Better Than Human

by Matt Stark

  He took his hand away from his face, squeezed Suzie’s hand back – and smiled at her. But getting to the real truth would have to wait until later. He might not know who he really was – but he knew who he wanted to be. And that man wouldn’t stand by and allow scores, maybe hundreds of people to die. He had to stop Irfan.

  Peter spoke into the silence – interrupting Sam’s thoughts.

  “I take it your ability is back?” His voice was clipped. He was seriously pissed off.

  Still holding Suzie’s hand Sam blew out a breath and looked at Peter.

  “No. It was. That’s how I found out about Waterloo. But it’s not working now. I can’t hear a thing.”

  “Fuck,” said Peter. Then as the Jag sped through central London he swivelled around in the plush leather seat to better face Sam. Suzie still hadn’t spoken. Maybe Peter had ordered her to keep quiet while he grilled Sam. “You’d better find a way of switching it back on, Sam, because in a very short time all kinds of shit is going to break out in one of London’s busiest stations. This country – this government – can’t take another disaster like Leicester Square and Piccadilly.”

  Chapter 18

  7.30 p.m. Saturday, 31st January; Waterloo Station – 30 minutes to deadline

  “Lestoor, Lestoor!”

  Sam sidestepped a drunk Leicester City supporter on his way back from watching the big game with Spurs. It wouldn’t have been so bad but he had a couple of hundred of his mates with him, and they all seemed to have drunk their weight in high-strength lager. Not only that, the latest teen band were playing in Wembley tonight, and most of their army of devoted goth fans were, it seemed, travelling via Waterloo. Add to that the usual mix of partygoers and shift-workers heading into London, and the station was jammed to the rafters. Irfan couldn’t have picked a busier time. There were more than enough bodies here to cause carnage and get the body count New Dawn wanted.

  Sam was standing in the middle of the concourse in the densest part of the crowd. Peter and Suzie were on the first-floor terrace of Starbucks, which gave them a bird’s-eye view. Sam couldn’t see them but he knew an army of JIS Special Forces agents were right now swarming around the station, mixing with the crowds – their fingers pressed against com devices in their ears – scanning the crowd for a young Arab man with a disproportionately bulky waistline or a heavy backpack.

  Sam sidestepped another paralytic Leicester fan. It was always going to be a challenge to find Irfan in time, but with this many bodies crammed into the station, it would be nigh on impossible – except by blind luck, and there didn’t seem to be much of that going around.

  On the way Peter had asked repeatedly if Sam’s ability was “back on”. And when they’d arrived at Waterloo he’d told Sam he must find a way to turn it on, or they were all fucked. Looking at the seething crowds Sam knew Peter was right.

  You’re one of us – a post-human. You’re betraying your people.

  Serina’s words appeared unwanted in his mind. Your people. Did she mean the other members of New Dawn? If she was telling the truth it meant Sam was not alone. There were at least ten post-humans out there with God knows what abilities. It should have made him feel better. Because since Peter had told Sam he was a one-off freak of nature, he’d felt pretty isolated. But he didn’t feel better. Because post-humans had bombed Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus and the other places. And that’s why Peter had lied to him. He didn’t trust him. Was he right? Had Sam been a member of New Dawn? Was he a terrorist?

  Sam had a million questions. He’d wanted to confront Peter on the way to the station, find out what he really knew – but it hadn’t been the right time. And it still wasn’t.

  Someone jostled him and Sam pushed them away. It was odd not knowing what kind of person you were. He wanted to be one of the good guys. But was he? Back in Regent’s Park he’d wanted to kill Deep Throat – not because it made sense – although it did. But because he would have enjoyed it. He blew out a breath. That’s what he was really scared of. Finding out he was a cold-blooded killer. So even though Sam had wanted to grab Peter by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him, he hadn’t. He was going to be one of the good guys. He wouldn’t get distracted by his personal crap while innocent people died. He was going to stop Irfan, if he could. He’d work out his personal stuff later. He rubbed his hand over his face. The problem was how. Irfan could be anywhere in this swarming sea of people.

