by Sam Kates
“And if you don’t attempt the procedure?”
Howard’s gaze did not falter. “There’s a chance that the condition will kill you anyway. It’s likely, in light of the fact that your symptoms haven’t worsened, that the subdural bleeding has stopped by now and the pooled blood is coagulating into jelly. But if it isn’t removed and continues to press against your brain…” He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m no surgeon, but I don’t need to be to know that an untreated subdural haematoma is often fatal. And there’s more.”
“Go on.”
“The main diagnostic machinery, like X-ray machines and MRI scanners, don’t work from the emergency electrical systems running off the generator. Too heavy on the juice, I suppose, so they’ll only work off the main grid. Diane has found a portable X-ray machine that will run off the emergency circuits so we won’t be going in completely blind. We have a working bone drill with a guide that we will set to the minimum depth so it will be virtually impossible for me to drill too deep and cause more damage. No, the main risk comes when I attempt to remove the blood clot. Since we don’t have a theatre team or post-op care, the best way to remove the blood quickly is, we think, to aspirate with percutaneous needle and syringe.
“If I can remove the blood without causing damage—that’s a mighty big ‘if’—but if by some miracle I can do it, there are other possible complications. If the bleeding hasn’t stopped, there’s nothing I can do about it. To attempt to repair damaged blood vessels will require us to remove a section of your skull. Quite simply, that’s not a procedure I have the ability to carry out. Not under any circumstances.”
Bri nodded. “Okay.”
“There will still be the risk of infection. We have the means to sterilise the instruments we’ll be using and there’s an abundance of sterile dressings. Antibiotics are in plentiful supply. I think if we get to that point, the risk of infection will be no greater than if we were in a fully operational hospital. It might even be a reduced risk due to the absence of other patients and staff. How often did we used to hear of people going into hospital with one complaint and, while there, coming down with some sort of nasty bug that they wouldn’t have caught if they hadn’t been in hospital?”
Bri opened her mouth to speak, but Howard silenced her by increasing his grip on her hands to such an extent she almost cried out.
“There’s one last thing. I’ve been saving the worst until last.” He took another deep breath. “We cannot risk anaesthetising you. We don’t possess the knowledge and it’s simply not an option. So, I will have to drill a hole in your head and insert a needle into your skull while you are awake. You will need to keep perfectly still the whole time. The slightest movement at the wrong moment could cause irreparable brain damage or worse.”
Bri gazed back into Howard’s kindly eyes. She could read a mixture of emotions there, and sense them flowing off him: fear that she would agree so that he would have to perform the procedure; terror that he would mess it up and damage or kill her; hope that she would refuse his offer so he wouldn’t have to go through with it; anguish that she would refuse his offer and so condemn herself to an early grave. She could also read a calm assurance behind that compassionate gaze, a quiet confidence arising not from cockiness or arrogance, but from long years of acquired knowledge and experience of dealing with infirm people. She made her decision.
“If anyone can pull this off,” she said, “it’s you. Do it.”
And he did. She didn’t even have to lie still as it turned out, thanks to Peter’s brainwave and his mental strength to hold tightly to her psyche when it yearned to fly back to her own head.
Yes, she was grateful to Peter. And to Diane for assisting with the procedure and for helping to nurse her back to full health. But her undying gratitude belonged to Howard for his courage in saving her life.
Now his life had been snuffed out. Just like that, with one twitch of a madman’s finger.
And for that she wept.
Chapter Sixteen
The coastline in and around Land’s End, rugged and unspoiled, bounded to one side by the restless ocean, to the other by windswept heath and farmland running to meadow, provoked in Peter Ronstadt memories of the tales he had loved in the days when personal entertainment mainly came in the form of books. Images of wreckers and smugglers and pirates swirled through his mind as he wandered the desolate clifftops and beaches, feeling his cells open like spring buds in the sunlight.
