‘You’ve worked it all out very well,’ said a low voice behind them, and Janey froze. That was impossible. She knew that voice. She’d heard it just hours ago, before he toppled from a cliff-top onto the unforgiving spikes below.
They turned around slowly.
‘The thing is, you’ve only solved half the problem,’ said the person before them. ‘And you’re running out of time.’
‘But you … you’re meant to have died.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Twice.’
And Trent Varley just smiled coldly – so coldly that Janey felt ice penetrate her spysuit – and then he turned and ran.
Chapter 21 - Freeze-frame
‘Was that the man I’m meant to have murdered?’ shrieked G-Mamma.
‘Yes, and I saw him plummet to his death yesterday, too.’ Janey began to run. ‘Come on!’
It was a good job the place was filled with athletes from all nations and of all disciplines, each with their own personal kind of super-power, because nobody took a great deal of notice of a girl in head-to-toe silvery Lycra and a track-suited woman steaming through the alleyways between the tents, the notice boards, the screens and satellites, shouting to each other, ‘This way!’ and ‘Go faster!’
Trent Varley had vanished from view once more, so Janey followed in what she hoped was the general direction he’d been running in with G-Mamma hard on her heels, veering this way and that as trolleys of equipment rolled out into the alleyways or horses backed out of their boxes towards the make-shift stables.
‘I’ve lost him,’ cursed Janey under her breath. ‘I’m making for the arena now. We’ll have to find the others instead and let them know what’s going on.’
‘Your call, Blonde,’ panted G-Mamma, struggling slightly but still managing to keep up with her “athlete” thanks to her Fleet-Feet trainers that she’d plucked from the cell wall, tattered and shredded but still managing to operate effectively.
The arena was to the left, as evidenced by the river of sportsmen and women pouring along the alleys towards it. Janey pounded in the same direction, sticking to the edges of the pathways so that she could get past the crowds, skirting the stragglers and keeping up the pace, powering on through the shadows, rather like Gideon did, or used to …
Suddenly her insides contracted as she thought of Gideon Flynn. If Trent Varley had survived that fall, then perhaps Gideon had too. Perhaps, by some miracle, he had also escaped death, escaped Transnordia, and found his way to the World Community Games in Kazakhstan. Right at this moment, however, she’d be happy just to know that he was all right, that he wasn’t lying with a crumpled body, lost and alone, among the craggy stones in the foothills of a strange and barren land. The thought spurred her on even more, and she spotted the entrance to the arena not far ahead.
‘They’re checking everyone!’ she called softly to G-Mamma, who was beetroot-red but still only a few paces behind her. ‘We can’t go in the main way.’
Driving her heels into the dusty red sand that made up the roads beneath their feet, Janey slewed to a halt, with G-Mamma careering into her back. ‘More warning next time!’ she snapped.
‘Sorry, but look,’ said Janey.
The open gateway, the width of a warehouse, was flanked by vast white screens that grew increasingly closer together, funnelling the competitors towards two rows of desks that were slightly staggered like checkouts in a super-market. In fact, thought Janey, that was exactly what it looked like, as the HOST employees sat behind the desks with scanners in their hands, emptying and checking bags before scanning the wrist-band of the athlete at their ‘till’ and checking them off on the tablet screen attached to their desk.
She watched a few people approach the scanners. They chatted cheerfully with their operators as they first arrived at the desk, grinning and nodding, willingly opening their bags and offering their wrists for checking.
Once the scanner passed over their arm, however, for just a moment they all seemed to freeze. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking out for it as Janey was, it was suddenly everywhere once she’d spotted it. It was like the scanner had hit the pause button, causing the athlete to shut down for a split second while the ruby-studded wristband really got its teeth into them. Then, as if waking from a dream, the sportsperson would stare hard at the operator before grabbing their tennis racquets, skis or running shoes and returning to their previous cheery self.
‘They’re not checking them,’ she whispered. ‘They’re activating them.’
‘Activating what?’
‘The rubies, I think. The sim cards. It looks as though they’re somehow able to control the athletes. Oh! I wish I understood it better.’
