[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  Her gaze remained fixed on the cold stone, her body rigid, but he could tell from the way her shoulders fell - no more than half an inch - that she might just have taken her first steps toward him. It took just one more long and painful silence for her to find the answer.

  “Rae... Rachael.” she said eventually.

  He nodded and smiled. Knowingly. When he spoke again it was decisive. Blunt. “We have a long journey ahead of us, Rachael,” he said. “You should eat something. Perhaps even consider taking a bath?” The smile grew wider. “For all our sakes.”

  When she finally found the strength to look up, William Clopton, squire of Lawton Manor and envoy to the soon to be deposed King Charles I of England, was gone. All that remained was a empty doorway. One that existed in a world she did not fully understand and which undoubtedly led to a world she could not begin to comprehend.

  Save for the desperate discussions, arguments and screams still occupying the many private rooms of her mind and the gentle drip of tears on stone, a dark silence fell again.

  THREE

  Thursday, August 20, 2043.

  KRT Building 1, 5th & Alameda, Los Angeles, California.

  “No, Neil, this is not a ‘situation’. I deal with ‘situations’ all the goddamn time. This…? This is a fuck-up of epic proportions. And guess what? It’s all on you.”

  Senator Barbara Scalise not only looked twenty years younger than she actually was, the result of the best procedures money could buy, but she had also marched defiantly into the room like a woman at least twenty years younger. She looked good, Neil thought, for eighty-three, but she also looked pissed. Really, really pissed. A mathematical genius, former MIT President and inheritor of family money that ran into billions, she was a woman whose whole life had been spent getting exactly what she wanted. With just a nod of her head she had ousted him from the late Josef Klein’s impressive chair, only to seize it herself. Grainger had been left to sit and face her like the world’s naughtiest child called before the absolute bitch of all headmistresses.

  That said, it all been going relatively well until he had used the word ‘situation’. And he had done that because that, to Neil Grainger, was exactly what it was. A situation. One that, like so many before, he would deal with.

  Scalise clearly didn’t see it that way. Not at all.

  “Have you even read this?” She flicked digital pages across the desk with disdain and frustration; ream after ream of detailed notes, photographs and calculations flashing across the screen.

  “Most of it,” he replied. “And no, it doesn’t look good.”

  She threw him a look. It told him he might just have won an award for the most obvious comment ever delivered. “Then you tell me…” she asked, eventually. “What the fuck was he doing?”

  “Truthfully,” Grainger said. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m not even going to say what it looks like.”

  “What it looks like,” Scalise said firmly, “is a god-damn fucking shit-storm.” She looked around the room, biting her lip and shaking her head in despair. “You do remember the Klein PCAST?” Grainger nodded. It had been a long way back, in 2011, but for all the wrong reasons he remembered it as though it was yesterday. It had been the day he’d discovered - to his horror - that his fifteen-year old daughter had been pregnant. One of many problems he had needed to ‘fix’ that day. Fortunately, in the same way as she ‘had been’ pregnant, it ‘had been’ fixed. “And you remember the plan?” Scalise continued. He nodded again, lamely. “You help me climb ladders and, when I’m up at the top, I drop you a line and help you get off the goddamn rung your career seemed to be taking a breather on. Gilliard and Healy were desperate to get their hands on that rock, Neil. Desperate. But no, I advised that Klein should get it.” She widened her eyes in sarcastic questioning…“And why Klein?”

  “So that we could keep an eye on him,” Grainger said. They both knew whose family a lot of Klein’s initial funding and support had come from and he could see quite clearly where this was going.

  Scalise looked even more despondent than she had before, if such a thing were possible. “No, Neil, not we. You. So that you could keep an eye on him! And did you? Did you? No… you didn’t.” She sighed. “You had one job, Neil. One job. You were dinosaur supervisor on this one and, you know what…? You went and let him get all up in my fucking kitchen.”

