Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume

by Ryan, Anthony

  “Poor bastard,” I muttered, calling up the next book. “I guess you were in for a shock.”

  Predictably, Wallace’s next book, ‘Ascension Lost?’ written not long after he resigned his position with the UN two decades later, had a decidedly bitter tone, though the underlying message remained the same: The mud proved far more difficult to scrape off than I assumed. An inability to grasp the narrowness and greed inherent in our species has ever been the flaw of the scientific mind. It has become increasingly clear to me that, if we are to finally begin our journey to ascension then those capable of grasping its possibilities must forsake this planet. Our cradle has become our prison. We are like a mental patient who, having been given the key to our cell door, sits in the corner and weeps with indecision, so terrified are we of what awaits us outside.

  I skim-read most of the rest, finding much of it a somewhat grim history of the last sixty years, though Wallace did find perverse cause for optimism in the CAOS war: Can it be, that in seeking to enslave our poor in an orbital gulag, we have inadvertently created a launch pad for ascension? Now, drifting above us, is an entire generation of humanity who have never been mired in the mud. A new culture has risen, a culture born in the fires of revolution, scoured clean of sentimental attachment to this speck of unremarkable rock orbiting an unremarkable star.

  But it was the final chapter that I found most interesting, particularly the conclusion: I have never been one for superstition, nor do I wish to succour the cowardice of agnosticism. However, I can’t resist the conclusion that there is wisdom and insight to be found in those myths produced by the pre-enlightenment mind. The Ragnarok of the Vikings and the Armageddon of Christian tradition reflect a fundamental understanding of our tenuous position on this planet. On an instinctive, perhaps primal level our forebears knew our time here was finite, a truth lost in an age where technological wonder has been matched by all-too-human horror. If we are ever to ascend, we must once again grasp this essential, inescapable truth - to prosper, we must leave this world behind.

  I found Erik and Phaedra on the bridge, pondering a map of Wallace’s island on the tactical holo as they discussed assault scenarios. “We’re only fifty klicks away,” Erik said. “Euro-Fed drones regularly patrol the coastal approaches so we’ll have to go stealthy to get close enough for a landing. It’ll reduce our speed to five knots, but I can’t see a way past it.”

  I took a close look at the holo. The island was called Gruinard, two klicks long by one klick wide, and heavily forested apart from the three acres where Wallace had constructed his mansion. Red dots around the coast and interior indicated the most likely nodes for his security net. “Anthrax Island,” I murmured.

  “What?” Phaedra asked.

  “Gruinard was a test site for the British bio-weapons programme in the twentieth century,” I said, repeating what I’d read in Janet’s info package. “It was uninhabitable for decades. Even after decontamination it remained unsettled until Wallace bought it. The trees are all new, accelerated reforestation. Hugely expensive but I doubt he worries much about that kind’ve thing.”

  “Nice of him to provide so much cover, anyway,” Erik said, tapping icons to highlight a spot on the island’s northern shore. “Our insertion point. The beach on the south side is way too obvious. You’ll need to get suited up, Inspector, assuming you want to come along. Don’t worry about trying to keep up, the suit has a propulsion system. On landing, one team will strike out directly south, tripping the security net and hopefully drawing off most of the guards. They’ve got instructions to exfiltrate after a brief engagement. Should give us a reasonably uninterrupted approach to the mansion. We force entry, grab up Wallace, retreat to the insertion point for exfil. In and out in fifteen minutes.”

  “Very slick,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt at bursting his bubble. He’d really been looking forward to playing commando. “But it won’t be necessary. D’you have a boat I can borrow?”

  The sky was getting dark by the time I rounded the headland and steered for Gruinard’s gently sloping southern shore. Somehow the gloom made the roofless horror of it all more tolerable, an echo of the starlit void I’d looked out on for so many years. The boat was a small rigid-hulled inflatable with an electric outboard, rigged to run at near silence so the guards on the beach didn’t notice my approach until I’d begun to ride the surf towards the narrow strip of pale sand. I waited until the hull scraped bottom then killed the outboard and hopped over the side, sloshing my way to shore with hands raised, my smart glowing blue as it displayed my ID. The real one this time.

