“D-One?” Jim shook his head, “Detention One. His family gave a lot to Archive, and for that I’ll always be thankful. But Bradley himself has no place in what happens next. He’s done.”
While Izzy continued to study him, Marcus shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.
“Well, I ain’t gonna hold my breath.”
Jim could hardly blame him. Every action that Archive had taken had been based on some form of deception. Altering that expectation would take time. Bradley would answer for his bloodlust, but proving it to those who’d experienced his cruelty would not be easy.
“Please,” he said, “Trust me.”
Marcus simply looked to his left at Izzy, “Do you?”
“I think so,” she nodded, “But I have questions.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Jim sat forwards.
Izzy leafed through the photocopies.
“The others that you and Gwen saved, are they all here at the ARC?”
“Most of them.”
“And do they know about their… condition?”
“No,” he looked around at each of them, “But I think that will have to change, don’t you?”
“You’re asking our opinion?” Izzy seemed surprised.
“Despite the circumstances that were stacked against you,” he shrugged, “for some unfathomable reason, you arrived here safely. I suspect you’re going to be important to the future of what the ARC achieves.”
Over the next half hour, they talked through the names that were on Bishop’s list and the group of subtly augmented individuals who had made it to the island over the years.
Later, after they’d left his ready room, he walked to the shelf near his desk and picked up the photo of him and his wife.
Although Siva wasn’t due to arrive for another year, he began to feel the faintest glimmer of relief. He wouldn’t be able to do this job forever, but there was now a new group of people who could take his and Gwen’s endeavours onward.
Free from Archive’s former oppression, evolution might actually have a chance to prepare the human race for whatever came next.
At the very least, he thought, another life had been added to the list of people he and Gwen had saved.
“We got a few steps further from the Dead Line,” he told her, quietly “We’ll escape it yet.”
Taking out his handkerchief, he cleared away a partial circle of fine dust that surrounded her face. Although he’d spotted it a few days ago, this was the first chance he’d had to tidy it up.
“There,” he set the photo down again.
Returning to the empty table, he closed his now equally empty briefcase. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shirt collar and left the ready room behind.
THE ARC
Walking to the centre of one of the ARC’s major spheres, Marcus descended the spiral staircase to the next level. Most people were up on the surface at the moment, preparing for the main event, but there were a few things he needed to do before joining them.
Generally, over the last few months, life had been good here. For the first time in years he’d felt settled. For most people this would bring a certain amount of comfort, but past experience had told him that comfort normally preceded radical change. The easier things had become, the more ill at ease he’d felt; an overwhelming feeling that whatever security he had could simply vanish.
The others aboard the Iseult had adapted in different ways.
Perhaps motivated by her escape from both the Gene Pool and The Shard, Megan had become determined that nobody else should have to suffer the effects of Archive’s legacy. She’d volunteered for virtually all supply runs that might bring relief to the handful of small communities that had been found so far.
Terry, now almost her surrogate father, accompanied her everywhere. Together, their unique perspective ensured that food and resources were always deployed exactly where they were needed. Right now they were bound for London aboard a sub barely bigger than the Iseult, and weren’t scheduled to return until after Siva’s arrival.
When Marcus had said goodbye to them a few days ago, they knew there was a possibility it would be for the last time. As ever, Terry had done his best to remain cheerful, telling him that he was sure they’d meet again some sunny day.
He continued walking down the stairs.
From this point on, Marcus knew that it was only possible for his friends to decrease in number. Siva’s arrival would almost guarantee it. Its effects would again be planet wide. It wouldn’t discriminate at the level of the individual; genetically different or not.
During his time here, he’d got to know all of the ‘augmented’ individuals at the ARC. He remembered the slight feeling of disappointment when he learnt that none of them possessed comic book abilities. As time had gone on, he’d seen that the differences were more subtle.
For some people, the enhanced traits manifested themselves in elevated physical or mental strength. For others, evolution’s next step was simply hidden from view; the genetics at work were simply dormant.
Izzy’s genetic traits were undoubtedly less dormant. Over the past few months he’d seen her extraordinary empathetic sense increase; it was now an almost musical talent for seeing a single wrong note in a symphony of facial expression.
Despite this, she had seemed genuinely surprised when Tristan had dropped to one knee in the middle of the ARC common area and held out an engagement ring. In many respects, their genetically augmented relationship reminded him of Monica and Douglas Walker. The Evolution Safeguard would be well and truly shredded when the Westhouse children eventually arrived.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through a small sphere to arrive at a closed Glaucus door.
He rolled up his sleeve slightly to get to his communicator wristwatch. The design was clunky, and would perhaps have been more at home in the late eighties, but he had to admit there was a certain childish pleasure in wearing it; like he was somehow living in the future. He presented his watch to the access panel and the Glaucus door spiralled open.
Unlike the ARC’s higher levels, which collectively acted as a link to the outside world, this lower collection of spheres held Robert Wild’s long-term Siva solution.
