Immortal

by Nick M Lloyd

  ‘Maybe open some of those far hatches,’ said Sam, pointing. ‘Can you see if there are any discernible markings inside? We’re looking for switches, levers, and dials.’

  The prime minister nodded.

  Sam’s radio buzzed again. She listened to a report from Whaller and relayed the information to Tim. ‘The lock is military-grade titanium. It’s totally unlike the locks that Briars was shown on the other levels. It’s a thirty-minute job. They need another way of opening the doors.’

  Tim turned to the prime minister. ‘Are the US really going to fire on us?’

  Timbers looked grave. ‘I can’t see why they won’t. We have a viable launch platform and forty thousand hostages.’

  Tim shuddered. They had an hour. Although football stadiums regularly emptied in those time frames, football stadiums didn’t have potential Leafer firefights and titanium cell doors to contend with.

  ‘What if we blew up the launch pad ourselves?’ asked Sam. ‘Would the US stop?’

  ‘They simply don’t trust us to do anything,’ said the prime minister. ‘We have to run.’

  Leaving Sam and Timbers at the back wall, Tim walked back to MacKenzie’s workstation and typed.

  Help us. There is no advantage for the Ankor in letting the Americans slaughter forty thousand innocent souls

  Tim waited.

  A moment later he got a reply.

  You poisoned us and then sent a nuclear bomb

  This is after you saw our limited needs … less than half humanity’s average daily death rate … hardly genocide … but you almost destroyed our whole being.

  Tim considered his response.

  You nuked us – fifty million dead

  Now you have a chance to save lives

  We tried to conserve lives

  We have killed less than one percent of the human population

  You have killed fifty percent of the Ankor.

  There was no point getting into a philosophical argument about the relative value of lives. They had no time.

  Will you help us or not?

  CHAPTER 41

  SpaceOp

  Silence.

  Looking over his shoulder, Tim called over to Sam. ‘How’s it going with you?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘They still haven’t opened one. There’s hundreds to do.’

  The workstation chimed.

  Middle row. Fifth hatch from left

  Third dial from the left inside hatch

  Turn full left and push

  Tim hesitated. Could it be a trap?

  You contacted us Mr Boston

  Tim relayed the information over to Sam who opened the specified hatch, then turned the dial as instructed.

  ‘They’ve all opened,’ shouted Sam from the back wall.

  Time for you to leave Mr Boston. Good luck

  The Americans will fire within the hour

  ‘Are you leaving?’ asked Tim, knowing they could hear.

  To be decided. The-sterile are in open war with us and have captured key communications points. If they break into the A-Grav circuits, it will not be good for humanity

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Say a prayer for us

  ‘Is Charlie there?’ asked Sam, hobbling over to the workstation on her crutches.

  We are Ankor

  You must leave now

  Beckoning to the prime minister, Tim led them out of the building.

  Outside, his own car was waiting. The keys were in the ignition and it started first time.

  ‘Abbey Bay,’ said Sam, as she climbed into the passenger seat whilst Joshua Timbers got into the back.

  Sam pulled out her phone and launched the satellite navigation function. ‘It seems to be working,’ she said.

  ‘Or, the Ankor are going to lead us off a cliff face,’ said Tim.

  Focusing on the road, Tim didn’t see Sam’s facial response, but she said, ‘Turn left out of the gates.’

  On his left, Tim could see a passenger coach being loaded outside the Hot Zone.

  At the next junction they went straight on, and at the next junction turned right.

  ‘I hope Tosh makes it,’ said Sam.

  Tim took his eyes off the road for a moment to give her a reassuring smile.

  A road sign indicated Abbey Bay was ahead.

  Tim was desperate to get them away from the incoming barrage but he fought the urge to drive too fast.

  I’m not going to crash again with Sam in the passenger seat. Not to mention the bloody prime minister.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ said Sam, laying her hand on his forearm. ‘A minute won’t make a difference.’