  “You are trespassing on private property,” a guard informed me. He was dressed in standard combat gear, body-armour, enhanced optical rig and a state-of-the-art carbine raised so that its laser dot centred on my chest. The dot was quickly joined by two more as a pair of guards came to a halt a short distance away. “We have authority to use lethal force…”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I tossed the first guard my smart. “Tell Mr Wallace that Fenrir’s here to talk about Ragnarok.”

  Chapter 21

  Wallace’s mansion consisted of a series of interlinked one-storey units, the architecture all straight lines and right angles that somehow managed to work amongst the wooded backdrop. I counted a dozen guards in addition to the trio that escorted me to the front door, and assumed there were at least the same number in concealed locations. Wallace evidently took his security very seriously. We came to a halt at the door where the guard growled terse jargon into his mouth mike. After a short pause he nodded, handed me my smart and walked back to the trees with the rest of the escort. The door opened a few seconds later, revealing a tall dark skinned man who looked to be about sixty, meaning he hadn’t bothered with rejuve for a while now.

  “Inspector McLeod,” he greeted me in a gravelly baritone, expression cautiously intrigued rather than concerned.

  “Mr Wallace,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I’m always happy to converse with interesting people. And who could me more interesting than a dead hero?” He stepped aside, beckoning. “Please come in.”

  The interior was surprisingly spartan, polished floorboards, nondescript furnishings and no objets d’art that I could see. However, Wallace clearly shared an interest with Holstrom. Five free-standing and very tall bookcases stood in the centre of the space, every shelf full. They were arranged around a desk like monoliths in some ancient stone circle. I couldn’t see a data terminal anywhere but the desk held what I recognised as an antique typewriter.

  “Paper and ink can’t be hacked,” Wallace explained, noting my interest.

  “But people can,” I said. “Quite successfully, as it turns out. And I’ve got twenty-five bodies to prove it.” I held up my smart, displaying the images from the Rybak murder scene. “Wanna see?”

  No denials, no outrage, just a grim smile before he turned and nodded to an alcove beyond the bookcases where a teapot and cups sat on a table between two armchairs. “My evening ritual. Will you join me?”

  He poured tea as I took a chair, choosing the one facing the window. “Earl Grey,” he said, setting the teapot aside. “I hope that’s acceptable.”

  I eyed the steaming beverage he set before me with no intention of touching a drop. “Never had it.”

  “If I’d given the word,” Wallace said, sinking into his own chair and crossing his legs, cup and saucer in hand. “My men would have killed you on the beach and your body would never have been found. Nor would any law enforcement agency have expressed an interest in your demise.”

  “Disadvantages of already being dead, I guess.”

  He bared his teeth in a brief smile before sipping some tea. “Well, quite. But, please, do try the tea.”

  I shrugged and leaned forward to take a sip, finding the taste slightly raspy but not unpleasant.

  “Small pleasures, Inspector,” Wallace said. “When you get to my age you begin to appreciate that it’s in the details that life offers the gr
eatest rewards.”

  I glanced around. “I suppose it helps if you have a fucking big house to enjoy them in.”

  Another smile, shorter than the first, then a raised eyebrow. “Fenrir?”

  “Fed Sec’s codename for me during the war.”

  “Ah. Surprisingly portentous, but not quite accurate. You see, Fenrir will be one of the agents of destruction at the dawn of Ragnarok, not a would-be saviour.”

  “A saviour from what?”

  That seemed to give him pause, his brows creasing in mild surprise. “It appears you’re not quite the great detective after all. You really don’t know what he’s planning?”

