by John Lilley
While he watched the machine advance, Vik switched off his air-chisel and dropped it to the ground. As he pulled the filter mask down from his dusty face, it was like a switch had been thrown. Despite all the many recent therapy sessions, he had little control as his long-term depression quickly demanded attention and forced his mind into a dark space. He still considered himself a successful businessman and found his current work demeaning and beneath the capabilities he had to offer. His empire had once stretched across Northwood: from the original corner shop on Joel Street to his restaurant and mini-mart on Green Lane. He felt that society had more structure then, you knew where your place was, and with hard work, you could get on.
The corner shop was the pinnacle of his father's achievements, and Vik had had a big hand in its success. It had been his life, his obligation to his parents, family and community. His world had been shattered for over 20 years now, but every day, part of him still lived in the hope that the State would somehow realise their mistake and give him back what they’d taken from him. He could see that the external factors had forced their hand but to be suddenly left at the same level as everyone else, queuing up for food in a work-camp full of people who had never done much with their lives, made his blood boil.
As the waves of anger once again surfaced his mind moved quickly on to Shindu: had she no respect for him? Not accepting a partner that he and Parul had chosen for her was bad enough, but she’d not even chosen someone from within their community. Worst of all she’d let the State pick one for her, so not based on family, or even love or passion, just genetic idealism, how obscene; where was the honour in that and what would Parul have said if she were still alive? The boy was reasonably good looking, very tall and a doctor of chemistry, but that pasty white skin just looked so unhealthy. Shindu had quite clearly sold her soul to New Britain and was not prepared to entertain any of her culture’s old ways. At their last meeting, she’d brought up Vik and Parul’s own arranged marriage and Vik’s refusal to let Parul, an engineering graduate, have a career of her own. As he stared blankly across the Wiltshire countryside, his depressive thoughts turned several shades darker.
The three workmates spent that evening, along with the rest of the demolition gang, down on the old school lawns next to the Kennet. As if by some miracle the familiar synth-protein slices had been replaced with a real hog-roast. Everyone knew not to ask where it had come from. They were all enjoying one more idyllic hot summer evening, their last in Marlborough. Bottles of beer had also materialised after the roast. Replete with pork and each with a beer in their hands, Terry, Vik and Surinder sat on the edge of the river bank. They watched the mute swans (Cygnus Olor) cruise effortlessly by with their fluffy grey offspring behind them, struggling to keep up.
‘Here boys, try some of this,’ said Terry, producing a bottle of vintage whisky and some plastic tumblers from his rucksack.
‘Wow, where did you get that?’ said Vik.
‘Same place I got the pig,’ said Terry, tapping the side of his nose and winking.
‘Cheers guys,’ said Surinder as they raised their cups. ‘Here’s to New Britain,’
‘Screw that, it killed my wife and took my daughter from me,’ said Vik.
Surinder sighed as he rubbed a calloused hand slowly across his shaven and heavily tattooed scalp: ‘Not that old chestnut again. You really must get some help mate. Look, I never told you this before, but my wife was killed in the same sectarian riots as yours, and my brother is doing time with the Arctic fishing fleet. I don’t expect to see him again. Just be grateful that you’re on this island, it’s one of the last lifeboats of humanity. Would you rather be soaking up the radiation in what is left of India and China, or perhaps you’d like to be a slave in America?’
‘Well, I'm not surprised by a comment like that from you, Mr Ex-Sikh. What happened to your religion? What else have you abandoned?'
‘Boys, boys cool it,’ said Terry waving his palms downwards and turning on the Celtic charm. ‘Here, have another drink.’
He topped up the outstretched tumblers with the last of the whisky.
‘You know me Vik, what I’m doing now is worlds apart from my old life in international commerce. Nobody does that line of work anymore, there’s no “International” anything for that matter. My master’s degree and all my professional qualifications now count for exactly nothing, but I do know a good thing when I see one. The old times have gone, taking all that repressive crap with them. All we have now is ourselves. It’s no longer about the past or race or religion, it’s about people and the present. What’s happening here is something wonderful, and you should be proud to be a part of it, just like your Shindu.’
