Trinity

by Patrick Morgan

  ‘I second that,’ said JT, who was still suffering with the after-effects of Ira’s attentions of a few shifts earlier.

  There was no missing the entrance to the restricted area. The tunnel was artificially reduced in both height and width by battered steel panels that had been riveted together to form a sort of bulkhead between the mine and whatever lay beyond. A black opening, just big enough to admit an LV, had been left at its centre.

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ asked JT absently.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ira, his voice betraying his growing unease. He looked around at the walls and ceiling. ‘You see those sensors up there?’

  JT squinted in the direction Ira was looking. ‘Yes, I see them. There’s more in the walls. Do you think they’re motion sensors?’

  ‘I guess so. Maybe they’re cameras. They really seem keen not to let anyone in here.’

  They heard the unmistakable sound of a roller shutter being raised on a chain pull from somewhere in the darkness. Presently, the rattling and screeching stopped and the roller shutter was held open before being allowed to drop closed again under its own weight. In the momentary pause between the door being open and shut, JT was sure he heard a scream from somewhere deep in the darkness. Human or animal, he couldn’t be sure.

  A moment later a man strode out from the dark aperture. To JT and Ira’s shared horror, he was stowing a long, curved knife into a sheath at his right hip. He moved in the manner of a man caught doing something he shouldn’t but not particularly caring. He was younger than they had expected and dressed in nondescript sandy grey fatigues similar to those JT had seen worn by the Rika on the few occasions he had encountered them in field dress. His hair was shorter than JT’s, and divided by a curved scar that ran from his right ear around to the back of his head.

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you? What you doing here?’ the man demanded as he came to an abrupt halt uncomfortably close to them. Such was his resemblance to JT, they knew it was Connor. Connor himself, now giving the pair his full attention, also recognised the similarity.

  ‘It this some sort of joke?’ he said, scowling at JT. While they might have looked similar, their manner couldn’t have been more different. Even the way they stood was different. Where JT, admittedly nervous if not fearful, held himself with an easy fluidity, Connor in contrast had a forced stiffness.

  ‘No joke,’ said JT, with a little diffidence. ‘I’ve been hearing how much we look alike all shift. It’s getting a little stale, if I’m honest.’

  Connor laughed. ‘Well, I never. You sure we’re not brothers? Your daddy wasn’t running around doing the dirty on Mummy?’ His face creased with spite.

  JT had never met anyone who could start a sentence with humour and finish it with such malevolence. ‘Pretty sure. They were both dead within a cycle of my appearance and if I’m not mistaken I’m older than you.’

  ‘So who are you then?’

  ‘Gilbert. JT Gilbert, Hellinar Research. I’m a quartermaster.’

  ‘Well that is very interesting, Mr Gilbert. What is a quartermaster doing in Mal-Kas mine? And who’s this fellow?’ Ira bristled a little but said nothing.

  ‘This is Ira,’ said JT. ‘We’ve been looking for some equipment that was lent to MineVision way back. It’s long overdue an inspection.’

  Connor growled in disapproval but seemed to accept the explanation as legitimate. ‘There’s no kit back here, Mr Gilbert. This area is restricted, like it says on that sign above the door, so you can be on your way now.’

  ‘Actually,’ said JT with more confidence than he felt, ‘we were hoping to talk to you about some equipment that’s not at Mal-Kas. As far as we know,’ he added.

  Connor’s eyes narrowed and it occurred to JT that Hydra might not be the only theft facilitated by this man. There seemed no point holding back so he came straight out with it, trying hard to resist a glance at the machete as he did so.

  ‘Hydra, a three-vehicle desert Unit. There’s some paperwork with your name on it and we wondered, since we were here, if you could shed any light on it?’ Even to himself JT’s tone sounded infuriatingly superior but he didn’t know how else to play the part.

  ‘Paperwork? What paperwork?’ said Connor with a snarl. JT got the distinct impression paperwork was not Connor’s thing.

  ‘Well, not so much paperwork, more that you were in and out of the office the transponder was delivered to, and we wondered why.’

