by Sam Kates
The surface of the car park had been gritted and rock salt crunched beneath their feet. It was a great relief to Milandra to feel that she could walk without her feet wanting to slide out from under her.
Drones had started to arrive, shepherded by teams of three people. The shepherds were armed, but as a precaution. The drones were docile and pliant, shuffling along to wherever their herders indicated. If a drone showed an inclination to act as an individual, the team quickly combined mental forces and nudged the errant drone back down the subservient path.
A sandy-haired woman directed the arriving teams. Milandra recognised her; she had co-piloted the airplane that Bishop had flown in from Australia.
“Fifty drones to each red bus,” she called. “One team of three onto each bus for control purposes. The rest of the teams, onto the coaches.” The woman caught sight of Milandra’s group and strolled over. “G’day,” she said. “I’m Tess Granville.”
“I know,” said Milandra. “You came in with Troy Bishop.”
“Yes. I heard that he passed. Shame.”
“Hmm. Which coach are we on?”
“That black one on the end. Have a good journey and I shall see you in Salisbury.”
“Indeed.” Milandra turned to her Deputies. “You all get on. I’m going to watch for a little while.”
“I’m staying out here, too,” said Grant. “Make sure everything runs smoothly.”
“Fine,” said Milandra. “But don’t feel you have to stay by my side. I know you’re itching to get involved.”
Grant smiled. “You know me too well.”
He walked off to talk to Rodney Wilson who was standing by the line of red buses.
“Well,” said Wallace. “I ain’t staying out here in this cold. See ya on the bus.”
“Those single-decked ones are called coaches over here,” said Lavinia.
“Whatever,” said Wallace.
Simone and Lavinia went with him and disappeared onto the black coach.
Milandra walked over to where Tess continued to direct the arriving groups. The drones had been taken off work details the previous day, stripped of their stinking clothes and sluiced down with collected rainwater to remove the worst of the filth that covered them. Each drone had been provided with a clean set of clothes, although not much attention had been paid to sizes judging by the way shirts hung loosely like limp sails, while trousers barely reached ankles.
“Fifty drones to each red bus,” called Tess. “Count them on, please. Oh, I remember you. Fresh little bugger, you were. Well, mate, your groping days are over.”
Tess was directing her comments to a slack-jawed youth who had arrived in a larger group of drones. He looked towards the sound of her voice with a vacant gaze, but no recognition showed in his dull features.
Although the expressions on the drones’ faces in this larger group were as blank as those who had already clambered onto buses, their bearing was straighter and they marched rather than slouched. Cleaner, too, than the others, they wore clothes that fitted them well. Milandra guessed who these were immediately: the hundred who had been spared work, had been kept well-fed and healthy, exercised regularly. Sixty-three of their number would be instrumental in restarting the Beacon.
Milandra watched as the hundred were marched to two buses that had been designated as theirs. Whereas the destination boards at the front of the other buses were blank, these two buses displayed the number 100.
The drones boarded and were joined by teams of six on each bus. Since the hundred were fitter and healthier than the rest, any problems they might cause by becoming unruly on the journey could potentially be more serious. Grant had therefore insisted on them being minded by larger teams that were under orders to clamp down instantly on the slightest show of individuality.
Milandra shivered. Now that she had stopped walking, the icy air was seeping into her ancient bones like ink on blotting paper. She stamped her feet and breathed onto her hands before thrusting them deep into her coat pockets. Wallace had been right: why hadn’t they landed further south instead of on this freezing island?
Smiling wryly to herself, Milandra made for the black coach.
* * * * *
The fluttering sensation inside Bri’s head did not feel particularly unpleasant. Perhaps it was because she knew that she could eject the invaders any time she chose that made the intrusion bearable.
Bri held hands with Peter and Diane. She found it difficult to think of them as non-human, despite what Peter had shown her and Will the night before, after the submarine had left.
