Provenance I - Flee The Bonds

by V J Kavanagh

  Susan raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know; they all look the same to me. Pity Mr Glendhall isn’t more important, then they might be Advocates.’

  ‘You should be careful what you wish for.’

  ‘Oh I know. But they’re so hunky, and anyway, they’re only after the Resistance. A couple of nice girls like us would be okay.’

  Penny’s eyes narrowed. ‘When have you met an Advocate?’

  ‘When I was training, four of them came in for jabs.’ Her wistful eyes drifted up. ‘Do you think they’re picked for their looks.’

  ‘Yes, so they can seduce idolatrous woman like you and sleep their way to your secrets.’

  ‘Oh goody.’

  Penny shook her smile; ignorance truly was bliss.

  The door squeaked and a slate-grey uniform entered, rifle held ready. Penny peered over her mug, her chest heaving beneath her coat.

  The Defender’s hostility scoured the room before returning to the open door, ‘Clear.’

  Penny lowered her mug and set it on the table. ‘Who were you expecting in a hospital?’

  The upright frame of Mr Glendhall marched in, wearing his sartorial trademark tweed suit and pale yellow bow tie. He probably wasn’t unattractive, but it was hard to judge beneath the contempt he exuded. ‘That’s enough of that, nurse. These gentlemen are here to protect me.’

  Penny stood. ‘This is a hospital, Mr Glendhall. It is hardly conducive with patient recovery to have armed Defenders patrolling the wards.’

  Glendhall stroked back a forelock of ashen hair. ‘I will remind you again, Nurse MacGillson, that this is not your hospital. Your responsibilities start and end with treating patients. Are we quite clear about that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Glendhall.’

  ‘Good.’ He removed a gold MCD from his jacket pocket and tapped the screen. ‘Oh yes, you have a Mr Jackson in RR, appendectomy.’ His raised eyebrows demanded a response.

  ‘Yes, he was operated on this morning.’

  ‘Why are you treating him with cloxoracillin?’

  ‘Because he had a periappendiceal abscess.’

  ‘Was the cavity irrigated with saline?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I’ll repeat the question, Nurse. Why are you treating the patient with cloxoracillin?’

  Penny’s justification floundered on the threadbare blue carpet. Her head rose to meet his inquisitorial stare. ‘Mr Jackson is sixty-eight years old, peritonitis would have killed him.’

  Glendhall pocketed the MCD and folded his arms. ‘Nurse MacGillson, why do you consistently infringe directives? Cloxoracillin is a controlled antibiotic; it is solely for use in ER — solely for Continuity.’

  Penny matched his posture. ‘I see only patients, Mr Glendhall.’

  His smile was at best condescending. ‘We are all dedicated to the preservation of life, which is why we have directives. I have instructed the RR manager to remove the IV.’

  Heat flowed into Penny’s cheeks, ‘Will you be attending Mr Jackson’s funeral, Mr Glendhall?’

  ‘Oh come now nurse, this is medicine not theatre. Decisions like this have to be made every day. Mr Jackson is a Dro—, not Continuity. He has, I’m sure, devoted his life admirably in service to Continuity, but now . . .’

  ‘But now his time has come.’

  ‘Articulated in your characteristically blunt style, but yes, he is sixty-eight years old, his genes are flawed. It was only a matter of time.’

  Mournful memories filled Penny’s eyes. She’d cried every day for a month after her mum’s death. She’d cry no more. ‘I assume we can continue with pain relief.’

  ‘Of course, we’re not inhuman. I will however be submitting a report, again.’

  Susan eased up. ‘Nurse MacGillson only does what she thinks is best for the patients, Mr Glendhall.’

  His pinched expression softened. ‘Your loyalty is commendable Susan, even if misguided.’

  Glendhall spun and strode out, the door squeaked shut.

  Penny turned to Susan and smiled. ‘Thanks.’ It was a strange fact, but fact never the less. Susan was a junior nurse, Penny a critical care executive, as qualified as any doctor. Yet in every way that mattered, Susan was her superior.

  09:52 MON 23:10:2119

  TF 16, Hampshire, England, Sector 2

  Dee adjusted his protector suit’s utility belt in the Aegis’s mirror-like quarter panel. Steve’s car was yet another fringe benefit of going to the Academy.

