by Andy Graham
“Dead. A long time ago. I’m sorry, son.” Lind’s calm demeanour was at odds with the scene unfolding behind him. “I guess you want proof.”
He tapped a button in his desk and a wall-screen flickered into life. The picture snapped into focus, showing Lind with his arm around a young legionnaire on Family Day. Seeing them up close, standing next to each other like that, the resemblance was obvious. Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Ray kicked himself for not having seen it before. He’d been so focused on finding his brother he’d been blind to everything else.
Lind tapped in a new password. An old document replaced the picture.
“Franklin, R. - Deceased,” Ray read.
Ray’s date of birth, his twin’s date of birth, and a death date just under two years later were listed. A series of blurred pictures and clips of a child scrolled under the text. They ranged from the jelly-like mass of curves and creases that were indistinguishable from any other newborn to a baby struggling to lift its head. The next was a toddler reading a plastic book upside down. The last picture was of the same toddler with more hair, apparently sleeping. Lenka hadn’t kept many pictures, but Ray could have been looking at himself. He had been prepared to find out his brother had died a long time ago. Seeing him, having a face to go with the name, changed things. It made his brother real.
“Your twin drowned while your mother was supposed to be taking care of him. Parental visits were rare, even back then. They were stopped soon after.” In the room behind the clear wall, the guards had fled the lab. Patients were studying the glass, running their hands over the thin cracks that had appeared during their battle. “I’m sorry,” Lind said. “Truly. I spent a bit of time with the boy when I was new here. From what I remember, he was a good kid, stubborn and wilful, but essentially decent. I did what I could to help. You know how it goes.”
Ray fought back the anger surging through him, locking it down next to the blue-eyed vengeance. He was not going to lose it now; he owed it to too many people. “Let me guess. You were allowed to bring your son in to keep Rhys happy while you studied them both. And then you took James, your son, home. Rhys stayed here, just another walking test tube to be categorised.”
“How do you know my son’s name?”
Ray laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound as the puzzle shifted again. “You don’t know what happened under the Donian Mountains, do you? You didn’t know I was there.”
Lind grabbed Ray’s forearm. “Where is my son? What do you know?”
The colours on the transparent wall blurred. The figures behind it looked to be swimming in inky water. The man in the wheelchair was pointing through the glass, talking to his colleagues.
“Let go of me, Lind.”
“Where is my son? Tell me!” Lind’s shout was lost in a cry of pain as a streak of blue sparks spiralled up his arm.
“First,” Ray said, pointing the stun baton at the still twitching Lind, “Tell me what you’re doing here. Then we’ll get to James.”
53
A Folly Tree & a Field-Marshal
The digital arrow above the main lift in Bethina’s tower was set into an aged, faux-bronze housing. The architect had pompously described it as a ‘regressive progression of style’. The VP had found her to be a ‘minor irritance’, to use another of her phrases. The rest of her work designing the leaders’ towers had turned out to be ‘skin-savingly superlative’. His phrase. This lift stopped short a few floors of Bethina’s office and the VP patiently completed the security checks before being allowed up the final flights of stairs. They were unevenly spaced and twisted clockwise, just like in the ancient, pre-Flood castles. It had been another feature the architect had insisted on, though how much use those features would be against invaders armed with guns rather than swords, the VP didn’t know. He guessed — and permitted himself a snigger — that they’d be worse than useless against a bomb, especially the one he was planning. Bethina did have a private lift that connected directly to her office, but he had been denied access to it today. That smacked of another of the woman’s endless power plays. He reached the railing-free landing where there was nowhere to go but into her office or back down. The landing was, naturally, equipped with wall-mounted cameras and murder holes in the ceiling. He suspected that was more Bethina’s doing than the architect’s.
The presidential office was not quite at the top of Melesau Tower. Bethina had claimed it would be too ostentatious, that a show of restraint was often appreciated. Instead, she had filled the upper levels with books and newspapers saved from the Great Library of Tye. There were sections of that private library that were off-limits even to him and that needled him. He refused to let it get to him this evening. Neither was he going to let the last-minute wrangling with Lind annoy him. He’d let the guards’ insistence that he use the plebs’ elevator slide, too. Despite the lack of sleep, he felt a thrill that he had never experienced before. Political power was one thing but it was distant and removed. What he had been part of early this morning was much more visceral. It had even managed to dull the memories of his mother covered in bruises the colour of a diesel spill.
His lie about the energy crisis and the truth about having slept with Prothero’s daughter had been a delicious way to top off the fool’s plummet from the VP’s office. It was an apt way for Prothero to die given the man’s role in the Window Riots. And with proof of the former Spokesperson’s part in the sabotage of Substation Two, the VP reckoned he was off the hook with Bethina. He could, however, do with some rest. His day had turned out to be inordinately busy. After all, schemes didn’t plot themselves. He was so tired he was convinced he had seen Ray Franklin skulking around Lind’s lab.
“You’re imagining things,” he whispered as he smoothed down his jacket. “And speaking to yourself.” Not nerves. Just fatigue. Or madness? He chuckled. Maybe he could go to the Ward later, see who was around. He’d noticed a few fine young things that looked promising. “And now you’re just stalling. Get on with it.”
