Tales of Crow- The Complete series Box Set

by Chris Ward

  He shrugged, trying to brush off his frustration. He had carried out the same procedures with these as he had with Race Devan, but while Race had proved an unparalleled success, the others were failing to live up to his hopes.

  The science was correct; his knowledge of genetics and biotechnology was unrivaled in the world. Were it not for the abomination of both his appearance and his deeds, he might have won science prizes the world over and advanced technology for a power-hungry generation obsessed with increasingly complex gadgetry.

  But playing God was not something the foolish unwashed deserved. Only he, Kurou, could play God, as he had done numerous times before. This time, however, he was failing to live up to his own massive expectations.

  Perhaps it was a simple case of subject material. Race had been strong and lean; the three lying before him were homeless runaways.

  Even though two of the three might survive, preliminary testing showed they would be far behind Divan in terms of strength, agility and durability, mere cannon fodder in a full-scale assault.

  No, he needed better subject material.

  Dogs were easy to find. Every other home had some overfed guard dog to protect them against the growing unrest, but people were another matter.

  He had got lucky with Race Devan. Race had shown up in the right place at the right time, drunk, easily fooled, easily sedated. But Kurou was aware of his limitations: he didn’t have the strength of his youth, and his workforce currently consisted of Laurette, one damaged Huntsman, and a few basic service robots.

  It was time to call in his favours.

  He picked up the phone and called Tommy Crown.

  The lawyer picked up on the second ring. ‘Who is this?’

  Kurou flashed a crooked smile. ‘Ah, the delightful Mr. Crown, he of the blessed luck.’

  A long pause came before Tommy answered. ‘Kurou.’

  ‘The deed is done as requested. Your nephew and his fine young girlfriend are safe, and something of an upheaval has begun around the town which might offer you a few stepping stones in your quest for greater social status. It’s time for you to uphold your side of the bargain. I need people.’

  Tommy’s long outtake of breath might have been inaudible to someone with lesser hearing, but to Kurou it sounded like a wave drawing back on a rocky shore.

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Quickly. I cannot wait. I feel something is about to happen, and I need to be prepared.’

  ‘I said I’ll do what I can. It won’t be easy.’

  ‘I need strong, solid men. No drug addicts or wasters. I need blood made of blood, not blood made of piss and vinegar. I need blood I can fill with ire, with grit and steel—’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll try.’

  ‘Hurry. Can I expect a first shipment within a few days?’

  The rustle on the other end of the line sounded like Tommy shaking his head, but he said, ‘I’ll bring some as soon as possible.’

  ‘Good, good. And remember, sire, we’re a team now. You scratch my misshapen back, and I’ll scratch your bowed one in returned. Mutual partnership and teamwork set a ship to sail quickly, don’t you think?’

  Tommy’s answer was a grunt.

  ‘Good.’

  Kurou felt satisfied as he hung up. With someone else he might have expected their deal to fail, but he could see Tommy’s character in the way he moved, the way he talked. He was a hard, hard man, but one of his word. And one who, thanks to Kurou’s little game, felt a healthy sense of fear.

  ‘The sun will shine in the end,’ Kurou whispered, looking down at a picture from the newspaper he had shredded that lay by his foot. It showed a tall, shadowy figure standing outside Parliament Tower in London. The figure, face nearly hidden by shadows cast by an aide holding an umbrella over his head, had his arms aloft in triumph.

  ‘Dear Maxim, I would so like to see you again,’ Kurou whispered. ‘Would it be okay if I brought a friend?’

  16

  Urla

  She held binoculars to her face, surveying the mob which had formed outside the northern branch of Wells’s DCA department. Only three agents were on duty at any one time, but the crowd numbered a couple of hundred. Chants rang out, discordant, poorly organised shouts of ‘Give us back our voice,’ ‘Free all political prisoners,’ ‘No voice, no freedom,’ and ‘Silent people, silent government.’

  What disturbed her most was that some people had unearthed photographs of both Patrick Devan and Suzanne Carmichael-Jones and were waving about placards with their enlarged faces taped above crudely written slogans. What did these idiots think, that Devan and Carmichael-Jones had become folk heroes, latter day Robin Hoods who would dance down from Cheddar Gorge to save them?

  She shook her head and turned to Justin, sitting beside her in the parked, unmarked car.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ she said. ‘We have to quell this or it could spread. Those escaped kids have become a rallying cry.’

  ‘Cut out their heart,’ Justin said.

  ‘How do I go about that?’

  ‘Their leadership. You planned to execute a handful of dissidents, but they were just kids. We need to find the people these mobs look up to.’

  ‘The hunt for Devan and Carmichael-Jones is well underway. I expect them recaptured within the next couple of days.’

  ‘I don’t mean the kids. I mean the people behind the scenes. Mobs like this don’t just come together. There are people in bars or clubs bringing the people together, organising them, telling them where to meet.’

  ‘So, how do we find them?’

  ‘The easiest way would be to get an informer, to infiltrate them, but that could take time. In the meantime we have to do a bit of guesswork. Look for those in positions of power among the underclasses. The workcrew foremen, the heads of local community groups, civil lawyers, charity leaders. Those are the types who could be behind this.’