  She stood, walking to the curved glass windows Klein had specified for his office during construction; windows which offered a full one hundred and eighty panorama across acre upon acre of the sprawling glass, steel and chrome which rose defiantly into the sky above Los Angeles. High-tech stalagmites, rising vibrantly from a cave floor, all skittering with insect-like traffic at their base. Looking almost straight down she could see the flat, innocuous roofs of the main KRT laboratory complexes. She wondered for just a moment if what was detailed in Klein’s notes had really occurred. If somehow Klein had actually managed, in one of those desperately bland rooms below, to do the impossible. The unthinkable.

  Silently, she looked up and out across the city once more. She pondered how the future might change if this were true and pondered how the futures of the skittering insects might change. How her life might change. And then, just to ruin the optimism, she pondered just how many rungs of her political ladder were going to break like dry twigs beneath her if this shit ever got out into the world at large.

  “I need intel on those scientific tables,” she said. “Good intel. And then I need them found.”

  “Religious tables,” Grainger corrected.

  She shook her head. “Believe me, Neil, Josef was not a man to have done all this for some… religious trinket. This is a lot of time, a lot of his own personal energy and one hell of a lot of money. No, whatever these things are, they were important to him way beyond something so flimsy as God. So now, I need to know precisely what they are and where they are.” She pursed her lips and walked back to the desk. “And find them I will.”

  She splayed her fingers and ran her hand right to left above the screen, switching areas. Eventually, she called up the images of Cardou and flicked swiftly between the before and after shots. One showed a small laboratory type building whilst the other showed… devastation. Wreckage bordering on nothing.

  “Did anyone even bother to ask why he needed such a walled facility in France?” she asked.

  “European Livestock Research Centre.”

  “Livestock? Seriously?” She shook her head. The incompetence she was finding had surrounded her for years was now starting to give her a migraine. “Well, I have a meeting with the French Interior Minister in three days and I sure as hell aren’t going to walk out of there with a my Senate position intact if I even attempt to use the word ‘livestock’.”

  She paused, thinking back to the people she could rely on.

  “Where do we command an army from?” she asked eventually. Scalise was, to some degree, from a military family; her grandfather having spent many years, and many conflicts, commanding units across the globe. In many ways, she always felt that she could trace her fascination with calculation, mathematics and probabilities right back to his methods of command.

  “The back,” Grainger said, turning toward her. “Always.”

  “The back,” she agreed. “Because if we die, the war is lost. So, we stand at the back to ensure that there are plenty of sacrificial lambs standing far enough ahead of us to take the flack and keep us safe. But this…?” She gestured with derision at the screen. “This, Neil, will not only take out our battalion, it will blast its way right through and take us out as well. And I simply cannot have that happen. Do you understand?”

  “So you need a clean up?”

  “I need more than a clean up. I need this completely eradicating. At least as far as the world outside this building is concerned. Where we go from here I will decide when I’ve analysed these files in detail but, for now, none of this ever happened. We erase it. But we can only do that properly i
f we know why it happened. Josef, Sherman, Haga and Kerr are gone - which is good, but I need to know why. The three in Cardou are also gone - which is also good, but again I need to know why. From what I can see there are, however, still some people breathing who know things they really shouldn’t know. And if they can breathe, they can talk. Yet they are still breathing…” She looked at him firmly. “And I need to know why.”

  She looked at the file again, flipping pages and then voicing names and KRT company numbers. “Erica Harmon; 24511. Peter Strauss; 12433, Aldo Burgess; 37765 and Emilio Ortega; 39977. Find them, Neil. Deal with them. No excuses.”

  Grainger nodded firmly and stood to leave. If that was the list then it was short but it still needed to be shortened further. Down to approximately zero. Somebody shooting their mouth to the wrong person would only take minutes, not hours or days. So he would need to act fast and then he could deal with the rest - whatever the hell the rest was - when that little chore was done.

