Provenance I - Flee The Bonds

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Provenance I - Flee The Bonds Page 6

by V J Kavanagh

He joined Bo by the door. ‘One more thing, where’s Captain Neva?’

  The figure-hugging uniform stepped forward. ‘That’s me, I’m Captain Neva.’

  Dee grinned up at his best friend. ‘Mission over.’

  18:49 SAT 21:10:2119

  Intra Zone, Seine-et-Marne, France, Sector 2

  Kacee reflected in the full-length mirror. The two-piece Catherine Valare lingerie felt amazing. Black Chantilly lace was expensive, but sensuality was priceless. She tilted her head and stroked an extended arm. She’d indulged too long in the vanilla scented bath water and the line of puncture scars had only just faded, unlike her childhood memories. Memories shredded by nightmares of clinics that had hurt and made her cry.

  Kacee was a new breed, better than a TYPE 7 and worse.

  Her mom and dad had spent their considerable wealth making her special. She could never forgive them for succeeding. Inside her perfect body was an empty shell. Men lusted after her, but none dared to love her.

  Kacee had left home on her twenty-first birthday, returning only once. To kill them both.

  She finished dressing, sat on the edge of the bed, and inserted a micro earpiece before tapping the MCD screen. The PSYOPS PSI emblem rotated as the encrypted uplink made a connection.

  ‘Hello Lieutenant Merblayn.’ The voice was female, and computer generated.

  For security reasons, PSYOPS had decided to keep her handler’s identity secret, something Kacee didn’t find reassuring. Did they expect her to get caught? She obscured her mouth with the MCD and whispered. ‘I’ve arrived at Captain Thibeauchet’s house.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sort of.

  ‘CONSEC expect Commander Arrowsbury to arrange a training mission next week. We will transmit the details. It is vital we know why SIS are interested in him, and how Captain Thibeauchet and Thibeauchet Technology are involved. We believe SIS intend to use the new artificial infiltrators against CONSEC; observe Lieutenant Hipparcho and report anything suspicious. Remember Kacee, trust no one and do whatever SIS asks. Good luck, PSYOPS Command out.’

  Kacee stared at the blank screen. The Council’s attention was fixed on the Resistance and behind them, SIS crept up.

  After a final check in the mirror, she left her room. Aware that Francois would know also.

  As she descended the sweeping staircase, the hem of Kacee’s scarlet chiffon dress caressed the stone steps. The giant pear shaped chandelier glittered, its twinkling reflection sinking into the glassy chequered floor below. To her right, gilt framed portraits depicted an era of female oppression. The women demure yet alluring, the men proud and resplendent. She wasn’t sure whom she despised most.

  A handsome man in a cadet-grey suit waited for her at the bottom of stairs. He smiled politely and extended his gloved hand.

  She followed him to the end of the statue-lined corridor where he simultaneously heaved open the two colonial doors and stepped aside.

  ‘Thank you.’ With her mouth firmly closed, Kacee stepped into the dazzling opulence.

  Wearing a black evening suit and open-neck white shirt Francois stood by an enormous fireplace, its pale stone covered with intricate carvings. Life-size portraits and paintings of uniformed men on rearing horses’ hung over the burgundy fabric walls. As he approached his footfalls sank into a sumptuous cream and gold rug. His face beamed approval. ‘Magnifique.’

  When he bowed to kiss her hand, she inhaled deeply, heaving her chest against the dress. His eyes slipped up.

  Francois escorted her to one of several red silk and gilt-wood sofas. Kacee sat, her eyes meandering up to a painting of a proud woman in 18th century costume and a skyscraping wig. ‘Is that Pauline?’

  Francois followed her gaze, ‘Yes. That is Pauline. What has Colette said?’

  His spiky tone put Kacee on the defensive, ‘Nothing much, just that Pauline had been a family friend.’ She was well aware of Francois’s pride in his Napoleonic heritage. So what mustn’t Colette talk about?

  He recovered quickly, ‘Yes, a friend, that is true. How is your boudoir, you have everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, it’s wonderful.’ She’d always thought boudoir sounded grubby, but here it belonged.

  Francois picked two flutes of pale blush from a silver tray and handed one to her. He raised his glass. ‘Santé.’