  Connor’s expression changed very slightly. It was only just perceptible but he seemed almost to relax. His shoulders might have dropped – maybe by only a few millimetres, it was hard to tell, but his posture had somehow lost a little of its stiffness. His demeanour was subtly different too, his hostility taking on the air of assuming a role in contrast to the genuine disdain he had previously displayed.

  ‘T24? My access to that facility’s official.’

  ‘No one is doubting that, Mr Connor,’ said JT deferentially. ‘We just want to know where Hydra went and that it will be returned. If it’s been commandeered on an official or semi-official basis, by the Rika for example, we would be grateful to have that confirmed.’

  Connor looked to Ira, then back to JT and scrutinised him. Something felt wrong here. It was as if the conversation was playing out as Connor expected, almost as if it were scripted. It made no sense, but JT concluded it was better to let it run its course and see where it led.

  ‘It was official. Don’t ask me how or why, I don’t know. I was hired by an intermediary, a man called Garnet. Can’t tell you if that’s his real name or not. I don’t know who was behind moving it or why it had to be converted to run in Ayon. That never made much sense to me – why steal a desert Unit and convert it? Easier just to steal an Ice Runner.’

  ‘So it was stolen,’ said JT, seeking confirmation.

  ‘Like I told you, it was official but it had to be done on the quiet. Garnet’s employer was official, my access was arranged to be official. I don’t know the detail, but it was legit. They even got me to take photographs when they got to the slums to pick up the rest of the crew.’

  Connor reached backwards and unclipped the flap of a pouch strung from his belt, his dark eyes never leaving JT’s own. Carefully he withdrew something and brought it forward for them to take.

  ‘I kept one photo back for myself. Insurance, like. It’s a bit basic, but you might as well have it. I figure they’re deep into the ice by now and if you’re looking into it I’d prefer to stay on the side of the great and the good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said JT, amazed by this turn of events. He took the photograph and examined it. Even at postcard size and in black and white it clearly showed Hydra, one of the vehicles replete with snow chains, pulled up across the foreground. In front of it stood six figures all in plain jumpsuits, their faces wrapped up against the dust. Or, as JT thought more likely, to conceal their identities. In the background he recognised the shanty town of Gygath.

  ‘Why did they want photographs?’ asked Ira, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Haven’t a clue, my son,’ said Connor. ‘Maybe they just wanted to capture the moment. Still, good thing I kept that one for you boys isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said JT, still scrutinising the picture.

  ‘So what’s back there?’ asked Ira after a pause.

  Connor’s reaction was so swift that JT was shocked out of concentration with such speed it confused him. In a single motion the man had drawn his blade and had it to Ira’s throat, their faces now only centimetres apart.

  JT took a step back as Connor snarled, teeth bared at Ira like an animal. For a moment the blade caught the light above, revealing a slick, dark liquid flecked across its surface. His hearts seemed to miss a beat.

  ‘What’s back there is nothing to do with you son. I’m a polite gentleman most of the time, so I’ll ask you nicely, once, to get the hell out of here before I have to ask again. I don’t like asking twice. It shows an impoliteness on the par
t of the person I’m asking and I don’t like impolite people.’

  Very slowly he withdrew the knife. ‘Understood?’ he said and took a step back. ‘Are we done here, Mr Gilbert?’

  ‘I think we are,’ said JT, who, to his own surprise, managed to keep his voice from betraying the fear he felt. ‘Thank you for the photograph.’

  Connor said nothing more. He turned and walked away from them, sheathing the knife as he did so. As he reached the opening he seemed to mumble something. JT couldn’t hear the words but the tone implied a debt had been discharged. A moment later they heard the rapping of knuckles on the roller shutter and it screeched open. JT strained to hear beyond as the roller paused at the top of its travel but heard nothing. It ran down its guides, slamming into the unseen floor in the darkness.

