The debris continued to flutter. He figured he must have dislodged a pile of rubble when he fell.
The roof drew closer.
He started counting, measuring the distance to his death. He could see the details of what he was going to land on. It was a massive glass disc that had been pierced by the falling objects; cracks were spreading out like a spider’s web.
Wind rushed past his face but the debris continued to fall at the same speed. In fact it drew closer, as if it was being sucked to the ground with him.
Two hundred metres. He could see people. They were pointing.
His clothes pressed against his body. A vapour trail of blood flew from his foot.
A hundred and fifty metres.
The debris was now blanketing him. Bizarrely, it fell with the same speed, though it was just a collection of dust and concrete. And then he realised! The debris was not building rubble at all but metal balls, flying beside and below. He was shrouded in a blanket of remote-controlled drones!
Silent, and powered by the same counter-gravitational forces that held the Metrician cities in the sky, the drones swaddled him and then pressed against him, like a brake. Dozens of tiny pricks bit into his chest as the drones began to slow his fall.
A hundred metres. There were just seconds left.
Jonah screamed as the drones pressed through his clothes and into his flesh.
Fifty metres. He could see the details of the jagged edge of the glass roof. Harder now, the drones pressed his body. He felt as if a giant hand was pushing him upwards.
Twenty metres. He was slowing but still the glass rushed towards him.
Ten metres.
Then, with a shove, the drones threw him sideways. He hit the reinforced glass with a tremendous thump and skidded across the surface, coming to a halt in the gutter.
And breathed.
Glass continued to shatter, bombed by rubble from above. People yelled from below. Pain throbbed through every part of Jonah’s body. His head ached and he dared not move his neck in case something was broken. It felt broken. But he breathed. And savoured the air as it filled his lungs.
A medic had scrambled up the building to find him and mouthed something but Jonah wasn’t listening. His mind was reeling with all that just happened.
The medic touched a sedative-wand to his neck and told him he was going to be okay. But Jonah could near nothing. The bombs, the fall, the miraculous drone rescue, it all raced past while his mind turned to one question: “Where’s Dad?”
◆◆◆
First lieutenant (decorated Purple Star) Hadrian Yang knocked just once and entered.
“Lieutenant Yang,” mumbled the old man from behind the wooden desk. “Do come in.” The desk had been rescued from a manor house in the Third War and made anyone who sat at it look important. And General Gareth Kenrick, or GK to those who knew him well, was indeed important.
“I have some news. Not good news, sir.”
“No news is ever any good, Yang, that much I know to be true. What is it this time?” growled the general.
“The terrorists, they’ve struck again.”
“They’re always attacking us, Yang. We are at war,” Kenrick said. “What makes this attack so important?”
The lieutenant coughed and read from the scrip: “At 13:17, that’s four minutes ago sir, two explosions destroyed part of the guest quarters on Aerotropolis London. There have been many deaths, sixteen so far, sir, and many more injured. Terror Squad have secured the area but we suspect if there were any terrorists on board they may have escaped.”
Yang looked up, hesitating. Kenrick’s bearded chin had dropped. His pen slipped from his fingers. “Sky London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sky London!”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that’s where the Congress is!”
“Yes, sir.” Yang shifted his weight from one foot to the other, anticipating what was coming next.
Kenrick scowled and thumped the desk with a meaty fist. “Damn them. Sky London! The monsters! And that’s where my grandson is too. Damn them! This is terrible news indeed. Sixteen dead, you say?”
“Yes, sir, but there may be more.”
“And Jonah? Is he safe? Tell me!”
“It was the first thing I inquired about, sir,” replied Yang fumbling the scrip. “We have confirmation that your grandson Jonah Salvatore is injured but safe. However, Consul Salvatore, you’re son-in-law, is missing.”
“Missing, what do you mean?”
“Um, we haven’t found him yet. But there are many others missing. TS is still scouring the area.” Yang paused. “There’s still hope, sir.”
