by RR Haywood
‘Yeah, like a huge square . . . buildings further back but it was too quick to recognise anything,’ Ben says.
‘Couldn’t have been Piccadilly,’ Emily says. ‘Must have been Trafalgar Square.’
‘Wasn’t Trafalgar,’ Safa says. ‘I’ve worked Trafalgar.’
‘Something has changed then,’ Ben says.
‘We’ll deploy further out,’ Miri says.
‘Piccadilly is gone?’ Malcolm asks.
‘We are not in the guessing business, Mr Phillips. We will deploy further out from the centre of the city.’
‘Did anyone see you?’ Emily asks Safa.
‘Oh, only about four or five thousand,’ Safa says.
‘Seriously?’ Emily asks, snorting a laugh at the way Safa said it.
‘Okay,’ Ben says, his head dropping as he rubs his jaw and thinks back through all the insurance investigations he conducted in central London. ‘There’s a gardener’s hut on the edge of the Serpentine Lake in Hyde Park. One of the ground-workers sliced a finger off. It’s quite big, plus . . .’
‘The finger’s big?’ Safa asks.
‘No, the gardener’s hut and, believe it or not, it’s actually a listed building so it shouldn’t have moved . . . Mind you, half of Piccadilly was listed too.’
‘Hyde Park in summer?’ Miri enquires.
‘Evening though,’ Ben says. ‘Gardeners don’t work in the evening . . . It’s not far from the café there. It’ll be busy, but at least the Blue will be hidden.’
‘M and K, get the camera rigged and ready,’ Miri orders. ‘Take five while we get the GPS.’
‘That’s worrying,’ Ben says, following Miri into her office. ‘Piccadilly, I mean.’
‘We will see,’ she says bluntly, reaching for another tablet filled with world atlas, maps and GPS data of every inch of the planet Earth. ‘It confirms the first location was correct.’
‘The kitchen? Yeah, I guess it does. London is a big city and redevelopment is common but somewhere like Piccadilly wouldn’t be touched.’
‘You are the investigator, Mr Ryder. I am sure you will find out. Did you see clothing?’ she asks, working on the tablet to find the coordinates.
‘Glanced. Nothing outrageous from what I could see,’ Ben says, thinking back to the snatched view he gained. ‘Did you double check my GPS numbers?’
‘Don’t second guess yourself,’ she says, ‘but check this is the right location.’
‘Don’t second guess yourself,’ he says, checking both sets of numbers. ‘Yep, they’re fine. Safa? We’re ready.’
‘WE HAVEN’T MADE A BREW YET.’
‘HAVE ONE IN A MINUTE,’ Ben calls back. ‘Hyde Park,’ he explains as they walk back into the portal room. ‘Harry, grab that side, mate. We’ll shrink the portal down again . . . Bit more . . . Yeah, that should do it. Right, try that . . . Camera on?’
‘It’s on,’ Konrad says, pushing the end up his nose as Emily screws her face up in distaste at the perfect view of his hairy nasal passage on the screen.
‘Activating.’ Miri switches the portal on and any sense of occasion vanishes as Ben takes the camera from Konrad and shoves it through the Blue while turning to see the screen filling with the image of the inside of a gardener’s hut. Tools hanging from the walls. Coveralls and clothing on hooks. Weird-looking machines rest on the floor with a bizarre blend of new and old.
‘Looks empty,’ he says.
‘What’s that?’ Konrad asks urgently, taking a step closer to the screen with an expression of sudden focus that makes the tension in the room increase as Miri readies to end the connection.
‘Where? What did you see?’ Ben asks.
‘Back to the left a bit,’ Konrad says quickly, waving his hand at Ben while studying the tablet screen showing the live feed.
Everyone stares at it. Seeing the hand tools fixed to the walls in the darkened interior of the hut.
‘Bit more . . . Bit more,’ Konrad whispers. ‘Just a bit more . . . There! See that?’
‘What?’ Ben asks, his tone urgent and his hand tensed to pull the camera back.
‘Malc, see that?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Malcolm says slowly while shaking his head. ‘Well, I never.’
‘Never what?’ Safa snaps. ‘What the hell are we looking at?’
‘That,’ Konrad says, pointing at the screen, ‘is an anti-grav ride-on hover mower. Unbelievable. We heard they were in testing in our time but, bloody hell, they’ve actually done it, Malc.’