  Urla shook her head. ‘It’s too indiscriminate. We have to be careful how many innocents we incarcerate.’

  ‘There are no innocents in a civil uprising,’ Justin said. ‘There are those who conform, and those who don’t.’

  She looked across at him. He was staring straight ahead with a look of utter concentration, and for the first time she wondered what kind of man she was taking into her bed. His coldness made her own feel like a warm shower.

  ‘We can’t do anything without asking a few questions,’ she said. ‘Send more men out into the streets, plain-clothed, listening for names. A simple suspicion is enough justification.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  They headed back to the main DCA office. A roadblock had been set up to contain small groups of protesters camped outside. Armed guards parted the crowd to allow the car inside. As a couple of rocks hit the reinforced glass, Urla was glad that behind the tinted windows she was invisible.

  Back in her office, she made some phone calls, ordering an armed unit to dispel the crowd around the northern office. ‘Talk to them first, but if necessary, use force. Arrest anyone who refuses to comply.’

  The jails would be full within hours, she knew. The situation was worsening. It had been escalating for months, ever since the working by-laws and Law 14.2 came into force, but now with roads being pulled up and more DCA on the streets, the voice of dissent was growing louder than ever.

  She had made some poor choices, but she still had the upper hand. The DCA and her local policing forces had all the resources; the people were mostly unarmed due to a decade of ongoing amnesties. That thing at the public execution was a major worry, but it had been alone and there had been no word of it since. Traces of blood had been found, meaning it had taken some bullets; it could be lying dead somewhere and no longer of concern.

  The phone rang.

  Urla stared at it. Not her regular phone, but a special line, one direct to her office. Only one place had the number: the Department of Civil Affairs Head Office in London.

  She took a deep breath, summ
oning her authoritative voice. ‘Urla Wynne, DCA Regional Commander, Somerset Central Division. How can I help?’

  ‘Ms. Wynne?’ The voice was hollow and cold. ‘This is Jeremy Troughton.’

  Urla gave a slow nod. She knew him. Troughton was superintendent of the entire DCA. She had never spoken to him before. Doubts made her hands shake. Had he heard of the unrest growing in her local area? Was he going to dismiss her, or worse, order her to come to London for questioning?

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This is just a social call,’ Troughton said, with no hint of emotion in his voice displaying that it was true. ‘It’s just to inform you that Maxim Cale, head of the National Freedom Party, is planning to visit your region as part of his campaign tour ahead of the upcoming election. I would like you to organise his stay and provide security. I don’t need to tell you that Cale might be our next prime minister. His safety must be ensured.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens.’

  ‘Of course. I would expect nothing less.’

  Urla’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the phone. Troughton read out some dates and times which she struggled to write down with her free hand, then abruptly hung up. Urla was left standing with the phone in her hand, wondering quite what had just happened.

  Maxim Cale was a massive figure in the government. Coming out of nowhere to lead the NFP, a party barely a decade old, he was experiencing a surging wave of popularity. With campaign promises including zero unemployment, greater policing and security, rises to minimum wages, a lowering of the pensionable age, as well as gradual reversals to many of the controversial policies of recent years, he was expected to sweep to power in the elections coming up in the summer.

  He was more than just important. He was Britain’s future.

  When he came to power, he would have more influence than anyone had held in years. If she presented herself right, Urla could find herself out of the small town she had spent most of her career in, perhaps into London itself.

  The local unrest had to be crushed before it could disrupt Cale’s visit.

  The clock was ticking.

  Urla called Justin. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘We need to stamp this out before it gets out of hand, and if that means getting to the heart, then so be it.’

  ‘I’ve already drawn up a list of suspects,’ Justin said.

  Urla smiled. It was like he could read her thoughts. ‘Can you come in here for a moment, please? I’ve been feeling a little cold. I need something to … warm me up. Set your phone to voicemail and make sure you lock the door behind you. I’m taking no more calls or visitors for the rest of the day.’

  ‘I’ll be there in less than one minute,’ Justin said.

  17

  Tommy

  Kurou wouldn’t take no for an answer, but abducting people for hideous experiments had never been Tommy’s style. Breaking a few arms and legs was one thing, submitting someone to have a dog’s snout sewn to their face and their body filled with metal and chemicals was quite another.

  He wasn’t sure who he hated that much. No one easily attainable at any rate.

  Tommy had never been afraid of the dark. Even as a child he had preferred the night to the day, and he had been taking long nighttime walks for as long as he could remember. It was a time when most of the town was asleep, the few remaining cars were off the roads, and the most interesting people were abroad.

  His encounter with Kurou and the Huntsman had reminded Tommy of an emotion he rarely felt these days: fear. He feared no man, but Kurou held that definition only by lack of any other, and the Huntsman was something out of a nightmare. Having to be thankful to something which had nearly killed him was an unusual experience, but one, he sensed, that would put him in good stead when the eventual collapse of society as he knew it came to pass.

