Reliquary

Kris Brooker

Copyright © 2017 by Kris Brooker

1
Rome 1564

Blood? Was I wounded in the struggle? Get up Lucha, run the Papist pig down. Lose sight of him now and he is gone forever.

The cloaked man was getting away, the sound of his flight fading.

For the love of God, Lucha, get up, get up.

It was hopeless, the wall the only reason Lucha could still stand as blood seeped unchecked through his fingers.

The mission, get up. For the love of Christ, give chase before it’s too late.

All he could do was watch helplessly as a blurred figure melted into the darkness.

Breathe, Lucha, breathe. There is no pain that faith cannot ascend. Capture the Papal bitch and slice his throat. Send him to God with spit in his eyes. The mission.

If only his legs could respond with the same zeal that burned deep in his gut. But the world listed violently. Weakness was accompanied by an unwelcome euphoria. A downward motion ensued until his knees would bend no more, and Lucha’s face ground hard into the dirt of the street. Blood ran, he knew his time was over. The hunt had ended, he had failed.

Lucha fumbled at the ruffle of his doublet, he needed to breathe. Find good air. But the stink of Rome seemed stronger than ever. This accursed Papal City was no place to die. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Cry out. Call for help. The words stuck in his throat.

So many windows but not a single light. The cramped doorways of the long street filled with darkness and silence. And spirits, or so it seemed, conjured by the light of the moon. Were his eyes failing or was the night closing to claim him? Lucha had never been frightened by shadows, not until now.

Air? Can’t breathe. Help me.

The summer evening was warm, and yet he felt a chill. The bastard’s blade had obviously penetrated deep. Lucha pulled at his hauberk. He dragged the heavy shirt away and crawled slowly to a doorway. It felt good to sit, and not lie like a dog on the ground.

Lucha lifted his hand, blood stained and sticky. A black trail left by his clothing to the step onto which he crawled. The wound a fresh spring that refused to be dammed.

I’m dying, Lord.

‘Lord?’ he called out toward Heaven.

Silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

He’d failed to stop the Papist Monk and he knew well what failure meant. There would be no Priests to pray for his soul. No mourners to sing for his deliverance. He was going to die cramped in this doorway,

Pray for forgiveness, Lucha. He could barely mutter the words of his most treasured scripture; Psalm 23, Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me . . .

* * *

‘God forgive me, I had no choice.’ Had he killed him?

Giani stumbled across the cobbles, he had to get away. The man he’d left lying in the street had intended to kill him. Why couldn’t he wipe the blood from his hands.

The frenzy of the attack; the struggle to live. In panic Giani had run for Rome’s back streets and found himself lost in its maze of doorways and shadows. So many dark places for his enemies to hide. He had to stop, take stock. Only luck had seen him escape the assassin’s blade. Giani wanted to puke. But there wasn’t time; there were others who prowled the streets seeking his death.

Stop, rest. Take breath and pause. Pray for that man’s soul. Giani stumbled forward looking for signs. Street signs, or even a sign from God. He found only rough walls to steady his hands, and left blood stains to mark his passing. The effort had left him cramped in his side, and it was so difficult to breathe.

Stop, stop.

Giani found a doorway. A dark hole below a tiled porch under which to hide. A moment to pause and take stock. To hold his side and relieve the pain. So much pain? Giani pulled his hand slowly back into view. It was covered in blood.

‘No, the knife stabbed . . .’ That terrible feeling as his blade had entered flesh. It was his flesh. No, I can’t be wounded.

It wasn’t possible. But the pain and blood told him otherwise. Giani backed further into the doorway. He could hear voices, and not too distant. The sound of men running half a few streets away, they’d found the assassin.

Run, Giani, run.

He stirred but didn’t move.

The box?

Giani froze in a moment of dread. Both hands fumbled to open his cloak, then clawed for the pocket sown within. His fingers grabbed the object and a cold wave of relief calmed his panic. It was still there. God is great. God is great. He wanted to shout the words and wake the sleeping Romans, but settled for the sign. Jesus’ cross, twice, to be sure. A short prayer for deliverance as he brought the box from below the heavy cloak, unaware of the moonlight creeping towards him through the darkened street. A moment later the box glistened in his bloodied hands.

Giani remembered the first time he’d seen the box, some forty years since. A trip to France as the Abbott’s Aide, an opportunity to see the Pope, Clement the seventh. He’d been so excited. Even more so when, Papa, had invited them both to receive the Holy Communion. To his surprise the Holy Father then came to see him in secret. He entrusted Giani as custodian of the box. It must be taken to the end of the Earth for protection. He’d said, and had then blessed Gianni. For he had foreseen the sacking of Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V.

So many years; six Popes had held power since that day. He had told no-one about the box, and yet the agents of evil searched the streets somehow aware of its presence in Rome.

He’d always admired the small silver box, its workmanship was exquisite. The metal inscribed with Angelic images and ancient symbols. The Relic it held within was priceless. In his hands Giani held the continued existence of Mankind on Earth. For this was God’s box. The inscriptions were God’s words. Entrusted to St Peter, and passed on to each Pope in turn. Pope Pius IV, the Medici Pope, had ordered its return. His holiness had written, in person, to instruct Giani to prepare for this journey. That same letter had promised him absolution for all and any acts necessary to ensure the box’s safety.

More voices, louder now. There was anger in the poor Latin dialogue, and less than a street distant. Giani’s heartbeat raced. The moonlight faded as he tucked the box away. Then left his concealment to stumble out into darkness.

More streets; one narrow street into another. Nothing but windows and doorways, from which to be seen, or set upon. He was a scholar, not a spy. His heart wouldn’t take much more of this.

Which way? Which way?

A loud thumping sound ahead cautioned him back to the shadows. Back into hiding, from where he saw a board that swung in a sudden stirring breeze.

Is it a sign?

Hung outside an apothecary.

Wait, I know this place?

The street was familiar; as was the butcher’s shop opposite, and the painted shutters of the flower seller, its name, ‘the Blooming Orchid’. After all these years, he remembered, and the stirring breeze brought something else, a scent that was fresh and welcome.

Water? The River Tiber, it must be close.

If he could cross the river, he’d find Sanctuary. If he kept bleeding like this, he wouldn’t make it that far.

Giani ripped a fistful of his silken blouse and forced the expensive rag into the wound, cursing the man who inflicted such pain with a mumbled wail. Then silence, broken by the need to gasp for air. Giani fell to his knees, his strength wilted, the will to go on waned at the pain, but what other choice did he have?

The sign creaked again as the breeze rose with intensity. Surely it was an omen.

Get to your feet, Giani. God has given you a sign.

Giani lumbered forward his senses tuned to the gloom, eyes searching from doorway to arch for signs of conspiracy; for murderers who may lie in wait. He wondered again, why? Why had his Holiness chosen him, a scholar, for such a dangerous task? Why not a warrior with a sword, or a hundred such men?

He remembered the letter’s arrival. The codex hidden within its words. The realisation that his time had come to serve God, and his Order. The Abbeys on Stornoway, his library, they both seemed a world away as he exited a narrow alley and stumbled headlong into the torch lit grandeur of a Piazza.

Giani backed away; he slumped back against the nearest wall. Had he been seen? The open space ahead was so brightly lit; torches and lamps kept burning all night. Fear sweat from his body as he backed himself into the alley. It was too exposed. If he was caught out in the light, there’d be nowhere to hide.

Which way Giani? Which way? Nothing but darkness and shadows behind. Too much blood had flowed, it was difficult to concentrate. Only one thing was certain. There was no time to double back. He looked out into the Piazza.

The tall terraced buildings of Rome’s elite rose like a cage to surround the Square. He saw three grand fountains; at least fifty yards of open space to reach the other side. The wind had stirred again.

Stop breathing, listen. To the rasp of distant flames and the pounding of his heart. That fountain, I remember? At its centre was a statue. A Moor who wrestled a dolphin. I’ve been here before.

As a child he’d endured pilgrimage to the Eternal City. Father had brought him with his sister, Salise, on a journey that had taken them a month.

Yes, he remembered now, how they’d entered the Piazza that night. The rasping of naked torchlight in the darkness, the strong breeze as they’d rested by the fountain. He was six years old and his heart had raced with excitement.

I’m close. Blessed is God and the Virgin Mother. I know where I am.

The Roman God: Neptune; the great statue that marked the northern end of Piazza Navona. Giani remembered. Cross the Piazza and he’d be several streets from the river. Close now to his journeys end. God is glorious. Giani entered the Piazza.

His pace had slowed, the pain more intense. Precious blood dripped from the wound. As he crossed the Piazza, memories of his childhood, of his father Salise, were strong.

Minutes later the Tiber’s surface glistened like glass, as once again the moon’s light beckoned. Surely God was showing him the way; illuminating the mighty river and the bridge ahead.

He could see them now, the Angels. Stood in glorious triumph on their marble pillars, six on either side of the bridge. The Ponte Sant’Angelo, the Tiber’s water in full flow around its arches.

Give me strength, Lord. His pace quickened, though the steps were awkward. Strength to bring the Relic home.

Home was the Castel Sant’Angelo, the ancient ossuary of the Roman Emperor, Hadrian. There on the other side of the water, just a bridge away.

The Pope’s castle was as impressive as he remembered. So close now. He had to pause and take breath. Use the foot of an Angel to steady himself.

Giani lifted his hand from the wound. The blood was congealing, it no longer flowed. He could barely feel the pain in his side. He understood what that meant. Faith and pride were the Holy fuel that would drive him on to cross the bridge now

On, I must go on. Follow the torches that lined the Ponte’s walls. Flames that rasped encouragement below the Angel’s feet. The castle’s silhouette on the far bank. Blessed mother, I see it. I see the light.

A single lantern hung upon the Castel’s lower wall. On Giani. On! Head for the light.

A few more yards and surely God’s grace would be done. As he entered the mouth of the bridge the moonlight faded. Reclaimed by the dark clouds above. And the sound of boots echoed toward the river, from somewhere in the streets behind. Giani stumbled on. He was halfway across the bridge now, but they’d found him.

Run, Giani. Save the Relic. Nothing else matters.

A driven personality fuelled by absolute faith, and the desire to serve his God; all three forced his weary legs to cross the bridge with the Devil’s agents close behind. Boots that trampled flagstones with the sound of cloven hooves.

Giani fell to one knee, but raised himself. Both hands scratched at the hard ground to keep him upright.

On, Giani, on. God is great. He will not fail me.

With barely enough strength to keep his body raised, his dogged momentum took Giani to the castle’s wall. He stumbled to his knees at the foot of the servants’ gate, and hammered on the timber door.

‘Open the hatch,’ he begged with barely a whisper.

Again, harder this time, his fist driven against the wood. Relief as the view hole opened. It was a young woman’s eyes that gazed down; horrified to see Giani so broken.

Holy Father be praised, you are as beautiful now as you were before taking your vows.

‘Giani?’ her voice pleased, and then filled with dread. ‘Sainted Mother, you are hurt.’

‘No, yes, it doesn’t matter.’ He grabbed at the wall and forced his body to stand. ‘Take this.’

‘Giani, I’ll get help.’ A metal bolt was being wriggled free from it’s mounting.

‘No, do not open the gate.’ Giani lifted his hand. Held in his blood soaked fingers was the box. ‘Take it to the Holy Father, only he can keep it safe.’ The box had never felt so heavy. ‘Take it, Salise,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s in your hands now. It must be safeguarded until it is needed.’

‘Holy Mother, Giani?’ She’d spotted them.

Giani heard them too. The sound of leather and buckles that echoed from the bridge; only moments away now.

‘Take the Relic,’ he said, and felt her hand on his.

Look at you, you’re an Angel. You glow in the service of God.

‘Close the hole, Salise. Close it now, or I die for nothing.’

‘Giani, I can call for help. Let me call for the guards.’

‘Call no-one, I beg you. The secret must die with me. If you open this gate the future dies for us all.’

‘Giani, please?’

‘Close the hole, sweet sister. Tell the Holy Father I have done God’s will. Ask him to pray for me.’

‘Brother?’

She’s crying. Her face blurred.

‘Go now. Go woman, do as I say.’

‘Giani?’

‘Go with God, little sister.’

Giani didn’t want to see his sibling’s pain. He was unaware of the tears that now streamed. She had eyes the colour of jade, and a beauty that men would bow and fight to possess. As he slumped to the ground, he remembered her as a child tumbling in a sun soaked meadow. He didn’t hear her call his name, or bless him as the shutter slammed closed.

‘I give myself to God,’ he whispered.

He was a priest of the Entity. A Brotherhood that had concealed the Relic for a thousand years. He’d taken the vow and accepted it willingly. His life was now forfeit and in the hands of God. He felt the shadows rise above him. Tall beasts who blocked out the fading moonlight.

‘You are too late.’ Wheeze. ‘The Relic, is safe. You failed.’

Giani didn’t want to cry out, why would he? Death was the end of one life and the beginning of another, and one more glorious. He just couldn’t help himself as the blade pierced deep; thrust so hard it passed through his gut to splice the gate. He couldn’t see the glaring eyes of the assassin as they cursed at him.

‘I don’t fear you,’ Giani gasped, ‘I forgive you.’

More cold steel stabbed into his torso and neck. Too many blades to count as Giani’s flesh was torn open. Bones cracked and scraped.

His journey to meet God had begun. But the Relic had been saved.

AD 2034
(Post Apocalypse)
Oasis
‘RULE Of The Saints’

2
Heretics

The breeze was gentle and scented with wild flowers. From the hillside the city looked so fresh and vibrant, so peaceful.

Shame on you. Shame on you all.

Oasis was surrounded by arrogance, and by temptation. Up here the privileged few felt clean, important, heightened by their sense of achievement. The opportunity to look down upon others was natural. To remove the city from your senses, scrape it out from under your nails. Who wouldn’t want to live the dream up here; but at what price? One that Kat could never afford to pay.

Look at you. Look how bright you burn. Like a tiny star at the city’s centre.

The beauty of the Reliquary was beguiling; a spectacle seen for miles, so beautiful and yet so disgusting. The power required to light its domes, the cost to the people who basked in its artificial zeal. Only the river that ran through the city was clean.

No, not a star; you’re a black hole. You suck the life from the people. Fucking Reliquary, the people should burn you down.

The farther out she looked from the Domes the darker the landscape became. The city was down there, you just couldn’t see it, not really. The outer city was cold, not bright enough to discern. She’d never seen it like this before, the two sides of the infamous Line that divided those that had too much, from the rest that needed more.

Listen to them. Listen to the dirge of the Legates’ song as it rises from the Reliquary’s dome. It can’t be escaped, not even up here. Don’t you ever stop? Isn’t it enough that you preach all day? Do you have to sing about it all night too?

The Orator sang about Oasis; about the city and the Prophets. And the Saints who underpin its glory. How the great domes illuminate the past as a beacon; how its bells tolled to gather the people. How the survivors came from a world that was cursed.

Only Oasis remained; a refuge and sanctuary. Life for all who submit to the Rule of the Saints. Knowledge of the world before Oasis is outlawed, forbidden by law.

They sing too much.

Kat preferred the Story Tellers. History whispered in corners and snugs so the Legates couldn’t overhear. Tales of the Earth; how it twisted and yawned, then spewed its disasters on an unimaginable scale. How the plague followed, the pandemic that hated everyone. There was nothing left when the squabbling was done, only Oasis. That city down there, her city. It was a drug, a cage. How she loved its presence, how she hated it to.

I despise you. Silent resentment directed toward the Reliquary, toward the Patron himself, toward his puppet council, the Commission. I hate you all.

And you call my kind, Heretics. What a joke. It’s you, the Legates, and your Patron; the one who calls himself Illuminai. You are the true Blasphemers. You are the ones who must be brought to heel.

‘You can’t touch me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m a ghost. I’m a spectre. I’m a shaft of decency in a land of Prophets who lie.’

Kat wasn’t sure when she’d become such a moral icon. Her faith wasn’t as unquestioning as most others. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe. She did. She just liked the money they gave her as well. Besides, she had a passion for the work they asked her to do

It was dark enough now. Time to go.

* * *

The boundary wall was taller than the plans had suggested, its masonry old but impressive. A short run up and her forward motion carried into two quick vertical steps that ascended the bricks. Gloved hands grabbed at the moss covered copings and with a single fluid movement she’d hauled herself up. Kat dropped down to the other side. Ten quick paces found the cover of trees where she hunkered down, her senses keen for any sounds. Nothing, only the wind as it stirred the trees. No shrill whistles and no barking dogs. Her black silhouette moved through the copse, boots trudged in soft dirt soaked by heavy rain earlier that day. She was a shadow blending with the dark. Passing like a breeze amongst the ferns.

This is fun.

Until the hairs on her neck bristled.

Find cover.

Two men talking; walking as if they owned the place.

Shit. Dogs.

Canines trained to sniff at the night.

Stay low, be invisible.

Closer now, both men armed, ten yards maybe less. Still unaware of her presence. They were tall and mean looking. Suited and booted and doing their rounds. Typical Duma thugs; henchman employed by organised crime, they carried a pistol strapped and shouldered, hung out for show. Automatic weapons slung across their backs.

Aww, don’t stop. Why would you stop?

Now was not a good time for the dog to take a hot steaming piss on the path. The wiry hound grimaced through sharp teeth.

Is it smiling? Keep moving guys, don’t stop, nothing to see here.

Amused murmurings underlined with a cold streaming vapour. She couldn’t hear the conversation; it was just the mechanics of the lips, and their gestures. The one on the right was cute. All blonde and kiss curls. The square glasses did it for her; he had that stern school teacher look about him. Another day and another profession, and who knows she might have given him the time. But not when she saw Teacher flick his cigarette into the undergrowth. Didn’t he understand the importance of recycling? The dog hopped several times, clearly his business unfinished as Kiss Curls pulled him on.

Good boys; tell each other how diligent, how watchful you are. No-one’s going to get past you tonight.

Kat listened to the conversation fade, then stepped out. She reached down and took the smoking butt from the leaves. Soldier pay was good if he could afford to throw away a stub that long. It’s not like she wanted to pretend kiss the guy as her lips drew the fetid smog deep into her lungs. It’s just helpful to smell like the residents, especially when there are dogs on the prowl.

One last draw and then clipped. The butt rubbed gently all over her tight black jumper. One final look confirmed they hadn’t doubled back, and Kat followed the path in the opposite direction. Across the dirt and stones until a small flint wall ended the path just a few steps away from a boathouse.

A pretty building that shouldered a slate covered roof, its walls long since gone native below the local vines. The thickest tendrils helped Kat climb to a gully that ran through its centre, where she settled herself down and out of sight. Dusk had rolled on into the full pitch of night as she closed her eyes. This part, the waiting, it was always the hardest.

Patience was the only virtue necessary as the temperature began to plummet. She made tiny, barely noticeable movements, enough to keep her joints warm and supple. Not long now. Soon the guard would change. Every three hours, punctual and efficient. They were Duma, of course they were efficient; brutally so. There was no place in the city more dangerous than up here. For Kat it was the ultimate challenge, to show her skills. She was here for a very special reason, not just the money. The chance to take something special from the man they called ‘The Preacher’.

Movement by the house, it had begun. The cold bit her joints as she lowered to the ground. Six-seconds to cross the lawn, open space between the boat house and the rose garden. Six-seconds, the elapsed time between the city grid shutting down for the night and the house’s generator kicking in.

Patience Kat.

The house was as stunning as the pictures she’d studied. An opulent facade, it was elegant the way the roof pitched one way and then another. The tall clock tower protruded through its centre, its hand about to strike the hour.

How would it be to sit on the inside of the house, and gaze out onto such lovely gardens every morning?

She was being hypocritical, the Elders kept her in comfort, she wanted for nothing. But still, this much space and privacy; so much wealth. It was too much for one man when so many others had so little. Other feelings took hold, far deeper, more primal. The Preacher was a bad man. A dangerous man who profited from the misery of others. It would be a pleasure to take something precious from him. The time had come.

Dogs at the main door.

Any second now.

Kat checked her watch; she looked up to the tower.

She closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. Then it happened, the power went down. Brilliant lights from the house’s exterior faded like stage bulbs.

Now. Do it now.

Eyes open, she could see in the darkness where others would be blind. The numbers counting in her head.

One. Head quickly across the lawn.

Two. Spray the aerosol.

Three. She sprayed the air in front of her as she ran.

Four. Hmm, apricots.

Five. For some reason the dogs were offended by the smell, it should mask her own.

Six. Man and beast are able to see again. It didn’t matter; she was in the garden and hidden amongst the roses. The sounds of men as they talked, made checks, reassured each other that all was well. Kat brushed between the flowers and stems and headed for the lights of the house. Across the patio toward the French doors where she hunkered down; a small container slid out from her tunic.

Practised hands clicked several joints and the item was adhered to the glass. The scoring wheel turned and the glass circle was plucked away. Kat ran slips of foil inside the door jamb, one top and one bottom, slid between tiny sensors; to fool the electronics that were supposedly outlawed. One hand through the hole fingers on the door handle. She pulled and the door swung outward.

Kat was a thief, and a bloody good one. This was going to be easier than she’d anticipated.

3
Scout

‘Sebastian,’ the voice of a woman, the door being thumped. ‘Sebastian, you open door, now.’

‘Go away,’ Sebastian insisted, and rolled back under his sheet. Really, you’re using your key?

Scout retreated below the blanket as the door was flung open. No need to look, he knew who the intruder was; a short Asian woman in her mid fifties, not pretty by anyone’s standards.

‘Sebastian,’ her voice rasped, ‘wake up you asshole.’

‘Eurgh, get your wet finger out of my ear. Okay, okay, I’m up. Shit, Tass. There are other ways to wake someone up.’

‘But not so funny, eh? You listen, I not happy. Get complaints you disturb other tenants.’

He was fast recognising the symptoms. Rapid breathing and a violent heartbeat, his body covered in sweat. He’d been dreaming again, no, not a dream, another spiteful nightmare. The same one he was cursed to relive forever.

‘You shout in sleep again.’ Tass was shouting, her finger stuck out in his direction. ‘You really freak me out when you do this. I got other tenants that not want to hear.’

‘Tass, please, shush. And don’t call me Sebastian.’

‘Sebastian your name, so that what I call you. Time you let her go.’

‘What?’

‘She gone long time, Sebastian. Not come back. You make peace with past.’

‘Is that tea for me?’ he asked.

‘You good looking man, but getting on now. Should find a woman before too late.’

‘Tea?’

‘Don’t know why I waste breath. Here, and before you ask. No, I got no sweetener.’

‘And I’ve got no drink. Tass?’

She was staring. He hated it when she stared.

‘Tass, the drink.’

‘When you pay?’ she asked. ‘You four weeks late with rent.’

‘Four? I thought it was three weeks.’ Tea, give me the tea.

‘I not laugh. You almost four weeks, two days, and eight hours behind with rent.’

Almost?

‘I’ll sort it.’ He gave her his most reassuring voice.

‘When you sort?’

‘A couple of days, maybe three,’ Are you still here? ‘I’ll pay what I owe by the weekend, okay.’

‘You better had. Oh, I forget, men call earlier. I told them I no see you. They sit outside in car and wait. Well, they better get used to waiting, it been four fricking weeks.’

Scout leant forward and reached for the cup, his other hand felt sheets that were damp with sweat. Tass was right, he’d been in the scream factory again.

‘Hey, Tass?’ The door slammed. ‘Thanks.’

It was always the same after a rough night spent inside his head. Everything felt cold and murky, the images hard to remember. He needed to write it down.

Pencil? Where’s my pencil?

One hand took the cup as the other reached below the mattress for his journal. Tea tasted good as he opened the pages. The date read, Saturday 11/09/2012. The wrong day. It sure as hell wasn’t the right year.

Get it down.

He began to scrawl.

Hi Chia. Last night was the first time in a while that I saw you. He had to get this down, get it out of his head. Maybe I’m finally letting go? I hope so. No, I don’t. Why can I never remember what really happened? Maybe I don’t want to. All I know for sure is that each time I go, I lose another piece of what’s left. More of what isn’t there already. What I can’t replace.

The pencil hovered.

I want to see you again, but I’m scared. The Saints say that two lives well frayed in life, can be sewn again after death. Is that true? Will you want to see me?

He’d felt stupid the first time he’d written his thoughts down. But the truth was he did feel that she was listening. Dok, his friend, said that was the point.

Each time the dream is different, Chia, but it’s always the same. Sometimes I see flashes of it in the waking world. Images that are so difficult to see. That night, it’s a jigsaw. So many pieces of a puzzle that I can’t put together. It’s not that I don’t want to remember. I just don’t want to forget. But it never makes sense. I would never have hurt you, never!

The only thing that is constant, that is always there, those same four words I hear repeated over and over.

“You’ve got sinner’s eyes.”

He’d never forget. They were the last thing he remembered with any certainty. The rest of that night was shards of recollection. Flashes of light and noise. Screams.

What he did remember, and with frightening clarity, the moment that he regained consciousness. The crowd that had circled about him. Neighbours who gawked down as he lay looking up unable to move. One of them had been cruel enough to drag him out of the fire.

They should have let me burn, Chia. Gormless, panic struck faces every one of them. They all saw it fall. Heard it clang to the ground like a ship’s bell.

Chia, I dropped it. I just don’t remember picking it up.

All eyes fell toward the ground; his own gaze slow to follow. The bloodied blade that had fallen stained with the same blood that dripped from his hand.

But it wasn’t my hand. How could it be? How could it not?

Anger couldn’t punch a hole in the haze between the memories. Focus and desire were ineffectual. Impotent tools with which to search. Maybe he would never learn the truth. Maybe he didn’t want to.

He’d learnt to meditate in prison, as if serenity could ever unlock his past. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t straighten out the curves. Couldn’t put the sounds with the pictures; find the order he craved. Only those four words remained.

“You’ve got sinner’s eyes.”

How could he have done it? Why? He always fought to save her in his dreams. The one thing he hadn’t been able to do in the real world. Save his Chia, his wife. Save his unborn child. The lead from the pencil scrawled across the paper again.

This is fucked up, I don’t know why I bother. I do know I want to feel you again; I want to hold you in my arms. I want to touch your skin and hear your voice, feel you warm as sunshine as we awaken together.

Why was it so difficult to write down when it banged around in his head so much? Get it out, get it out. He was sweating again.

This is pointless. Nothing will ever come of these words, I just can’t let go. Maybe there’s a reason for that? Maybe not. But I still cling to that one single moment. One single word. The reason I’m still alive to write this down. One thought, one feeling that keeps me going.

The pen dug hard into the paper.

REVENGE.

A beautiful word with an intoxicating feeling. It had the power of a star and was the fuel that had driven him on through the dark years that had followed. Scout took a deep breath and drank the last of Tass’ tea.

I owe four weeks rent, apparently. Tass is pissing her pants about it. But she’ll wait. She always waits. Something will turn up, it usually does. Chia, I miss you. XX XX

He closed the journal, put down the tea, stood, and strode naked to the sink. His hands immersed into the water he’d brought in last night. Cold water; deep breaths as he stared at the towel now lifted to his face. Mornings were always the hardest. The transition from fantasy to reality. He took a jab at the long heavy bag that hung from the ceiling next to him. It barely moved but was followed by another, more potent. Each lunge from the shoulder more exact and powerful than the last as the well-taped leather bore the energy expelled by his bare knuckles.

