by Gavin Chait
‘Yet you work for them?’
‘Of course I took the job. There are few opportunities to work with this technology anywhere in the world.’
‘Why us? Why not Rosneft? I know they have approached you.’
‘I have no wish to see the device destroyed. This way I get to continue working with Achenia, and you and Rosneft can fight each other. It will be better for us if Rosneft has a more powerful state to worry about than ours.’
‘The People’s Republic of China are allies with the Russians. We have no quarrel with Rosneft.’
‘Not yet,’ grinned Tiémoko.
The grey man let that pass. ‘How will you ensure we can take possession of the printer? Especially as your superior is –’ chewing on the word ‘– indisposed.’
The cook returned carrying a small paper bag. Milk was purchased only when required, for there had been no electricity to power their refrigerators that week and it would not last in the heat. She decanted a small amount into a jug and carried it and an old, chipped coffee mug filled almost to the brim to their table.
Tiémoko poured in sugar for so long that the grey man was half expecting a peak to emerge from the surface. He dropped in a splash of milk, stirred and sipped gently.
A tall, blond American man pushed back the swing doors and, glancing briefly at the two who were seated, called out in greeting to the kitchen.
Tiémoko continued unhurriedly sipping at his coffee while the grey man waited patiently. The American placed an order and chatted loudly to the cook through the doorway to the kitchen. He stared at them curiously but did not intrude.
After an uncomfortably long silence, the American left, taking his plastic bag of crepes with him.
Tiémoko responded as if the question had only just been asked. ‘Indisposed, yes. What is your view on his capture?’
The grey man considered. ‘We have no view. Unless it intrudes in some way on our possession of the printer. Why did he permit himself to be captured by Ansar Dine? And what of the body found in his vehicle?’
Tiémoko sighed. ‘He said only that he was looking to bribe them to permit our line printers to pass through their territory. He was supposed to meet them alone. You know the body is still unidentified. I can only assume he came across a group of seekers and attempted to get them to safety.’
‘And was taken in the process? It is possible. Will that prevent the handover of the printer?’
‘I am afraid that it does. Simon has the encryption keys and has yet to share them with me. Until he does, the underlying software will not be accessible. You may even struggle to gain insight into the hardware since it is heavily shielded.’ He shrugged. ‘It was designed to withstand concussive damage should Rosneft attempt to bomb it.’
The grey man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You believe he is the only one who possesses the keys?’
‘For this machine? Yes. For Achenia’s purposes, it is only required to produce a single design, so no need for anyone else to have access. Press a button and it prints.’
‘He must escape from Ag Ghaly?’
‘It seems so,’ said Tiémoko warily.
‘You believe, should he escape, you will be entrusted with these keys?’
Tiémoko shrugged. ‘He is not well. Within a year, he will have need to withdraw from his active role. I have managed such codes for him in the past.’
The grey man’s eyes widened. ‘This is news to us. What is the nature of his illness?’
Tiémoko shrugged once more, offering discretion even for the man he intended to betray.
The grey man was silent. Tiémoko watched him carefully, noticed the delicate nod or shake of the head that revealed the conversation happening via the grey man’s implant.
A decision was reached.
‘How soon can we have the device?’ asked the grey man.
‘That will take time. I have no intention of revealing my involvement. Your capture of the printer must appear to be random misfortune. We have had three attacks by paramilitary groups – probably from Rosneft – in the last few months. Many such attempts are made, and it is guarded and moved regularly. It may take a year before I can create an opportunity for you.’
‘We will pay you only once it is safely in China,’ said the grey man.
‘A quarter when you accept my terms, a quarter when I pass over the encryption keys, and half when I give you the date and location for your attempt at taking it.’
The grey man scowled. ‘I am not sure that will be satisfactory. We will need assurances.’
‘There are no assurances. I did not design it. I have no idea how it works. Once you take control of it, I no longer have any leverage. All I have is its location, and all I can change is the level of security protecting it.’
The grey man pushed back his chair and rose. He did not offer his hand. ‘I will talk to my superiors, and we will let you know our decision.’
He turned and went out through the swing doors, leaving Tiémoko seated in the tiny café.
Tiémoko laughed and turned to call after the waiter, ‘I will have another crepe.’
8
Samboa has been squeezed so long against the saturated sweat of the wall, he can no longer feel where it leans against the flesh of his back.
The baboon appears pleased. The blue-eyed man is explained. Now, what of this husk who pleads and squirms?
The naked man shudders at a glancing moment. ‘No.’ An exhausted moan yielding before the baboon’s continuing swirling search. ‘Not her. I don’t want to see her.’
Capturing it, drawing it out, revealing a dust-swept concrete expanse, people running, surrounded and chased.
-
‘Leave it! Leave it! Keep moving!’ shouted Shakiso, grabbing the elderly man under his shoulder and hurling him up the ramp into the freight drone. With a despairing look back at his felt hat being trodden into the dust of the concrete, he was pushed inside.
A child slipped away from his mother and was swiftly returned. Bags were lost and left. There was tension and stilted silence as the freight drone filled.
‘There isn’t enough time,’ said Haroun, his eyes red, blinking with fatigue and terror.
