Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3

by Terry Tyler

  I need to rest, just for a few minutes, but that means hiding.

  Nadia was right—as more of us go down, they'll all be looking for the few who are left. I look up.

  The branches are waiting for me, to hide me from the hunters' sight.

  Inside, Clinton and Jerome Bettencourt enjoy a bottle of 1952 Da Silva vintage port and King of Denmark cigars, brought out by Clinton on only the most special of occasions.

  "They're a good bunch," Clinton says, as their eyes dart from screen to screen to the soundtrack of his favourite Rachmaninov's 'Prelude in G Minor', followed by Brahms' 'Hungarian Dance No 5'. "More agile than the last lot, and they've got their wits about them—it's more of a game. Who's in the lead?"

  Jerome consults his com. "Mackay. He's on four." He chuckles. "Told me he'd been practising by chasing roos through the outback!"

  Clinton laughs. "Who else is good?"

  "Sylvia, both Yanks and Alamoudi. Three apiece. Lord Arsehole is on two, as is Ren, Sandrine's only got one, and Yasser and Itsuki are yet to score."

  A boy is pursued through the woods, two cameras picking up his journey to the outer fence. He clambers up the slats, and is almost there, almost at the top, when the scene is lit up by torchlight.

  On the ground is Woodrow, on her bike, pointing a gun at the hapless lad.

  Jerome zooms the camera onto the boy's face to show the tears streaming down his filthy cheeks, but there's something else there, too. Anger; he's shouting at her.

  "Shall I turn the sound up?" he asks as Brahms comes to an end, floating into Mozart's 'Requiem'.

  "No," says Clinton, peering at the screen with narrowed eyes. "Spoils the ambience."

  The boy climbs down, and Woodrow keeps the gun on him; the Bettencourt men do not need a lip reader to tell them that she is ordering him back into the fray. He runs off camera.

  "Damn," says Jerome. "I wanted to see what happens. Wish we had more sights on them."

  "Can't, not for the amount they're paying. This way, if they want to do anything off-camera, they can." He taps ash into a crystal ashtray. "It doesn't matter; we've got enough on them."

  On another monitor, the boy from the fence appears once more; within minutes, he falls.

  "Score for Carter Jones," says Jerome. "I'd know that gut anywhere."

  I climb as high as I dare. I can see a couple of green lights, but they're far away. To the right, I hear movement; to the left, just darkness.

  In front of me is the fence.

  I can just make it out, a corner section that's almost camouflaged amongst foliage.

  I can try. I've got to try because if I don't I'll die.

  I half-climb, half-slither down, scraping my skin, cutting myself, hurting my hands and my knees, but I hardly feel it.

  I jump the last few feet, and I bolt for the fence.

  Chapter 36

  Radar

  6th ~ 7th October, 2062

  10.55 ~ 2 a.m.

  He's sitting on his bike, and the blitz has all but worn off. Another hour or so max, and it'll be over. Back to the house, sleeping tablet, then home to MC5 and another massive deposit in his account.

  These twisted fuckers who pay to play this game defy belief. Jerome said there's a handful of other private estates around the world that hold similar events; if they didn't come here they'd go somewhere else, he says. It's a fucking league, for goodness sake; those who accumulate the most kills compete in the 'final' in the grounds of a castle in Slovenia, next March. Fucking crazy world.

  Radar just cleans up after them. He's just doing his job.

  A buzz on his com tells him that he's the nearest to an escape attempt, over the fence; a quick look tells him which part of the fence. He's done this twice already tonight, sent two young men back into the woods. He's just glad he's not on body collection. Fucked with his head a bit, that did, last time. Even with the blitz.

  He zooms off, ready to do the job he is paid to do. Can see a figure half way up the fence, feet desperately trying to find purchase wherever they can. Hops off the bike, shines his torch up.

  "Come on," he calls up. "Down you come."

  It's a girl. Long fair hair, covered in dirt.