Journal be damned. The bag took everything he had to give. Well-honed punches, crunching strikes by his elbow. The knee brought in to change pace and direction. Their pace increased as his anger rose. A thumping assault by a man who knew how. Culminating in a head butt and an angry cry, as both hands took hold of the bag. His breath short and shallow. Sleepy muscles now alert and well defined. They glistened from the punitive outburst.

Scout forced his head below the cold water. A bracing effect followed by a wet towel across his body. He finished the tea, tepid but gratefully received. His senses stirred and revitalised.

Who’s doing what outside?

He fingered the curtain. There was a car parked out there. Only one person he knew could afford a car, and that wasn’t Dok sitting out there. Besides, he had a key. He would have let himself in.

‘Shit.’

They’d seen him. Just a gap now to see two figures exit the big saloon parked opposite. He recognised one.

Carlos? Scout stepped back from the window. Why would Carlos come here? Do I need to go out the back door?

The middle aged man coming up the steps was tall and mean looking. He had a strangely shadowed face, somewhat pale around the eyes, which just made the man’s glare toward his curtains more potent. Why was the Preacher’s hatchet man coming to his front door? He wasn’t a man renowned for making happy house calls.

4

Conversation was frigid, but he’d keep trying. Every time Carlos frowned a look in the rear view, he knew they were listening. It was human nature, the more irritable you make someone the less guarded they become, the more information they reveal. Not a word beyond “Get in the car,” but the big fella was getting tetchy, that was for sure. He’d sit back, enjoy the ride. A Mercedes 600 in bad guy black; all the comforts of home as he opened the mini fridge for the second time.

‘Cheers,’ he said, and got the look again. ‘You’re running a little uneven, did you know? Carbon deposits on the valves I expect. I could adjust the timing; have it purring like a kitten. Hey, is this Scotch? It’s really smooth. Like these seats. They’re really big. Am I supposed to slide at every corner? Or have I lost weight? I have haven’t I? I used to fill these trousers, not so anymore. Can I get you a drink? There’s lots to choose back here.’

Carlos was hardly renowned for his patience, far from it, yet he remained tight lipped. That information alone was golden. They wanted something from him. And bad enough to play nice to get it. The Duma rarely played nicely.

‘Not here to fix the motor, then?’ Probably not if you’re being this polite. ‘Sure I can’t get you a drink? Mind if I have another? Don’t mind if I do. These really are beautifully cut tumblers. Cheers,’ he said raising the glass. Looking at the driver as he slid across the back seat. Why so nervy? I see you. The tiny glances towards your boss. He feels it too. The big feller wants to shout and stamp his feet. So what do I have that you want? Maybe I should shut up and enjoy the ride.

It took an hour to reach their destination. The tall gates an impressive conclusion to a comfortable ride. Well-armed men outside peered in to check the interior, then waved them on. Another good sign was that the car entered through the front gate, and not the rear, as it headed slowly down an absurdly long drive toward what looked like a castle.

The eighteenth century chateau was intimidating, as was Carlos’ watchful eye. The thug in the front seat knew the effect of the building. Its turret’s screamed power and wealth. The Preacher’s reputation painted its walls with darkness. But it was still beautiful. Elegant the way its circular turrets shouldered a waterfall of dark slate roofs, that pitched and sloped behind medieval style merlons. He especially liked the looming clock tower that protruded through its centre. Everyone should have an erect phallus sticking out of their roof. The grounds were as big as a public park. Maybe they need a new gardener? What was the reason for bringing him here?

‘Nice place,’ said Scout. He emptied the contents of the tumbler. So it was the Preacher who’d sent them. For that reason alone he filled the glass again, and felt his heart quicken.

There were stories told about this place; about the infamous crypt below the house. About the Preacher’s ‘hands on’ approach to anyone who crossed him. He wasn’t sure if it was he, or his chaperones who needed more conversation.

‘It looks old,’ he said. ‘Think you could find me a room here? I’m never late with rent.’

The tyres ceased their relentless crunch down the gravel drive. Two armed men and a mean looking dog stood ready to greet them.

‘Get out,’ Carlos instructed.

The door had already opened. A hand keen to assist Scout’s exit. The big black hound eager to violate his privacy.

Nice doggy. Better the nose than the teeth.

Maybe he wouldn’t pat the animal on the head. Search complete he was pointed toward the house. More watchful eyes from the big main doors.

Best behaviour. No smart mouth . . .

‘Hey, I know you,’ he said.

A familiar face, he’d seen the man at the Odyssey. Dok’s club was a popular haunt for Duma thugs with deep pockets. Loud music, good alcohol and friendly women, all helped ensure a sell out crowd. The man offered no reply.

One of the few perks of his miserable existence was counting Dok as a close friend. He’d practically grown up at the Odyssey, which reminded him; get the Heavies to drop him back at the club. Maybe Dok would lend him the rent. Get Tass off his back before she got permanently attached. Another IOU he could work off later.

How big is this place? He followed Carlos down long hallways. This has to be a job, right? Why else would they bring me here?

Two huge rooms led to a long carpeted gallery. High vaulted windows on one side with views of the lovely garden. The ornate stucco that covered the ceiling, not such a big fan. The opposing wall was white painted plaster and adorned with paintings. Scout ceased his forced march. He’d never seen anything like them before.

Is that what it’s like?

‘Where did you find these?’ he asked.

Sure, he’d seen prints of the Prophets, a hundred odd Saints that were common-place in most homes. These were different, vibrant, painted with rich and vivid colours. Their brush strokes laid boldly onto a textured surface. Each of the images mounted within a sumptuously golden frame.

‘The Preacher don’t like people who touch,’ said Carlos.

Scout retracted his hand.

‘Is that what it’s like?’ he asked.

The water was fierce in the painting, its anger obvious. A sailed ship tossed by a swell below a mean and loathsome sky. The gallery was lined with a dozen similar snapshots of the sea.

‘Is that what an ocean looks like?’

He’d scavenged in the North as a child; it was a dry and barren place. He’d seen firsthand the deserted towns. He’d risked arrest for the opportunity; for the rare finds. Strange objects from before the Apocalypse. They had great value to some.

But he’d never been south. No-one ever went south, and returned.

‘They say the sea is south,’ he said. ‘Is that true?’

The tall, well dressed, Carlos stared at him. An obvious admission that even he didn’t know.

‘They’re beautiful.’ What he wouldn’t give to own such a picture. A firm hand took his shoulder.

‘This way, the Preacher don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Stairs were ascended. More doors passed until he entered a room filled with portraits. Seriously gloomy looking faces that gazed down.

Two more were attached to the guards who sat in conversation until Carlos walked in. One stood, the other, fatter, rose with more effort.

‘Nice furniture.’ A mirror the size of a couch hung above a fireplace as big as a door. ‘Reminds me of home.’ The lemon fresh paint on the walls was welcoming.

‘Arms up.’ The slimmer of the two men gestured with his hands in case Scout didn’t understand. The same hands turned him toward the wall and frisked his body. Patted and squeezed to violate every recess of his clothing. They touched him, invaded his personal space. It’s okay, they’re just doing their job. It didn’t stop the temperature in the room jumping past a hundred. Or the first bead of perspiration that broke free to run down his back. Don’t touch me you low life. Keep your filthy hands to yourself.

Slim’s face came close to his.

‘Everyone hides something,’ he said, ‘down here is it?’

Easy Scout, he wants a reaction. He was going to get one.

The past was fast catching up with the present. Ancient history that refused to lie down. It just hung around. Still attached to all the sensitive areas. Breathe, Scout. Don’t give them the satisfaction. He growled at Slim as the first flashback jerked his neck and shoulders with tension.

‘You got a problem with me?’ whispered Slim, his hand clasped on Scout’s neck. His face touching the lemon fresh wall. Anger levels rising.

Roping, it was popular with the guards at Galfstram. A coarse rope draped around a man’s neck, a pole attached to drag him from his cell. Hot fists on a cold floor awaited outside. They beat on you just for saying the wrong thing. Physical abuse for giving the wrong face. Scout had fought back at first. Most inmates did. It only made things worse.

Defending yourself only brought out the chains. Clamped at the wrists and the neck to be throw into The Hole. Any kind of dissent, the mere hint of trouble, and they dropped you into the Hole. Forced onto your knees, a manacle clamped around your neck. Chains that stretched your arms further than they were made to go. The only thing you could see was the ceiling six inches from your face. The heat became unbearable. A choking stifling swelter in which a man could drown.

It’s all in your head. Your head. It’s all in your head.

Tell that to the beads of sweat that rolled unchecked down his back as rough hands pinched, probed and prodded, each touch an abuse. This was deliberate, intimidating, but why?

‘Get it done,’ said Carlos.

‘Nothing,’ Slim announced.

The second man was much shorter, more rounded, a real heavyweight. He turned Scout about and lifted his chin.

‘Open your mouth. Open it. Wider. Say ahhhh. Good boy. He’s clean.’ The two men backed off.

Scout took a deep breath and stared at the wall. Then pulled his jumper down from around his neck. He was more than hot. His kettle had been about to boil.

‘Take your clothes off,’ Carlos ordered.

‘What?’

‘Take them off, all of them.’

‘That’s a joke, right?’

‘The boys want to be sure they haven’t missed anything.’

Mr Round moved to Scout’s left, a gaze that dared him to refuse. He was being stared down by three yard dogs ready to pounce. Mr Slim raised his foot to the chair his gun barrel rising suggestively. A grim smile on his lips.

Fuck you. There were limits to his compliance. No fucking way. He’d tear them a new one before he went down. Fucking Duma fags.

Silence as four men readied, steadied, a silent prelude to an imminent gunfight. It was Carlos who broke the tension with a sudden roar of laughter. It infected Mister’s Slim and Round as well.

‘Just joking, ha, ha, what? You have nothing to say? You hear that boys, the Mouth has nothing to say.’

Son of a bitch.

‘Scout, why aren’t you laughing?’ asked Carlos.

‘You’re a funny man, Carlos.’ He raised his hands surrendering to the banter. That’s right, you laugh. Smug grins all around as the room expanded again. Imminent death had been averted.

Scout stepped away from the wall. He stumbled into Carlos. ‘Sorry, bad feet, guess I feel a bit shaky,’ he said.

He’d felt a gun worn in a shoulder holster, two magazines in Carlos’ pocket, and something more interesting in the tree trunk’s trousers.

‘Clumsy, I was born clumsy. I’m sorry.’

‘Take a seat, clown. I’ll let you know when the Boss is ready for you.’

Sure, whatever. ‘Can I freshen up?’

‘Why, you piss your pants?’ asked Slim.

‘Keep it off the seat,’ said Carlos, and pointed toward the far wall.

‘Little boys don’t tinkle, they sprinkle. This way is it?’

Scout closed the door that had looked like the wall. Relieved to be out. Take a breath. The air suddenly infused with a flowery scent. What is this, why am I here?

‘So let’s see what Carlos finds precious shall we.’ The man’s wallet was untucked from behind Scout’s belt. ‘Hmmm, this is from the old world? So you like artefacts do you?’

Anything from the old world was valuable. The past held curiosity; the promise of something gone that could never return. It had an allure, despite its danger. The past was forbidden. The penalties could be grave. But there were still those who would part with much just to own a piece.

The wallet had a wad of currency. He could put that to good use. There was an old crinkled photo, Carlos had family? A letter in an envelope, well, if he didn’t want it read he shouldn’t have left it lying around.

He edged up several small companion cards, one at a time. One name stood out, Odette, a girl who frequented the Odyssey. An escort who provided a little extra. Appointments made under the bar.

So Carlos isn’t a fag, just a regular pervert.

‘Hey, Mouth, you okay in there?’ called Slim, his fist banging on the door. ‘You need help pointing it?’

‘Lifting it can be a problem,’ Scout shouted. ‘Arsehole,’ he whispered. ‘What was that you said, Carlos? You’ll contribute toward my rent? And a little extra to buy myself something nice.’ He considered taking everything, and then flushing the wallet. But better to take half and leave him room for doubt.

‘Hey, don’t take all day in there. The Boss wants to see you.’

The flush on the cistern had a silky smooth action.

Carlos opened one of two large doors but remained in the doorway. ‘In here, the Boss will see you now.’

It was a tight squeeze, all very intimidating, easy to return what was borrowed. The big fat grin Scout offered clearly irked the taller man.

5

The Preacher wasn’t what Scout had expected. A tall lean man with grey thinning hair, who beckoned him in. Six foot two, maybe three, and dressed in a sharp edged suit tailored in grey. The white shirt below exposed at both collar and wrist. He looked more like a town clerk than the evil warlord. But maybe that was the point.

‘You are Mr Sebastian.’

‘Please, my friends call me Scout.’

‘Then I’m pleased to meet you both. And I’m grateful that you accepted my invitation at such short notice.’ He made it sound as if Scout had a choice. ‘Can I offer you a beverage?’

‘Sure, thank you.’ Are you really the Preacher? He hadn’t envisaged a nice old gentleman pouring him a warm drink.

‘Business is good,’ Scout winced as he said it. Poor men don’t live in castles. Try not to look impressed.

It was difficult, the office was bigger than his apartment, cleaner too. Books and papers lay on a leather topped desk, the window behind was barred. He supposed that running a criminal empire would involve paperwork, and pens. One in particular caught his eye. A silver fountain pen with a shiny blue clip. He needed another pen, but dare he?

All about him were curiosities, mostly from the Old World. Illegal objects every one, and he wasn’t afraid to put them on show. And why so many books, he had shelves full of them? Leather bindings that offered titles written in languages Scout didn’t understand.

And then there were the knives; difficult to ignore. Daggers of all lengths displayed along the walls. The blades looked sharp, most attached to decorative handles. Scout knew the man’s reputation for using a sharp blade. He wanted to leave with the same number of fingers attached to the hand that took the cup.

‘Thank you.’ That smells good. ‘Is this Coffee?’

‘It is, Mr Sebastian.’

What he had in his hand took food stamps and cash, lots of both. Neither of which, he supposed, would be in short supply for the Preacher. It tasted as good as it smelt.

‘Mr Sebastian.’

‘Hmm?’

‘I would like to retain your services. You have come highly recommended.’

‘I have? By who?’

‘By whom, and it was a friend of yours.’

So it is a job then.

Another sip of the bitter blend confirmed he wasn’t dreaming.

‘I’m flattered you think I can succeed where your own people have failed.’ The old man’s smile receded to a frown. Come on, why else would I be here?

‘You like to be called, Scout, yes? I understand that was your gang alias. You’re the product of a proxy family, one that gave you a violent upbringing. Not too unlike the Duma with who you have a shared history. I am told that you are a dogged and tenacious man who does not like to fail. How did my source put it? Ah yes, “he likes to piss in the cracks to see what comes out.” You are a man who will use any and all means necessary to succeed in your work. And I am also told you can be trusted.’

‘Have you been talking to my mum?’

‘Very droll, Mr Sebastian. Your mother was murdered some years ago. Shot in a barbarous act along with your father.’

So he’d learned two things about the Preacher already. He was well informed, and had a poor sense of humour.

‘I understand they named you Scout because you have a gift for sniffing out trouble. Amusing really, as your personal history continually sets you in its midst.’ The Preacher paused, sipped, like a gentleman misplaced in time. ‘It must have been distressing when the gangs were broken by the Commission. The JAG is a particularly efficient organisation.’

‘You could say that.’ Bastards went in with a kill order. Anyone who didn’t repent, got themselves cleansed.

‘You were wise to move on before the JAG was ordered in.’

‘I have friends.’

Don’t look like that; I do. Okay, I have one friend.

‘Titus Dok, an interesting individual, a man hardly given to sentiment, and so I have to ask myself why he would take in a stray like you?’

‘You’d have to ask him that.’

Scout’s life was an open book, he wasn’t impressed by the Preacher’s recital.

‘I need your skills, Mr Sebastian. You’ve had relations with the Duma since childhood, but you are not Duma. You can tread lightly where we cannot. You can approach people who would undoubtedly try to avoid our attention.’

I’m impressed by anyone who can avoid Duma attention. This was getting interesting. Sip.

‘I want you to find something that was stolen from this house three nights ago.’ The Preacher pulled down a large volume that nestled amongst others on the fourth shelf to Scout’s right. It was a false front. A nice job, Scout hadn’t noticed. The Preacher produced a key from behind.

‘I assure you that this is the only key.’

It was inserted into the lock and turned. An electronic tone beeped repetitively as the Preacher tapped a five digit code onto the numbered pad. The tone ceased and the door clicked open. The Preacher stepped back.

6

When the hairs on your body stand erect, you can hope for one of two outcomes. Clean underwear, or quick feet. Neither seemed applicable as Scout stared at the safe. Its internal workings leaped across the line of legality. Anything operating binary code was the Devil’s work. Zeros and ones set the Commission’s teeth on edge; the rules were very clear. Technology was heresy, an infection from the past, and it had to be cleansed.

One particular image came to mind. A popular poster pasted onto walls when he was a child.

Science is dead

Technology is dead

God . . . Is dead

Too much emphasis on the word dead.

‘It’s quite all right, Mr Sebastian. I have a licence from the Commission for the safe. What I don’t have is an explanation for how it was opened without this key.’

Licence?

Scout doubted any such permission existed, even for the Preacher. Technology was heresy, the punishment severe.

‘Ahh, I believe I have neglected to offer you my terms.’

Terms?

A drawer was opened and an envelope placed out onto the desk.

‘Five books of food stamps and five hundred dollars.’

‘What?’ Sorry, say that again. ‘Five hundred dollars?’

‘Yes, as a downpayment. The same again when you return my property. Which will be accompanied by my gratitude. If you accept.’

If?

The Preacher’s eyes seemed more fearsome than the wolf that had sniffed his genitals outside. Both parties seemed intent on biting hard if he did, or said, the wrong thing. Shit, he’d landed on his feet but was now standing in quicksand. The two things in life you don’t get involved with: A Duma Boss looking for retribution, and the Heresy Laws of the Commission. It was the proverbial rock and a hard place.

‘A thousand down, another thousand on receipt of your property. You can keep the stamps.’ I’m sick of soya and onions. A few ounces of meat substitute and vegetable matter only left you wanting for more; and more only came from the black market, if you had the cash and the right connections. The Duma controlled the food trade as vehemently as the Commission controlled the city’s soul.

‘One more thing,’ Scout added, ‘throw in a pound of that coffee and I’ll piss in more cracks than you find on a broken mirror.’

Tass will go crazy for this; maybe forget the rent. Hmm, probably not. He was thinking more about Baldy from the club. A few harsh words had been spoken, A reckoning was brewing he’d be wise to avoid.

‘Agreed,’ said the Preacher.

Agreed? What, no threats, no barter?

‘How is your sister?’ the Preacher asked.

My sister?

‘I haven’t seen her in a very long time, why?’ Truth was he hadn’t spared her a thought in days. ‘I’m not even sure if she’s still alive.’ A lie, Jorja had found him some years ago.

They’d been parted after their parents were murdered. Jorja came when she could, when it was safe. It had been nearly a month now. He hoped she was safe.

‘She is very much alive, Mr Sebastian. Perhaps I could arrange a meeting?’

Scout didn’t have to look to see the smugness on the bastard’s face. Information was power with these people, and now the Preacher thought he had leverage. Or was it just another carrot being dangled? The Preacher had him with the cash; any veiled threats would just cement the relationship. Scout moved closer to the safe.

‘Why bother her now?’ he said. ‘The Commission took her a long time ago. I doubt she even remembers me.’

The Preacher was fishing and Scout wasn’t about to chew on the bait. Wards of the Commission, once accepted, were denied contact with anyone from their former life. It was dangerous for her, and for him.

‘I understand. Families can be troublesome, spouses in particular. I cannot begin to imagine the emotional ramifications of being married to a whore?’

They say that sounds and smells can prompt a sudden and dramatic response. That memories and feelings can be ignited. That one single sentence flicked Scout’s safety to off; it put everything onto a hair trigger.

You called her a whore. You filthy murdering bastard, you call Chia a whore? No, she was pure and precious. She was light and warmth. Who the fuck are you to pass judgement? Duma scumbag, you are filth, shit, not worthy to sully her shoes.

A corkscrew twisted in his gut. Instant rage but no flicker of sentiment betrayed on his face. Now he understood why the fags outside had been so hands on. The Preacher was pushing buttons, searching for weakness. In less than three-seconds the black handled dagger on the bookshelf would be stuck in his neck.

7

‘Please don’t take offence, Mr Sebastian. I only say it how it is. After all, you were found holding the knife whilst covered in your wife’s blood. It was the State that deduced her former employment as motive for her death.’

He took a moment to let the sentence sink in.

‘The State found you guilty of her murder and sentenced you to twenty-five years detention in Galfstram. I understand it to be a rather penal establishment. An institution normally reserved for Heretics and political undesirables.’

Penal, is that a joke? Galfstram is a death sentence for its inmates. A place where no-one hears you scream.

Memories well buried began to seep through barriers he’d taken years to erect. The sudden seepage threatened to burst the dam. His hand trembled, one eye fixed on the knife. The Preacher had just been warming up. Now he was pushing for the main event.

‘Enter Titus Dok, again.’ The Preacher’s cup lifted as if to salute the name. ‘How did he manage to get you reprieved from Galfstram? A remarkable achievement. A very resourceful man.’

The Preacher was working him over far worse than Carlos could ever do with his fists.

One more push. Just one more.

He inadvertently took a step toward the Preacher. Hairs bristled, his heart pulsed like a windmill’s sails.

‘You’ve got a camera hidden in the bookshelf,’ he growled. ‘That’s borderline deviancy, only the State and the Commission are supposed to have access to digital technology. I need to see what it saw at the time of the theft. I want to know exactly what was taken. And I’ll need my expenses, up front, now.’

Scout was already removing the contents of the safe before being invited to do so. Documents and papers in hand. Of no interest if the thief had left them behind, so they were dropped onto the floor. The large piles of cash took his breath away.

What sort of thief leaves this sort of cash behind?

A glass weight emerged, the object big enough to fill his palm. The image of a sailing ship cleverly etched inside.

How is that possible? Probably best not to drop it.

Besides, it was pretty. His fingers went in again and settled on a small figurine of Peter the Walker. Not a Relic he would normally associate with a man like the Preacher. Peter was the Saint of redemption through good deeds. Is that a joke? Or did it show the Preacher had a weakness; Relics.

Why should this man be any different? Most Duma were hard core Relic worshippers. A piece of bone was a common keepsake. Kept close it was comforting, an object of prayer; sometimes of full blown worship. He had one himself, but for different reasons. It had belonged to Chia. He felt a strong urge to reach to his chest where the Relic hung from a chain.

‘You have keen eyes, Mr Sebastian, even if your hands are a little more careless. Carlos will attend to your first and last request. As for the second . . .’ he seemed to considered his words. ‘Understand this. Any lack of discretion on your part will be taken very personally.’

‘What was taken from the safe?’

‘You’re very direct, I like that.’

‘Get to the point.’

It’s interesting that the thought of sharing the information is so difficult. Professional distrust, or emotional attachment?

‘It was a box, Mr Sebastian. A very old box that contains a Relic. This Relic has immeasurable value to me and it must be found. It must be returned to me. To me. Is that understood?’

So there are others looking for this box?

‘What’s in the box?’

‘Something more beautiful than you can imagine, Mr Sebastian. It has great value to me. I am yet to see any value in you.’

Well, here’s my most reassuring face. It probably came over as smug, but that was okay.

‘The safe requires an electronic key to work a digital tumbler system. Insert the key and press the buttons. If you hit the right notes the keypad lights up, the door opens. Six digit key pad with a lock down timing device, and if I’m not mistaken it has a flash imbedded in the roof.’ He smiled. ‘Charming, incinerate the contents and most of the thief’s face. I can tell you he didn’t get in through the window, too much security outside. And not the same way as I just came. That’s the tourist route, you use to confuse your visitors. That suggests a healthy paranoia, I like that. No, your thief came in through the garden, probably from the building I saw driving up. He’s patient, careful, and this was personal. I imagine you have a lot of disgruntled associates.’

‘Your knowledge of the safe is impressive.’

‘The flash didn’t work, why? I assume that the box is resistant to heat?’

‘It is impervious to a great many things, Mr Sebastian. Curiosity included.’

Is that a warning not to peek? Or did he just admit that he didn’t know what was in the box? This was getting more interesting by the moment.

‘The fact that the thief didn’t set it off gives me a good place to start. I know people,’ he handed Peter to The Preacher. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he lied.

Truth was he found the audacity of this thief far more impressive than the theft itself. Whatever the intruder had stolen, it was priceless; its disappearance was giving the Preacher sleepless nights. For that fact alone, he couldn’t wait to get started.

8

The starlings chirped and squawked, bitched and squabbled. Followed by a boisterous flutter of wings high in the building’s tower.

Liam paused, distracted by the mayhem above. It was easy to forget the others who lived within these walls. He supposed that the sounds of his work would be a distraction for all the creatures hiding in this broken house, where sin had once been rampant.

Broken? He didn’t like that word. Broken. An adjective his mother had used often in his childhood. Well, he wasn’t broken any more. Now he had focus and purpose. He’d been purified and cleansed of all desires to harm others. A great man had wrenched him from that dark place and set him on a path of light.

Yes, it had been painful. Often brutal. So very difficult to endure. But he’d survived to be shown another way. Patron, a righteous man, had burned the sin from his soul. Absolved him of all the blood he’d shed in sin.

Liam no longer sinned. Forgiveness for his sins came with each sinner’s life he ended. Sinners of the worst kind. Sinners of the soul.

It was apt that his work should be done in a building that symbolised their Deity. The forbidden God. Heretics who worshipped the Old Faith. Deciduous, wicked sinners. He would find them all, or die trying.

Liam looked up. It seemed the residents of the tower had finally settled. That was good. Silence helped him ply his trade. It was part of the reason he chose this place. An old church a few miles beyond the city limits. He enjoyed the irony of course, to be working here in this temple, within its crumbling stone walls and arched windows. To break a Heretic and reveal their secrets here was gratifying. If there was a God, he wanted it to listen as they begged and wept, and told him everything.

Liam turned his attention back to the man who knelt before him. His body arched over a broken stone column, both wrists tied behind him, the cords pulled taut through a rusted iron ring set in a flagstone floor. Spit and drool covered his lips and chin, sound testament to the volume of his screams. It was a righteous and bloody scene.

The first question Liam asked was followed by silence. Silence was good. It was where all sounds strive to begin. Liam was pleased that the man would be stubborn. Secrets should never be divulged without being sufficiently encouraged.

Liam began by cutting a finger tip away. The slow pressure of a sharp blade. The resistance of the flesh and bone. The resulting screams. He listened as the noise slowly softened.

Liam asked a second question.

It was answered with sharp breaths and spluttering words. Sounds filled with profanity and insult. Sounds that were good. They showed the man was responding.

Liam sliced the man’s ear. A pleasing cut, sharp and precise, but not fully through. Enough to let the appendage dangle. To release more desperate noise. But still the man refused to yield. That pleased Liam as he stepped around the squirming figure. Kneeling, he whispered into the good ear. Another question. This time followed by a stream of slurred expletives. Sounds like, cunt, bastard, and devil’s tool. Liam smiled, then jabbed his blade into the man’s chest. Short stabbing motions, deep enough to find the bones, but not the organs. Six, maybe seven stokes. Then a pause. He was panting. The effort to live draining.