He marched through Bethina’s office, heels clicking on her hardwood floor, past her desk and its antique phone, tossed his jacket onto the sun-worn leather sofa behind the balcony door and stepped out to join the president.
Apart from a table, a few chairs and the dogs, the balcony was empty. If you ignored the wretched tree that took up most of the space, of course. The surrounding walls had been treated with a paint that mimicked the ambient light. They were currently a deep blue that blended with the darkening sky. It made the balcony look as if it were floating above the city. It also made him feel sick.
“You’re here, then?”
He bit back the obvious snide retort. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, ma’am.”
“When you contacted me regarding an urgent issue, I initially thought you wanted to talk about stepping up the protests in Mennai.” Bethina squatted to pick up a leaf. For a woman who must be almost in her seventieth year, she was still lean and graceful, moving with an ease that many half her age would struggle with.
What does she mean by ‘initially’? The hairs prickled upright on the back of his neck. “I do. That and the gwenium solution. Both have been taken care of.”
“What else have you ‘taken care of’ today?”
“Ma’am?”
Bethina placed the leaf on the top of the wall and nudged it with a fingertip. It tumbled into the night sky, spinning and twisting down to the frosty pavement far below. Ignorance, he decided, was the way to go.
“I’ve drafted a request for tender for someone to design and run an automated processing plant for the gwenium. I think I’ll give first refusal to the Chief Energy Officer from Lind’s place; he seems to have a thing for electricity. And no family. Odd man, even by CEO standards.” Gingerly, he backed onto the glass sheet that took up half of the floor. He knew the floor would take his weight, had witnessed the stress tests, but his brain would never let go of the irrational fear of it cracking and him falling. Piercing that floor
, reaching up from a garden three levels below was Bethina’s tree.
The president called it her Folly Tree, ‘a reminder of what should and shouldn’t be’. Thick foliage, dotted with patches of snow, caressed the steel and glass walls. The bottom branches were barely within reach, stretching out into the empty space around them. Someone had added tinsel and lights flashing in the four colours of Ailan. He had never worked out where the roots went. He guessed to some of the restricted rooms below. Or had the builders managed to feed them into the walls?
Bethina hadn’t moved from watching the leaf fall but her silence demanded an answer. “Where’s that Swann woman Franklin was so interested in?” he asked. “I saw her briefly last night but she hasn’t been seen since.” Clumsy. Why did he feel the urge to say something?
“For whose sake are you asking?”
“When we find Dr Swann, we can use her to flush Franklin out. I’m sure he’s going to come looking for her. Genes never let you down.” He joined her by the parapet. One of the moons had just crested the horizon. The silver light cast a shimmering streak that was reflected in the painted wall between them. Below the president’s tower, Effrea sprawled into the distance, a mass of lights and the occasional dark smudge of smoke. The dizzying view was worse than through the glass floor. His stomach twisted with a momentary pang of horror for what must have gone through Prothero’s mind as he had sat on the windowsill.
“I’ll deal with Captain Franklin,” Bethina said. “I feel I owe it to certain members of his family to do this myself.”
“Who?”
“I knew Rose Franklin’s father well. The man who gave us the sun-fans and the elecqueduct. The so-called hero of Castle Brecan, though he hated that accolade,” she said with a fond smile.
The VP’s mood soured. “Rick Franklin was a traitor and a coward, despite what the public thinks. I read it in the archives.”
“And therefore it must be true.”
“Of course it’s true. The man married a foreigner. She gave birth to another traitor, and that baby, Rose Franklin, gave us Ray. The family is heresy made flesh.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it heresy, and Rose wasn’t a baby when she had her three children.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, anger washing away his fatigue. How dare Laudanum defend that family! “The world would be a better place if her bastards had been drowned at birth.”
“Be careful what you wish for, young man. As for Dr Swann,” her voice picked up, “Chester’s on it.” The balcony door swept open. “Perfect timing, as always. Thank you for coming so promptly, Willa. Wine?”
Chester offered her thanks and took the glass. She strode out on to the glass floor around the Folly Tree. Her black and silver uniform was immaculate, matching her skin and hair in a way that must have been planned. It’s almost as if she’s wearing a patch of midnight sky, the VP thought whimsically. He poured himself a glass and held it up for a toast. “Chester, no hard feelings?”
“Of course.” Her face was unreadable, eyes glittering like frosted coal.
“If it makes you feel better,” he continued, “I caught up with some of the people responsible for what I showed you in my office. There are some things I will not tolerate, regardless of how long ago it happened. Matricide is one.”
“You murderous swine.”
“I didn’t kill them. They were put to good use.”
“Enough,” the president snapped. “Both of you. We have enough problems without this bickering.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chester said.
The sickly feeling in his gut twisted into something more acidic. Vengeful. No one spoke to him like that. Why should Bethina get away with it? He shifted his attention back to the legionnaire and offered her a slight bow. She had been cowed. She was easier to deal with. “My apologies, General Chester.”
“Field-Marshal Chester.” She twisted so the discreet emblem on her shoulder was visible, a half-smile playing across her face.