  Slowly, tentatively, she manoeuvres her feet on the slats into a position by which she can turn around, and he shines his torch on her face. She's filthy, eyes wide with fear, but she's beautiful. She reminds him of the girl at the assessment centre. This angel is how that girl would have looked if she wasn't ravaged by life and drugs.

  Radar can just make out a tear falling down her cheek.

  "Please let me go." Her voice is shaky but not hysterical. "Please. Let me have a chance."

  Is it her voice, or something about her face? He's never seen her before, but he knows that before today, she was soft, kind, gentle. Like his gran. Not tough, jaded and defensive, like the women in Hope Villages. Not plastic and silly, like the girls in MC5's bars and clubs.

  Crying and shaking but still brave enough to talk to him.

  She breaks something free in his mind.

  There's no one else around. They're all elsewhere in the endless woods, retrieving bodies, dragging kids off the fences. If he doesn't send her back, she may live.

  There's a fucking tsunami in his head, rushing in, drowning out the bollocks he's been telling himself ever since Jerome Bettencourt told him that he's simply providing a service.

  'If they don't get it from me, they'll find it somewhere else."

  But they wouldn't be hunting this girl.

  He's not 'just doing his job', or 'doing what he has to, to get by.' If he sends her back into the woods, he's a murderer, no better than these shitheads.

  Not this time. No more.

  He shuts his eyes, takes a knife out of his pocket, makes a slit in his eyebrow, and removes the iSync. It hurts so badly that he curses loudly, and blood pours into his eye, but fuck it. He gets off his bike and takes off his jacket. In the inside pocket is a bottle of water and some glucose tablets. Reaching up, as high as he can, he hands her the jacket.

  "Go," he says. "Run."

  Clinging on, she reaches for the jacket, and throws it over the top of the fence. "Where do I go, though? Where's safe?" She starts to cry, poor kid. "I don't know where I am!"

  "I don't know, either—" He shuts his eyes tightly. Oh, yeah. Of course. "Twenty minutes in a car—maybe fifteen miles away. There's an off-grid." He points off to his left. "It's that way. Back down the road that leads to the house."

  "Thank you," she whispers, and makes it up to the top. As she climbs over he looks at her, silhouetted against the moon, and he is glad he has done the right thing. Even if he loses his life for it, for he surely will.

  One good thing. He has to do this one good thing.

  "Tell them," he hisses up at her. "When you get there—tell them. That it's Jerome and Clinton Bettencourt."

  The wind whips her hair up. "What's your name?"

  "Radar."

  And she disappears, over the other side.

  Radar sits on the ground with his back against the fence. He could go, too. Now. He could chuck the bike over, pick the girl up, but they'd track it. Then they'd both die. Right now, if he keeps up the pretence of doing his job until this shit show is over, they'll spend so long looking for her inside these woods that they won't twig she's gone until she's far enough away.

  That's a good plan.

  But he could maybe save others.

  He could.

  Better to die saving a life than running away.

  He was a dead man, anyway, as soon as Jerome gave him the job. It's all clear now. He doesn't believe shit about the so-called life that awaits them. Bettencourt's not going to let any of them walk around, knowing what they do about the Hope culls and this fucking house of horrors.

  He springs up, gets back onto his bike and sets off through the dark forest, in and out of the trees, until he sees one of them. A small figure in black, holding his deadly laser gun at the ready, sear
ching round for prey—and Radar is on him, mowing him down, turning like lightning and riding the bike back over his legs.

  The hunter screams in agony as Radar shoves the bike to one side, sits across him, rips off his ski mask—it's one of the slanty-eyed fuckers—and starts raining blows down on his face, feeling his fists collide with the bones, breaking his nose, bringing his torch down on his mouth, then he's up, directing kicks at his kidneys, at his head, until the psycho is quiet at last.

  Radar kneels back on his heels, and laughs to himself. There. Didn't need his gun; he'll save the bullets for the bigger bastards.

  He stands up, and stretches. One down. Just nine more to—

  "He's out, but breathing." Sylvia touches Radar's neck. "I thought you'd want him alive? Christ, Ren's a mess; you need a medic here right now. Jesus. That animal's practically destroyed his face."