Vik stared down into his cup, maybe it was the drink or the cumulative effects of the therapy sessions, but something was finally beginning to change deep within his mind. He remembered the strict and sometimes brutal traditional upbringing he’d had under the ever-watchful eyes of his father and uncles. There had been many evenings when he’d comforted his mother after she’d received a beating. Perhaps the old ways were not the best after all? He began to cry. Surinder and Terry put their arms around his shoulders, and Terry “found” another bottle of whisky in his rucksack. It was going to be a long night.
Although he’d had a few hours of drink-induced unconsciousness, Vik had been awake since the dawn chorus had invaded the turmoil still raging through his mind. The tent, as per usual, stank of piss and sweat with only the occasional waft of cool, clean air coming in over the ground sheet. After an hour of staring at the ridge-pole, he decided that he had to get out and find a better distraction from his thoughts.
The gentle Wiltshire sunlight burnt corrosively into his hangover-induced, over-sensitive retinas, and his head was thumping as he ascended the small path back to the old high street. The whisky had gone down well and numbed the pain, but now he was paying the price. He took a long slurp of water from his canteen as he surveyed the scene from the old highway. Fifty metres from where he stood the rooks were back, hopping and skipping across what was left of the ancient road. As he watched, a couple of hooded crows (Corvus Cornix) joined the party. Vik wondered if they were doing a little dance to say goodbye to the last human inhabitants. With all the machinery now silent, a deep and profound calm had descended on the remains of the town. In the bottom of the valley, the Kennet's green waters continued to flow silently by. Vik watched the river intensely, and in his mind, he saw Terry's and Surinder’s recent advice slamming into the log-jam he’d created from his previous life. With Man’s buildings, bridges and weirs gone the river flowed freely once more, it had won in the end. Deeply absorbed in the beauty of the Wiltshire morning Vik’s mind began to clear. Feeling a sudden rush of excitement, peace and clarity, he resolved there and then to begin his new life in earnest. He wondered if Shindu would ever forgive him.
6 TO THE MEETING
The building containing the simulator was large; some 300 metres across and 200 metres long. The two simulators next to the one that Derek had just emerged from were still in use. Large shiny steel hydraulic jacks groaned under the strain as the white simulator pods were thrown from side to side. He stopped by the nearest one and read the description board by its entrance ramp: “Horse and trap ride, teams of four only. Compete against the UK’s best riders as you bounce around the ancient Chiltern streams and woodlands. Your team needs to be prepared to hang on as the four horses take you on one of the roughest rides you can experience.”
Maybe next time, get the guys interested? He thought.
His comms-link chimed as soon as he stepped out of the simulator building. He swung the saddlebags off his shoulder and slipped the small plastic device from its holder. Thumb contact with the link read and validated his implanted tag and began a short diagnostic test of Derek’s vital systems. The message informed him that he’d been debited wc50 and that he would now need to hurry to get to his meeting. The suggested route was displayed with a note that the 63rd underpa
ss was flooded again. Finally, the ever-helpful link reminded him in its best received-pronunciation:
‘Derek, your bike is 62 metres away to NNW, next to the one with the blue mudguards.’
There were also three minor Security Services alerts, but Derek ignored them as he re-holstered his link and headed for the bike rack.
The simulator complex was part of the local entertainment centre and only three kilometres from Derek's dorm. There weren't many people around at this time in the morning, the main reason why Derek tended to use the simulators so early. They were always a very popular attraction, and queues would develop later, despite the facilities having been originally designed for far more than the current population. The limecrete apron around the cycle-rack had been washed clean by a recent rainstorm, and its crystalline structure now glinted in what sunlight had managed to penetrate the dense perennial cloud cover.
Between showers and the sunshine, great timing, as usual, thought Derek.