  He spun towards the gritty footfalls.

  Steve wore his contagious smile. ‘A hundred thousand credits and she’s yours.’

  He returned the smile. Even if it was Steve’s to sell, Dee couldn’t afford it. That required a goldtop credit line.

  They crossed the courtyard into an adjacent field and followed an old farm track; their combat boots crushing the dewy grass running down the middle. On either side, centuries of tractor wheels had left deep ruts of caramel water and glistening mud.

  Dee broke the silence, ‘So whatta ya think of her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who man, Kacee. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’ Dee had noticed her interest in Steve.

  ‘She’s an Evaluator, trained to prise open your memory lockers and have a good rummage.’

  ‘She can rummage through mine anytime.’

  ‘That’s exactly why PSYOPS chose her.’

  They trampled the grass for another two hundred metres before wheeling right towards a line of trees linked by strands of sagging barbwire. Steve looked down at his MPS before pointing into the forest.

  Twisted beech, fat oaks and slender birch grew out of a carpet of burnt orange leaves. Dee knew their names, because Steve had insisted on telling him. He wasn’t that interested, but played along. He did have happy memories of chasing Michelle around Marine Park with a frog dangling between his fingers. This wasn’t Brooklyn though; this was boring old England.

  Dee continued to follow as Steve wove a path through the tangle of trees, ferns, and fallen branches. The toes of his combat boot pointed downwards, slid under the crispy leaves and cleared any twigs before setting down. When he made it into Citadel, he’d get to do this somewhere else, somewhere far away.

  Steve pointed to the base of a birch tree and a clump of bright red mushrooms with white specks. ‘Amanita muscaria, commonly known as fly agaric. So called because crushing it in milk was supposed to attract and kill flies. Hallucinogenic and toxic.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Steve halted and switched on his paternal frown. ‘Fungi are the most abundant living organisms after insects; it stands to reason that the new world will also have fungi. Some of which may be lethal.’ He turned away. ‘That’s why you’ll be asked questions about fungi, and trees, during your Citadel assessment.’

  After thirty minutes, the forest abruptly stopped. A twenty-metre copper mat separated the tree line from a chain link fence. The disused water treatment plant sat in a square cut into the forest. Through the rusting fence, Dee scanned the three concrete bunkers that ran the centre line. Years of neglect had streaked them in dark green slime and ragged patches of grey and yellow lichen had infected the walls like the pox.

  He instinctively looked up. A golden leaf floated down through still branches. His head arched back and in the absence of any distractions, his mind's eye pried into his darkest locker. Colossus exploded through the dismal cloud, a screaming ball of murderous fire.

  Whatever it took, he and his sister wouldn’t be here to see it.

  ‘Dee?’ Steve pointed. ‘We’ll call that the northeast corner, let’s go in and set up.’

  Concrete paths crisscrossed the treatment plant, forming square islands of overgrown rubble, collapsed wooden structures, and rusting pipes. Dee followed a cracked path to the door of the first concrete bunker. About the size of a singlewide garage, the bunker had no windows and the only means of entry was a galvanised
door. He pushed, screwing up his face at the grating squeal. Above the outline of machinery, dimness sieved through four skylights spattered with algae and dead leaves. Dee sniffed; rancid oil clung to the stagnant air.

  Moving to one side, he allowed Steve, and daylight, to peer in before stating the obvious. ‘Two corners obscured by machinery.’

  Steve gave him one of his parental nods. ‘Well spotted. We’ll call this one A One and the others two and three.’

  After inspecting the three bunkers, they followed the path back to the entrance.

  Once there, Dee extended his MCD and dragged icons onto the compound diagram. ‘We put one Pree in each corner, two on the gate, and two CDs in each bunker.’ His finger traced a line from the northeast corner to the tree line. ‘We run a laser corridor from the vertex to the tree line; half a metre wide should do it. Whadda ya think?’

  Steve’s studious expression remained fixed on the screen. ‘All looks good.’ He expanded the diagram and pointed at the concrete bunkers. ‘What about an HS on each of these to simulate the OTs?’

