOPS Evaluator arrived?’
‘Yes, she has with her an artificial.’
‘Lieutenant Hipparcho is SIS. Lieutenant Merblayn is a spy; you may dispose of her at your leisure. The Resistance have created a vacancy in Quad Alpha-One Sector 2. You will be joining them.’
Francois swallowed. ‘I understand.’
‘SIS will be supplementing the Quads. Are the AH-74 Infiltrators ready?’
‘Yes, but I have not received the HPUs.’ Francois’s collaboration had included the creation of an Artificial Human laboratory exclusively for SIS. What he needed now was one of their Human Processing Units to enable him to build a controller. Without control of SIS’s artificials, he could not take command of Provenance.
‘We have taken control of production. Thank you for your continued support.’
‘I . . .’ Francois closed his mouth and stared at the blank screen. The transmission had ended.
He had anticipated their takeover of his lab, as he had their infiltration of CONSEC. Besides, one of their HPUs was here at the chateau, in the head of Lieutenant Morton Hipparcho.
The sentence that weighed on Francois conscience echoed in his mind. ‘Our interrogations are complete’. He had known them. A married couple, both senior SCITECH officers. They had added a Sequence Break Code to Provenance’s network of biotic HPUs. Without the correct sequencing, the anti-matter drives could not reach critical mass. Provenance would take a generation to leave the solar system.
Their negotiations with the Resistance ended when they refused to divulge the location of the correction algorithm. Francois had had no option but to betray them. That gave him a route into SIS and the opportunity to obtain the algorithm for the Resistance.
As part of his induction, SIS had insisted he visit the Detention Centre and witness one of the interrogations. Francois suspected it was a warning.
Strapped into metal chairs, a cylinder of light bore down on their white coveralls, while in the shadows, the black and red uniforms of two SIS Interrogators circled. After fifteen minutes of unproductive questioning, the Interrogators left the shadows. They clamped open the wife’s eyes and tortured her husband. At that point, Francois had asked to leave.
His MCD flashed, the SIS report had arrived.
Advocate Captain Arrowsbury, second-in-command of Quad Alpha-One. Seven commendations. Tres bien. Francois scanned the PSYOPS evaluation; a compassion score too high for SIS and several red flags against library requests. Excellent. When he reached the photograph, he jerked up. An unfamiliar feeling snatched at his chest, panic. He stabbed at the MCD. Ahead, the mirror cleared, replaced by a man with a lustrous horseshoe moustache under a shark-fin nose.
‘Yes—’
Francois cut him off, ‘The assignment of today is cancelled. You must stop acquisition of the targets.’
‘Why, sir?’
Francois glared, surprised at the question, angered by its temerity. ‘Do not question me, General Perignon. It is an order, the assassination is cancelled.’ As his English General continued to pull at the impressive moustache, Francois wondered if he would have to retire him.
Perignon lowered his hand. ‘Yes — sir.’
Francois exhaled noisily. ‘I will send new orders tomorrow. Au revoir.’
Francois watched Perignon dissolve into black. Motivation for joining the Resistance was as diverse as its members. Two motivators that burned particularly bright were resentment and envy — and in his Regional Commander, the fire raged. Continuity Barons had stolen his wife’s fortune, and the Council had rewarded him with a tax bill. His fureur proved useful, but it needed to be controlled.
Perignon had scheduled the assassination of two Advocates today; but once again, fortune had shone its light. Ability without opportunity is futility.
Francois eased back and studied the dignified face in the photograph, café noir hair, vert olive eyes, and a battle-weary stare. Or is it disillusionment?
He was impatient to meet Advocate Captain Stephen Arrowsbury. The sole surviving son of two SCITECH officers, of two saboteurs.
15:21 SAT 21:10:2119
Maintenance Bay 12-08-04, Provenance, LEO
Dee swung into the doorway, and crouched. His arms extended in front of him, his Cogent sweeping a mass of battleship-grey. Two storeys high and a football field long, Provenance’s maintenance bay 12-08-04 appeared empty.