‘They have, Kon. Looks good too,’ Malcolm says.
‘You bloody twat,’ Safa says as everyone else releases their held breaths. ‘A sodding lawnmower?’
‘Not just a lawnmower,’ Konrad says, holding a hand up to Safa as though to stop her talking. ‘That is a magnetic displacement mower. Uses the earth’s gravitational wotsit to . . . well, to . . . See, right, what it does is it hovers over the ground—’
‘Like a hovercraft?’ Ben asks.
‘Yeah, a hovercraft,’ Konrad says, nodding at Ben. ‘No! Not a hovercraft. Not like with air blowing down. That doesn’t have air . . . It . . . You know . . . Like magnetic and . . . You know when you get two magnets and they sometimes push away from each other? It’s like that . . .’
‘Oh wow,’ Ben says, genuinely impressed. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah,’ Konrad says, nodding more eagerly. ‘So no physical touching but, right, well, we heard in our time they was testing it so the magnetic resistance thingy could be weakened to make the vehicle sit lower or ride higher . . . cos a lawnmower’s got to be low, hasn’t it . . . to cut the grass . . .’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Ben says.
‘Will vehicles be the same?’ Harry asks.
‘I bet they will be,’ Konrad says, looking to Malcolm. ‘If they’re using something like that in a place like Hyde Park you can bet they’re using them on the roads too . . . Hey, maybe there’s, like, no roads now at all! Maybe everything just hovers above your head and . . .’
‘I saw . . .’ Ben says quickly, looking at Safa who points back at him.
‘In Piccadilly,’ Safa says, ‘some people were holding handlebars . . . like kids’ scooters.’
‘Yes! Did you see that?’ Ben says.
‘Er . . . I just said it,’ Safa says.
‘Grav boards,’ Konrad says, nodding knowingly while adopting a general manner of knowingness.
‘Right, I really want to go in now,’ Ben says, pulling the camera back. ‘Harry, you grab that side . . . Got to try a grav board . . . Are they actually called grav boards?’
‘No idea,’ Konrad says brightly.
‘Bring one back with you, Ben,’ Malcolm says.
‘I’ll try. We might be able to hire them from somewhere, like they did with the bicycles in London . . . er, you know, after we’ve, er . . . checked everything,’ he adds, spotting the look from Miri. The Blue extends out, warping in shape as the four corners are moved to make the doorway-sized portal. Ben leans in, checking the inside of the hut with the naked eye before popping back into the portal room. ‘Yep, looks clear. Me and Safa again?’
‘Confirmed,’ Miri says. ‘Check the view outside the building, the perimeter, is there a view inside through windows . . .’
‘Got it,’ Ben says. ‘Safa?’
‘Yep.’ She walks through to the inside of a gardener’s hut on the edge of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, Central London, in the year 2111. She looks round, seeing grimy barred windows clearly made from toughened safety glass. ‘Alarm,’ she tells Ben as he comes through after her. ‘Don’t move for a minute.’
Motes of dust hang in thermals that smell of cut grass, oil and machinery. The air is thinner too and not the oxygen-rich atmosphere of the bunker. An instant difference in temperature, humidity and their place in the world. She looks round for PIR sensors or any alarm system that could be triggered by motion or movement within the hut. Nothing. She waves her arms. Nothing.
‘Can I move?’ Ben asks.
; ‘Yep,’ she says quietly, looking outside to a limited view of close trees and shrubs. Sounds of voices. Music from a distance. All normal and steady. She goes to the window on the other side of the hut, while Ben looks closer at the hover lawnmower. She sees the same view outside. Trees, shrubs and grass. ‘Clever.’
‘It is,’ Ben says, looking at the machine.
‘Not that,’ she chuckles. ‘Outside, they’ve let the shrubs grow right up to the windows to prevent people getting in. Those prickly ones too with the big thorns. Good security.’
‘Ah, right,’ Ben says, standing up. ‘So, can we go out?’
‘Alarm might go off,’ she says. ‘Can you see an alarm box anywhere? Places like this always write the code in pencil somewhere near it.’
‘Er . . .’ Ben looks round, not seeing anything that looks like an alarm panel. ‘Nope.’
‘See any cameras anywhere?’