G-Mamma smiled scarily at a nearby guard who seemed to have noticed that they weren’t moving forward with the crowd, and flung a finger in the direction of the floor. ‘Give me twenty, now!’ she hollered to cover up their inactivity.
‘Twenty push-ups? It’s not the army,’ grumbled Janey, but she did it anyway, letting her Girl Gauntlet take the strain as she performed press-ups without hesitation, using the opportunity to peer through legs and dangling bags until she could find something useful.
Fortunately, it didn’t take too long. She leapt out of the final push-up, to the obvious admiration of the khaki-suited guard, and grabbed G-Mamma by the wrist. ‘The last check-out is different. Looks like an enquiries desk. Come on.’
As they jogged across to the operator on the far right, she fished the bracelet she’d taken from the tent out of a pocket and held it up in front of her.
The boy on the check-out looked very taken aback to find it folded in her hand instead of sitting tight on her wrist.
‘It broke,’ she said, trying to feign concern. ‘Just fell off when I was practicing my routine.’
The boy looked around for a supervisor. ‘I’m not sure what to do about that. We have to scan in the information for the telethon.’
‘How about I hold it out and you scan it on my hand?’
The boy stared at her and then shrugged. ‘I suppose that should work.’
Janey knew it would definitely work. She held the bracelet out across her palm, making very sure that the ruby fell between the crook of two fingers and wasn’t touching any part of her skin at all. The scanner beeped across the band, as Janey piped: ‘Yes, I wanted to go and get another one but they …’ She paused mid-sentence to gaze silently at the boy, counting in her head – one elephant, two elephant, three elephant – and then she continued, ‘… said each one had been specially assigned.’
‘We’ve had all sorts,’ moaned the boy, clearly getting fed up with his job. ‘Lost ones, duplicated ones, three people with the same one assigned to each of them. Hope they get it sorted next year.’ He waved her through, then shouted, ‘Oh! Sorry, no more people. Only equipment.’
‘I am her equipment, young man,’ blared G-Mamma.
He blinked at her as if he’d just been slapped. ‘What … what sport is that?’
‘Human shot-put!’ snapped the woman, as if he were an idiot. ‘Why else would she be dressed like a ball-bearing? Watch!’
She linked her fingers near her waist and widened her eyes at Janey, leaving her with no choice but to run up to the SPI:KE, plant a foot in her hands and curl herself into a ball as G-Mamma launched her into the arena. She spun over and over until she saw the ground approaching, then opened out to land on both feet, being careful to use her toes so she didn’t initiate the Fleet-Feet bounce.
‘See?’ said G-Mamma, sweeping past the poor boy, whose expression said even more clearly that he just wanted to go home.
Not everybody here was evil, then.
Only a few choice individuals.
They’d made it into the stadium. As Janey explained about the scanner pause, they walked mechanically for a while and then noticed that most people were just moving in their usual way, which often meant fast and determined.
‘So, three people using the same wrist-band – do you think that m
ight be our three?’ she said at length, looking for Tilly’s area which would be labelled by the Union Jack.
‘I hope so, or there are other people infiltrating the Games. Which reminds me.’
G-Mamma quickly turned her jacket inside out so that the navy lining transformed it into an official-looking blazer. Kicking off her orange trainers, she walked straight into a pair of black Nikes that some poor athlete – a man, by the looks of it – had exchanged at the side of the athletics track. The Day-Glo tracksuit bottoms were still in full view, but in the same sleight of hand, G-Mamma fiddled with the hem of her jacket and hoisted her trousers up at the waist. The lime green trousers disappeared beneath a cascade of swishy blue material that descended from the jacket’s hem, and suddenly G-Mamma was walking around dressed like a perfectly respectable Games official, in navy blazer, dark blue skirt and plain black shoes. Just to finish the outfit off, she inverted her baseball cap into a neat black trilby and shoved all her hair into it.
‘Wanted for murder,’ she commented, nodding towards a screen with her image plastered all over it. ‘Time for a disguise.’
‘G-Mamma,’ said Janey with a giggle, ‘I sometimes forget how amazing you are.’
