The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  “Well, this is unexpected, ladies and gentlemen. Mary Arora has indeed found the courage to face us after all.” There was a note of irritation to his tone. Hugo adjusted the stand to Mary’s diminutive height and retained a hand-held mic for himself. Mary said nothing, waiting for the accusations to come flying her way. “Have you any idea of the insult you have given by your disrespectful actions?”

  “Did you, when you erroneously labelled me the next messiah and posted the video for all to see?” Her voice rang out, cold and clear into the silence. She surprised herself with her snappy retort. It was almost as though someone else had slipped a script directly into her mind.

  Hugo ignored the rebuttal, choosing to attack instead. “You performed actual transubstantiation, something only the son of God can achieve. You mocked the sanctity of our faith.”

  “Actually, Hugo, my ex-husband mocked the sanctity of your faith, as you well know. I performed the experiments you insisted upon in your quest for a Nobel prize.” The audience gasped. The camera operators singled out a few shocked expressions from the crowd, their faces displayed ten feet tall on the main screen.

  Hugo glowered. A blood vessel in his temple visibly pulsed. “I admit that my scientific curiosity was piqued. You appeared on my doorstep in the dead of night, showing off your electromagnetic capabilities. Show me a physicist who would not be enthralled by such a spectacle.”

  “Are you suggesting that your experiments and empirical data revealed little more than a party trick?”

  “Now you are criticising rigorous scientific enquiry as well as Christianity. Is there no end to your conceit, your arrogance?”

  “On the contrary, Hugo. I am questioning your validity. You say that physics is your reason for being, yet you twist the results of inconclusive studies into sub-atomic particles and quantum field theories to fit with your religious upbringing. If science cannot currently explain what holds the universe together in its infallible order, then by your account, it has to be God. Where is your faith in rigorous scientific enquiry now?”

  Hugo spluttered, then scoffed. “I am not the one on trial here. You are the guilty party. You are the one claiming to have powers like Jesus…”

  “And you have declared yourself judge, jury and executioner. My, my, you have come a long way since the Salem witch trials of sixteen-ninety-two. You claimed a likeness to Jesus. I was attempting to provide free healthcare to the poorest nations of the world. What is your excuse?”

  The initial silence of the crowds ruptured into quiet chatter of their own. Individuals keen to air their opinions to anyone prepared to listen. Above the hubbub, a young voice resonated near the stage. “Show us what you can do, Mary.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mary heard the cry, but ignored the invitation, hoping it would fade from existence. The people surrounding the boy, agreed with him. They wanted more proof of her powers, each of them raising their pitch above the general clamour. “Show us, Mary,” became a chant, that pulsated through the audience. A tidal flow of energy expanding from the origin, until the command could not be unheard.

  “Show us, Mary, Show us.” Over and over again. Hugo seethed, but stepped back, leaving Mary alone on the central area of the stage. Without him by her side, there was nothing to deflect attention. Fifty-thousand people roared for her to perform. The shaking in her hands spread to the rest of her body. Her mind blanked. She looked around to the Archbishop of Canterbury for support. His response was a tip of the head that told her to suffer the consequences of her actions alone. No one would be coming to her aid.

  “Show us, Mary, show us.”

  Mary stepped closer to the microphone, holding the casing to steady herself. “Please… ladies and gentlemen… this is not some circus act…”

  “Show us, Mary, show us.”

  “I can’t just… it’s not… please…” The fluttering in her chest became a spinning eruption of discordant force. Heat surged across her torso.

  “Show us, Mary, show us.”

  Her thoughts scrambled in a panicked rush of emotion. Glancing around the stage, she was surrounded by a police presence, religious dignitaries and their entourage. The steps off stage were blocked. There was no way out. The collective mass of bodies heaved and ebbed against the police cordon, clamouring for a clearer view. Officers and private security teams rushed to reinforce the line, forming a human shield around the petrified nuns and access onstage.

  “Show us, Mary, Show us.”

