by Oisin McGann
'Look, you can laugh—' Chi burst out, but Ivor interrupted him.
'And the ship is defended by human agents of the aliens, like desert vampires being protected by human slaves. You know "Osama Bin Laden" is an anagram for "Alien Sand Mob"!'
'Go on then, get it out of your systems,' Chi said, scowling. 'I know you've been dying to have a go. And you're wrong, by the way – your anagram is missing an "A". And for your information, there have been sightings of UFOs in Sinnostan, including some by veteran chopper pilots who were reluctant to report them. But more have been sighted over London than Sinnostan and you should be asking why. Because that was one of the things your fellow soldiers had in common when they started asking questions, Ivor. Over a quarter of them reported seeing an object in the sky that hovered like a helicopter but had no visible means of propulsion, and when it did move, it did so way too fast to have been a balloon or an airship. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Cyclops!'
Chi stopped as he realized what he had just said. Ivor stared back at him. The younger man had been incensed, eager to score a hit after being mocked. It didn't mean anything, but Chi had turned bright red.
'God, I'm sorry, man. I—'
'It's OK.'
'I didn't—'
'It's OK, Chi. I'm not sensitive about it, all right? It's cool.'
Ivor saw the expression on Amina's face and knew that she was angry about it – offended on his behalf. And he didn't want that either. He didn't want her to pay any attention to his disfigurement. But how could she not? How could she ignore the fact that this guy in front of her had a glass ball stuck in one of his eye sockets? Now Ivor did feel embarrassed, and the anger that rose because of it reminded him why they were there: to find out who had planted lies in his brain about the day he had lost his eye . . . and why.
That was when his gaze fell on the computer screen and he saw the photo displayed on the news site.
'Who's that?' he asked.
'Some guy named Shang,' Amina told him, eager to change the subject. 'He's wanted in connection with the anthrax scare; supposed to be a biological weapons expert. Funny, though, he's not on any terrorist watch list.'
'I've seen this guy before,' Ivor said, shifting his seat closer. 'I'm sure of it. It was . . . I think it was in the hospital in Sinnostan, before I was flown out. He stuck in my mind because I remember being scared of him, but I couldn't figure out why.'
Chi was frowning. He slid the window of the web browser to another screen and started searching through the folders on his hard drive.
'Shang,' he muttered. 'Doctor Anthony Shang. I know that name. Where the hell have I heard it before? You think he worked at the hospital in Kurjong? Maybe that's . . .'
His hand worked the mouse quickly, opening one folder after another until he came upon the document he was looking for.
'This is it,' he said at last. 'An article in Paranormal Monthly.'
Ivor and Amina avoided looking at each other. Paranormal Monthly? Chi went on to give an outline of the article:
'A nurse working for the British army in Kurjong became convinced there was a Chinese Communist plot to place moles in the British armed forces by abducting wounded soldiers and replacing them with perfect doubles. Hope you're paying attention here, Ivor. One surgeon that she considered particularly suspicious was a Chinese guy named Anthony Shang. The army sent her home, citing – you guessed it – post-traumatic stress, but she's popped up a couple of times on conspiracy websites and blogs. Her name is Agatha Domingues, she's a forty-three-year-old Filipino lady and she's now working in London as a psychiatric nurse.'
'You have to love the irony of that,' Amina commented. 'OK, I'll go talk to her, seeing as I'm the least likely to believe her story.'
'I'll come with you, 'cos I think it'll be entertaining at least,' Chi told her.
'I'm going to make some phone calls,' Ivor said. 'I've a friend in the Media Operations Unit in Kurjong who owes me a favour. I'm going to see if anybody there has heard of a surgeon – or a bioweapons expert – named Shang.'
'Use my phone,' Chi told him. 'It's clean at this end at least, but try and be as vague as possible – you should see the gear they have in Government Communications HQ nowadays. If there were starlings perched on a telephone line in the Outer Hebrides, GCHQ could hear them singing.'
As they got up to leave, Ivor leaned over the desk, picked up a pen and scribbled some words on a scrap of paper. He stood up straight, smiling slightly.