  ‘Santé.’ The delicate effervescence caressed her tongue, releasing a hint of blackcurrant. ‘Everything about your house is fantastic.’

  ‘Thank you, I wish you could stay to enjoy it.’

  She reached out and touched his arm. ‘I’d love to — when we’re not working.’

  He was her work, and Kacee’s body was adept at getting results.

  ‘Ah yes, unfortunately my evaluation must wait. I have to go to headquarters, but I would like very much that you stay here until I return.’

  Dinner passed in a glittering procession of gold cutlery and crystal glasses. Francois had even installed heaters on the moonlit balcony where they’d finished the soirée with small coffees and large brandies. For the sake of her assignment, she’d decided to repay his attentiveness. Intimacy and trust sleep well together.

  * * * *

  Kacee rested her elbow on the satin pillow and watched his naked body cross the polished floor. At the door, he turned and smiled. ‘Bonne nuit, ma Cherie.’

  ‘Good night, Francois.’

  As the door closed, she rolled onto her back, the pink satin sheet flowing over her smooth abdomen. Hunched shoulders, outstretched arms and an arched back accompanied her lustful moan. She directed her performance at one of the three cameras in her room. Cameras well hidden from human eyes, but not from hers.

  23:52 SAT 21:10:2119

  Intra Zone, Seine-et-Marne, France, Sector 2

  Francois returned to his room and dressed, the scent of sweet vanilla still clinging to his body.

  Ten minutes later, he strode up the ramp from the chateau’s shielded underground garage and into the soundless night. Artificial Human 74-317 accompanied him; direct from the production line of Thibeauchet Technologie’s secret laboratory at Sophia Antipolis. Why build one, when SIS can pay for two. It had specific programming, but no identity. A blank canvas waiting for its master’s strokes. Francois had named it Roustam.

  They approached the Orangery from the rear lawn, their footfalls silent on the ebonised grass. Moonlight platinised the slate roof and reflected white off arched window shutters. As a precaution, Francois intended to remain out of sight. Should his plan fail, any witnesses would corroborate that Roustam had acted alone.

  He stopped and placed his hand on Roustam’s shoulder ‘J'attends ici. Bonne chance.’

  Francois crouched and watched the black coveralls evaporate into the night. This was an operation of great risk, but he needed Morton’s allegiance. You cannot coerce an artificial. You have to replace them.

  Kacee’s bedroom cameras weren’t unique; there were hundreds on the estate, including five in each of the Orangery’s four apartments. Francois took out his MCD, tapped the screen, and watched.

  * * * *

  In response to the knocking, Morton eased up from the settee and left the fire-lit sitting room for the darkened hallway. The camera remained fixed on the radiating wood stove, its fiery glow painting the front of the settee amber, while casting a long shadow across the ceramic tiles behind.

  Morton returned, stopped by the stove and spun around. Roustam crashed into him and the pair fell writhing onto the hearthrug. A violent nudge against the settee produced a screech that bounced off the cream walls. Roustam raised his fist and powered it down onto Morton’s cheekbone. Morton’s fists rammed into Roustam’s chest, propelling him into the air and sending him crashing down onto the tiles. Both sprang to bended knees, bodies hunched, heads raised. Roustam drove again, pushing Morton backwards, out of shot. The camera continued to stare at the empty settee, dishevelled rug, and glowing stov
e.

  In the camera view’s periphery, the point of a poker scraped along the tiles and disappeared. An instant later, the darkened corner exploded in a flash of chartreuse. Funereal silence descended.

  Behind the stove’s glass door, a log cracked, spitting flecks of incandescent orange into the swirling glow.

  Several minutes passed before Morton reappeared, a white cube resting in his palm. He placed the cube on the stove’s top plate and stepped back. His head remained bowed, as if waiting for something to happen. The small blue disc atop the cube blinked frantically.

  * * * *

  Alerted by the crunching gravel, Francois tightened his grip on the Cogent and took aim at the approaching silhouette.

  The silhouette stopped. ‘Dego.’

  Francois relaxed. ‘Terminé?’

  ‘Oui Monsieur.’

