Boundary (Field Book 3)

by Simon Winstanley

  Alfred stared down at the three remaining vials of whiskey-coloured liquid nestling inside the silver case. The metathene he put into Kate’s glass of water had acted much faster than he’d anticipated and seemed to confirm the drug’s potency.

  Ego-morphs typically injected the drug using one whole vial at a time and yet a diluted dose, that Kate had taken orally, had produced a virtually instant effect. However, from his previous reading around the subject, this now seemed to make sense. He knew that, in an ego-morph, the cortically enhanced gene was passed down from one single parent. The large metathene doses ego-morphs injected were necessary because only a small proportion was actually absorbed.

  If Kate truly had inherited both her parents’ cortically enhanced traits, then it was possible that she’d always possessed the ability to absorb the metathene more efficiently. Effectively, Alfred realised, he’d given Kate an overdose.

  Within a few minutes of drinking the water she had demonstrated her mental prowess by pointing out connections between pages of her father’s message. Connections that, Alfred now knew, had been highly pertinent to those working on the Field equations.

  There would have been sufficient expertise aboard the Node to extract the relevant emitter information from Douglas’ notes, but Kate had still got there first.

  This demonstration only served to reaffirm Alfred’s theory that Kate had inherited the relevant genetics to allow metathene absorption; but whether the effects were transitory or permanent, he couldn’t predict. He would need to conduct a second experiment, which would probably involve visiting her in the infirmary. He snapped the silver case closed and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

  He walked over to the porthole-like window of his living room and stared out at the fluctuating world. The relative time-frame of the Node was easy to ignore over short intervals; one second inside translated to the passage of twenty minutes outside. But at larger intervals, the multiplication factor was less easy to dismiss; during the single day he’d spent inside the Node’s Field, twelve hundred days had already passed outside.

  The April 1st arrival of Siva was already part of history. The prediction had been that it would impact the lunar fragments in orbit, triggering cascades of deadly meteorites. This far north they had seen nothing except a slight thickening of the lunar debris ring that now surrounded their world.

  Beyond his small window, the accelerated passage of time was turning clouds into fast-moving streams of grey vapour, while the waves on the newly formed sea simply vibrated in place. In less than a minute, the daylight would again slide into dark, Icelandic night.

  The whole world was in flux, he thought, both outside the window and inside his own mind. Despite the millions of deaths that must logically have already happened in the wake of such planetary devastation, he found himself drawn to the thought of one death in particular.

  Alfred knew he wasn’t responsible for Napier’s murder; Bradley Pittman had pulled the trigger that had left the General bleeding-out in a basement room at Andersen Air Force Base. Alfred hadn’t caused Napier’s fatal stomach wound, but in the aftermath he hadn’t attempted to save him either. He’d simply taken advantage of the situation and manipulated Pittman into placing him within the Node.

  When he’d first taken possession of Pittman’s unclaimed suite of rooms, Alfred had realised that the chaos caused by the Node’s premature departure actually represented an opportunity. If he could be seen to impose order on the current chaos, then he could easily place himself in a position of power.

  He stared into the sea. He’d once drawn comparisons between Archive’s endeavours and a lifeboat where only a few people could be saved. The analogy once again rang true for him and a new thought dawned.

  Everyone aboard the Node considered themselves among the saved. Some would see it as a personal success that they had survived, while others would experience intense survivor guilt. However, having been through the ordeal of departure, all of them would want to believe they were now safe.

  People wanted certainty, he thought, they wanted simplicity.

  Both were completely useless in terms of motivation.

  Fear, on the other hand, was an excellent motivator.

  Outside the window, darkness swept in.

  He had once persuaded a far smaller group of people to adopt a morally unconventional method of global population control.

  This would be simpler.

  As before, it would come down to maintaining imbalance and the illusion of choice.

  DUSK

  21st January 2014

  Marcus Blake had spent most of his adult life evading capture by authority figures. Wearing a cloak of anonymity, he could move through most of his digital targets with freedom. If his attempts to circumvent a system failed, then there was little consequence; though on a few occasions he’d been forced to abandon technology before authorities discovered his physical whereabouts.

  In the outside world, a physical escape was comparatively easy. Here, inside the closed habitat of the USV, there were limited places to run to. The solution, he knew, was to avoid the running part altogether. It had not been easy.

  He’d arrived into this underground cavern on the back of a single Eurotunnel train carriage along with Sabine Dubois. They’d narrowly avoided detection during their first few minutes here thanks to a disturbance in the village’s lake. They hadn’t seen the disturbance themselves, but in the ensuing chaos, no-one saw their unauthorised arrival or their theft of a few significant Archive supplies.

  Of the various pieces of technology he’d lifted from the back of the carriage, his favourite was the military spec laptop. A little heavier than the one he’d been forced to abandon in Paris, but with one distinct advantage; military grade network camouflage. When they’d stolen it, the kit had still been in its packaging and, crucially, uninitialised. Marcus had found the start-up sequence laughably trivial to circumvent and, after installing himself as the primary user, had full control of its capabilities.