  ‘Well that was fun,’ said Ira. ‘I don’t know about you, but that guy scares the shit out of me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said JT, releasing a breath he might have been holding throughout the encounter. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  He pocketed the photograph, still astonished and a little confused to possess it. They turned to head back to Beth and then to the relative cool of the outside world.

  025: The Shaman

  Below Skala

  Megan awoke with a jolt, unsure of where she was. She blinked her eyes into focus, the red brick of the walls and pale grey of the flagstone floor bringing memories of the previous shift back to her. Olson lay a metre away, snoring gently. She sat up, stretching her stiff, aching muscles.

  The air was cool and quiet. The occasional pocket of warmth drifted in from a fire somewhere in the corridor beyond. She got up and straightened her jumpsuit, ironing out wrinkles with the flats of her hands, and made her way to the doorway. Enjoying the cold, abrasive feel of the stone under her bare feet, she wondered how hot the stone near the fire pits that heated and illuminated the corridors got and kept her distance.

  The passageways were silent, although she was aware of the presence of sleeping humanity all around her. She was careful not to stray into anyone’s private space, keeping to the thoroughfares and larger halls. It was hard to believe the place was thirty decades old. The brickwork was of a stunning, even quality and remained as sharp as it had in the shift it was built. Bidirectional arched ceilings curved above her and she wondered how they were constructed.

  She found her way to the vast, deserted atrium at the centre of Buni Sound. It was darker than it had been upon her arrival; only a few of the wall-mounted torches were left burning. The glow of the coals in the fire pit of the entrance had dimmed, allowing the iridescent glow of the UV-lit water to penetrate the space. Feeling the rough flagstone changing to smooth mosaic, she looked down to see intricate, swirling patterns set into the floor.

  In the centre of the atrium stood a low, circular stone wall, a seating area perhaps. At its centre was a small pool of clear water lit softly from below. She peered in, wondering if it were connected directly to the vast body of water beyond the entrance.

  A deep voice made her jump.

  ‘It is known as the Level, little miss.’

  It was the Shaman. He sat, propped against the stone wall with an arm across one raised knee. The other leg was stretched out in front of him and she guessed he had been sleeping that way. He was wrapped in a clean, dark cloak that had holes and tears sewn into it as if a part of the design.

  He looked up, the light catching his eyes. She had forgotten their strange feline look and winced.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘What are the Hadje?’

  The Shaman looked her directly in the eye and his wild features softened a little.

  ‘Who are we? That is a good question,’ he said, speaking with a slow, melancholy tone as if asking it of himself. ‘We are exiles of a sort. A people living away from their own place, down here below yours.’

  Megan waited for him to continue but he looked at her with a purposeful, level stare.

  ‘Are there more Hadje?’ she asked.

  ‘Many more, hidden far from here.’

  ‘Hidden? Are they in danger, your people?’

  ‘We all feel the danger.’ He nodded a couple of times in affirmation. ‘We have warned you of it many times, in stories and song. Few listen.’

  ‘But some do?’ she asked.

  ‘Some do,’ he agreed. ‘Danger is now closer than ever.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Intercessor Drive Cores you covet. They are not the cause of the danger, but they propagate it.’

  ‘We didn’t invent them,’ said Megan defensively. ‘We found them. We need them to survive…’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Shaman, cutting her off. ‘The Cores you so zealously guard were locked away for years uncounted, and for good reason. Their reappearance is…’ he made a show of searching for the right word. ‘Unfortunate.’

  Megan narrowed her eyes, trying to get the measure of him. ‘Are the Hadje behind the anti-AI movement?’ she said with suspicion.

  ‘No,’ said the Shaman with amusement. ‘We are not, little miss. We do not approve of the methods of the righteous and self-absorbed. They are as much a part of the problem as the corruption that infects your Council.’

  Megan, who had two family members on the Privy Council, took exception to this statement and said so.

  ‘They are not all corrupt.’

  The Shaman frowned. ‘Perhaps not. But, by its nature, corruption spreads to the purer of heart whether they know it or know it not.’

  He said nothing further and Megan could think of little to say. When he began again it was in a lower, more confiding tone.

