by Andy Graham
Brooke shuffled across to give sci-captain James the seat she should have been sitting in. It left the kid squeezed between her and Ray, rather than her between him and Ray. He wasn’t sure what about that annoyed him most. “Stop it,” he mumbled. “She can sit where she wants. And he’s not a kid. He must be the same age as you. And he outranks you.”
Brooke raised an eyebrow at him. “Talking to yourself now?”
“Least I get a sensible answer.”
“You’re thinking of morose, Ray. Not sensible. Morose.”
James fumbled with his buckles and smiled wanly. He seemed scared of the chopper with it still on the ground. It was a far cry from the swollen-chested man who had stood next to General Chester when they had first been told about this mission. Nascimento and Orr winked at Ray, nodding to James. Ray grimaced. The sci-captain had latched onto him since their official meeting. To make it worse, Ray felt like he should make an effort with the guy, there was something about him that was familiar. He couldn’t. There was too much going on in his head. James elbowed him as his buckles fell onto his lap.
“Looks like they let another lanky streak through Basic!” the rope sergeant yelled to the pilot.
James’s cheeks went from pale to crimson.
“Zip it, hangman,” Orr snapped back, fingering his mangled ears. “He’s one of us. You want him, you get us, ’stood?”
“I didn’t name no names!” the rope sergeant protested. As he turned away, the frown he had instead of a face darkened. Ray responded automatically as Nascimento high-fived him and Orr.
“I got me a new girl,” Nascimento bellowed over the rising throb of the engines.
“Muse berry lipstick woman from the Kickshaw?” Ray asked.
“Her, too. I’m talking a new new girl. That phone number you got me came through — the medi-sec from your pain clinic. A busty wench to be taken three times a day with meals. Washed down with plenty of alcohol.” He beat his chest with his fists and howled.
Brooke pulled her helmet low over her eyes. “I don’t believe I’m going to the mountains with the men evolution forgot about.”
As the chopper shuddered and lifted off the ground, Ray closed his eyes. Just another routine mission. We’re due a break after last time. It has to go well.
19
Head. Heart. Hand.
The glass shards shattered, scattering colours across the floor. A mop-bot scurried over from the pile it had already cleaned up. It swerved as professor Lind lashed out at it with his foot. “What do you mean the results still don’t match?” he yelled. “You’ve had over a week to fix it.”
“I don’t know what happened, Professor,” Avery replied, plucking at his latex gloves.
“President Laudanum wants her Population Project. The VP his Purity Analysis. I promised them results today and that’s all you can say?”
The vial Lind was holding cracked in his hand. A thin sheen of blood spread across the glass surface. He dropped it at his feet and stormed off, giving the mop-bot a kick as he went. Avery backed away from the tirade. Miescher was a little calmer. Though not used to this, she was at least more familiar with their boss’s moods.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
She dipped her head to hide her smile; the fool was making her life easy.
Lind leant on his desk, head bowed. “You were recommended to me by a colleague. To be honest, he called in a favour, so I took a gamble on you, despite you being from the Buckets. ‘The bright young mind who was going to be a leading light in the next wave of research’.” Lind took a sip of water from the glass on the desk. She’d never seen him drink anything else. Then, deliberately, he let it go. The mop-bot sped over to clear up the shards, picking them out of the puddle before sucking that up, too.
“Professor, please. I don’t know what happened but I think—”
Lind held up a finger. “For someone who’s as resourceful and pro-active as you were made out to be, I expect more than ‘I don’t know’. I want answers. Solutions. Not dead ends.” He slumped in his chair and, for a split second, Lind looked old. Desperate.
Avery gave Miescher a pleading look. “Help,” he mouthed. She ignored him, turning her full attention to Lind. The professor straightened up, angry and proud once more. He is so good-looking, she thought. Especially for someone who rarely sees natural light. There was no doubt his teeth had had some work and, fortunately, he’d shaved the goatee he occasionally sported. But, unlike his colleagues, he filled his lab coat out well. Most of the other scientists and medics here had the complexion and figure of the test tubes they spent their days caressing. Straight up and down was not a good look for a man. Broad shoulders and a decent behind went a long way in turning ugly to rugged. ‘A face could be forgiven, a figure couldn’t,’ her mum had always told her.
“Sir, if I could—” Avery held out his screen. Meischer was amused to see his hands were shaking.
“I don’t want could, Avery,” Lind replied. “I want can.” He turned his back on the younger man. “What have you got for me, Miescher?”
Avery lowered the screen. The look he gave her was more wary this time.
“I suspect the results were not what we anticipated as the subjects were in a fasted state throughout the experiment,” she said. “I’ve already ordered a rerun of the procedure and taken measures to ensure their daily calorific intake is enforced this time.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath from Avery. “I did that.”
“Why didn’t you say so, then?” Lind shouted.
“I tried, but—“
Miescher raised her voice to speak over Avery. “I’ve also transferred the juniors responsible for delivering the project and appointed some of our staff who have a proven track record.” She added a few minor points and raised a query about the analysis: some of the outliers may have affected the study. She laid her screen on the table, the highlighted links flashing.
