The Embers of Hope: A science-fiction thriller (Hibernation Series Book 2)

by Nick Jones

  Fucking Reyland, that bastard.

  ‘Mr Jameson?’

  ‘If we meet, then I choose where.’

  ‘Of course,’ the voice replied.

  He leant back and ran a shaking hand through his hair. ‘There is a new art gallery called Temp, do you know it?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Be there in an hour,’ he said. ‘And come alone.’

  ‘One hour.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he repeated. ‘Alone and unarmed or I won’t show.’

  He hung up the call and exhaled slowly. It wasn’t the first time his life had been threatened but in recent years the likelihood had lessened, had drifted from his thoughts. Now it was close again and he wasn’t prepared, not at all.

  * * *

  An hour later – a long hour filled with ghosts from the past – Jameson arrived at the gallery. The building had been swept by his team for devices and was clean. Ten of his best men were watching and sniper droids were positioned in the gallery above, ready to shoot on command, yet still his heart was pounding. Dominic Pierce, his head of security wanted to record everything but Jameson refused. This was going to be off the record. He knew that if they ended up killing this mysterious caller, there must be no evidence, nothing that could leak to the public.

  The foyer was quiet with just a few visitors milling around. Jameson had decided the gallery staff should remain unaware of their meeting and the secret security detail. Better that way. Also, the general public were a good shield, always had been.

  A receptionist escorted him into a spacious sunlit hall dotted with considerate-looking visitors and explained how to link with the gallery’s neural feed. She was young, smartly dressed and pierced in a way that said, I’m cool and edgy. She looked Jameson over. ‘If you need anything, let me know.’ She drifted away in a slow saunter, another of her generation who didn’t seem to recognise him. It came with mixed emotions usually, but today it was a relief.

  Ahead, Jameson spotted a woman looking up at a large painting. She glanced around nervously.

  ‘We think that’s her,’ a voice in his ear said. ‘She’s been there for a while.’

  Jameson joined her in front of the huge canvas.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ the woman said without looking.

  She was strikingly attractive and beautifully dressed, exuding a style which Jameson considered rare these days.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he said. ‘I will kill you if you try.’

  ‘I’m not here to harm you. I’m here to help you.’

  His head of security spoke again. ‘I’ve got a name – Zido Zitagi – but her file is classified, nothing on the database. She’s a ghost alright, high up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I knew this was a bad idea.’

  ‘Who do you work for, Ms Zitagi?’ Jameson asked.

  ‘Your men work fast,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I like to know who I’m dealing with.’

  ‘I work for Victor Reyland,’ she said, turning towards him. ‘And he wants you dead before you publish a word.’

  Jameson nodded. Just hearing the man’s name sent jabs of anger banging though his temples. So Reyland was responsible for this mess, this whole bloody disaster. Jameson gestured for Zitagi to join him on a bench. She did so and they sat in silence for a while. A young couple meandered past, gazing up at the large paintings, hand in hand. Once they were out of earshot, Jameson continued. ‘Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?’

  ‘Because I believed in Hibernation and everything we were doing.’ She paused. ‘I believed in you back then and I still do. Whatever it is you’re planning, I want to help, to be a part of it.’

  Jameson frowned, and when he spoke it was a determined whisper. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because I can get you inside,’ she replied. ‘Feed you information.’

  ‘But why?’

  She spoke with a simmering anger. ‘Because when we start killing our own, then the apple is rotten at the core and I want no part of it.’

  Jameson considered this. An informer on the inside was a tempting proposition, one he hadn’t expected, and certainly not one with her level of access, her ability to get to Reyland.

  ‘How can I trust you?’ Jameson said. ‘How do I know Reyland hasn’t sent you?’

  She handed him a data card. ‘On there are the details of two planned assassination attempts. They know exactly where you are going to be.’ Her eyes burrowed into him. ‘Why would I give you this if I wasn’t planning to defect?’

  ‘Is that what this is?’ He slipped the card inside his jacket. ‘A defection?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To what?’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘I’m not exactly the other side.’

  ‘When you release your version of events you will create another side.’ Her expression was like stone. ‘And that’s the side I want to be on.’ Her eyes flicked nervously around the gallery. ‘My details are on that card. Will you contact me?’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘I understand, but in the meantime, be careful. He’s a determined man.’

  Jameson knew that only too well. He stared at her, this beautiful young woman. If she was telling him the truth, then she was risking her life.

  In his ear a voice instructed him to end the meeting. Jameson stood and said his goodbyes. As he turned, exposing his back, he was glad of the multiple gun sights trained on the woman. He stepped out onto the street, heart still racing, and approached the car. Its door opened and he slipped inside.

  Dominic Pierce stared back at him. ‘That was a little too good to be true, don’t you think?’

  Jameson nodded thoughtfully. His head of security was the most suspicious man he had ever met, as determined and intense as Reyland in his particular area of expertise. He was good at his job and Jameson listened carefully to his opinions. Perhaps it was too good to be true, but if he had the opportunity to get to Victor Reyland, expose the slippery bastard from the inside, then he might just take that chance.