Liam lifted the blade and let him watch as the blood dripped. Then he pushed the steel into the man’s eye and plucked out the ocular ball of flesh.

More screams as the thin, gaunt looking man wrenched and jerked, and then slumped. The sounds he made changed; the air from his lungs less aggressive, more passive. He was pleading, sobbing for mercy. Liam sat on the column and listened. These were the sounds of a man broken. That word, it had a different meaning now. A more virtuous sound in its application when directed toward a Heretic in the name of the Saints.

Liam stared at the eyeball stuck on the tip of his blade. Work well done, if a bit quick. Now the sounds from the man’s lips were what he wanted to hear: the truth.

‘Stop, please,’ the words whispered between sharp panting breaths. ‘I beg, I beg you. Stop.’

Another question was asked. Its answer was short, agonised, wrapped in misery. Liam listened. He recognised the rhythm of pain and despair. The Heretic spoke only the truth. Liam placed the knife on the man’s chest and took a pencil and notebook from his jacket. He began to write as more truth was delivered. The Heretic couldn’t share the information quickly enough.

‘Slower,’ he said. ‘I cannot write that quickly. Shhh, yes, yes, much better.’

He was keen to talk. Talk, talk, talk, they always talk. Such a disappointment. This man was Duma. A Captain in their ranks. Shouldn’t you spit in my eye before accepting your death? Apparently not, as he put the notebook away.

‘One final question,’ said Liam. ‘A thoughtless oversight on my behalf.’ How rude to abuse a person without first making proper introductions. Liam lowered his face so the man could feel his breath. It did nothing to calm him; he screamed as if the Furies themselves had stared into his eye.

It was his own eyes, apparently. They made others feel uncomfortable. Too round and too intense. A parody of nature to set a child’s eyes so deep into his face, and surround them with such a pale pigmentation of skin. It only served to heighten the effect. As did the straw like hair that was grey from birth. What a picture he’d been when born; the midwife had whispered he looked unnatural.

But the Saints had countered Mother Nature by making Liam intelligent; giving him an iron self-belief. They’d given Liam talents too. Skills that he’d cultivated as a child, and excelled at in his teens. But eventually one of the bodies had been found. Fingers had been pointed. No proof of course, but suspicion had been aroused. It was a witch hunt that he’d barely survived. That’s when Patron had found him; when the purge and his enlightenment had begun.

‘My name is Liam,’ he said and stood.

The deviant was panting again. Sobbing like a child. He kept swinging his head from side to side. His neck muscles swollen, the flesh blue and red.

‘Tell me your name.’ Of course he already knew the answer.

‘Em, Emilio.’ More tears and squirming. ‘My, name, is Emilio.’

‘You’re going into shock now Emilio. Please try to enunciate more clearly. What I require from you now is a performance.’

‘A, a, what?’

‘I want to hear your music, Emilio.’ Liam prodded the man’s face with his blade.

‘No, pl, pleeease. I’ll, I’ll, tell you. Anything, anything. I’ll, I’ll, tell you, anything. Just, stop.’

‘You’ve already told me what I need to know. Speech will no longer be necessary. What I desire now is something quite different. Emilio, I have a particular gift for orchestrating music from a deviant’s lungs. Please, stop crying, you’ll ruin the performance.’

‘The, the, what?’

Liam placed a thick towel over Emilio’s face, and lowered his lip to the man’s ears.

‘I want you to scream.’

‘N, no, please.’ The plea was muffled. ‘Please, no. F, for God’s sake, no.’

The knife cut into Emilio’s body and began removing the nipples one at a time. A grown man cried muffled desperate pleas for his mother. Within seconds his flesh was awash with blood. He coughed, spluttered, and cried out. Then he slumped into shock and the rhythmic chorus of groans and squeals began. Their tone encouraged with precision movements of the conductor’s razor sharp baton. One angled cut after another as Emilio’s blood ran dripped onto the flagstones.

It was invigorating, accentuating, magnificent. It was over too soon. As Emilio wavered close to death he no longer sang, the effort already too much. He was a disappointment.

‘Goodbye, Deviant.’

Emilio’s eyes widened at the thrust of the knife. The blade slipped between the ribs to threaten the heart, but stopped. Liam felt for the dying pulse. For its final gasp. Then eased the talon like tip into the fading organ. He felt the life of the deviant ebb through the steel. The finale was intoxicating.

I am a good and loyal servant.

The words clashed around his head like cymbals. What he really wanted was to shout them aloud, to spew them into the silent night. But that would show weakness, and Liam wasn’t weak. No, he was strong; he repeated the phrase over in his head and began to sway.

I am a good and loyal servant.

‘I am a good and loyal servant,’ he shouted.

Always after the euphoria came the dreaded remorse. Violent pangs of regret. It was a curse to be a man, and to have the feelings of men. But he could no more deny them than he could his dark and carnal nature. Liam sat back, his body covered in perspiration. He opened his blood soaked fingers, the Heretic’s eyes were blue.

He didn’t want to. The thought made his stomach churn. But the ritual of transference had to be conducted. Liam pulled the knife from Emilio’s body. He took the other eye. The sins of this particular Heretic were his to endure now, and his alone. One eye for the flesh the other for the fire. All sin was witnessed by the sinner’s eyes.

Liam saw sinners everywhere.

9

Carlos extended the brown envelope.

‘The clearest photos we have. Other cameras in the house run on a separate circuit. When the power went down none of them reconnected to the generator.’

‘That suggests help from someone inside the house.’

‘One of my men is missing.’

‘Has he got a name?’

‘Emilio. I’ll know more when I find him.’

‘You shouldn’t have lost him in the first place.’ Are you growling at me? ‘Hey, I work for the Boss now. Doesn’t that make us brothers in arms?’

‘You’re a transient, nothing more. I don’t like your kind. You’re a rat from the wrong side of the Line. Just do your job. You can do your job, Mr Sebastian?’

Poor Carlos, he’s got lemons in his mouth.

He’d invited this verbal gunfight. Now he had to finish it.

‘You’re ex-military,’ Scout said, ‘coaxed away from the State I expect. They don’t pay as well.’ He took a step closer. ‘Or was it a question of loyalty? No, it’s more than that. Ah, you’re a sinner aren’t you. Something to do with women I’d say?’ Don’t like the truth do you? ‘You’re of Ukrainian descent. Probably lost both your parents at a young age. You have brothers, two maybe, both of them younger?’

It wasn’t difficult to surmise from the family photo he’d seen in Carlos’ wallet. The three of them sat below stern looking parents.

‘And you’ve never married.’ That was a guess. Who’d have a Neanderthal like Carlos without favours to sweeten the attraction? ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Mummy left you in a lot of pain, didn’t she? What happened, did she run off with anther man? Ah, she did. Bet she promised to come back for you?’

He’d read the letter in Carlos’ wallet. The note written in haste, and probably penned to his brothers too.

‘She didn’t come back, did she.’

What a bitch. It drew a wry smile from Mr Slim, that slipped away as Carlos gunned him with the eyes of an attack dog, unhappy at being tethered. Mr Round withdrew to a safer distance.

‘You’re leaving,’ ordered Carlos.

‘But I’m right,’ Scout rebuffed.

‘Get him out of here, now.’

Maybe he’d overstepped the mark. Maybe he hadn’t gone far enough. Mr Round pushed Scout towards the door.

‘One last observation,’ he said walking backwards. ‘Your eyes, the lower rims. You’ve noticed how pale they are. It’s due to a deficiency in folic acid. And you’ve got red spots in the iris, that’s pressure from the ciliary body behind. They’re always dry aren’t they? That shirt you’re wearing, it looks tight. You’re eating less but putting on weight.’ He shook his head, slow and deliberate. ‘It could be high blood pressure. It could be the onset of diabetes.’ For theatre he bit his lip. ‘Or it could be early signs of an intracranial neoplasm.’

It was obvious everyone in the room needed help with the diagnosis.

‘A brain tumour, maybe? I recommend you see a doctor, a really good one. Err, was it this way out?’

10

The ride back was quiet, Carlos up front, with Mr Slim who drove. The Neanderthal kept glaring at Scout in the rear view. He was discreet, but kept checking his eyes.

Mr Slim took a shortcut, down through the northern suburb and into the Parks. Not a place to be alone at night. Whichever route he took into the city, they would have to cross the Line. At the city’s northern boundary the bridge was guarded. JAG Troopers patrolled the Line night and day. A buffer between the people inside, and those who lived outside of the city. Most lived outside. Few crossed the Line and were permitted to stay. The Line was always fluid with workers, or worshippers needing to be close to the Reliquary. They all had one thing in common; they returned home the same day, there were harsh punishments for those who didn’t.

He understood the contempt from others toward him. After all, he was a son of the City that had been cast out. They didn’t usually return. When they did they were always tainted. He was a bad apple and considered damaged goods by both sides. Crossing it brought back memories, strong emotions; he liked to avoid the Line he’d crossed a thousand times in the past. An occupational hazard for a man who hunted down debtors. Rich men always wanted what was due. Debtors always tried to hide across the Line. Scout stared out the window and tried not to remember. How could he not? His trade hid the real reason Scout was so fluid in his travel. Even a man like the Preacher couldn’t discover the truth, because secrets were Scout’s trade. Dok, his link to powerful people he didn’t ever want to know.

The Work District passed them by, the official edge of the City; geographically it went on for miles. The cities cheapest seats. Endless rows of distressed housing, most of the buildings held up by string and spit. He watched with little empathy as they passed on by, only lifting his gaze when Mr Slim slowed the car. Two shadowy figures approached from a doorway.

Both men smoked, neither man smiled. Business then, as a window was powered down and a hushed conversation took place. Scout neither heard nor cared what was said. He sat, eyes staring out of the window; he watched the locals who watched back. The nights were still long at this time of year and the fires were beginning to burn. Everything about the Line was sad, nothing was attractive. Though something of interest could be seen through the back window. Scout shuffled around to watch as a procession came onto the street; the orange banners of St Cuthbert, the Saint of ‘humbleness and obedience’. Two streets back they passed, he could hear them sing. The thump of cheap drums to celebrate their march. They were out to sign up anyone who needed to be redeemed. Another nuisance cult that hunted these streets in packs. He noticed the JAG had passed through recently also. There were fresh posters up on the wall; new aesthetics for the broken brickwork. State Security loved to enhance the décor.

Be wary

Be vigilant

Be a good citizen

Define a good citizen. Everybody here was just trying to get by on the wrong side of the Line.

But it hadn’t always been like this. He’d heard the tales of Origin; the supposedly true ones. Looking outside he wondered what it had been like, before the World’s population had been decimated. The stories called it Armageddon. The Commission ordered it Forbidden; any version but the official one. How survivors were brought to the city. Its bells ringing out hope. The tales of the posses who set forth beyond the City boundaries in search of the worthy; Holy endeavours in the name of the Saints. Compulsory learning as a child, but it wasn’t their mission that filled Scout with dreams it was the lure of the land they travelled. Anywhere survivors could be found. The mountains to the north stood in permanent winter. Beyond the Wheat Fields to the east the land was irradiated, and suicide. Going south to the coast was forbidden.

Everything out there was gone. It was desolation, and radiation; that’s what the Commission said, but the Commission preached a lot of things. They enforced them with the JAG; Troopers recruited to protect the city and keep the citizen’s safe. The truth was they kept everyone in check, and didn’t allow them out. But Scout had been out there; he’d foraged through the past. He remembered the Preacher’s paintings.

What’s it like, the sea?

Something landed on the back seat next to him. A package wrapped in paper lay on the black leather as the front window powered up. Mr Slim eased on the gas and the car moved on. Outside it was late afternoon, still daylight, still safe to be out. Even the Duma were wary of being this far from the Line after dark. The Parks were a dangerous place when the sun goes down.

At least Neanderthal had stopped staring. He and Slim were talking. Whispering. The bastards had emptied the mini fridge. Scout’s finger pushed the package away until it touched the other door. He settled back to an atmosphere of exclusion, which he decided was better than one of fear. He watched the poorest sections of the city pass by.

It hadn’t always been like this, or so the unofficial stories suggest. When the city’s population grew too large, that’s when things changed, and the selection committees were formed.

The City needed fixers, tinkerers, skilled citizens to keep it running. Engineers and mechanics gained a new status, category A. Doctors and healers, anyone with a craft or practical skill, they were fast tracked to the front of the queue. The rest fell into subcategories; Divisions of Labour. The people were shuffled around the city. The Commission moved the undesirables across the river. A Line was drawn. That was when the posters first started to appear.

Feed your family

Work for your family

Labour will help you cross the river

A rich variety of messages. The underlying theme was the same.

If you can fix it

You can use it

All property of the State!

The words changed, became more authoritarian. Emblazoned above powerful images. A wrench, a car, a Trooper.

The more useful you were, the more they gave you. The more grateful you were, the more powerful they became; the Commission, who administered with the blessing of the Saints. God had had his chance. He wasn’t welcome anymore. The Saints were the new faith. Anything old, that was infected with the past, unless the Commission granted you a licence, was forbidden.

Scout didn’t care for the politics. He’d found no faith in the city’s spiritual benefactors. He wanted to be a mechanic as a child. He wanted to fix things. Not what his parents wanted for him though. From the time he could talk they had decided that Scout would be a doctor, just like his mother.

An older poster caught his eye. Someone had tried to scratch it off but the words could still be seen.

Life, Death, Salvation

All roads lead to

The RELIQUARY

An epistle found all over the City. Commission propaganda pasted up by the JAG, a Legate always in tow. Purveyors of state religion, the earthly voice of the Saints. “All roads lead to the Reliquary.” That was the true. No Legate ever crossed the Line without a gun.

He understood the need for people to have faith. To believe in something bigger than themselves. It’s why the Saints went box office; new material every week. The city swam in their words.

Saints and Prophets were the new Gods. Worshipped because they acted for the good of others, for the good of the State. Idols that led by example. He didn’t know anyone who lived without the crutch of a Relic. Some had drawers filled with them, bits of them at least, one bone for each day of the week. The more you revered, the more the Commission approved. The Commission had risen on the back of their faith. All others were dangerous, insidious, and forbidden under penalties that Scout didn’t want to consider. The poorer the citizen the better, the more saving they required. Relics had become big business.

After the Wars, those that were left wanted to believe in something again. It’s in the brain apparently, ‘The God spot.’ Only God had gone now, he no longer existed.

In the early days the Legates had dug up the dead for their raw materials. At least that was what he’d heard as a child. Though it might have been to scare him. The Legates would say words, hallow the old bones, make them a Saint. The dead had become useful tools, their bodies broken and sold as trinkets. Set in a ring or a pendant; hung as a charm on a bracelet. It was business. The new religion was here to stay.

The Commission rose high on the backs of the dead. They gave new life, new hope, and a sense of belonging. They fuelled demand for a new kind of faith. It was the Commission’s faith. It was the Patron’s faith, he was the man who rose highest of all.

It was simple really. The Commission rules and anyone that says different is a Heretic.

11
Liam

Liam kept to the shelf, keen that his boots avoid the flow of water as it ran through the sewer. Years of filth hung like icing on the tunnel’s brickwork. He barely noticed the terrible stench.

It was his benefactor’s need for discretion; his insistence that Liam stay hidden from prying eyes. Not that he minded, not really. What bastard child would? It was enough to receive any affection from the great man. He was an anomaly, and an abhorrence; a father’s guilty secret. Maybe that was the reason he’d become the person he was.

Whatever the reason, it suited him to be concealed this way. And his gratitude toward the man who employed him; who was prepared to overlook his shame. It was unconditional.

Liam stopped and paused. Looking behind, his senses tuned for any movement or sound. Nothing. He applied pressure with his hand on a brick and an unseen mechanism opened a cleverly disguised door in the wall. The door closed and Liam ascended concrete steps that led to a staircase lit with oil dipped torches along a wall.

Sixteen metal steps led upward to a gallery and a steel door that Liam opened. He pushed the heavy barrier closed and turned the wheel to lock it in place. It was good to be home, he always welcomed the familiar odours, one in particular. Quercus Petraea, it was the Sessile Oak that fashioned the hundreds of barrels stacked in the vault. The scent of wine came next. The many brands to have permeated the porous brickwork; the many centuries of evaporation from the casks.

Caramel cream was his favourite, but only one of many. A montage of flavours that hung in the air. The complexity and character of the wines the perfect way to expel the stench of the city. He was glad to be home.

The cellar was vast and built on three levels. The first, the ground floor, stored kegs and barrels in short rows; like fat little soldiers awaiting inspection. On the second floor was an amazing array of bottles racked in shelves. Thousands of glass containers that slumbered beneath a blanket of dust. The entire cellar housed beneath a groin vaulted ceiling, its bricked ribs raised up on long tapered columns, their foundations set deep below the cellar floor. Through its middle ran an ornate wooden staircase that rose majestically up to a small gallery that circled the walls; a wonderful vantage of all below, and the exit.

The light to see by was moody at best as Liam stepped into the darkness between two walls and was gone.

12

The semi light was pierced by a flare. A match struck and ignited. The residual odour of burning phosphorous faded as the flame was shared between four small candles. For Liam they brought an ambience that electric light could never replace. He removed his jacket and sat on a small wooden bench. On the table lay a plain metal tin which he picked up and placed on his lap, fingers perched on either side.

Liam didn’t like to slouch; it was bad for the posture. There were enough bad things outside in the City. Here was where he kept order.

Dexterous fingers opened the tin. Inside was a freshly cut sandwich wrapped in crisp brown paper. It was Tuesday, and that meant a treat from Patron. If the Soya slice had a thin coating of honey, it meant his master was pleased.

What is this? Something else was in the tin. Is this an apple? How extraordinarily thoughtful, though he doubted that it came from his master. No, someone else had left the fruit. He could smell her hand on its skin as he felt it touch his lips. The first bite was small, enough to savour the juice. The next bit wholly into the flesh.

Succulent and fresh, just like her.

He hoped that she would come later and visit.

Liam sat forward and placed his foot on the small camp bed he used for sleep and stared at the quilt neatly tucked at both sides and folded short of the pillow. The only thing he had preserved from his childhood. Silly really, but the quilt was a comfort to retain, a keepsake from the past. The only memory worth retaining, something his mother would wrap tightly about his body. Sometimes, in the dark, he would hear her voice; only in his head, he understood that she was gone now. It was the only secret he kept from his beloved Patron. How he loved her, and if it took the rest of his life and a thousand dead, he’d wipe the stain of Heresy from her memory.

Yes, I can hear you mother.

“Stay in the cupboard my love. Be still and quiet until I come for you.”

The quilt was warm as always, and he would try to sleep. But he didn’t like the dark much. He didn’t like to be left alone. Sometimes he would cry whilst he waited for her to return. It always took too long.

Liam sat back, apple poised but undelivered to his mouth. Memories were cruel. Never as sweet as the past would have you believe. They hide within a mist of lies and falsehoods. And the reason he tried not to sleep more than a few hours each night. The dreams could be erratic, nonsensical, and sometimes a little frightening. Perhaps if he read a little the time would pass more quickly. His attention moved to the shelves above the bed. Patron brought him books; the gift of knowledge. A true sign of his master’s affection. He turned to the book beside the bed, and fingered its cover.

The tale was about a man whose only desire was to kill a whale. He understood that desire. He reflected it and couldn’t wait to read on. Keen to discover how the story would end. But it would have to wait as Liam took the sandwich from the tin. It paused in front of his lips, before he bit, chewed, and was relieved by the wonderfully sweet taste of the honey spread within.

Half eaten, Liam carefully put the bread back inside the tin beside remains of the apple. He reached into his waist coat and removed a transparent plastic bag, its insides smeared with blood. Holding it to the candle helped him see. The Heretic’s eyes were the darkest he had ever seen. He wondered if they could see him through the plastic. The thought amused him as he placed them carefully into the tin and pressed the lid tightly shut.

Patron would arrive soon to seek confirmation and detail. Always he required the details, for they were important. But Patron must never know about the eyes, he would not understand. It wasn’t really lying, just omission of the one small detail. He placed the tin under the bench and out of sight.

Now was a time for patience. He’d choose a special bottle from the wine racks tonight. A Quart de Chaumes, or even a Bonnezaux. Either would to enhance the sweet flesh of the treat that awaited in his tin. A fine wine poured for a just desert.

Patience, Liam. He will know I’m back. He will come when he is ready.

13

The candles were half burned when the footsteps descended the staircase. Liam checked his wrist watch and then brushed at his waist coat. He’d dressed for the arrival, and was pleased that Patron was early. A good sign, and obvious enthusiasm to learn of his success.

Sitting extra upright he placed his palms on his thighs. There was a light coloured fibre stuck to his trouser leg, just below the knee. Finger and thumb picked it away.

‘You were successful?’ a deep voice asked.

Patron’s voice sounds eager.

Liam always felt a little giddy, almost childish when Patron came down to visit. He initiated a smile. No, his work was far too serious for frivolity.

‘The man was at the appointed place,’ Liam replied, ‘just as you instructed. I took him to the old church under a ruse. He suspected nothing. I encouraged him to answer the questions. He complied in full.’

‘Thank you, Liam. It is comforting to know I can trust you to get things done.’

Kind words. He would never disappoint Patron. It was Patron that had found Liam in that dark place. It was Patron that had brought him here to find sanctuary. It was Patron who gave him the order that existed in his life today.

Eyes down. Never look Patron in the eyes.

Liam removed a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. ‘The Duma man was cooperative.’ He placed the paper on the table. He sat back. ‘The world is a better place without him, I think.’

‘And the body?’

‘Will not be found.’

‘You’ve done well. The Saints be praised.’

‘Praised be the Saints.’

Patron stepped into the candlelight. The crimson robe he wore looked heavy, it’s colour bright even in the poor light. Beneath it an old man oozed authority and importance. Eyes down, Liam. He pushed the paper across the table’s surface toward Patron. He was in the presence of Illuminai; the head of the Assembly of Legate Primes. The man before him was rumoured to be older than the City. He was the City. Patron was the reason the City existed and the man responsible for saving Humanity. Though he sometimes wondered if it were worth saving. But that wasn’t a question he was worthy to answer.

Patron took the piece of paper. Liam lifted his gaze and watched. A sense of excitement as the great man read Emilio’s words.

‘There were times when I thought I may never see it again,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well.’ He turned to walk away. ‘Take as many JAG as you need. When you have it, make sure you leave no witnesses.’

Excitement turned to dread. He thought he’d have more time.

‘The Preacher doesn’t have the box. The Duma man helped someone to steal it, three days ago.’

‘It’s gone?’

‘There was an unforeseen development. We . . . I didn’t know the Duma man was a Heretic.’

‘A Heretic stole the box?’ Patron suddenly seemed weary. His voice less self assured. ‘Of course. He’s always one step ahead.’

‘Who? What don’t I know?’

‘Can you find it?’

‘Yes, he told me how he makes contact with the thief. A woman, he didn’t know her name. He’s been passing information to her for months.’

‘Do we know who she is?’

‘No, but he said she works for the Trinity,’ Liam tensed. Patron had a fearful temper whenever the Trinity were mentioned.

The Heretic cult had been outlawed half a century ago by both the State and the Commission. The Trinity were Heretics. Supporters of an Old World Religion that was spreading like cancer through the city’s population. Patron was strangely calm.

‘You understand the importance of our work, Liam?’

‘Yes,’ he truly did. ‘She can’t hide from me. I’ll find her for you.’

‘Leave no stone unturned, Liam. The Trinity are a seditious enemy. We wage this war to win the souls of our citizens. We crusade against sin.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you? They would resurrect their Prophet above our blessed Saints. Have us kneel in servitude to their false God. We must prevail, or our world will burn again.’ Patron knelt. ‘Pray with me, Liam. Pray to those who are blessed, and in turn will bless us. For they are real, and they are flesh and blood. They have lived and breathed, and have walked amongst us. In death they demand nothing. In life they bind us all. Honoured are their names. Blessed are their words.’ Patron kissed his hands and unclasped them. He stood. ‘I am they, and they are me. There are no words but theirs, and I speak for them. I hold a flaming torch, Liam. And with it I will burn all those who blaspheme. Tell me, who has the box?’

‘Who?’ But I just . . . ‘A woman stole the box, Patron.’

‘How will you proceed?’

Liam unclasped his hands and stood.

‘The Duma man would initiate contact in the same manner each time. There’s a café in the city centre, he would leave a card on a board behind the bar. It had a salacious title. ‘Contact Kitty, your Feline Friend.’ He’d write a phone number on the card. The last time they met was in the Old Quarter of the City, on the south side of the river.’

‘And this helps us how?’

‘The woman is unaware he’s dead.’ Liam had thought that obvious. ‘I’ll attempt to contact her in their usual manner. Lure her into a trap.’

‘What does she look like, this woman?’

‘Look like?’ He wasn’t sure. ‘He gave several descriptions. It seems she’s fond of changing her appearance.’

‘Someone knows her. Tear the building apart if you have to. You must find her. Find the box. Arrest anyone you suspect of being involved.’

‘I must proceed with caution. I don’t want to frighten her away. There is one other thing.’

‘There always is where the box is concerned. A woman, you say?’

‘Yes, a woman?’ What’s wrong? ‘The Preacher has engaged a private contractor to find the box. Perhaps it would help me if I knew what the box contained?’

‘Life and death, Liam. Life and death, for us all. You must, must . . . Liam?’

‘Patron, are you ill?’

‘Ill?’ He seemed confused by the question. ‘Come to me when you know more,’ he said. ‘The Saints watch over you, Liam.’ Patron turned, hesitated, then walked out. ‘Pray hard, Liam,’ he called. ‘Pray that the Saints watch over us in our endeavours.’

‘Of course, always,’ he whispered.

This wasn’t the first time that Patron had acted strangely. He was becoming forgetful, having moments of indecision. Liam dropped to his knees and prayed. Begged for the Saints to give Patron long life and strength.

14
Patron

Patron closed the heavy door to the cellar. Liam had done well. Liam always did well. And yet he had failed?

‘May I bring you a drink, Illuminai?’

‘Hmm?’ The words startled him. The dark eyed and officious looking man who spoke them, who was he? ‘Radan?’ he asked, more curious than frightened. ‘What are you doing here?

‘You instructed me to wait for you, Illuminai.’

Illuminai, he liked that title. The word expressed everything Patron wanted to hear. Affection, inspiration, veneration, all wrapped in a single precious word. He’d offered it himself to the Prime Legates, far less officious than Patriarch of the High Commission or High Dean of the Holy Reliquary. There were so many designations. So difficult to remember them all.

‘Bring tea to my chambers. I’m going to read for a while, and Radan.’

‘Yes, Illuminai?’

‘Why are you wearing your service robes? The black and grey cassock is worn for obsequies, is it not?’ The tasselled hood covered the man’s shoulders, the skirt pleated and hung to his ankles. Black slippers covered his feet.

‘I am dressed for Ordination, Illuminai. There are no funerals planned. It’s the Service to ordain the Novices. You are delivering their Ordination. Leading them in prayer?’

‘Is that today? Shouldn’t you be preparing for Evening Chapter?’

‘No Patron, it’s not yet noon. You should be dressed by now.’

‘Yes, of course. I had, err . . .’

‘. . . a meeting with the man downstairs, yes.’ Radan looked at his mention, then bowed and smiled. ‘I really must direct you to retire and dress for Ordination, Patron. Oh, and the first of The Legate Primes has arrived for the Assembly, as instructed. They will all be present by the conclusion of Ordination. We really must head for Chambers now, Patron.’