There were only four other bikes alongside Derek's in the rack, all of them were the green-framed communal city bikes. Sure enough, his bike was next to a bike with blue mudguards.
Was a link ever wrong? He thought.
As he approached his bike, its rear light flashed as if it was eager to get going. Pulling the bike from the rack, he clipped his saddlebags in place and set off. After 42 years of daily use, the bike felt like an extension of his body, a set of extra muscles with no apparent additional mass. Derek clicked rapidly up through the twenty hub gears to a fast pace and headed towards the nearest Mass Transit (MT) station. The bike’s dynamo hummed quietly in its lubricated sealed enclosures, effortlessly topping up the charge of the bike’s onboard systems. Derek had pulled his link from its holster and clipped it into the charger mount on the handlebars.
‘Well?’ he asked.
He was immediately rewarded with a stream of audio to his earpiece ‘Sandra wants to go to the beach party on Friday, confirm….,’
‘Chat,’ said Derek, interrupting.
After a few seconds, Sandra’s face appeared on the little screen, and her soft-spoken voice came through his earpiece: ‘Hello my luvver, what about this beach trip then?’
‘Yeah, sounds good babe, provided nothing comes up at this meeting?’ he said. ‘Are you sure you have enough credits?’
Sandra ignored the credit query. She knew that she could always get Derek to cough up the readies. Security Service guys were always loaded.
‘What meeting?’ she said.
‘At the office, you know the one I can’t tell you about?’ he queried.
‘Oh that,’ She said with an irritated tone, ‘well, let me know what’s happening later, see you - link off’.
‘Take the second left in 112 metres,’ his link instructed seamlessly as its screen immediately returned to displaying the route to the MT station.
‘Bitch,’ whispered Derek to the track ahead.
‘I’m sorry sir is there a problem?’ said the link.
‘Link off,’ said Derek, smiling, he didn't need the link to get to the station. He’d travelled this way thousands of times in the past 22 years since joining the Security Services. The one-kilometre journey would only take him three minutes.
Derek's trip in the Discovery had effectively been a trip back in time nearly 300 years. As he pedalled along the cycle track, he still imagined that he was behind the wheel of the powerful alien vehicle.
How weird must it have been to actually own one of those things? He thought. They were all so unnecessary and so outrageously unsustainable.
He was still brooding as he approached the station: I don’t need that kind of hassle from her.
7 THE MINE
This place is a shithole, thought Lucas as he puffed on a cigar and looked out from his command trailer across the wooded valley. Where else would it actually be more pleasant to bunk-up in your trailer than in one of the local hotels?
He’d been in Kamloops for three weeks now, and there had been no further sightings of Edward Thomas. Publicity released in Winnipeg suggested that he’d been on holiday in the Monashee Mountains, but no more details were provided. There was certainly no mention of journeys in the back of vans and meetings in furniture warehouses.
I’d like to believe that the boulder was a freak accident, but it was too much of a coincidence, he thought. It was just not feasible to have that amount of timing and control over such an unpredictable physical object like that. Perhaps we’re dealing with an intelligence that is way beyond us? Perhaps I’m going mad?
He hadn’t bothered to get dressed yet and was sat at the breakfast table of the trailer in just his boxers and bathrobe. His coffee had gone cold while he stared out of the window. He walked to the sink and poured the coffee dregs away, leaving the dirty cup in the sink for the orderly to deal with. Pushing a fresh cartridge in the coffee machine, he waited for his drink. He had just sat down at the table again when the phone rang.
‘Hello, yes speaking. Oh, it's you. Go on. Well, that does sound exciting. Seal off the area, and I'll be over as soon as possible,’ Lucas said, eyeing his new cup of coffee, determined to drink it before doing anything else. Strange doors on abandoned mines would just have to wait.