  Fifty-thousand people yowled for proof. Mary’s innards shook. The current spiked through her chest, sending a stream of voltage through her arms and into the microphone. With a blinding flare, the cable ignited, sending flames and sparks across the stage at an incredible speed, until the speakers blew with a deafening and prolonged squeal. The screen turned to static snow, before it too, spontaneously exploded in showers of dazzling photons, scattering all those standing beneath.

  The crowd hushed, the bishops, cardinals and nuns shambled off the stage. Security teams raced to extinguish the remnants of dying flames. Mary coughed, wafting her hand through the lingering smoke, until her sightlines restored. Fifty thousand people stood before her, struck dumb.

  The excruciating moment seemed to last forever. They looked at her, and she back at them, unable to speak, until she heard the first hissing sound. The cat hiss was followed by a low growl calling her witch. Others around the caller joined in, emboldened by the sheer number of faithful. The jeers grew louder - fraud, imposter, blasphemer and finally a new chant began. Mary stood, frozen to the spot as the ring leader propagated her newest label – Child of Satan. Squabbles broke out between the security line and the most militant near the front of the stage.

  A stout youth flung an empty glass bottle at the heretic. Mary ducked, allowing the projectile to arc above her head and smash at the archbishop’s sandal clad feet. The younger, more belligerent believers in the gathering injected a fresh energy into the old. A defiant, seething energy blistered behind the wild eyes of the youth and elders in unexpressed loathing for Satan’s Daughter.

  The wave of hatred surged towards her. Mary shrank, stepping backwards, trapped by the few remaining dignitaries left on the platform, until her head connected with the chest of a whiskered cleric.

  Tapping into the long years of tolerance and pity, the Archbishop of Canterbury touched Mary’s shoulder, impeding her retreat. She turned, surprised to find him there.

  “I am so sorry. I did not ask for these powers, nor do I want them. It was never my intention to offend.”

  “Nevertheless, you do have them, and it strikes at the heart of all that we believe.” The archbishop deflected another missile. “Learn to control yourself, Mary Arora, before you do more lasting damage.” The Archbishop stepped forwards, raising both arms to the heavens, palms slowly lowering either side of his gently shaking head. “Enough!” He bellowed.

  The older faithful halted their jeers and taunts, silenced by their respect for the senior presence on stage. Younger, more frenzied Christians took longer to comply. Hugo spotted his opening in a fresh gambit for attention, striding across the platform to claim the central spot. The Archbishop caught him with a stern look, and a further shake of his head. Hugo slunk back, suitably chastised.

  Those pristine robes, the wiry salt and pepper whiskers, the eloquence with which he addressed the congregation. The clamour died down in due deference. “This is not how good Christians behave. Where is your tolerance, your understanding?” He opened his throat and boomed the statement across the square unaided. “Where is the goodwill to all men? If your faith is strong, nothing will shake it. Let us begin the service now. Please bow your heads in prayer.” The flock, though force of habit, obeyed.

  The Archbishop gestured for Mary to scoot off the stage. As she did, Hugo followed, grabbing at her sleeve and hurling abuse. Two thick set policemen stepped across his path, forcing him to release her. The younger constable pushed Hugo backwards with decisive
force and using his body as a barrier between him and Mary.

  “We have orders to take you into protective custody ma’am.” The eldest of the two said, before nodding to the other. This seemed to prompt the young constable to activate his radio attached to the vest straps of his uniform. He muttered something to dispatch.

  The older uniformed man continued. “I’m told that you can be a bit of a flight risk. This is for your safety, ma’am. I’d rather not have to handcuff you.”

  “Protective custody? I see. You can’t officially arrest me, but that is precisely what you are doing.” Mary looked at the mass of people beyond the staging, some genuinely in deep prayer, others peeping up at her. A few of the closer pilgrims, hissed and called her a phony, or fraud, as they dipped under the police cordon and walked along the edge of Great George Street.

