Vanguard Prime Book 1

by Steven Lochran

  ‘Mum?’ I ask. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ a man’s voice replies. ‘Your call has been terminated.’

  ‘Terminated?’ I repeat in shock.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s standard procedure to terminate all phone calls that might be imparting confidential information.’

  ‘What?’ I say, my voice rising. ‘You listen to my phone calls?’

  ‘That’s also standard procedure, sir,’ the man on the other end of the line replies. ‘Technically I’m supposed to present you with an official warning as a result of this, but as it’s your first transgression I can let it slide.’

  ‘Oh, um … thank you?’ I say.

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  The line goes dead. I sit there for a moment holding the handset, just staring at it. It doesn’t even hum – it just sits silently in my grasp.

  I put it back on the receiver. I know Mum’s probably wondering why the line suddenly disconnected. She’ll also be more than a little worried. But something keeps me from calling her back. Maybe it’s the thought of having someone I don’t even know listening in the entire time. Maybe it’s just embarrassment.

  I kick the box full of trophies under the bed and flop back onto the sheets.

  Staring absentmindedly out the window, I hear the sound of sirens and people screaming. The sounds grow louder and louder, the memory pounding inside my head. I screw my eyes shut and take a few deep breaths, and when I open them again it’s to the silence of the ship and the sight of an aircraft approaching over the sea.

  At first I think it’s the Knight of Wands returning. As it gets closer, however, I realise it’s too slow and cumbersome, and way too big. And something is hanging beneath it. That’s when I remember …

  They’re bringing Cronus on board today.

  Flight Deck, The Round Table

  Major Blackthorne stands with Agent Alpha, the ship swaying beneath their feet and the wind blowing hard into their faces.

  ‘Isn’t Gaia coming up?’ Agent Alpha asks. ‘I’d have thought she’d want to be present for this.’

  ‘I asked her to stay away, given the fixation this thing seems to have on her.’

  ‘We’ve never really got an explanation for why that is, have we?’ Agent Alpha replies.

  ‘Well, Gaia doesn’t know,’ the Major says. ‘And seeing as Cronus doesn’t talk, I don’t think we’ll be finding out anytime soon.’

  The transport helicopter, a CH-47 Chinook, is plainly visible now. A large metal box is suspended from its underside by long, thick cables.

  ‘How’s Goldrush going? He seemed pretty upset after that simulation.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  The wind picks up strength, blowing strands of the Major’s silvery hair into her face.

  ‘Have you identified the composition of his force-field yet?’ the Agent asks.

  ‘At the moment, we’re working on the theory that it’s bio-electric, but it’s not looking likely. We still have a few more tests to conduct.’

  ‘It’s not bio-electric,’ Agent Alpha says decisively. ‘I’d be able to tell if it was.’

  ‘What do you think it is then?’

  The Agent shrugs. ‘You got me there.’

  The sound of his voice is drowned out as the Chinook comes to hover over the deck, lowering its cargo carefully. A group of technicians run over to the metal crate, flanked by a small fire-team of soldiers. The rest of the platoon is positioned across the flight deck, armed and ready.

  The technicians work quickly to disconnect the crate from its support wires, allowing the Chinook to land. As the helicopter’s rotors whir down, Major Blackthorne approaches the metal crate. She peers through a small, bullet-proof window at the dark figure hunched within.

  ‘Major Blackthorne?’ a weedy voice asks from behind her. The Major turns to find Dr Knock and his team, one of whom is sitting behind the wheel of a forklift.

  ‘Go ahead,’ the Major nods, moving out of the way.

  ‘This should prove fascinating,’ Dr Knock says, more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘Uh … sure,’ the Major replies. She shoots Agent Alpha a questioning glance.

  The Agent shrugs. ‘I just hope he doesn’t break loose. I’ve tussled with him far too recently to be wanting a repeat performance anytime soon.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be goin’ nowhere, sir,’ a soldier says, walking over to them from the Chinook. ‘He’s wrapped up pretty tight.’

