The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3)

by Sam Kates

  “Er, Bri?”

  “Yep?”

  “George wants to help me do my exercises.” He looked at her anxiously.

  Bri smiled to herself. The man named George Wallace had almost broken down in tears on meeting Will, and he did not look the sort of man given readily to weeping. Bri’s stomach had been doing somersaults as they sat in the conservatory waiting for Milandra’s Deputies to join them. The last time she had seen Wallace he had been pointing a gun at her, his face contorted with hatred.

  Tom and Ceri had both looked pale and tense. Even Peter and Diane appeared uncomfortable. They sat a little away from everyone else in hard, upright chairs, not speaking. Only Will seemed at ease, slouching in an armchair and munching a bar of chocolate. Bri remembered when she had first met the boy. He had been stinking and bleeding, wearing little more than rags and a vacant expression. She handed him a bar of chocolate and almost had to show him how to eat it.

  Milandra walked in, smiling at them. Behind her came a tall, muscular black man with a kind face to whom Bri took an instant liking.

  “Hi, folks,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m Jason. It’s good to see you all here.”

  They took seats nearby. Behind them came an attractive, dark-haired woman, who Bri could not recall seeing at Stonehenge, but who had a noticeable effect on Tom. He started violently in his seat, almost dropping the bottle of beer he was clutching. By his side Dusty rose to his feet, hackles rising, a low growl sounding in his throat.

  “Easy, boy,” said Tom, placing a hand on the dog’s head. The growl tailed off, but Dusty remained alert.

  The dark-haired woman stopped by Tom and looked down at him.

  “I’m Lavinia Cram,” she said. Her accent was American, her voice as dusky as her looks. “You must be Tom. I won’t try to offer excuses for what happened at the Beacon. And I won’t apologise—I was trying to kill you.” She uttered a short laugh. “But I won’t try to kill you again.”

  Tom glanced up at her. “Big of you,” he muttered.

  The woman shrugged as if Tom’s opinion mattered not to her. Her gaze moved from Tom to Dusty. The dog made no noise, but his teeth remained bared in a silent snarl, his eyes all pupil as he stared at Cram.

  “Hello, dog,” she said. “Did you enjoy chewing on my wrist?”

  She stared back at Dusty. His ears laid flat and his lips closed to hide his teeth. He uttered a faint whine.

  Tom half-rose to his feet. “What are you doing? Leave him alone.”

  Dusty lowered his muzzle to the floor. The front part of his body followed, then his hind legs until he was lying prone before the woman in submission.

  Cram gave Tom a contemptuous glance. “Just showing him who’s boss,” she said, walking away to take a seat next to Jason Grant, ignoring the dark glare that Milandra shot her way.

  While this had been going on, a blond, young-looking woman had entered and gone directly to sit down. She waved vaguely in their direction.

  “Hi, drones,” she said. “I, too, have agreed not to try to kill you again. At least, for now. I make no promise about what happens after the Great Coming.”

  Jason cleared his throat. “Okay, Simone. Let’s not bring that up now. In the spirit of friendliness, yeah?”

  The woman was already looking away as though bored. Bri, too, had turned her head, but not through tedium. She was taking deep breaths to try to keep her stomach under control while looking up at the man who had walked in and stood before her and Will.

  Tall, slim, russet-haired, he resembled a ranch hand from a cowboy film, the one who didn’t quite have the screen presence to take the lead role, but who would be a dependable man to have by his side.

  “My name is George Wallace,” he said quietly. He glanced at Tom and Ceri. “I do apologise for what happened at the Beacon.” He turned back to Bri. “I wanted to kill you. Had I succeeded, I’d have regretted it to the end of my days.”

  Bri didn’t know what to say. She returned the man’s gaze and nodded, briefly. Not forgiving him exactly, but suggesting that they could be cool. It seemed to be enough for Wallace. His eyes widened in gratitude. Then he turned to Will.

  The sling holding the boy’s left arm to his chest had become grubby, but stood out against his dark tee-shirt like an accusation.