'You were right,' he said to Chi. ' "Alien Sand Mob" is missing an "A". "Osama Bin Laden" has three. How did you know?'
'Breaking codes is what I do,' Chi replied with a smug grin. 'Next time, give me something harder.'
34
Gierek was still locked in the cabinet when Chi returned to Nex's place early the following morning. A night of imprisonment had not improved his temper. Chi and Nexus stood gazing at the metal cupboard for some time before gathering the courage to do what needed to be done.
'Gierek?' Chi called out. 'You still with us in there?'
The reply came back in robust fashion.
'I'm gonna chew the meat off your spine like a goddamned kebab, you weasel!'
'OK. Do you want out or not?'
Chi was rewarded by a fuming silence.
'Right. We'll make this as painless for you as possible.'
Gierek must have wondered about that one – until Chi and Nexus pushed the cabinet over onto its side and started to slide it towards the door.
'Hey,' an uncertain voice called out from behind the metal panelling. 'What you doing?'
After much exertion, they made it to the door, jerking the cabinet over the threshold and shoving it to the top of the stairs.
'Hey!' Gierek bellowed.
Chi climbed over the cupboard and hurried downstairs to open the outer door. Then he climbed back up to stand just beneath the front of the cabinet.
'All right, careful now,' he muttered.
He pulled and Nex pushed. The cabinet tipped over and started to slide down the stairs. At first they thought they were in control of the weight, but Nex's fingers slipped and Chi, suddenly faced with being caught underneath the bulky metal box, stepped to the side, still trying to hold it in place. He failed.
The cupboard clattered down the steps, hit the ground at the bottom with a sickening jolt and slammed into the doorjamb. Gierek screamed blue murder. Chi gave Nex a fearful glance and nodded. They crept down – as if they might avoid the Pole's abuse if he couldn't hear them – straightened out the cabinet and shoved it out into the alleyway. Chi put a stainless steel badge and a data disk on the ground beside the cabinet. Putting the key in the cupboard's lock, he turned it and ran for the door. Nex pulled it closed and bolted it.
'You're both dead men!' Gierek yelled as he crawled out of the cramped prison.
'I'm calling the police!' Chi shouted back. 'You can stay till they get here, or get lost now! Remember I've got my face as evidence, you animal! I've left your goddamned badge out there, along with a disk of all the files I've collected while working on your case. We're sorry it's come to this. You left us no choice. The material's all yours, just go away!'
They watched through the small dirty window in the door as Gierek glared balefully in their direction and then picked up the peace offerings. A police siren helpfully sounded in the distance and he looked in the direction of the sound.
'I'll be back!' he called out to them.
As he strode away, Nex let out a huge sigh of relief.
'He will be back, you know.'
'Tell me about it,' Chi said, shuddering. 'I don't even want to think about what he'll do if he ever finds out that badge I gave him is a fake.'
'Dunno, but I'd say that chewing the meat off your spine like a kebab will play some part in the process.'
Tariq got into school early. This was a mistake.
The school had once been an award-winning piece of architecture, but like so much cutting-edge desig
n, its time had come and gone and now the bluff concrete slabs, slatted windows and sterile green areas were simply depressing. It was not a place to raise your spirits first thing in the morning. He made his way up to his class's assembly area; he had homework due for English class in the afternoon and he intended to use the next half hour to get it done.
As he walked around the corner into the wide hallway, four boys his age jumped him.
'Hold him! Hold him!' Alan Noble shouted.
Tariq fought like a wounded cat, lashing out at those around him. He caught Jim Harris a wicked punch on the nose and slammed his shin into Winston Garret's balls, but most of his blows glanced off or were smothered as the four boys piled on top of him. They laid in a few thumps for good measure, Harris kneeling hard on his upper arm and making Tariq gasp in pain. Three of them held him there as Noble took out his camera phone and started taking pictures of Tariq's face. Garret held his head by the hair, twisting it this way and that to give Noble the angles he wanted.