Milandra had invited him and Diane to stay to witness the Great Coming. Jason Grant and Rodney Wilson seemed happy enough for them to remain. George Wallace could not be described as happy, but he appeared more at ease with their presence than he did at the prospect of Bri and, in particular, Will being there. Lavinia Cram’s disinterest bordered on indifference. Only Simone Furlong was openly hostile, although Peter noticed that she was often truculent with the other Deputies and, especially, towards Milandra.
“The Chosen doesn’t want us around, but at least no one’s about to fire a bullet through my brain,” Peter told Diane with a chuckle, a heartfelt one. It is easier to be magnanimous when not staring into the dark depths of a gun barrel.
Since the Keeper’s revelations about their history, a peculiar atmosphere had pervaded the hotel as they tried to come to terms with learning that their beliefs were founded not on reinforced concrete twenty feet thick but on shifting sandbanks that the raging torrent of Milandra’s words had washed away.
As far as Milandra said she could tell, and Peter saw no reason to disagree with her, the ancient civil war that had devastated the surface of Earth Home had been fought over a major philosophical difference of opinion. Sivatra and her followers had wanted to put an end to antagonism to other species and begin an era of enlightenment in which learning, arts and cultural enrichment became the ideals, where introspection and not violent aggression became the norm. The other side had wanted to carry on as before.
“We were parasites,” Milandra said to a hushed room. “Traversing the galaxy, landing on habitable planets, destroying native species and ruthlessly exploiting resources until the planets became uninhabitable.” She gave a deep sigh, filled with regret. “We wrought nothing but destruction wherever we went. An infestation, like locusts. A plague every bit as devastating to its victims as the Millennium Bug.”
There was a pause.
“Where did we come from originally?” asked Lavinia quickly, as though breaking the silence mattered more than the answer.
“Not even Sivatra knew. That knowledge is lost in the mists of time immemorial. She wanted to do the same with our true nature: consign it to the darkest depths where it might remain hidden while a new history, one in which we could take pride, was invented.”
“And they fought a war over that?” The Chosen sounded incredulous.
“Yes, Simone. Wars have been fought over less. Sivatra’s side won, but at great cost to the environment. She subsequently did all she could to make sure it was not incurred in vain.”
“Sounds like you admire her,” said Grant.
“She risked everything to do what she thought was best for our people. How could I not admire her? When the war was over, she oversaw the sealing away deep underground of the tablets left behind by the ancients. She underwent a process that altered her DNA to allow her psyche to become the depository for our group consciousness. She linked to every person who had survived the war—from both sides. From that moment, the memories and experiences of every one of our kind who died would pass to the Keeper.”
Milandra glanced repeatedly at Simone as she told them how Sivatra had forged the systems and processes that they all took for granted. It was, thought Peter, as though she were trying to make Simone aware of what had been sacrificed to change their people’s destiny; to make the Chosen more serious about the responsibilities that would fall to her. Judging from the way that Simone’s gaze wandered and her attention zoned in and out like a human child’s, Milandra was facing an uphill task.
“Each Keeper,” Milandra continued, “would forge the link anew with every newborn. Sivatra introduced the role of Chosen, passing on her DNA to enable the Chosen to become Keeper in turn. She did not make it a cast-iron rule that each Keeper and Chosen should be exclusively female, but the practice was implicitly encouraged. And why?” Milandra sighed. “I had to go deep to find the memories that confirm it—she hid them away from the rest to make the job of reconstructing the whole story even harder, I guess—but I eventually located and viewed them. Whether she was correct, I don’t know, but Sivatra took the view, supported by many of those closest to her, that a woman discovering the truth about our past would be more likely than a man to keep that knowledge to herself.”
“What, like you are now?” said Simone. Peter was reminded again of how deceptive her appearance of childlike inattentiveness could be.
“If to disclose the truth meant causing unnecessary pain and suffering, then I would perpetuate the lie.” Milandra’s smile seemed tinged with sadness. “But I think the time has come when we need to know the truth about ourselves. If we are to stand in judgement of another species, one in which we instilled our own characteristics and instincts, should we not fully recognise ourselves in order to judge the other fairly?”