  “Didn’t mean to shoot you,” said Wallace. He blinked hard. “Can you forgive me?”

  Silence fell over the room. Even the two women, Lavinia and Simone, were watching closely, a hint of a smirk on the latter’s face.

  Will regarded the man solemnly. “Do you promise not to try to hurt Bri again?”

  Wallace’s eyes opened wider. He nodded.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Er, yeah. Sure.”

  Will raised his eyebrows. Waited.

  “Uh…” Wallace raised his right hand, extended his index finger, licked it and made the shape of a cross on the left side of his chest.

  Will smiled. “Do you have any video games?”

  Bri’s gaze cleared as she shook herself free of the memory. Will was watching her anxiously.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I was miles away. You want to do your exercises with George?”

  “Yes. And then he said he’ll let me teach him how to play Football Manager. I told him he can’t manage Millwall ’cause they’re my team, but he didn’t really get it. I don’t think football means the same thing to him. Is it because he’s from America?”

  “Dunno. Probably. Do you want to teach him how to play?”

  Will nodded. “But only if you don’t mind, Bri.”

  She reached out and grabbed his good hand. “Course I don’t mind, silly. It gives me chance to do something I’ve been meaning to do since we got here.”

  Later, Bri watched Will walk away by the side of George Wallace, looking frail and tiny next to the tall, easy-ranging Deputy. It was strange, she thought, that this man had tried to kill her, had almost killed Will, yet they were perfectly happy for Will to go off alone with him. Bri could not sense any hint of deceit or ill intention coming from Wallace, just contrition for what he had done at Stonehenge. Nevertheless, she thought she might mention it to Ceri and Tom in case they wanted to keep an eye on Will.

  She found them sharing a bottle of wine on a wooden bench overlooking the sea, discussing the recent turn of events that had brought them to Cornwall.

  “… surreal,” Tom was saying, “that we’re here sharing food and drink with the very people who caused the Millennium Bug and waiting for more of them to arrive. Oh, hi, Bri.”

  Ceri smiled at her. “Where’s Will?”

  “With George. They’ve gone to the beach to do exercises for his shoulder.”

  Ceri’s smile faded a little. “I still don’t feel comfortable with him being around Will. Especially just the two of them on their own.”

  Tom drained his wine glass. “I was thinking of taking Dusty for a stroll. Perhaps we’ll go down to the beach.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Ceri.

  “Actually, Ceri,” said Bri, “I was hoping you’d come with me to find Peter. I need to talk to him and maybe you can help.”

  Ceri’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

  Bri did. When she’d finished, Tom gave a low whistle. “That’s what he was going on about.”

  Bri and Ceri both looked at him.

  “In Scotland,” said Tom. “It was the morning after you and Will left in the middle of the night, Bri, before we’d realised you’d gone. I found Peter rinsing out a metal canister, like a thermos flask, in the sea. He was acting weirdly, talking about how he’d have used the powder to kill the sailors on the submarine if Irving had agreed to fire missiles at Stonehenge. You see, the powder was how they spread the virus. The powder was the virus, I think. Anyway, Peter was crying and babbling on about selfishness and desire. I didn’t really have a clue what he was going on about, but now I have some idea.” He stood and whistled. Dusty came bounding out from a stand of tre
es beyond the hotel. “I’ll go for that stroll and check on Will. You two go and speak to Peter. Try to make him see sense. You’ll be much better at that sort of thing than me.”

  The sun had passed its peak by the time they found Peter. He was in the car park, stripping the rear door of his Range Rover, trying to beat out the dent caused by an encounter with a drystone wall in Herefordshire.

  “I must be mad,” he observed dryly when Bri and Ceri approached him. “There are plenty of brand new vehicles just sitting around in showrooms waiting for someone to come along and drive them away. But I’m kind of attached to this one.”

  “Do you have time for a break?” asked Ceri.

  “Time?” Peter grinned. “That’s something I’m never short of.” The grin faded. “Sorry. That was in bad taste.” He pointed to a low wall that ran around one side of the car park. “Shall we take the weight off our feet?”