  The soldier stops in front of Major Blackthorne and salutes, his back straight, his posture rigid.

  ‘Sergeant Charles Foster of the 43rd, ma’am, here to deliver Prisoner Number 0158, alias Cronus, as expected.’

  ‘At ease, Sergeant. I believe you have some forms for me to fill out?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The sergeant hands her a clipboard with paperwork attached. The Major takes out a pen and signs a number of pages before handing the clipboard back.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. And good luck,’ Sergeant Foster says. As he walks back to the helicopter, he almost has a spring in his step.

  ‘Obviously happy not to have a supervillain as their responsibility anymore?’ Agent Alpha comments.

  ‘I have to admit, I’d be pretty pleased if the case were the same for us,’ says the Major as she watches the forklift carry its shipment to the loading platform that will take it below deck.

  ‘You seem tense today,’ Agent Alpha says. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing more than usual.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling …’ The Major pauses. ‘When I was a kid, we had this dog. Her name was Ripley, after Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. She was a good dog most of the time, but whenever there was a storm she’d go nuts. She’d run all over the house, knocking into things and barking like her life depended on it. The barking would start hours before the storm as if she somehow knew it was coming … I don’t know … I’ve just got this feeling.’

  ‘What feeling?’ Agent Alpha asks.

  ‘This feeling that if Ripley were here now … she’d be barking like all our lives depended on it.’

  She watches as the forklift and its cargo descends into the ship. She doesn’t see the cold unblinking eyes staring back out from behind the small partition of glass.

  I get bored watching music videos and take to pacing aimlessly around my room. It was at times like this that I used to go for a run, often with Booster in tow and a pair of earphones pumping music directly into my brain. But I haven’t been for a run like that for months now. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to do it since the sports field. Besides, what would I do here – run around the deck?

  I turn the TV off and the music from Machina’s room rushes in to fill the silence. I stand there listening to it, having no idea what band it is. I wonder if she’d mind me going over and hanging out with her. Then I wonder exactly when it was that I went crazy.

  The longer I think about it, however, the more the idea takes hold, until finally I’m walking across the hall to knock on her door.

  ‘What?’ she shouts.

  ‘It’s Sam!’ I shout in return.

  ‘And?’ she says.

  I hesitate. Now would be a good time to just back away. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  There’s a very long pause, as if she’s deciding whether or not to grant me this immense favour, before her door slides open. The heavy guitar music hits me full in the face as I walk inside and get my first good look at her room. There are posters all over the wall of bands and singers I don’t recognise. There are clothes and magazines piled on the floor alongside stacks of books, CDs and unwashed coffee mugs.

  ‘What do you want?’ Machina yells over the music. She’s in the ensuite with the door open, looking in the mirror and doing something to her hair.

  ‘I just wanted to … I dunno … I was kind of bored in my room and I thought I’d come and hang out.�
��

  ‘Oh,’ she says, turning and looking at me for the first time since I walked in.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  She mutters something and turns back to the mirror.

  ‘Sorry, what’d you say?’ I ask.

  ‘I said just don’t break anything!’ she yells.

  ‘Maybe you could turn the music down a bit?’

  She wrinkles her nose and begrudgingly uses her powers to turn the stereo down, but only slightly.

  ‘Who is that, anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh my God … you don’t know Radiohead?’ Machina replies. ‘What do you listen to?’

  ‘Hip hop, mostly. Some classical.’ I shrug.

  ‘Classical?’

  ‘Yeah. We listen to a lot of it at home. My mum plays the flute and my dad was … is a cellist. They met in the orchestra pit of the Metropolitan Symphony.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Machina replies. She doesn’t sound very interested.

  ‘You’re dying your hair?’ I ask, noticing the stained rubber gloves she’s wearing.