“I don’t doubt you, Keeper,” said Lavinia, “but what if you have misinterpreted the memories?”
“That’s a fair question. If you like—and this offer holds for every person in this room—I can show you. See Sivatra’s memories for yourself. But not today. I need the last of my strength for one last task, one that I need you all to help me perform.”
When Simone Furlong discovered that Milandra proposed to invite to the hotel the human girl who had led them such a merry dance in London, and her young friend, and the two adults who Ronstadt had saved from the effects of the Commune, she took incredulity to a new level. Wallace’s face fell but, surprisingly, he raised no verbal objection. Even laid-back Lavinia was more vociferous in her disapproval than he.
“Let me explain,” said Milandra, “then we can vote whether to invite them.
“In my view, we have done mankind a grave disservice. Long have we poured scorn on them, belittled them, levelled allegations of shallowness and stupidity against them. We called them ‘drones’. We said that violence runs at the core of their being. Thinking that we were the peaceful, altruistic species, we put ourselves on a pedestal, smugly congratulating ourselves for being the enlightened, sophisticated ones, while looking down our long noses at selfish, aggressive humanity.
“The clues were there all along as to how mistaken we were, right under those long noses, yet we failed to see them for what they were.” She paused to look at each of them, lingering on Simone and Wallace.
“Haven’t we always said that mankind was made in our image?” she continued. “At the same time as we scoffed at them for being so warlike. How could we not see the dichotomy, the delicious irony?” Milandra uttered a rich chuckle. “Of course man is aggressive; selfish, yes, impetuous, self-serving, cruel. He was made in our image. Whether through some species memory or genetic imprint that couldn’t be erased, man is only obeying his base instincts by behaving like he does. It is not his fault—we made him that way. For his base instincts are ours.”
Peter grunted. He had been listening with mounting dismay; he could keep quiet no longer. “So we wiped out mankind for obeying instincts that we, however unwittingly, instilled in them?”
Milandra nodded. “That’s about the size of it.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing we can say or do now that will make up for the Cleansing. And nor do I think that we should. Even had we known the truth about our past, it was clear that humankind had grown too numerous, too powerful, to allow the Great Coming to take place. A cull was necessary.”
“Yes, it was,” said Simone with feeling. “So why all this bleeding heart bullshit?” She shot Peter a dark glance.
Milandra held up a hand to forestall Peter’s retort.
“We cannot change the past,” she said, “but we can influence the future. Maybe, once the Great Coming has taken place, we can advocate for the preservation of what remains of mankind, rather than its total eradication. I think we owe them that much at least.
“And we can begin by inviting this small group to stay here. Get to know them; allow them to know us. Let them be the first humans that our people meet when they arrive from their long journey. What do y’all think?”
Milandra gazed around the room, meeting each person’s eyes in turn and not moving on until they had spoken.
Peter was first and he didn’t hesitate. “I think I have already made my feelings pretty clear by not taking part in the Cleansing. You have my vote.”
Jason Grant nodded. “And mine.”
Rodney Wilson coloured to have so many gazes turn his way, but his voice was clear and strong. “London’s not the same without its people so I vote to try to save ’em.”
Diane next. She returned Milandra’s gaze steadily. “If you’d asked me three or four months ago, I don’t know how I’d have answered.” Peter didn’t miss the slight hesitation before she spoke again. “I held no particular affection for humans; I went about my part in the Cleansing willingly enough, although I felt I was doing so out of some misplaced but unavoidable loyalty to my own kind.”
“Obeisance,” murmured Milandra.
“Yes,” said Diane. “That’s how I acknowledged your message instructing me to start spreading the virus.” She shrugged in that way that seemed so familiar to Peter now and so Diane. “I hold no particular affection for our people, either. My decision is clear; it was made the moment that I obstructed Bishop in his pursuit of Peter and the two humans. When I allowed him to die in the helicopter, there was no going back for me. I vote to save them.”