  Where the wall formed a corner, Peter sat one side, Bri and Ceri the other so they could look at him while they talked.

  “Okay,” said Peter, “what’s this about?”

  Bri began. “Remember when Howard–” She stopped as her words caught in her throat; just mentioning his name brought back the image of him lying on that grubby carpet, his life slipping away. Still too near, too raw. With an effort, she pushed the image away. “Sorry. When I was having the operation to fix the blood clot in my head and you let my psyche in, held on to it so my body would lie still on the operating table?”

  “Of course I remember,” said Peter.

  “Well, when I was inside your head…” She paused again, almost afraid to continue; she felt like she was confessing to spying. She took a deep breath and the words came in a rush. “I didn’t mean to see but it was right there and I couldn’t help but look at it though I tried not to and I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen it and not say anything to you but I can’t stop thinking about how sad it’s made you and I don’t want you to be sad and I think if you go through with what you’re planning it will make you even sadder and–” Bri stopped to draw in a stuttering breath. To her surprise, tears were coursing down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of her hand.

  Peter’s expression during Bri’s outburst had ranged from puzzlement to bemusement. He glanced at Ceri and raised his eyebrows.

  “Er, Bri’s the one who saw; I think she should be the one to say it.” Ceri reached out and rubbed Bri’s upper arm. “Come on, love. Just spit it out.”

  “Okay.” Bri composed herself and looked at Peter. “You’re planning on bringing back your wife. Cloning her.”

  “Ah.” Peter’s hand moved to his open shirt collar; his fingers crept inside his shirt.

  “Her locket,” said Bri. “You wear it around your neck. It contains a lock of her hair. Her DNA.”

  Peter brought his other arm up, fiddled with something and held up a heart-shaped locket dangling from a fine silver chain. He opened the locket and gazed down at it for a moment. Then he placed it in the palm of his hand and brought it forward to show them. On one side of the locket was an old photograph of a woman; on the other, beneath a tiny glass cover, a curled lock of fair hair.

  “The times I’ve longed to stroke that hair,” breathed Peter. He drew his hand back and closed the locket.

  “This has something to do with why you want your people to get here,” said Ceri.

  “The detailed knowledge of cloning remained on Earth Home,” said Peter. “If something happened to the rest of our people in transit, the knowledge would be lost for ever. So, yes, I want the Great Coming to succeed. I need it to succeed, at least up to a point. Once our people are within Earth Haven’s atmosphere, their knowledge and experiences will pass to the Keeper if something were to happen.”

  “And if they arrive safely?”

  “Then I shall simply ask the new arrivals to share the knowledge. Any of us can request the sharing of knowledge.”

  “And with this knowledge you will create a copy of your wife. Megan, wasn’t it?”

  Peter nodded.

  Ceri’s voice softened. “Bri’s right, you know. If you go ahead with this, it will only make you sadder.”

  “Having Megan returned to me will make me sadder?”

  “Well, apart from anything else, she’s bound to die again.”

  “Not necessarily. With the cloning knowledge will come details of how to manipulate DNA. I shall give her the same ability to regenerate that I possess.”

  “Okay,” said Bri. “But you’ll still be sadder.”

  Ceri was regarding Peter closely, eyes narrowing. “And I think you know it,” she said softly. “You realise as well as we do that any clone of Megan won’t be Megan. It might look like her, smell like her, sound like her, but it won’t be her.”

  “You’re referring to her soul,” Peter said in barely more than a whisper.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” said Ceri, “although any religious beliefs I had went out of the window when the Millennium Bug came in. Doesn’t really matter how you label it, but we’re talking about the personality, the experiences, the memories that made Megan who she was. Her very essence, if you like. You can produce a copy of her—a whole bunch of copies; you could have a harem of Megans—but not one of them will truly be her. I’m sorry to say this, Peter, but the Megan you loved disappeared the day she died. She’s gone. For good.”

  Such a wretched look came over Peter’s face that Bri felt compelled to scoot over next to him and put her arm around him.

