Frank Wasdale- First Mission

by Chris Lee Jones

Who is the girl? I can sense that you have feelings for her. You see her as a potential breeding partner.

  Erm, I wouldn't quite put it that way. She's called Ruby, I communicate, trying to keep my signal strength to a level acceptable for a church.

  Would you like me to open a communication channel with her?

  No I wouldn't. Ruby's been through enough changes recently.

  The Mannequin looks different. She's changed the colour of her hair, and from what I can see of her from this distance, she looks plumper, more rounded. In fact, she looks a lot less like a mannequin.

  I have re-profiled my modelled exterior. To avoid being recognised.

  Wow. I wonder how she did that?

  Now is not the time to get into the details of synthetic tissue propagation, Frank. We have an important matter to discuss. I needed to get to you before Dr Babbage does.

  Dr Babbage is here, in London?

  He is staying in Acton, at a Bed and Breakfast called Two Pines.

  Something about her tone suggests that this is not the ‘important matter’ she referred to.

  Tomorrow I must leave your Earth and return to mine. I want you to come with me. You have my promise that you will come to no harm.

  What? Tomorrow? And how can she even go back if the Americans took her transfer pod?

  Tomorrow, exactly five years from the date that I arrived on your Earth, my colleagues will send a rescue pod. It is standard practise on these types of exploratory mission. They will not like the fact that the transfer pod has been taken by humans. They will judge it to be my fault. The only thing that could possibly save my career is the fact that I have with me a rejuvenated human. If you return with me, Frank, then I will have at least accomplished the main aim of my mission.

  What happens if I say no?

  If I leave you behind, you will stop benefiting from my glandular excretions.

  Of course. My magic juice. Without it, I'm a goner. Is she threatening me?

  It is not a threat, Frank. I can only secrete a certain amount of your juice each day.

  “What’s up, Bernie? You’ve gone into a trance. It’s freaking me out.”

  I almost forget that Ruby is sitting beside me on the pew. I reach into my pocket to pull out a pen and pad.

  Meet me outside, I write. I just need five minutes. Quiet time.

  Ruby fires me a queer look, then gets up and leaves the church. The Mannequin waits until the big front door has closed behind her.

  Petersen’s cell-phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Are you going to answer that?

  I don’t know what to do. I’ve gone all hot and clammy again. I’m worried that I might faint or vomit.

  It’s Decision time, Frank. I’d guessed that the intelligence services might use you to track me down. Should you answer that call, or not? For both of us, it is a life or death decision. I will let you make that decision, Frank.

  The phone keeps ringing. I bring it out of my pocket and carefully place it down on the pew beside me. I’m afraid my big stubby fingers might accidentally answer Petersen’s call before I’ve even made my mind up.

  They showed you my transfer pod, didn’t they?

  Damn. It seems that I can’t keep anything from her.

  What kind of state was it in?

  There is an anger in her voice that I haven't detected before. I try to describe to her everything I saw down in the O.I.L basement. The fact that the stolen pod is still in one piece seems to calm her.

  Thank you, Frank.

  The phone stops ringing, and we both let out massive sighs of relief.

  I cannot force you to accompany me. That too would be against my peoples' moral code. Is there anything you need to know, to help you make your mind up?

  If I’m going to leave behind London and Ruby and Cheasley High, leave behind the only happiness and stability I’ve ever experienced, there is one thing that I really need to know: Why did she just stand and watch as Stump put me through all those years of horrible trials? Why didn’t she reach out to me earlier, to comfort or reassure me?

  My mind goes silent for a while, and I can tell that she’s thinking, choosing her words before broadcasting them to me.

  I needed you to hate me, Frank. I needed you to be afraid. Sympathy is visible and might have ruined everything.

  I’m not quite sure what she means, but the sentiment seems genuine, filling my head with the taint of her remorse.

  It won’t be permanent, Frank. With a self-labelling pod, we can transfer you back and forth. You’ll be able to see your friend Ruby again, and even go to school. There is a crossing point in the South of England.