  A haughty woman in a polyester floral dress rushed at her, all flailing nails and spitting expletives. The young policeman intercepted her mid trajectory, grabbing her around the waist with both arms and hoisting her aloft. He pulled a one-eighty, deposited her back in the thick of the crowds and gave her a firm warning. Within moments, he was back at Mary’s side, adjusting his cap and updating dispatch on their progress.

  Crossing the road, they hurried to the junction with Parliament Street just as the first ambulance screamed past. Sirens blared, and blue lights were reflected in every car mirror, in a dazzling display of efficiency. Vehicles pulled up onto pavements to clear a path. The second ambulance followed on almost immediately, zig-zagging between the stationary cars and taking the corner at immense speed.

  By the time the third, fourth and fifth ambulances barrelled past, police cars diverted from the pilgrims, were blocking streets to allow a convoy of emergency teams to the slip road servicing the Palace of Westminster. The noise drowned out the collective prayers, attracting those closest from the impromptu service to dash across the road to view the melee of activity unfold.

  Mary dialled Connie’s phone on her burner. “Come on, pick up.” She muttered, listening to the continuous ringing down the line. “What is going on….”

  The phoned clicked. “Oui? Allo?”

  “Connie, it’s me. What’s happening, are you alright?”

  “Yes, I am fine. They are pushing us journalists out of the gates. I can see through the windows. Looks like some people have been taken ill - some of the staffers are sick.”

  “Not a bomb then?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Where are you?”

  “Heading towards the tube station. I have a police escort. I suspect that Yelena has arranged this, or I would probably be dead by now.”

  “Wait there, I am coming to meet you.” Connie hung up.

  Mary pulled out her black shawl from her satchel and covered as much of her face as she could, before hiding behind the officers. The TV crew zipped past her and began setting up tripods and cameras at the security gate, across the road from where Mary stood.

  “Where are you supposed to take me, officer?” Mary asked of the older man.

  “We are to wait with you until agents arrive. They are on route from Vauxhall Bridge now.”

  “Vauxhall Bridge? That’s where the MI6 building is, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, madam.” The policeman looked down at Mary wearing a peculiar smile. She couldn’t make out whether it was an expression of pride to be involved in a covert mission, or whether he was pleased to have met Miracle Mary, the newest daughter of Satan.

  Tucked around the corner of Westminster Station, by the Embankment, the TV crew failed to notice the short woman in the black shawl. From her standpoint, Mary could see the whole terrible situation developing before her.

  A large white lorry with ventilation units poking from the roof, drove into the compound and unloaded a team of specialists wearing full biohazard containment gear from the side door. Blue plastic suits encapsulated their entire bodies, including the oxygen cylinders strapped to their backs. Integrated gas masks gave them an alien appearance, as they walked in ungainly strides towards the main entrance.

  Police pushed the curious onlookers and journalists away from the gates. Within minutes, an inflatable temporary marquee, smoothed out from plastic folds, forming a tightly sealed decontamination suite. The entrances to Westminster Palace were sealed with polythene sheeting and biohazard tape and locked to enforce the quarantine.

  Connie caught up with Mary near to the taxi ranks. She gave her an awkward hug, all elbows and contorted limbs. “Are you alright?”

  “I am, I think. Thanks. Connie, what’s going on?” Mary extracted herself, aware that this behaviour was not like her French friend.

  “You know they broadcast your appearance on the stage just now on live TV? I was afraid that a mob would capture you.”

  “I’m not sure that this…” Mary gestured to the police officers, “is any better.”

  Connie tapped an icon on her mobile phone screen and increased the volume for Mary to hear. Every headline was a variation on the same theme. Mary Arora’s super-human powers played in slow motion. The opinions of every disgruntled group sought and gathered together in a montage of condemnation.

  “Why aren’t they concentrating on the good it could do? The whole point of the experiment was to discover ways to make free medicines.”

  “Hatred and violence make better headlines.” Connie pulled the corner of Mary’s headscarf over her face. “Keep hidden. Who knows what might happen if those angry crowds spot you. Frankly, I am surprised that you got away so easily from the stage.”