  ‘Incoming nuclear shells?’ said Tim. ‘One minute may really matter.’

  Sam rolled her eyes. ‘Just drive.’

  The road followed a valley that led directly down to the coast, but the contours of the land and the surrounding trees stopped any long-distance views.

  In the back of the car, the prime minister was speaking to a senior member of the American administration. From what Tim could discern, the US president was unwilling to speak to ‘the enemy’.

  ‘Tell him we understand his need to neutralise the launch facilities, but we need a few more hours to get the innocent hostages out of the Hot Zone,’ said the prime minister, hanging up.

  With one mile to go, the valley opened out, and the small village of Abbey Bay appeared ahead. Directly in front of them was a car park, and beyond that, the granite sea wall.

  The car park was rammed full.

  ‘Go right,’ said Sam. ‘Ignore the car park. Drive onto the beach.’

  Tim turned right at the sea wall, and fifty metres later a small slipway came into view. Turning left, Tim drove down the slipway and onto the beach.

  Abbey Bay itself was a sandy beach, probably half a mile wide. The tide was low, and a few hundred metres of sand lay between them and the sea. Many SpaceOp personnel were on the beach. Not just the few hundred from Mission Control, but the administrative staff, the payload specialists … Everyone.

  At least two thousand people were crammed onto the sand.

  Waiting.

  A flash in the sky drew Tim’s attention.

  Just around the headland to the south, a single red flare shot vertically, framed by the blue-grey sky.

  It was not alone.

  Another.

  Then another.

  ‘Look!’ said Sam, pointing.

  A boat – gunmetal grey.

  Heading their way?

  Not just one boat.

  From the far end of the bay, British Navy craft of all types appeared, ploughing through the waters accompanied by a flotilla of civilian boats.

  Within minutes, Navy landing ribs were heading into the beach, ready to ferry people out to the larger waiting craft.

  Turning the car wheel, Tim drove south across the beach.

  The flotilla of civilian boats that rounded the headland were not just fishing boats. There were vessels of all types: small yachts, working trawlers, pleasure cruisers.

  Tim picked out a small fishing boat that appeared to be venturing close in to the shore.

  ‘Open the windows,’ said Tim.

  ‘We’re doing this?’ asked Sam.

  Muted expletives came from the prime minister on the back seat, but he didn’t tell Tim to stop.

  Pushing the accelerator full down, Tim pointed the car directly at the ocean.

  Hitting the water at well over forty miles an hour, the car ploughed in … and kept on going.

  Water flooded through the open windows and a few moments later the engine spluttered and died.

  Tim climbed out of his window and waded, chest deep, around the car.

  Sam had already levered herself partially out of the window. Tim grabbed her and pulled. She yelped in pain and Tim felt phantom pain jolt through his own stomach and legs, but she managed to scramble onto the roof of the car as the small fishing boat approached them.

  It had two occup
ants; Tim presumed they were father and son. Both looked like they’d lived on boats all their lives. The old man was at the bow, looking down through the waves to gauge depth.

  When he was twenty metres away he called over. ‘We can’t come closer. The tide is dropping, and we’ll get beached!’

  ‘Okay,’ Tim shouted back. ‘Sam has mobility difficulties, we had to leave a wheelchair behind.’

  ‘I can swim,’ said Sam quietly.

  ‘Take off your shoes, coats, and jumpers!’ The old man mimed taking off his clothes. ‘Or you’ll sink.’

  Tim, Sam, and Timbers started to strip.

  Over on the boat, the old man took off his heavy coat, replaced his lifejacket, tied a rope around his waist, and jumped in.

  After Sam had slid elegantly into the water, Tim tried to help her, but, as she had said, she was a good swimmer. Her shoulders and arms compensated well, if not fully, for her lack of leg movement.

  The old man met the group halfway and led them towards the stern of the boat where there was a small ladder.

  The cold was starting to seep into Tim as he manoeuvred himself around the back of the boat – adrenaline could only do so much.