Kenrick drew a hand across his chin. “Thank goodness Jonah is alive. Do they know the extent of the injuries?”
Yang shook his head.
“No, no I suppose it’s too early,” said Kenrick. He stood and jerked his military jacket straight. He was tall and intimidating for his age. A silver laser pistol hung from his belt. “Let’s get to Lord President’s office. This better come from me.”
Chapter 2 - Missing
Triage was in chaos. The ward wasn’t equipped for an influx of critically wounded – and high-ranking ones at that. The younger staff gasped when they recognised the face of a famous soldier, especially if they belonged to the other side, the Landers. “How ironic,” said one nurse, “they want our medicine, now.”
Medibots scurried with trays of needles and medical paraphernalia. Through a wall of sterilising mist a half-covered body was undergoing surgery by remote-controlled bots, instructed by doctors in far parts of Metricia.
Jonah sat on a bed dazed, watching the movements as if they were a dance; the voices and groans were like an orchestra. He worked hard on controlling his fear. The pain in his hands had gone, though they were dotted with bits of glass. His foot, still numb, was swaddled in bandages. His chest ached from the landing and his neck was in a brace. But he wasn’t concerned about himself. It was Petreus he wanted to see. Perhaps that was him in the operating theatre. Maybe he was still on his way. If Jonah had survived such a huge blast, then surely others had too. Petreus included.
Jonah turned to a holovision playing news of the Sky London Terror Blasts, as they were being called. A reporter with a serious expression said responsibility was being claimed by the Landers. A picture of a mutant leader flashed on screen. “We oppose any peace talks with the Metrician devils and will do everything to stop this betrayal,” the mutant said.
Jonah scowled.
Images flashed of the broken corridor with bodies strewn like clothes in a teenager’s bedroom. A drone-cam showed a gruesome replay that allowed Jonah to see the carnage from a new angle. Animated graphics appeared, describing the direction and the distance of the blasts. Experts compared views and analysed the number of bodies and parts of bodies, as if they were commentating Friday Night Rushball. Jonah watched with growing fury. Metricia had saved humanity from certain destruction. Now, as Petreus attempted to spread peace, the Landers responded with pure hate.
He was about to turn away when a movement caught his eye. A trouser leg with a gold stripe stepped across the screen and then out of view. The image lasted for less than a second, the camera already moving to another scene of mayhem. Jonah had never really paid attention to what his father wore but he could swear that he did own a pair of dark trousers with gold trim.
Jonah’s heart skipped a beat. Who controlled that ‘vision? He needed a repeat. He glanced around and called over a bot, which glided and blinked, awaiting instructions.
“Give me control of that ‘vision, would you, little bot?”
“Confirmed,” the bot chirped.
In a moment, the machine had scanned Jonah’s iris and transferred permission to the holovision’s receiver. With a series of eye movements, learned from years playing hologames, Jonah rewound the news item until it reached the critical moment. Sure enough, the leg with the gold stripe stepped through the corner.
He repeated. And again. Every time he saw more: the leg was connected to a moving body, that was for sure. And it didn’t fall; it took a controlled stride. Jonah noted the direction – the leg was moving away from the arriving troops, closer towards the explosion. He turned the view and revisited it from every 3D angle, above, below, left and right. Whatever way he looked, the conclusion was the same: whoever owned the leg had survived the first blast and was moving away from the arriving soldiers.
He was onto the ninth repeat when a voice growled beside him. “Do you mind? I’m trying to watch.” A woman in a stained dress and bandaged head sat hunched on a cot, glaring at him.
“Oh, sorry, I must have been day-dreaming,” he said and allowed the ‘vision to roll on.