  Isn’t that risky? I ask into the nothingness.

  Everything in life carries a risk.

  Another few quiet moments. She’s giving me time to think, but I’ve made up my mind. All right, I will come.

  A wonderful thing happens. My mind fills with her euphoria, with her relief and happiness. I have never felt so alive, and that’s saying something for a dead boy.

  We need to get back to the Alaskan crossing point, Frank. By the end of tomorrow. That is where the rescue pod will appear. But there is a complication.

  What sort of complication?

  You need to find your own way back. We cannot travel together. It would be too dangerous, considering your cosiness with British intelligence.

  I wouldn't call it cosiness, but I see her point.

  I am booked on a flight in two hours, to Fairbanks airport. I will hire a car to take us from the airport to the crossing point. Make sure that your flight arrives no later than 6 A.M. tomorrow, local time. I will find you when you arrive.

  She’s just going to leave me to figure out a way of getting back to Alaska on my own?

  You are resourceful, Frank. I trust you to complete this mission.

  I feel both honoured and surprised that she is placing such trust in me. But a plan is already forming in my head. A devious plan, and a clever one. For it to work, I will have to outwit both British Intelligence and the CIA. And I'll have to do something that, a month ago, I would never have thought I had the courage to do.

  It's a long shot. But what choice do I have?

  Chapter 11 - Crossing Point

  I'm sitting in a soft leather chair in Petersen's office, which is on the fourth floor of a tall glassy building. His window has a nice view over the river Thames. I'm fiddling with my pen and watching the boats go by, waiting for Petersen to finish a phone call.

  Petersen's secretary, a young woman with long hair and thin legs, brings in yet another pot of tea. I shake my head at her, and she shakes her head back at me. She pours Petersen yet another cup as he puts his phone back in his pocket.

  "OK Frank,” he says in an official-sounding voice. “It's all set up. Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?"

  I grunt that I am.

  "There's a flight that leaves at half past midnight. You’ll need to be at the airport by ten thirty. Have you still got your phone on you?"

  I get it out from my pocket and waggle it around for him to see. I hope that I proved my loyalty by calling him on it as soon as I got home after my encounter with the Mannequin.

  "Keep it safe. Emergencies only. And whatever you do, don't let Babbage see it."

  I think I'm all set. The secretary shows me out of the office then escorts me down the elevator and out of the lobby. Once she's gone, I stand there alone on the pavement, looking around. I spew up a little vomit onto the polished marble steps. I still haven't convinced myself that what I'm doing is right, that by deceiving pretty much everyone I know, the world will be a slightly better place. And I feel nervous when I think of all the things that could go wrong.

  First things first. Bus back to Cheasley.

  *

  Ruby is waiting in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs when I knock on the door. I can tell she's been crying because the black make-up that she puts on her eyes is heading in rivulets for her chin.

>   She surprises me by giving me a bear-hug. "Dad told me what's happening. That you're going back to Alaska with that weird old doctor who cared for you. That you're going to help us get him..."

  Clive strides into the kitchen and gives me a firm handshake. “Good luck,” he says. “There could be a medal in it for you, if you pull this off. Our country will be proud of you.”

  I nod and let out a wavering moan, firing Ruby a sideward glance. She frowns at me—I think she can sense that I'm not being completely up-front with her.

  Clive announces that it's getting late and asks us to excuse him because his toast is ready.

  "What's really happening, Bernie?" whispers Ruby, close to my ear. Covertly, I slip her a note I wrote earlier, sealed in a little envelope with her name on it. I've been in two minds as to whether to hand it over. It tells her more than she needs to know, more than Petersen or the Mannequin or anybody else would want her to know. But I can't find it within me to deceive her. At the bottom of the note I instructed her to burn it or eat it after reading and not to tell anyone about it, even her father.