  Chapter 20

  Mid-morning in London and the streets were loud and busy. Nathan slowed to a fast walk. He’d jumped from the first-floor window of the drop-in centre and run. The cameras mounted on every corner didn’t seem to have a problem with his new features. He tipped his head forward and continued walking.

  He thought of the priest. What was he doing with advanced camouflage technology? And how did he know his name?

  He stopped under a theatre canopy and attempted to get his bearings. Not that it really mattered; he was alone again and had nowhere to be. He turned and faced a set of glass doors, his reflection as unknown as the man inside his skin. His clothes, old and heavy with grime, rubbed at his skin.

  Nathan felt the world spinning, like one of those fairground rides that uses centrifugal force to pin everyone to its edges. As a kid he had always wondered what would happen if you climbed up and tried to hold onto the outer lip of the cage. Yes, that was its name: The Cage. Nathan had spent the last few years trapped inside a cage, pressed against its walls by an unseen force. Now, without thought or planning, he had crawled to the edge.

  Just let go. Free yourself from the pain and worry.

  Perhaps if he released his grip all the pressure would stop too. He could drift out into space and close his eyes.

  The sounds around him faded, he watched people flash past, reflected colours in the glass, like actors in a silent movie.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir?’ A voice startled him, breaking through his perfect silence, bringing everything back in a screaming rush. A young man stood where his reflection had been. He was – according to his gleaming badge – the manager of the theatre. ‘Oh my,’ he said in response to Nathan’s appearance and glanced inside. Nathan knew instantly it was a signal, they would be calling someone.

  Across the street, two policemen turned toward him. They were everywhere these days and quick to respond. Part of him wanted to just give up, but his finge
rs were still gripping the edge of the imaginary cage, he wasn’t letting go. Not yet.

  Nathan ran, pushing through crowds of people, knowing that his chances weren’t good. He was out in the open and being hunted. It began to rain – a thin mist – and he smiled. Police were in pursuit, he was pushing people out of the way and shouting, yet he was smiling.

  I’m going mad, he thought. Insane.

  No, a reply arrived, as loud as if spoken through an amplifier.

  It’s something else, you know what it is.

  Umbrellas popped around him and Nathan slowed.

  What’s happening to me?

  There’s no time. It was Jen’s voice this time, clear and strong. You need to run.

  She always knew what to do. Nathan tried to think like her and in that moment, as the sun cast a beautiful oily rainbow across the surface of the road, a plan formed.

  He crossed the street, dodging dangerously close to the moving traffic, and made his way towards the base of the rainbow. He allowed himself one look back and saw three policemen working their way towards him. To his left a police droid dismounted a motorbike and began walking in his direction. Nathan approached a woman handing out yellow rain smocks to a short queue of tourists. He smiled and grabbed one, slipping it over his head and joining the group.

  He made his way onto a red tour bus, jogged up the stairs and took a seat on the top deck, near the front. As the bus pulled away Nathan stole a look over the side. His pursuers were performing a street scan. They seemed relaxed enough. Nathan hoped they would consider him just another tramp that slipped away, less paperwork for later.

  The tour worked its way through London, a voice-over highlighting the sights. The bus was full and many of the passengers were clearly augmented, their purple-tinted eyes hooked into the various informative overlays supplied by the tour operator. The rain fell harder now. Nathan pulled the hood of his smock over his head, finding the sound of plastic being battered strangely comforting.

  After ten minutes there was a grinding sound as the vehicle’s wheels retracted and a different set of engines kicked in. Nathan felt his stomach drop as the tour bus took to the air. It turned a corner, rising high up to meet the roofline of the surrounding buildings.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder.

  It was the conductor, his features were in shadow, concealed by a waterproof visor that was dripping water down onto his nose. ‘Remove your hood please, Sir, I need to scan you.’

  Nathan did as he was told. The conductor scanned him, the seconds ticking along in time with the beads of water dripping down. Nathan wondered what the scanner would say, what version of his life it would return. Would it still manage David Shaw, the identity he had assumed since his body swap? Shaw wasn’t a wanted man, the authorities had no business with him, but ID theft was a big problem and Nathan knew his attempts wouldn’t last forever. He glanced nervously at the passengers around him. Most were busy, but one met his stare. She was a young woman, maybe late twenties, pretty with dark hair; a Chinese tourist. Cloaked in his yellow raincoat, she couldn’t tell Nathan was a tramp. She smiled at him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shaw,’ the conductor said, as the scanner beeped its approval. ‘Day pass or just the tour?’

  Nathan ignored him and smiled back at the girl. He was relieved of course, pleased he’d escaped, that he could fight another day, but he was also happy. Someone had smiled at him, made him feel like a human being, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘Sir, did you want a day pass?’ the conductor asked again.

  Nathan ran a hand through his hair, which lay flat against his head. ‘No, thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m getting off at the next stop.’

  The conductor charged him for the ride and continued his rounds.

  The sun cut through dark clouds, covering the top deck of the bus in glorious warmth and bathing London and its mass of steaming, glowing buildings in golden light. Spring was pushing back winter’s chill and with it came a positive feeling, an almost forgotten sense of hope.