Jonah closed his eyes and let a pebble of hope drop into a dark pool. He watched the ripples radiate from the centre and gather momentum until waves formed and the water was awash with movement. Movement meant life. And life meant hope. That step could have been his father’s. He tried to remember what clothes Petreus was wearing. Boys are hopeless at things like this. He wished Eva was here; she’d know straight away. Eva was his housekeeper, employed to get him to school on time, with all his clothes and fingers intact. In reality, she’d become his closest companion. Not mother. No one could be that. But in the morning, she’d be there when he stumbled downstairs for breakfast. After school, she’d meet him with a glass of milk and a gentle prod to get his homework out. When he complained about the ridiculous teachers or the stupid kids, the corners of her mouth would wrinkle into a grin. “You’re surrounded by idiots,” she’d laugh. Her voice was deep, with a slight accent and the warmth of someone who sang. Which she did often. She was round, like a grape. When they hugged he could barely get his arms around her.
He so wanted that now. In the background the sound of the triage was becoming rhythmic, like a lullaby.
He tried to think. His dad’s wardrobe had never been top of mind but he remembered once sneaking past Eva into Petreus’ bedroom and opening the cupboard doors. The suits and army fatigues hung in perfect rows. The polished shoes were in neat pairs, with arches to keep them in shape. It smelt of leather and fabric softener. He couldn’t remember anything about the colours of his dad’s trousers, though.
The ward was blurring.
Jonah’s mind drifted. He’d once found a stunt kite hidden in the back of that wardrobe. It was supposed to be a birthday present and Eva growled at him, saying that Petreus would be disappointed that he’d found it first. And his father was, for a minute. But then they went to the edge of Madrid where the ocean breeze pulled at the kite, as if asking it to fly. Petreus showed him how to launch and soon the red and blue triangle was high over the Atlantic. Jonah pretended it was a hoverpod, soaring over the ocean. He made it dive left and right, and shoot up like a fighter. He imagined it at war against the Landers.
“Can you do this in your hoverpod?” he had asked, as the kite lunged.
Petreus laughed. “Not as fast as that. I’d break my neck!”
“How about this!” and Jonah yanked the kite into a barrel roll.
“I think I’d be concussed,” Petreus said.
Petreus’ boundless good humour frustrated Jonah. His father never discussed the war, though Jonah pestered him with questions.
“How many did you shoot this time? Did you use your bayonet?” Jonah would ask eagerly.
“You don’t want to hear about that rubbish,” Petreus replied.
“Yes I do! Tell me!”
But Petreus never answered. “War is not for children,” he said.
“That’s not what everyone else thinks,” Jonah would mutter. The war was on every screen, holographed by drones and soldier-cams for anyone to watch – or play. You could re-enact the invasion of Jakarta or the whole of the Angola campaign on most consoles and the Tekkies were adding more every month. As soon as the Metricians claimed a victory it would be released as a hologame. Jonah especially liked to play the role of the mutants just to see if he could find Petreus among the Metricians. He never did.
To the Metricians, Petreus Salvatore was a hero. Tales of his bravery and cunning would fill the nightly news. But to Jonah, he was just Dad. At school, kids would say they knew his dad, but they didn’t. Not like Jonah. He knew every crease on the back of Petreus’ hands, and the scar on his left wrist (“a nasty little mutant bullet”). He knew about the bald patch growing under Petreus’ hat and how tunelessly he sang in the shower. Jonah knew how it felt to be tucked into bed so tight that he could barely breathe. And what it was like to drift off to sleep with the sound of his father’s voice dancing over the words of an old Spanish fable.
Jonah also knew the pain in his guts when Petreus kissed his forehead and said he’d be back soon. That could be six months or a whole year. When he returned, people would stand behind the cordon and wave flags but Jonah would break through and sprint to the tarmac before the pod had even set down. Most boys had dads who came home every night and attended teacher-parents meetings or screamed from the sidelines of the rushball games. Jonah’s dad, well, he just sent messages from some unknown location.
Of course, that was all over now! Petreus had earned his honorary discharge and was home for good. The Council even agreed to make Nuevo Madrid the head office for his peace mission, which meant that, for the first time in years, Jonah woke up to the sound of a man singing in the shower. It wasn’t very good singing – even Eva grimaced. But it was his dad’s and that’s what mattered most.