  "Which animal is it?"

  Sylvia puts her com to Radar's face, then speaks into it. "Benjamin 'Radar' Bundock. His face is a bit of a mess, too."

  "Fuck," says Jerome. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. We're gonna get cancellations all over if this gets out."

  "Well, let's make sure it doesn't. We can make up some story—"

  "You think Itsuki won't talk? Clinton's going to have me for breakfast—three fucking months' training they had, and I never spotted he might turn. Shit!"

  He ends the call. Sylvia shrugs; not her problem. She consults her com. Just three to go. Tiana. William. Leah.

  She pulls down her mask and dives back into the darkness.

  Chapter 37

  Leah

  6th ~ 7th October, 2062

  11.10 a.m. ~ 2 a.m.

  I don't think, I just run, gulping in cold air with my silent screams.

  Back down the road that leads to the house. Terror fuels my legs, and I don't stop to rest until I can no longer see the house through the trees, until I've passed the 'private property no access' signs, until the blood is pounding around my head and my chest is sore and burning, and I can't run a step further.

  I lie flat on the ground, hoping the undergrowth will camouflage me. In an inside pocket of the guard's jacket I find a bottle of water and some glucose tablets. I eat six; it's hard to swallow them but I make myself because I need them, swigging the water down too.

  In my head I see drones, my ears hear vehicles, but when I sit up there's nothing. Maybe they don't know I've escaped yet.

  I daren't go too far into the trees because it's so dark and I'm scared I might lose my way or fall and twist an ankle.

  I don't think, I just run.

  On and on. I'm crying because everything hurts so much, and I'm so frightened.

  Clark. Nadia. Joel. Lakisha. Ellen, I suppose, too.

  Ellen who wanted to finish her breakfast before we set out.

  I rest again. Hide in a bush. Wet earth. Cold mud on my legs. I'm so worn out I actually doze off, but images of the horror I've witnessed jerk me awake.

  Up, and on.

  They must be out searching for me now. They must be. I need to hide. Deeper between the trees, I've got to stay hidden—but it's too late, it's too late, because the noise is real this time.

  A motorbike, roaring. Another one.

  Oh no, no, no—

  Voices. Shouting and laughing.

  I slink down behind a tree, hugging my legs to my chest, head on my knees, and my skin is wet with tears because I know I have a chance in a million of not being caught. I shut my eyes tight, try to think of something nice as my last thought before they take me, or kill me right here, but I can't 'cause I'm so terrified, I'm gulping for air and trying to stop myself from wailing, crying out, and then a light shines on me and I know I'm done.

  Chapter 38

  Jerome

  Saturday, 7th October

  Midnight ~ 2 a.m.

  Clinton blames him, and only him.

  When Itsuki discovers that his friend Ren has been the subject of an attack by one of the security guards, he lets out a tirade of unintelligible vitriol then summons a car to take him back to the airfield.

  They do not yet realise that Leah Phillips is missing. Jerome has been busy pouring oil on troubled Japanese waters and making sure nobody gets wind of Ren's accident; he has not had a chance to look at Radar's iSync stream.

  The doctor is in no doubt about his priority: saving Ren's life. Radar has been dumped on a gurney in the cellar.

  Out in the woods, only three targets remain.

  Then two.

  Then just one. Leah. The search continues—Sylvia and Mackay are on five apiece, and neither one is giving up.

  Time flits by, and the hunters are losing impetus. Some want to get the mechadogs on the case, to sniff the last girl out, but Sylvia says no—she wants to win fair and square.

  The doctor enters, with the news that he has done all he can for Ren, and all they can do is wait. He also tells them that Radar's iSync has been removed.

  "You'd better take a look at the stream to see when it was taken out, hadn't you?" says Clinton, without looking at Jerome.

  Jerome does so, his heart heavy. The stream ends abruptly, with an image of his torch shining on Leah Phillips, half way up the fence. Maybe all is not lost; he summons Cahill to wake Radar and find out if he aided her escape.

  Find out where she's gone.