I don’t remember. This strange little man, he wants me to follow him. I don’t know where this is?

‘Tell them, I may be delayed.’ Yes, Ordination. I have to dress. ‘The Primes may start without me, if necessary.’

‘Without you? But . . .’

‘Radan, send Isabella to me. Tell her to bring me my, my evening meal.’

‘But Illuminai it’s not . . .’

‘Send Isabella to me. Now go.’

‘Of course, I will instruct her accordingly.’ The man bowed and retreated down the long corridor.

What’s going on? It was happening again. Gaps in his memory, the inability to recall names. To remember meetings. He felt the cold pinch of fatigue and a sudden frailness. His blood sugar fell like a bucket down a well. Patron reached out to the wall for support. Such a long corridor, unfamiliar, he wasn’t sure where he was.

Concentrate. Instinct forced his legs to move. I must not be seen like this. ‘Isabella?’ he called out. Isabella, Isabella? Why do I need Isabella? Where the fuck am I?

Familiarity flooded through his veins as memories returned. So many long passages. His rooms, always warm comfortable and safe. The need to grab hold and retain the images was paramount.

‘Isabella?’ Her name came like a vision. So much younger than he was. Her long dark hair, those gorgeous grey eyes; such a beautiful creature. But not his, no, she wasn’t for him? He felt the sting of the needle and reached for his arm. The treatments. My medication?

‘Isabella.’

Radan will instruct her. She’ll know to come immediately. My chambers? He followed the passage. So many corridors and halls, concentrate. Find a way through the maze. It was like walking through water, down one deserted passage after another. Like a drunkard, each step a little easier than the last. Then a sound that chilled him. To remind him he wasn’t alone. Caution. Take care not to be seen. The voices lifted in volume and spirit. A tirade of sound, closer with each step.

Perspiration melted freely on his skin. Panic prickled his body with an effervescent sparkle. Patron froze, clasped at the wall with his back. A sudden realisation to where he was.

On the other side of the wall waited the next generation of Legates and Primes, all flocked like geese. No wonder the corridors had been so empty. The entire population of the Reliquary was congregated in the Concourse in readiness for Ordination.

Patron tried to find another way. A picture of the Reliquary was scrambled in his head. There was no other way but across that Hall. To climb the stairs and enter the gallery. From there it was a short walk to Chambers.

How could he? What would it cost to expose himself in such a way, with no recognition or familiarity. How could a man feel so vulnerable and empty? And why wouldn’t his hand stop trembling?

The sound was overwhelming. The Concourse burbled with excited banter. Hundreds of individuals who blended seamlessly into a single accord, each waiting to enter the Great Hall. He peeked like frightened child. A wall of black cassocks stood sentry on the vast mosaic floor. Beyond them the grand staircase that rose four floors; twin statues of Atlas bore its tremendous weight.

Patron’s eyes fleeted about the dozens of Corinth columns that circled the walls. They searched for a more secluded path. A way to avoid the black mass. But saw nothing. Only the hefty stucco façade and alabaster garlands that adorned the vast rotunda.

Why now? The stairs were blocked with bodies from balustrade to wall; a carnival of Prospects. The entire staircase barred with bodies. His blood pressure rose and the Hall retracted. It all began to spin.

No, forge ahead. Do it. He had to reach chambers before his mind clouded again. Whilst he still had purpose and direction. No choice but to brazen it out. Find the will to go forward.

I am Patron. I am Illuminai.

Patron stepped out into the vast Concourse. Hands behind his back, eyes front and challenging. Slow walk. The sound of children playing drifted into the background.

Could they see the fear in his eyes? He wanted to shy his gaze from the light. The sharp prisms belched from the stained glass windows. Fierce illumination that scattered in a colourful haze about the waterfall chandeliers hung from chains. He had to looked down as the congregation changed its tone. Acknowledging his presence, they began to caw and bleat. Yap yap yap with senseless bicker that nipped and bitched at his senses. An overwhelming desire to withdraw took hold but he forged on. There was no other choice but to endure.

I will endure. Patron advanced across the open floor tentatively acknowledging the respect of his subordinates as they bowed. As they stared. Why do they stare? What do they see? He barely understood their words; like bleating sheep in a pen. So many of them. What was it they muttered beneath hushed greeting and bowed heads?

Keep going, do not allow yourself to stop. Chambers were just a short walk up the staircase. Like the Saints I must shoulder the pain. Tolerate and suffer the torment of minds. Follow in the footsteps of the Blessed.

That was bullshit, and he knew it. He would likely puke before he made the stairs. But didn’t. Climbing them just aggravated the ordeal as lactose seized at his calfs. A cold sweat caused him to tremble. Why was his mouth so dry? And why wouldn’t they stop their incessant bleating? Bah bah bah. It had to stop. Half way up the stairs Patron snapped.

‘SILENCE.’ His voice transcended the burble and echoed beyond the hall below.

There, it was done. Chaos checked into muted surprise. An offensive din struck down to a series of murmurs as all present looked up. Their young faces awed and expectant.

‘Silence,’ he ordered, but with less self assurance. ‘Not another sound.’ His finger pointed to the crowd. Heads lowered and bodies dropped to kneel as it swept them all. Prospects who stood too close now backed away.

Where the fuck is Isabella?

Not one face dared to look at him as he passed. Not so much as a whisper from the rodents in the hall. He was Master of this house. Heavy legs lifted below his robe but no-none could see how he trembled with every step.

15

Those moments felt eternal. Patron had gifted silence to the great rotunda. The hall filled with Novices deep in prayer. His walk to Chambers was swift.

Sanctuary from the rabble as he dropped with gratitude into a welcoming chair. Where is Isabella? The seat warmed by the coal on the fire. Familiarity glowed with its embers. Where is my book? It should have been on the table close to hand.

Patron’s eyes lifted to the bookshelves at the far end, each one crammed with manuscripts and tomes; their bindings illegible, becoming a blur. It wasn’t on the dresser next to the bed. He could barely make out the Emperor sized mattress, or the heavy scrolled detail of the footboard. What good was a memory if it couldn’t be seen? His visual acuity was failing. Not much could be seen beyond the rich glow of the fireplace.

Patron laid his head back. His mind was tired. His body fatigued. He didn’t want to sleep. It was the lustre and sparkle of the flames that seduced him. Drew him closer as the room beyond melted away.

He remembered similar flames that had raged out of control. It wasn’t coal then, no, it was the smell of gasoline. Something far darker and more foul, its odour released from the burning pyres. Patron’s synapses fired like artillery shells as a red mist descended.

‘Gregor?’ he said.

* * *

Gregor stared at his reflection. Then pressed the last of the buttons on the khaki tunic into place. He stood rigidly to attention. The man in the mirror was the man that Gregor wanted to be. Blonde, handsome, and at twenty-four years of age already a Major in the Russian army.

He peeled a stray hair from the gold lapel. It was important to look good, he had a lot to prove. A lot to live up to when your father is the famous General Alexi Rhizov. The most highly decorated officer from the Afghanistan War. Recipient of the ‘Hero of Russia’ award for his staunch leadership in Chechnya. The man was a war criminal. A hard drinking gambler and womaniser, with links to organised crime. A great man, unless he was your father. Gregor adjusted his cap, then saluted his image. The man in that uniform was the son, not the father.

The General had placed Gregor in the Leningrad Theological academy. There could be only one military hero in the Rhizov family. No argument, no discussion, just an order to leave his mother and sisters and enter the academy. That was how father, the Alpha Male, dealt with the inconvenience of a male offspring. To spite him Gregor attained a first class degree with honours. But those years had seen him wrestle with an unexpected spiritual anxiety.

The more he’d learnt about God, the more confused he became about the relationship between Him and Man. The inconsistency of their accord, it was a paradox. Man’s need to listen to God’s teachings, but to never actually learn, or even listen. The two weren’t compatible. God’s children were incapable of change; their Father impotent to teach them better without the use of Brimstone and fire. Mankind had some serious issues, but God, it seemed, did not have the skills to address them. Father and Child had reached an impasse.

Gregor had always wondered why God had given Man an enquiring mind, and coupled it with the ability to reason. Hadn’t he given Man the tools with which to doubt his own Divine existence? At best it proved that God was fallible. It seemed theology was a science for men with far more faith than Gregor.

His eighteenth birthday had brought him freedom from theological concerns. No more toy soldiers for Gregor. How happy his mother had been when he’d enlisted. How proud she was when he told her he’d been accepted into Spetznas. His induction to the elite Special Force came with promotion. He was Major Gregor Rhizov. She’d cried tears of joy. Insisted the servants bring champagne and strawberries to celebrate. Mother had filled his glass and kissed him on the lips. She’d toasted her son.

‘A son must forge his own steel in the furnace of life,’ she said. ‘He must swim ahead of his own tide and not get caught in the wake of another’s.’ She referred to her husband of course. Gregor saw the pain in her eyes. Then the joy return as she hugged him. There was a gift too; a ring she’d specially commissioned. A band of silver inscribed with the name of her favourite Saint, Mikael. How Mother loved to pedal that name. One of many Saints she held dear. To mother they were sacrosanct. The wisest and purest of men, whose noble deeds were a blessing of inspiration for others. She’d pressed the ring into his palm and made a fist with his hand.

‘Angels are men who cast no shadows,’ she said. She was a little tipsy. ‘Mikael will watch over you. He will protect you when your family cannot.’

Family lineage was all important to his mother. She had a family tree that charted the Rhizovs back for a thousand years. She even claimed ancestral genes from the Scythian's, the original pure blooded Russians from the Steppes, or so she claimed. Mother insisted that he learn everything about his ancestors, about the Great Rhizov name, its Warlords and politicians. Great men who made history. From the Christian princes of the eleventh Century to the Knights who fought in the Holy Crusades. Her ancestors had defeated Napoleon. Her family’s honour had helped to forge the old Russian Empire. Now she wanted Gregor to play his part. To reflect Mikael. A charismatic monk who wielded a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. He’d fought against the Mongol hordes in the 13th century. Then founded a monastery somewhere in what was now Ukraine. She insisted that he always wore the ring.

A week later mother was diagnosed with cancer. Three weeks after that she was dead. She was only fifty-one. His father had been too busy to attend her funeral.

Within a month Gregor was attached to the security detail protecting the Russian ambassador to the Vatican. What from, he couldn’t imagine at the time. It certainly wasn’t the posting he desired. But then things don’t always turn out the way that you expect them to. Do they?

16
The Box
September 2018

The balcony of the Consulate gave Gregor clear vantage down the Via Gaeta. So many people now living in the road below. It was the same throughout Rome. Estimates put the number of refugees close to two million, and rising. Pilgrims from all over a continent wracked with plague. They came to find hope in the Eternal City. To receive absolution from their spiritual father, the Pope.

Gregor shook his head. What did they think the Holy Father could do? They came frightened and sheepish, these Catholics, desperate for a comforting word. Each day they devolved, became more agitated. A mob who slept along moonlit streets, under the watchful gaze of the Carabinieri. Guns on the streets in case the mob turned nasty, and it would, Gregor was certain of that. The mood was seething and bubbling nicely in the streets of Rome, despite the efforts of the Holy Father and the Church. It left Gregor in no doubt that the city of Rome was ready to implode.

He managed a smile as cheap speakers whined into service on the red shingled rooftops. The Pope was prompt at least, as his voice blared from all directions.

‘Benedictus qui venit.’ (Blessed is he who comes) The Pope opened with the same verbal salvo. ‘Christ crux est mea lux.’ (The cross of Christ is my light).

Words intended to comfort the ever increasing flock who slept in Rome’s doorways; in her streets and Piazzas. Christians come to hide from the wrath of God, but the plague was in Rome, and running rife through Northern Districts. Hour by hour the terrible toll rose and the terror spread. The Polizia had deserted the city, and who could blame them. The people down there were fools. They were ignorant as well as stupid. They failed to understand that faith could not protect them. Their Holy Father was impotent to intercede; incapable of exorcising the badness from the world. Gregor felt their mood change daily.

He went back inside and closed the window; shutting out the Pope’s voice. It was time to persuade the Ambassador to leave, get the delegation out of Rome. It was madness to stay. How long until the first of them went down with the sickness?

Inside the Embassy they were protected and provided for, somewhat removed from the danger on the streets. He left the balcony and stepped down into the sitting room. The entire upper floor was the Ambassador’s residence. An old palace with a modern twist. Fine Italian leather furniture framed in stainless steel; pillows hand sewn by Versace. Opulence distributed across a marble floor. Gregor opened a laptop on a glass table beside the door. Three small monitors above flicked between images. Hi-tech state of the art electronics were everywhere, all hard-wired into the walls. In another time and place this beautiful room would herald the epitome of achievement and success, but not now. It was more a prison. An ancient family that had overlooked the Black Death and numerous other outbreaks of disease. It had seen five hundred years of science and technology, yet still something you couldn’t see was smarter than Man. XV41 was Death Noire twenty-first century style.

Gregor’s sombre mood was interrupted by the Ambassador’s attaché, Dimitri. Young clean and too clever. A lapdog with a slippery tongue.

‘Major,’ he said, ‘the Pope has requested all remaining Ambassadors attend the Holy See.’

‘Does he now?’ He closed the laptop. ‘What reason would encourage us to risk going out there?’

Dimitri shrugged. ‘Above our pay-grade. Besides, the Ambassador has already accepted. The British and Germans have agreed to attend.’

‘What about the others?’

‘They’ve sent their apologies. As of ten minutes ago, we three are all that’s left. Major . . . Gregor, we must leave.’

‘Tell him not me.’

‘I have. If we don’t get out of this place we’ll die. Talk to him.’

Gregor nodded.

‘I’ll take two men, Ingar and Sergei. We go fully loaded in case we run into trouble. Tell the Ambassador we’ll use the sewer again. It’s the quickest and safest route.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to go down there again.’

‘We’ll gear up and be ready in thirty minutes.’

‘I’ll let him know. And Gregor, you must persuade him to leave.’

17

‘I heard you caused quite a commotion in the Hall.’ The voice of a woman woke Patron from his daze. ‘Your little outburst is the talk of the Reliquary.’

‘I called for you over an hour ago, where have you been?’

‘It was twenty minutes, and I came as soon as Radan found me.’

Isabella removed her coat and hung it on the door. Her presence alone gave Patron a sense of calm.

‘Were you having dinner?’ he asked.

I was trying to decide on a dress for the Ordination Ball. What do you think?’ The black sequinned dress hugged at her slim curves. Her arms toned and lightly muscled, slim fingers rested on her hips. ‘Well, I think it’s lovely.’ She kicked off her dark stilettos and fed her long dark hair through a rubber band. ‘I probably shouldn’t take fashion advise from a man who wears a crimson frock.’ She opened her purse. ‘Radan’s worried about you.’

‘You were discreet?’

‘Of course.’ Practised fingers opened a slim case and pulled out a hypodermic. She placed it with a small glass ampule on the arm of the chair. ‘Sitting in front of this won’t help,’ she said.

‘I was cold. Where were you?’

‘Be quiet and roll up your sleeve.’

Her cheeks were flushed from having ran the entire length of the Reliquary. It was comforting to Patron to see such concern in those wonderful grey eyes. The firelight behind her, he wondered what it would be like to touch her face. Such flawless and perfectly tanned skin. Isabella was a triumph of nature. She was never to be touched by anyone, not even him.

‘You need a chair with a more comfortable arm.’ Isabella crossed one slender leg over the other and took Patron’s wrist to feel his pulse.

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Describe it to me.’

‘It hurts.’

She touched his nose with her finger and smiled.

‘You’re being grumpy, that doesn’t help. Is the pain constant? Does it throb? How intense is it and where?’

‘It’s like fire sits in my veins.’ Patron felt his breathing quicken. ‘It’s difficult to move, hard to breathe.’

‘Is it worse than last time?’

‘Yes, yes, much more.’

He watched the hypo’s needle slide into the ampule. The clear solution was drawn inside.

‘Your body has begun to reject the treatment. I’ll double the dosage this time, but I’ll have to talk to . . .’

Her voice was drifting, difficult to hear. Isabella’s lips, so slim, the gloss sparkled in time to the flames.

‘I said, roll up your sleeve.’

Why does she whisper? Why can’t I move my hand?

It was comforting to see her smile. Feel her hands as she rolled up his sleeve. He barely felt the sting of the needle, or the serum flow into his vein.

The healing power of Pure Stems was a miracle. It had given him life beyond his body’s capacity to live. Now he was a slave to the dark side of the elixir. He felt his head tip back. His eye opened wide when it wanted to close. Two shiny drops made him flinch. He watched as they spread across his eye before melting into the flesh.

‘As your doctor I have to tell you, I’m worried.’

‘The Relic,’ he said, ‘it’s back. In my pocket, the paper.’

‘We can talk later,’ she said. ‘The activator will take a few seconds. Whilst that’s happening I need to move you away from the fire. Can you get up? You need to help me. Illuminai, can you hear me?’

Her lips moved. She looked concerned. They’d talk later, Patron wanted to close his eyes. He fell deep into his past again where Isabella’s voice couldn’t reach him.

18

The narrow vaulted passage stank with a sickly sweet odour as Gregor took point. Boots splashed as the four men trudged through shallow water. Each sound echoed and amplified by the ancient brickwork. It was the third time Gregor had been down in this vast underground sewer. An unpleasant but safe route to the Vatican. Above, the streets were clogged with the dead and dying.

‘Ingar, take point. We need to quicken the pace, Ambassador.’

‘Are you sure you know which way we’re going?’

‘I’m sure.’ Why he’d come in a suit again was beyond Gregor. His team, Ingar and Sergei, both men dressed in full tactical gear; khaki field dress, weapons locked and loaded. Who knew what they might face down here?

‘This is disgusting, Major. Are you sure?’

‘Positive sir, please, keep moving.’

‘Do we have any idea why the Holy Father wants to see us? Major?’

‘No, sir, his secretary was vague, as usual.’

Gregor ignored the man’s awkwardness as he traipsed through the surprisingly clear water. Heavy rain the last week had flushed the city’s bowels. Baby, as they called him, should be grateful. The Embassy staff called him the baby faced politician. The youngest Ambassador to be appointed by Moscow in a hundred years. What were they thinking?

He knew he was coming where shit logs float in a river of piss, yet he’d worn expensive suede shoes and a hand stitched suit. And who gave him that awful purple tie?

‘How long will this take?’ the Ambassador asked.

About thirty-seconds less than the last time I told you.

‘A few more minutes, then we enter the Holy See. The Pope’s secretary, Bishop Juliane, will be waiting to greet us. Sergei, join Ingar. Make sure nothing gets in our way.’

The man’s biceps strained the stitching of his camo-coloured shirt. The light on his Heckler Koch helped to the darkness ahead.

Twenty minutes later Sergei helped Gregor up into a courtyard. An inner garden filled with apple trees and flanked by tall stone walls. The big man fitted the huge metal grill back into place.

‘There’s no-one here to meet us?’ he said.

‘Heads up,’ whispered Ingar. Sergei already tracked the runner. A man in a grey cassock hitched up to his knees was hurrying towards them.

‘Thank you for coming,’ the man shouted. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’

‘Stand down,’ Gregor ordered. ‘He’s here for us.’

Bishop Juliane was skinny, his cheeks rosy. The man’s hairdresser was the kind who liked to trim around bowls. He extended his hand in greeting.

‘The others are already here,’ he said in faultless English. ‘Please, we must hurry. The Holy Father is waiting.’

‘Major, why is the priest wearing hiking boots and chinos below his skirt?’ asked Sergei.

Gregor shook his head. He’d wondered the same thing. Was the Pope’s private secretary ready to fly the coop? Not his concern. He waved them all to follow.

19

The walls inside were covered in golden frescos. Every square inch of ceiling and floor a triumph of excess and beauty.

‘Please, follow me.’ Bishop Juliane quick stepped down the aisle. Hand crafted pews on either side. He paused briefly at the altar; enough time to genuflect and make sign of the cross. Then he was on his feet again. ‘Please, we must hurry.’

Gregor waved Ingar on to keep tag with the Priest. He was the younger of the two bodyguards, his youthful body loaded with the largest pack. The rucksack stuffed with extra ammunition and bricks of C4. Gregor came prepared. Outside the Vatican walls was a powder keg of fear and anger. He wanted to be ready for any situation that arose. He pointed to his eyes and then the rear. Sergei, twenty years Ingar’s senior, hard and experienced. Fearless as he covered their rear. Gregor kept the Ambassador close at his side.

The building’s walls closed into a long corridor. A sense of urgency from their guide as he double timed ahead. A growing sense of foreboding. Where was everyone?

Juliane led them into a grand opening and hurried across its marble floor, another staircase, much grander, two massive statues bearing its weight.

‘Up here, quickly,’ the Priest urged.

‘Major, I don’t like this,’ whispered Sergei. His gaze unwavering toward their flank as they ascended. ‘It’s like a tomb? Where are the Priests?’

Another hallway threaded past numerous wooden doors. Each open, their rooms grand but empty of life. Gregor had never seen so many statues and figurines; so much opulence and splendour. That was when it happened. Juliane burst through a closed door. A microsecond of confusion before Gregor’s training kicked in, toward the strangers inside. Ingar and Sergei reacted, weapons raised, the men inside responded likewise.

‘Who the fuck are you? Put your guns down!’ The strangers ordered. Everyone was shouting.

‘понизьте ваше оружие.’ (Lower your weapons), Sergei insisted. ‘понизьте ваше оружие!’ He and Ingar on a hair trigger. A strange dance as men found targets, one after another. Muzzles moved with military practise. No shots fired, not yet.

‘Weapons down. Hands behind your heads. Do it now,’ ordered a tall, quite ugly man, with cropped hair.

Gregor had no intention of doing either as he shielded the Ambassador.

‘No, no shooting,’ Juliane pleaded his face down, arms raised. ‘Please, everyone, lower your weapons.’ The Priest unsure which way to turn. ‘I should have knocked, I should have knocked. Please, no shooting. Lower you guns.’

The shouting ceased. Gregor jerked his weapon from one stranger to the next. It settled on one who looked familiar.

‘Stop, Stop, not in the house of the Lord.’ Juliane pleaded hands outstretched, still wheeling himself in circles. He begged for calm. ‘In God’s name lower your guns.’ The shouting had stopped. ‘This is the Russian Ambassador.’ He pointed toward Gregor. ‘Please, Major, lower your guns. This is the English Ambassador.’

Weapons had stilled. A stand-off ensued. Gregor aimed his at the brutish looking man chewing gum. Who stepped forward.

‘Gregor Rhizov, is that you?’

Gregor nodded.

‘Well, well, this saves me coming to find you.’ He raised his hand, then gestured his men. ‘Guns down, boys. I know this one.’

‘Sergei, Ingar, lower your weapons,’ said Gregor. ‘It’s the British. They’ve come to save us.’

‘MI6 dot com. Available twenty-four seven for all your dirty work,’ said Chewy.

‘Deo Gratias,’ (Thanks be to God) The Bishop crossed himself. ‘Please, Ambassadors, time is short. The Holy Father waits.’ Juliane offered the way through large double doors that were closed.

‘Wait here for me, Major.’

‘Are you sure you want to go in there alone, sir?’

‘It’s the Pope, not the Mafia. Wait outside.’

The eyes of wary men studied each other. Guns toward the floor, fingers next to triggers. A sneeze could start a fire-fight.

‘James, you’re lucky we didn’t shoot you,’ said Gregor.

‘I’m bullet proof mate,’ said Chewy, his accent common. ‘So unless you got armour piercing rounds in those pop guns?’ He took two steps forward. ‘Cigarette anyone?’

‘Sorry,’ said Sergei. ‘We don’t indulge in such bad habits.’

‘I wasn’t offering, mate. I was asking for one. We ran out a couple of days ago.’ He glanced toward Ingar and then back to Sergei. Both of whom looked to Gregor. Who kept his gaze fixed on the Englishman.

They’d met twice before at official functions. Neither man particularly cared for the other. Such meetings came with obvious trust issues. Besides, he looked спекулянт, what the English called, a Spiv. Five ten with a muscular build. A gaze that most would want to avoid. James was a heavy hitter wrapped in a designer suit.

‘What’s going on James? Why are you here?’

‘Same reason as you, mate. It’s tits up time for the Chief Cardinal. We reckon the old bastard wants someone to take him in. You may have noticed the congregation out there is getting ugly. There are several million angry punters outside looking for someone to blame for the Apocalypse.’

‘Blame?’

‘You’re joking? The feller in there is supposed to talk to God, right? Well, God ain’t listening.’ He pointed toward the large arched windows. ‘That’s a lynching mob out there. Least it will be pretty soon.’

Was that why they were here? The Pope was looking for Sanctuary?

‘Will your people take him?’ asked Gregor.

‘Maybe? He’s a hot potato right now, and he knows it. The Germans didn’t even bother to come. I don’t think God’s representative on Earth is trending too well at the minute.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Religion is not a popular past time, know what I mean?’ He popped some more gum into his mouth. ‘What about your lot? You want him?’

Gregor shrugged. He had no idea. What was a Pope worth these days? Truth was, he didn’t care. He’d considered the same two questions as everyone else in Rome. That the entire planet had trended before the Internet’s collapse.

“Where was God? And what the fuck was he playing at?”

Gregor cradled his carbine as James beckoned him closer. He seemed keen for the others not to overhear. Maybe the Brit knew more and was willing to share.

‘Look around you mate. Two years ago no-one had heard of XV41. Now it’s a pandemic crossing continents. Half of those infected are already dead. And I’ve seen the computer predictions, it’s not good. At best were going back to the Middle Ages, with guns. Worst case, none of us are going to make it.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘This,’ James held up the Shrike. ‘Some of us ain’t going down without a fight.’

‘Is that normal combat dress for MI6?’ Sharp suits and shoes made by an Italian cobbler. ‘I like the rucksack, it finishes the look nicely.’

‘You’ve gotta to be suited and booted these days, mate, and for the record the bag’s Jimmy Choo. Got lots of nice goodies inside. I’ll assume Spetsnaz didn’t get the memo a decade ago? About the all terrain look and the Ark?’ A wry grin. ‘And what’s that pop gun you’re carrying.’ He lifted Gregors barrel. ‘MP5 A3 semi auto with retractable buttstock. A bit old fashioned, even for Russian Special Forces. You should trade it for one of these.’ He lifted the barrel of the Ares Shrike and stroked it like a kitten. ‘This baby’s dope. Latest gen. Straight out of Stargate.’

‘It’s very nice,’ Gregor conceded. It really was. The rail interface below the barrel jutted forward of the vertical fore-grip. A belt fed the ammunition from a soft pouch in front of the trigger. It was more Star Wars than Stargate. ‘Very intimidating,’ Gregor added. To children in a playground. ‘What is it you want, James?’

‘The three I’s mate; Interaction, Information, and Intercourse,’ he winked. ‘Look, the whole world’s gone fucked, and sooner or later it’s gonna come down to people like you and me. It always does. The fucking Politicians have lost control. We’re going down shit creek and no fuckers got a paddle.’

James was obviously giving his best poker face. Should he throw all in, or keep what he knew to himself? At least while he considered his mouth was still. And why did the English have to swear so much? Was it compensation for their language being the least romantic in Europe? No, that was probably the Germans. James seemed to have reached a decision.

