Eva

by Simon Winstanley

  Titles in the Field Series (in reading order):

  Field One

  Field Two

  Boundary

  EVA

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher.

  www.futurewords.uk

  Copyright © Simon Winstanley 2018

  Simon Winstanley asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1986977814

  ISBN-10: 1986977811

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  To Janet, Ben and Joseph,

  my constants in the great equation.

  and

  To those who look up at the stars

  and constantly question.

  PROLOGUE

  For many, the passage of the Sun or Moon across the sky was the subject of legend; motions that were open to interpretation, worship or fear. But at the heart of each culture was a thematic symbol of renewal; a cyclical nature, quietly mirroring an underlying universal pattern that could be felt, but not yet understood.

  The first lessons were therefore built upon this symbology. The events that followed were simply the result of curiosity and time.

  RIPPLE

  22nd December 3114 BC

  The open plateau had again resisted the weak winter sunlight’s efforts to overcome the frost. As night spread through the sky, the Moon again hid within a wash of cloud, bathing the landscape in a bluish-white light.

  The indigenous population had returned to the site in greater numbers, each hoping to witness the spectacle that had unfolded here the night before.

  Many had braved the cold but, having heard of the apparitions, none would set foot inside the broken ring of solid earth that lay moulded into the surrounding plain.

  A gentle breeze emanated from the centre of the ring and a hush fell on all those who were gathered. Inside the circle, a fine mist gathered on the ground; rapidly condensing into round droplets of water that rolled to the tips of the grasses and hung as if waiting to fall skyward.

  The earth began to shudder. Many recalled the deep vibration sound that had called to them on the previous night. Once more, their feet carried them closer.

  In reaction to a sudden heat, the water droplets flashed into steam and filled the air above the circular patch of land with a mist that somehow failed to disperse. Then, like the ripple of a pebble thrown into a pond, a wave travelled out through the mist and the land below it, making no distinction between air or ground until it stopped at the surrounding ring of earth. Those who had stepped closer did not turn away, even as a bright ball of lightning arrived within the circle’s only gap.

  A sound that was indistinguishable from thunder reverberated around the plain. But unlike the thunderous noise, the spherical ball of light persisted. At times fragments of words, spoken in tongues that were beyond their understanding, would drift across the same space and dissolve as though carried away by an imperceivable wind.

  As on the previous night, the witnesses looked on in terror and fascination, unable to turn away from the visions that were appearing inside the ring’s boundary. The mist itself ebbed and flowed as though searching for form, then suggestions of structure began to coalesce into being.

  In a burst of blinding light, the lightning ball vanished, leaving only the cold moonlight to glisten upon the horizontal and vertical blocks of ice that stood within the circle on Salisbury Plain.

  CRATER

  28th December 2013

  She placed her foot down onto the lunar landscape and began the slow trek around the FLC. She could see that each step she took was erasing the footprints of previous lunar explorers. It hardly seemed to matter though; soon all these footprints, hers included, would be obliterated by the arrival of a much greater destructive force.

  The launch window was imminent but she knew she still had to proceed with care. Although she could hear the blood pumping in her ears, she forced herself to take long, slow breaths.

  The air seemed colder than before.

  The chill matched the one that was gestating in the pit of her stomach; a sense of cold, creeping anxiety that urged her onward. As though each step was somehow inevitable.

  She slowly moved past the airlock of Chamber 2 and had a clear line of sight to the crater. With simultaneous feelings of relief and dread, she could see that her intuition had been right. He was here.

  Interrupting the crater’s circular rim in one place, he stood motionless with his back to her. Although this was not the first time he’d been drawn to this area, she still felt her blood turn to ice.

  As before, he was staring down into the crater. But as she continued her tentative approach, she could see that something was different this time.

  DESCENT

  15th March 2013

  Far below and beyond the opposite bank of the River Thames, he could see the column of black smoke rising into the grey skies above Downing Street. The glass of the capsule was cutting out much of the noise, but he could see the flashing blue lights converging on the same spot.

  The great wheel of the London Eye had ground to a halt just before the horrific scene had unfolded. In the neighbouring capsule, several people had their hands clasped to their mouths in shock, others appeared to be videoing the event on their phones. It seemed that every modern device of convenience had only acted to lessen human adaptability: threats could occur in broad daylight, but the comfortable veil of civilisation had dulled the fight or flight response.

  Unclipping the fire extinguisher from under the bench, he rammed it into the capsule’s curved glazing. It took several blows to smash the widening cracks into a hole, but he persisted. As he continued to scrape the remnants of glass shards from the frame, the distant sirens flooded in through the jagged hole.