◆◆◆
“Jonah?”
He stirred, his eyes blinking. The panic of triage had been replaced by a serene white room with four beds and soft hospital light. Monitors blinked and a mess of tubes and wires disappeared under his blankets, connected to him, he guessed.
“Eva?” he said, to the woman who sat beside his bed. For a moment he was back in Nuevo Madrid, Eva brushing the hair from his forehead.
“No. I’m not Eva, sorry,” she smiled. “I’m a doctor. You’ve been through a lot.”
He rubbed his eyes and saw that she wasn’t at all round, nor wrinkled. Young and dressed in a blue uniform, the doctor had dark hair pinned back into a ponytail.
“Oh,” he said. “I was a bit confused.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “There was an attack – an explosion.”
“Yes, I know. I was there,” said Jonah. “Where’s Dad?”
Her mouth opened, as if to say something but closed it again.
“Where’s Petreus?” he asked again. “I know he was down there, where the explosion went off. But on the holovision I saw him. Well, I saw his trousers.” He tried to sit up, but the wires pulled him down.
The woman sat down on the edge of his bed and he noticed from the bars on her sleeve that she was an officer. She wasn’t there just to bandage his arm. “The explosion killed lots of people and injured many more,” she said. “But some people, well, they’re missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, and your father is one of them.”
“What do you mean missing? How can that be?”
“No one’s sure what’d really happened. One of the bombs was near Petreus and the Landers, during their negotiations. One of the Landers was found dead but your father and two others weren’t.” She paused, as if unsure. “There are body parts still to be identified.”
Pain shot down his leg. “Body parts?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. There was an explosion. Two actually. Not everyone survived.”
This is not how it ends, he thought. Petreus and Jonah: they were one. How many times had Petreus said that? And now with his dad back on Nuevo Madrid forever, he really meant it.
Jonah let out a small cry and bit his lip. Grief and confusion welled up and he tried holding it all in. The woman looked awkward but leaned forward and touched his arm. “There’s still a chance …”
◆◆◆
In a cold, small mortuary aboard Sky London, workers dressed like astr
onauts arranged piles of items into rows. Bags of body parts, shreds of flesh, teeth, bones and clumps of hair were labelled and laid on a silvery table. Clothing, jewellery, bits of shoe, and torn fabric were separated from the shards of glass and tangled masses of electronics and plastic circuits. Everything was tagged, bagged and holographed.
One of the suits walked through a glass door to a room where General Kenrick paced impatiently.
“Well?” he asked, unfolding his arms.
“Nothing. Not yet, anyhow.”
Kenrick grimaced and tapped the leg of the table with his cane.
“No teeth or personal effects? Nothing?”
The suit shrugged. “It’s early days, there’s a lot of stuff to get through.”
“Keep looking, Doc. It’s imperative we find him – or that we find his body. We owe it to my grandson to get some answers.”
The suited man nodded and returned to his work but Kenrick remained for a long time, leaning on his cane, staring into space. A mixture of sorrow and responsibility hung on him. Once he was strong, impervious to the effects of war. He almost laughed at how simple his life used to be, spent in trenches fighting mutants. Back then it was easy: at least the body parts were identifiable!
Now, complexity clouded everything. The war was won, but peace was hard to keep. People wanted more. They wanted luxuries and holidays. They complained about shortages of trivial things. Just last month there was a riot in New Francisco when the government rationed coffee. During the war rationing was patriotic!
He turned the cane in his grip. One thing’s for sure. The government was losing the confidence of the people. The war of Kenrick’s time had been won with weapons but this was becoming a battle of politics. Metricia wanted a new kind of hero. A man like Petreus Salvatore. A warrior turned peacemaker. His son-in-law was respected by everyone. Not that Kenrick liked him for that. Actually, Petreus made his skin crawl. The way he could so easily converse with the Landers – he even ate with them! The only good Lander was a dead one, he thought. But Petreus Salvatore was different and that difference was missing. Where is he?
Road to Abaddon Page 2