  Chapter 21

  The InterContinental Hotel overlooked the trendy Bay Area of San Francisco, famous for its restaurants and pretty sea views. Zido Zitagi checked into one of its twelve suites. Her first job was to sweep for surveillance. An hour later she was satisfied. Her second job was to install her own security measures. Cameras, door sensors, locks, multiple laser turrets and tiny mountable guns that could fire silent, deadly rounds with accuracy.

  The preparation time was worth it. She could kill anyone who entered the room just by wishing it to happen.

  For three days she waited.

  Preparing. Eating, sleeping and thinking.

  On the morning of the fourth day, she finally left her room. It was early and still dark and the beach was calling her. It was inadvisable but necessary. The run cleared her mind and loosened up her muscles. Back at the hotel she waited in the corridor for fifteen minutes before walking the final stretch to her room.

  Jameson wasn’t to be underestimated.

  She showered, slipped into a thin robe and stepped onto a small balcony overlooking the city. She was thirty-two floors up. To the north she could see Alcatraz and in the distance the Golden Gate Bridge, its lights burning like balls of cotton through the mist. She was beginning to wonder if Jameson was going to take the bait. Had Reyland underestimated Jameson’s desire to get back at him? She pulled a deep breath through her nostrils and exhaled slowly from her mouth and repeated this many times.

  The sun rose, like a red ball over the bay. Zitagi continued to play out her angles using a technique she had been taught early in her career and, with practice, almost perfected.

  In the centre of her mind she visualised a tree. The direction of its shadow, cast thick on the ground below was determined by the sun’s position. Each problem or situation had multiple outcomes, sometimes hundreds, maybe thousands. Zitagi liked to consider them all. She didn’t like surprises.

  During an op when the situation changed, it did so quickly and often with a violent outcome. To the uninitiated it could give the impression of complete anarchy. For her, it was simply the sun rotating around the tree. The problem remained fixed in the centre; it was only the shadow that had moved. The outcome would now be different. Live with it, adapt or die. Death was waiting at the end of many of those long shadows. It was karma.

  An hour later she was seated at a large desk in shorts and a sports bra. Her eyes moved across the various devices, weapons and containers neatly placed on the large desk; multiple possibilities, multiple ways to kill a man.

  The call came at 11.30am.

  It was Jameson.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said, then a pause and a click that sounded like a swallow. ‘We need to meet again.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Do you know the Conservatory of Flowers? It’s in Golden Gate Park.’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘Meet me there tomorrow at four pm.’

  Tomorrow was a Saturday and the park would be busy. Little opportunity to kill him quietly, but that worked both ways. She scanned the desk again and then glanced over at the bed where various items of clothing lay, neatly wrapped in plastic, waiting to be chosen.

  ‘Four pm,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, and Ms Zitagi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The data you gave me checked out.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I may have to thank you for saving my life.’

  ‘I will see you tomorrow, Mr Jameson.’

  She hung up and smiled. It was all working out exactly as planned.

  Chapter 22

  The statue – a depiction of Jesus Christ holding a staff in his right hand and a small lamb cradled in his left – looked down on Paul Bendiksen in solemn judgement. Carved out of soft grey marble and twice the size of a man, it dominated the priest’s private chambers.

  Paul folded his arms. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you want from me?’

  The statue held his gaze, eyes downcast and thoughtful. Paul
turned and faced a long mirror. A gowned man stared back, white collar giving the illusion of a head floating in the shadowy, candlelit room. The smell of dust, incense and age owned this place. Paul had trained to be a priest, a long journey of committed study and faith, but sometimes it was hard to keep up the facade. A tough evening lay ahead, he had a long sermon to perform.

  He practiced his smile. ‘It’s time, Father,’ he whispered sarcastically. ‘Time to get your game face on.’

  He picked up his Bible, extinguished the candles and left the room in darkness.

  * * *

  His sermon lasted over an hour. Half the pews were empty but Paul spotted a number of regulars. The congregation were the usual split of the enthralled and the half-asleep. His voice bellowed and danced around the old church, echoing through the cold air and stone as it had for years. The words came easily to him, his memory had always been sharp and that was all it took it seemed, a dash of charisma and the ability to memorise a very long book.

  A man of faith was an elaborate cover. He was allowed to move freely through society and search out those ready to push back. So what if his religious beliefs were a lie? He could live with that. After all, the biggest lie of them all was happening to billions of people right in front of his eyes. Anyone who questioned it – or even raised concerns – was quickly silenced.

  Occasionally he imagined what would happen if his congregation discovered the truth, if they knew that Father Paul Bendiksen, trusted local priest, pillar of the community, was also the leader of an organised activist network.

  They would probably burn him at the stake.

  When shit had come to shove many people had expected religion to suffer, but it was quite the opposite. As the world lurched from one crisis to the next, religion filled the void opened up by fear and guilt. The Catholic Church – and the other faiths Paul was legally allowed to practice – offered not only the answers people craved but also the perfect cover.