  Besides, having read the files himself he already knew that this was just two low-end guards and two mid-range scientists - it should be a breeze.

  “I’ll get onto it.”

  FOUR

  Sunday, December 13, 1643.

  Mistley, Essex, England.

  At high tide, the Stour estuary burgeoned from a seemingly endless expanse of dark, featureless mudflats, constantly picked at by hordes of scavenging birds, to a mile wide channel of cold, rippling grey which ended only when it reached the Suffolk hamlet of Brantham. On a good day, evidence of the folk of the town going about their business might be seen in the form of plumes of smoke billowing softly into the clear blue skies above, but not today.

  Today was not a good day, at least not for those who made their passage on the seas. Today was a day of soft cold winds and swirling morning mists which left visibility far behind and Brantham was, for now, to be found only in memory. It would reappear if and when the sun should decide to do the same. The cold tides were not violent, but they were choppy, even this far within the estuary’s oft-comforting arms and it made negotiating the many other vessels which swarmed around the tiny port an unenviable task for even the most experienced coxswain. All around lay a cold, ashen sheet of half light and shrouded unknowns.

  At the harbour side, the lack of colour continued. Grey faced men in ragged grey clothes fought increasingly grey moods, the kind which fell in the form of hard steel rain. It battered the colour from once rosy cheeks as they hoisted temporary pulleys in readiness for the morning’s arrival.

  Despite the winds being against her, the Weinigleeuwin had fought like the lioness after which she had been named to make port on time. Van Brakel - de kapitein - had needed to use every one of his thirty-six years of experience to fight against the elements. The Weinigleeuwin had first been spotted the previous morning off the coast of Tangham and word had quickly found its way south to Manningtree. At first light, many of those who were able had walked the icy mile of coastal path, still lined with clumps of rich green mistletoe, to Mistley harbour so that they might aid the returning squire and, most likely, be gifted in return.

  All hands were called to arms as the Weinigleeuwin’s square foresail began to fade into view and a throng gathered swiftly at the harbour’s edge. The Weinigleeuwin was a fluyt ship, an accountant’s dream widely used on commercial routes. Long in relation to beam and short sailed, it was lightly built and only thinly armed, designed primarily to sail in peaceful waters. On this occasion it had been laden with timber, fruits and baled goods. By the time the lateen-mizzen of the 105ft single-decked vessel had fully cut the curtain of mist, there were over thirty souls gathered on the harbour side, each readying themselves for the clear and organised chaos on which their daily lives were built.

  And there, set like a ruby in this rippling sea of grey still battered hard by the driving rain, stood one luminous bud of colour: Prudence Hart. Prudence had taken it upon herself to press her best crimson dress with irons for nigh on an hour the night before and now, as the harsh rain brought darker riches to its hue, she could clearly been seen flitting like a ladybird through the crowd, pressing forward to be the first to greet the passenger she sought.

  She had expected the squire to disembark from the fore of the ship, as he ’most always did but, having waited patiently for it to dock, she had been disappointed to not see him set to land. It was a few moments before she caught sight of his gait some eighty or so feet away at the stern. She shouted loud and waved high as she pushed through the throng toward him, but her cries were drowned by the pounding droplets and the clamour of unloading going on around her...

  “William! Wi..lli..am!”

  The end-of-season grain ships had already departed on the morning tides and had steadily been replaced by sister vessels which brought manure on the return journey. The vile stench they spread into the heavy air would fight the cleansing rain to linger long after the ships had been loaded once more with grain and disappeared back into the mists. Only three other women from Manningtree were present and each held their hand to their faces as they worked, though their own clothes probably carried a far worse smell. Prudence did not. Her hands were too prepared for greeting and her face too excited to be covered. William Clopton was returned from France or the Spanish lands or wherever it was he had been for so long and she could finally set about her new life.