‘Why don’t you guys throw in with us?’ he suggested. ‘We can always use a few more good guns.’

‘Guns are not your problem, James. Tell me what you want?’

‘Yeah, okay. See this guys, he’s not having it. All right, here’s the thing. We knew you was coming, Greg mate. And I’m under instruction to chat you up. The boys at MI6 are keen to know what daddy’s up to?’

His attitude changed. The friendly face switched to a gunman’s glare. The rapid chewing of gum slowed.

‘We know there’s gonna be a coupe in the Kremlin. It’s just a matter of time. Your old man heads half the Russian army, so we’d like to know which way he’ll jump.’

‘That would usually be his own way. Are you sure you’re working for MI6 here, or maybe just for yourself?’

‘You’re a smart fucker, you work it out. All of this, this pomp and bloody splendour. It won’t mean shit in a year. The only currency worth a fuck will be guns and food. And men like you and me to ration them out.’

‘Here’s the thing, James, I don’t think I’m anything like you.’

‘Is that right? Well, we’ll see, won’t we. Who the real Gregor is when the shit drops on his head? You and me, mate, we’ll do what it takes to survive. It’s in our genes, can’t change it. My man in there, he’s a top notch feller, fingers in lots of pies. He asked me to check you out. Frisk you for info so to speak. He wants to look good when we get back, you know how it works. No harm, no foul. There’s gonna be a lot of tin pot dictators popping up. Pretty soon it’s gonna be every man for himself, it’s already starting to happen. You got eyes and ears we can use. Shit, even his Holiness is looking for a little island he can call his own. Well, another one,’ he smiled, ‘as far away from this one as he can get.’ James sighed. ‘Look, borders will close soon and hard men are gonna start making tough decisions. I’m just saying it makes good sense to get on with the guy who’s pissing in the pool next door.’

‘Eloquently put, James.’ He had to agree. His father had been saying it for a long time. Social structures everywhere were breaking down. Military camps had sprung up all over Europe, all over the World. But there was still a chance for a vaccine.

‘Look,’ James’ fingers stroked at his chin that hadn’t seen a razor in days, ‘food’s already scarce. They say in another year the oil will stop. No-one to pump it, see? I’m saying it’s time to choose your friends, Gregor.’

The timing was perfect as gunfire echoed outside. Both motioned their men to the windows. The camp in the square had turned into a mob. Grey uniforms fought to hold it at bay. More gunshots were fired, at first into the air. Then into the crowd which seethed forward. Within seconds the mob was racing toward the buildings. The Papal Swiss Guard came out to meet them, pikes at the ready. What were they doing? Vatican security joined them and opened fire. A dozen shots were discharged in an effort to stem the stampede. Too late, the mob was on them. It was difficult to watch brave men be overrun and smashed without mercy.

‘Un-fucking believable. You just can’t keep a secret anymore. Words probably out that his Holiness is doing a bunk. Sorry Greg mate, but I gotta get my man out.’

Gregor nodded. He wondered just who had leaked the meeting. Not that it really mattered, not now.

Behind them the doors opened and Juliane came out, both Ambassadors in tow. A sudden gunshot from the room got every weapon levelled toward the open doors. Bishop Juliane began ranting in Latin, his hands waving in disbelief.

‘Gun’s down,’ James moved in front of everyone, hands raised. ‘Guns down.’

What did he know that Gregor didn’t?

Two men in black and red robes exited the room wearing sunglasses, both men held briefcases. A sweet fragrance followed, more a girly scent than a manly musk. It was the Papal version of the Blues Brothers who walked casually by. Was Gregor being paranoid or was the lead man giving him the eye. A lingered “What the fuck are you looking at?” stare from behind darkened lenses hooked tightly over his hooked nose.

Gregor eased back the charging handle on his weapon. Neither man’s gaze willing to disengage.

‘Easy Gregor,’ the Englishman took a step toward him, ‘none of our business.’

Gregor looked to his Ambassador for direction. Nothing doing, the man just bit tentatively at his lip. The English delegate looked a mite calmer. He gave an instructive nod to James.

‘Saddle up gentlemen, were moving out,’ the Brit ordered. ‘Last chance Gregor.’

‘You know a way out?’ Gregor asked.

‘I always know the way out sunshine. On me,’ he ordered, and his men moved ahead sweeping the area, weapons on chins. More gunfire echoed from outside the building, sustained automatic bursts from multiple weapons. Someone had started a war outside.

20

Isabella guided Patron’s hand back to his lap.

‘You drifted off again,’ she said. ‘That’s good, try to get some sleep.’

‘It isn’t working. What’s wrong?’

‘Patron, my arm? Please, your hurting me.’

She pulled free, his fingers left in a claw.

‘Isabella?’ What’s happening? ‘My chest . . .’ Can’t breathe.

Patron arched his back. ‘Isabella?’ Help me.

Had death finally come to claim him? Isabella stood and stared. Why didn’t she react? Then she grabbed the case, other glass phial from within. She lifted his arm.

‘The pain, Isabella, why is, the treatment, not working?’

‘The Stems have reached critical levels. Your body’s starting to reject them.’

‘Not possible.’

‘It was inevitable,’ she said. ‘They cannot sustain you forever.’

He felt the potion surge through his veins. The pain eased. His breathing calmed. Isabella. He sank into the armchair. Her eyes on his. He’d recognised the steel in them the first time he’d seen them. It seemed the visions weren’t limited to before the War. The JAG had cleared a section of the City; its occupants moved out. The buildings requisitioned for State use. It was necessary to expand the City, and he’d come to inspect the progress. That was the first time he saw the young Isabella. There had been unfortunate casualties; children had been orphaned.

The love in her eyes now. It was confusion back then, a small child resentful of the world. It was anger she projected toward the JAG, not fear like the rest. It stood her out to him and he’d responded. He ordered the Legate to remove her from the refugees. Find a place for her as a Ward of the Commission. He took a personal interest in Isabella’s education, and indoctrination. He needed people around him he could trust. Like Liam, she was nurtured, groomed, moulded into an ardent supporter.

‘I can increase the dose,’ Isabella said. ‘Give small boosters on a daily basis. We can manage the side effects.’

‘You’re lying.’ I can hear it in your voice. ‘The truth?’

She turned away to the fire. ‘Isabella?’

‘You’re dying Illuminai.’

‘Of course I am. But you will keep me alive.’ He held out his arms. Isabella knelt and put her cheek to his hand.

‘When the Stems are introduced to the patient,’ she said, ‘they attach themselves to the damaged areas, encourage the cells to re-grow. But there are side effects. Each time the Stems attach themselves they leave a microscopic residue. A build up is unavoidable with long term use. Larger doses are necessary. There will come a point where continual use will kill the cells they are trying to regenerate.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know.’

He took her hair sharply in his hand. ‘Your best guess.’

‘A year, perhaps two.’

‘Good. That’s long enough.’ He let go of her hair and stroked it. Isabella? He could barely see her face.

‘I’ll raise the doses, but recovery time will lengthen between treatments. You must rest.’

Her voice was drifting again. His hand, he couldn’t even see his hand.

Isabella. Why doesn’t she come?

Isabella?

21

Sergei put his boot through the door. The lock broke free and the door swung inward. Gregor pushed Juliane through. Three, four round bursts from Ingar’s Heckler, drowned out by a long discharge from James’ Ares Shrike. Its ammo belt jerking towards the chamber and bolt as they sucked and spewed large calibre bullets across the garden. A force that cut through men and trees. Both men slid through the opening and Sergei slammed the heavy door shut.

‘Find something to barricade the door,’ Gregor shouted. Sergei heaved a heavy bookcase towards it. Countless aged books crashed to the floor. ‘We need a way out, back into the City. Hey, hey, Bishop? Stop mumbling prayers and help us.’

‘Just shoot the bastard and have done with it.’

‘And then what, James? We raise the Union Jack and sing Rule Britannia? You said you had a way out?’

‘Well, that was before the population of Rome gatecrashed the Vatican.’

Ingar threw a chair onto the rapidly rising pile of furniture. ‘This won’t hold them for long, Major.’

‘This will.’ James smashed the nearest window and let rip with the Shrike.

What just happened? The Pope was dead. Both Ambassadors had been gunned down. He was pinned down with a snivelling Priest and a gung-ho Brit. Gregor tried his SatCom again, nothing but static. Since the crowds had rioted in the square nothing had worked.

Bullets smashed into the plaster on the wall opposite. His team and James retaliated; hundreds of bullets passing through the windows both ways. Only one thing was for sure now; the Vatican ship was sinking. And if he wasn’t careful, it would take them all down with it.

22

‘The Reliquary,’ the first words Juliane had uttered since the gunshot at the Pope’s private chambers. ‘The Reliquary,’ he said again.

‘What about it?’ Gregor squeezed off another burst into the garden outside. ‘Well, come on, speak.’

‘The Reliquary,’ Juliane repeated. ‘It’s here, below us.’ He pointed toward the doors in the far wall. ‘It has a secret exit into an underground passage from the Apostolic Palace. It’s a way out of the Vatican.’

‘Are there any girls there?’ James had to shout above the bullets that zipped and pounded at the door as he emptied his own magazine before dropping to re-load. ‘I’d like the last of my I’s now, if you don’t mind.’

Another short burst preceded a hardened look toward Juliane.

‘Intercourse, you retard. I was joking.’ The window frame splintered and dislodged above his head. ‘Or maybe now would be a good time? I don’t know who’s outside, Gregor. But they know how to shoot.’

The shooting stopped.

‘Maybe they’ve gone to loot somewhere that doesn’t shoot back.’ Ingar looked hopeful.

‘Those aren’t fucking looters.’ James grabbed the Bishop. ‘Whoever’s out there are professionals. They want into this building and we’re in their way.’ He looked intent to throttle the Priest. ‘What’s going on Bishop?’

‘He’s right major,’ Sergei slapped another clip into his weapon, ‘we’re being hunted.’

‘Easy with the cloth, James,’ Gregor prised the Englishman’s hand from the Priest. ‘I think we’ve got in someone’s way. Where are you taking us, Juliane? You’ve brought us this way for a reason.’

‘No, I don’t know.’

James drew a short fat knife. ‘I’ll find out,’ he said.

‘Please, no, no. It’s the Reliquary. They must want the Reliquary.’

‘Reliquary? What’s that?’ asked Gregor.

‘We must get there first. From there we can access the Passetto di Borgo. Don’t you understand? We can get out of the Vatican and back into Rome.’

‘You want us to enter the old prison, why?’

‘Prison? I don’t like the sound of that, mate.’

‘It’s an escape tunnel built for the Popes. It’s in the book, you know. Dan Brown? James, you should learn to read, you might learn something.’

‘Fuck off comrade.’ James joined Ingar by the window. ‘Just get us out of here. And why’s it gone so fucking quiet outside?’

Gregor had pulled the Sig Saur from his paddle holster. He leant against the wall, hands either side of Juliane, the pistol flat against the brickwork next to the Bishop’s head.

‘What’s the major doing?’ Ingar whispered.

‘Interrogation technique 101, mate. Scare the bugger shitless, or shoot him. I told him we were cut from the same cloth.’

All eyes fell on the major.

‘The Passetto di Borgo is on the other side of the Vatican,’ said Gregor. ‘So I know you’re lying. The second thing I know is that you brought us here deliberately. And the shooters outside, they’re looking for another way to get in here. And they seem pretty pissed we’re in their way.’ He slapped the pistol hard against the wall. ‘What do they want from the Reliquary, Bishop?’

‘No, I cannot tell you. I took a vow of silence.’

The hammer of the Sig cocked. The trigger squeezed and a deafening shot rang out.

23

A wisp of smoke twisted from the Sig’s muzzle.

‘No, stop, please. Please!’ Juliane slapped at his head like a monkey. Pure panic to remove the hot bullet that had dropped from the wall onto his head.

‘They want the Relic. Oh, dear God forgive me. They’re after the Relic.’

‘Relic? What Relic?’

‘The Relic.’

Gregor cocked the Sig. He moved his face closer. ‘Explain so I can understand,’ he said.

‘Only the Holy Father and two others know of its existence. Please, I beg you, I cannot tell you more.’

‘That’s it, I’m gonna kill the little fucker.’

‘James, wait. Give him one more chance. Come on, Juliane. What’s the plan? You wouldn’t have led us here if you didn’t have a way to get this Relic out.’

‘Tick tock, answer the fucking question.’ James’ knife passed from one hand to the other and back.

‘I didn’t lie to you.’ Juliane crossed his chest and cupped his hands.

‘No more prayers, Bishop. The truth.’

‘Holy Father forgive me, I have no choice.’ The man began to cry. ‘The Reliquary,’ he said, ‘it’s the heart of the Holy See. A Papal secret. Please, help me to get the Relic and I will get you all out of the Vatican.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Gregor.

Juliane seemed unsure. He wavered. ‘There’s a tunnel,’ he said. ‘It runs below us, in the opposite direction to the Passetto di Borgo.’

‘There are two tunnels?’ asked Gregor. ‘Dan Brown missed out on that one.’

‘It’s much older. Its existence known by only Papa’s most trusted. Some of the Holy Fathers . . . They were frowned upon.’

‘You’re talking about whores, yes?’

‘Yes, no, more sociable women, yes. I assure you the tunnel hasn’t been used for such things for over a hundred years. Papa was going to have it blocked up.’

‘Just tell me where the fucking tunnel is,’ James pointed the knife and took a step closer to the Priest.

‘There’s a problem,’ Juliane said.

‘There’s always a fucking problem. Just show us the way out or so help me.’

‘It has a gate. I don’t have the key. Only the Pope has . . . had the key.’

‘You call that a problem.’ James reached into his jacket and yanked the lining. What looked like a thin strip of plasticine dangled from the underside of the cloth. ‘I’ve a key that opens any lock.’

‘I don’t understand, what is that?’

‘The same as this, Priest,’ said Ingar. He held a brick of C4 in his hand.

‘You brought explosives into the Vatican? That’s a sin.’

Ingar looked surprised. ‘You brought whores inside. Which is worse?’

‘Ingar, eyes on the courtyard,’ ordered Gregor.

‘Yes, Major,’ he peered above the window ledge and shrugged. ‘I don’t see anyone, but they’re still out there.’

‘Bishop, you’ve got point,’ said Gregor and pushed the man ahead. ‘Sergei, thirty-seconds and then follow. Everybody, move.’

24

‘You must understand, Major. Only the Holy Father and two other people ever know about the Reliquary at any one time. I shouldn’t have told you. I took a vow.’

Gregor wasn’t listening. This was all too bizarre to be actually happening. A Bishop of Rome skipped ahead of him, skirt hitched above boots designed for heavy hiking. The man couldn’t stop talking; in three different languages at once. English for Gregor so he could understand him. Mostly to assure himself that he wasn’t alone. Then there were Latin prayers and apologies to God, with small bites of Italian mixed in. Ingar had taken point, Sergei was to the rear. The Englishman was uncomfortably quiet.

Four doors split the walkway ahead, Juliane hesitated.

‘This way,’ he said.

The third door from the left opened into a grand reception area, its walls and ceiling painted with religious murals. Frivolous elegance set between spiral columns. Three more double doors, one set in each wall.

Juliane’s gait faltered. The man slowed then stopped.

‘We need to keep moving,’ Gregor insisted. ‘Which way?’

‘The door with the Louis XVI chairs. Beyond it we follow the corridor.’ Tears were streaming from Juliane’s eyes. ‘He’s gone. Papa has gone.’ He dropped to one knee. ‘I can’t believe it?’ The Latin verses began again; a Catholic prayer for the dead.

Gregor raised a hand to James. His jaw chewing in earnest. Eyes glaring. What the fuck? Sergei opened the previous door, closed it, and shook his head.

‘Bishop, Juliane, we need to keep moving,’ Gregor’s voice soft and sympathetic.

‘He’s gone.’

‘The gunshot in the room we heard. What happened? Did the Pope . . .?’

‘No! He would never. It’s a mortal sin.’

‘One of the Blues Brothers then?’ Silence. ‘Why, Juliane?’

He was staring at the wall. The mural filled with Cherubs and sunlight. Whispering words in Latin again.

Gregor put a hand on the Priest’s shoulder. ‘Was he infected?’

‘Yes,’ he spluttered as if afraid to say the words. ‘Papa was a good man. If God infected him?’ More words in prayer.

‘We don’t have time for this, Gregor,’ James was insistent, clearly irritated by the lack of movement. Ingar stood next to the Major tapping his finger on the trigger shield of his HK.

‘Fine. I’ll go check what’s on the other fucking side of the door.’ He stopped at the sound of gunfire somewhere outside in the distance; numerous weapons, short bursts. James offered Gregor his knife which was waved away.

‘Look, Bishop. I don’t know why the world’s gone tits up, or why half the Catholics in Europe are about to torch the Vatican. I don’t know why the Pope got stuck with a nine millimetre, and frankly I don’t care. Maybe later we can try to understand.’ He couldn’t believe he was about to say it. ‘God works in mysterious ways.’

Juliane shook his head.

‘The Holy Father kissed me on the lips,’ he said. ‘He’s never done that before. He said, “The Americans failed. And now I have failed too.” He nodded to the Monsignor. A moment later he was dead. Why?’

The Americans? Now was not the time for ecclesiastical debate. He’d make one last attempt to reason with him.

‘The world has moved on, Juliane. It’s seen fit to remove our need for Kings and Princes. Perhaps it was time to relieve us of a Pope?’

‘No,’ Juliane rebuffed. ‘Not like that. Pope Benedict was a good and pious man. I know the short comings of many before him, but Papa did not succumb like others. He was God’s true representative on Earth.’ He crossed himself hurriedly several times. ‘How can God turn on a man such as he? Crux mihi ancora,’ he said. ‘The cross is my anchor.’

More gunshots, closer this time. Gregor didn’t have time to give therapy. Others were trying to get to the Reliquary, that was obvious. If they got there first it would be bloody. The Priest was going to get one last chance.

‘Have you looked out of the window lately?’ he said hushed but harshly. ‘Man down, Priest. Half the population down. Every city on the planet is in crisis. They’re either mushed out or under marshal law, and you sit there crying for a man who claimed he could talk to God?’

‘He was a good man.’

‘Wake up Bishop. Your Pope did. It’s last of the Mohicans time; mankind under siege. Remember the Alamo.’

The ground shuddered taking both men by surprise. Another tremor quickly followed. Juliane flinched, eyes down and weeping, muttering more Latin. A language that made Gregor uncomfortable, but he understood perfectly the Bishop’s analogy with Jonah. He clearly thought the Vatican was about to be swallowed by the Earth.

More gunfire, inside this time. Ingar headed for the door followed by James; a very angry James. Their pursuers had found another way in, probably shooting looters. The ground shake was a demolition charge taking down a wall, and not too far from their position. Time was up.

What the hell was the priest doing?

‘Get off my trouser legs and stand up, you idiot.’

‘Why has God forsaken us?’

Gregor drew the Sig a second time. Arms extended and both hands on the grip as he pressed the stainless steel barrel firmly against Juliane’s skull.

‘I am absolutely sure that it is God’s will you get your shit together. The Relic,’ he said, ‘help us get the Relic out of here, or so help me you’ll be joining the Papal Spirit.’

Puppy dog eyes stared up at him.

‘Amen,’ Juliane said, and closed his eyes.

Shit, this fucker wants to join his Pope? Gregor firmed his finger on the trigger. Am I really going to cap an unarmed member of the clergy? Is James smiling?

The Bishop got to his feet.

‘Help me save the Relic, and I swear I will get you back into Rome.’

‘Deal,’ said Gregor, and he pushed the smaller man toward Ingar and the doors.

James stopped Gregor. ‘Can we trust him?’ he asked.

‘Can I trust you?’ Gregor replied.

‘Of course you can, mate. And just so’s we’re on the same page. What the fuck’s this Relic anyway?’

25

‘Where are we?’ asked Gregor.

‘In the Pauline Chapel,’ Juliane knelt before the altar. ‘This is, was, his holiness’ personal chapel. He would receive the Eucharist here, in private.’

‘That’s the taking of Christ’s blood and body,’ Gregor could see James was ignorant of the rite. ‘It’s the part of the mass where they eat the bread and drink the wine. Remember Jesus and his Disciples eating the Last Supper. That’s you, Flash, Hulk and the Fantastic Four having a farewell meal down at McDonalds.’

‘Burger King, mate. Only pussies eat at McDonalds. Who’s the guy they’ve painted hanging upside down on the cross?’

‘The guy,’ growled Juliane, ‘is Saint Peter. This entire chapel is a dedication to the Saints, Peter and Paul. These Paintings are Michelangelo’s final frescos. After these he refused to paint again? He dedicated himself to sculpture and architecture. These were his last paintings before he died.’

‘No need to get fucking arsy. They didn’t cover this shit at the school I went to.’

‘You went to school, James?’ Gregor acted surprised, then turned to Ingar. Gave him two fingers on the eyes and then pointed to the door. ‘Keep the procession moving Bishop, we’re on the clock, remember?’

‘Yes, yes, this way.’ He led them through a small door hidden behind a heavy drape into a room that was barely bigger than a squash court. A small altar stood against the far wall, a colourful mat laid at its base.

‘It’s a dead end. What part of “get us the fuck out of here” didn’t he understand?’

‘Shut up James. The Bishop’s got a plan, right? You do have a plan?’

Juliane walked to the farthest point of the room. Took the brass candle holder on the wall in his hand and turned it anticlockwise. Nothing happened. The Bishop’s hand pushed the wall mounted holder upward.

‘Gregor?’ James pulled the charging handle of the Shrike and let it snap back impatiently. ‘Why’s the floor moving?’

Not a sound from the hidden mechanisms that opened the floor. Juliane was already disappearing down the emerging steps.

26

‘What is this place?’ Gregor paused wary of the ominous green glow below. He lit the ancient stone steps with a torch from his belt and began a slow descent.

‘Whoah, Silurian caverns,’ genuine awe in James voice. ‘This is heavy Dr Who shit.’

‘Be quiet, this is the resting place for Saint Peter’s remains.’

‘What’s with the Peter Pan lighting?’ asked Ingar.

‘It’s a form of algae,’ the Bishop replied as he began to light candles in the nooks of the rock. ‘It grows naturally on the rock’s surface and reacts to the light from the candles.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Sergei.’

‘Please, don’t touch anything.’

It was dark and chilly. A single pathway led deep down into an ossuary.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘I took a vow.’

‘If I hear about one more vow,’ James raised the Shrike. Its sighting laser moved from bare rock to settled on the Bishop’s neck. The bright dot was eased away by Gregor’s hand.

‘These are the bones of the Saints,’ Juliane continued. Pointing from one niche carved in the rock to another. ‘The Repository of Christianity. This Reliquary is a secret built by the early Christians, on the order of Peter himself. The bones of five Apostles rest down here.’

‘Saint Peter and a shovel did all of this?’ asked Ingar.

‘Yes, the first Bishop of Rome was quite clear. He started the excavation personally. Only the trusted few even knew that he was in Rome.’

‘I couldn’t think of a more beautiful place to be buried,’ Ingar interjected.

‘You are a Catholic?’ Juliane asked’

‘Orthodox,’ he replied.

‘And yet you use a gun as your trade.’

Juliane took a large silver pendant from a chain hidden below his cassock.

‘What is that?’ asked Gregor.

‘It’s a key,’ the Bishop answered. He inserted the pendant into a hole in the side of a stone sarcophagus. Its heavy lid held an inscription. A poem regaling the deeds of the Crusader Knight buried within.

‘It was under Peter’s instruction that this chamber was begun. The Christians dug whilst Rome burnt. You see Peter knew he was going to be martyred. Our Lord sent him a vision. He also sent help from the Blessed Realm. An aid sent to Peter by God. We call him, the Entity.’

‘I’ve heard of them. They’re like the medieval Avengers.’

‘James, do you have a level of reading that rises above comics?’

‘Graphic Novels, and fuck you, Marvel is awesome.’

‘What’s the Entity got to do with this?’

‘The Entity has always been here, working for the Holy Fathers. He has followers, they are the eyes and ears of the Church. Sworn to protect Christianity from its enemies. Their most sacred duties are to collect the divine Relics from the Martyrs and Saints after they have passed on to find God. Every Bishop of Rome has had a part of himself enshrined within the Reliquary. The greatest Relics of our faith are hidden down here, concealed in absolute secrecy by the Entity. Only three people other than the Entity know the secret at any one time. The Secret is passed on before death.’

‘You know about it?’

‘I am the papal secretary. It is my responsibility to entrust the knowledge to each subsequent Pope.’

‘Who’s the third person?’

‘My successor before I die.’

‘Why the secrecy?’

Gregor could see the conflict playing out inside the Priest. A vow of silence given to God set against the loss of everything from the Christian vault. The man was an open book, each page written across his face.

‘The Relic,’ he said, ‘is laid here in Holy rest. It waits for the word of God. I told you, Peter had a vision from our Lord. God told Peter to begin the preparations for the Cleansing.’ He was becoming animated. ‘That is why Peter built the Reliquary here where we stand. The Relics collected are a beacon to guide our Lord. God told Peter to prepare for the future, to prepare for the End of Days.’ More Latin, more crossing of the chest. ‘Peter wrote the vision down. Instructions for the Bishops of Rome that he knew would succeed him.’

‘Wait just a minute,’ James pounced. ‘Are you saying that God sent a memo to Peter?’ James circled his finger next to his temple. Careful that Juliane couldn’t see, but that Gregor would.

‘The Faithful will be led from the apocalypse. Mankind will be brought back from the brink. End of Days will be preceded by three devastating plagues. The unworthy will be called to account. It was written so in Peter’s own hand.’

‘Gregor, you’re not buying into this shit? We need to bust a gut and get out of Dodge right now.’

‘It’s done.’

All eyes reverted to Juliane. He had inserted and turned the pendant. Secret Scholar, Mr Marvel and Meerkat all waited for the ossuary lid to spring open. Nothing happened.

Juliane leaned on the coffin lid and pushed. Still nothing. Gregor leant his shoulder to the effort and hundreds of years of dust groaned defiantly to set everyone’s teeth on edge. ‘It’s, a hidden, release,’ the coffin lid slid back, ‘that allows the ossuary to be moved.’

‘Clever bastards,’ James was impressed. ‘Hide your valuables under a three tonne bed. Thieves find nothing but bones between the sheets, nice one.’

Inside was a niche cut neatly in the bare stone below. A small cache inside the hollow.

‘What’s in the box?’ the two soldiers asked in unison.

Juliane reached out gingerly toward the casket. He seemed hesitant that it may cause him harm, wary that he was unworthy of the task. The man’s hands trembled as they reached out and traced over the beautifully engraved lid. He scooped the box from the hole and embraced it to his chest.

‘What’s in the box?’ James asked again. More than keen to know what treasures the Bishop had unearthed.

‘The most Holy of Relics.’

‘Which is what?’

‘It is a gift from Heaven.’

‘What is it, Priest?’

‘It’s the ultimate power of God on Earth.’

‘He doesn’t know,’ said Gregor. ‘Do you?’

Juliane shook his head. ‘Papa said it could not be opened until mankind had need of it most.’

‘I’m guessing that time is now.’ Gregor held out his hand to the Priest.

‘No, this is not for you.’

‘Give it here, I’ll open the fucking thing.’ James put down his weapon and stepped toward Juliane.