  “You mean Vargold?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s his ship, the great big doodad that’s going to secure the future of humanity. At least partly inspired by you, I would guess. The key to ascension. Rybak and Holstrom knew something that threatened it, a design flaw maybe, something screwy with the funding. It’s Vargold’s obsession, all he cares about…”

  “No.” Wallace’s tone held a surprising amount of anger, expression hardening as he set his tea cup and saucer down with a small rattle of china. “Can your vision really be so narrow? You are the product of a society, and a war, where insight, reflex and cunning were necessary for survival. Do not limit yourself so.” He reclined once more, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled as he spoke in a gentler tone, coaxing, encouraging; a teacher’s voice. “You are right to focus on the Ad Astra project and the ship it produced. And you are correct in that Othin was influenced by my work, at first through my books and papers then directly when he unearthed the patents produced by Haunai Genetics and decided to seek me out.”

  “Rapid morphological change,” I said. “Werewolves and human bombs.”

  “A perversion of truly great science. If you’ve read my work you will know I had become increasingly frustrated by our continual failure to pursue ascension. It struck me that our attachment to this planet stemmed in no small part from the fact that, in a very real sense, it is our mother. It shaped our evolution and eventually gave birth to us. To leave her behind, to escape the womb, we needed a rebirth, not technological in nature, but biological.”

  I recalled something Janet had said, back when we were chasing a monster through the Slab. “Post-human.”

  “Exactly. Imagine a new strain of humanity unfettered by environment. A being that could change its body instantly to adapt to any conditions. If that could be achieved then perhaps we wouldn’t be so fearful of opening the door to our cell.”

  “But it never happened. You shut down Haunai Genetics. Why?”

  He closed his eyes for a second, expression unchanged as he said. “Human trials produced… unexpected results.”

  He reopened his eyes and I stared into them, reading the strange mix of guilt and certainty. “You sick old fuck,” I said.

  A soft, humourless laugh escaped his lips as he said, “It was, in fact, the least of my crimes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You seem to have some acquaintance with history, Inspector. Have you ever heard the name Hernan Cortes?”

  I shook my head. “He a mass murderer too?”

  “Actually, yes. But he’s better known as the most successful Conquistador of the sixteenth century, a man who brought down the Mayan empire with only five hundred soldiers and a few cannons, securing much of Mexico for the King of Spain. Perhaps his most famous exploit, however, came after he captured the port of Vera Cruz in 1519. When it became apparent that many of his men were leery of proceeding further into the Mayan heartland, Cortes burned his ships. It could easily be read as the act of a megalomaniac driven mad by lust for gold and glory. But I’ve always seen it as an extremely rational act, the perfect example of brutal pragmatism. For Cortes to succeed his men must be denied the opportunity of retreat. From that point on, achieving their goal was not a choice but a necessity.” Wallace leaned forward, eyes intent on mine. “Do you begin to see now? Does understanding begin to dawn?”

  I frowned at him, bafflement mingling with impatience. “I’m getting tired of this lesson, old man…” I trailed off as my smart started bleating; Janet with a priority message. “We’re not done here,” I told Wallace, getting up and wandering over to his monolithic bookcases before answering the call. “Yeah?”

  “We finally got somewhere with Vargold,” Janet told me. “Took a lot of research but it’s solid.”

  “What’s solid?”

  “Turns out Vargold had a family after all. One of his early relationships bore fruit, as it were.”

  “He’s got a kid?”

  “Not anymore. He met the mother when she interned at Astravista during the start-up days. Her family were ultra-fundamentalist neo-Catholic types, no sex before marriage, yadda yadda, so they kept the relationship secret while it lasted, which doesn’t appear to have been very long. He dumps her, she finds out she’s pregnant, parents kick her out. Vargold doesn’t want to reignite the romance, but he does agree to be the daddy. He buys her a Yin-side apartment, big annual settlement, pays for a private school when the kid’s of age. A thousand points if you can guess the name of the school.”

  I remembered Vargold’s words back at the bar: The governance of the planet beneath us is in the hands of those who have never balked at murder. Nor have they always been so discriminating. “January Gardens.”