Ahead he could see the many hibernation units; stainless steel boxes that would slow the life functions of their occupants. Like the Ark story of old, the ARC would preserve a cross-section of life, but it would do so in the one place that biblical-scale floods could never reach them: underwater.
He remembered Monica once telling him about Cryo units, and wondered if this was the technology she’d been trying to acquire for the Warren. Although her plans had failed in that respect, he drew some solace from the fact that Broxbourne’s own efforts had achieved a similar result: several of the ‘Substandards’ who had reached Pico Island had opted to join the hibernation program.
They would live their lives alternating between work and hibernation in the ARC’s submerged community; a multi-decade rota ensuring that everyone continued to work towards the long-term preservation of their fragile ecosystem.
There were exceptions of course.
People who sidestepped rules.
Marcus looked down at the Cryo unit containing Bradley Pittman, and the external marking that Broxbourne had insisted upon.
The label on the side of the unit read ‘Permafrost’; a note that reminded any technicians that Pittman’s unit was never to be opened. Broxbourne had effectively given Pittman a life sentence.
He looked in through the small, circular inspection window. Somehow the man had lost his larger-than-life appearance. Lying on his back in a white, plastic body-suit, only his face and head were exposed. Across his forehead was a wire-covered headband, and Marcus could see that his eyelids would occasionally twitch in response to dreams.
This man had personally killed Woods, Geraldine and of course Monica; three of Marcus’ closest friends. It wasn’t fair that he got to sleep peacefully for the rest o
f his life, but Broxbourne and Wild had been adamant about the punishment.
Marcus thought about the simulated months of mental torture that Bradley had put him through. He moved closer to the small window and prepared himself to do what had to be done.
Something that would give him a sense of closure.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he spoke loudly, “but I wanna tell you something.”
He leaned closer to the glass.
“You never broke me.”
He found himself thinking about a phrase that Monica had once used to describe his ‘Blackbox’ alias.
“Cos I’m bloody indestructible,” he added.
Other than a tiny eyelid flicker, there was no response.
A loud, two-tone beep came from his wristwatch.
Marcus stood up and walked away from the Cryo unit.
“This is Broxbourne,” a voice came from the tinny speaker, “One hour Siva warning.”
Marcus looked around at the array of units that filled the room. The people already hibernating here had done so by choice, opting to spend the coming years free of need. Their scheduled waking hours would be rarer but equally well catered for. He could see that, the way things had worked out, there were several Cryo units still standing empty.
He turned away and headed in the direction of the calibration room. He knew he had a choice to make.
BELL TOLLS
The loud, two-tone doorbell rang.
Bradley made his way along the hallway, his thoughts distracted. He slowed his pace and opened the front door.
“Didn’t you have your key?” he frowned at her.
“I saw your car on the driveway,” said his mother as she made her way inside.
Now in her mid-eighties, Dorothy Pittman had benefitted from her position within Archive. A life of privilege and the latest medicines had given her continued mobility, but Bradley could see that she was now frailer than the last time they’d met.
“Wilton drop you off?” he peered out but was unable to see another car on the driveway.
“Yes,” she smiled and kissed him on the cheek, “Gave him the night off. Suzanne still at Cheyenne?”
Despite the innocent tone, her question about his wife seemed barbed. His mother knew damned well that their marriage was unsalvageable; the comment only served to highlight his continued loneliness.
He closed the front door, ensuring that he let it slam loudly.
“Yeah, she sends her regards.”
Dorothy made her way along the hallway and headed in the direction of the dining room, hanging up her coat and placing her handbag down on the polished table.
“No Christmas tree?” she pointed to the empty corner of the room, “Doesn’t matter, I can ask Wilton to get one tomorrow.”
“Christmas is two weeks away,” he told her, “What’re you doin’ here?”
She tilted her head to one side, “I live here.”
Although this was still technically her house, he’d spent so much time here that he considered it his own. He’d grown so used to having the place to himself that her presence felt like an imposition.
“Why are you here?” she returned the question.
“Been going through some of your dad’s old stuff.”
“Oh?” she removed the scarf from around her neck, “What sort of stuff?”
He had been hoping to confront her later but this moment seemed perfect. He reached into his pocket and produced a leather-bound notebook. He idly flicked through the pages of handwritten notes; red-lined names occasionally flashed by.
“Remember Alfred Barnes?” he said, “Well, he got me thinking about the Walkers. ’Bout where they got their smarts from. I literally checked every place I could think of. Should o’ known you’d keep somethin’ like this closer to home.”
“My bedroom closet?” her eyes glanced at the ceiling. Clearly, she recognised her own father’s notebook.
“I know some o’ these names,” he prodded at the pages, “Your kids from the Pittman Academy.”
He couldn’t tell if she was trying not to react, but she was focusing on the book more intently. He had her undivided attention now; a rarity for him. Eager to show off his detective work, he pointed at the crease between two pages where fragments of paper were still attached to the book.
