The biologists, geneticists, chemists, pharmacologists, and neurologists confined their opinions to the water cooler because none of them wanted to miss the chance to study a new species. Not that their study had yielded any conclusions. Like the British team over half a century earlier, they found the titans' physiology unrevealing. Although they knew these beings weren't human, any samples taken of skin, blood, or saliva, revealed nothing out of the ordinary. They were as much in the dark as they had been when Roger Sullivan first assembled the team.
A photograph of Sullivan receiving his medal from the president was the only decoration in the main laboratory. When he'd suffered a second heart attack—fatal, this time—a month after the New York parade, the rest of the scientific team had been delighted. Sullivan, according to a geneticist with a gift for expressing the consensus, had been "a third-rate scientist and a first-rate asshole."
Curwan, a neurologist, had taken over as team leader. It didn't matter who was in charge as there was one team member who knew far more about the creatures than anyone else. It was Mike Ainsleigh they went to for help, it was Ainsleigh who remembered every experiment carried out on The Deterrent between his discovery in 1969 and his disappearance in 1981. Ainsleigh was a conundrum. There from the beginning, he preferred to work alone. He could only be approached by one person at a time, or he would refuse to speak, and he seemed to hate himself for helping them. There were rumours he was only there because the alternative was prison.
When the armoured vehicle arrived, and the squad of soldiers escorted the trolley containing nine milk cans to the gleaming white and chrome laboratory, Ainsleigh was waiting along with everyone else. He stood at the back, hunched over, his eyes downcast, chewing the ends of his long grey hair and muttering. He shuffled forwards while the soldiers unscrewed the cans.
One side of the lab was a gigantic window looking through to a room containing a dozen large containers. Each container was two-thirds full with fresh vegetables, fruit, and vitamin-enriched pastes developed by the team. Nine blood drips stood ready. The blood didn't come from the president this time. Polls showed the public found it distasteful that all the superheroes had looked like giant versions of their leader. They suspected him of vanity. Torn between having superhero versions of himself flying around or being more popular, the president conceded and ordered that blood should henceforth be donated by intelligent, athletic men and women from Ivy League colleges.
The titans would be studied again before new bodies were grown. There had been few opportunities to examine the species in its dormant, slime-like state.
As the soldiers left, the scientists stepped in, reaching into the cans with swabs and taking tiny samples to smear across slides and examine under electron microscopes.
There were a few grunts of surprise from the first scientists to reach the cans. The consistency seemed different, the colour a little more green. There was even a distinct odour which had never been present before.
Mike Ainsleigh shuffled forwards as the first geneticist departed with his sample, taking the man's place by the milk can. He tied his hair back into a ponytail and leaned over, frowning. After a few seconds, he took a long, deep sniff. A few of the team looked up in surprise at the strange, strangled noise he made then. It sounded a lot like a suppressed giggle.
Ainsleigh stood up straight and looked around the room at the assembled group of top scientists, smiling at the banks of cameras and microphones recording everything. He held up his hand and extended his forefinger, waving it in the air as if he were about to perform a magic trick. Then, to everyone's horror, and before anyone could stop him, he stuck his hand in the can, scooped a big blob of titan slime onto his finger, and stuck it into his mouth.
One of the chemists screamed. Curwan looked as if he might throw up.
Mike swallowed, said, "yum," then started laughing. He hooted with mirth, putting both hands on his knees and howling as tears streamed down his unshaven cheeks.
It took him twenty minutes to regain some self-control and tell Curwan what was so funny.
Bardock spoke to her husband from bed in her hotel. She had been ordered to gather any evidence, send what they had to MI5, then stand down. She had ignored that order.
"I can do what I like, Jake," she said. " I'm retired. They can't order me to do anything."
"Come home then, Fiona." He was the only person she would tolerate calling her Fiona. Even her mother called her Bardock. Early in their relationship, Jake had tried 'Fi' on for size, and she'd walked out of the room and not spoken to him for the rest of the day. As she'd been straddling him at the time, he didn't make the same mistake twice.