‘No, get away. I promised you escape from the Papal City, not this.’

‘Open it up, let’s take a look see,’ James insisted.

‘I will not.’

‘I said open it.’

Juliane backed to the wall. A candle fell, a cross clattered to the floor. Still he clutched the box.

‘Open the fucking box, Priest.’ James pulled a handgun.

‘I tell you I cannot.’

‘He doesn’t know how, James.’ Gregor stepped between the two men. ‘He’s not supposed to. I’m guessing that’s strictly Papal knowledge?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Did you steal the key or did the Pope entrust it to you before he died?’

Silence.

‘Who did you share the secret with, Priest? It’s convenient that a mob decided to ransack the Vatican just as our friends out there start to shoot the place up.’

‘No,’ Juliane wiped the tears from his face. ‘I was given the key by the Papal Father. I am to take the box . . .’

‘Where? Take it where? And to do what with?’ Gregor was losing patience.

‘He knows what to do.’

‘He? Who’s He?’

No answer.

Short bursts of gunfire ended the conversation. All eyes turned to the steps.

‘Major! We have company.’ Ingar opened fire, his weapon held above his head. Automatic fire out into the chapel. ‘Sergei’s down,’ he shouted and tried to pull the older man down the steps. ‘Shit, shit. Half a dozen armed men in the chapel and coming fast.’ He loosed more rounds out through the entrance and then jumped to the ground.

‘Sergei’s gone,’ he said sliding behind a large tomb. ‘We need to shut the trapdoor and go.’

‘Bishop?’ Gregor grabbed Juliane and pulled him down behind the Knight’s coffin. ‘How do I close the trapdoor?’

‘The lever is in the chapel.’

‘Fuck. Okay, everyone up. Bishop, lead the way.’

‘Yes, yes, Major,’ he stumbled to his feet, box clutched to his chest. ‘This is the way. Oh, the exit, it has a gate?’

‘Don’t worry about that, mate.’ James was grinning. ‘I told you, I’ll make us a hole.’

Something else grabbed everyone’s attention. A metal object that chinked several times as it rolled down the steps. Several voices at once shouted out.

‘Grenade!’

27

The flash-bang exploded with a growl of thunder and sent a flash of lightning throughout the underground ossuary. A moment later guns blazed on the steps to strafe the ancient chamber.

‘Mother fuckers.’ James opened up with the Shrike. Its sixteen inch barrel lit the gloom as the feed roller sucked ammunition from the large round soft bag below. It discharged at a sadistic rate. ‘Gregor,’ he screamed. ‘Don’t be dead you bastard.’

Gregor’s HK burst into life. One mag empty as another was slapped home. Full auto as flashes of fire spat imminent death and filled the chamber with noise and smoke. Not that he was aware of either, his head still filled with flash-bang. He stood, and moved toward the steps. Dropped and rammed home another magazine, then emptied it up through the hole. It was Custer’s last stand. Ride of the fucking Valkyries. They’d started this and he was going to finish it.

A hand felt his collar and dragged him back behind cover, the HK click clicking, another mag emptied.

James reloaded the Shrike. Another bag attached. He took a magazine from Gregor’s belt and slapped it into the HK for him.

‘You okay mate?’

‘No!’ Wild eyes showed resentment at the intervention. They watched as James pulled two small blue cylinders from his tattered jacket pocket and placed them on the ground. He poked two fingers through one of several holes.

‘Stylish and brash, the tailor said. David Beckham wears one just like it. Look at the fucking thing. Obviously not made for rolling about in a cave.’

He fired a short burst. Just to let them know he was pissed.

The coffin shook to an incoming volley, rock and dust raining down on their heads. James took one of the cylinders, stuck his finger through the ring and was just about to pull when Gregor stopped him.

‘High explosives in a confined space? You want to kill us all.’

‘They started it.’

‘And that will definitely finish it.’ He tried to take stock of their situation. Where’s Ingar? Juliane was huddled against the wall in the foetal position.

‘Ingar?’ he called out.

There were three bodies on the steps. One was Sergei. He saw Ingar slumped twenty feet away, a pool of blood around him. And something else, their enemy was in the chamber.

‘Bastards.’ Gregor had to think. What do these men want? He gripped Mikael’s ring. Think man, think.

‘Bishop,’ he whispered. ‘Bishop? Do they want the box? Are they the Entity, come for that box?’ Juliane shook his head. Then who the hell are they?

‘Heads up Gregor. I hear movement.’

Gregor risked a look over the coffin. Then crawled towards another hoping to widen their firing position. He crawled into a niche and took another look at James’ grenades. Thirty feet, maybe less to the steps, to their enemy. He raised a single finger to James. ‘Just one,’ he mouthed. Then crossed his fingers and shrank low.

James grinned. Grabbed a slim blue metal explosive and fingered the ring. Gregor nodded and the blue lever flipped away. The cylinder was tossed silently through the air. A soft chink of metal against stone was followed by a moment of realisation, and then boots scrambling for safety. Too late.

The crypt went nuclear. The roar of an angry dragon that caused the walls to tremble. Seconds later Gregor and James leapt from cover, both guns blazing.

Deafened and disorientated the two soldiers moved on instinct and adrenaline. A Barmy Banzai through the hot swirling dust. No point in trying to distinguish who shot at who as the automatic rifles spat unholy rage. It was a turkey shoot. It was over in an instant.

Six men lay awkward in the rubble, not all of their bodies were intact. The smell was appalling. Gregor ascended the steps. He’d reasoned, hoped, the force of the explosion would go upward and be vented by the opening above. He stepped into the chapel. Another two men lay dead. The ceiling and walls were black.

‘Got a live one down here.’

Gregor lowered his rifle and pulled the Sig from its holster. He stepped back down into the underground chamber. This was personal now. Eyes down and best foot forward, he wanted a chat with the bastard who’d just had the misfortune to survive.

28

The wounded man groaned. Six foot two, barely able to shave, but wearing a stocky frame. Impressive chest below the gym-branded tight fitting tee shirt. Even with the buzz cut this guy looked more at home chasing girls around college than he did rolling in this kind of shit. Lucky to be alive so close to the blast. He groaned again. Two minutes prior he’d held the upper hand. Now he floated in jelly with angry guns pointed at his face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Gregor demanded, trying to read the young man’s eyes. Even in shock they screamed, up yours, then grimaced as he became aware of a hole in his body somewhere near the large intestine. ‘I won’t ask again.’ Gregor pulled the Sig’s slide and released a nine mil hard nose copper jacket into the chamber.

‘What are you going to do?’ Juliane clambered over the rubble, the box still clutched to his chest. ‘Not here, not in cold blood, please, I beg you.’

‘Not now, Priest,’ spat Gregor.

‘We should go. Leave him here. Someone will find him and tend to his wounds. The police will know what to do. We should go.’

James pulled him away. ‘Cover your eyes and sing lah lah, Priest.’

‘No, Major, we’re not barbarians. We’re in the Reliquary; holy ground. In the name of Christ?’

Gregor watched as a young man’s weary eyes rose to the sound of Juliane’s voice. Then widened as he saw the box.

‘Is that what you came for?’

No answer.

Gregor’s heel ground against his bloody shirt. He felt his boot grabbed as the man squirmed. Then heard a cry of pain.

‘For God’s sake think about what you are doing. Major, stop this, I beg you.’

‘Back off Bishop,’ James took Juliane by his shoulder. ‘The Major’s getting personal.’

‘This man needs medical attention.’

‘This man tried to burn us.’ He smacked Juliane on the forehead. ‘Fuck off, Priest.’

Gregor stepped on the wound again.

‘Is it the box?’

‘Yes, yes, the box.’

‘Why? What’s in it?’

More pressure on the wound.

‘Ah, God, fuck . . . I don’t know. I swear, I don’t.’ Tears of pain washed down his cheeks. ‘We, we were hired, to find the Priest. The key. You fucking arsehole, you just got in the way.’

Is he laughing, Gregor?’

‘He’s hysterical.’

‘Still, he’s laughing and that’s rude.’

‘What’s in the box?’ asked James. He kicked the man in the face. Blood coloured the tears around his lips

‘Mother fucker. I don’t know. Need to know. Open the fucking thing and take a look.’

‘You believe him Gregor?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Gregor levelled the Sig toward the man’s head. He glared up.

‘Major, you can’t do this. He’s unarmed and injured. Show mercy, I beg you. For the love of God.’

‘My men are dead, Bishop. And for what? That box?’

‘Show mercy. Rise above these men. God is great, Major. You just have to let him into your heart.’

‘Tell that to Ingar and Sergei.’

A single shot rang out and the young mercenary’s brains sprayed the rock behind. Fizzy coke erupting from a shaken can and the body fell limp. Juliane stared. Then staggered back and threw up.

James shouldered the Shrike.

‘Told you,’ he said, ‘not so different after all.’

29

Patron opened his eyes. It was too hot, all too vivid and real. Why was he even remembering this? It was all so long ago.

What he remembered next cooled the heat from the fire. It was the catalyst that had changed everything. He couldn’t have imagined any of this. How could he? This city, the Commission, his position as Illuminai.

Isabella?

He reached out, thankful that her hand found his.

30

Gregor reached out his hand. ‘Give me the box, Priest.’

‘No, no, I won’t.’

‘The box, now!’

‘Stop fucking around.’ James jabbed two fingers into Juliane’s larynx. As the Bishop reached for his throat James snatched the box from his grasp.

‘I, can’t, breathe.’

‘Take a deep breath and some codeine, you’ll be fine.’ He lifted the half a brick sized lump of silver toward a candle. ‘What is this, some sort of puzzle box?’ It didn’t seem to have a lid. ‘Does it slide out? Pop up?’ He slammed the box against the rock wall. Then twice more before he fumbled again with his fingers. ‘Fuck this.’ He threw the silver container on the ground and raised his gun.

‘No,’ Juliane shouted. ‘You cannot.’

A single shot rang out and the box leapt across the ground. It didn’t open. James shot it again, and then again. The bullet’s impact sent the box reeling, first into a coffin and then the wall. Gregor put a calming hand on James’ arm, fearful that the Brit might be tempted to try a grenade.

He took slow steps toward the box, knelt, and took it in his hand. James looking over his shoulder.

‘Is it open?’ he asked.

‘It isn’t even damaged. Remarkable,’ he said.

Gregor lifted the box. Such a beautiful thing, but he doubted those men had died for its monetary value. Every facet of the box was inscribed with strange letters. Mystical words written in Hebrew, maybe. Or some other long forgotten dialect.

‘What do the words mean? Priest,’ he asked, ‘what am I holding here?’

‘Those are the words of God.’ The reply was filled with scorn. ‘The box is His, and only He can open it. Only when we are ready will He come.’

‘Have you looked outside recently? I think it’s time He put in an appearance.’

‘When the time is ready.’

‘I think we’re there, don’t you?’

‘When the time is ready,’ Juliane whispered.

‘I tell you something, Priest. There is no fucking God. People like you made Him up. He’s a means to control and abuse people. If He existed He’d be out there doing something.’

Juliane shuffled his way across the floor and grabbed the box from Gregor. ‘He will come,’ he said with a tearful bitter scorn. ‘The Entity has foretold it. He will come.’

‘Entity, what Entity? Who’s been twisting at your faith, Bishop? The only thing coming for us is death.’

‘He will come. The Entity foretold it. He will come.’

‘You’re a fool, Priest. There is no God,’ Gregor clenched his hands, ‘no-one’s coming.’ He thumbed at Mikael’s ring, and looked to where Ingar still sat, lifeless. ‘From here on in we take what we can.’ He grabbed Julianne. ‘Your only worth now is getting us out of here,’ he said.

* * *

The City was difficult to navigate; Juliane’s intimate knowledge of Rome’s back streets and alleys indispensable. The entire walk the Priest muttered prayers in Latin. James cussed, his satellite link lost. What vexed him most was the state of his expensive suit.

Gregor was angry. A rage that lifted his Sig toward anyone who crossed their path. The threat of his gun enough to assuage the zeal of rioters and looters. The mounting number of parents who begged for a blessing for their family. All they owned gathered around them on the pavement. The sick mingled amongst them. Juliane was a magnet to the sick and needy.

A mile out from the Vatican a Coin store provided clothing; ordinary apparel in an attempt to blend in, and to get further away from the fires of the Vatican that had spread. Gregor’s mission was to get out of the city. Stealing an old ambulance was James’ idea. Neither Gregor or Juliane raised their voice in protest. A waved gun still proved more effective than the vehicle’s sirens.

At the top of Quirinal Hill Gregor took one last look at the city below. Its fires wide spread. Sirens and gunshots from all points of the compass. Burning on both sides of the Tiber. Another great city had devolved. But this time nobody was fiddling as Rome went up in flames.

31
The Entity

Stars and a half moon lit a rolling countryside that seemed to have no end. There was no way of knowing exactly how far they had come, or where they were in the Italian countryside. The main routes from Rome were becoming blocked by refugees; by the sick and dying. Gregor had no intention of joining their ranks.

‘Gregor,’ James nudged him. ‘Camp fires to the east,’ he said, and slowed the ambulance.

Three fires in the distance, about a mile or so from their location. Gregor doubted whether heading toward the light was the wise thing to do.

‘Surely it is a sign from God,’ Juliane pleaded.

Gregor knew the Bishop was hungry so he questioned the validity of the revelation. James wound the window down.

‘Can you smell that?’ Hot sweet cooking on a warm breeze. ‘I’m hungry. We need intel, Gregor. They may even have a radio.’

Why were they looking at him? So far all he’d done was get Ingar, Sergei, and the Ambassador killed.

‘We go in on foot, recon only. Regard them as hostile until they prove otherwise. If it looks good, we go in.’ He turned to the Bishop. ‘You, keep your mouth shut about who we are and where we’ve come from. Understood?’

‘Si, yes.’

Gregor doubted the Bishop could keep his mouth shut. He did note the sudden lift in his spirit with the promise of hot food. James clearly had other things on his mind; a muted keenness, but not for food. He was a Pro, and that meant he’d crawl over glass and eat rabbit shit if necessary. No, he guessed that food wasn’t foremost in James’ mind.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

* * *

The count was thirteen caravans. Twice as many horses corralled in the distance. Gregor slipped between two large spoked wheels and crawled below the belly of someone’s home, listening keenly for signs it was occupied. The closer to the camp the more voices were heard. Three large camp fires, as many as a hundred women. They’d stumbled on a gathering of gypsies. A traditional scene of long skirts and shawls. Headscarves covered with bling. Their colourful Romany wagons gave good cover to get up close.

Gregor settled to watch. A hundred yards to the left he could seen an opening in the hillside. An entrance large enough for trucks. But far too dark to see any further. No time to check it out. He wanted to get closer to the camp. Something wasn’t right. Then it hit him. Where were the men? And a camp of this size should have dozens of children.

Gregor settled as close as he dare. He wanted to see what had their attention by the main fire. The many voices stopped, shushed by an aged male. A bald unshaven man with hoops in his ears called for calm with a raspy voice.

Gregor needed Juliane to translate. What he didn’t need interpreted was their collective concern. The tense, agitated body language. Something was very wrong here.

Another aged man stepped forward; tall and dark. He wore a waistcoat over a floral shirt, and flapped a long brimmed hat to urge the congregation to quiet. Then he spoke. His Italian eloquent, but tinged with sadness as he expressed himself to the group. Several voices rose in dissent; the women becoming more vocal, some sobbing.

Gregor glanced at James, who shrugged. A gunshot changed the mood dramatically. It triggered screams. Then an automatic discharged to subdue the crowd.

Gregor backed hard against the wall of a caravan. Had they been seen? Was someone shooting at them? James was hunkered down behind a trailer, Shrike raised and ready over its edge. No more shots followed. Gregor risked a peek. The women were, kneeling, many sobbing. The old man in the waistcoat was on his knees, hands clutched to his chest. He fell face first which triggered a trumpet of high pitched wails.

Someone stepped into view, a Beretta in hand that was pointed at the crowd.

What you want to do? James mouthed.

Gregor shook his head. This wasn’t their fight. He was considered pulling out and moving on when two more men stepped into view both armed with Kalashnikovs. The way they held the weapons screamed military training.

What the hell had they stumbled into?

The man that waved the pistol with such intimidation walked out past the large fire presence and clearly into view. It was a small world.

One of the mystery priests from the Papal office. He’d recognise that nose anywhere.

His memory flashed back to James’ exit back in the Vatican. That bastard had ambushed them. Both ambassadors dead in the fire-fight.

James? He wasn’t by the trailer. Gregor shouldered the HK and moved to the back of the nearest caravan. He leapt onto the railing and pulled himself up to the roof. Lying prone he looked for the Englishman. He was moving quickly, circling the centre of the camp. He’d seen Hook and was doubtless thinking of revenge. From here he had a clear line of sight and a good view of the camp. All he could do was sit and wait. He settled down and prepared to engage.

32

James circled the encampment. The caravans were in darkness and no-one was looking. All eyes were on Hook, as were Gregor’s. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the weapons night-sight, sliding it into place. One, two, three targets lit perfectly by the fire. He took a breath and let it out slowly, moving the crosshairs from target to target. What happened next took the entire camp by surprise, Gregor too. Shouting in Latin, hands raised high, Juliane walked out into the kill zone.

The Beretta and several AK47s levelled toward him. Men who had been still now moved quickly; two more armed men appeared from the darkness, weapons looking for targets in the surrounding caravans.

What the fuck? Gregor went head-down. James had already melted back into darkness. Men shouted. Hook barked orders; obvious instructions to begin a search. One of them was headed straight for him.

Gregor stood up and let rip from the caravan’s roof. A short controlled burst that took the man down. Bullets ripped into the caravan’s walls by return. The Shrike opened fire from the far side. Enough distraction for Gregor to slide down. One roll enough to be up on his feet, the HK capping off. Poised like a Dalek’s eye but spitting fire. Another man went down. The air filled with the terrifying sounds of flying shrapnel, the crack of smashing wood, and the shrill screams of women praying not to die, and then silence.

Both men swept the area. Gregor patted himself down. Adrenaline is a powerful painkiller, he wanted to be sure.

‘Clear!’ shouted James.

Gregor nodded. He counted five bodies. Someone was missing.

‘Where’s Hook?’ Gregor shouted. ‘The fucker with the big nose.’ He turned his weapon toward the Gypsies. Where else could he be? As he did so he heard the familiar ‘tink’ of a pin discharged from a grenade. Hook had a young girl, late teens, by her neck. His free hand held aloft with high explosive clutched in its palm.

He shouted out in Italian. Neither man understood what he said.

‘You got a shot James?’

‘Not one that involves the girl living.’

‘Take it easy,’ Gregor shouted. ‘No-one has to get hurt.’

Hook’s hand held an old RGD-5 grenade. Russian made. A hundred and ten grammes of TNT wrapped in a baby pineapple. It had a three-second fuse.

‘Everybody stay calm.’

The crowd was scared. Two strangers aimed their guns at them. A psycho with a grenade stood in their midst. Hook called out to him.

‘He wants you to drop your weapons and leave.’ Juliane lay curled in a classic foetal position. ‘He’s very insistent that you comply.’

‘Is that right?’ James edged forward, Shrike raised and steady, eyes only for Hook.

‘Juliane?’ Hook called out. ‘E che voi Juliane?’ (Is that you Juliane?)

‘Si.’ (Yes)

‘English, motherfucker,’ James insisted.

‘I see that my men failed to find the box?’ Hook answered.

‘Fucker speaks better English than me.’

‘Everyone does,’ said Gregor moving away from James. Two lines of fire. ‘Is that what you want?’ he called out. ‘The box? No problem, give it to him.’

Juliane clutched the rucksack he held as if it were his baby.

‘Oh Juliane, you’ve brought it here?’ He started to laugh. ‘Is the box in the rucksack? Bring it to me. Bring me the rucksack.’

‘No.’

‘Bring me the box.’

‘I cannot.’

‘I’ll kill them all, Juliane. Every last one of them. Their blood will be on your head.’

Hook pretended to drop the grenade and the women screamed. His head moved incessantly from one side of the girl’s to the other.

‘You sure you haven’t got a shot?’ he asked.

‘I can take her and him with the same shot, mate. But I don’t think the bullets clever enough to put the pin back in the grenade.’

Hook started shouting. Waving the grenade like a football hooligan. His words came thick and fast.

‘What’s he saying, Bishop?’

‘He says you must both stand still, Major. He is insistent that you drop your guns. And that you leave immediately. He swears he will let the hostages go if you comply.’

‘What else? Come on, Bishop, what else?’

‘I told him that I want the box, major.’

James lowered his gun. ‘If someone doesn’t tell me what’s in that fucking box,’ he gave a hard stare at Hook, ‘I’m gonna start killing people.’

‘You haven’t told them? Come, come, Juliane. Tell them about the box. Tell them about the Secret the Church has kept for over two thousand years. Tell them why the plagues have come, and why the world suffers. Tell them about the power of God that is concealed in that box.’ He seemed to be enjoying the attention. ‘It’s all right, Juliane. They won’t believe you. Why would they?’ he laughed, then shouted at the hostages. Reluctantly they all began to stand.

‘I offer the lives of these people for the box. I’m even willing to share what’s inside. We could divide the spoils. Immortality, wisdom, whatever you desire.’ Hook pretended to drop the grenade again. More screams and panic and a look of sheer delight on the man’s face. ‘We can all profit from God’s demise.’

Just keep talking. Gregor was running daemons; problem solving in his head.

First: He had to take down the perp.

Second: He had to neutralise the threat of the grenade.

Hook was on the move. Ordering the women closest to move quickly. He was heading toward the cave. Trying to change the scenario before he could formulate a plan. But why the cave? He realised he’d lost control, not that he’d had it in the first place.

He and James edged forward and followed.

Ten yards out from the cave’s entrance he saw a child, no, two children. Both ran back inside.

33

Gregor’s pupils craved more light as the figures ahead became blurred; their sobbing more intense. The sounds so different now they were inside. Moments later the vast cave gave up its secrets.

The Sig never wavered as Gregor looked deeper into the cavern. Numerous male bodies lay haphazard over the ground. Several slumped against the wall. All fallen where they had died. Been murdered.

Why? Gregor’s eyes filled with sadness. The first clean shot, he would take it. ‘Why?’ he said, the word laced with contempt.

‘Opportunity,’ Hook replied. And sounded surprised at the question. ‘We have to start again,’ he shouted. ‘We have to repopulate somehow. It’s a brave new world, and these women were a gift. They still can be. My gift to you, if you join us.’

‘Us?’ Who’s us?

‘I have friends,’ Hook sounded prideful, ‘certain members of our government and army. Some NATO troops now operating with an independent agenda. As we speak Lazio, Umbria and Marche are already under Marshal Law. Other regions will doubtless see sense and join,’ he smiled. ‘I of course represent the Church’s interests.’

‘I take it Pope Benedict didn’t want to join your club?’ His murder made more sense now.

‘He wasn’t invited. Out with the old, eh? After Marshal Law is established we’ll begin quarantine. Plague is a nasty thing, Major. A lot of people are dying. Hundreds of millions are dead already. We don’t all have to join them.’ His free hand extended toward James. ‘Please, tell him to give me the box.’

‘Sorry Gregor,’ James altered the Shrike’s aim. ‘I think it’s time to pick a side.’ Then moved cautiously toward Gregor. Who felt the warm steel muzzle of James’ gun against his neck.

‘Drop the Sig, buddy.’

Fuck it. ‘Hedging your bets, James?’ I knew I couldn’t trust you.

‘Politics mate. It’s not like we’re besties or anything. Now drop the gun and we can all have a nice chat.’ He raised his voice, ‘I’m sure the cardinal will realise that mistakes are made in the heat of things. We could help him out of all this, and then he could help us get back to home territory in return. Am I right?’

‘The new government will be very grateful,’ Hook replied. ‘A quick decision please, my fingers are getting tired.’

‘He killed your men, James.’

‘Casualties of war.’

‘And what about those men?’ He nodded to the bodies in the cave. ‘What are they, collateral damage?’

‘There’ll probably be a lot more before things calm down. Now drop the gun.’

Gregor opened his hand and James took the Sig. He tossed it toward Hook who duly took it in his free hand. Then shouted at the women who dropped to their knees. He kept the girl close.

‘We can use you, both of you. The prospects are excellent for men with your skills.’

‘Think it through, Gregor. You, me, and the barking mad over there. We’d make a great team. Someone’s gotta take charge. Think about it. It’s Kings and Princes, but made with guns instead of breeding.’

‘I don’t want any part of this. I will kill you if I get the chance.’

‘Fair enough, but I want you to know this isn’t personal.’

Gregor closed his eyes as the hammer clicked back and James’ finger squeezed down on the trigger.

34

James didn’t fire the gun. It turned instead toward a burly figure sat below a long rocky overhang. The cave rising another twenty feet above his head. The man’s hands clapped slowly as if genuinely impressed by what was happening.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’

‘Fuck off,’ Gregor replied, as surprised as his captor.

The surprise stood. A big man who wore a long dark coat and fingerless gloves. Black boots with oversized soles.

‘Is that the Rock?’

‘Who’s the Rock?’ asked Gregor.

‘Hollywood actor, idiot, and that was rhetorical. Shit, who invited the Rock?’

The stranger stepped closer, one hand went for the coat’s pocket.

‘Easy mate. Don’t do anything stupid.’

The Rock pulled a brass zippo slowly into view so all parties could see, three cigarettes clipped to its side. He parked one between his lips as a loud clink from the wheel sparked a flint.

It lit the stranger’s features. A face well weathered and mature, a killer’s eyes. Gregor was sure of that as half the cigarette got drawn into one long glow.

James took a deep breath. He hadn’t meant to. His habit had been bitching at him for days. The aroma was sweet as the smoke carried to them. Gregor felt the gun push into his neck.

‘Like a tree, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Keep nice and still. Friend of yours?’ he shouted to Hook. ‘I don’t need no surprises over here.’

‘No, so may I take it he’s not with you?’

‘I’ve never fucking seen him before.’

The moment seemed awkward. Neither James nor Hook were sure who to point their guns at. Gregor smelled opportunity.

‘That’s lousy dress sense you got there mate. You a Wyatt Earp fan?’

‘Chi la sono.’ (Who are you?) ‘Che vuole lei?’ (What do you want?). Neither question received a reply.

‘Maybe he speaks Russian.’ James tugged on Gregor. ‘Ask him. Ask the bastard what he wants?’

‘Do it yourself.’

‘I just did.’

Gregor’s ear smarted as the gun’s butt struck down hard.

‘I don’t need attitude from both of you.’ The stranger was staring at James. ‘What? You want a piece of me? Hey, Priest, just shoot him. Shoot the idiot and let’s get on.’

Hook didn’t seem keen. Maybe he thought James would shoot him, whilst he shot at the stranger. No trust amongst vipers.

‘He’s not looking at you.’ Gregor decided to stir the pot. ‘He’s looking at the bag, imbecile.’

‘Don’t call me names, mate.’ He hit Gregor again. ‘You want the rucksack?’ he called out. ‘You a skater boy, is that it?’

‘I think he wants the box, James.’

‘And here we go with the box again. Cardinal, shoot him.’

Hook relented. Four shots in quick succession spat from the Beretta hitting the man flush in the chest. The percussion alone was deafening as women screamed and the stranger reeled. He stumbled, but didn’t fall, not all the way.