'That's it, gorgeous!' Noble sneered. 'Give us a pout there. Show us your profile! Look at the sweep of that neck. And the skin! Like bubble-wrap! Ha ha! You've got skin like bubble-wrap, you spotty muppet!'
The other boys laughed like their lungs would fall out. When Noble was satisfied with his shots, the boys picked themselves up, each throwing in a parting kick for good measure, and then they left Tariq where he lay. He stayed lying there for another few seconds before getting up. He didn't want to know what they were going to do with those pictures. He just didn't want to know. Picking himself up, he found a quiet place to sit against the wall and get his homework done, but it was impossible to keep his mind on it. He would have to finish it at lunchtime.
First class of the day was Maths, and they were doing geometry through a MindFeed game in the computer room that had the students aiming artillery using grid references, angles and trajectories. It was demanding, but the graphic depictions of the explosive damage their shelling caused made it all worth it. Sometimes they got to fire rockets, not only at stationary targets, but at vehicles and aircraft too. There was also a version of the game for pacifists: you could pretend to be a dolphin doing a marina stunt course.
There was a tedious test that you had to do at the beginning of each MindFeed game: two round-edged squares came up, one that lit up and another that showed different patterns. Every now and then, the second square flashed white at the same time as the first and when it did, you were supposed to tap the left arrow key. Other times, the first square would flash up a pattern that matched the one in the second square. Then you tapped the right arrow key. The squares regularly changed sides. This was supposed to improve hand-to-eye coordination and help customize the game to your individual needs. Tariq just thought it was a waste of time and got through it as quickly as he could, but he found it was getting easier over time.
Lieutenant Scott was still there for most of the classes, supervising, offering help and advice and accosting them with his bland charm. Tariq didn't like the lieutenant. He had grown up around soldiers and, despite his rebellious tendencies, he had a great respect for what they did. He liked the blunt, in-your-face squaddie humour and even the macho codes of honour they always boasted about – though they offended his teenage cynicism in equal measure. There was just something . . . straightforward about them. His father had been hopelessly indoctrinated by the marines – he didn't take kindly to jokes about them – but at the same time, he had found a purpose in his life that had chilled him out in a way Tariq envied.
Even though his dad had moved to press office duties years ago, he had still done his time in the field and he had seen action in places like Kuwait, Sierra Leone and Iraq. He loved the marines almost as much as his family, and Tariq could understand why. You knew where you stood with men and women who wanted to go out and do their duty and not let their team-mates down.
But Scott, he was more like an advertising executive, or a PR consultant. That smile of his would have fitted on the face of any politician and his friendliness and back-slapping manner were so fake Tariq couldn't understand why any of his classmates bought it.
Just at that moment, the lieutenant snapped his fingers to get their attention. All the games were put on pause and heads raised above the flat-screen monitors to look at the officer. Tariq ran his hands through his spiked hair, letting his fringe fall over his eyes. He found it hard to keep the contempt off his face.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' Scott began. 'You're all flying through this course, so I thought it might be time to move things up a notch. I have no doubt you'll be fascinated to know that aspects of all the MindFeed games can be customized.' He stopped to deliver a smile. 'In the game you're playing now, you can change the locations of the artillery battles from desert to open sea to jungle and so on; you can paint words on the sides of your rockets and paste pictures onto the armour of your cannons – give them names and everything. Oh, and those of you playing with dolphins, you can change the colours and patterns on their skins and even customize the walls of the lagoon. All of these settings can be saved for future games, of course. It just gives you a chance to bring some of your own personality into the mix.'
'Cool!' Noble chortled.
'We think so.' Scott grinned back. 'Have a look through the options for the next few minutes, before we get back to the agonizing process of learning! After all, learning is as much about building character as soaking up facts, and MindFeed is designed accordingly.' He wandered across the room, stopping to look down at Tariq. 'What do you say, son? You look like you're itching to express some individuality. How about it?'
If my dad heard you calling me 'son', Tariq thought, he'd kick your army ass right out of here, you gimp.
'Sure, sounds all right,' he muttered, shrugging.
'That's the spirit!' Scott gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. 'Get on with it, then. OK, everybody, let's see you get creative!'