"Well, I could come home, but I'd only have to come back again, so what's the point?"
"You're not making sense, Fiona. They've wrapped up the operation."
She changed channels on the TV. The news was full of the president's brisk walk through the press corps on his return to Washington. He had an odd expression on his face.
"I think the president might suffer from haemorrhoids," she said.
"What?"
"Never mind. Washington is five hours behind us."
"Er, yes. So?"
"Well, the president and his milk cans—"
"His what?"
"Oh, they didn't release that detail. Not surprised. Anyhow, they arrived at ten past nine this evening our time. They'll be transferred to the Pentagon, where their scientific team will be waiting. I reckon that'll take an hour. Maybe another half an hour to run the first tests. All done by about ten forty-five our time. It's five to eleven now. Which is why I'm calling you from the room phone rather than my mobile."
"You've lost me, Fiona. Not for the first time. What does any of that have to do with which phone you used to call me?"
"I want to leave my mobile free for when Jameson calls. Should be any minute."
"Unless you're wrong and you're paying for a hotel in the back arse of nowhere when you could be in bed with me."
Bardock's phone rang. Jake sighed.
"Do you ever get tired of being right?" he said.
"Not yet," she said. "I love you. Speak later."
Jake was the only person she'd ever said "I love you" to. Her mother had told her she was incapable of love, and her father had disappeared before she was born. Bardock had negotiated the adult world of sexual encounters with some enthusiasm but had avoided relationships. Her own company had proved sufficient. Jake had been a surprise.
She picked up her mobile phone.
"Sir? Yes, still here. I thought it was as well to stay nearby. Oh? As a matter of fact, yes, I have. Gregg and his team ran a search for boat sales and rentals. I also had them check every harbour and jetty."
She listened as Jameson updated her orders. "Yes, sir, I could do with extra resources. Excellent. Have someone call me if they find something. I'll be back at the warehouse at five tomorrow morning. Sir? What was in the milk cans when they tested them? I beg your pardon? Say again? It's hard to understand you, sir. Are you laughing? Thank you, sir. What's that? No, I never get tired of it. Good night."
She laid back on the pillow, turned out her light and, in the darkness, burst into laughter.
"Mushy peas?" Gregg looked at Bardock as if he suspected she were joking. Her expression was unreadable.
"That's right. Each milk can contained five litres of mushy peas. Is there something wrong with you, Gregg?"
"No, ma—Bardock," said Gregg, his face reddening and contorting. He snorted, tried to turn it into a cough and ended up hiccoughing violently.
"Well then, pull yourself together and get back to work on finding this boat. We have a description of the most likely candidate now, correct?"
"Yes—hup—we do. It was—hup—bought in Newquay six days ago. The owner took a holiday straight after the—hup—straight aft—hup—straight after the sale, so we—hup."
"Gregg, I'm taking you off this case and recommending you be demoted to the rank of private with i
mmediate effect."
Gregg' eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step backwards.
"You can't do that, I mean, why? Why would you do that? I'm working hard on this, it was me who found the boat, I stayed around when you told me the titans weren't in the cans—"
Bardock held up a hand. He stopped talking.
"Well," she said. "I always thought it was an old wives' tale. You live and learn."
"What?" Gregg was pale.
"Curing hiccoughs by giving someone a shock."
"You mean I'm not—?"
"No. You're doing a good job. Keep it up."
Gregg opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking very much like a guppy. A woman in combat fatigues ran up and handed him a piece of paper.
"We found him, sir, the boat owner. In a villa near Madrid. He said he could describe the man who bought the boat, so we got him straight over to the Spanish police. They've done a Photofit. It's on the second sheet."
"Good work." As the woman jogged away, Gregg turned so that Bardock could read what he was reading.
