by Gary Gibson
“I need you to tell me if I’m imagining things.” He gestured at the open suitcase.
Lucia stepped over and glanced inside. Her eyes grew large, almost saucer-like, and her dark Hispanic skin visibly paled. She headed back behind the bar and flipped a switch to shut down the sound system. Customers stopped in mid-conversation as the lights came up.
“Bar’s closed,” she yelled. “Everybody out – now!”
Some regulars merely grinned at her, as if some great jest was being played. Other customers just looked confused. Kendrick glanced down the entire length of the Saint and saw Malky jerk upright, confusion and anger chasing each other across his features.
“Out. Now. Everybody,” she bellowed again, clapping her hands thunderously above her head. Kendrick eyed the open case nervously. He could hear Malky yelling something similar, a look of panic on his face as he slammed open the fire doors at the rear.
Malky hurried over to join Kendrick while Lucia chased the rest of the bar staff outside, along with their customers. Grumbling and questioning, they went wandering out into the icy night.
“In the bag.” Kendrick pointed.
Malky stepped up to the table and sat down heavily on a stool. Leaning forward, he looked as if he was about to push his head right inside the case. His angry frown turned to a gasp of horror.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, “we’re going to have to call the cops.” He looked back up at Lucia, who rejoined them. After her efforts the Saint was silent and empty.
“Come on,” said Malky, leading Kendrick away by the arm. “If I’m calling the cops, you sure as hell can’t afford to stick around.”
“But my ID—”
“—Will be safe against most police checks. But there’s no reason to tempt fate, is there?” said Malky. “Once we’re out of here I’m phoning the cops so somebody can come round and defuse that thing before it blows my livelihood to bits.”
“If I’m even so much as questioned—”
“I just said, I know. We’ll go out the back way. Lucia, get upstairs and check if anyone’s there. Get them out into the street if they are.”
Kendrick still had his Euro Citizenship card, of course, but that had been illegally altered to disguise his Labrat past. Otherwise his movements would become severely restricted. Carrying this card wasn’t even mandatory; in fact, citizens of the European Legislate were not obliged to carry them at all. But in the right circumstances – like a bomb scare – background checks might go a lot deeper than normal. Even if he’d possessed the LA ID that Malky had been promising him, there were no guarantees that it would survive the full scrutiny of some Legislate investigative committee determined to root out terrorist activity.
As they reached the empty rear of the bar, Malky leaned over the counter-top and grabbed a long broomstick from its mounting on the wall. A hook was attached to one end of the implement. Next he pushed a table and a couple of chairs to one side, till Kendrick could see that there was a trapdoor set in the floor. Malky spun the pole around to insert the hook neatly into an iron ring fitted to one edge of the trapdoor, then, with a clatter, pulled it up and to one side.
“What about cameras?” persisted Kendrick. “Is there anything the police might be able to use against me?”
“There are, and there is. But as soon as you’re out of here I’m going to have Todd alter the security system’s memory pronto. Believe it or not, he works fast when he needs to.” The open trapdoor revealed a ladder leading down into darkness.
Malky climbed down rapidly, Kendrick following without hesitation.
They stepped off onto a cellar floor several feet below. Although it was dark here, Kendrick’s surroundings instantly became clearer to him as his Labrat-augmented senses compensated. He saw roughly plastered walls, bare floorboards underfoot, and large metal casks piled up against the walls. The smell of stale hops assaulted his senses as Malky unlocked a door at the far end of the cellar.
“Through here.” The pub’s owner stepped through, into darkness. Kendrick followed him, traversing a floor that was sticky with rivulets of beer. He passed through the door to find himself in an unkempt garden backing onto a narrow alleyway glistening with frost.
A chill wind sliced at Kendrick’s face. Since the Gulf Stream had been cut off a few decades ago the summer in Scotland barely lasted six weeks; global warming had altered the flow of air currents over the tropics so that they no longer carried equatorial warmth towards Northern Europe. Temperatures in the higher northern latitudes had plummeted, and there were people muttering about whether or not they were sliding into a new Ice Age.