Milandra nodded and turned to Wallace. He stared down at his feet. “George?”
He kept his head down for a long moment. When he looked up, his cheeks burned but not as brightly as the defiance in his eyes. “I said I hated humans. I said I hated the girl. That part was true. I did hate her, but only because she was showing us what humans could be. How smart, how compassionate, how fucking pure. It was like a mockery of everything I stood for and I hated her for reminding me that I had once loved them.” His cheeks glowed brighter as he glared around at the group. Then his shoulders sagged. “She’s like the template of how I thought they would turn out. I’m glad I didn’t shoot her. I’ll regret to the end of my days that I shot the boy, although I feel mightily relieved, if I understand you correctly, Milandra, that he lived?”
Milandra nodded.
“It was a close call,” said Peter, unable to not twist the knife.
“I’m glad he’s alive,” said Wallace. “If he comes here, I will say sorry to him, face to face. I vote ‘yes’.”
Lavinia Cram returned Milandra’s steady gaze with an unwavering stare of her own. “Not feeling the love for drones. Seems like I’m in the minority. Sorry, can’t vote for ’em, but I won’t vote against ’em neither. I abstain.”
Milandra turned last to face the Chosen, raising her eyebrows in mute enquiry.
“Really?” said Simone. “You’re gonna ask me how I’m voting? I ain’t gone soft in the head like some of the pussies around here.” She shot a venomous glance at Wallace. “Drone lover,” she hissed. Wallace ignored her.
“Do I take that as a ‘no’?” asked Milandra.
“Fucking right it’s a ‘no’.”
“But you’ll assist me in contacting her. And, if they come, you won’t harm them.” They were statements, not questions.
Simone glared at Milandra; the Keeper gazed steadily back. Peter could almost see the power of the clashing wills like two cords of electricity, Simone’s an enraged scarlet, Milandra’s a calm yellow, meeting in a storm of orange lightning.
The Chosen dropped her gaze first. Her lips pursed as though she’d sucked the sourest slice of lime and her voice dripped resentment.
“I’ll help. I won’t hurt one hair on her pretty head; nor the others.” The sullen expression faded and she clapped her hands together, once more the joyous teenager. “It’ll be fun to have someone new to play with. They can help me find more rats to burn.”
“Hmm. Let’s be sure that it’s only the rats that get burned, shall we?”
Simone returned Milandra’s sweet smile, but Peter could not help feeling it was the sort of smile that would be given by a cobra in the instant before it struck.
* * * * * * *
No sooner had the sound of gunfire reached their minibus, than Zach was out of his seat, rifle in hand, making for the door. Without hesitation, Amy followed. She glanced back when she hit the rain-slickened road; Frank and, more reluctantly judging from his expression, Elliott were also coming.
The shooting sounded much louder to Amy now that she was outside. But beginning to tail off. What had started off resembling an explosion in a firework factory had become intermittent. Staccato. It was coming from the direction in which the vehicles had been heading.
Their minibus had been towards the rear of the lengthy convoy. Amy hurried to keep up with Zach as he strode along the line of idling vehicles. Near the front of the convoy, they reached a transit van with its rear doors standing open; it, and the four or five vehicles ahead, appeared to be empty apart from their drivers.
By the time they passed the lead vehicle, the sound of gunfire had stopped. Zach continued on the main road, heading up the incline towards the figures milling around near the brow of the hill. Amy followed, her legs complaining at the pace she was making them maintain to keep up with him. She could hear the low murmur of Elliott and Frank talking as they came along behind.
Amy wrinkled her nose as the first coppery tang hit her nostrils. She glanced down; the asphalt beneath her boots was running with more than rainwater.
Zach came to a halt ten yards or so before the hill’s summit. Amy stopped by him, resisting the urge to pinch her nostrils against the earthy stench of ordure that combined with the smell of blood in a heady mixture. After clearing the tenement building in Portland of corpses and attempting to set them alight, she had smelled worse, a lot worse. And she had seen worse, or at least as bad in the form of poor Nan.