  Sam needed his ability more than ever. But how the hell could he switch it back on? Only when he was interrogating Serina, and then only when he was intensely angry, had Sam felt the ability truly come alive. He’d felt something of its true scary potential. He’d delved into Serina’s mind. But then, as soon as he found the attack location, his power had gone off like a light. He needed it back on if he were going to find Irfan before the fucker blew himself, and a bunch of goths and football fans, to pieces.

  Someone elbowed his back, and made a slurred apology, nearly knocking Sam unconscious with his alcohol-soaked breath before staggering away. They were all blissfully unaware of the danger they were in. Peter and Sam had discussed evacuating the station, but it would have taken hours, and if panic got a grip scores would die in the rush to escape. Plus, an evacuation would make Irfan panic, and his first response would be to detonate the bomb. So they’d done nothing.

  Sam checked Deep Throat’s Rolex – twenty minutes to go.

  Clairvoyance, the ability to locate a person using their unique mental signature – that was what Peter said he needed. It still seemed like science fiction, but Peter had told Sam it was in his skill set. Given a picture, a wallet or anything personal Sam could locate a suspect within a ten-mile radius. He supposed he had more than a wallet to go on now. He’d seen through Irfan’s eyes, felt his emotions, sensed his thoughts, his fears and desires. But to find him Sam still had to switch his damn ability on.

  He rubbed his hand back and forth over his face – thinking. Since Regent’s Park his telepathy had been off most of the time. And he’d never consciously switched it on. The girl in Regent’s Park, Peter, Suzie. Each time he’d read a mind, it was automatic. And the stark truth was, he had no idea how to turn it on. But he was going to have to try.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the crowds, and listened.

  Irfan’s mind would be a mess. However good his training, he’d be terrified. He was about to be blown to pieces. In a few minutes the plastic explosives or TNT strapped around his torso or on his back would explode and eviscerate him. However much Irfan hated norms, and believed he was fighting to save his people, he couldn’t control his body’s physical reaction to imminent death. Fear. It was a reflex. He couldn’t stop it, even if he believed he was doing the right thing. His heart would race. He’d sweat. These signs could often be picked up visually. But not in a crowd like this, with the limited amount of time they had. Yet it wasn’t just Irfan’s body that would be like a revving engine. His mind would be racing. Maybe reciting a prayer, maybe asking for forgiveness, and maybe simply picturing himself pressing the button of the detonator. And if his ability was working Sam could pick that up no matter how many people were here.

  “Anything, Sam?” said Peter’s voice in Sam’s earpiece. Sam opened his eyes and inhaled sharply.

  “Not yet.”

  “Nothing?”

  Sam checked his Rolex: 18 minutes.

  “No.”

  Peter’s breath rattled his earpiece.

  “Commander?”

  “Snipers are in position, sir,” replied the JIS Special Forces Commander in a terse voice.

  Sam returned to looking round the concourse. The faces were all a mystery. He couldn’t hear their thoughts. He felt like a circus act who couldn’t perform. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to calm himself. He was still an experienced intelligence officer. He knew how to spot a suicide bomber; everyone in JIS did. Even though the chances of success weren’t high, he would have to do it the old-fashioned way �
�� with his eyes and ears.

  He’d come into the crowd because he’d thought being closer to Irfan might help trigger his clairvoyance. But he now realized he was in the worse possible place. He could see jack where he was. He needed to get himself in a better position. Somewhere with elevation. He checked his Rolex. 16 minutes. There wasn’t time to get up to the Starbucks’ balcony. But someone had left an old skip outside Lloyd’s chemist. That would do just fine. Sam hustled over to the skip, glad to be moving at least. He climbed up it, ignoring the funny looks from some of the crowd. At the last second he grabbed a half-full can of Stella from a drunk as he passed by, hoping he’d be taken for a pissed Leicester City fan. As Sam stood swaying slightly on the skip he scanned the crowds back and forth.