  ‘Just adding purple streaks,’ she says, her attention on the mirror.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because I like purple. And because the package came in the mail today and I’ve got nothing else to do,’ she snaps at me. ‘Any other questions?’

  I crouch on the floor to look at her stacks of books. ‘So how many of those have you done?’ I ask. ‘How many of what?’ she asks, now adding the sound of her hairdryer to the list of things we need to shout over.

  ‘Those sessions. The simulation sessions. How many have you done?’

  I pull out a copy of some book called Slaughterhouse 5 and flip through it.

  ‘I don’t know. Over fifty that’s for sure,’ Machina says.

  ‘Do they … do they usually go like that?’ I ask, putting the book back on the pile next to her bed. The blasting noise of the hairdryer suddenly shuts off.

  ‘That was a pretty bad example, admittedly. They’re usually a bit smoother than that,’ she replies.

  ‘Oh.’ I look away, staring at nothing in particular. Machina walks back into the room, combing her hair.

  I look up at her. ‘You know, you could be a little less blunt about it.’

  ‘I’m not here to mollycoddle you, and you’re not here for a holiday,’ she says.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I mumble to myself.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ she replies. ‘I’m just as confused about that as you are.’

  I spring up off the floor. ‘What the hell is your problem?’

  ‘My problem?’ she says. ‘My problem is that I’m stuck babysitting some know-nothing kid who’s too scared or embarrassed or something to see the incredible opportunity he’s just throwing away.’

  I feel a surge of ice flow through me, like the kind of feeling I get before a big race. My voice is high and heated as I jab my finger at the space between us.

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about me! You don’t who I am or what I’ve been through!’

  ‘Then by all means,’ she says, crossing her arms, ‘enlighten me.’ She stands there staring at me with a look of defiant expectation.

  I can feel a storm cloud brewing inside me, thundering to get out, and I can’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘You think you’re so smart! You think you’ve got it all figured out. But you don’t know anything. You don’t know what it’s like to lose control, to hurt people, to have everything you’ve ever known taken away from you. And all in a second. Just one stupid, horrible second.’

  ‘So you feel powerless, huh?’ she replies curtly. ‘You really think you’re the only one? How do you think any of us got here? It’s not all about you, you know.’

  I look away, and for a long time I don’t say anything.

  ‘Sorry,’ I finally manage. ‘That was dumb of me. To lash out like that. I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘Sam,’ she says, stepping sideways to look me in the eyes, ‘what’s really bothering you?’

  The Gallery, Sub-Level 6

  The forklift, having deposited Prisoner Number 0158 in his cell, flashes its yellow light and beeps as it reverses out. The driver gives a brief salute as he exits.

  Dr Knock’s team wastes no time, double-checking the cell before moving the prisoner into it. They work quickly and efficiently, having performed this sort of operation dozens of times and practised it hundreds of times before that.

  For the first time ever, though, their boss is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Anybody seen Dr Knock?’ one of the technicians asks.

  He’s answered by a choking sound. He swings around to see his colleague gasping for air and clutching his throat before collapsing to the cold metal floor.

  ‘Burbidge!’ He races over to help, just as another two members of the team drop to the ground, their faces turning a deep shade of purple.

  ‘What … what’s going on …?’ the technician asks breathlessly, suddenly noticing the pale green mist billowing from the air vents. And that’s when he sees Knock watching through an observation window on the other side of the Gallery, his expression as solid and unwavering as a tombstone.

  ‘Doctor … what are you …?’ The technician loosens his tie, the veins on his neck standing out. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Knock says over a crackling intercom, his lips twitching into a smile as he points at the gas spilling from the air vents.

  The technician stumbles to the observation window, grabbing for the vault-like door next to it.

  Locked.

  ‘You’re … you’re insane!’ the technician gasps, pounding on the window weakly.

  Knock smiles. ‘You always did presume too much, Jameson. Consider this your termination notice.’

  With one last desperate gulp, the technician slumps to the floor.