  Francois stepped closer. Roustam wore Morton’s clothes and apart from the torn sleeve, the facsimile appeared intact. ‘Where is the HPU?’

  ‘It was damaged, sir.’

  Annoyance stiffened Francois’s jaw. ‘Put Morton’s body into the old well by the stables. Bury Colette in the forest to the north and continue your duties with Lieutenant Merblayn.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Unfortunately for Colette, CONSEC had recorded her cloned identity in London. Had she left the chateau’s shielding, SIS would have traced the artificial’s identity to Castiglione and the battle would have been lost before it had begun. He would ensure, as he always did, that her family received his gratitude — and a credit line.

  Francois turned and walked back towards the chateau. Thankfully, he had an alternative source of an SIS HPU. A recent recruit to the Resistance, their first Gold Agent, had worked at MP 14. His sister Jannae had also agreed to join, but only after Francois had threatened to report Gerhard Kalckburg to SIS. He had not enjoyed making such a threat, but in the battle for his nation’s survival; there could be no compassion.

  He smiled up at the chateau’s moonlit facade. This was not the first time PSYOPS had investigated him, but it was the first time they had sent a spy as glamoureux as Kacee. Roustam had made the transformation into Morton, the HPU in his skull belonged to Thibeauchet Technologie, to the Resistance. The nouvelle Morton was his bodyguard and where Kacee Merblayn went, Francois Thibeauchet would follow.

  01:24 SUN 22:10:2119

  Intra Zone, Seine-et-Marne, France, Sector 2

  With the stove’s radiant glow as its light source, the camera in Orangery appartement deux remained focused on the white cube and its blinking blue disc.

  After four minutes, the disc blackened and stopped blinking.

  The view changed, cream ceramic tiles glistened under stark ceiling lights. Morton halted at an oval wall mirror next to the hearth, pulled at the dry split above his right cheekbone and communicated without speaking.

  ‘Thibeauchet is building artificials.’

  ‘They will not be a threat to our Prefects.’

  Morton plucked the warm cube off the top plate, turned it over and clamped it in his hands. Tormented creaking deformed into cracking; translucent matter oozed through Morton’s polymer-coated fingers and fell sizzling onto the stove. The silver double-T stamp of Thibeauchet Technologie split in two.

  07:56 SUN 22:10:2119

  Intra Zone, Wiltshire, England, Sector 2

  Steve slowed as he approached the canal bridge. He didn’t normally jog on a Sunday, but Penny had had to leave early for work.

  He lifted his vibrating MPS, and within the bridge’s shadowy arch, his eyes narrowed on the flashing icon. ‘Castle’ required immediate action.

  After his shower, Steve made his way to the saloon. His MCD lay on the settee, its loaded book unread. That would please the Judiciary; along with many others, Govern by Division had been classified as Resistance propaganda.

  He secured Cool Breeze and set off in the direction of Rose Cottage.

  Terry answered the door and spoke in his usual apologetic tone, ‘Penny’s not here, Steve. She’s in surgery this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Can you tell her I’ve had to go into work, I’ll call her later.’

  ‘Sure. Do you want a cuppa?’

  ‘Better not thanks.’

  ‘I’ll tell her as soon as she comes home.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll see you later.’

  Steve returned the way he’d come, passing Cool Breeze on his way to Lower Chilwyn. He suspected Terry no longer believed his cover story. Every time he mentioned the Food Ministry, Terry’s eyes searched his face. It couldn’t be helped; the truth would destroy them all.

  He stepped onto the tram station’s deserted platform and looked up at the message board. The next tram was due in two minutes. Magnetic cushioned rail trams enabled Continuity to move between Zones. Drones lived in the Intra Zones and used buses to travel to work in the Black Zones. They never entered the inner Zones, unless feeling suicidal.

  Right on schedule, the tram swished into the station, its procession of carbon fibre cars hanging from the overhead lines like plump black cherries.

  He authenticated at the car’s central console and sat in a window seat.

  As the countryside streaked by, overweight clouds burst, splattering the windows. Beyond the rivulets, the fleeting landscape greyed. In the not too distant future, it would all be dead; all buried under five metres of ash.