“Good work, Joanna.”
This time, Miescher acknowledged Avery’s stare with a smug grin.
“Professor, my notes, the blackouts. Miescher must have hacked my screen.”
“Enough. You’re reassigned to data inputting. Leave.”
“But, sir.”
Lind planted his hands wide on his desk and stared at Avery, unblinking. He seemed to take up more space than Miescher remembered.
“Leave!”
Avery pulled himself upright, the slouch disappearing out of his back. The fight was there, Miescher held her breath, then it was gone. Avery headed for the door. The red-head half-turned but whatever he had opened his mouth to say never came. As the door swished shut, Miescher saw his face through the window, a mix of hope, confusion and anger.
“Never arrive empty handed, Joanna,” Lind said, with a shake of his head, “that way you’re less likely to leave in the same fashion.”
She nodded her assent but was only half-paying attention. That last look of Avery’s had bothered her.
“I’m a little disappointed with Avery,” Lind said as he sat on the edge of his desk. “But then I remember being disappointed when I learnt kings and queens had always existed whereas dragons and magic never had. It always seemed the wrong way round to me.”
Miescher pushed Avery from her mind. “Dragons are just myths, sir. Nonsense told to kids in the Bucket Towns. Even if they had existed, they would’ve been hunted to extinction by now.”
“Maybe so.”
She took a hesitant step towards him. There was the scent of sweat around Lind. Only a hint. It wasn’t the three-day old stench she was used to from some of the people here. (She joked with her half-sister that she could smell the approach of summer in the camp.) This was a fresh, testosterone-laden scent just the right side of dirty. That was also how it made her feel.
“I was once told a different myth by a young lady from the Buckets.” Lind’s leg brushed against hers, sending a thrill that was both hot and cold through her body. “We would both hav
e been around your age. She was similar to you in some ways. Rebellious. Attractive. Ambitious. We went on a date.”
“A date?”
“Possibly the most sterile evening of my life.”
She giggled. “It’s often the things you aren’t looking for that turn out to be the most exciting.” As he stood, she tilted her face up to his. “Same goes for people.”
“The most exciting thing to happen that evening was her telling me an old myth. You don’t mind indulging me by listening, do you?”
“Never.”
“After the second moon was ripped into our orbit and upended the tides across the globe. After the floods had receded and humanity had reemerged into a watery hell, bereft of technology. Before Ailan was created from Brettia, there was an ancient civilisation ruled by a triumvirate — the Head, Heart and Hand.”
His voice was low and smooth. Poetic. It drew her in. Held her. Caressed her. Teased.
“Each of the leaders was as important as the other, and all three had to agree before anything became law. But, and this is what got my attention, the leaders had to believe they were making the right choices rather than know they were. Such a concept was an anathema for the idealistic young scientist I was back when I heard this tale. I thought it an early example of the redundancy of truth when confronted by opinion. But now?” Lind extended a long finger. He was close enough that she was sure he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. “Head. Heart. Hand.” He pressed the fingertip lightly just above her left breast. “Working together. Is it such a bad idea?”
Can he feel the thudding in my chest, too?
Lind tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “There was not much more to the story than that, I’m afraid. Some waffle about silver-haired soldiers and villagers planting trees. No dragons or magic, though.”
Miescher gave an appreciative chuckle, pulse racing. She’d pushed her chest into his shoulder before, when leaning over him to present notes. Stood side by side, close enough to feel the firmness of his flesh through his clothes. But this was different. This was face to face. They were closer than they had ever been.
“I told my son this story when he decided to walk his own path,” Lind said.
“Your son?”
“You should meet him. He’s around your age, too.”
“I prefer experience,” she said. Bold. Even for her. I prefer power, she thought. Honest. Especially for her.
“It wasn’t easy for me to let him make his choice but I promised I would always support him. I have honoured the promise. He believed he has done the right thing, just like those people in that myth. And now...” He took her shoulders in his hands.
“James?” His first name tasted good. Smelt good. She parted her lips. Stood on tiptoes. He looked straight into her eyes. There were flecks of grey amongst the black in his hair. Like shooting stars, she thought, on a lover’s midnight walk. Her thighs pressed into his and Lind wheeled away from her. The moment Joanna had been dreaming of burst. Idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot!
Lind stabbed a finger into a button on the desk. The colour in the wall to his left drained. White-coated orderlies were scurrying between vertical glass pods and steel gurneys, oblivious to the watchers. They stopped occasionally to press a probe through the pods or poke someone on the gurneys.
“And now,” he repeated, “every time I see the subjects we have in this camp, I tell myself the same story I told my son. Do I believe we’re doing the right thing or do I know it?” Lind gestured to the window. “What do you think? You have young eyes undimmed by cynicism. Is what we’re doing here right?”
She pulled her screen tight to her chest, her body raging with conflicting emotions. “I believe so.” She didn’t know if she wanted to shag Lind or thump him.