"Very tall, built like a rugby player, strong Geordie accent."
He flipped the page over, revealing a Photofit of a man in his late thirties or early forties, a cap pulled over a shaved head which looked tattooed.
Gregg pulled a face. "Not much to go on, is it?"
Bardock took the sheet of paper from him and studied the face for a moment.
"Dave Davie Davison," she said. "Newcastle drug dealer and gang boss. Nasty piece of work. Reputed to be a halfhero. Known by most people as TripleDee."
"How the fuck," began Gregg. He flushed and tried again. "Sorry, I mean, how on earth, ma'am, sir, er, Bardock?"
"Oh. A case last year."
The case had been intriguing but frustrating. She had been brought in when a spate of disappearances occurred among suspected, or confirmed, halfheroes. She had spent a month chasing leads. Whatever had happened to them, their tracks had been covered beautifully. It was as if they had vanished off the face of the planet.
She tapped her finger on the photofit. "Well, well," she said. "A missing halfhero mixed up in the disappearance of the titans. Curiouser and curiouser. Gregg?"
"Bardock?"
She handed back the picture. "Get onto those teams looking for the boat and push them harder. Meanwhile, have someone bring me a map of this stretch of coast, and everything within a hundred miles accessible by water."
She felt an itching sensation about an inch into her skull alongside her left ear. She knew she had missed something. And she would not rest until she'd worked out what it was.
15
Daniel checked on the bathtubs for the fifth time that morning. One of the half-formed bodies was growing much faster than the others, and he wanted to be there when it woke up. When he woke up. The facial features were that of an Asian man, his black hair growing so fast Daniel thought he could see it happening in real time. The face even had the beginnings of stubble.
Daniel opened an ebook on his phone and sat next to the tub. He was just getting lost in the story when the body next to him sat up, coughed wetly and smiled.
"Hello Daniel," said the Asian man.
Daniel almost dropped his phone. "Abos?"
"Yes. It is good to see you." He climbed out of the tub and stretched. For the first time in a male body, Abos was about an inch shorter than Daniel, but still well over six feet. The blood must have come from a very short man, as whenever Abos grew a new body, bulk, strength and height were always added to the original DNA template.
Daniel went to a locker in the corner of the container and brought back underwear, trainers, cotton tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt, and a hoodie.
"Hungry?" he said, as Abos got dressed.
"Yes," said Abos. They paused in front of a mirror. "It is good not to look like The Deterrent anymore. But I think I would have preferred to be female again."
"I'll bear it in mind next time you get reduced to a puddle of slime," said Daniel, smiling.
"The others will wake today," said Abos, walking around the containers. "The process is faster now. I have grown more new bodies than the others. My knowledge helps them in onemind."
"That's good," said Daniel, "because I don't know how long we have before they find us. Come on through."
In the living-space container, Abos was hugged immediately by Sara and Saffi when they realised who he was. TripleDee hung back until they had released him, then stepped up and delivered a quick bear hug of his own.
"I don't mind admitting, you're a sight for sore eyes, man. Even if you look like Jackie Chan on steroids."
Daniel steered Abos over to the computer desk. Headlines scrolled down the screen.
GONE AGAIN: WHERE ARE THE TITANS?
PRESIDENT COMMITS MORE RESOURCES TO THE HUNT FOR SUPERHEROES
ARE THE TITANS DEAD?
TITANS ACTUALLY SECRET NAZIS FROM THE FUTURE.
"Who writes this shit?" said TripleDee.
"That's the thing with twenty-four-hour news," said Sara. "Even on a slow day, they still have to pump out new content every minute."
"How long before the others are conscious?" said Saffi.
Daniel answered her. "Abos said it would be today. They grow bodies faster now. Something to do with the onemind thing they do."
"Good," said Saffi, "because now they know the van was a decoy, they'll throw everything at finding us. The reputation of the US and UK intelligence communities is at stake, and the president doesn't like to look incompetent."
