The Embers of Hope: A science-fiction thriller (Hibernation Series Book 2)
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The Embers of Hope
Nick Jones
Prologue
Sydney, Australia.
March 2052
‘Are you watching the news?’ the man asked. It was an instruction, not a question.
Professor George Mohanty made a subtle sweeping gesture and the room, previously bathed in soft morning sunlight, darkened. An entire wall filled with crisp, moving imagery.
‘Which channel?’ he asked.
‘All of them,’ the man replied, voice clear and calm.
George flicked between the stations. The man was right; it dominated the news that morning. He settled on a channel where the newsflash tagline seemed to be shouting: AUSTRALIAN MINERS FOUND ALIVE!
Relief and excitement surged through him. So often these stories ended with sadness, with tearful statements from family members and solemn death tolls delivered by exhausted reporters.
God knows we could do with some good news.
He padded across the warm carpet of his high-rise apartment, poured some orange juice and marveled at the random nature of life. He had been so sure those miners were never getting out, yet here were scenes of celebration, of reunion and happiness.
The man continued, ‘I need you to meet me at the mine,’ he said. ‘Can you do it?’
George looked down over the harbour where tiny boats bobbed amidst a sea of golden reflections. It had been a week since his last trip; he was missing having his feet in one place for a while. It wasn’t really a question, of course – George understood that – but he was still annoyed at the man’s expectation of compliance.
‘I didn’t catch your name?’ George asked, deliberately goading him.
‘Victor Reyland,’ the man replied without apology. ‘Professor, something has happened here, something you will find very interesting. I can assure you it will be worth your time.’
‘What could this possibly have to do with me? With neuroscience?’
‘Trust me, you need to see this for yourself. Your flight is booked. You will be picked up within the hour.’
He hung up and George’s attention was drawn back to the tearful, emotional celebrations on the screen. A man, face blackened, eyes wet and wild, was shouting into the camera. It was one of the miners, surrounded by cheering people, arms raised up. He was just skin and bone and crying now, and although the translation was sketchy, the essence was clear.
‘I heard a voice,’ the man wept, ‘in the darkness. There was nothing and then I heard him, the voice of God. He guided me, guided us all from the darkness.’
Mohanty was already packing.
* * *
The mining town of Newman had been relatively unknown, a barren stretch of arid land. When news of the disaster broke, the world’s media descended and a strange kind of community sprung up out of the dusty terrain, surrounding the area for miles. Tents, vans, temporary accommodation, news teams and hordes of well-wishers all lumped together in a colourful array of activity. The army cordoned off the site, the rescue teams moved in and the world watched and waited for news. The town of Newman had gone from obscurity to household name, and then – as of this morning – become a world-famous symbol of hope.
George Mohanty travelled past a sign that read MINING VEHICLES ON ROAD, 25KM, and then another that read NEWMAN TOURIST INFORMATION CENTRE. Hammered below it was a handmade sign that simply read CLOSED.
After passing through two roadblocks he arrived at the main entrance of the Newman Mining Company. As he stepped out of the car, George was confronted with the noise and intensity of a good news story. The place was in a frenzy; everywhere he looked, wide-eyed people were celebrating the miraculous news. A line of reporters was answering the world’s insatiable appetite for details, and in the far distance the arcing shape of a drilling platform rose up from the ground.
George wasn’t given the chance to soak up the buzz; he was flanked by two soldiers and quickly escorted into a building.
The main office had been taken over by the rescue teams coordinating the recovery effort. Clothes and equipment were strewn everywhere and he suspected the owners were outside revelling in the victory of an unprecedented rescue.
The two soldiers guided him without words through empty corridors and the noise and bustle of the excited crowd faded away. It was eerily quiet, but cooler, which was a relief compared to the intense heat of his journey.
They reached an office at the end of a long hallway. The soldiers told him to go inside. George did so and they left.
Standing in the centre of the room was a tall, suited man. His stature suggested many years spent at rigid attention. He moved toward George and thrust out his hand. ‘Victor Reyland’, he said, radiating a confident grin. ‘Thank you for coming, Professor.’
Mohanty took his hand. For a man clearly in his mid-sixties, Reyland had the grip of a young marine. ‘Please, call me George,’ he said.
Reyland nodded.
A patchwork of maps, printed forms and handwritten notes littered the grubby walls. The stale odour of cigarette smoke and grease lingered. A cheap plaque on the desk revealed that the office belonged to the Managing Director of the mining operation.
Reyland picked up a large mug of coffee and took a sip. ‘Those miners were fucked, you know it, we all know it, and yet…’ He paused, took another sharp sip. ‘They are alive, and up here it’s all smiles and happiness.’
He sighed heavily and raised his head as if in deep thought. ‘They made it out because they managed to contact us, to give us their location.’
George was confused. It had been made clear on many occasions that all communication had been lost, that the search was akin to finding a needle in a haystack. Multiple tunnels had collapsed and no one knew if the miners were even alive.