  “Bingo. And the kid’s name…”

  “Jason,” I said. “As in the Argonauts.” I glanced back at Wallace, sitting silent and still in his chair. “It’s almost time to call Sherry,” I told Janet. “I should have the whole picture in a few minutes. Get everything tabulated and ready for transmit when I call back. Copy it to all the news feeds, widest possible distribution.”

  I closed the call and moved to stand opposite Wallace, feeling the absence of a weapon very acutely and hoping he could hear the intent in my voice. I was fully prepared to break some fingers if he didn’t start being less opaque. “Why did Vargold name his ship after his dead son?”

  “His ship,” Wallace muttered with a slight shake of his head. “It’s not a ship. It never was.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Wallace’s gaze snapped up and I saw that his previous calm was gone now, the placid mask vanished to reveal a scared old man with tears shining in red-tinged eyes. “Lisabet and Craig,” he said, voice raw and tremulous. “They were his warning to me. I have children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, and all of them are currently residing off-planet and easily within Othin’s reach.” He flapped shaking hands at our surroundings. “This… You think it’s my refuge? It’s my prison. He gave me a choice, you see. Ascend with my children or stay and witness the cleansing fire.”

  “Fire?” I moved towards him, ready to drag him from the chair and wring it out of him, and I might have, if the window hadn’t exploded.

  Ingrained muscle memory saved me, sending me into a roll, eyes shut tight, mouth yawning wide and hands clamped over my ears to shield against the eardrum shattering boom of a grenade. Wallace wasn’t so lucky, the blast tearing his chair apart and kicking him halfway across the room, clothes shredded by flying glass, his aged flesh leaking blood from a dozen places. He managed to cling on to consciousness, shuddering on the floor as he tried to heave himself upright, eyes swivelling towards me, locking onto my gaze. I think there may have been some apology there, some attempt to secure forgiveness, or at least understanding. Or maybe it was just the last glance of a terrified old man. Anyway, I had only a few seconds to ponder it before an operative in full combat gear stepped through the remains of the window and blew most of Wallace’s upper torso to pieces with a burst of carbine fire.

  More due to luck than judgement, I’d landed with the coffee table between me and the intruder. As the carbine’s laser dot flicked towards me, I managed to hook my foot under the table and heave it at him. He quickly batted it aside, but the distraction gave me enough time to surge to my feet. At
tacking a fully armed and armoured operative with my bare hands might sound like something I’d do, but I’ve never really been that dumb. I fled towards Wallace’s free-standing library, diving between the bookcases. The carbine barked out another burst, powdered wood and shredded paper cascading around me as I rolled over Wallace’s desk then lay flat. A two second delay then the high-pitched metallic cacophony of the antique typewriter being blasted to pieces. A jagged piece of metal landed close to my hand. One of the keys, a bakerlite ‘x’ attached to a long twisted shard of steel.

  “Philistine,” I muttered, fumbling for my smart and hitting a preselected icon.

  A flat boom from the front of the house indicated the door had been blown in, confirmed almost instantly by the thud of combat boots as a secondary team made their way inside.

  “Flank left,” said the one who had shot Wallace. “Target is unarmed.”

  My gaze returned to the twisted piece of metal and I snatched it up, rising to a crouch. I waited until I saw the shadow of the operative’s boots in the gap between the floor and the base of the desk, then launched myself up and over in a single movement. He reacted with annoyingly professional swiftness, stepping out of reach of my probably ineffectual weapon and centring the carbine’s laser dot on my chest, finger tightening on the trigger.

  A low buzzing sound, a rush of displaced air from the direction of the shattered window and the operative no longer had a head.

  I sprang forward to claim the carbine as the corpse collapsed, whirling about and spraying rounds in a wide arc without bothering to aim, forcing the secondary team to take cover. The magazine fired empty and I dropped, snatching another from the headless operative’s bandolier, slamming it into place then reaching for the stun-grenade on his belt.