  She caught up with him some thirty or so feet from the dock, other Manningtree citizens already loading his belongings, acquisitions and gifts into two waiting carts. Dressed in his finest, despite the weather, he turned to greet her with a warm smile, continuing his walk through the crowd as he spoke.

  She grabbed his arm and snuggled against him, her grasp tight against the cold and her head pressing into his shoulder. “William, you are returned. Have you brought gifts?”

  “Indeed I have. Gifts for all. Fruits and not a few oddities. All shall be revealed.”

  Gossip was Prudence’s staple diet and she always wanted to be the first to feast, spreading fresh chatter around the village as a planter might spread grain. She was like a puppy now, greeting her owner and begging for morsels on which her sense of being might feast.

  She looked up excitedly. “Have you had great adventures?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Did you do battle?”

  “The greatest battles we wage are in our hearts and minds.” He turned his head toward her and looked at her tellingly. “As well you know.”

  “So you did not fight off the Spain-ish.”

  “The Spanish?" he corrected. "Not once.” He smiled. “Only their unreasonable demands.”

  As they reached a clearer space and the crush receded, he broke contact so that he might indicate to the other villagers which boxes were to be loaded to the flimsier of the two carts. As he did, Prudence stood back and smoothed her dampened dress so that he might see it fully. Her smile was bright and wide.

  “How do I look, kind sir?”

  “Dearest Prudence, I should say that - on this day - you do look even smarter than I.”

  “I pressed it special,” she said with pride. “If I am to be maid then I should look my best, should I not? Show you well that I can sharpen a seam?”

  Instantly, his face lost a few of its jovial curves. “There are discussions to be had...” he began. He gesticulated to a young boy that he should be extremely careful with the leather bag which contained his papers.

  “My studies are ended,” Prudence interrupted breathlessly, “and Ma says that I may now go to work. I can become your maid at last. Perhaps learn me the ways of being a lady...?” She pulled the sides of her skirt out and presented an excited, slightly twirling curtsy.

  William stopped his walk and turned. “I am afraid to inform you that my latest travels have delivered me the new maid I saw fit to seek,” he said. His tone was genuinely apologetic and fully expectant of the disappointment to follow.

  He turned once more and held his out his arm, gesturing to a ra
gged creature who had seemed, without asking, to keep herself in his wake. “Prudence, I would like you to meet my new maid... This is Rachael.”

  A few feet back, standing as though awaiting the gallows, the waif-like Rachael looked as sullen and frightened as when they had first met. Her clothes were bought new but were already filthy from the confines afforded by the Dutch vessel and her hair had not seen a brush, comb or soap for days. Her eyes were dark and sunken from countless too-short nights of fitful sleep and the wounds which still criss-crossed her face had a good few weeks to go yet before they would fully leave her be. Her only saving grace at present was that she had not caught sight of her own reflection for a long, long time and scared herself yet further.

  For a moment, Prudence did not know what to say but her jaw fell wide, just in case. William could see the shock on the young girl’s face and the first vestiges of tears beginning to rise behind her eyes. He lifted his hand and moved a heavy lock of hair from her face, tucking it neatly behind her ear.

  “Dearest Prudence, if you have indeed completed your Bible studies, then you should be appraised of the Lord’s instructions for us. We should aid those who require our help the most, should we not?”

  “The Lord says we should help our neighbours,” she offered quickly. “I read that.”

  Impressed by her swift retort, he smiled. “As we have discussed, Prudence, I am not one to believe that the Lord’s instructions are quite so rigid in their interpretation. Even if they were, he still left it to his subjects to decide just how far our neighbourhoods might stretch..?”

  Prudence was frozen. Stunned. “You... you promised!”

  He smiled. “Come now. You know as do I that a ‘perhaps’ is not a ‘promise’ even if you choose to take it as one. A ‘perhaps’ is just that and... perhaps... next year... I might have need of a fresh maid? The legs on which Mrs. Banks carries herself might yet be her last, so there shall be more maids taking their place at the Manor soon enough.”