  Dee grinned. ‘Sneaky.’ Steve had an irritating habit of always being one step ahead, almost as irritating as when he pretended he wasn’t.

  Outside bunker A1, Dee opened his ruckall and removed a black plastic box. The padded interior held two rows of black metallic cylinders separated by two larger cylinders. The larger cylinders were roughly the diameter of a baseball and three times as long, their two halves joined lengthways. The Holo-Sims Smalls were half the diameter and a third as long. An HSS would produce a holographic image of a human; a Holo-Sim Large could in theory, project a skyscraper.

  A rusting fixed ladder gave Dee access to the flat roof. When he reached the centre, he cleared a space amongst the rotting leaves, positioned the HSL, and pressed one of the illuminated buttons.

  The HSL glowed, the light intensified and a hologram shimmered into view. Fifteen seconds later it was ready. A seven-metre high replica of a CONSEC observation tower, complete with full spectrum security cameras.

  Dee descended from the roof and followed the perimeter path to the entrance. Steve waited outside, the rusty locking chain hanging from his hand. ‘All done?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good. I want you to lead the exercise.’

  Dee faked a smile. ‘Okay, sure.’ Great, another test.

  14:02 MON 23:10:2119

  TF 16, Hampshire, England, Sector 2

  Francois raised his mug. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  Steve sat down at the kitchen table opposite Kacee. ‘Yes, thanks. Where’s Bo?’

  He noted Steve did not mention Morton. ‘Bo and Morton prepare for weapon practise.’ He filled Steve’s cup from the metal carafe.

  Kacee took a sip. ‘This coffee’s fantastic.’

  Francois’s pride smiled. ‘It is from the last roasting house in Bordeaux, ‘Esmeralda Gesha’ from Panama, very rare, very expensive.’

  Steve looked down. ‘I’m sure it is. Any chance of some milk?’

  Dee arrived and flopped down next to Steve. ‘Coffee smells good.’

  Steve raised his cup. ‘Panamanian.’

  Francois pushed the carafe towards Dee. ‘Would you like milk also?’

  ‘No way.’ Dee slapped Steve’s back. ‘It’s only these Brits that can’t handle it.’

  A fusillade of gunfire rattled the windows. Only Steve did not react. ‘After fire practice, Francois and I have to go through the kit list.’ He smiled at Dee. ‘So I won’t have time to prep the veg for dinner.’

  Fifteen minutes later chair legs scraped against the kitchen’s tiled floor. Francois collected the cups and walked to the sink. His curiosity slid right. Kacee placed a hand on Steve’s arm and her smile conveyed more than amiability. Her attraction to Steve will prove useful.

  ‘Can you make some time for me today? I’d like to start your EV before tonight’s exercise.’

  Francois’s gaze intensified. He detected a superficial change in Steve, an ephemeral fissure in the sang-froid exterior.

  Steve recovered with a smile. ‘Of course, no problem. Is sixteen-thirty okay?’

  ‘Your room or mine?’

  ‘I think the lounge would be better, more space, fewer roly-polys.’

  ‘Sure, fine.’

  Francois noted resignation pull on Kacee’s shoulders as she followed Steve towards the door.

  Through the narrow panes of the kitchen’s mullioned window, he watched Steve and Kacee stroll across the courtyard towards Bo, Dee and Morton. Each of them was a piece on Francois’s chessboard and all but one a pawn.

  With his menial housekeeping duties complete, Francois exited the farmhouse. Across the weed-infested cobbles Bo stood with his back to the decrepit stable block, pointing down to a matt black APR-32 resting on its tripod. Everyone else had gathered in a semi-circle to his front.

  As Francois approached, Bo’s words became clearer. ‘The modifications are better, yes? Now we can fire on the move.’ Bo snatched up the fifteen-kilogram weapon by the carrying handle and held it in the low-ready position.

  Steve turned to face them. ‘Only Bo or Dee are to carry the APR.’

  Bo protested. ‘The new power pack is half the weight. I have made many changes, it is lighter now.’ He offered the weapon by the carrying handle, which Steve accepted with both hands. Francois’s chest swelled, the APR-32 rail gun was an excellent weapon. It should be; SIS had given Thibeauchet Technologie a licence to manufacture it.