Agatha Domingues lived in Brixton. She was off work that afternoon and eager to talk about her experiences in Sinnostan, so Amina made an appointment to meet her, hooking up with Chi outside the Tube station before walking to the address they had been given. It was a Georgian house that had been broken up into cramped cardboard-walled flats with thin caravan doors and barred windows. Domingues answered the buzzer over the intercom and came out to the door to let them in, putting the chain on the battered, chipped-paint door before opening it. Amina and Chi had to show their identity cards before she would close it enough to take the chain off and Amina began to wonder how many of these suspicious, fearful people there were in the world.
Domingues was a small Filipino woman with a shrewish face and a short nurse's haircut. She moved with a nervous energy that was almost childlike. Her flat was down some narrow stairs in the basement, its single window looking out on a neglected garden. She informed them that she did not have tea or coffee, offering them cocoa instead. Chi took her up on the offer, but Amina settled for tap water.
As the little woman busied herself in the kitchenette, Amina sat down on the couch and laid her recorder on the coffee table. She noticed that Chi had opened his laptop, which he was using to record too, complete with webcam. She did not know if he was showing off his high-spec equipment or just being thorough, but she definitely wanted to keep her own record of this interview.
'So you want to know about Sinnostan, eh?' Domingues asked, an exaggeratedly canny look on her face as she brought over the drinks on a tray. 'You're not the first, y'know. You saw the article in Paranormal Monthly, right? It's been getting a lot of attention.'
I doubt it, Amina thought to herself.
'Yes, we've seen it,' she said. 'It was fascinating. We're particularly interested in one man you mentioned – a Doctor Shang?'
'Mister Shang,' Domingues corrected her. 'He was a surgeon, and you call surgeons "Mister", not "Doctor". Yes, Anthony Shang. He was definitely involved.'
'Involved in the . . . the plot?' Amina prompted her. 'You talked abo
ut some kind of Communist plot.'
'Oh yes,' Domingues said, nodding. 'I didn't see much of Shang; he didn't work in the main hospital. He was always off somewhere else, but he showed up every now and again to consult on some of the patients, but I never found out where he spent most of his time. I didn't like him from the moment I set eyes on him. Creepy sort . . . and he was Chinese, of course.'
'Not too fond of the Chinese?' Amina asked.
'Don't get me wrong,' Domingues assured her. 'It's not because they're Chinese that I don't like 'em. I'm not a racist, y'know! I don't like 'em because they're all Communists! People talk like the Communist threat disappeared when the Berlin Wall came down. But they're wrong; it's looming larger than ever on the horizon and it eats its dinner with chopsticks.
'It's on track to be the most powerful country in the world now; over a billion people, all brainwashed into hating the West! That Shang was a typical example. He sometimes worked with the trauma surgeons. Plastic surgery was his thing, y'see? Making awful injuries look normal again. Manipulation of the flesh. Fooling the eye. And he was good at it; I could tell by the way the other surgeons treated him. That was what made me suspicious at the start. Anybody needing plastic surgery was sent back to the hospital in Germany. So what was he doing in Sinnostan, eh?'
She leaned forward, sipping her cocoa and tapping the table in front of her.
'The Chinese don't like us being in Sinnostan. It's too close to their border, but they won't go in and clear out those terrorists themselves. Why not? Because they're allies! And the Russians too! Notice how they're not committing many troops. And it's almost in their back yard too! Communists, the lot of 'em! And don't tell me the Russians stopped being Communists; a leopard can't change its spots. It's in their blood, the red swines!'
The irate woman stopped to take a breath and sip her cocoa.
'So . . . anyway. Shang. Right. There were a lot of wounded being brought in at night by chopper and it was hard to keep track of it all. Then one night, I was out on the roof having a smoke when a chopper landed on the helipad. Shang was on board with a couple of medics and they called me over to help them. Nobody seemed to wonder what a plastic surgeon was doing on a chopper coming from a battle zone. There were six wounded and one had just sprung an arterial bleed in his leg. Blood everywhere, like a garden hose!