Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  Oscar didn’t realise that Gerick was the man he had seen talking to the Brigadier on the night that he had been forced to run for his life. How would Oscar react towards Gerick when he eventually revealed his identity? Would things change, or would they carry on the same? Would he trust anything that Gerick had to say? There would certainly be several questions that Oscar would want answered. For instance, why had Gerick been at the encampment that night?

  Gerick hid himself away from everything and everybody, to hide the shame he felt at being forced into this job. He had been charged with carrying out the cloning experiments, using the DNA samples of the labour camp victims and the war dead. He shuddered to think of what must have happened to extract the DNA from the camps’ victims. Like everyone else, he had only heard rumours of what went on. He never would have expected that Oscar had sampled the atrocities firsthand, as a consequence of Besson’s cruel experimentation and torture techniques.

  Security cameras watched Gerick almost constantly. John Howard trusted no one, not even his cabinet members. He had the idea that they were plotting against him for, which those around him put down to paranoia.

  One wrong word spoken would see Gerick suffer at the hands of the technicians at what was euphemistically called the medical wing. This was a new branch of the Parliament buildings, dealing solely with the interrogation and torture of political prisoners. The ideal person had been brought in to deal with that side of things: Dr. Simon Besson.

  The medical wing had only been running since John Howard took over the reins as prime minister, three weeks ago. The runaway popularity of the newsletter had prompted such a drastic move on his part. Nobody was safe from the torture technicians; even the innocent were being scrutinised by the patrols. A new wave of terror had struck mercilessly and without warning. Many had tried to evacuate London for the safety of the Kentish countryside, but they were no safer there than they were in the city. Rebel cells still occupied the area with no knowledge of what was going on in London—still living in control of their little worlds, with no one to tell them how to live.

  The armoury was still the cell’s prime target, as it had been since the war. It had remained impenetrable; no one had been able to get past its defensive checkpoint and live to tell the tale. The whole place was booby-trapped, and only people who worked there had the ability to disengage the traps before entering the site. Each member of staff at the armoury had his or her own unique code to enter at the checkpoint. Gerick had an active code which could come in handy, if and when he decided to turn to The Independent Mind permanently.

  *

  ‘Your father would’ve been proud of what we’re doing, and I’m sure he would have wanted to be part of this in some way,’ Oscar said to Myron, who stared blankly across the printer room.

  ‘I just wish he was here to see how much we have stirred things up,’ Myron said.

  It was not a good time to be friendly with Myron. It was the six-month anniversary of his parents’ death, and even Jen couldn’t approach him. She had lost her mother on the same day, but she chose to blank it out of her mind completely. She hung back until Myron was ready to be civil again and turned her attention towards Oscar.

  ‘Don’t take his mood to heart, Oscar, it’s just a bad day for him. Let’s leave him alone for a while and take in some air,’ said Jen, for once sounding sympathetic.

  She linked arms with Oscar and gently pulled him towards the main warehouse, leaving Myron to his thoughts in the printing room. Within seconds of leaving the room, the extent of Myron’s frustration had become apparent. He let out an agonised cry of anger. Jen felt the urge to turn back, but Oscar stopped her.

  ‘Leave him! Like you said, we need to give him a bit of space. Just let him vent his anger,’ Oscar said softly.

  They carried on walking through the warehouse towards the exit; their every step was followed by the sound of rain beating gently on the corrugated iron roof. Regardless of the weather, the need for fresh air was still on their minds no matter how wet they got.

  ‘I just hope the print room is still in one piece when we get back,’ sighed Jen. ‘Myron’s liable to tear the place apart, the funk he’s in!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,’ said Oscar, but privately he thought of how disastrous it would be if the printing press were damaged. No newsletters, no information—and with no information, nothing for people to hold out for.

  *

  Myron thrashed about like a mad man, tossing disused pieces of furniture about, being careful to miss the printing press each time. He knew what would happen if he were to inadvertently damage it in any way. He had come too far to have all the work they had done destroyed, just because he couldn’t hold his temper. The need to keep the people informed played heavily on his mind.

  He sat on the floor and put his head in his hands, thinking of what his father had put him through over the years. He had forced him to attend the academy, and then thrown him in the face of danger as punishment for loving Jen. Then he thought about the good things that his father had done: if it hadn’t been for the files and Oscar, Myron would still have considered him a tyrant for his actions. He regretted not knowing everything there was to know from the beginning. Had he made the effort to find out what his father was really like behind the tough exterior, as he had done with Jen, he would have seen all the good things about him. The hatred ran too deep to even consider such a notion at the time. If there were some way that he could turn back the clock, he would do it in a flash.

  Myron sat and pondered the situation for several minutes before Oscar and Jen dared to walk back in. They looked like a pair of drowned rats. Jen lowered her head and shook it vigorously to dry out her hair just like a dog, spraying everything in sight, including Myron and Oscar.

  ‘Jen, dry yourself somewhere else—please!’ Oscar groused, as he tried desperately to cover the paper needed to print the next newsletter. ‘Look at what you’ve done shaking your head like a bloody cocker spaniel! The paper’s all wet, and now it’ll have to dry before we can use it!’