  Steve turned the weapon on its side. ‘It’s still too heavy.’

  Francois’s gaze fell to the battery pack. The creation of hyperlon had led to the rapid advancement of inertial confinement fusion. An ICF battery powered the APR and, thanks to SIS, Thibeauchet Technologie owned the patents. He pointed at the battery pack. ‘It is new, developed at the factory of my family.’

  Steve looked up. ‘Nice work.’ His compliment appeared genuine, and magnanimous. Francois lowered his head in a gesture of respect.

  Steve returned the APR. ‘Great work Bo, but it’s not mission ready. Get it down to ten kilos and I’ll make sure it’s approved. In the meantime let’s see what it can do.’

  Francois stared at their Commander. Steve had managed to reject, encourage and motivate in a single sentence. He hoped Steve would one day join him.

  Bo’s grin returned. ‘Gentlemens, and lady. APR thirty-two fires nineteen-millimetre armour piercing and incendiary. Muzzle velocity is four thousand metres a second and it has a sight range of five thousand metres.’ He pointed down. ‘This one is fitted with Zenzeiss all-weather target acquirer.’

  Francois tracked the APR’s line-of-sight. It ran parallel with the stables for twenty metres before entering the abandoned tack room. A wooden railway sleeper leant against the back wall.

  Steve reached into his top pocket. ‘Plugs in.’

  Francois watched Kacee press her long slender fingers against her ears. When Steve threw her a packet of plugs, she thanked him with one of those smiles.

  Bo lay behind the APR and lowered his head to the sight. ‘You know what the APR can do over long distance, but it is useful also in close support.’ The safety catch clicked and the APR began to whirr.

  Francois knew this weapon well. Inside the barrel, liquid nitrogen circulated rotating alloy rails. The rails spun as fast as a turbine, the noise suppressed by magnetic bearings. A few microseconds after Bo squeezed the trigger the capacitor discharged four million ampères.

  The armour-piercing projectile hit the railway sleeper before any sound. A split second later the shockwave exploded in the confines of the courtyard, it resonated off the buildings and pounded inside Francois’s chest.

  Through blinking eyes, he watched the tack room roof collapse; the sleeper had disappeared and as the dust settled, the grass field appeared through the back wall. Francois nodded approval. No Prefect could withstand that. He made a mental note to transfer Bo’s credits.


  Dee’s head bobbed. ‘Now that’s what I call a modification. Was that door there already?’

  Steve massaged his temple. ‘It’s okay for you; you don’t have to explain the alterations to the wardens.’ He leant down and tapped Bo on the shoulder. ‘Make safe and let’s check the damage.’

  Weapons training continued for another thirty minutes and concluded with a timed contest to reload a Cogent’s plasma cell. Francois was sure Steve had allowed himself to be beaten.

  Afterwards, they returned to the farmhouse and Francois joined the others in the lounge. Steve had agreed to Morton’s request for phase suit training.

  Bo stood in front of the fireplace adjusting Morton’s helmet. ‘It is full phase with multi-adaptive vision and integrated comms.’

  Morton rested his hand on the sleeve. ‘Why is the suit cold?’

  Dee answered. ‘It absorbs and bends light. It’s been designed for new world recon, in case we discover the folks we’re about to kick out have bigger guns.’

  Bo slid down the visor. ‘Through visor, active phase suits blue, don’t shoot at them, everything else okay. Look up inside helmet. Left side, three green lights. In middle chronometer. Right side, three blue lights.’

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘First, green lights. Triangle air supply, circle contamination, and square phase. Green, okay. Orange, not so bad. Red — not so good.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Now blue lights, all I-CON, look on, blink off. Standard CONSEC icons, radio, display, and uplink connect. Okay, now switch off radio.’

  A few seconds passed before they heard Morton’s muffled response, ‘Done.’

  Steve walked to the front of the lounge. ‘Well done, Bo, time to finish up. Francois and I have to go through the kit list.’

  As the others packed up and left, Francois watched Steve watching Morton. Perhaps he believes Morton is SIS. Excellent.

  16:29 MON 23:10:2119

  TF 16, Hampshire, England, Sector 2

  Kacee knocked before poking her smile around the lounge door. ‘It’s four-thirty.’