A “montage” he’d called it; a series of images, flickering at first then growing so intense it was as though Bri was actually experiencing the events herself. A vast craft leaving a red-tinged desert planet of black sand; gigantic creatures gazing in terror at the skies; a tidal wave that swept away everything in its path; rows of hairy, sleeping people who only looked vaguely human.
Will had grown wide-eyed with wonder. He’d chattered about spaceships and aliens and dinosaurs for the rest of the evening until even Ceri, who seemed to have taken a real shine to the boy, had grown weary.
Then Peter had told her another tale. About the deliberate spread of a deadly virus. By the time he had finished speaking, Bri had been sobbing.
She did not know what to believe. Ceri said she was certain that what Peter had shown and told them had actually happened; Tom seemed less sure. If it was true, Bri was now holding the hands of people who had been instrumental in the deaths of her parents and brother.
She liked Peter. He sometimes said funny things that made her laugh and he appeared genuinely concerned for her well-being. When he had asked if he could take a look to see if he could discover what was causing her headaches, she had said yes immediately. Hesitation only came when he suggested that Diane also take a look.
That was an entirely different prospect. Diane had barely spoken three words to her or Will. She seemed aloof, not truly a part of the small group that had found them in Nottingham.
Diane noticed Bri pause.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand if you’d rather not have me inside your head.”
Bri considered her for a moment. Aloof, yes, but she didn’t get the sense that Diane was a bad person. And, according to the story Tom and Ceri had related to her last night, Diane had saved the lives of the other three.
She shrugged. “If Peter thinks that it’s better if you look too, that’s fine.”
Diane had given her a tight smile. It hinted that she could be an attractive lady if she smiled more often. Then Bri remembered that she wasn’t even human supposedly and wondered if ‘lady’ was the correct word.
Ceri and Tom stood watching, both wearing apprehensive expressions. They looked more worried than she felt, thought Bri. Will was playing outside with Dusty, under strict instructions not to go down to the beach and to come running if he saw anything unusual, especially out in the bay.
The inspection, or whatever it was, of her mind didn’t last long. Bri could have looked back at the invading intelligences, subjected them to the same sort of scrutiny to which she was submitting. Instead, she remained passive, sensing the invasion as a sunbathing person might sense an insect crawling over her back, but tolerating it.
Then it was over. Their hands let go of hers. She felt the minds withdraw and looked from Peter to Diane. As usual, Diane’s expression was neutral, but it seemed more deliberate this time; forced. Peter, with his open features, would have more difficulty maintaining a neutral expression and didn’t look as though he was even trying to. His face was crinkled into a frown.
“Peter?” Bri’s voice sounded tiny.
Peter shook his head. He chewed on his bottom lip.
“Peter?” Bri could not keep the hint of panic from her voice. She suddenly felt sick.
Tom and Ceri both came forward.
“What’s wrong?” Tom’s voice was higher-pitched than normal.
Peter glanced at
Bri and must have noticed the effect he was having on her. He forced a strained smile to his lips and placed his hand on her forearm, gripping it reassuringly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“What did you see?” Bri asked.
Peter’s smile faded and he let go of her arm. He rose to his feet. “I need to discuss this with Diane first,” he said. “Try to make sense of it.” He looked at Diane and jerked his head towards the door.
She, too, stood and followed him out of the room.
* * * * *
Clint had retracted the switchblade and secreted it somewhere behind his back by the time Howard reached them. Colleen wanted to rush forward and hug Howard, but that would mean passing close to Clint. She stayed where she was.
In his right hand, Howard clutched a black case the size of a small suitcase. In his left, he carried a bulging canvas sack and on his back a rucksack, also bulging.
He drew level with Clint and stopped. Colleen was struck by how small Howard looked. Like a jockey standing next to a heavyweight boxer.
“Hello,” he said with a smile. “I’m Howard. Pleased to meet you.” He lowered the black case carefully to the ground and held out his right hand.