  Tossing the extinguisher aside, he reached up through the hole and pulled on the emergency door release handle. The doors parted company slightly and he forced them apart. The general hubbub of the crowds below now reached him; it was a long way down. He could see that people were just going about their business, oblivious to the fact they were in physical danger.

  He crouched at the side of the equipment he’d set up and armed the detonator. The persistent voice in his head had assured him that today’s event no longer required his self-sacrifice. He pulled the rope from his rucksack and tied one end to the central bench. Bracing his feet in a wide stance, he leaned away from the capsule and abseiled off the edge. The descent was rapid, but nothing that he was uncomfortable with.

  During his descent, Maxwell Troye saw that one man had been recording him on a phone. Others nearby had done the same, but he knew that none of them were at the right angle to have captured his face. He’d have to collect the man’s video evidence.

  After reaching the ground, he primed the detonator trigger in his pocket, then walked straight towards the man who was continuing to record the event. In one movement, he snatched the phone from the man’s helpfully outstretched hand, stepped past him and delivered a sharp blow to his side. Befo
re the man hit the ground, Maxwell shouted the words ‘Exordi Nova’ and hit the trigger.

  For a second, the grey overcast day was converted into the brilliant light of summer. Then the light settled into a warm orange glow. On the bank of the Thames, facing the direction of the Downing Street crater, was the defiant symbol of the Exordi Nova: a blazing circle of fire, broken in one place by the fiery dot of a burning capsule.

  In the ensuing chaos, he pushed his way through the crowd, blending in with the masses. When he reached Westminster Bridge, he felt the crowd slowing down; all urgency seemed to have evaporated. Looking around him he could see why. Almost in simultaneous salute, people were raising their phones and relaying Exordi Nova’s burning symbol of fear around the globe.

  His job here was done.

  BOUNDARY CONDITIONS

  ~

  Kate stepped into the space between seconds; a thin slice of time held everything frozen within the Underground Survival Village.

  At the highest point in the domed space, she saw Bradley Pittman standing within the USV’s Eye; a place of surveillance that looked down on the small world below. He was staring down through the broken circular window; his expression one of bewilderment. After he’d shot Monica, he would have seen her fall and vanish into the temporal bubble below. Kate could almost pity him; he’d never understand the feat of dimensional engineering that had just unfolded beneath him.

  Changing her point of view on the USV’s three-dimensional tableau, Kate saw Marcus Blake hanging from a hovering drone he’d recently hacked. The expanding electromagnetic field of the disturbance she’d created just moments ago had disrupted the drone’s electronics; he would soon face a long fall to the USV floor.

  At the moment, she could see that his attention was saturated by the primitive instinct to grasp onto the thing that was providing support. Like so many previous times, he wouldn’t notice the intervention she was about to make. She derived a certain amount of satisfaction from the fact that ‘Blackbox’ would again remain indestructible.

  She allowed time to slowly proceed through a precious one-tenth of a second, during which she made a small adjustment: inducing a current within the coils of the drone’s electric motors, the rotors now failed in a more controlled manner. The act also ensured that his landing point could be more finely directed.

  She now adjusted her position to be inside the neighbouring tunnels of the Warren and focussed on a simple wooden door. Its surface was still frozen, a consequence of the ice dam she’d created on the other side.

  To allow adequate time for the events to unfold here, Kate had to start the thawing process now. As she adjusted the dipole interactions, a single metal paperclip became demagnetised and fell from the door’s frosty surface.

  In the floodwaters directly above the USV, was the icy, ring-shaped anomaly that she’d used to transport the Sea-Bass submarine into position. Tristan Westhouse and his crew were already preparing for the descent that would follow.

  Everything was in place.

  Changing her temporal viewpoint, she moved backwards by a few minutes and watched it begin.

  USV

  13th April 2014

  Sarah Pittman padlocked the door to the Samphire construction site and began her walk towards the USV centre. In the distance she could see a Peace Keeper drone following its patrol route; as usual, its electrical stun baton was extended.

  The drones were capable of carrying an array of different weapons; a feature that Archive had used to enforce control in various cities following the lunar destruction. However, when it became apparent that the technology was also to be deployed within the Underground Survival Village, she had fought against it.

  Humanitarian reasons were dismissed by her father, who’d insisted on maintaining a clear deterrent to any would-be opposition. Only by arguing that drone-mounted munitions posed a risk to the USV infrastructure, was she successful in downgrading their capabilities to electrical stun batons. Though he’d even found a way to make these lethal.

  Her father was a blunt instrument, she thought, an imprecise relic of Archive’s former days. She also knew that, like any blunt instrument, he was capable of dealing significant damage if given enough momentum.