Five French paratroopers stood halfway between the small airport control tower and the crowd pressed around the drone, facing towards the sound of the approaching battle-front.
The crackling static of gunfire and dull thuds from artillery on the far edge of the camp were smothered by a crunching, wrenching explosion on the side of the control tower. Rubble and dust were flung out and towards them.
People crouched, waited and – seeing no further explosions – pushed even more tightly to get into this, the last drone out of Benghazi. Beyond their group, the other drones had closed their doors and begun to take off.
Shakiso thumped Haroun on the arm, encouraging him, and ran to the back of the crowd where Michèle, her husband and father-in-law were struggling with their four babies. She took one small surprised-looking bundle from the old man.
‘Merci,’ said Michèle, all of them grateful and exhausted.
Shakiso smiled, looking back suddenly as a louder shattering fusillade rattled against the wall on the periphery of the airport.
The camp had been overrun.
Early yesterday morning, Ansar Dine had brought their jihad to Benghazi, having routed the under-equipped remnants of the Libyan army. Seekers fleeing battles elsewhere were once more homeless and running for their lives as international staff began their evacuation.
Paratroopers had pushed their way, amidst panic and shoving mobs, into Shakiso’s office. ‘We can give you twenty-four hours,’ she had been told. That time was almost up. Only staff and their families may escape to Paris on whatever freight drones Shakiso could find on short notice, and only those with legitimate documentation. The nations of Europe were closed to all others.
She had pushed that definition as far as she could. Every drone would leave carrying the limits of its capacity.
‘I hope we get away with this,’ said Haroun, as Shakiso reached the ramp once more.
Another explosion, shattered concrete. The wall was breached.
A black-clad jihadi emerged through the gap, shouting. The paratroopers crouched and began firing. One turned to Shakiso and shook his head. They had run out of time.
Each of the soldiers toggled their pack and was catapulted upwards to the waiting carrier drone which hovered above them.
‘Take him,’ said Shakiso urgently, transferring the baby to Haroun.
She ran again to the rear. ‘Move! Move!’ shouting and pushing the last few up the ramp.
Jihadis were running towards them as the ramp withdrew and the doors began to close.
The drone rose, jerked as a volley of bullets ricocheted across the outside, people gasping and screaming, and lifted rapidly once more.
Shakiso stared down through a window, watching as the jihadis swamped the airport and fired up towards them, safely out of range.
Her hands were trembling, and she wiped her face, smearing dirt and sweat. Haroun was squeezed tightly beside her. He waggled his head from side to side.
‘Plenty of time, boss,’ he said, and smiled.
She laughed.
‘Here, let me take him,’ carefully taking the baby back into her arms, the child still staring at her in astonished surprise. She kissed him gently on the forehead, held him close, breathed in his moist baking-bread baby smell, looking through the forest of heads to Michèle. Nodded, we made it.
It would be just under four hours to Paris.
The coast slipped past beneath them, and those able to look out sighed and relayed the news to the others. Tension abated, but many still looked back and forth nervously.
The air conditioning could not cope with so many so close together, and it was hot and dank. Shakiso’s team further inside the drone began passing bottles of water through the cabin. People leaned and twisted to get their arms up and drink.
‘Will it work?’ asked Haroun.
‘We need to get through immigration, let the media see us. Hopefully they simply open the doors for us. They’ll have to,’ she said, hoping that the simple ruse of abandoning their passports would protect all of them.
She looked down through the tiny window. A long grey line of navy ships and netting divided the Mediterranean north from south: a wall of steel to keep out the millions of seekers who had fled war and devastation and hoped to cross.
A woman to her side offered to take the child and, uncramping her arms, she passed him to her. In the heat, standing up, she dozed, leaning against Haroun.
A change of pitch and she awoke.
They were over Paris and beginning their descent towards Orly Airport. Movement, a few moans, of relief and renewed fear.
The drone landed, rattling and uneven. The doors opened and the ramp extended, the air suddenly clean and cool.
Shakiso, last on, was first off, looking around for where the other drones had landed. She wanted them all gathered in a single mob.
‘Here we go,’ whispered Haroun at her side, gesturing.
Shakiso felt her heart fall. Oktar Samboa, the head of her and Haroun’s organization, was striding towards them from the direction of a set of military vehicles, a group of gendarmes close behind him. His thin, angular face was furious.
‘Stay together,’ shouted Shakiso, the crowd hanging on to each other.
She ran to meet him.
‘What are you doing? Why are we being met like this?’
‘Shut up,’ he said to her, his voice filled with suppressed violence. ‘You know our funding depends on good relations with the French government. You ignored me. How many of these people are illegals?’
‘They’re all family,’ she said. ‘You expect them to leave husbands and wives behind?’
‘Only if they have no visas. You know the rules.’
Shakiso turned to see the gendarmes had set upon the crowd, separating individuals, pushing some towards the waiting vehicles and others back up the ramp into the drone. Their rims flickered as they rapidly identified those who had permission to enter the country, and those who did not.
‘What are you doing?’ she shouted, flinging herself at a gendarme who was attempting to force Michèle’s father-in-law back inside, trying to shove herself between them. Two gendarmes grabbed hold of her, lifted her easily. Children were screaming in terror, shouts and sobbing as families were torn apart.