‘How dare you? Don’t EVER forget how amazing I am.’
Janey laughed. ‘Okay. I won’t ever do it again.’
It was actually quite pleasant, strolling about the arena with the babble of excitement and zing of pent-up energy rising all around them. The sportspeople all appeared to be perfectly genuine athletes, and Janey could only imagine that the Games were going to be stupendous. Surely the HOST organisation weren’t planning to ruin that? It would ruin them if the Games didn’t go ahead!
As if to answer her question, a klaxon rang out across the stadium and an oily voice announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your attention. It’s Henry Wentworth here,’ and his face appeared on the many screens around them. ‘With only an hour to go until the Games open, we just wanted to wish you all well. What a world-altering, life-changing event this is going to be, with our simultaneous coverage of all the live events from just two outstanding venues like this one in Central Asia. Give yourselves a pat on the back for being a part of this unique and electrifying spectacle. Go on, do it,’ he urged with an unctuous grin.
Giggling self-consciously, the athletes around them shook hands, high-fived each other or pretended to pat their own backs.
Then Wentworth continued: ‘You all know a very important part of this is the fan-cam viewpoint so that your own army of fans can tune in to your performance exactly as you are seeing it. It’s as if they’re doing it with you, folks!’ He switched his jovial tone to serious and engaging. ‘You’ve all been fitted with your wrist-band. This is state-of-the-art HOST technology that accesses your optic nerves remotely, with no side effects whatsoever, so that the viewer can see what you see. No need to worry – it’s not a performance-enhancing drug! In fact, quite the opposite. The fans will see just what a human endeavour this is; what a feat you people are performing as individuals. If you fall, they’ll fall with you. If you win, they’ll see the finish line as you burst through it. It’s all in the technology, and if it’s okay with you …’ He paused with a hand cupped to his ear, as if anybody would have the guts or the temerity to shout “Actually, I’d rather not, thanks!” Hearing nothing, he grinned and went on, ‘We’d like to test the techno stuff. Nothing to worry about – we’re just going to send out a little signal that you won’t even feel, and we can check back here that the viewers are getting their money’s worth. Okay? Great!’ he cried before there was a moment to interject. ‘Then here we go.’
The enormous crowd, thousands and thousands of people from individual competitors to enough rugby teams to run a three-day knockout tournament, all looked at each other, shrugging a little, murmuring to each other. Nobody looked particularly nervous, and if Janey hadn’t known it was coming, she would hardly have noticed the signal go out and the test beginning. It was just as it had been at the gates, only en masse. As a strange, piercing note rang out delicately around the stadium, not loud but impossible to ignore – almost what Janey would imagine a dog whistle would sound like to canines – suddenly all the faces around them froze mid-laugh. As far as she could see, all action had ceased, leaving people with one leg in the air as they ran, parallel to the floor, or reaching out a hand to slap a team-mate across the back; person after person just frozen in whatever activity they’d been involved in, from the stall holders distributing water, to the flag-bearers preparing to display their country’s emblem to the world. It was like a scene from Pompeii, without the volcanic ash.
Janey froze too, as did G-Mamma, although their eyes slid around attempting to spot what was going on. The entire stadium stood stock still in absolute silence … apart from three figures on the far side of the stadium, near the tented corridor that led to the screen-testing area. Tipping her head the tiniest fraction in that direction, Janey trained her glasses on the distant gateway and hissed ‘Zoom’ out of the corner of her mouth.
It was exactly as she’d expected – or feared. Matilda Peppercorn was standing near a team-mate wearing some sort of judo outfit complete with helmet, hands curled into her chest and one leg kicked out to the side. Her face was screwed up in concentration and effort, and Janey guessed that she was either very good at not moving a muscle, or she’d actually been frozen by the bracelet. Just behind her, however, things were not so peaceful. Stein was hopping around her, waving his hands in her face and pointing at the clock, while Jack – oh, poor Jack – was on his knees, hands clapped over ears that were rapidly growing black and furry as his head curled back and forth, and howling at the top of his voice: ‘Make it stop! Owwwww!’