  Ruby pushes the note into her back pocket, gives me a wink. "Thanks for coming to say goodbye," she says. She leans forward and gives me a kiss on my clammy forehead. I groan at her and give her a thumbs up. For some reason, I decide to reach a hand out and give her hair a little ruffle. I don't know why, and I feel immediately embarrassed about it, but it makes her smile.

  "You'd better get going," she says, putting me out of my misery. "Bon chance, mon ami—as Miss Grunnell would say."

  She holds the front door open for me, and I almost stumble down the steps.

  *

  It takes about ten minutes to stagger from the bus stop to Twin Pines. It's 8.50 PM and time is getting a bit tight. I press the buzzer on the reception desk at the Bed and Breakfast, and an elderly lady with thin hair and wide spectacles appears from an adjacent room.

  I show her a scrap of paper on which I’ve written that I have come to see a Dr Charles Babbage. She rings through, and there follows an agonising wait. My entire plan hinges on Dr Babbage being in.

  Then I hear his voice crackling on the other side of the line.

  "A visitor for you, Dr Babbage. Shall I send him up?"

  I can’t believe my luck as the lady writes down his room number for me and shows me to the stairs. I give her a groan of thanks and she frowns at me. I lumber up two flights of stairs and knock loudly on Dr Babbage’s door.

  I hear someone grappling with the door chain, then a chubby red-cheeked face appears in a narrow gap of the door. He's trimmed and dyed his beard, and his glasses are different, but it's definitely him.

  "Frank?"

  If he’s pleased to see me, he doesn't show it.

  "Are you alone?" he asks, looking around shiftily.

  I nod, and he lets me in, closing the door quickly behind and closing up the safety chain.

  "Forgive me for my curtness, Frank, but I'm very surprised you're here. I was going to come and meet you. Monday after school. I have something for you..."

  He shuffles across his tiny sitting room and pulls out a black bin bag from under a table. Inside the bag are two large thermos flasks.

  "I kept some of your magic juice, Frank. Enough to keep you comfortable for a little while longer."

  He passes me a cup and pours it half-full of the rich blue gloop. I down it in one.

  "Some good news, Frank. There's more where this came from!"

  I try my best to feign a smile.

  "She's here, Frank. In London. The Mannequin. The two of us together, we can look after you. Permanently. I can make up your oils and balms, and she can provide your juice. What do you think of that?"

  He hands me a pen and paper, but I have already prepared a note for him. I take it from my pocket and hand it over. I've read the note so many times that I can remember it almost word for word.

  Dear Dr Babbage.

  Yesterday, the Mannequin found me. She told me where you live. She has probably already left for Alaska. She is worried that very soon it will become impossible for us to fly, even with our new false passports. She suggests that you and I return to Alaska tonight. She wants to meet us both when we arrive.

  The Mannequin says we can find somewhere secret to live in America. But we must leave now. Tonight.

  Thank you for reading this.

  Frank.

  I think Dr Babbage has taken the bait. After reading my note, he gets straight on his phone to check the availability of flights. Places are available on a 12.30 flight tonight. We can't sit next to each other, but Dr Babbage thinks that's probably for the best. He asks if I'm happy for him to book that one.

  Of course I am.

  "Will you need to get your belongings?" he says after making the bookings. He's pacing up and down his apartment in his characteristically flustered way. I notice that his lips are trembling. I show him the small cloth bag I'm carrying and shake my head. This is all I've got.

  He goes into his bedroom and shoves a few items of clothing and some papers into his tartan travel case.

  "You got your passport?" he asks when finished, and then he stops dead, as if something important has suddenly come into his mind.

  "Where did you get it from?" he asks. "Your passport, I mean. It can't be your original one—I kept that one in a secure safe at the base. But you managed to fly here, to London. How come you got hold of a new passport?"

  Think, Frank. Think fast.

  The Mannequin, I write. She gave it to me.

  "You met up with her in Alaska?"

  She met me on the road to camp Tiger, after I escaped from Stump. Said that it would be safer if I went to London, and gave me some false papers.