‘Nope.’
She moves to the back to an ancient wooden desk clearly used for whatever small admin the gardeners have to do. A large screen tablet is chained to the table.
‘Didn’t log off,’ Ben says from behind her, reaching past to touch the screen.
She turns her head to kiss his cheek as he smiles at seeing the icon marked alarm and the simple on / off settings. He clicks it off then bursts out laughing as Safa sticks the tip of her tongue in his ear and turns to look at her, seeing the humour in her eyes and the sense of play etched on her face. She tilts her head back a fraction, biting her bottom lip as she glances round with a sudden urge taking over. The muted light coming through the windows. The dust particles hanging in the air. The backdrop of noise and being alone with Ben in the real world away from the bunker and everyone else.
‘What the . . .’ he whispers in shock, his eyes widening when she reaches out to pull him in to kiss hard.
‘We’re just kissing,’ she says breathlessly, pulling back a fraction after a minute.
‘Just kissing,’ he whispers.
‘Just kissing,’ she says.
A few minutes later they step out onto a well-worn track that leads down to a wide tarmacked path snaking through the three hundred and fifty acres of Hyde Park in the heart of London.
A man and woman walking hand in hand glance up at Ben and Safa staring round with glowing rosy cheeks, sweaty foreheads and hair tussled as they straighten clothing. A shared look between them all. Man to man. Woman to woman. No words needed as all four chuckle and dip heads with knowing smiles.
‘Nice evening?’ the man calls up.
‘Very nice,’ Ben calls out, grinning widely. He takes Safa’s hand and walks down to the path to stroll in the beautiful warm sunshine of a summer evening. ‘My legs are still trembling,’ he whispers.
‘Mine too,’ she says with a laugh. ‘We’ll be stuffed if we have to run anywhere . . . I can’t believe we just did that. I’ve never done anything like that before . . .’
They walk slowly on, hand in hand while trying to take everything in, both of them scanning people and clothing.
Some things stand out instantly. Men in skirts and loose sarong-type wraparounds and Ben spots a muscular bearded guy wearing a vest top that shows the plunging cleavage of his impressive breasts. Ben focusses to hide his surprise, then spots more rugged-looking men with breasts and an obvious fashion for heavy eyeliner worn by both genders, thick kohl under and over their eyes. Everyone looks healthy and fit. Toned muscles everywhere. Tattoos on display on nearly every patch of skin. A young boy and girl run past, the girl chasing the boy, and both laughing in delight while their mum calls out for them to slow down. Both children have tattoos on their arms and legs and the heavy eyeliner, which suggests to Ben that the tattoos aren’t permanent. He spots men hand in hand. Women hand in hand and, as ever in London, all races, colours and creeds. Mixed races everywhere. Hints of Asian, Chinese, Japanese, Indian and African and, in that regard, it’s all familiar and normal.
He inhales as he thinks and only then realises that the air, despite being thinner, is sweet and untainted with vehicles fumes. Instead he can detect the perfumes and aftershaves of the people around him.
‘Grav board,’ he says with a big grin at the sight of child gliding silently by on what looks like a hovering skateboard. He has to resist the urge to drop down and look for wheels.
‘Another one over there,’ Safa says, pointing to the outside area of a café at the side of the lake. Chairs and tables dotted about under awnings and umbrellas. People drinking from cups and clearly passing food to their mouths. Ben laughs in delight as he sees more and more people using the floating boards. Some with handles to hold like scooters. Some without anything, and he frowns while trying to understand how they gain momentum, or even where the power comes from. The frame is thin, too thin for any style of battery he knows of. He blinks and rubs his jaw, turning this way and that with his eyes narrowing and widening.
A few minutes later they slip discreetly back into the hut and close the door before going through the portal into the dingy damp-smelling bunker.
‘It’s fine,’ Ben says, sharing a look with Safa that everyone else detects, along with their rosy cheeks and glowing faces, as Miri ends the connection.
‘Been for a run?’ Emily asks lightly.
‘No, we had sex,’ Safa says honestly. ‘What?’ she asks in the stunned silence as Ben turns away to rub his face. ‘It was really nice . . .’
‘Clothing? Styles?’ Miri asks bluntly. ‘Anything that would make us stand out?’