  He counted the signs off one by one. The bomber would often be mouthing a prayer. He would seem oddly thick around the torso, because of the bulky vest, or be wearing a bulky backpack. He’d be sweating – partly from the extra layers of clothing needed to hide the vest. That was why suicide bombers were sometimes easier to spot in summer. A heavy coat would stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of July. Unfortunately it was Janaury. Race was another factor. Suicide bombers were still predominantly Arabic or African.

  As he thought this through, Sam realised that much of this information could be out of date. He’d updated himself since his return as much as possible but he’d only been back a little over three days. There hadn’t been time to be fully briefed.

  As he stared around the concourse looking at the faces of the people passing by him, feeling time running out, he saw them in his mind’s eye blown to pieces, and felt the guilt that would follow. Serina’s words echoed around his mind like a phone message on endless repeat. You’re one of us. Even as he tried to push the echo from his mind, part of him knew Serina had been telling the truth.

  Don’t let your people suffer.

  With a supreme effort Sam forced himself to focus on what he should be doing: scanning the crowds for Irfan. He spotted one or two likely candidates, notified Peter on the radio, and saw Special Forces discreetly pull each one aside. Each time he heard “It’s not him” down his earpiece a few minutes later. Sam rubbed his hand over his face, took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly through his splayed fingers. Then he let his arm fall to his side. He checked Deep Throat’s Rolex – five minutes.

  He was almost out of time.

  Then as despair threatened to engulf him Sam heard Irfan’s voice in his mind, and turned instinctively to where he knew Irfan would be.

  ***

  “Target located,” said Sam, hardly able to believe it.

  “Where?” replied Peter into Sam’s earpiece.

  “Five metres from Costa Coffee Shop. Arabic man in his twenties wearing a green parka. No backpack.”

  “Got him,” answered Peter.

  “Can I give the order to take the shot?” It was the Special Forces Commander.

  Suddenly Sam had a mental flash of Irfan’s finger on the detonator. His eyes had been fixed on Irfan standing rigidly next to the coffee shop during the exchange with Peter and the Commander. As he heard the words, take the shot, Irfan’s thoughts suddenly filled his mind. Irfan was thinking about his finger pressing on the trigger. It was release activated. If Irfan’s finger didn’t keep 5 pounds per square inch of pressure on the trigger, even for a moment, the bomb would detonate.

  Sam yanked his lapel mic toward his mouth.

  “Stop. Stop. Do not shoot. The target is using a release-activated trigger. I repeat, the target has a release-activated trigger. If you take him out the bomb will detonate.” Sam spoke quickly and urgently into the mic, while keeping his eyes locked on Irfan, and walking quickly towards him. He didn’t break into a run in case Irfan spotted him and panicked.

  A few long and painful seconds later Peter’s voice crackled through Sam’s earpiece.

  “Commander, wait out.”

  Irfan had seen Sam as he made the final approach. Sam came to an abrupt stop five metres from Irfan and raised his hands.

  “My name is Sam Barrick. I’m from security services. You’re surrounded by Special Forces. You have nowhere to go.”

  A few people in the crowd stopped and stared when Sam spoke. He knew he was risking a panic but he had no choice. Irfan’s hand moved inside his pocket.

  “Stay back or I’ll detonate it.”

  That did it. Cries of “He’s got a bomb” reverberated through Waterloo station, slowly at first but building in strength. For a split second the expected rush to the exits didn’t happen. Those close to Irfan and Sam just froze and stared at the pair with slack, confused faces. Then as if a touch paper had been lit they all moved as one towards the nearest exit or just anywhere away from Sam and Irfan. Sam knew people would get hurt. But there was nothing he could do about it. He kept his eyes focussed on Irfan as if they were the only two people in the world. He raised his hands high, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

  “It’s okay, Irfan. I’m just here to talk.”