  Radar is woken by a light shining in his eyes.

  "Sorry 'bout this, mate," says Cahill, with a grin that tells Radar he's actually going to enjoy it very much. "Jus' doing the job I'm paid to do. Unlike you."

  And his fist collides with Radar's face.

  Clinton announces that if one of these so-called vetted and highly trained POPs has allowed this girl to escape back into the world, the results of which don't bear thinking about, Jerome is going to have to come up with a smart solution, and fast.

  Never mind the fact that this 'Radar' lunatic beat up one of the guests who paid top dollar for the privilege of attending.

  Clinton has wanted to enter this lucrative area of executive recreation for some years now, but it was Jerome who came up with the Rise Academy idea. A ready supply of suitable subjects. Dispensable: no families. Unchipped, untraceable. Already the Heart profiles of this evening's bunch have been taken over by AI, to maintain the illusion that they are alive and well.

  Cahill enters the room.

  "He's not talking, 'cept when I asked him where the girl's gone—then he laughed and said fuck you. I've tried everything."

  This is the worst night of Jerome's life, and now he must call the hunters together and break the news that the last girl has escaped. This is beyond bad. They're all aware of the possible repercussions, should she not be caught.

  "Thanks to you," Clinton said, "Laser62 looks like a fucking Mickey Mouse outfit. You do realise that I'm going to have to reimburse them all—that's if I live long enough to do so."

  Before Jerome faces the nine hunters, he delivers the bad news to two of Clinton's nameless black suits, and calls on the remaining POPs to start the search, with the dogs. The mechadogs, with night vision, heat detectors and a sense of smell far greater than any live canine.

  "I want her alive," he tells his men. "I need to know if she has communicated with anyone at all." He brings up a picture of Leah Phillips. "But as long as she's still breathing and able to talk, you can do what you want with her."

  Chapter 39

  Leah

  7th ~ 14th October, 2062

  The fear is so overwhelming that Leah wonders if she's going mad, or dreaming. Maybe she is already dead.

  The footsteps with the torch grow closer, and she squeezes her eyes tight shut, just to have one more second of her life, inside her own head.

  One more second.

  please don't kill me please don't kill me please don't—

  "What you doing out here, sweetheart?"

  She opens her eyes and dares to raise her head, just slightly, expecting to see those men on the bikes who took the bodies, but the torch is
shining on her face, blinding her.

  Voices. More footsteps

  "Put that torch down, she can't see fuck all with you shining it in her eyes, can she?"

  "What's all this?" A woman. She's crouching down next to her. "What the—who's done this to you, lovey?" Leah feels the woman push her hair back gently, and she looks up to see three kind, concerned faces staring at her in the dim light.

  The terror that has kept her running, kept her alive, renders her unable to speak. The woman offers her water which she guzzles down, relishing every mouthful, but once the bottle is empty all she can do is stare, mouth open, gasping for air, until the woman puts her arms around her, and Leah clings to her, sobbing her heart out.

  They're from an off-grid called Sunrise; their names are Billy, Welsh and Maura, and Billy explains that they come out to this particular spot because the deer come out at night.

  "This time of year we get in all the meat we can, for the winter."

  Maura drives the truck for the carcasses, she says, while Billy and Welsh are on bikes.

  Carcasses. Dead bodies. Clark and Nadia.

  Even wrapped in a blanket, Leah shivers and cannot speak. With Maura's arm around her, she allows herself to be led away from the safety of the trees, but as soon as they reach a clearing she hyperventilates and tries to run back into the darkness. Billy catches her, holding her tight.

  "Stop kicking now, pet. No one's going to hurt you."

  He's too strong for her.

  Maura comes over, promising her a nice seat by the stove when they get back, a hot drink and something to eat, but what if they're lying, what if they take her straight back to the big house, straight back to those woods? She wrests herself away from Maura, crying, shaking; she tries to run, but her legs won't hold her up any more and she falls, scraping her knees on the gravel—she cries out, crawling, because she's got to get away, far away, she's got to get up and run, or she'll die, just like Clark and Nadia and—