Clint’s pasty features drew together. He took a step away and did not reach for Howard’s hand.
“I’m Clint,” he said. He shot a dark glance at Colleen, who bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the chortle escaping.
If Howard found anything comical about the man’s name, he hid it well. Without making any show of Clint having ignored his proffered handshake, he bent and picked up the case.
“Will you come and eat with us?” said Howard. Colleen’s heart sank. “We have plenty to go round. And I could do with getting out of this drizzle.”
“Er, I have my own pad back yonder. . . .” Clint inclined his head to the north of the city. Again, Colleen had to struggle to avoid showing her amusement; he was now even sounding like an Irish cowboy. “Where are you folks staying?”
Colleen’s urge to giggle vanished. She glared at Howard, willing him not to say any more, but he wasn’t looking at her.
“The Quays,” he said. “In Temple Bar. Not far.”
Clint raised his hand to the brim of his Stetson and tipped it. “Lead on, pardner,” he drawled. Colleen no longer found it funny. He was starting to creep her out again.
Howard walked towards her.
“Here,” she said, “let me take that sack from you.” As she leaned in to him, she whispered, “Be on your guard. There’s something not right about him. He has a switchblade with blood on it.”
She straightened, holding the sack. It was surprisingly light.
Howard’s eyes widened and his mouth briefly contorted into a grimace of apology. He gave the slightest of nods to show that he understood.
Colleen headed for Temple Bar, walking slowly, taking a circuitous route, reluctant to lead Clint to the one place she felt safe. Howard hung back and she could hear the men talking.
“What did you do before the Millennium Bug?” Howard asked. “I was a doctor, a G.P. Colleen there was a university lecturer.”
“Oh, I was a personal bodyguard. To a famous Irish actor.” Colleen noted that he was forgetting to drawl.
“Really?” said Howard in a tone that suggested he was both delighted and fascinated in what Clint had to say. “Which one?”
Colleen smiled wryly to herself. She had found herself opening up to Howard; he had that way about him, that he was genuinely interested in whoever he was talking to. It was clearly working on Clint, too.
“Um,” said Clint. “I’m not supposed to say. Client confidentiality, you know.”
“I understand. Similar principles bind me. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. Although I have to say that I doubt such ethical considerations apply any longer. I could tell you all about Mrs McGilliguddy’s rheumatism, were you interested, and it wouldn’t matter one iota. Mrs McGilliguddy, bless her soul, certainly wouldn’t object.”
“Ah. Of course you’re right,” said Clint. “Well, okay. I worked for. . . .” He named an actor.
“Really? Wow! I’ve seen lots of his films. Superb actor.”
“Yeah. The best. Great guy, too. Lovely to work for.”
“And you were his bodyguard. . . . That’s quite a responsibility. Must have been dangerous.”
“Oh yes. But, you know, I can handle myself.”
“Yes. I can see that. And I expect you had a gun.”
“Oh yes. A Magnum. Like Dirty Harry’s.”
“Go ahead, punk, make my day,” said Howard in a passable impersonation of Clint’s namesake.
“Yes. Very good.” Colleen detected irritation in his tone; Clint did not like to be upstaged.
“I expect you had to leave the Magnum in the States,” continued Howard.
“Yeah, er. . . . how d’you mean?”
“Well, when you returned to Ireland. You wouldn’t have been allowed to bring the Magnum with you.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, of course, he lives in the States.”
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yes. Er, no. He has a ranch. In Wyoming. I help out with the horses. Mustangs.”
“Wow! What a life you must have led. So why were you in Dublin? On leave?”
“Yes. He’s very generous with leave. Pays my air fares and everything.” He sighed wistfully. “Business class, of course.”
Colleen wanted Howard to stop. Just one glance at Clint’s face and hands, the flesh as pale as the underside of a mushroom, gave instant falsehood to his claims to have been living and working under the Wyoming sun. At some point, Clint was likely to come to the realisation that both she and Howard were fully aware that he was lying. Colleen did not think it would be a good idea to be around him when that happened. She thought of the blood-stained blade and repressed a shudder.