  ‘See if I’m ever nice to you again, arsehole!’ snapped Jen as she stormed off to another room in the cavernous warehouse.

  Myron continued to sit and stare blankly into thin air. He hadn’t really noticed what was going on around him, although he was aware of Oscar’s presence and Jen’s stormy departure.

  ‘I need to wait a while before I can print another batch—the silly cow’s drenched the paper!’ Oscar whined.

  ‘I heard that!’ was Jen’s muffled reply from behind the door.

  ‘Well, you know we’re on a deadline!’ he shouted back.

  Jen re-entered the room with a frightening scowl on her face. Oscar didn’t dare to say anything else to her for fear of what she might do. Although slightly older and a little wiser, Jen still had her infamous redheaded temper. She had so far managed to keep a handle on it, but Oscar was not prepared to take the risk, at any cost.

  Oscar was prepared for the worst, but suddenly Jen’s expression softened and she said, ‘I’m sorry I got the paper wet, Oscar.’

  ‘Uh,’ said Oscar, ‘apology accepted.’

  ‘Don’t let her off so easy, Oscar!’ Myron barked. ‘We need to broadcast the fact that we are The Independent Mind, and that we mean business, and we can’t do that if we have wet paper.’ He turned to Jen and added angrily: ‘Oscar was right: You’re a silly cow!’

  Myron was not himself and didn’t know what he was saying—that’s what Jen told herself anyway. ‘Look, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking!’

  ‘That’s your main problem—you never think before you act, you bloody dimwit!’ was Myron’s withering reply.

  *

  The atmosphere remained tense in the print room; not a word was spoken or a sound made, beyond the growl of the printing press starting up again. The paper was now dry and ready for use. Oscar took hold of the ends and began to thread it through the cogs.
There were five thousand copies left to print, leaving little time to make the journey to London to distribute them. They could leave it until tomorrow, but Oscar was intent on delivering that day no matter what.

  Jen continued to skulk in the corner. Myron, on the other hand, was beginning to break out of his depressed state of mind and tried to reconcile with Jen for his earlier verbal barrage.

  ‘Look, I didn’t know what I was saying—I didn’t mean to have a go at you. Am I forgiven?’ Myron solemnly asked, as he squeezed her close to him.

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Myron. You were right, I never think.’ Jen placed her head on Myron’s shoulder and closed her patchless eye as he gently ran his fingers through her hair, soothing her senses, making her forget everything that was going on in the world. Unfortunately, this relaxing state of bliss was short-lived.

  ‘Come on, guys—no time for resting! We have to get these newsletters distributed,’ Oscar shouted excitedly. ‘It’s a belter this week.’

  Jen groaned at the thought of having to stir, but realised that the sooner the deed was done, the sooner she could resume snuggling with Myron. They readied themselves for the trip to London again, each laden with a sackful of the latest newsletters.

  The newsletter exposed the goings-on in the medical wing and the interrogation methods of the torture technicians, thanks to the information provided by the insider, who would remain anonymous. The content was far more treasonous than previous attempts at turning the people against the government, and more to the point, against Prime Minister John Howard.

  *

  Gerick found himself the subject of controversy and flying rumours around the Parliament buildings. The scuttlebutt was that he was trying to bring down the government single-handedly, and that each clone he created would be programmed to kill top government officials. Judging only from the meek scientist’s geeky appearance, they thought this scenario most unlikely.

  John Howard rubbished the rumours as soon as they started to circulate. He regarded Gerick as one of his most loyal followers and didn’t realise what he was actually up to. Gerick kept to himself as he always did, keeping a distance from the whispers and leering that he was being forced to endure.

  Gerick’s office was his sanctuary from the everyday bustle within the Parliament buildings. He created the illusion of being committed to his cloning duties by filling test tubes and typing notes for the benefit of the cameras in his office, as well as the guards at the security desk monitoring his every move.

  As far as the guards were concerned, there was nothing untoward going on. In fact, Gerick was slowly denting the hold that John Howard had over his subjects with every word he disclosed to The Independent Mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Several weeks had passed since the last newsletter had hit the streets of London. Oscar and Myron had agreed to make the move into Central London amongst the danger, much to Jen’s displeasure.

  They had the idea that the closer they were to the trouble, the easier it would be to uncover it. It was one of the biggest risks they had ever undertaken, but it was necessary. Jen had to be very careful how she acted in public; she couldn’t be seen or heard voicing her opinion, as the government had started deploying moles into the network on hearing of rebel movement in the capital. The situation for her had become far more dangerous, and Myron and Oscar had unfortunately not taken that into consideration when they decided to make the move.

  The printing press had been dismantled and transported piece by piece to another warehouse just on the outskirts of Hyde Park—the same warehouse where Jen had made her home for just one night over a year and a half ago. Why move back to where Jen’s troubles had begun? There had to be a reason behind it. What was going through Myron and Oscar’s minds when they came up with that ingenious idea? Were they high? Jen couldn’t get her head round the situation at all, and to say she was scared was an understatement.