  “The Archbishop made them pray.”

  The number of gawking tourists and police officers made it difficult to witness the scene ahead of them. Connie climbed up on a concrete bollard, using Mary’s shoulder for balance. Hazard suited figures wheeled several gurneys down a covered walkway into the main entrance of Westminster Palace. Each trolley supported a transparent pod enclosure, with its own air supply.

  “This looks very serious. They are locking down all of Parliament under quarantine. I wonder which infectious disease they suspect it is?” Connie jumped down and thumbed through her contacts list on screen. “I might be able to get in touch with a colleague inside.”

  A few keypresses later and the muffled ringing halted. “Allo, Ellen, is that you? It’s Connie.” She switched to speakerphone so that Mary could hear.

  “Hi Connie. Look, I can’t talk now, they have us all lined up for some sort of medical test.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, so are a lot of others, but there are some who are so sick that they are doubled over in pain, vomit everywhere, and my God, they look positively green…well, oddly tanned more than green, they have a shiny bronze glow about them. Anyway, got to go…” Ellen hung up.

  “Did she say that people looked bronze?” Mary said, the cogs grinding behind the vacant look.

  “Oui, pour quoi?”

  “Those sound like the symptoms that Dan’s adoptive mother was hospitalised over. He said that there were lots of cases of liver and kidney damage in elderly patients, and that his mother was fit and healthy last week, but she had ignored his advice over not drinking the tap water.”

  “It could be, but it could also be a nasty virus like yellow fever. Besides, I have documentary proof that they had comprehensive filtration systems installed at the cost of the British tax payer.”

  “Yes, that’s right, but you also said you spotted Alexi coming out of the service entrance, wearing overalls and hurrying away in a van. Don’t you think it more likely that a terrorist like him is responsible for this?”

  Connie stared into the distance. The secretaries and researchers, the parliamentary aides and premises officers, all at risk of contracting the same symptoms as those in power. Blanket coverage for everyone inside those buildings. “You don’t think he could be that wicked, do you? Some of those people are my friends.”

  Mary did not answer. Her look was enough to transmit the sen
timent. Alexi proved his access to unlimited resources and the depths to which he was prepared to sink to achieve his goals. A few hundred deaths were an acceptable loss in the execution of his mission.

  Connie’s eyes glazed. Mary could see her spiralling through the memories of her ordeal suffered during the Alaskan affair. The torment simmering beneath her skin; the pooling of hot tears at the corners of her eyes.

  “You said he was in overalls. He would not have been permitted inside the building without security checks and clearance. Was he alone?” Mary grabbed Connie’s arm, administering a gentle shake to bring her to full and urgent attention.

  “Um… not when I first saw him, no. There was a whole team of workers, a fleet of vans.” Connie sniffed, absently shielding her neck with a cupped hand. The physical bruises had faded in miraculous time, but the emotional scars burned into her soul.

  “He must have inveigled his way into the company with a fake ID. Was there signage on the vans, a company name perhaps?”

  “Ah oui, yes. Dark blue vans, white lettering. I was so engrossed in what Alexi was up to, I didn’t really pay heed to anything else.”

  Mary gave her a moment to think, watching Connie struggle to think about the replay inside her head. Connie rapped her forehead with a soft knuckle, willing her brain to cooperate. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she said, “It’s no use. I cannot remember. I am hopeless.”

  The onlookers formed a semi-circle around the gated entrance to the service road. Police yelled at them to disperse but with little effect, until the masses spilled onto Westminster Bridge blocking the flow of traffic entirely. More curious people filtered from the pilgrim’s prayers towards the group, swelling the numbers and pushing Mary and her constables back beyond the taxi ranks.

  Linking arms with her gallic friend, Mary crossed between the stationary cars, her escort in close pursuit, and descended the steps onto the embankment. Away from the jostling, claustrophobic hordes, Mary unwrapped her shawl and perched on the edge of an iron bench. Connie sat by her side, while the young policeman called through to dispatch, updating them of their whereabouts.