  Dr Babbage glares at me suspiciously. If he's going to see through my plan, he's going to see through it now.

  Thankfully, he just shakes his head and picks up his case. "Let's go," he says. "We can eat at the airport."

  *

  The flight passes without incident, apart from a nervous few moments when I almost choke on a cheese roll supplied by the flight staff. The elderly man sitting beside me looks alarmed as I hack and cough and barf the bread back up onto the plastic fold-away table. Two flight attendants begin to hasten up the aisle towards me. I wave them away, hoping that Dr Babbage hasn't noticed all the commotion.

  I manage to get some sleep on the connecting flight and wake up just as the plane touches down. I feel a bit annoyed with myself; because I've slept so much, I haven't given myself a proper chance to think through what will happen after we leave the airport. Dr Babbage muttered something earlier about checking into a motel and laying low for a few days, but then he doesn't know what I know, does he?

  Not for the first time, I get a huge pang of guilt when I think about the fact that he's going to be arrested as soon as we step onto U.S. soil. Whether they'll do it before or after we go through immigration, I don't know. But they'll do it, and that leaves me with the question of what I'm going to do. Petersen and his American counterparts will want to get me back to the U.K. as soon as possible. Somehow, I must figure out a way of giving them the slip.

  I follow the signs through the airport, keeping a safe distance ahead of Dr Babbage, as we agreed. My phone buzzes. A message from Petersen.

  My contact will meet you in the arrivals hall. Look for a sign saying F-Wasdale-156.

  The clock on the phone has automatically adjusted itself to local time. It's 1 A.M. The Mannequin said no later than 6 A.M. I have time to spare.

  I pass through the immigration booths with ridiculous ease. The guy hardly glances at my passport. I keep walking ahead until the moment I've dreaded finally comes.

  There's a kerfuffle behind me. Dr Babbage yells out and calls my name. Raised voices. Passengers screaming and shouting.

  Don't look back. Don't look back. Just keep on walking.

  I hear a dull thud and a piercing, anguished scream.

  I turn around and look.

&
nbsp; Dr Babbage’s glasses are on the floor, and he’s thrashing around like a man half his age. A kindly man, who somehow got himself involved in something he shouldn't have. Three uniformed men are on top of him, restraining him. He looks like he might be in some pain. People around him are shaking their heads and covering their mouths. One lady is crying.

  And he's still calling my name.

  All I can do is to keep lumbering ahead, towards the brightly lit shops and kiosks in the arrivals hall. There is no other way out of the airport. I don't know where to find the Mannequin. She hasn't made any attempt to make contact.

  I stand in the middle of the hall, still as a statue, and just as grey. I get the usual weird looks from the people streaming past. My thoughts are frozen. The urgency of the situation seems to be preventing rational thought.

  I take a deep, wheezing breath and do what I often do in this sort of situation. I go to the toilet.

  I sit there, on the pan, trying to calm down and control my breathing. A man in the cubicle next to me is straining and farting. If only my problems were that simple.

  My phone buzzes again. Petersen.

  Where are you?

  I tell him I'm having a dump. I'll only be five minutes. I try to think: if I was a plastic-coated alien with hidden teats, where would I wait for the zombie-boy that I need to take home with me? The arrivals hall would be the obvious place. Maybe she's out there, standing next to Petersen's man. I don't know.

  Frank. Are you receiving?

  I let out a huge sigh of relief. Yes, I am receiving.

  I'm waiting in a car, by the taxi rank outside the main hall. Go through the glass doors to the left of the information desk. I'm in a red Mustang GT. The engine is running. Be quick.

  I reach for my phone, and type in a message to Petersen, leaving it on the screen without sending:

  I need some fresh air—I’ll be back in a few minutes.

  I flush the toilet, and head out into the arrivals hall.

  I find my man straight away. A short man with a ginger goatee and a checked shirt. Not your classic CIA look, but he's holding the sign: F-Wasdale-156. I lumber up to him and push my phone to his face, so he can see the message.