  Although he didn’t yet have full access to the USV servers, the digital camouflage made his laptop transparent to the network, ensuring that his hacking attempts were undetectable; a luxury he’d never had before. Archive had built these devices as an extension of their own paranoia; the desire to invisibly eavesdrop on their adversaries without detection. Marcus felt a huge amount of ironic satisfaction that he was now the one using the device, and that it was performing perfectly.

  Camouflage in the physical world was more difficult however.

  Since Marcus and Sabine’s arrival, no-one had been looking for them, because they were not even aware of their presence. Marcus had been keen to maintain that impression so they’d spent the last three weeks moving between unoccupied areas of the dome’s interior, surviving on stolen ration packs and sleeping in shifts.

  Currently they were hiding in the unlit and inert Samphire Station. Since the sealing of the entrance to the Eurotunnel, the spur station hadn’t been used, providing them with a temporary place to avoid detection by the Peace Keepers.

  From a lifetime of studying people’s online behaviour, Marcus knew that humans were creatures of habit. The world had changed, but people took their behaviour with them; the Peace Keepers were a prime example.

  From the information available to Marcus on the USV network, he’d learned that Archive had created worldwide ‘Hives’ of weaponized hovering drones, deployable in mass numbers against any target it saw fit. Once again, Archive had maintained its doctrine that a population needed constant surveillance and control. At any cost. The Peace Keeper drones, which could be fitted with an array of weaponry, could not suffer from conscience and would execute orders without question.

  The Peace Keeper drones within the USV were no different; a deployable resource to offer peace of mind to all those willing to accept Archive’s terms of residence, or a source of fear to those who would oppose the system.

  Currently, access to the USV Hive was outside o
f Marcus’ reach, something that he hoped would change today.

  “Sabine?” he called her over.

  “Maintenant?” she checked her watch.

  “Oui,” he nodded, it was time to move.

  She placed a blue inhaler in her mouth and administered the dose, then passed it to Marcus. Although the dispenser looked similar to an asthma inhaler, its function was not to widen the airways of the lungs. If anything, Marcus knew, it widened access to the mind.

  The inhaled compound had been reverse engineered during his time in the Warren, using knowledge acquired by Monica Walker and Miles Benton. Structurally, it bore a resemblance to the ego-morph drug metathene, enhancing pre-existing abilities, but the effects were short-term.

  “Good luck,” she said in English.

  “Et toi,” he wished the same to her.

  •

  With a certain amount of satisfaction, Bradley watched Monica forcing herself to back down from the confrontation he’d been provoking. Drawing from his memory of shooting General Napier, he’d painted a vivid but false picture of her husband’s death. Enjoying his moment of power over her, he’d then conjured up an equally imaginative strangulation death for her daughter.

  The truth was that after his helicopter had narrowly escaped the fence-breaching crowd outside the Node, he’d lost track of both Douglas and Kate. They may have died or they may have made it inside, he didn’t know for certain, but he felt justified in inflicting mental anguish on Monica; as though every ounce of pain she experienced would somehow lessen his own.

  For Bradley, it seemed that every Pittman generation had given so much. His father had been responsible for kick-starting the Apollo program, the original generational bunkers at Cheyenne Mountain, even the fusion reactors that now powered most of Archive’s various endeavours.

  When his father had died, Bradley had assumed control of the Pittman empire and diverted vast quantities of the family fortune into the development of Douglas Walker’s Chronomagnetic Field generator. The Node was supposed to be his family’s ticket to skipping over the oncoming destruction but when the crowd had breached the perimeter fence, those hopes had vanished and he’d been forced to flee. The injustice of the situation multiplied when he’d arrived at Archive’s Eurotunnel embarkation facility in France.

  Smartphone footage and data, transmitted from General Napier’s phone, suggested that he and Alfred Barnes were complicit in the death of Napier himself. Bradley had suffered the humiliation of being bundled aboard the train in handcuffs, like a common murderer. Millions had been about to die from lunar fragment impacts and yet he stood accused of killing a single man; a man who, in his opinion, would have advocated reopening the bunkers to the general public. It amazed him that no-one could see the good in his actions; the resources within each of the bunkers would now last longer for the few that were saved.

  Annoyingly, he thought, some of those USV resources were being wasted on Monica Walker. Even behind bars, she still needed feeding.

  “It’s only these bars that separate us,” she stared at him.

  “Yeah, well, these bars are here for my protection,” he replied, tapping on the steel, “Not yours.”

  Her aggressive stance seemed to subside and she glanced around the cell before replying in a calm tone.

  “You may be the one who’s free to take a walk around your glorified hole in the ground but it’s still just a cage. You’re just as trapped as me.”

  He knew she was probably right. The world above his head had been snatched from him. In all likelihood, he’d live out the remainder of his days buried here under Dover.

  But in this small contained kingdom, he still had power.

  Laughing, he turned his back on her.

  “You just keep tellin’ yourself that,” he banged his fist twice on the outer door of the detention facility, “Reckon I might just have me a stroll round that beautiful lake of yours.”

  It was time to highlight the nature of her captivity and make a demonstration.