  She turned onto Main Street and headed towards the centre. The artificial sun at the apex of the USV was inactive and the star-patterned curved dome was giving the appearance of night. Far above their heads, Dover had been inundated by the tsunamis that had washed around the globe following the lunar shard impacts. Again, she found herself thinking that the dome’s light show was a pretence; an illusion that normal services would resume shortly. However, she knew different.

  The radio on her belt crackled and she stopped walking.

  “Hey, Pumpkin-pie,” came her father’s voice, “fancy joining your old Pops for a beer at the lake?”

  She glanced up at the dark glass in the centre of the sun. The Eye security system wasn’t active yet, so he couldn’t use cameras to check what she was about to say. She raised the handset and clicked the transmit key.

  “Oh, hey, Dad,” she sweetened her voice, “I’d love to, but I’m working late over at Samphire. Rain check?”

  It was true enough, she had been working at the Samphire construction site; she just didn’t want to join him.

  “Ain’t no rain in here, Sal,” he replied, “but yeah, sure.”

  “Goodnight, Dad,” she replied, then added, “Sleep tight.”

  There was a slightly longer pause before he replied.

  “You too.”

  She waited a moment, but he added nothing further.

  Now that she gave it consideration, a beer did sound like a good idea. She headed down a side street and turned off her radio; if the Council wanted her, they could come and find her.

  Before its completion, USV3 had become known colloquially as the Ant Farm; the similarity to a colony of ants running around inside a self-contained tiny world was hard to miss. USV3 was also the smallest of the USV sites around the world, so the analogy seemed fitting.

  After the facility had been sealed up, it had only taken three days for the nickname to be adopted by the USV’s only bar. It too was an active and crowded space.

  Sarah pulled open the outer door and was met by a barrel-chested security guard who hurriedly stood out of her way.

  “Evening, Miss Pittman,” he held the inner door open for her.

  “Hey, Vic,” she called over her shoulder as she entered the warm and noisy space inside.

  Keeping her head tilted slightly downward, she skirted around the outside of the room and made her way over to the bar. She knew she could simply use her identity to get served a little quicker, but she waited her turn. The optimistic, throbbing music proclaimed that things were only going to get better; a sentiment that several people were yelling at each other whilst dancing to the same tune. She wasn’t so sure.

  “What’ll it -” began the barman, but then his eyes widened, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss -”

  “Shh,” she interrupted him, “It’s fine, can I just get a beer please?”

  “Do you want the function room,” he offered, “Nobody’s -”

  “Just the beer, thanks,” she insisted, quietly.

  He returned a moment later with a full glass but when she tried to pay for it, he refused. It was another ever-present reminder of the fact that her father’s reach extended to those who either feared him or wished to ingratiate themselves to him.

  There were days when she wished she hadn’t defended him so well against the Napier murder accusations; her father would be in the detention block and her conscience would be clearer. She drank from her glass, hoping the alcohol might mute the disturbing thoughts.

  From a very early age she’d been fully aware of Archive’s ventures and had even been involved in designing the first Regodozer to extract Helium-3 from lunar regolith. Her privileged position had been almost invisible to her; seeing the issues from a purely population-wide perspecti
ve. Recently though, being forced into close proximity with those who’d suffered a more personal perspective, she’d found that her world view had altered. Particularly now that the extent of her world could be measured in mere metres.

  By contrast, her father’s outlook had not altered. If anything, the smaller population seemed to have reinforced his opinion that he should be the one to control it. By any means at his disposal.

  “Penny for them?” came a voice.

  She turned to find Vic standing next to her, but he was facing the rest of the room.

  “You don’t wanna buy these thoughts, Vic,” she drank from her beer again, “Trust me.”

  Vic nodded but continued to watch the room.

  “Did you finish your shift?” she asked.

  “Nah,” he replied, “Just felt like standing over here.”

  Sarah turned around to see that Vic was holding a group of drunk young men at bay using nothing more than a stare. She reached into her bag and, making sure they saw it, withdrew a palm-width, black cylinder. She positioned her thumb over the circular end and joined Vic in staring at them. Wisely, the men took the hint and found somewhere else to be.

  “So much for the quiet drink,” she muttered and returned the cylinder to her shoulder bag.

  “You didn’t want quiet,” Vic observed.

  “No?”

  “Nah, you wanted to blend in,” he glanced around the room, “Big difference.”

  She drank another mouthful. She knew he was right; in the USV she had no anonymity.

  “Wise guy,” she conceded.

  While she drank, she talked about the progress of the new submarine bay on the site of the old Samphire rail station and the issues with the inflatable door seal that had closed when the last Eurotunnel carriage had arrived. The subject matter was probably uninteresting to Vic, but he listened patiently while keeping one eye on their surroundings.