  ‘The Cores you harbour, to become dependent on them is a road to ruination. It would be better to return them to the prisons from which they came. We have guided the Cauldron Born, your people, over thousands of years. Once we could do this in plain sight, now we must do so from the shadows. The Hadje are here to educate, to spread the truth.’

  ‘Cauldron Born?’ Megan found the term unfathomable. ‘What does that mean?’ But the Shaman only held her stare.

  ‘The bards,’ she said in realisation. ‘You educate the bards, the storytellers?’

  The Shaman nodded.

  ‘And Myra Cena, you told Myra all this?’ She had been burning to get answers to the myriad of questions surrounding Myra.

  ‘Cena? I know not this name.’

  ‘You said in the Siphon that you thought we were looking for a woman called Myra,’ she said hastily. ‘Myra Cena, the technician who works in the Vault where the IDCs are kept.’ She took a step towards the Shaman. A desperation to slot the pieces together boiled inside her.

  ‘Myra. Dark hair, about my height, looks like she works out a lot.’ She was almost willing him to confirm this. Myra Cena had facilitated the theft of HEX, she felt sure. In the midst of all that had happened, she’d buried the frustration of not being able to return to the Vault, to tell O’Brien that Myra was the bad apple. But now the feeling became overwhelming.

  But the Shaman was non-committal. ‘Possibly. One of your kind looks much like another to my eyes. It’s the soul that speaks out.’

  Megan tried hard to picture Myra, who she had only met briefly the shift before. Describing her soul was not something she had much chance at achieving, but she did remember a physical detail that might set her apart.

  ‘She has a scar on her cheek,’ she said. ‘The left I think.’

  ‘I remember no scar, little miss, but I couldn’t say that with certainty.’

  Megan felt deflated as the Shaman got to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was. He placed a huge hand on each of her shoulders.

  ‘Do not be too hasty. The answers will come, although perhaps not to you. Tell me, why is the woman you seek important?’

  She looked at the floor as she spoke and shook her head a little. ‘One of the Intercessors has been stolen. Whoever took it used the 7075 tunnel, where the Siphon is, to remove it.’ Then she added with a tinge
of disappointment, ‘We think.’

  The Shaman swiftly fell to one knee in front of her and she felt the movement of air around her. Even kneeling, his eyeline was near level with her own. Those strange eyes burned with a new intensity.

  ‘Say that again, little miss,’ he said.

  ‘One of the Intercessor Drive Cores was stolen.’

  He drew back from her then looked over her shoulder at something behind her. She turned and saw Olson approaching with Jean-Louis.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Olson. ‘I woke and, well you weren’t there. Just wondered where you’d wandered to.’

  ‘I’m safe,’ said Megan, looking back to the Shaman.

  ‘It must be found,’ he urged.

  ‘I know,’ said Megan. ‘That’s what we’re trying to do.’

  ‘You do not understand, child. It has to be recovered. If it seeks to return to its origin, the consequences are unthinkable.’

  ‘Its origin?’ she asked. ‘Why? What would happen?’

  He seemed to think a moment. He spoke in a slow and considered tone. ‘That is not an easy question for me to answer so that you will believe. But I can set you on the path to the answer if you are willing to travel it.’

  This sounded extremely cryptic to Megan, and she looked back at Olson, who regarded her with concern. She felt like a small child, an effect magnified by the sheer size of the man kneeling before her.

  ‘How do I find the path?’ she asked.

  ‘You must go to our city of Tsarocca.’

  ‘Tsarocca?’ she said, turning the strange word over in her mind. ‘You said your people were hidden.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, more as a breath than a word. ‘To find Tsarocca you will need a guide. I said we were exiles and that is the truth. None of us here know the way to Tsarocca, although many of us have been there. Protection for our kind from yours,’ he said, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘If you are to find Tsarocca, you will first need to travel to the Ruined City, to Kul. There is a man there that can guide you.’

  ‘A man? What is his name?’ asked Megan.