  The door opened and he walked out into the simulated sunlight, where his daughter stood waiting. Sarah had been his greatest advocate in achieving his freedom within USV3. She had argued that the photographic Napier evidence was entirely circumstantial and not directly attributable to her father alone. The fact that Andersen Air Force Base now lay under the surface of the Pacific Ocean meant that Napier’s body could never be examined. All that could be confirmed from the data trail was that Napier’s smartphone had remotely deactivated Archive’s security and that Napier himself was missing. In what he considered a moment of genius, Bradley had asserted that Napier was actually still alive and covering up the massive security breach by framing him for murder. Within an hour of stepping from the Eurotunnel carriage, Bradley was a free man.

  “Any luck?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m done talkin’ to that woman,” he gestured for her to hand back his touchscreen tablet, “Time to shout louder… is the Mercer woman prepped?”

  Sarah nodded quietly and returned his tablet.

  “Dad?” she frowned, “I’m concerned this is setting the wrong example. You said that she was involved in the planning stages of the USV, she could be helpful. Wouldn’t it be wiser to find an alternative demonstration?”

  Bradley tapped at the tablet and restarted the holding cell camera software, then looked up to see her concerned face.

  “I know it don’t seem right, Pumpkin-pie,” he smiled, “But someday you’ll understand. These people damn near brought the roof down on us. As long as there’s even one of ‘em free, they’re a threat to everyone in here… and that includes you.”

  The artificial sun directly above them at the dome’s summit was no longer running at full intensity; the elements were slowly powering down to simulate the approach of dusk. The USV would soon descend into night but in this moment, framed against the warm tones of the lake, he thought his daughter looked beautiful. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Ain’t no-one gonna threaten my li’l girl. People have got to know that our society won’t tolerate terrorism,” he smiled weakly, “Now, go home Sal. You don’t wanna be seeing this.”

  “You’re right, Dad,” she shook her head, “It doesn’t seem right, and I don’t understand.”

  All his life, he’d protected her from Archive’s more uncomfortable truths, but soon she would see for herself the type of sacrifice he’d made to protect her naivety.

  He watched her leave, then walked around the corner of the detention facility. Ahead lay the village square, where the occupants of the USV had gathered around the central water feature.

  The abstract metallic sculpture had several smooth holes through which water flowed freely. The gently cascading water ran down the shiny surface to the shallow basin below, where it was collected and recycled.

  Standing ankle-deep in this water and tied to the holes was Geraldine Mercer.

  •

  Sabine could feel the effects of the inhaler enhancing her already keen spatial perception. As in Paris a few weeks ago, the alleyways, ladders and rooftops seemed to flow effortlessly under her outstretched hands and feet.

  From what Marcus had explained, her mother’s name had appeared on a list along with twenty-two others. ‘Bishop’s list’ detailed people who, despite being labelled ‘Substandard’, had an underlying genetic augmentation. In their first meeting, Marcus had identified Sabine as a direct descendant and impressed on her that she must accompany him to a safe venue. At the time, she’d thought it was the worst chat-up line she’d ever heard and told him so.

  But then the sky had started to fall and everything had changed.

  Before the news of Siva, she used to love losing herself in the city; running, jumping and swinging through the architectural sprawl. Now, this ability seemed to have a purpose. She sped on towards the village square.

  In the few short weeks she’d been here, their travels had given her a good sense of the USV’s layout. At
the centre was the lake and village square; radiating outwards were eight compass-direction roads that divided the disc-like floor into equal segments. Some of the segments appeared to be devoted to farmland while others contained a selection of low-level housing, storage silos and water tanks. Surrounding the circular village, like an immense bicycle tyre, was the orbital rail track. Beyond this the floor curved sharply upwards to become the vaulted, bowl-like ceiling that overarched the whole USV. At the top of this negatively-defined space, in a permanent noon position, was the vast heat lamp sun.

  Ahead she could see that a few people were still making their way to the gathering, so she ran into a narrow alleyway to avoid them. Without dropping her speed, she leapt into the air and planted one foot against the wall, then immediately used it to launch herself further up the opposing wall, before turning again to spring onto a flat roof. She continued her sprint, speed vaulting over air conditioning ducts and service pipes until she reached the building’s edge. Keeping low, she looked out over the village square.

  The sunlight had the slightly orange-hued quality of dusk, but the shadows here at the centre of the USV fell directly beneath people and objects. Lacking the long, evening shadows to anchor things to the ground, the village square and its occupants appeared eerily detached.

  From somewhere below, she could hear a child’s questioning tones. The mother’s reply was short and hushed. To Sabine’s ear, the only word that stood out was the one sounding like ‘obligatoire’. It seemed that attendance here was not a matter of choice.

  Sabine looked towards the middle of the square where everyone had begun gathering around the central water feature. To her horror, she could see that an old woman was tied to it.

  Wasting no time, Sabine pulled off her backpack and retrieved the small device that Marcus had given to her. She opened out its miniature tripod legs and set it down on the flat roof. Slowly turning the small parabolic dish in the direction of the metallic water feature, she watched the LED indicator on the rear of the device. After a few seconds of turning, the light changed from red to yellow. She slowed the turning rate again.