“We’re scientists, Joanna, not mythical leaders from fairy tales. We’re supposed to know, not believe.”
“Doesn’t matter, sir. The VP and president have ordered this. We have no choice.”
“I guess not.”
“Science also means progress. We stand to make great discoveries here.”
“We or you, Miescher?”
She could feel herself blushing. “You did say progress favours the brave.”
“Or the foolhardy. The history of research is littered with scientists who tested their own products on themselves.”
He strode past her to the middle of the room. A glass floor panel rose up to waist height, supported by one thick central strut. Green light shone up from the floor, projecting a keyboard onto the glass. Characters appeared on the large wall-screen as he started typing. She wasn’t sure whether she had been dismissed yet or not. After a few silent minutes, broken only by the dull tap of his fingers, she gathered up her things and headed for the door, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
“Are you worried about Avery?” he called after her.
“Sir?”
“That young man has more fight in him than either of us give him credit for. He has dreams of success, too.”
Miescher snorted. “Dreaming is for children; adults plan. I’m not worried about him.”
“You should be.” The tapping of his fingers stopped. The look he gave her made her want to confess everything. “Science is a brutal sport, Miescher. Full of cut-throat individuals pretending to be playing for the same team. Never forget that. Never fall for it. That is something you would do well to both know and believe.”
20
The Pregnancy Directive
Thanks to the external cameras, General Willa Chester could look down on the capital from her vantage point here in the VP’s underground office. It was an odd sensation which made her disoriented. A sea of glass, steel and concrete stretched out in front of her. Older, smaller brick structures sat low and squat amongst the brightly lit forest of buildings. Rising above them all were the president’s and VP’s towers, buzzing with the telltale flashes of drones and cameras.
Nose close to the screen, Chester’s breath left no condensation on it. A clever trick. She fancied she could see a night-copter below — or was it above her? — and hear the muffled thud of its rotors as it scanned the streets. At least the VP wasn’t using a delayed feed. He’d given up on that particular way of trying to unsettle her: flooding the room with daylight while it was dark outside.
She watched his reflection place a picture frame back on the desk. Much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help but look. In an otherwise sleek high-tech office, where most of the trappings and accessories were not yet available to civilians, it was an incongruous item. A chipped, wooden frame held a torn photo of a woman and child. A disembodied male arm wrapped round the woman’s shoulders. The boy was clutching the woman’s trousers, hands buried in the cloth.
The VP’s eyes followed hers and a vein on his forehead pulsed. “So, Chester, do you agree with me?”
“No. Bigotry is bigotry, no matter who is putting the boot in,” she repeated, yet again that evening.
“I think of it more as patriotism. Fortunately, the news writers agree with me. It gives them something else to talk about other than murders and coal. We seem to have more of the former and less of the latter by the day.” He grinned and popped a couple of mints in his mouth.
The VP claimed to appreciate a frank exchange of views, saying the mental sparring was key to both his health and that of society. Chester was one of the few people prepared to indulge him in this; he fought dirty. He didn’t have time for the people he considered beneath him voicing destabilising opinions.
“Military recruitment has flatlined,” she said. “Our legions grow weaker by the day. Reversing your immigration policy will give us options.”
“Three reasons. Interesting. The rule of three lives on and strong.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
“It’s all a game. You know that. Here are my three reasons. We are an island. We can’t take any more people in. Our resources and space are limited. I win. Which means yo
u lose. Again. Worse luck next time.” The VP pulled a scruffy black plastic box away from the wall and pushed a sheet of paper into the slot across the top. The machine wheezed as it mangled the paper. He watched it, tugging at the blank sheet to try and right it, like a child with a toy on Midwinter’s Day.
Lost? I’ve won wars. I’m not going to lose a game to a brat. “Limited space? As opposed to those countries on the mainland that have flexible borders?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “They’re not my problem.”
“My mother used to tell us that if you keep dumping rubbish into the neighbour’s garden, the fence will rot and you’ll end up with a bigger, smellier problem than before.”
“I’m sure she did. Tell me, was it she or you who changed the spelling of your name?”
There was a tightening in the pit of her stomach. The VP may be a brat, but he was a dangerous one. “We are a nation built on immigration, our language, our people, even our food.”
“It only takes one spice too many to spoil the soup, Chester.” The paper jammed in the slot. He switched the machine off, mumbling about antiques and museums.
“Since when is isolation stronger?”
“It’s cleaner.”
“Sir—”
He inclined his head to the triangular desk sign on his table. She ignored him. She knew what it said. Flushed with her growing success in the Forum debates, Chester was not in a mood to back down now. She was, however, beginning to think she had miscalculated the depth of his feelings on this issue.
“Tell me, Chester. Why do you want a strong military? Is it just for our defence or are you planning anything the president and I should know about?”
The hairs pricked up on the back of her neck, one by one.
“Whatever nefarious schemes you have hidden under that uniform of yours will have to be carried out without any help from abroad. Those people you are desperate to help can rot like your mother’s fence.”