The VP felt the terrain shifting. This was his game, his rules. He won. He always won. “I’m the Field-Marshal!”
“I changed my mind and promoted Willa,” the president said. “I should have told you earlier.”
The momentary indignation the VP had felt before paled behind what flooded his veins now.
“Your acting rank has been revoked; there’s no shame there,” Bethina said. “It will be noted that the country owes you a debt of thanks. For temporarily taking on the responsibilities of the role, on top of everything else you were doing, we are all grateful. But we need strong, balanced leadership. Now more than ever.”
Chester raised her glass to the last rays of sunshine. “Yesterday will rise again. The dragon will fly once more.”
“Careful with the hyperbole, Field-Marshal,” the president warned. “I don’t want the power vacuum filled with fantasies. Keep your myths on a firm leash.”
“Of course, ma’am. Now, if you will excuse me, the Forum awaits.” The new field-marshal poured the contents of her glass into the VP’s. “All our ancestors are dead,” she whispered into his ear. “Let’s see how our successors get on.”
The VP scowled after her as the door closed. This wasn’t over. Something wet nudged his hand. He lurched backwards onto the glass pane surrounding the tree trunk. Fighting the momentary illusion of falling, he forced himself to calm down. One of Bethina’s dogs sat in front of him, head cocked to one side.
“She’ll have to be watched,” said the president, settling into a chair. “I fear Chester may not be as malleable or predictable as David was. You’d better resolve your differences with her; Chester’s not going to cut you as much slack as he did.”
Whatever she was about to say next, Bethina appeared to think better of. She held her hands out to a steaming pitcher of wine on the table.
He snatched a strand of tinsel off his shoulder and dropped it through the glass hole. Halfway down the trunk, it snagged on a branch and hung there, twinkling in the draft. Rumour had it that tinsel sprang from the Bucket Town tradition of using entrails as an offering left on trees to appease the emaciated spirits of winter. He hoped they hadn’t got the remains from humans. Some of the Buckets still used apples, nuts and other foods as decorations. Tinsel and trinkets, though juvenile, suited the Gates much better. They were less crass, more in keeping with the true spirit of Midwinter: money.
“Please, sit and listen for a while.” Bethina gestured to the chair opposite her.
“I’d rather stand.”
“I insist. This conversation will be better seated.”
“After the trick you just pulled with Chester and me, this better be good.”
“Sit.”
He dragged the chair away from the table, the metal legs screeching and clattering on the stone floor.
“Did you know I hated my mother?” she said.
“What? Why’s that important now?”
“Please, just listen, Don’t interrupt. It’ll be easier like this.”
He poured them both a drink. Chester could wait, there was something going on with the president. Bethina’s mood looked promising, pliable. Should he bring up his case for the war on Mennai? His plans for the bomb?
“My mother took away the one shot I had at a normal childhood. My father doted on me, tried to give me everything she wouldn’t. The classic parent-child relationship.”
Listen, that’s all he had to do. Keep his mouth shut and listen. He could work out what this meant later.
“My dear father was cornered by his devotion to her and me, trapped by the need to do the right thing while keeping me happy. A love-struck, manipulable fool. A father who would do anything for his family.”
One of the dogs placed his head in her lap, leaving a trail of saliva across her dark coat. In the background, the VP could hear the steady thrum of the choppers protecting the tower, one enforcing the no-fly, the other the no-drone zone.
“Ma’am?”
Bethina was holding he
r breath, fingers deep in the dog’s fur. He’d seen the president in all kinds of situations, with all manner of people, from recalcitrant directors to upset children and murderous dictators. He’d seen her control a press conference with a whisper, and send a man to his knees in one of the rare moments she’d truly lost control. He’d never seen her like this, regretful bordering on melancholic.
“It was David that persuaded me to let you use your Captain Electric for the military,” she said.
“Prothero? I didn’t know that.”
“I was against it at first, thought it set a dangerous precedent. So far, it seems to have done more good than harm.”
“I don’t see what your father has to do with David Prothero and Captain Electric? Are you throwing random facts at me to try and unsettle me?”
She took the glass he offered her, turning it between her fingers, staring at the light that filtered through the wine and stained her fingers crimson. “I’m afraid not.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Can’t you work it out?”
“What’s going on?” He took a gulp of his wine. It sat in his stomach like a rock.
“Did you know your adoptive father thought you weak for failing the army aptitude tests?”
The drink spluttered out of his mouth. The gentle swerve of the conversation had jackknifed.
“David and I pulled whatever strings we could, but your physical scores were too low.”
“My adoptive father?”
54
Genes & Diseases
A gurney loaded with fire extinguishers slammed into the glass wall. Blue sparks streaked across it. Lind was sitting on his haunches, eyes fixed on the shuddering glass. With each crash, a fine rain of dust showered down and the cheering got louder.
“Twins,” Lind said, “in particular identical twins, are the genetic equivalent of gold dust in research, especially if some of the ethical issues can be negotiated. A young, healthy individual is worth twice any of the waifs and strays we usually get. Most of those subjects have been beaten down by life or the poor genetic hand they’ve been dealt.”