Down on one knee but far from dead Wyatt took a last draw on the cigarette before flicking it away. The smoke bilged from his nostrils and Gregor swore his eyes glowed. Wyatt flapped back his coat, two massive hand guns one on each hip. He pulled them from their holsters. They rasped like a baby chimp at play time as bullets ripped into Hook. His body and face were shredded by the deadly payload.

‘Oh fuck.’ James pushed himself from Gregor. He slipped, tumbled, fell to the floor.

Gregor initiated a desperate bid for cover as Hook’s grenade clunked to the ground thirty feet away. He heard the metal pitch and bumble its way across the rough cavern floor. As he dropped face first he turned enough to see the explosive stop, then do its thing just inches from James’s face.

‘Fuckkk.’ The Englishman’s last word, though it seemed strangely insufficient.

The explosion filled the cave with light and sound. It threw Gregor twice as far as he had run.

35

Each time he opened his eyes the dust was still falling. Screams filled the silence. Consciousness was a rope he was unable to grasp. When he finally grabbed a hold he had no idea how long it had been.

Gregor checked himself, his hand shaking. This was the third time in several days he’d survived an explosion. Some kind of record he supposed. Blind luck. Or was it? He fingered the ring his mother had gifted him; put on his finger to protect him.

“Angels are men who cast no shadows.” She’d told him. He still didn’t know what it meant. Not that it mattered. He’d never really believed, until now. It had to be the ring. Mikael was truly looking down on him.

Gregor dragged himself to his knees. The ground where he’d laid spared from the dust that covered his clothing. His hands and face. The desire to expel it from his lungs was irresistible. A deep reaching cough that made him to want to puke. He stood, staggered, grabbed for the Sig Saur. The weapon had never felt so heavy as he dragged it from the floor.

Gregor sank to one knee, the effort too much as he tried to spit the gravel from his mouth, and wipe the crap from his eyes that struggled to see in the gloom.

The stranger? A sudden spike of adrenaline heightened Gregor’s awareness. Where is he? It all came rushing back through the numbness; James, Hook . . . the grenade. The cavern filled with women screaming. Where are they? Where the fuck was the big guy?

A familiar sound gripped Gregor, the click of a Zippo shutting. He turned to see the big man in the long coat was still here. Just standing, staring, and he had Juliane’s rucksack. It seemed four bullets and several ounces of TNT hadn’t brought him down. The glow of a cigarette in the darkness.

‘I wouldn’t advise you use the weapon,’ he said. His voice as intimidating as his stature.

‘Who are you?’ Gregor croaked. Then tried again. ‘Who are you?’ More demanding this time.

‘He is Entity,’ another voice from the gloom.

‘Juliane, is that you?’ Where are you? He was relieved to see him sat unharmed by the cavern’s entrance. ‘I thought you were dead?’ Gregor spun the Sig toward Wyatt. ‘Leave the rucksack,’ he demanded. ‘That’s mine.’

‘Please, let him take the box, Gregor. It belongs to him. The Holy Father was safeguarding it.’

‘What’s in that box?’ Gregor dragged himself up. ‘It’s a part of everything that’s happening isn’t it?’ He cocked the trigger.

‘Please don’t, Gregor. You can’t harm him. He will kill you.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ The hammer was thumbed another click back. ‘What’s in the box?’

‘God’s gift to his children,’ Wyatt spoke with a subtle accent. It sounded Scandinavian, maybe?

‘Bullshit,’ Gregor replied. ‘If there is a God, He wouldn’t let things go as far as they have. He’d end the pain.’

‘That’s what He’s doing.’ The cigarette’s butt sparked across the dusty ground. ‘He’s Old Testament. He’s disappointed. But not all of us agree it has to end like this.’

‘Hey, hey, you’re not leaving. Hey, I want some answers.’

‘I just gave them to you.’ The final click of the hammer caused Wyatt to pause.

‘We’re done.’ Wyatt looked like he meant it. ‘And He says the human race is too. How many chances do you want? How many do you deserve? He says, sometimes a parent must say no.’

‘Or what? He’ll fuck us all up, is that it? Plague and pestilence? Too much to ask for a little love and understanding, I suppose?’

‘Aren’t life and free will gifts enough? Look how you’ve chosen to use them.’ He opened his arms. ‘Take a look around you, Gregor. See what you’ve done. And now you look beyond? You want to take your filthy ways out there, into His Garden. Do you really think that you’re God’s only children?’ Wyatt threw the rucksack across his shoulder. ‘This world needs to heal. Man needs to be humbled and returned to simpler ways. You, need to believe in something greater than yourselves again.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Go find yourself, Gregor. The contents of this box will be your last chance. I’ll ensure it gets into the right hands, but after that?’ Wyatt shrugged. ‘Let’s just say your clock is ticking.’

‘Hey, don’t turn your back on me.’

‘You turned your back on God.’

‘Bullshit. You’re a fucking liar. There is no God.’

The Sig’s muzzled flashed twice. Two hits, dead centre of Wyatt’s back. The man stumbled. He turned. His handgun a blur as it left its holster.

‘No, please,’ Juliane rushed between them, hands in front of his face as if he hoped they would stop a bullet. ‘He doesn’t understand. Please, I beg you.’

‘You’re a liar, a fucking charlatan,’ Gregor cursed. The Sig clicked several more times in his hand as Wyatt walked away. ‘God is dead, do you hear me. God is dead.’

From the corner of his eye Gregor saw dark shapes emerge. A brood of shadows that came slowly toward him. He aimed the Sig toward them, then lowered it. He put the barrel against his head and squeezed the trigger. The Sig’s hammer clicked, its magazine empty. Nothing else to do but sink to the ground then, helpless and exhausted. The gypsy women were probably going to kill him anyway.

For a moment nothing happened. Then a hand reached out and took his. Hushed words were spoken. Were they prayers, or planning his demise?

‘God is dead.’ Gregor wept.

Other hands reached out to him. Encouraged him to stand. To walk toward the moonlight that lit the ground outside.

‘God is dead,’ he kept whispering, ‘God is dead,’ until unconsciousness finally claimed his mind.

36
Reliquary

‘God is dead.’

‘Did you say something?’ Isabella asked.

‘I need a drink,’ he said staring at the flames.

The heat from the fire no longer offended him. That furnace had been dowsed long ago.

‘Here, drink this.’ Isabella closed his hand around the glass. ‘I see the treatment is working.’

A few minutes ago there had been nothing but atrophy in his joints. Not enough strength to hold the glass. Now he felt the movement and strength return as little stars bounced before his eyes. A trick of the light? Or the magic performed in his mind? Bridges were being built. Synapses were swelling, neural pathways being re-laid. Neurones leapt through their brave, if somewhat fragile, new world.

‘We’ll need to strengthen the dosage,’ she said. ‘Do I have your permission to see our friend?’

‘Yes, do so immediately.’

‘I’ll need to guarantee him the usual gratuities.’

‘It’s in hand. Instruct him to expect a delivery in a day or so.’

He watched her walk away. Such a slender and gracefully curved creature. A perfect image as she drew back the long velvet drapes, and sunlight enveloped her and filled the room. Nature’s impression of the wonders the Serum performed in his head.

‘What was it?’ she asked, ‘You wanted to show me something?’

‘Yes,’ I remember. ‘Liam has brought some unwelcome information,’ he said.

‘Liam?’ Instant disdain from her voice. ‘Why do you tolerate that creature living down there?’

‘Liam is a soldier. He’s useful.’

‘You indulge him to much?’

Patron sat forward. ‘Liam is my concern, not yours.’ He held out the paper. ‘Read it.’

‘What is this, a shopping list?’ Isabella unfolded the paper and read.

Patron watched the smile drain from her face.

‘The Relic?’ she said.

‘Yes, if he’s right, everything we know is about to change.’

37

Liam’s scrawl was barely readable. There was blood on the pages. Some poor soul had suffered.

‘Do you want the Preacher arrested?’

‘No, his arrest would upset our relations with the Duma. Too many questions would be asked. We’ll need to go about this in a more surgical manner.’

‘Liam?’

Patron nodded.

‘Why didn’t the Preacher bring the box to you? He knows that Pre War artefacts have to be censored before ownership is granted.’

‘I can only think of one reason.’

Isabella smirked. ‘Does he know what it is?’

‘The Preacher is a student of the past. He has an unhealthy interest in the Old Religion.’

‘You think he’s a Heretic?’

‘No, everything the Preacher does is for financial gain. For his own personal gratification. If he has somehow found out what is inside he will want to profit from it. He’d find a buyer.’

‘But not us?’

‘It would be dangerous for him. Why buy when I could take, and then have him arrested? No, he would try to sell it to the Elders of the Trinity. They would pay any price for the Relic’s return.’

‘Do you think he opened it?’

‘I’m sure he tried. But the box is sealed by Divine ordinance.’ That was a slip of the tongue. ‘That’s what the Heretics believe. Stoke the fire for me, I’m still a little cold.’

‘It’s the Stems,’ she said. ‘A side effect from such a large dose on your body. You’ll adjust.’

Yes, I will. He watched her closely. I always do. There was something about her; there always had been. Such a gifted individual. Isabella lifted the poker by the grate and eased it into the embers. Each thrust and twist made with purpose. The wood crackled with renewed excitement as the flames rose again.

Such grace and beauty. There had been times when he’d wanted her. He could have done at any time over the years, the natural escalation for their relationship. But from the beginning he’d seen her as a protégé, even as a daughter. Some wonders should always remain at arms length. Isabella was the one pure exception in his life.

‘There are forces at work that must be exposed,’ he said.

‘Is there gossip?’ She perched herself on the arm of his chair. ‘I do love to gossip, it causes so much trouble.’ Both shoes fell to the floor and she slid back into the cushion. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘how can I help you if I don’t know all of the facts.’

‘There are no facts about the box, just stories and myth. That’s its charm, its allure. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. A promise that is filled with lies. I’ve seen first hand the trouble it inspires.’ He teased out a cord hidden below his robe. A silver ring hung looped on its end. ‘My mother gave this to me a long time ago.’ He kissed Mikael’s ring.’ I understand the need for Faith. It’s a powerful weapon.’

‘So the box is a weapon?’

‘Of course it’s a weapon. The box contains a threat that will consume us all. The Heretics believe it houses a power of Biblical authority; a force more potent than the Arc of the Covenant. More old religion lies, be in no doubt, Isabella, if the Trinity acquire the box, they will attempt to harness its power. They will try to resurrect the past.’

‘And how would they do that? If you don’t mind me asking.’

It was a strange feeling, this need to talk, but he’d never received such a large dose, and if he couldn’t trust her, then who?

‘Some time ago we captured two Heretics who were looting out in the Forbidden Zone. Their interrogation revealed limited details of their mission and the Trinity. Which came as no surprise. No, it wasn’t what they knew that was of interest, it was what they carried, and the list of objects they’d been sent to procure. Look in the top drawer, Isabella.’ He pointed to the cabinet beside his bed.

Isabella left the lounge and crossed the oak beamed floor. The bedroom was a part of the open planned chamber, its space cooler than the lounge. An Emperor sized bed neatly arranged below a canopy of silk, four large pillows at its head.

Isabella sat herself on the bed. She pointed. He nodded. She pulled open the top drawer.

‘What is this?’ she asked.

‘In your hand is the swing arm of a centrifuge. The glass capsules are . . .’

‘Test tubes,’ she said. ‘These other bits?’

‘A drive chamber and mass rotator. They’re scabbing out there for a . . .’

‘Centrifuge. Why?’

‘A search of their homes revealed other medical supplies. Since then our Agents have concentrated their efforts on the Black Market. It’s difficult for them to hide when we know what we’re looking for. The Trinity is piecing together a medical facility somewhere in the city.’

Isabella swung her bare feet back to the floor. ‘What kind of facility?’

‘They are attempting to build a laboratory from artefacts. We don’t know how long they’ve been trying, or how advanced the facility is. But the information we’ve gathered suggests a biological facility.’

‘Can they do that?’ she asked. ‘To what end?’

‘They want to open the box.’

‘Why? Are you telling me the box is a biological weapon?’

‘The Heretics want to find out. They’re trying to recreate experiments from the past. Their end game is the resurrection of the Old Religion. They want to end the Reliquary. Destroy us all.’

‘We have to shut it down.’

‘We have to find it first.’

Isabella dropped the artefact. She marched back to the fire. ‘Give me control of the JAG, I’ll find it for you. I’ll turn this city on its head. Go door to door if I have to. We have to stop them.’

‘Yes, but to launch such a large scale operation would send them further underground. No, the box alone is a banner, a standard around which the Heretics will flock. It’s a smoking gun and a call to arms. Better to let it play out and discover how many of them there really are.’

Isabella threw the poker deep into the fire. ‘The Old Religion is gone,’ she spat. ‘Why bring back something that caused so much misery?’

‘It is the focus of this religion they want to resurrect. Their God has an attraction for many. Mostly those who think they should have more.’

‘Make examples, in public.’

‘Impractical, martyrs are the last thing we need right now. No, you can’t fight an idea with fire. But you can encourage another to take its place.’

He’d done that once before. The survivors of the apocalypse had flocked to his side. They’d listened in earnest to his teachings about the Saints. He’d touched hearts that wanted desperately to survive. It was Gregor that had led the survivors in their fight for survival, for a place in a world where nothing had remained; no law, no order, no belief of any kind.

Gregor had changed that. He hadn’t intended to, sometimes these things just happen. Out of discourse had come harmony. From despair had come a belief in the Saints. Gregor’s belief had infected others like a virus. From misery the Reliquary had risen. But how quickly Humanity reverts to more sinful ways when the threat of extinction has passed.

‘Liam will find the Relic,’ he said. ‘He has a gift for prodding secrets out from under stones.’

‘Your little Troll again.’

‘My little Troll can come and go with anonymity. An invisible scalpel I can take to my enemies. Never doubt his value to me.’

Isabella scoffed. ‘He’s still a Troll. Let me help.’

‘You do enough. Go back to your dresses, make the arrangement for tonight.’

‘Tonight? Cancel it. I don’t know how you’ll react to the larger dose. You need to rest. I’ll instruct Radan to cancel everything for a day at least. I’ll stay with you.’

‘No, leave me, I want to be alone.’

‘Patron, I don’t think . . .’

‘Isabella, do as I say. I want to be alone. Tell Radan to proceed. I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

‘Fine, but you send for me if there are any side affects. Any. No matter how small.’

He nodded. Raised himself from the chair. Waited for Isabella to leave, her shoes in hand. One final but silent plea from the doorway was ignored.

* * *

The bathroom door was heavy to move aside. Gravity had increased or so it seemed. The side effects of the serum already apparent as he hunched over the sink, grateful that it bore his weight. He felt nauseous; a kind of euphoria he didn’t appreciate, and it was too damn hot.

Patron grabbed at his head; the hairpiece he wore pulled away to fall into the porcelain bowl. His fingers fumbled at his mouth, the plate inside plucked from the gum. It too dropped beneath the sound of laboured breath. Why was it so difficult to open the tap?

The sudden rush of cold water welcome as it splashed across his face.

I must endure. I will not, cannot fail.

The serum burned in his veins, but the pain had eased. A deep breath filled Patron’s lungs as he lifted his head. The man who stared back, he was old. He was weak.

Saints preserve me until my work is done. Thy work shall be done!

The fog was lifting from his mind. Atrophy receded from his body. Time would not stop him. Nothing would sway Patron from completing his life’s work. The scale of what he planned would stun them all.

I am not you. You are not I.

He lifted his hand and clenched his fingers tight into a ball, then thrust his fist into his reflection to shatter the glass.

38

The door slammed shut. The car pulled up several streets from the club. Carlos obviously thought Scout needed the walk.

‘We should do it again sometime,’ he lied. Truth was he shouldn’t have got into the car in the first place. He added a wave as the car drew away down the quiet street. Where were the locals? Not much to look at round here but he guessed the occupants of the old terraces were happy to be on the right side of the Line. Scout checked his watch. An hour earlier and it would have been a hive of activity. Everyone making their way toward the transit stations. It would be the same exodus all around the city. Most heading east toward the fields making the daily commute. Some would stay out there for days. Long shifts and intense productivity. Five days of hard graft for a few dollars and some food packs. The kids in school. Weekdays in this part of the City were so much quieter than the weekends. Just the curtain twitchers left behind. He could feel them watching. Bastards could have dropped him closer.

It would only take twenty minutes to walk to the club. Thirty if he took the back streets. Not a bad idea as there were four JAG loitering on the corner. One having a conversation on the hard-line as the other three waited. There were few phones in the City, always someone listening. Press nine for a direct line to the JAG. There was money to be had in denouncing Heretics; or gossiping about neighbours who sin.

Scout slipped the envelope into the back of his trousers and turned the other way. He’d taken to long as a voice called out.

‘One moment please.’

Bastard. Carlos had dropped him here deliberately. Still time to run? Why did he always think of running first? He’d nothing to hide. Scout turned to see the youngest of the four, the one replacing the receiver, beckon with two fingers. A lifer, for sure, barely out of his teens. Brought up in the Corp since childhood to wield his authority like a stick. All tight arsed with top buttons shining. A pistol high on his hip.

For one so young he had a searching gaze. The projection of true conviction for the work he did. Bolstered by the power of the shirt he wore, and the three men in uniform he led. Scout raised a smile and helped them to close the gap.

The youthful Numero Uno held him with a stare, well designed to peel apart any insecurities. ‘Where are you going?’ Uno asked, in a manner constructed to bully apart the lies. Scout had seen and heard it all before.

‘Out for a walk,’ Scout replied. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ Which was true. Above them was a blue sky with diamond white clouds. ‘I’m just taking in the sights,’ he added.

‘In the Labour District? You like dirty brickwork and boarded up windows?’

It had a quaint realism.

‘Show me your Tag, please.’ His politeness didn’t come naturally. And he did the thing with his fingers again. ‘Why aren’t you working like a good citizen?’

Cos I’m not a good citizen, you fuck head.

‘Special dispensation,’ Scout replied. He dutifully peeled back the cuff of his sleeve and showed his wrist. ‘Nothing I’d like better than a hard day in the fields, Officer. It breaks my heart when the others leave me behind. But see, I’ve got a dispensation.’ Scout pulled his wrist away as the reader was deployed. He reached over his shoulder and pointed. ‘Right there. Can you see? My neck has a damaged ligament, right here, in the posterior atlas. Let me undo my collar. It’s in the lower neck region between the c1 and c2 vertebrae.’

‘Just show me your Tag.’

His lack of sympathy was touching.

Numero Due was fuller figure, not as tall. A more bitter face, but somehow less intimidating. Not the same sharp look of his superior. Doubtless pissed off that the kid got to boss him about all day. He grabbed Scout’s hand and pulled. Turned it palm up. Then pressed the box shaped scanner over the barcode tattooed on Scout’s wrist. A needle jabbed out into his lower dermis. A tiny skin sample ripped away as a red light flashed across the upper dermis to read the ink.

‘I work for the State in the Outreach programme.’ Scout explained.

‘Keep your hand still.’

‘It’s important work.’

‘I said, still.’

The job was real, at least on paper. Dok had arranged the position to keep him out of trouble. Did this count as trouble?

‘It’s not as important as your job, but I do my bit. I find community fulfilling, don’t you?’ Puppy mode was now engaged. ‘I always wanted to join the JAG.’ He reached out to touch Uno’s collar, and got his hand slapped away. ‘I love the uniform. What sort of green is that? Can I touch your gun?’

‘No, if you kept still this would be done by now.’

‘I wanted to join. But I’m a medical exemption. Did I mention, I have problems with my c1 and c2? It’s back here.’

‘Keep your fucking hand still, please.’ Due clamped the device again. ‘Wrist, still.’

‘Wrist, still,’ Scout repeated. ‘Will it make the bleep noise? I like that noise. Bleep. It’s a good noise. Bleep, bleep. Can I join the JAG?’

The reader beeped. Due looked disappointed as he dropped Scout’s wrist.

‘He’s for real,’ he said. ‘An Outreach worker with a Commission Permit to fund food aid for under privileged kids. Frigging hand-outs. If they want food, tell them to try some honest work out in the fields.’

‘That’s what I tell them, the mothers, productivity, not disability. It’s a state of mind. Did you feel that? I think we’re connected.’ Scout took a nervous step forward; some fidgety handwork to lower his sleeve. He reached out and touched Due’s shirt. ‘I’ve got an hour before my shift starts. I could come with you guys? Would that be okay? Can I? I won’t get in the way. Bleep.’

‘Are you for fucking real?’ asked Due.

‘Move along, Citizen,’ Uno ordered.

They didn’t have to be like that about it. Just because Scout was scratching didn’t mean he had a disease.

‘May the Saints smile on your endeavours?’ he said. ‘Can I touch your gun?’

‘I said, move along.’

What else could he do but comply. Rubbing his wrist as he walked away.

Twenty lines with a dozen numbers below; tattooed into the skin aged four. Everyone had them. He remembered crying when he’d had his done. No more than an inch and a half long, by half as wide. The bar code acknowledged your entire life at the flash of a laser light. Now there was a seditious tool if ever there’d been one.

Fucking hypocrites.

The skin prick checked your DNA. The accompanying light read the bars inked into the skin. Tags were a present from the State, non-negotiable and non-refundable. You were inked as a child, like it or not. Everyone had one, no exceptions.

39

There was a claustrophobic nature to the tall buildings in this part of the city. Much of the light was blocked by the imaginative expansion of the buildings. In places the residents showed a lot of imagination. The streets had become warrens, above and below the pavements level. They’d grown into every section of the city. The JAG had a limited presence. These were places where the Duma held court.

They were also places where the ancient architecture had somehow managed to survive, as beautiful now as it had doubtless been back then. These parts of the city still echoed a glorious, if somewhat gloomy past. Mazes, from which a dark corner could open up into an opulent Square filled with sunlight. Only to disappear back into darkness once traversed. Money and connections brought you a house overlooking a Square.

The owner of this one had both. Scout hammered his fist on the metal plates that covered the door. A moment later a peep hole opened. A round menacing face checked him out.

‘It’s me,’ Scout said. ‘Open up, its cold out here.’

The hole closed as quickly as it had opened. The sound of large bars shifting. The door opened inward to the sallow face that greeted him. Puffy eyes with dark circles looked Scout up and down, as if their owner possessed the power of X-ray vision.

‘Is the old man in?’ Scout asked.

The bald headed burly doorman nodded. ‘He’s where he always is, arsehole.’

‘You have to work on your greetings,’ Scout replied.

‘I hope you’ve forgotten his money,’ Baldy added, ‘the man’s not in a good mood this morning.’

Money? A sudden recollection tagged itself to the thought. Shit, I need to write things down.

‘Got something better than money.’

‘Something better than money?’ Baldy jarred the peep hole closed. ‘Wait there,’ he bolted the door, ‘I’ll take you in.’

Scout was already walking. He knew the way. Two hundred and forty pounds of tattoo-covered Rottweiler followed close behind. Two more heavy set bouncers emerged ahead; both armed with rifles and dire frowns.

‘Where you been, Scout?’ Dumb, talked like he looked. Scout had pet names for them all. He easily slipped the mallet hand that attempted to hinder him.

‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ he said. They only did it to wind him up.

‘Hey, he’s grumpy today,’ mused Dumber, who was slightly taller than Dumb.

Being tall, burly, and hard faced was a prerequisite for the work Scout supposed. These two had to be related.

‘Make a hole for the man,’ barked Baldy, still breathing down Scout’s neck as he walked out into the hub of the Odyssey. The vast arena was never the same the morning after the excess of the night before.

Curtains were drawn in the privacy booths. A dozen or so punters still occupied the snugs with girls. Nice girls clad in tall boots and short skirts, tight tops that fronted ample cleavage. You could talk and stare, maybe even hold hands if you missed your mummy, but you didn’t touch the more vital statistics. Those were the rules and no-one broke them. You wanted extras, you went upstairs to see Xala. She had plenty of friends topside who would sell you a good time.

Talk of the She Devil, she looked down from the gangway above. All adult curves and Mistress demeanour. Oh look, she was giving him her middle finger. Was that an invitation to come up?

Scout didn’t like the woman but it was difficult to look down on her; on any of them. He’d rolled in enough shit in his time to understand that everyone had to get by. Up there the girls worked hard, but made a good living for themselves. Dok made sure of that.

Baldy followed him through the club. The parquet floors surrounded by tall Corinthian columns. The club had twenty-seven of them downstairs, even more Topside. They stood like rose-topped sentinels around the vast arena. Above was more impressive; the three circular domes, the ceilings in-between. The passion in the artists brush that created the scenes.

He wasn’t a fan of the subject. Small chubby children who played trumpets whilst floating in fluffy cloud filled skies. Crowds of onlookers below, who reached out in hope to touch the Saints. He couldn’t remember their names. But what he did appreciate was the thousand man hours of laid back pigment brushing that had created them. Dok said the ceilings were over a thousand years old.

A thousand years?

Soft lights gave a dreamy mood to old brushwork. A gentle beat from the music in the background. Sounds muted from the previous night. There would have been enough lights flashing around the Odyssey to poke an eye out. The vast open floor writhing with pleasure seekers wearing themselves out with dance.

The Odyssey was a club for well heeled Does and Stags looking to strut their stuff. An ancient palace that smoked after dark.

At the far end of the split level was the bar. Young Jamel was busy shining glasses; his sandy coloured hands busy with a cloth. Why was he shaking his head? Behind the teenager was a sight of pure pleasure. Another monumental mural: “Homage to the bearded Titan” or so Dok had told him. The God of the Sea perched atop two powerful waves, a trident in hand, hundreds of odd looking creatures below the surf welcoming the bearded Titan. It was a powerful image when the club’s lights flashed across its surface. The entire wall another canvas for unknown artists.

‘He hasn’t got your money, Boss.’

‘Huh? Oh, that’s not strictly true.’

‘You want me to take him out back and give him a shake?’ Baldy’s face wore a, “Can I, huh? Huh? Can I?” expression.

‘You’re teasing.’ You are, teasing? ‘Hey, I have special dispensation.’

‘It’s all right, Baldy. Scout’s financially solvent and free to clear his debt.’

The old man looked serious. Enigmatic features that could be difficult to read. One thing was for sure, if the hair was tied in a ponytail it meant business. Today was business. His poker face well and truly set. Scout wasn’t sure if he’d upset someone.

‘You are here to clear your debt?’ Dok asked again.

‘Err, yes?’ Scout replied.

Baldy looked disappointed. He preferred people not to pay.

The old man leaked a smile.

Scout reckoned Dok to be a well groomed, fit looking, seventy years plus. A wardrobe that consisted solely of waistcoats and shirts. Dok said it gave him an air of authenticity. Scout presumed that meant all flint but little sparkle.

The girls at the club thought him handsome for his age. Apparently his strong jaw line and steely eyes could still work the magic.

Scout pulled the notes from his jacket that the Preacher had given him. Baldy’s disbelief didn’t pass unnoticed. His disappointment increased as he plucked up the currency and started to count.

‘Five, twelve,’ Scout was helping, ‘sixteen, twenty-four.’

The Rottweiler scowled. Then threw the change back on the table.

‘It’s all here, Boss. I’ll put it in the usual place. Oh, and the Bum said he had something better than cash.’

‘Will you let me make my own announcements.’ Scout gave Baldy a fuck you stare, then plucked the bag from a tight fit in his pocket.