"Like he needs any help," said TripleDee.
Abos was silent.
Sara crossed her arms and shook her head. "This is the worst bit," she said. "The waiting. Until the bodies are grown, we're sitting ducks."
"You always said this would be the hardest time," Saffi reminded her. "But this is a fantastic hiding place. Hardly anyone knows we're here. The captain was the only one who saw us board, and there's no way he could know we had nine superheroes in our backpacks. It's a brilliant plan, Sara."
Sara half-smiled. "Thanks. I'll be a lot happier when the titans have woken up."
"Not titans."
They all looked at Abos. He had turned in his seat and was looking at them, golden eyes shining out from his strange new face.
"What do you mean?" said Daniel.
"They're not titans."
"I get you," said TripleDee. "That was what they were when they had been brainwashed by the Americans. Now they're free. I thought about changing me name too, you know, cause TripleDee was, like, the name of a badass crime boss and I've, like, moved on, haven't I, so I thought mebbe I should go back to being Dave, or even David, but then I thought that sounded a bit gay, no offence, Sara, and I'm just too used too... I'm going to stop talking now, okay? Okay."
Saffi felt a strange sensation in the atmosphere as if the air was charged with static electricity.
"Do you feel that?" she said. "Anyone?" She looked at the others. Their expressions were nearly identical, faces relaxed, breathing deeply, eyes unfocussed. Daniel turned towards her.
"Abos is showing us the onemind." His voice was soft and full of wonder. "Can't you see it?"
Saffi looked around. "I don't see anything." Watching the others, she tried to relax, slowing her own breathing. It wasn't the first time in her life she had been excluded, but this was different. It wasn't that she didn't belong. She couldn't belong.
I'm the only human being here, she thought. She looked at Daniel, aware that his breathing had synchronised with that of the others. It was at that moment, as a chasm opened between them, that she realised she loved Daniel Harbin.
"Are you linked with them?" she said. "Are you linked with the titans?"
"Not titans," Daniel said. "They are The First."
It took Bardock ten minutes to identify the source of the itch in her skull telling her she'd missed something. She stared at the maps brought into the warehouse, then called for the local harbour master. An over
weight man of about seventy, dressed as if he expected to be photographed for the cover of Pipe-Smoking Retired Bearded Sea Captain magazine rolled out of a taxi ten minutes later. He had a gift for using twelve words when one would do.
Bardock pointed at the area of water southwest of the Cornish coast. "Is that a shipping lane?"
"Ah, well, if that's where I think it is, young lady, then, well, I'd have to say that yes, you'd be correct to say so. Busy, too. I remember when I was just a boy, my old dad once—"
"What kind of ships?"
"What's that? Say again? I don't hear quite as well as I used to. Still, can't complain, that Bert Trannick at the sweet shop's got shingles again, so he has, and that's no fun when—"
"The ships. What kind of ships use that stretch of water?"
"Well, now, let me have a little think. Container ships, cargo ships, the odd trawler. Thing is, you don't see the trawlers there quite so much these days. Still a few, but what with quotas and cheap frozen muck in the supermarkets, a whole way of life is dying. I was talking to Jack about it in the Three Boars Sunday gone. I said—"
He stopped and looked at the finger Fiona Bardock had placed on his chest. Then he saw her face and swallowed.
"Shut up and listen," she said, in a voice which had once made a terrorist cry. "I will ask you questions. I want to hear a yes or a no. Nothing else. Do you understand?"
The harbour master nodded rapidly. "Yes," he said.
"Am I right in thinking cargo or container ships are the main source of traffic in that shipping lane?"
"Yes."
"If a smaller boat were to pull alongside one of those cargo ships at sea, would it be possible for them to board?"
The harbour master's lips worked for a few seconds, as he tried desperately to bite back all the information he wanted to impart. "Yes," he said, then opened his mouth to expand, "but—"
The Last Of The First Page 8