  For several minutes, there is no movement. No sound. Nothing. Then the vault door opens and Knock enters wearing a surgical mask and clutching a cardboard box. He lowers the mask just enough to sniff the air. Satisfied, he throws it to one side and hurries across the Gallery, ignoring the bodies around him.

  ‘Apologies for the mess,’ Knock says, addressing the metal crate. ‘You know how things can get when you’re forced to make redundancies.’

  He punches his security code into the number pad on the crate’s lock. A beep is followed by a ten-second delay before the door springs open. A rattling of chains answers as Knock takes a set of keys with him into the crate.

  A moment later he steps back out. Behind him looms a darkly gleaming monolith. The monster’s horn appears first through the doors, glinting menacingly in the gloom. Then the giant steps forward, his huge shoulders towering over the doctor.

  Cronus.

  ‘Years I’ve been working here. Years! And despite all that time, they trust me no more than they do a first-day intern! Your involvement in this plan would have been entirely unnecessary if not for their insulting arrogance,’ Knock mutters, as much to himself as to the giant glowering behind him. As if remembering Cronus’s presence, he shoots a look back at the supervillain and gestures for him to follow. ‘Come along then.’

  He walks with Cronus down along the line of cells, the giant’s footsteps falling like bombshells on the steel floor. Stopping in front of the last cell, Knock points a bony finger at it.

  ‘He’s in there. To open this cell you need authorisation from AN Headquarters, two personnel turning a key simultaneously and the digitally confirmed presence of Major Blackthorne and at least one member of Vanguard Prime.’ He pauses. ‘But who needs all that when we have you? Now, if you’d please …?’

  Cronus lumbers towards the cell, smashing through it with no more difficulty than a bulldozer through glass. He approaches the coffin-shaped container with his fists clenched, each the size of a wrecking ball. A pair of deadly looking sickles springs from his armoured forearms.

  ‘I’ve managed to temporarily disable the warnin
g systems. We only have five minutes, so if you’d care to hurry up …!’ Knock hisses.

  Cronus rakes his sickles down each side of the coffin, sparks flying in their wake. Latch after latch snaps open, and with a final snap the door falls off. Cronus steps back.

  ‘At last …’ a voice murmurs weakly. ‘At last!’ it roars, gathering strength.

  He doesn’t step from the coffin. He flies. Even in his white prison uniform, even blinking in the sudden light, he is still majestic, divine, foreboding.

  The Overman is free.

  ‘My God,’ Knock says in a hushed voice. ‘It’s so good to see you finally released! After so long.’

  ‘It feels good to be free, my loyal Knock. Tell me, where are my vestments?’

  The Overman speaks in a slow, steady tone, as if he’s forgotten how to do it. He lifts his arms and flexes his hands, revelling in the movement.

  ‘I have them here.’ Knock pulls the cardboard box out from beneath his arm and opens it.

  The Overman smiles and Knock flinches as the clothing levitates from the box and hangs in the air. The Overman’s white uniform falls away, replaced by a black bodysuit that melts around his powerful limbs and a crimson cloak that drapes itself royally around his shoulders. A red insignia – the last letter of the Greek alphabet – stands out against his black chest.Ω. Omega.

  ‘Where is the Dragon?’ the Overman asks as a pair of black gloves and matching boots fly into place on his hands and feet.

  ‘Just a few cells down from yours, my Lord. This way.’ Knock scurries ahead of his master. ‘As I was telling Cronus, I’ve managed to divert the security systems for only a few minutes. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘We have all the time in the world, Doctor,’ the Overman replies, gliding beside him, his slick blond hair glowing like a halo under the prison’s lights.

  Arriving at the first cell in the Gallery, Dr Knock quickly types in his authorisation code and has his thumbprint scanned.

  ‘Their precautions with all the other prisoners were nothing like the precautions surrounding you, my Lord. They knew where the true power resided.’