Malky stood waiting for him. “Tell me what just happened there,” he asked, his expression agitated.
“There was a bomb in the bar.”
“How did you know? You didn’t put it there yourself, did you?”
“Oh, come on, I . . .” But what could he possibly tell him? Certainly not the truth. Malky would assume it was a lie, and Kendrick would be the last to blame him.
“I knew the same way any Labrat would,” Kendrick improvised. It was, after all, an entirely valid explanation.
Malky gaped at him with an incredulous expression. “You’re telling me you sensed it – right from the other end of the bar? C’mon, Kendrick, not even a Labrat could do that. Someone must have warned you, yeah?”
“Look, I don’t have the time for this. I’m going to get myself out of here before anyone arrives. Okay? Let me know what happens.” Kendrick raised a hand in farewell and hurried away, Malky’s suspicious gaze burning between his shoulder blades.
Kendrick didn’t see a figure peel away from the shadows near the parked cars, but he knew immediately that he was being followed. He turned a corner at the end of the block and waited there till, a second later, his pursuer appeared. Kendrick grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Easy!” said the other man, his accent making it clear that he was an American. “Easy, I just want to talk to you.”
“What about? Did you leave that bomb in the bar?”
The stranger stared at him, bug-eyed. “Is that what it was? Christ, I wondered what was going on.”
“You were in there too?”
“Yes, trying to find you. Then everyone got thrown out.” He smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Which was a lie. There was something familiar about the man’s face. But it wasn’t like seeing the ghost back in the bar – this time there was no nausea, no sense of impending dread; none of the symptoms that usually preceded a seizure. Whoever he was, he was no apparition.
“The Maze, y’know? Though it’s been a long time.”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
The other man laughed. “Well, we never actually spoke before. My name’s Erik Whitsett.”
“But you were—”
“In a coma, yes. Well, I recovered about a year after they brought me out of the Maze. When you didn’t appear outside in the street, I figured you must have headed out the back somewhere, so here I am.”
Kendrick shook his head. “Mr Whitsett, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s just that—”
“It’s been such a long time. Yeah, I know. Look, I haven’t been spying on you or anything. It’s just that I really need to talk to you.”
The sound of sirens drifted through the night air, a few streets distant and coming closer.
“I think we should take a walk first, Erik.”
They crossed the street and kept moving, Kendrick leading the way, Erik hurrying beside him. Kendrick cut diagonally across Parliament Square and stopped Whitsett with a palm against his chest once they were on the other side.
“Erik, I don’t know why you’re here or what you want from me, but you should know I’m not happy at being discovered.” He kept his voice low as people wandered past them on all sides, slipping in and out of brightly coloured 3D air projections that reached out from shop windows to dance and shimmer
for their attention. The air was filled with the gentle cacophony of sales jingles just barely on the edge of perception.
Whitsett shook his head. “I’m not here to blackmail you. I’m just hoping I can help you. Buddy sent me, and I don’t think you’ve forgotten him.”
“All right, you’ve got my attention. What do you want?”
“Have you heard about the deaths? All the deaths of Labrats?”
Kendrick opened his mouth, then closed it. There had been some news reports about the deaths of one or two who had testified many years before against the Wilber Regime, particularly against Anton Sieracki, although that trial had been posthumous.
“I heard something about Adams and Gallagher, that they were murdered. Nobody knows who by, right?”
“That’s true, but there are others you might not have heard about: Perez, Sachs, Hauptmann, Stillwell – all dead.”
Kendrick studied Whitsett as he spoke. Small, rotund, with a full beard. He’d been little more than an inanimate shape in Kendrick’s memories, the next best thing to dead himself. But here he was, alive and well, which gave Kendrick a sense of hope. If Whitsett could get better, then perhaps so could any of them.