So the sound really was exactly like a dog whistle. And Jack was completely unable to prevent himself from giving their location away.
Luckily everyone else was still frozen, and Janey doubted whether they could hear anything through their inertia anyway… but further across the stadium, jungle-geared HOST operatives were making their way through the crowds, straight towards Jack, Stein and Tilly.
‘Is that hullaballoo what I think it is?’ whispered G-Mamma through her teeth.
‘Yes, it’s Jack.’ Janey cast her eyes back and forth. ‘They’re closing in on anyone who isn’t completely frozen; must be all the broken and duplicate bracelets. They’ve done this test to ferret us out.’
‘Us?’
She’d hoped they’d held their cover, but in the doorway through which they’d come not so long ago, she could see a pair of HOST guards standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a teenage boy - the scanner guy. He was lifting a hand to point at a trio of synchronised swimmers who were all gazing at each other, bemused at what everyone else was doing … and then to G-Mamma, balanced on one tiptoe with a fixed grin on her face.
‘GM, we’ve been made,’ she said urgently. ‘MOVE!’
The spymaster needed no second bidding. Spinning on her heel and remembering that the black trainers weren’t her shoes, she kicked them off and set off at a staggering pace across the stadium, hoofing innocent athletes out of the way as they posed with their elbows and knees at awkward angles, like human statues. Janey sprinted after her, gaining ground quickly but pausing to topple more athletes to trip up the guards, who were getting closer with every passing second. Across the silent stadium, Jack and Stein had noticed the guards approaching. With Jack still trying to cover one ear, they’d lifted Tilly up between them and were staggering towards the doorway.
‘Jack!’ cried Janey, cupping her hands together so that the sound echoed around the arena. ‘Whooosh!’
It was a good job she’d shouted when she did, because suddenly she heard two sounds in quick succession: Henry Wentworth yelling, ‘There! I told you,’ and then the bubbling whisper of the crowd, rising like an orchestra warming up and bursting into life as the dog whistle was turned off. All around her, people were melting back into whatever action they’
d been carrying out - finishing their step or clasping hands with someone or leaping across a sand-pit - and it was all directly in Janey’s way. A little way ahead she could see G-Mamma fronting up to a young basketball player who had inadvertently chucked a ball at her face. ‘Leave it,’ she screamed at the SPI:KE. The woman shook a warning finger in the man’s face and took to her feet again.
Simone Varley’s voice penetrated the atmosphere. ‘Well done, everyone; that went very well. Your fan-cams are all lined up, and I know you didn’t feel a thing. They’d been very well beta-tested with senior officials in your own country, who gave us full permission to expand their usage.’
Tested? Senior officials? Of course! They’d tried them out at the party on the embassy representatives – probably on those security tags that everyone had worn, apart from them. No wonder the Ecuadorian minister had turned on her!
‘If anyone is experiencing any discomfort, please let your nearest HOST ambassador know. They’re the friendly folks in khaki. And if that experiment didn’t work for anyone, well …’ – Mrs Varley let out a gentle laugh which sounded to Janey like the cackle of a mad woman – ‘we’ll just have to try a bit harder. Won’t we?’
Janey almost tripped up, her mind churning ceaselessly through the events of the last few days. Why wasn’t Varley more upset about losing her husband? Ha! It must be because she knew he wasn’t dead. So what was Trent Varley up to? And what had he done to Gideon? Even more frightening, what exactly were HOST planning to do with all those compliant athletes, frozen on their command, eyes viewing whatever they instructed them to view… eyes viewing whatever they wanted them to view?
That was it!
She side-stepped a stretching marathon runner, evaded a guard and ran on, the realisations crystallising as energy coursed through her. That was what they were doing. They were creating eyes all over the world: eyes that would see the bank accounts fans had used to sponsor them with, or worse still, the presidential suites when they went to collect their special awards. They were creating a secret army, almost like their own spy organisation, with eyes on all sorts of Intel from the most personal to the most destructive, and an unwitting team of strong, nimble, powerful agents to do their bidding, even if they had no idea they were doing it.
S*W*A*G*G 1, Spook Page 21