The mine was about 90 miles from Kamloops in the middle of nowhere. The last 15 miles were mountain forest track, which was no problem for the Landcruiser. Lucas noted that the track had seen quite a bit of use recently, more than could be explained by the presence of his team. Two hours later he was standing inside the compound of the disused mine. The seriously overgrown and rusty mesh perimeter fencing suggested that it had been abandoned for many years.
‘Ok Rudy, what are the stats on the mine?’ Lucas asked one of his advisers.
‘It was a gold mine, but no serious work has been done here for at least 10 years,’ said Rudy. ‘However, that just doesn’t stack up with what we found. Many of the tire tracks are no more than three weeks old, and then there are the doors.’
‘Ah yes, the doors,’ said Lucas. ‘Let’s take a look at those now.’
‘OK, this way sir,’ said Rudy as he led the way across the compound towards a large tunnel entrance. The roof of the tunnel was shored up with stout timber props which were reinforced by rough cut wooden boarding. Even though Rudy’s team had installed some good temporary lighting, Lucas didn’t like the tunnel’s dry and dusty atmosphere, he felt like he was entering an ancient tomb and noticed a dramatic drop in temperature the deeper they went.
‘It’s bigger than I imagined,’ he said.
‘Yes sir, we think that we could get a large van down here, possibly even a semi-trailer,’ said Rudy. ‘If there were tracks inside this tunnel then they’ve been carefully cleaned up, there is no evidence of them now, except that the floor of the tunnel is very well compacted, much too evenly compacted for that matter.’
They’d now walked some 50 yards into the tunnel. Ahead of them, illuminated by temporary lighting were the doors. Set in a thick solid steel frame, which was fixed directly into the surrounding granite, the doors were impressive. Their dull metallic sheen gave some clues as to their strength. They had no visible hinges, keyholes, handles or any other markings, just the thin line where the two doors joined.
‘They are absolutely flat and a perfect fit, as far as our instruments can measure. You can’t even get a cigarette paper into the crack between them,’ informed Rudy.
‘Impressive, and just how thick are they?’ said Lucas.
‘We don’t know because our instruments have been unable to penetrate them. The boffins think there is some sort of electromagnetic force stopping us from seeing through. Even the ground radar is not working on them,’ said Rudy.
‘OK, so what about the rest of this area, have you located anything else underground. Surely this “field” doesn’t stop you looking through the rock?’ said Lucas.
‘Well, it is granite, probably the most problematic material for our instruments. I’ve got the satellite sca
ns back at my truck. Shall we grab a coffee and have a look at them?’ said Rudy.
‘Great idea, I’m getting a bit cold in here. After all the red herrings we’ve been fed recently, I’ve a bad feeling about the doors. It’s just too tempting to blast our way in. I’m sure that’s what they want us to waste our time on,’ said Lucas.
They walked back along the tunnel. The daylight outside was blinding, and it took several seconds for their eyes to adjust, even from behind their Reactolite glasses. What greeted them also took a few seconds to register and at least one double-take. Stood near to their vehicles, in shining black boots and immaculately pressed red tunics, were three Canadian Mounted Policemen.
‘Good afternoon sirs,’ said the nearest Mountie as they approached. ‘I have to inform you that you are trespassing. The land surrounding this mine is private property, owned by the Canadian Native reservation. In fact, you have been on their land for the last 10 miles. I’m going to have to ask you to leave immediately.’
Lucas’s jaw dropped as he just gawped at the Mountie.
‘And I have to inform you that we are investigating matters of National Security for the US and Canadian Governments. Now I don’t know where your horses are Sonny, but I suggest that you hop back on them and leave now before I have you busted out of the force,’ said Lucas through gritted teeth and now red-faced with anger.
‘My, my, you need to control that tongue of yours sir. It could get you into a lot of trouble. Perhaps I should get one of our Native guides to cut it out for you?’ said the Mountie calmly.
Lucas and Rudy quickly scanned the forest surrounding the compound but could see no other people apart from the three Mounties. They looked each other in the eye to confirm their next move. Then stepping apart they swiftly drew their pistols and pointed them at the group of Mounties.