  Irfan’s forehead shone with sweat. He was seriously agitated. Not the ideal image of a suicide bomber gladly giving his life for Allah. He wasn’t like Serina. He had doubts. But Sam’s instinct said Irfan would still detonate the bomb.

  “If you shoot me the bomb will go off,” said Irfan, his hand moving in his right pocket.

  Sam took a step forward. He knew Peter, Suzie and the army of personnel were all watching but they wouldn’t interfere. The situation was too delicate. Sam was on his own.

  “Stay back,” said Irfan.

  “There are women, children here,” said Sam. “Your bomb will maim and kill. Is that what you want?”

  Irfan didn’t reply. He seemed almost confused by the question – his eyes distant and his face slick with sweat. Then he answered, speaking hesitantly.

  “No, that’s not what I want.”

  “Then why are you doing this? What you’re doing won’t change anything, Irfan.”

  Irfan flinched at his name.

  “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about post-humans and how we’ve suffered,” he shouted.

  There it was again – post-humans. Serina said Sam was the first post-human. Sam gave himself a mental kick. He had to stay focussed on Irfan if he wanted to prevent a bloodbath. He had to try to connect with him.

  “You’re right. I don’t know about your suffering. But this isn’t the answer. It won’t bring back those you’ve lost. It won’t stop more deaths on either side.”

  Sam didn’t know how much if any of Serina’s story was true – but that wasn’t important right now. It would be later – if he made it to later. But what was important was what Irfan believed, and what he needed to hear to change his mind.

  Sam knew fanatics were almost impossible to talk down. He might not have even tried and let Special Forces take the shot if he hadn’t seen the failsafe trigger. That had changed things 180 degrees. At the very least Sam had to distract Irfan until he could think of something else to do.

  “What you’re doing won’t help post-humans,” he said.

  Irfan took a step toward Sam, his sweaty face contorted with anger. They had the concourse almost to themselves now.

  “Then what will?” he said. “Talking? We’ve tried that. Running? We tried that. Nothing worked. The only thing your kind understands is violence. Eventually it will work because we will carry on until we make you hurt enough to stop persecuting us.”

  Sam ducked his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was desperate. He tried to sense what Irfan was thinking, to see if there was any way he could change Irfan’s mind. At the same time Sam was working out how to defuse a release-activated bomb whose trigger had already been depressed.

  Sam would have to turn Irfan in the same way a potential informant was turned. He couldn’t remember learning how, but knew deep down that he was very skilled at turning potential informants. He had apparently been an expert, running and supervising the de
licate process of cajoling, flattery and persuasion needed to convince a man to give up his loyalty to another state. But this process took time. And there was no time for such long-term games with Irfan. Sam needed a quick and dirty technique. One that was sure to work. And that meant family.

  Irfan was staring vacantly at Sam like a stunned pig about to be slaughtered. He didn’t want to do it now, Sam could see that. At least part of him didn’t. Sam took his chance.

  “Serina wouldn’t want you to do this,” he said.

  Irfan glared at Sam.

  “What do you know about her?”

  Sam couldn’t tell Irfan that Serina was dead. If he knew that there be no hope.

  “I know that because she told me less than half an hour ago. She told us where to find you.”

  “No,” said Irfan, his eyes watering. “She’d never betray our cause. She’d die first.”

  Sam kicked himself. Of course Irfan wouldn’t believe Serina would betray him. He needed Irfan to trust him if this was going to end peacefully. He had to come up with another reason Serina would have given Irfan’s location away.

  “She believes in your cause just as much as you do but she realized killing innocents isn’t the way to get what you want.”

  Irfan snarled.

  “Bullshit. There’s no way Serina would have given you this location.”

  Sam saw Irfan’s finger twitch through the coat pocket and knew he was losing him. Somehow he had to make him trust Sam and believe killing himself was pointless.

  “Then how else did we find you?” he said, taking another step forward –spreading his arms apart – only a few yards separated him from Irfan. “Who else knows you’re here?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  Static crackled in Sam’s ear. It was Peter.

  “Tell him something personal. Something only she would know.”