  ‘You first,’ said Sam, now shivering violently.

  Tim clambered up, took the proffered blanket, and immediately turned to help her.

  Between himself, the old man, and his son, Sam was lifted into the boat and provided with a blanket.

  ‘There’s space for a few more,’ said Timbers, climbing up last.

  The old man did a double-take, realising who he’d just rescued, but recovered his composure quickly. ‘You’re right there, sir,’ he said, waving one of the Navy ribs over.

  Once its cargo of five was safely loaded, the son put the boat into reverse, and turned around before heading out to sea.

  Collapsed on his back on the deck of the trawler, Tim wrapped the coarse blanket tightly around himself. Surrounded by coiled ropes and the smell of dead fish, he helped Sam lower herself down next to him.

  ‘You know what kept me going?’ Tim asked Sam.

  ‘Love?’ replied Sam, one arm reaching over him and pulling him closer.

  ‘Well, that …’ said Tim, ‘and I was scared of what you’d think of me.’

  ‘I reckon that’s a good basis for an ongoing relationship,’ Sam said, laughing.

  Her levity was cut short a minute later when a flash high in the sky drew everyone’s attention. Tim turned, internally begging the universe not to show him a mushroom cloud.

  There was no cloud, and the flash was not repeated, but a low rumble lasted for a few heartbeats.

  ‘What do you think it was?’ asked Tim.

  Timbers, sitting quietly next to them, replied, ‘My best guess is that the Americans used a precision shell to destroy the launch pad. They’ll give us time.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Sam.

  --------

  Huddled in the small forward cabin of the trawler, Sam and Tim desperately skimmed the long-wave radio channels, trying to find news about Martel and the Hot Zone hostages. What little news there was gave cause for hope. The Americans had only fired on the launch pad.

  Furthermore, many thousands of hostages had been seen climbing onto a procession of coaches and leaving SpaceOp.

  ‘As long as they didn’t meet the Leafers,’ said Sam.

  Tim nodded, continuing to listen intently.

  More news came through about the coaches used for the evacuation. Some of them were UK Prison Service coaches. It appeared that during the A-Grav preparation period a week previously, some prisoners had been diverted to SpaceOp.

  An hour later, they pulled into Rhyl harbour with about fifty other boats.

  Sam and Tim were swept up with at least five hundred refugees being unloaded onto beaches, piers, and hastily constructed floating pontoons whilst the flotilla turned around to collect the next load of survivors.

  On their journey to Rhyl, the radio had been clear that local residents were ordered to stay away from the harbour and the irradiated survivors.

  But, of course, they had come.

  Locals mingled, handing out food, drink, and blankets, consoling the grieving, and just giving a helping hand wherever needed.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ asked Sam. They’d found a bench and were simply sitting gazing out to sea.

  A low rumble was growing louder from the east.

  The crowds had heard it too.

  Someone screamed.

  Everyone watched the sky, looking around wildly.

  The rumble resolved into a slow whump-whump-whump of helicopter rotor blades.

  Five large British Chinook helicopters swooped low over the town and landed.

  Immediately they lowered their ramps and more relief teams swept out.

  ‘Sam.’ Dexter had found them. ‘I saw you earlier. I got these for you.’

  Sam took the crutches with a smile and laid them on the bench next to her. ‘Thank you.’

  Dexter turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

  ‘He’ll sleep well,’ said Tim. Dexter had made a moral stand in Mission Control and had not given an inch with regards to the hostages … whereas Tim had been content to support Martel in cutting the wires to sacrifice the forty thousand.

  ‘The Ankor could have blown the whole country to hell.’

  ‘Dexter didn’t make his stand based on weighing up the evidence,’ said Tim. ‘He just knew what was right.’

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘He made a decision based on the avoidance of short-term guilt.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ said Tim. ‘He knew what was right.’

  Sam shrugged and turned to watch the ebb and flow of the crowd as army personnel started herding people towards hastily constructed decontamination units.