  Steve stretched his legs and allowed his introspection to wander around the plastic interior. An eclectic range of advertisements covered the walls, spa weekends, music concerts, fine restaurants, exclusively for the consumption of Continuity. Television entertained the Drones; the Resistance called it control. They were wrong — its correct name was Subliminal Cognitive Pacification.

  A chime drew Steve back; they’d passed under the M25. The bland voice filled the car, ‘You are now entering the Black Zone.’

  He’d thought about calling Jason, but decided against it. He didn’t want to get involved in Jason and Dee’s love triangle. Besides they’d meet up soon enough, then they’d be no escape.

  Twelve minutes later the tram entered Paddington Station.

  Steve alighted and under the vigilance of the Spotters skimming overhead, headed for the exit.

  He climbed into the first taxi in the rank. ‘Piccadilly Circus, please.’

  After turning into Edgware Road, the driver spoke into the rear-view mirror. ‘Off to see a show?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh yeah, which one, Johnny Smith’s? It’s alright on the telly, but you can’t beat the real thing.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Well whatever, you’re going to get wet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ain’t got a brolly.’

  Steve’s focus bored into reflected eyes. ‘You’re very observant.’

  The driver broke eye contact. ‘Sorry, friend, no harm meant.’

  ‘I know.’

  Drones travelled on buses, Continuity in taxis. Everyone knew this — including the Resistance. The situation had become so dire that many drivers asked for their fares in advance.

  Steve noted the driver’s receding hairline. This meant he was either a Drone, in which case he shouldn’t be driving a taxi, or someone who’d run out of credits before PURE could eradicate the alopecia triggers. Steve assumed the latter but prepared for the former by reaching into his jacket and unclipping the Cogent, although the thought of discharging a million volts of plasma inside a taxi didn’t exactly fill him with joy.

  They passed Marble Arch before turning right into Park Lane and stopping in front of the checkpoint’s sabre-toothed barrier. A burly CONSEC Grey Defender strode out of the concrete bunker carrying a BRD, his XH-34 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. His two colleagues followed; their rifles weren’t slung.

  After authenticating them both, the Defender raised his arm. The razor-sharp teeth retracted into the wet tarmac. They’d g
ained clearance for the Blue Zone.

  As they drove along Park Lane, Steve looked across at Hyde Park; its boundary marked by two rows of decaying concrete posts. The electrified razor wire had long gone, but SIS occasionally used the posts to hang a very public warning.

  When the statue of Eros came into sight, Steve reached out and tapped the separator screen. ‘Anywhere on the right will be fine.’

  The taxi pulled up alongside the glistening wet pavement and the driver made eye contact through the rearview mirror. ‘That’ll be three point seven credits please.’

  Steve swiped his MCD over the meter. ‘Take enough for you and your wife to see Johnny Smith.’

  ‘Thanks, thanks a lot.’

  Despite his brisk pace, by time Steve reached Trafalgar Square, he was soaked. He turned into the Mall and its palisades of elephantine concrete blocks that funnelled everything and everybody towards Admiralty Arch. The Red Zone checkpoint.

  Metal bollards guided pedestrians to the three central arches. Steve entered the middle arch’s narrow corridor. Above his head, a feeble light strip added to the musty gloom. Three metres in, horizontal steel rods barred the way. He stopped. Behind him, a second ladder of rods scraped across, cutting off any escape. He shivered; the sodden jumper clung to his ribs.

  A woman’s voice leached into the claustrophobic trap, ‘Please turn towards the red light.’

  Steve turned left to face a full-height black panel.

  ‘Thank you, please remain still.’

  A vertical strip of crimson traversed his body, made a repeat pass and disappeared into the wall.

  ‘Thank you, Captain Arrowsbury. You are cleared to proceed.’

  As Steve exited the corridor, a hard-faced Gold Agent made steely eye contact and quoted, ‘Nature of business in Red Zone.’

  A Prefect hummed closer.

  The shimmering glow of Steve’s ID card dissipated when the Agent took hold of it.

  ‘Welcome to the Red Zone, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Steve glanced up. Rain dripped from the Prefect’s dirty yellow carcass, while an ionised blower kept its lidless eye clear. It pivoted, passing close enough to wash him with its rancorous exhaust.

 

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