‘If they made contact,’ George said, ‘why didn’t they share that on the news?’
Reyland’s cyan blue eyes pierced him. George felt he was being studied and his stomach dropped a little. Reyland smiled, a brief and singular gesture, and the intensity lifted, gone as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Professor,’ he said, ignoring the first-name request. ‘One of the miners made contact with a reporter.’
‘Okay,’ George said. ‘And?’
‘Seems he used some kind of telepathy.’
Reyland enunciated the word with deliberate clarity, and in a rush of understanding George knew why they had sent for him.
‘Can I meet him?’ he asked, questions racking up.
‘In time, but there’s something else.’ Reyland walked to a large oak table in the centre of the room and picked up a polished steel box. It responded to his touch, lid popping open with a quiet hiss. He turned it towards Mohanty.
‘The miner said he found this down there. The telepathy started when he touched it.’
Mohanty stared at the object, solid black and glossy. It looked like polished onyx, but as the light caught it he noticed a strange red tinge moving in the centre.
‘What is it?’ he asked, transfixed.
‘That, George, is what you’re here to find out.’
Chapter 1
India, 2092
(40 years later)
Nathan O’Brien pulled himself out of bed and scratched at his thick beard. The light cutting across the floor revealed it was early morning, which meant he’d slept again, a long, deep slumber that should have left him feeling refreshed. He blinked a few times, aware that it was taking longer to collect his thoughts into something useful these days. Slowly, his life came back to him in jagged fragments.
He concentrated and clarity returned. He was in India. He was with George Mohanty.
He exhaled and felt the familiar wave of guilt that followed these moments of recollection and remembering. It was always the same, a rush of understanding followed by a cruel sense of loss.
Nathan had loved two women in his life, and both were gone. His wife had been murdered, taken years ago from a life he could no longer imagine – and more recently Jennifer Logan, a Duality police officer he had known just long enough to fall for.
Another swell of emotion; loss, then guilt. He should be thinking of his wife – and only her – but Jen’s face was the one that lingered when the world returned and took his dreams. He tried to reassure himself it was simply the timing, that Jen was more recent and that was why he kept seeing her. The truth though, couldn’t be ignored or denied. He was in love with Jennifer Logan, and Mohanty had offered a small glimmer of hope.
Nathan was going to bring Jen back.
He didn’t know how, but he would do it. Nathan nodded silently as his body shuddered, reminding him it was cold – ‘a healthy temperature,’ his host kept assuring him. He tilted his head, listening. He expected to hear George clattering around in the kitchen, but the house was quiet. The old man’s life seemed to consist almost entirely of moving from one job to the next. It was a routine of survival that Nathan admired. Wood was always chopped, animals killed and gutted, building maintenance ticked off against an endless checklist, clothes washed, repaired and folded. Most chores were essential, but some were purely to add pleasure to a basic standard of living - like fresh herbs ground and added to a stew. Nathan liked the old man, but he was growing tired of their cryptic and brief conversations. That was going to change. Today.
He walked to the bathroom. It was small, with a tiny recessed window and plastered stone walls that resembled a roughly decorated cake. He peered into the mirror. Mohanty had been feeding him well and he had finally gained some weight, was actually starting to look healthier. He studied himself and wondered if he would ever get used to seeing this reflection, ever become familiar with a face that didn’t belong to him. He turned his head from side to side and frowned. This body was on loan and its return was well overdue. The body swap had been a necessary procedure, enabling untraceable access to the UN safe zones, but they would be looking for him now and each month meant an additional fine.
He felt guilt for his donor, too. When he had received this body, it had been in peak physical condition but in the last few months, neglect had taken its toll. Again he tried to process the time since her death. Where had he been? What had he been doing?
As real as his own reflection, Jen’s face appeared, beautiful yet pale, layered like sheets of ice. Nathan was transported back, kneeling in the snow where he had watched her die. He felt their one and only kiss, heard her voice.
Promise me you’ll finish this.
Instinctively he reached for the ring, threaded through a leather bootlace and tied around his neck. He had taken it from Jen after she died. He closed his eyes and sighed, still struggling to piece together the events since then. He had killed people, but he was damned if he could remember how many. He had searched out George Mohanty, believing that if he found him he might find his own path again, find some purpose.
Unfortunately, George wasn’t a man to be rushed. ‘In time I will tell you everything,’ the old man had assured him. ‘But first you must rest and allow your mind time to process what has happened to you. You are grieving and your body is weak. Rest and then we will talk.’
Nathan took another long, deep breath and exhaled loudly. Mohanty was a wise man for sure but frustrating, too; a hard worker by day and a committed drinker by night. Nathan would need to pick his moment carefully.
He stripped and washed using a small square of flannel, handmade soap and cold water. All the while he looked longingly at the pipework, imagining the luxury of bathing in warm water. Since his arrival, almost two weeks ago, George had only lit the furnace once.
Nathan dried off, dressed in clothes left out for him in a neat pile and opened the wooden shutters, bathing the room in warm sunlight that made dust dance and swirl.