  ‘Look, Jen, there is a good reason for the risk—just trust us!’ Myron exclaimed.

  ‘Why do I feel like you’re setting me up to take a fall? Why can’t you tell me?’ Jen cried. ‘I can’t go back to one of those camps—I would rather kill myself.’

  Oscar sat back and listened to her rant, leaving the explanations to Myron. The whole thing was simple. For one, it was safer to be in London at that point, as the patrols had begun moving towards the outer circumference of London after exhausting their search for the authors of the newsletter in Central London. For another, the patrols would never strike the same place twice; they had already carried out a thorough search of the Hyde Park area, including the warehouse. They had no reason to return.

  *

  Gerick had some information for Oscar that might be of interest to him for the next issue of the newsletter. He had overheard something very disturbing about John Howard’s true intentions. It had been brought to his attention that the brigadier was going to replace the dead with a replica clone army. He had mentioned on more than one occasion that he wasn’t done fighting, and that he wished to reignite the war. Scotland had all but lost the remainder of their troops in the battle for Hastings; most had perished in the camps after being captured. How he thought he was going to reignite the war was beyond Gerick’s comprehension. Maybe he was speaking hypothetically, or maybe there was another agenda behind wanting to build the clone army. Gerick was going to have to gain more of the Brigadier’s trust if he wished to know his true intentions.

  In the confines of his office, Gerick drafted the information he intended for Oscar on a scruffy piece of parchment. The difficult part, as it always was, was getting the information to Oscar in the first place. The two previous times, Gerick had used a courier service—a company that asked no questions, just delivered what he had given them—but it was getting more difficult to use outside sources with the deployment of the moles within the system. They could be anywhere, and Gerick knew it was foolhardy to jeopardise his own life and risk exposing Oscar’s identity by putting his information in the wrong hands. He had suggested that Oscar get hold of a video phone in one of their earlier communications. He had given him a name of a contact, someone who had the means of getting anything that anyone wanted—a black-marketer in a sense. How he had been able to get away with it was unimaginable, as anyone who broke any of the eight new laws of the land was taken away, never to be seen or heard of again: the disappeared, as they were referred to. As it stood, the situation was worse than that of the Dark Ages—the new list of laws saw to that.

  Some of the ‘new rules’ were actually old rules with slightly different wording, but they were just as chilling:

  THE LAWS OF THE LAND

  1.

  The possession or distribution of illegal propaganda is prohibited.

  2.

  Desecration or misuse of government property is prohibited.

  3.

  Daring to, or actually committing, an act of violence on another person in public is prohibited.

  4.

  Public displays of affection are strictly prohibited.

  5.

  Breaking the strict dress code is prohibited.

  6.

  Having relations with anyone other than their own class is strictly prohibited.

  7.

  The supply or fermentation of any illegal substances, including alcohol, is strictly prohibited.

  8.

  Daring to speak out against the government or any of its officials is deemed treasonous and punishable by imprisonment or death, dependent on severity.

  No matter how one looked at it, death would quickly follow if any of the laws were broken in any way. The ever-present patrols had also tripled in number over the space of a few months.

  John Howard liked to be in control of everything around him, but Myron, Jen, and Oscar, and others of a similarly brave and defiant stripe, were damned if they were going to languish under his iron fist. All the promises he had made at the beginning of his term had quickly faded into a deep,
dark hole of oppression and cruelty that the people of London had never been a party to, even in the worst periods of history. Life under Edward Myosin’s rule was a picnic compared to what lay ahead.

  *

  Once Myron, Jen, and Oscar had situated themselves in Charing Cross, they wanted to appear as normal as possible. Oscar hid away in the warehouse in Hyde Park, while Myron and Jen found jobs to dispel any suspicion people might have.

  The Charing Cross network was one of the busiest networks in London. It was by far the safest area in London, and the only place one could feel safe, or at least safer. But like any network, it still had its rough areas—the south side of Charing Cross being one of them. Notorious for its rampant vice and crime, the south side was home to a bevy of black-marketers, drug-dealers, and bootleggers—and now, it was going to be a vessel for illegal propaganda. The government was seemingly oblivious to what was going on there, or maybe they were just biding their time; perhaps the area was mole-infested, and they were readying themselves for one giant cull. There had to be a reason Charing Cross remained untouched by the patrols, while the other networks were being constantly scrutinised.

  Myron and Jen had managed to find themselves courier jobs, catering to just that one network. It was a perfect situation; it made it so much easier to distribute the newsletters when they came to print them again. The money wasn’t great, but they didn’t care too much about that as long as all three of them had enough to get by on. It was the first time in Jen’s life that she had her own money in her pocket, and it was a wondrous feeling. All the insecurities of making the move back to London had gradually dissipated. She could see that she had nothing to be concerned about after Myron had reassured her. Moving to the thick of the action had so far paid off, but there was still a niggling thought at the back of her mind that nothing was as it seemed.