“I remember them,” said Kendrick slowly, “but I hadn’t heard from any of them in years. Are you saying that somebody’s killed them?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But they’re not targeting all Labrats, just those from the same experimental programme you and I were placed in. Something’s definitely happening.”
“You’re saying somebody planted that bomb in order to kill me?”
“I can’t see any other explanation, can you? So if you’ve been trying to lead an incognito life, maybe somebody’s noticed.”
“That doesn’t explain how you knew where to find me, Erik.”
“You’re still using the same contact details from the last time you saw Buddy, yeah?”
“So he told you where to find me.” Whitsett nodded. “But you should know that I haven’t seen Buddy for a few years. We don’t really keep in touch that much any more.”
The sirens sounded very close now. The two men weren’t yet far enough from the Saint. By some unspoken agreement, they began walking again, side by side.
They cut down another alley and crossed over a wide street beyond, always moving in the general direction of the city centre. Kendrick had noted how Whitsett kept the collar of his jacket pulled up high, a scarf wrapped tightly about his neck. It was a colder night than usual, but Kendrick suspected that Whitsett had other reasons for covering himself up so carefully.
“You and Buddy were both in Ward Seventeen, the same time as me. I barely remember any of it, so I guess that makes me one of the lucky ones.”
“The lucky ones were the ones that weren’t there at all. If you or Buddy think you know who would want to plant a bomb, it would be nice if you could tell me just who.”
“It’s— Ah, shit.” Lights flashed at the far end of the street and they watched as an unmanned police car cruised slowly past, its low upper surface bristling with lenses and sensors. They kept to the shadows and moved on, quickly turning a corner and getting out of sight of the robot vehicle.
“What’s more important right now,” Whitsett continued, “is knowing you’re not the only one who’s been seeing strange things.”
“How do you—?” Whitsett stopped in a darkened doorway and unwrapped his scarf. Kendrick saw now the dozens of dark ridges reaching up from under the man’s shirt, like shadowy branches converging towards the base of his skull. His chin and cheeks looked swollen, distorted.
How long Whitsett still had to live Kendrick couldn’t guess, but by the looks of things probably less than a year.
“Look, I’m sorry for what’s happened to you,” Kendrick said, the words coming not at all easily. “My augmentations have turned rogue too. I sympathize.”
Whitsett laughed with a low, throaty chuckle that shook his small frame. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry about that. I’ve had a long time to come to terms with what happened to me – as we all have. What comes, comes. Look, maybe this isn’t the best place, so is there anywhere else we can buy ourselves a drink? There’s a lot we need to talk about.”
“Maybe you can answer my question first. If you know – have any idea – who planted that bomb, then you need to tell me.”
Whitsett glanced around and shook his head. “All right. It’s almost certainly Los Muertos, but don’t take that as a definite.”
Kendrick laughed. “This far from the Maze? Why on Earth would they want—?”
“Look, perhaps this isn’t the best time and place to be discussing such things. Let’s say we arrange to meet some other time – and soon. How about tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“Just maybe?”
“I don’t understand why Buddy couldn’t come and speak to me in person.”
Whitsett sighed, and produced his wand. “Look, before anything else I’d like to make sure we can get in touch, before any more of those cop cars come rolling by.”
Kendrick hesitated, then shrugged and produced his own wand. They keyed the devices, allowing them to link to each other and share communication details.
Whitsett was smiling, but his expression had become more guarded. He buttoned his coat back up, after carefully wrapping the scarf tightly around his neck. “I’m glad it’s cold, or this would be a lot more difficult to hide. In answer to your question, Buddy’s got a lot on his mind, arranging . . .” He hesitated. “Things. I think it’s more a case of . . . he’s surprised he hasn’t heard from you.”
Whitsett paused for a moment, then continued. “What did you see – in your visions?”
Kendrick paused, forming his reply. “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to talk about that yet. I saw something. What does it matter?”