The house was nestled atop a steep hillside. In the distance he saw smoke trails and towns dotted against a patchwork of lakes and rivers. India was one of the outer zones, lawless and abandoned, pockets of humanity eking out an existence. It was considered uninhabitable by the UN, yet on his few trips out, Nathan had seen many examples of life flourishing here, glimmers of the world before the warming, before the flooding.
He grabbed his notepad, which was filled with questions, ideas and thoughts, and was about to leave the room when he stopped. He had hidden the box under a loose floorboard beneath his bed. Nathan knelt and pressed the board. It popped up, and he reached into the dusty space, lifting the box out, placing it atop a large wooden cabinet. When Jennifer Logan found the object – the Histeridae, as she’d called it – it had been in this box, buried years ago by her father, hidden from the Government and even Jen herself. It was dangerous, a mind-control device that enabled them to do incredible things but had, in the end, cost Jen her life.
He paused for a moment, swallowed and then cracked open the lid. The object, glossy black and polished to perfection, seemed to glow. Each morning he felt the need to look at it, becoming increasingly convinced it wanted him to. He remembered Jen telling him that in the end it had been impossible not to touch it. Nathan could feel his fingers drawn to it, felt his heart rate increase rapidly and a sense of the walls drawing him inward.
He flipped the lid shut.
His pulse returned to normal, the banging of blood in his ears eased and he glanced up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. He had tried on numerous occasions to use the Histeridae. Each time he had passed out and woken with a bleeding nose, no recollection of events and a headache that lasted days. In the end, Nathan accepted the painful truth. He was unable to use the device.
Mohanty hadn’t said it directly, but Nathan was beginning to wonder if only certain people could access it. Was it programmed that way? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know where it came from. He was convinced of one thing, though: Jen had been gifted. Her abilities with the object had grown in the short time he had known her, and she’d been able to control multiple people without them knowing.
He replaced the box and checked the hard drive was still there, next to it. It contained documents and data that proved the sinister truth behind the Government-enforced Hibernation programme. People were being brainwashed, told what to think, what to feel, what to believe.
Nathan shuddered, but this time it wasn’t from the cold.
Chapter 2
Nathan found the house empty, as expected. The smell of cinnamon and coffee clung to the air, but he wasn’t hungry. He could still feel last night’s hearty meal sitting heavy in his stomach. He remembered George eating three helpings and then wiping his bowl clean with a wedge of bread. For such a small man, he ate a lot of food.
Nathan was growing impatient. George had promised that today they would talk, and now he was nowhere to be seen. Nathan cursed, pulled on his boots and stepped outside.
It was July and warm, and even though the air was thick with humidity it was welcome after the bitter cold of a Russian winter. George’s smallholding – three pigs, some goats, chickens and a considerable vegetable plot – was well kept. He tended to it daily and ensured things were clean and in order. Nathan saw the old man feeding his pigs and chatting to them as the sun, a beautiful ball of red, rose over the misty hillside. Nathan joined him.
‘It was all covered in smog once,’ George said. Nathan followed his gaze and in the far distance saw a city, shining gold. George continued, shaking feed towards the hungry, snuffling pigs. ‘Now, the cars and people are gone and
the sky is clear again. Tells you something.’
‘That people are bad news?’
‘Some, maybe.’ Mohanty sighed. ‘People who live here now have hard lives, many hand-to-mouth, but they are more in tune with nature. In a strange way I think it’s better.’ He paused, head down. ‘They are scared, though; they fear change and they don’t like it when someone new arrives. There is equilibrium here. The mayor, local militia, workers, thieves, bad and good. It works, and before you came along, it suited me just fine.’ He grabbed a rag and started cleaning his hands roughly.
‘I’m sorry if me being here makes things difficult for you,’ Nathan offered.
Mohanty threw the rag into a bucket and chewed his lip. He turned and faced him. ‘It brings attention, but it can’t be helped.’
‘Who’s the mayor?’ Nathan asked.
‘She runs things, keeps the peace mainly.’
Nathan studied him, a thousand questions burning inside. He moved closer and chose his words carefully. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done for me,’ he said, ‘but you promised we would talk. I need to know if Jennifer is…’ He folded his arms. ‘I have to know.’
George sighed. ‘They will be coming soon, the mayor and her people. I was hoping we would have longer, but we should expect her in the next few days.’
‘Then please,’ Nathan said, ‘can we sit down and talk, tonight?’
George’s face changed. He smiled, a reluctant gesture that Nathan feared would mean more excuses, but then he bobbed his head gently, repeatedly, blinking his eyes. ‘Yes, okay,’ he said. ‘After dinner, I will tell you everything.’
They spent the afternoon on chores and ate dinner together, a caloric stew of meat and vegetables that left Nathan feeling like lead. The light began to fade and, as always, George began to drink.
‘I’ve enjoyed having you here.’ George said, smiling. ‘It’s good to have some company after all these years. But…’ His face dropped and he appeared to be struggling.