“Somebody’s torn pages out of it,” he said, “Like somebody wanted to hide some of your kids.”
He saw her blink.
He’d always had the capacity to surprise people and he wondered if there had been a deeper reason for this ability. Staring at his mother, he felt the question form.
“Was I one of your special kids?” he held up the notebook.
He saw her frown deepen, but then her look of anxiety dissolved. Her eyes relaxed and she began laughing. He knew her well enough to realise that her reaction was genuine.
“You’re priceless,” she continued laughing, “but no, you’re not one of the ‘special’ kids.”
The air-quotes she’d placed around the word appeared to insult him even more. She picked up her handbag and walked away, heading for the staircase to the lower level.
Her casual dismissiveness gnawed at him and he found himself following her.
“Never did give a shit about me, did you Mom?”
Reaching the top of the stairs, she turned and levelled a stare at him.
“Of course I did,” she said, “You were the price I paid to keep your father invested in what Archive was trying to achieve.”
“You were never here for either of us,” he looked at their surroundings, “You were always at that damned academy.”
She stepped closer to him.
“You know what I do miss about the academy days?” she said, “Every day I could look forward to having an intelligent conversation.”
He felt his anger flare.
“And what the hell d’you mean by that?”
“You realise you’ve just made my point?” she tilted her head to one side condescendingly, “After all these years, if you’re still not bright enough to understa-”
He pushed her.
He saw her eyes widen in shock; a realisation that her little intellectual challenge had been matched by his superior brute force. Then, almost in slow motion, she was falling.
He could see it all unfolding. An event that seemed laced with a strong feeling of déjà vu; a new experience that was unaccountably an old memory. He saw her body pass through the horizontal and impact the marble stairs beneath her. Then the tumbling began. With each bone that broke, he felt his satisfaction increase. Every fracture was a year of love that she’d given to some other kid instead of him.
He then remembered the rising panic and his rapid descent down the stairs after her: if she survived the fall then, son or not, she would use her significant Archive connections to ruin him. He remembered her crumpled form lying still at the bottom of the stairs. Then had come the part where he stood over her as she gasped for air; air he would not allow her to have. He closed his hands around her soft, scrawny neck and let loose his lifelong frustration. The harder he squeezed, the wider her terror-filled eyes became. He felt the thrill of satisfaction as the look of utter betrayal flashed across her face. He remembered her feebly-kicking shoes that squeaked on the marble floor as the life began to leave her. Then it was over. The eyes that stared at him were empty.
He stood up and pushed her father’s notebook back into his pocket.
He would get to the bottom of his mother’s interference. If the Evolution Safeguard had been compromised by Monica and Douglas Walker, he’d find out.
He looked down at the frail corpse that stared blankly up at him. Although the rest of the body remained motionless, the eyes swivelled to look at him and the mouth spoke.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” his mother’s voice seemed somehow different, “But I wanna tell you something.”
He backed away as she calmly got to her feet.
“You never br
oke me,” she began to advance on him, “Cos I’m bloody indestructible.”
There was some part of him that knew this had never happened, but the utter terror he felt was real. He turned and tripped, falling onto the stairs.
His muscles suddenly tensed, then he was scrambling up the flight of stairs. As he reached the upper hallway, he ran towards the front door; every footstep getting slower until he was moving at a walking pace.
The loud, two-tone front doorbell rang.
The feeling of déjà vu rippled through him again; a cloud of confusion that seemed to soften the fear that pursued him. He reached out and opened the door. Although the confusion evaporated in an instant, he knew that something wasn’t right: his mother was standing before him.
“Didn’t you have your key?” he found himself uttering the words again.
“I saw your car on the driveway,” she smiled and walked in.
As she passed him, Bradley had the fading feeling that he’d had this exact conversation hundreds, possibly thousands, of times before; an eternal, maze-like script from which he could never escape. He remembered looking out through the open door. He could just walk out and leave this behind, but his own rage demanded the satisfaction of the fight.
He slammed the front door shut.
BRITANNIA
The refit and overhaul had taken a little longer than expected, but Tristan knew it had been worth every hour of effort. Long before the Iseult’s arrival at the ARC, the Britannia had been the flagship of Pico’s fleet.
It was doubly so now.
Chandra Patil and Rachel Keele had worked with him to create a mobile version of Pico’s fragment deflector system. If an incoming fragment were detected and the Britannia couldn’t submerge in time, it would offer some limited local protection.
When reaching land, the Britannia could deploy powered dinghies, hovercraft, and even small vehicles. However, the modes of transport weren’t just limited to the surface.
Perhaps inspired by their experience at The Shard, or Marcus’ recount of his previous USV misadventures, Tristan had designed a new class of drone. It still had the same ability to be remotely controlled, but it could also carry a human pilot; ideal for rescuing or retrieving people from difficult elevated locations.
The Bridge Page 18