  Helping Sam up from the bench, Tim looked for the unit with the shortest queue and they hobbled over.

  CHAPTER 42

  Tim’s Flat, North London

  Looking out of the military jeep’s window, Tim tried to piece together a plan of action. It was just before midnight and he hoped to get some sleep before dawn. The helicopter they’d clambered onto had taken them to a sprawling army base.

  Tim smiled. As they’d landed, Sam had said she’d thought the journey time was probably too short for them to be in Guantanamo, but had given Tim advice on how to hold his breath.

  As it was, until a few hours previously, they’d undergone extensive, but broadly sympathetic, debriefing.

  Deprogramming.

  Colonel Martel had been present to protect them from the more overzealous military intelligence investigators – and he had explicitly confirmed that MacKenzie had perished in the five kiloton nuclear charge they concealed aboard RL10.

  Joined also by Captain Whaller towards the end, they’d talked about the Ankor’s religious beliefs and how Simulation Theory might influence their behaviours. However, it had quickly descended into the equivalent of a late-night pub conversation which reached a dead end when someone asked, ‘who made the people that wrote the first simulation?’ Fundamentally, a bunch of army jocks and a few computer nerds were not the people to unpick the mysteries of the universe and – once they’d drained Tim of every actual word the Ankor had said – the whole investigation was turned over to a panel of religious experts, philosophers, and other academics.

  Tim had been very happy to be off the hook.

  During the debriefing – and, again, fully chaperoned by Martel – Tim had tried to contact the Ankor, but they’d remained resolutely silent. According to Martel, this had been the case with any attempted communications he was aware of.

  The jeep turned into Tim’s street. Lights were showing from just under half of the nearby buildings.

  Home sweet home.

  Tim smiled and kicked himself at the same time. As they’d been packing up from the debrief he’d considered fifty ways of asking Sam if they could perhaps spend the night together. Unfortunately, every
phrase he’d considered had either sounded cheap or too oblique. Then, just as he’d turned to climb forlornly into his own jeep, Sam had squeezed his hand and said, ‘Your place or mine?’

  It was possible that he’d thanked her – the memory was hazy – before explaining that, although her flat was far better set up for her mobility issues, it had too good a view of the Kirkmail A-Grav unit which was one of the thousand globally that was still ticking.

  She smiled and simply said, ‘Cool, your place then. I’ll pack a bag and be over as soon as.’

  Tim opened the door to his flat, still thinking about the A-Gravs.

  The ticking A-Gravs were emitting regular pulses of low-intensity gamma radiation. Additionally, they appeared to have anti-tampering mechanisms such that if anyone, or anything, approached within fifty metres then the emission intensity increased substantially. The remainder of the A-Gravs across the globe were silent and did not react, but the standing UN orders were that no-one was to approach them.

  His phone buzzed. A text from Sam.

  Home safe thanks. Squaddies packing up my stuff. Be with you in two hours.

  The couple of soldiers who had accompanied Tim into his flat now checked it for extraneous surveillance devices. There were many. Tim stood by his kitchen table while the bugs were disposed of, and then the soldiers left.

  MacKenzie protecting his investments.

  Once alone, he turned on the news. Most countries were declaring themselves stable, even those that had suffered the most horrendous backlash: China, US, Brazil, and Mexico.

  To Tim it seemed like each country had different proportions of three main groups: those who declared themselves entirely comfortable with providing the remaining forty thousand brains to avoid a nuclear massacre, and to be clear, they already had a list of names ready; those who would rather die than be party to blasphemy as all life was deemed sacred; and the final group who preferred not to think about it and rather hoped they’d never have to make the choice.

  News pertaining to SpaceOp itself was greatly restricted, but during the debriefing Martel had informed Tim that a detailed sweep of the island confirmed the Leafers had gone. There was no information as to how they left, or where they went.

  Were they really just hired guns? Or something more?