Shakiso leaned back and hurled a fist into the face of the nearest gendarme, dislodging his rims, which twisted and hung from one ear. He smiled, shook her off and kneed her in the ribs. Haroun leaped on to him.
The brawl was over before it had properly begun. Haroun and Shakiso were bundled into the back of an armoured van along with many of the others who had been fighting. Even as she battered at the door, her hands bloody, howling in despair, she saw Michèle sitting on the tarmac, weeping, her babies on the ground beside her, her husband and father-in-law being forced back on to the freight drone. Watched as the drone took off, taking half the people she had brought out back to Benghazi. Behind it, surrounded by gendarmes, other drones were taking off.
‘We saved them,’ she sobbed. ‘They were safe.’ Staring with hatred and loathing at Samboa where he stood wrapped in his righteousness watching her, a thin smile on his lips.
-
‘I did what was necessary,’ says the naked man. ‘She never understands—’
The baboon waves aside his protests, his eyes unforgiving. Where does she go, this young woman with the storm-filled eyes whose hair burns like flame and who stands as if clawing at the earth?
9
‘Tuft!’ shouted Shakiso as the caracal leaped up off the end of the kayak and on to the protruding rebar.
She turned and stared as Shakiso recovered control of the bouncing craft, her grey eyes cool and unblinking. She sat, yawned and licked her fur. Long ears erect and her characteristic black tufts of hair tailing out from the tips.
Shakiso climbed up and tied the kayak in place, dropped the paddle into the cockpit. She slipped off her spraydeck and deliberately poured water over the cat, who shook her head and glared. Shakiso stuck out her tongue and laughed.
‘Entirely your fault for trying to tip me over,’ she said. Tuft stood and purred, winding herself around Shakiso’s legs.
She hurled the spraydeck into the cockpit and pulled her backpack from the stays at the rear of the kayak.
‘Right,’ scratching Tuft’s head as the cat ran her dry, rasping tongue over her wrist, ‘hope you’re ready, youngster?’
With a hop, she leaped for the edge of the building above her, planted her feet on to the wall, and propelled herself up on to the roof. Tuft landed silently alongside her and purred.
Shakiso stood and looked around. The New Thames Barrier was almost a kilometre further up, hidden behind the domes of the old fuel storage tanks. She could hear dredgers at work, gradually reclaiming Wet London for the city.
A colourful banner was stretched between two spires stranded at different angles in the water: ‘FASCISTS STAY OUT!!!’ The words spray-painted by one of the many socialist communes, anarchist collectives or libertarian survivalist groups which squatted in the wreckage of the old city.
Most were harmless and ignored her. Some were fairly militant – more so with the inevitable progression of the reclamation project – and she took care to keep her distance from them. This must have been too close to the works now, and she had seen no one. Perhaps they had moved further down the river.
She opened her backpack and pulled out a folded jacket and two bands. The larger, she slipped over her temples, adjusting it until it felt comfortable. The smaller band went around the protesting Tuft’s neck, followed by the jacket, which she slipped over the cat’s front legs. Tuft glared at her.
Shakiso grinned. ‘So I don’t have to get you stitched up again. Stop complaining.’
She stood, checked
the seals on her suit, adjusted her own armour and swiped at her earlobe. The augmented display projected from the band showing the route she planned for today. A faint smeared shape in the sky seemed to be a beast-like face. Assuming it was an artefact of the display, she shook her head to clear it, then she dismissed it and opened a broadcast channel.
‘Morning, everyone,’ she said. ‘The sun is just rising over the Wet with a forecast for rain later, and Tuft and I are ready for our run.’ Whoops and calls in the background as thousands joined the channel. She laughed in excitement and then muted the sound. No distractions were needed.
‘For anyone new to my stream, you can switch between Tuft or myself,’ looking down at the caracal, genetically modified for a feral loyalty, who stared wide-eyed up at her. ‘She promises to keep her ears and paws out the way, but you know what she’s like.’
She did a slow sweep across the skyline where dark purple clouds, a strange animal face fading amidst them, formed gargantuan shapes which pressed on the horizon.
‘We’re down from the New Thames Barrier. A lot further than usual since the reclamation seems to be going faster than I expected. We’re heading for that cooling tower straight ahead, and there’s a stack of warehouses, broken machinery, rebar and parts of the old refinery for us to get through.
‘The rules are simple. Using any means possible, get there unaided in less than thirty minutes. And, don’t get killed.’
She took a few short, deep breaths, and – with a full-body roar – flung herself across the undulating roofs of the warehouses. She vaulted over a low concrete wall between two sections, levering herself over with her left arm. Tuft simply leaped and raced ahead.
With a shout, she accelerated, felt the corrugated roof sagging beneath her, sprang forward, rolled and recovered without slowing.
Tuft flew up the vertical wall ahead of her, scrambled over the last metre and disappeared.
She followed. Left foot, right foot, left hand down, right hand just grabbing the top edge, and her momentum carried her over. Rolled, pushed herself upright and sprinted to build up speed.