  “You’re right,” he whispered. “I know it. I’ve always known it.” He bowed his head.

  Ceri placed her hand on his knee and squeezed. After a minute or two, Peter looked up.

  “How do you live with it?” he asked. “The pain of loss. I can’t bear it.”

  Ceri grunted. “Such is the human condition. Time helps us to bear the pain. Grow accustomed to its weight.”

  Peter let out a deep sigh and straightened. “I would like to thank you ladies for your concern. I’m really rather touched.”

  Bri withdrew her arm and Peter stood, taking a pace forward before turning to look at them. He placed the chain of the locket around his neck and reached up to close the clasp.

  “Everything you say I believe to be true,” he said. “Nevertheless, I intend to proceed with my plan. I may only be able to replicate Megan’s looks and sound and scent, and not her soul, but I’d rather live with an imperfect copy than with the agony of losing her entirely.”

  Bri felt her jaw drop. “But, but, Peter, you’ll be playing God.” She didn’t know where the words came from—she didn’t believe in fire and brimstone and all that—but blurted them out anyway. “You’ll be damned.”

  Peter shrugged. “Then damned I’ll be.”

  * * * * * * *

  There had been many opportunities to leave. Simply slip out when everyone slept and melt away into the darkness. Sentries had been posted for the past couple of nights as the net drew tighter, but to keep the enemy out, not comrades in. She could have walked away unchallenged, but something made her stay.

  Or someone. Aletta had never before met an American. It now looked that she would live out her life surrounded by them. Amy, with her social awkwardness; Elliott, with his pen and notebook, and cheerful pessimism; Zach, with his abrupt manner and consummate skills as a rifleman.

  Hmm, Zach. The rugged, reticent mountain man, perhaps fifteen years her senior. Gruff, grizzled, uncomfortable around people. Evidently fond and protective of Amy, yet not possessive. Respectful of Elliott’s intellect, but not cowed. And towards her, Aletta? He was courteous, she supposed, when he had cause to notice her at all. It puzzled her that she should even wonder whether he thought of her.

  She was forgetting Frank. Only dead a few days and passed from her thoughts already. That is what comes of fighting for your lives, she mused; it drives out most other considerations, including mourning for lives already expended.

  Even Amy had put it behind her. She
knew it was her rifle that had killed Frank; had watched it happen, she said, like viewing it on a TV screen. Yet she claimed not to feel any guilt.

  “How can I feel guilty?” she asked. “It was my finger that pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t me working the finger.”

  That night, the night of Frank’s death, was the last time Aletta could have walked away.

  The trap closed the following evening. When the van containing the half dozen or so bodies of people who had lost their lives in that day’s fighting tried to leave under cover of darkness, gunshots rang out and the driver slumped against the steering wheel. The van careered across the road and embedded itself in the wall of a concrete office block.

  By dawn, the remainder of their vehicles had had their tyres slashed or fuel tanks punctured. None was spared.

  The young man called Joe, who seemed to be the leader in as much as he was the one who drove people on, exhorting them, encouraging them, inspiring them with his enthusiasm for the fight, shrugged.

  “We advance on foot,” he said.

  Voices had been raised, protesting that they would be wide open to attacks by vermin and dogs.

  Joe looked too tired to argue and, besides, he probably knew they were right. He pointed in the direction from which they’d come.

  “That’s the way back,” he said, “but I don’t think the way remains open.”

  Of the dozen or so people who tried to leave, three were killed and two were wounded. The uninjured carried and dragged the wounded back with them. A Canadian woman, skin grey with shock, had taken a bullet in her side. Without surgery, she would be dead by noon of blood loss or shock or both before septicaemia had time to kill her. A middle-aged Frenchman, shot in the chest, died within minutes.

  They left the Canadian woman behind. When they tried to move her and the pain made her scream, tears spurting from her eyes, she had insisted on staying with a bottle of water and her submachine gun. An hour on and they all heard the brief burst of gunfire and the single, answering shot.