Whitsett persisted. “A green place, then? A winged—”
“Please. I’ll be happy to discuss it with you some other time, but not now.”
Kendrick wondered if the fear showed on his face. Whitsett studied him with calm eyes, making him feel like he was being judged in some way. After a moment Kendrick turned away.
“I’ll speak to you soon,” he said to Whitsett, the words sounding more abrupt than he intended. “Goodbye.”
Whitsett nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
Kendrick walked rapidly away, not wanting to turn back and see there was nobody there.
Going back to his own place wasn’t an option – at least, not for tonight. If Malky and Todd failed to wipe him from the Saint’s visual records, if somebody knew who he was and wanted to kill him for some obscure reason, then simply heading home really wasn’t going to be a good idea. Kendrick slowed, realizing he had nowhere else to go.
After a moment, some instinct made him head for Caroline’s place. She might not be happy to see him, but where else was there? Besides, he now wanted someone familiar, someone who’d been through the same experiences that he had.
After only half a block, he turned around and saw that Whitsett was gone. He studied the spot where they’d last spoken together, his fingers flexing unconsciously. He’s real, he decided. He’s real.
It took Kendrick thirty-five minutes to make his way by foot through the city centre, heading for Stockbridge. The brisk pace and the cold air helped to sharpen senses that until now had been dulled by barely faded nausea. He palmed his wand and stepped up to the entrance of a refurbished tenement building in which Caroline Vincenzo owned a flat, on the top floor. The entrance stairwell visible beyond the reinforced glass was brightly lit. He carefully, steadfastly ignored the voices in his mind, yelling out all the reasons why he shouldn’t be here.
He could use Caroline’s cryptkey – still stored, even after so long, in his wand’s memory – to gain access, but he didn’t think she’d react well to that. Instead he touched the wand to his ear and waited for her to answer.
Pain flickered brightly in the back of Kend
rick’s skull, sending him reeling and collapsing against the vestibule side-wall.
Not again, he thought. Not twice in one night.
He started to hyperventilate, on the verge of panic, letting himself slide down until his back pressed against the door. Bright flashes now strobed and flickered at the edge of his vision as he settled his buttocks onto cold concrete. Bile forcing its way to the back of his throat, he gagged.
Kendrick looked down at the wand nestling in the palm of his hand as it pinged faintly. Come on, he thought. Perhaps she simply wasn’t at home. Perhaps—
A tsunami of agony bore down on him and he yielded to it as the street around him disappeared from sight. Then the strangest thing happened . . . the pain was gone, in an instant.
He was somewhere else, a soft, warm wind buffeting his head. The air around him was as thick and sweet as honey. It was the same as before: a figure, born of some inner recess of his mind, floating there in the breeze on wings that shone and glistened under golden light.
Its wings sprouted impossibly from the shoulders of a tiny homunculus figure, perhaps a hand-span in height. The wings were wide, shimmering things whose surfaces seemed to drift and flow as if caught in some invisible current. Its blank face – so disturbingly human – gazed back at him with an expression of amused contempt.
Kendrick felt as if he had been reduced to a point of simple awareness, somehow suspended in the air as though his thoughts were trapped in some dense, liquid amber. The boy with the gossamer wings suddenly appeared to grow bored – then darted away from him with shocking speed. Kendrick’s non-existent eyes stared after the tiny figure as it flew across a landscape born of dreams.
He was now in some kind of garden that surrounded a group of low, office-like buildings whose pale walls glowed as if they radiated some inner light. Beyond and surrounding this garden were tall trees. Above his head, on either side, the ground curved upwards to meet itself far overhead, so that he appeared to be trapped on the inside of a vast cylinder.
He had been here before, always in the throes of a violent seizure that tore at his body and his nerves, always leaving him feeling ruined, sick and distraught. He had seen the same gossamer-winged boy before . . . and this strange garden, and the building it surrounded.