“We’re here,” she said.
She opened the door and the three of them stepped into The Quays.
* * * * *
The convoy of forty-two buses and coaches wound its way slowly through West London, following the trail laid by the bulldozers and gritters. They had done a good job. Abandoned vehicles had been shunted aside, leaving wide, empty lanes for the drivers, many of whom had only sat behind the wheel of a bus for the first time five days previously. The road surfaces glinted, but it was crystals of salt, not ice, that reflected the sunlight and the journey was unhampered by the heavy frost.
On one of the red double-deckers, one that bore the number 100, sat Joe Lowden. He was a northern lad, but was no longer consciously aware of the fact. He was no longer consciously aware of very much at all. His mind lay shrouded in fog like a cemetery in a Hammer film.
Unconnected images of his past played randomly across the scrambled surface of his psyche. A young boy standing on the wooden deck of a boat, staring open-mouthed at open-mouthed fish. A polythene bag containing round violet pills. A woman wearing scarlet lipstick holding out a ten pound note. A filthy man reaching out a hand to tousle a young boy’s hair.
He didn’t know who the open-mouthed young boy was, or the man and woman. He no longer remembered his own name. It was lost within the swirling fog.
Had Joe Lowden still been capable of complex cognitive thought, he might have appreciated the upsides to his current predicament: he was fitter than he had ever been; had filled out from all the food he had been eating; he no longer craved chemical stimulation.
Joe sat quietly, dozing occasionally as the motion of the bus lulled him, staring at the back of the woman’s head in front of him when his eyes opened, now and then glancing without interest at the white fields passing by the window.
The buses carried Joe and over a thousand like him to Salisbury.
* * * * *
Peter strode down the corridor and entered an empty bedroom. When Diane had followed him in, he closed the door and turned the lock.
“Did you see?” he said
. “All those new pathways and active areas? Her brain is lit up like Blackpool.”
Diane nodded. “I don’t know what Blackpool is, but she’s using parts of her brain that are dormant in other humans.”
“It must be the head trauma. It’s somehow activated neural links that have in turn awoken areas of the brain that they have not previously been able to access.”
“I think. . . .” Diane spoke slowly as though voicing a thought not yet fully formed. “Yes, I think that their brains have evolved to be like ours. After all, they were created in our image. Those newly-active areas of her mind. . . . they were dormant before she was struck on the head, but they existed. They weren’t present at all in the original drones. So these areas have gradually developed since the first drones arrived here. Perhaps through interbreeding with the native bipedal species. Perhaps through a genetic memory of the drones’ creators. Maybe a bit of both. Doesn’t really matter. What matters is that these areas of the brain exist and are ready to be used when activated.” She paused for a moment. “I think that within a generation or two, perhaps three or four—again, it doesn’t really matter—humans were going to find that they could tap into those unused portions of their brains without having to suffer a head trauma first. They are on the verge of evolving to that stage.”
“To becoming us,” said Peter. “I think you could be right.” He sighed. “If putting aside the love of violence and conflict would accompany that evolutionary step, it might not be necessary to get rid of them all. Sadly for them, we’ll never know.”
“Did you notice anything else about the girl?”
“That she needs urgent medical treatment?”
Diane nodded. “I have an idea what her condition is, but she needs a doctor.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “It’s why I wanted us to be alone. I need to speak to Milandra.”
Diane’s eyes widened. “You can’t reach London from here, surely?”
“Not on my own. But maybe the two of us. . . . ?”
“Okay.”
“Really? I anticipated having to talk you into it.”
Diane shrugged. “I can see that girl needs help that no one here can give her. And I’ve had my fill of killing humans. I don’t even think of them as drones any more. If I can help save the girl, I’m in.”