‘We were a bit over-dressed,’ Safa says. ‘It’s hot, like a summer evening. Everyone else is in shorts and skirts. Men too . . . Wearing skirts, I mean.’
‘Pardon?’ Harry asks.
‘Skirts,’ Safa says. ‘And make-up, like really dark eyeliner, but even the kids have got that on and a few blokes had big boobs.’
‘Boobs?’ Konrad asks.
‘Yeah, boobs,’ Safa says.
‘What, like, transgender?’ Konrad asks.
‘Funny that, but we didn’t ask them,’ Safa says.
‘Did you see anyone without the eyeliner?’ Miri asks.
‘Plenty,’ Ben says, finally turning back to face everyone. ‘It’s got to be a fashion thing and there’s always people that refuse to follow the mainstream, so it’ll be fine. You remember that movie, Pirates of the Caribbean? The Johnny Depp character, that sort of eyeliner, like, really dark and thick but coming out more on the sides of the cheeks . . . Like Egyptian . . . Like Jack Sparrow, but Egyptian.’
‘Thorough explanation,’ Emily says as Ben trails off. ‘Thanks for that, Ben.’
‘Have we seen that?’ Harry asks, looking at Emily.
‘The movie? Yes, we watched it on holo. You liked the first ten minutes then you fell asleep with popcorn in your beard . . . It’s not there now, Harry,’ she adds with a laugh when his hand automatically moves to check his chin. ‘I ate it.’
‘You what?’ Safa asks. ‘You ate popcorn from Harry’s beard?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘From his beard?’
‘What?’ Emily asks, looking round and seeing the others showing expressions of distaste. ‘It was only, like, one or two bits and he’d had a shower before the movie.’
‘Oh my god, you two are, like, an old married couple.’
Miri clears her throat with a not-so-subtle gesture of irritation at the lack of focus. ‘We need to blend. Change clothing. Back here in five.’
‘Change into what?’ Safa asks before anyone can move.
‘Summer style,’ Miri says.
‘And what exactly is that?’ Safa asks.
‘Shorts. Skirts.’
‘Skirts? You think I own a skirt? Do you own a skirt?’
‘Yes,’ Miri replies, dull and hard.
‘You can’t fight in a skirt without everyone seeing your knickers and I haven’t shaved my legs,’ Safa announces to the room. ‘Look . . .’ She bends over to tug the hem of her jeans up, showing a few inches
of ankles above the tops of her boots. ‘See . . . I’ll look like Harry in shorts.’
Miri rubs her face, easing the tension from having to manage someone like Safa. Fearless and brave beyond question, with skills that would shame nearly every man Miri has ever worked with, but totally and utterly inept at anything that even hints at a social situation.
‘I’ve got some summer trousers you can use,’ Emily says. ‘Put some sandals on and that nice yellow top you’ve got.’
‘I don’t have a yellow top.’
‘You do. I got it for you in Milwaukee.’
‘Did you? I thought that was for you?’
‘No, it was for you, but you were busy glaring at that man who winked at you.’
‘Ten minutes,’ Miri says, following Ben out the room.
‘You coming this time?’ he asks.
‘I am, Mr Ryder . . .’
Nine
The Complex, Wednesday
The chatter dies the second Mother walks into the large briefing room filled with tiered seating facing a small raised stage.
They all know who Mother is, and she is the last person any of them ever expected to see, but the sight of the chief technical officer Gunjeep Singh walking with her lessens the worry.
The five agents file in behind them. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta and Echo. All of them armed with pistols and wearing black combat clothing. The agents stay by the door to stand easy with hands clasped in front while Mother and Gunjeep take the stage as the whispers and quiet comments ripple through the room.
‘Settle down,’ Gunjeep calls out, a big Indian man with a thick beard, his accent distinctly London British. The chief technical officer for the complex, who is used to standing on this stage and briefing these same people, normally with a ready grin and a barrage of jokes, so his sombre, serious mood makes them all pay attention.
‘You are all dead,’ Mother snaps, making every man and woman in the audience flinch while her agents stare round with interest. A large flat screen behind her comes on as she presses the tablet in her hand. ‘Today is Wednesday. On Monday morning I was informed this facility had been attacked . . . This is what I found on my arrival . . .’ She steps aside as the screen behind her changes to a view of the main corridor running through the complex littered with bodies lying in pools of blood.