  Maxim Cale. He spat on the ground. Word from his sources inside London claimed that the rising politician was as full of lies as any other, that his interpretation of policies which had excited the voters would be more brutal and suffocating than anything that had come before.

  The people, though, wouldn’t listen. Like sheep, they would follow a trend until it was too late. Not until dead eyes stared up from the bottom of a cliff would the true reality be seen.

  And by then Cale would be lording it from the top of Parliament Tower.

  Tommy had no intention of lying among the pile of dead, real or metaphorical. He still had his plans, but there were also people he wanted to protect. And the best way of protection was with a deadly weapon, something Kurou could provide.

  Somehow, he had to find Kurou’s source material.

  Tonight felt different. Usually the night was silent, trouble only found if one went looking in the right places. But tonight he heard distant commotions, a muffled explosion, gunshots. Faces peered fearfully out of windows before snapping curtains shut. Police and DCA cars screeched around corners, lights flashing. Thuds came as doors were broken in, people dragged out of their beds.

  He was armed, two loaded pistols inside his jacket, along with a taser, a bottle of mace, and a knife sharp enough to cut bone. His armoury would see him spend a long time in a DCA cell, but he had no intention of being caught, only to stay out long enough to see what was going down.

  He found Saj and Nevin Reynolds in their usual bar. People called Saj the Butcher, because he was one, of a sort, running an abattoir outside the town. Nevin had two faces: by day he wore a police uniform and terrorised local punks, by night he ran an illegal gambling den, one known as much for the sharing of information as for its trade.

  ‘What’s going on up there?’ Tommy asked, taking his usual seat between the other two. Saj passed him a beer, a filthy homebrew which made Tommy wince.

  ‘A purge,’ Nevin said. ‘Urla Wynne’s gone on another rant, looking to cut the head off the uprising monster before it gets to its feet. I’m officially on call if anything gets out of hand, but this is the DCA’s thing. They’ve requested to handle it alone. Stupid woman doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘That execution was a foolish attempt to display power,’ Saj added. ‘She’s gone and riled the people up too bad. It’ll take a slaughter to quell it, but that’s what’s coming. I’m telling you boys now. You think this is bad? It’ll be worse before it’s done, believe me.’

  Tommy had to agree. He told Saj and Nevin to keep their ears to the ground, and to pass on anything important they heard. Then, feeling a nervous excitement that wouldn’t allow him to dawdle for long, he headed back out to the street, unsure if he was looking for trouble or trying to avoid it.

  DCA purges weren’t uncommon. Everyone knew someone who had been dragged out of their beds and into an unmarked van, never to return. Act 14.2 was just the icing on a cake the government had been baking for a long time.

  This though, this was unheard of. It would cause a great dent in the local society, with so many prominent figures taken in for questioning. Some might return, most would likely rot in a hellish jail somewhere.

  But Tommy’s biggest fear … was that he might be on the list. As he rounded the next corner, he found that fear confirmed.

  His office, on the second floor of a two-storey building, was ablaze. Smoke poured through broken windows, and flames licked up the walls. A pop followed by a crash from inside indicated that his gas main had exploded. Soon, the building would be nothing but a shell, his entire life’s work gone.

  That on the surface, at least.

  He watched from the darkness of an alleyway across the street. A few faces peered out of nearby windows, but no one had ventured outside. Tommy listened for sirens, but the few he heard were distant, heading away. He had at least achieved a status to make the DCA’s list, and by default he was now a wanted man.

  There was nothing he could do. He turned away, one hand patting the two guns inside the lining of his jacket, the other touching first the knife, then the bottle of mace and the
taser.

  Now he was looking for trouble.

  He headed back up the street. The DCA weren’t so numerous that they could work in packs. They relied on their status, a loaded weapon, and surprise to achieve compliance, but they weren’t ready to be hunted.

  It didn’t take long. Halfway up the street ahead, a van pulled in against the curb, bumping up over the flagstones. One man got out, coming around the front of the van, already pulling a gun from his belt as he headed up the path to the front door. He banged hard with the butt of the gun, then when a few seconds passed without an answer, he turned the gun on the lock and shot the door open.

  As he barged inside, Tommy heard a woman’s scream.

  He jogged along the street on the opposite side, waiting for a gap in the streetlights to run across to the van. He peeked in the passenger side and found the guy at the wheel playing on a phone. Tommy crept around the front, a gun in his hand. He jerked the door open, stepped up quickly and shoved the gun’s barrel into the man’s mouth.

  The man screamed as a couple of teeth broke. Tommy spun the gun around, cracking the man across the temple, then shoved him over and climbed inside.

  The man had fallen across the passenger seat. A pair of DCA handcuffs secured his hands behind his back, and a dirty rag they probably used to clean the windscreen made a decent gag. Tommy pushed the man down until he was lying in the foot-well.

  ‘I don’t know how awake you are, but if you make a single fucking sound I’ll shoot you in the neck,’ Tommy said. ‘I’ve heard that’s where it hurts the most. You bleed out. You can feel every drop of blood flowing out of you. Remember … not a sound.’