‘Here, sniff that and tell me I’m not worth the trouble.’

Baldy took the bag. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

I crapped in a bag and thought of you. ‘Open it. They’re the kind of beans that don’t exist any more.’

‘Boss, this is coffee?’

Scout reached out for his bag. The big man reluctant to return it.

‘Hey, arsehole, you know I’ve always liked you,’ he said.

40

‘He was kidding about giving me a shake? You wouldn’t have let him, would you?’

Dok shrugged. ‘You know Baldy, all meat hooks and sense of humour.’

Yeah, right. Captain Neanderthal’s a crusty candy shell with a soft chocolaty bit in the centre. ‘He is bringing my coffee back?’

‘I trust you drove a hard bargain?’ Dok asked.

‘Bargain?’

‘With the Preacher.’

How? I only left that psycho an hour ago.

‘The money suggests you accepted the job,’ Dok said.

‘I know you’re hardwired into the city’s grapevine, but are you psychic too? Oh, wait, you gave my name to the Preacher, didn’t you?’ No reply. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘You need the work.’

‘Bullshit. I can work here full time. You’ve asked me a hundred times.’

‘You’d be bored in a week.’

‘But I’d keep my fingers. See, we’re attached.’

His expression changed. Was that a look of guilt?

‘What’s going on Dok? You could’ve just asked me to go see him.’

‘I could. But would you have gone?’

‘Fuck, no.’

In all the years since they had known each other Dok had never taken advantage of him like this. Sure, he was a bad ass when he needed to be. Down right vicious if the situation required. The old man pissed in a lot of pots. But this kind of behaviour was out of character. Dok was big on loyalty, especially to the few people he trusted. The kind of fidelity a man earns, that can’t be bought or paid for.

‘What’s the box got to do with you?’ Scout asked. It was the only thing that made sense. ‘Where does it fit between you and that fingerless glove salesman?’

‘Not answering that question will keep you safe. Scout, I need you to trust me. I need you to find what the Preacher has lost.’

‘It was stolen, Dok. And stealing from a viper like that brings trouble. Oh wait, let me guess. You don’t want me to give it back to him if I find it, do you?’

There it was. The first real smile that Dok had parted with since he’d sat down.

‘That’s what I like about you.’ Dok tapped his forehead. ‘You see things very clearly.’

‘Well, I’m not seeing too clearly at the moment.’ He needed a minute to think. He pulled out a chair from Dok’s table. ‘You mind?’ He pointed to the bar. Then waved, but not to Jamel. The teenager too busy pretending his ignorance. The wave softened to a wiggle of fingers, and a grin. To Sasha, who winged a shy smile back. For a moment Dok, the Preacher, Carlos, all forgotten as he watched.

‘Why don’t you two just get together.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

It was true, he liked her. He liked everything about her, but Sasha was half his age. A vivacious innocence that brightened the room. She was a favourite with the customers too. Slim and well moulded, everything about her smiled. A dozen wealthy stags a night would try to hit on her. She’d never once said yes. Why was that? Why did she still make him feel like a child?

They had a sort of history. She lived upstairs on the top floor. Sometimes, when he worked the bar or the door downstairs she’d let him stay. It was easier to walk upstairs than take the hike back home. He’d lost count of the times he’d woken to the smell of burning breakfast, of Sasha wearing his shirt, and nothing else. Stupid, right? Or maybe he was stupid. He’d spoon with the pillows on the couch, just grateful for her company. She asked for nothing, but gave so much in return.

‘She likes you,’ said Dok.

‘She doesn’t need me messing up her life.’ He was staring.

‘A bit early for you,’ Sasha said.

‘It’s been a trying morning,’ he replied, and felt her hand touch his as she placed the glass on the table. Another set in front of her employer.

‘Anything else I can get?’ she asked.

‘You can change the song?’

Sasha looked toward Dok. He nodded. She smiled at Scout as she left.

‘She really likes you,’ said Dok.

‘Everyone likes me. It’s a gift.’

‘She’s a nice kid. Scout, maybe it’s time to move on?’

Not this again.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You need to get your head out of the past?’

‘You need to mind your own business, Old Man.’

Tread softly, he means well. He doesn’t understand, how could he?

The music changed from a cold repetitive beat to the drawl of a mellow saxophone. A sombre melody from an old song spread through the inside of the club. The singer’s voice steeped in sentiment; its owner well versed in the pains of love.

‘There are other songs, Scout.’

‘I like this one.’ She, liked this one. Scout lifted his drink to Careless Whispers. He sipped from the shot glass. ‘This box, it holds a Relic, right? Why steal it? What’s the point? Where could you sell it that he wouldn’t find out? So probably not for profit, and not for revenge, there are far easier ways to hit out at the Preacher. So what then? Are we talking a religious angle here? Any thoughts on that?’ The shot was downed. ‘Dok, are people I don’t know going to try and kill me?’

What made the situation worse was Dok was making no attempt to pressure him. But then he’d already done that with the initial referral. Very smart. But why not come to me and ask? Why, why, why?

‘No guilt trip then? Not gonna say I owe you?’ He was staring again, watching Sasha talk with Jamel at the bar. ‘Are you in trouble, Dok?’ he asked. It was the only thing that made sense. ‘The Preacher said it was old; something from the past. Is that what this is about? Is it something from your past?’

‘I can tell you it’s very old. But it’s not the past that makes it so important. It’s the future.’

‘You know how much I like cryptic clues. Not going to tell me what it is then?’

No reply.

‘Going to tell me why the Preacher wants it so bad?’

Still nothing.

‘Got anything helpful to add at all?’

41

Scout tried to read Dok’s eyes but his own gaze was bounced back. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion, but you could bet there was plenty going on in the old man’s head. They’d been through a lot together over the years. No way Dok would fuck him over. No way, right?

‘Show me the photos.’

Scout shook his head. ‘Why? You probably know what’s on them already.’ He pulled them out from his jacket and set them on the table next to the money. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look properly. Carlos was in my face. That man’s got an attitude problem.’

‘That man’s dangerous.’

‘Hmm, you should have thought of that before you invited him to my house.’ He spread a dozen photos across the table. ‘Freeze frames of the intruder. The Preacher was lucky he was visited by a thief and not an assassin. Whoever this is, he’s good.’

Dok lifted a photo and took a coin magnifier from his waistcoat pocket. ‘He’s white,’ he said, peering through the small magnifying glass. ‘There’s a break between the jumper and the glove, you see?’ He picked them up at random. ‘Is this all you have? No shots of the stolen item?’

‘No, it went straight into the thief’s bag from behind the safe door. These are the best of the bunch. I’ll take them to Rubi. See if he can find any more detail.’

‘Rubi?’

‘If there’s something here, he’ll find it.’ Scout took the photos and placed them in order of sequence. ‘What else do you see, Dok?’

‘Nothing, just a dark figure. Do I take it that you see something different?’

Scout pushed the photos closer to his friend and moved them back into sequence. ‘Look at the body language. Our thief has a most interesting demeanour. Look at the way the objects are held before being discarded. Look at Sasha.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Movement. I think that our thief, is a woman.’

‘You can tell that from these photos?’

‘I told you, it’s a gift. Now I have to find a highly skilled, white female thief, in a city of thousands. I’m going to need help.’

‘Anything I can do.’

‘I think you’ve done enough.’ The photos were returned to his jacket. ‘If I need anything I’ll call. I’ll get Rubi to pump these up and get more detail, see what I can find.’

‘Are you sure about Rubi? I thought you and he fell out.’

‘A misunderstanding, that’s all. That man is a complicated character. Somewhat unpredictable, but not unhelpful, besides, he likes me. Everybody likes me.’ Scout stood. ‘One last thing. I got you a present, though I’m not sure you deserve it now.’ Scout opened his palm. ‘I know you like old things.’ He set the pen on the table.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I liked the colour. Blue, just like the sea. It goes with your eyes.’

‘It’s Lapis,’ Dok said. ‘The clip is made from Lapis. A semi precious stone used in jewellery back in the old days.’

Dok was a collector just like the Preacher. Anything that dated back before the Wars got both their attention. These sorts of trinkets, the personal kind, were most important. They bagged good money from the right buyer. It was gratifying to see the old man’s pleasure as he handled the object.

‘I have something for you too.’ Dok nodded to the bar. ‘Baldy will do the honours.’

‘I’ll call you when I know something.’

Three steps led down to the main floor as the music changed unexpectedly. A sharp increase in volume propelled an aggressive thump thumping out from invisible speakers. Baldy stood by the volume controls, steam rising from the mug he held in one hand. He seemed to approve of the blend as his other hand placed a brown paper bag on the counter.

Scout liked pressies. All things considered this was a good morning. He was tempted to make some meaningful moves to the rhythm of the music as he crossed the floor, but restrained himself. The package was heavy. The big man’s smile broadened as he pointed toward the exit. This was good. They were bonding.

Scout left the Odyssey.

* * *

‘Baldy.’

The Rottweiler responded to his master’s voice. Eyes fixed toward the exit to make sure Scout had left.

‘Empty the club, Baldy. I’m going to the office and I don’t want to be disturbed. Not for any reason.’

‘Sure. Hey, boss, is there a problem?’

‘No, Baldy, I think everything is going to work out just fine.’

42

The Work Quarter was home to many Duma, and an easy place to lose oneself. At night it could be claustrophobic. A lot of people lived in the narrow winding alleys. Tall buildings either side that rose three and four storeys. It was known for the wash-lines that crisscrossed the old architecture; building to building. Though few garments hung outside in the chilly air. This was the one place in the city the JAG avoided at night. Only coming in packs, and never without reason.

In a few hours the streets would bustle. Migrant workers returning home from the fields. It would buzz with anticipation and the odour of sweat from manual toil. There was an eery quiet about the place as Scout stepped from the street into a dark spot between two buildings. No prying eyes to watch as he unfolded the top of the bag. Baldy’s present inside.

Glock, Austria. Two words prominently stamped on the barrel. His fingers slipped about the handle of the gun. It had been a long time since he’d held a weapon, let alone shoot one. Two clips lay within the paper. Both held a full deck of 10mm rounds. He’d always preferred the 10mil. Harder hitting, brute stopping-power. If you’re going to shoot someone, it helped if they went down the first time it asked.

One clip slipped into his pocket the second he clicked into the weapon’s grip. He cocked the hammer.

‘You can come out now,’ he said aloud. ‘You’ve seen what’s in my hand. Don’t be stupid, show yourself.’ Someone was skulking in the shadows, he could feel their presence.

It may be quiet in the Quarter but there were still people living in the surrounding buildings. Maybe he should leave. Go quickly. No harm done, not really. The two most illegal things in the city, technology and guns. He’d had his hands all over one, and now they held the other. Every sense in his body began to scream as he turned, cautious. Weapon raised. Barrel moving from doorway to doorway. He saw nothing.

Something moved to his left; barely a sound. Scout followed. Careful to check the alley as he moved into deeper gloom, under and through an archway. He entered a small courtyard half bathed in sunshine and well hidden from the street. The sudden glare impaired his visibility as the Glock swept the area for the intruder. Around the yard and then up toward the metal balcony that circled the inner building. Strange how old habits return so quickly, and feel so comfortable.

‘I won’t ask you again.’ His voice firm but hushed. ‘Come out where I can see you.’

A door closed above him and he shrank back below the overhang, always moving. A voice whispered out to him.

‘Don’t hurt us,’ a woman’s voice. ‘We don’t want any trouble, please.’

‘Then step out where I can see you.’

Scout’s pulse had jumped up by at least twenty beats. He stepped slowly toward the voice. Peering, straining to see. A woman crouched in an alcove desperate to remain invisible.

‘We?’ he said. ‘Who else is there?’

It was difficult to see her face, just her eyes, as she refused to look up at him. Scout beckoned her to stand. She refused. He lowered the gun, just enough to reduce his threat level. Then another, much smaller figure came sheepishly into view. The woman was with a child.

‘Don’t hurt us,’ she pleaded. ‘We’re not a threat.’

Scout would decide that, not her.

‘Come out into the light where I can see you.’

She refused. The Glock rose but wasn’t pointed.

‘Come out, now,’ he insisted.

The moment her features hit the light he saw why she had hidden, and not just from him. From anyone that might see her. Scout took a step back.

Fuck, a stem user. Pretty far gone by the looks.

No wonder she’d kept to the dark recesses. She’d seen him coming and probably prayed he’d stop anywhere but where he did.

‘Just the two of you?’

She looked bad. Barely any colour left in her skin. The eyes had begun to sink. That’s why they were called Ghosts. Sallow and haunted, classic Stem features. This woman didn’t have long left.

‘What was the diagnosis?’ he asked. The Glock lowered to his side, finger next to the trigger.

She pulled up the hood of the coat she wore to cover her face, then turned away. The child moved in front of her mother. He could see her now; ten, maybe eleven years old, long haired and skinny. Dressed in a pretty skirt half covered by a tattered jacket. She looked cold. She looked angry. Her big brown eyes glared as bold as a bear.

‘Leukaemia,’ she said, a bit too aggressively for a child. Her tone pumped full of crappy childhood and youthful hostility. It was hardly natural for a child so young. Another tough break, for them both.

‘How did you know?’ the woman asked.

‘It’s a talent,’ he said.

It was obvious. She had a sad pitiful look that suggested long term illness. Not the crazed jack in the box expression of someone claiming, recreational use.

‘Please don’t tell anyone about us,’ she begged.

‘Go away and leave us alone,’ the kid added.

Let them go. Not my concern.

He watched as the child pulled her mother back into the dark place he’d found them.

‘Please,’ a heartfelt plea from the darkness.

He should turn them in. The woman wouldn’t have to hide any more. The kid would be taken. Probably be better off, maybe? Either way, not his problem. Scout tucked the Glock into the small of his back and backed away.

‘Thank you. Bless you.’

Fuck it. Scout took two notes from his pocket. ‘Food,’ he said aloud, and placed them between two loose bricks in the wall and walked away.

43

‘No, we will continue the status quo between the State and the Duma. Do nothing to antagonise the situation.’ Patron banged his fist on the table keen to emphasise the statement.

The subject was the Line again, always the Line. The Prime Legates of the Grand Assembly were unhappy, again. Patron’s refusal to send the JAG across the Line. To impose the Commission’s will at gunpoint. Patron took his seat. Around the grand circular table sat eight of the twelve Prime Legates who made up the Assembly; the city’s ruling body.

Eight too many as far as Patron was concerned, as he stared at the white washed walls. Eyes flitting from one saintly statue to the next. Each image of a saint placed in a different alcove; one for each member of the Assembly. Present to inspire and enlighten. To remind them all that they served the Saints and not themselves. All they wanted to do was argue and bicker.

‘The assembly agreed,’ Stax, the shortest of the six Prime Legates could barely hide his anger. His arms folded like a petulant child. A man used to having his way. He didn’t like Illuminai blocking his will. Interference more like. ‘More housing is needed for my workers,’ he demanded. ‘Large areas must be conscripted and put to better use. It was agreed by every member of the Assembly present here.’

Vocal rumination crisscrossed the beautifully veneered table. It seemed the others were equally dissatisfied.

‘The inhabitants must be moved,’ Stax insisted. His face reddened across overweight cheeks. He was up on his feet, pressing his view. ‘If they resist they must be arrested. Have them conscripted for labour and sent to the fields. ‘Illuminai, It was agreed.’

‘When I give the word,’ Patron motioned the Prime to return to his seat. ‘Until then you will be patient. And may I remind you all that the workers are ultimately subject to State regulation and not to the Commission’s Office for Works.’ He ran his eyes around the gathering. No-one raised objections.

The statement was true in theory, if not in practise. Over the years the Commission had taken over almost all of the important State positions. Prime Legates once subservient to State officials now wore the hat of both politician as well as religious leader. It had made them fat in standing and wealth. They had become powerful men.

Radan cleared his throat. ‘May we move on?’ he asked.

Not a Prime, Radan sat at the table as Chair. Taking minutes and moving the Twelve Monkeys, as Patron liked to refer to them in private, on with the matters tabled. They accepted direction from him on most matters.

‘The population,’ Radan said, ‘has reached three hundred and fifty-thousand, inside of the City. A further ten thousand live in the field stations. The demand for power is causing the power station administration great concern. They want permission to limit electrical supply through non City substations at weekends. Consumption dependency is, and I quote, “Unsustainable in the immediate future.”’ Radan pressed on. ‘As you all know, the city’s allocation for power is coming up for its own annual assessment. It has been suggested, by your Graces, that we increase the City Centre’s power allowance to a full one hundred percent. No further interruptions by blackouts between the hours of midnight and four am. Of course to attain the new quota, cuts will have to be made in other areas.’ He raised his eyes above the slim glasses he wore. There were no objections. ‘Very well then. The Old Quarter is to remain at seventy percent. Labour and Housing Districts to be cut by four percent. Power to Downtown will be reduced from twenty percent to eighteen. Tram operations are to be unaltered.’ He didn’t bother to look up again and none of the Legates bothered to make any objection. ‘Motion, carried,’ he said. ‘The new allowances will be implemented by midnight on Saturday.’ He stroked his pen across the next two sheets.

Look at them. Patron was disgusted. When was the last time any one of them left their comfortable lives and walked out amongst the people? Every man here was in league with the Duma, content to line their pockets with gold, and the blood of those less fortunate. How had it all gone so wrong? When did pious men become so immoral. So corruptible?

It was increasingly difficult for him to curb their excesses. This Assembly was an abomination. A dangerous circle of which he was wary. Patron watched them in silence as they spoke amongst themselves. He listened to their odious drivel.

All of them were here, sat around this great table. The original deadly sins. They made him sick, but he had to be sure. He had planned well for what was to come. It was time for Patron to clean house. He would enjoy breaking them. Those that didn’t lose their heads would be cast out into the wilderness.

There would be a new assembly of Legates, chosen from the most faithful and devout. It would be Illuminai’s gift to his people. And before his end he intended to go further. New laws would be passed that would limit a Prime’s personal wealth but enhance their pious influence upon the population. Prayer would be compulsory for everyone, twice a day. Schools would teach the words of the Saints from a younger age. His JAG troops would end the trade of goods on the black market. They would ensure that every man, woman and child ate from the same bowl. He would personally oversee the arrest and execution of the Duma Overlords.

Patron closed his eyes. He dreamt of this new city; a purged city. He had been naive to believe that love and admiration of good men and women would be enough to inspire the flock. To teach them that the old ways were wrong. Man was too excessive; he pandered too easily to his own needs. That was about to end.

The JAG were his weapon against excess. Men and women who swore their loyalty to him personally; would ensure it happened swiftly.

‘Patron?’ Radan awaited instruction, the Legates too.

‘There are minor problems,’ Patron said, ‘that have come to my attention. I ask the assembly to be patient just a moment longer. You will get your land Brother Stax, and the Office for works will get its labour. The City’s expansion will take priority and receive my personal attention. Problems on both sides of the Line will be dealt with once and for all.’ He opened his eyes to see eight men nodding their approval. Only Stax remained unmoved.

Priorities had changed. The last thing Patron needed now was trouble on the Line, or with his Primes. He could hardly tell his Prime Legates the real reason why his attention was elsewhere. He had no doubt at all that they would be tempted to seek out the box and use it for their own gain. Use it to get rid of him.

Social upheaval now could see the box spirited away in the confusion. Matters of State were trivial in comparison. The meeting must move on.

‘What problems?’ asked Stax, ‘What can possibly be of more importance than this project? If Illuminai would allow one of us to oversee the . . .’

‘No, the subject is at an end, for now. Radan, move the meeting on?’

‘Yes, Illuminai, may I turn the Assembly’s attention to more menial matters. The supply of power from the city grid.’ The usual groans were released. ‘If your Graces will give me their attention for a just few minutes more. Your Graces, please. Please? Thank you.’

‘Independent generators,’ Radan tried to sound upbeat on the subject. ‘We have numerous applications for licences. The Licence Office needs a decision on the numbers to be granted this year. As previously stated, there is concern from the power station administration. They are wholly in favour of any measures that will reduce demand. There will of course be a tax on their use, payable by each Quarter to the relevant office of Prime.’

He received the usual grunts of agreement.

‘Also, the budget for the annual Saints fair in the city centre has yet to be approved.’ Radan turned the page of his ledger. ‘It has been suggested by Prime Tobias,’ he bowed his head slightly to the elderly Legate at the far end of the table, ‘that we double the current budget. Is that agreeable to the Assembly?’

It was. One thing they could all agree on was State funding of religious festivity. Radan moved on.

‘May I have the Assembly’s authorisation to increase production of Bio Fuel from wheat field number one’s plant? The power station requires the extra fuel to meet demand. Surplus fuel will fall within the city’s remit for re-distribution.’

Legate Tobias spoke. ‘May I suggest using one of our Duma contacts to maximise distribution to the needy in the city. It will save funds from our own meagre budgets.’

‘And increase your profits.’ Patron had heard all the excuses before. It caused a backlash of protest, mostly muted, but vocal nevertheless.

‘One final item your Graces. Please, your Graces.’ Radan tapped his gavel. He waved a piece of white paper in the air like a flag of truce. ‘We are receiving an increased demand for visas to allow workers from outside the Line to settle within the city. With your permission I wish to advise the relevant Clerks to filter out the undesirables by use of a new assessment procedure. Apparently people are lying on their applications,’ he added.

The levity was well appreciated and the growls turned to smiles and nodding heads.

‘Very well. The motion is passed. This Assembly’s business is now concluded. I declare this Assembly to be at an end.’ He struck the gavel with a single forceful blow as a squeak of chair legs against the wooden floor confirmed the declaration.

44

The meeting had gone on for far too long. It had become tedious and tiring. Yet Patron dutifully placed himself in the vaulted doorway that led from the Assembly Chamber, its heavily studded door stood open as he welcomed the first of his Primes; at least he went through the motions, wishing them all well as they left with a practised smile.

Outside the passage forked in two directions. No electric lights to illuminate the way, Patron had insisted they be removed. The endless corridors and personal habitats of the Assembly would only be lit by candles. He felt it gave a more pious flavour to the building; encouraging more thought and contemplation by its inhabitants. The Spartan environment encouraged the visiting Primes from outstaying their welcome.

‘It was good to see you Legate Felin,’ he lied. ‘Saints be with you and your lovely wife.’ Though Patron doubted the tall gangly man with permanently flushed cheeks could actually remember what she looked like. He was a notorious womaniser and father to a brace of bastard children. Indiscretions overlooked solely because of the man’s position.

‘The Saints be blessed,’ Felin replied. He looked tense and concerned that he shouldn’t be overheard. ‘There are matters of a personal nature that I would like to bring to your attention. If you could spare me the time, Illuminai?’

‘For you I will make the time,’ Patron lied again.

What was it this time he wondered? Three decades a Legate and almost a fourth serving as a Prime, yet still his transgressions multiplied. He was a powerful man but weak of will, often spiteful in nature. They shook hands and shallow warmth was exchanged.

‘A pleasure as always, Illuminai,’ Stax bowed his head and took his Patron’s hand.

Stax had warm hands for a reptile. He was a cold viper who could cut a man’s throat with a smile.

‘A moment whilst we are alone,’ Stax said, and gave a slight pause as his sly mind began to calculate the appropriate words. ‘Rumours of a distressing nature have come to my attention,’ he said.

‘There are always rumours; we live in city full of gossip.’

‘Of course. Please, forgive me for being direct, but the rumours concern your health. The Assembly is concerned. I am concerned. Illuminai, you work too hard and share too little of your immense responsibilities. If I may be bold. You are looking increasingly burdened, and it’s not just the Primes who have noticed. I understand there was an incident in the Reliquary earlier today? A number of the Novices were concerned by your, strange behaviour.’

Patron felt his pulse rise. My behaviour? His fuse was lit. I’ll eat you for breakfast you contemptuous little shit. He knew exactly what the Prime Legate was suggesting. Nevertheless he returned the man’s silky smile and clasped his warm hand with both of his own. They shared a moment’s gaze where Patron was sure Stax tried to probe his mind for weakness.

The little man with the bad haircut and the snake’s tongue could smell blood. Patron was sure of it. He had a good mind to strike Stax down, right there and then, for he was a prime example of what the Assembly had become. It was a snake pit of political intrigue and a vicious struggle for power. Not what he had strived two lifetimes to achieve. These men would not be his legacy to the world.

Another lifetime filled his thoughts. Images to replace Stax’s gaze. All come to him in an instant. He remembered how it had been; how the people had come to him. How they had sought him out to receive his words. All those years spent in hiding. Of preaching whilst the fires raged, and the Plague devastated all that had come before.

It was his followers that had survived. It was his followers that had flourished and multiplied. It was Gregor himself that had led them here to Oasis. This island City in a black sea of despair. It had been his vision and his voice that had ordered the bells to be tolled. But he hadn’t been able to do it on his own. He had raised a few good men. An Arthurian Round Table, an Assembly of hope, in a world that had soured and threatened to expire.

It had come to this. A gilded trough at which pigs now gorged themselves. A deep silent breath entered Patron’s lungs as the flash of memory expired.

‘Illuminai? Is there anything that I can do?’ Stax enquired. ‘I have an excellent physician.’

‘You lift my spirits with your concern, Brother, but be assured that I am in perfect health.’ He squeezed hard at the smaller man’s hand and stared back into his ice grey eyes. ‘There is no need for your concern. As you can see, I am fit and well.’

Both men gave a courteous smile and a bow of the head.

‘I will pray to the Saints for your continued good health. May the Saints smile on our endeavours.’

Patron watched him leave. He waited until the room had emptied, then motioned for his dutiful secretary to approach.

‘Cancel all my appointments for the next two days.’

‘Of course, Patron. Is there a problem?’

‘Take a message to Liam for me. Tell him he must leave immediately.’

‘You want me to speak to him? Personally?’

‘Tell him not return until he’s found the woman. Go, he will understand.’

‘But . . . yes, of course. At once.’

45
The Box

Where am I? It was difficult to focus. Am I dreaming?

Lya couldn’t remember falling asleep. She’d never felt like this before. Walking, I was out walking. It was dark. The stars were as bright as I’d ever seen them.

She remembered in snapshots. The boys on the corner. The Rawly twins; pleasant lads, they’d waved, and that nice old man with the white hair, out walking his little dog.

My keys? I had them in my hand. The door was in front of her, almost within reach. My handbag? Where’s my handbag? Why am I lying on my back? I can’t move. Hello. She shouted. But made no sound.

In and out of focus. Blur upon blur. If this was a dream, why wouldn’t she stir? Hello? Footsteps, she heard footsteps from behind. A car had pulled up, the door closed, then footsteps. Is there someone here? No, not here. There, back then, as she’d stood by her front door. Strange how the footsteps kept coming, quickly, closing from behind. My keys? I see them in my hand. Hello, is someone there?

Lya flinched as she remembered. Powerful images and feelings returned. Shock as strong hands grabbed her face and body from behind. So strong and quick, no time to shout out. Her struggle had been short. Something wet pressed hard against her lips. The rapid slide into darkness. She felt the panic return.

No, let me go. Let go. I can’t move?

Lya tried to raise herself up. Why couldn’t she move? She felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue, of being wrapped in clouds. Nothing to do but stare through a strange rose coloured haze. Like squinting at the world through wine filled glasses. A sudden fearful thought grabbed her. Is there blood in my eyes?

Fear preceded anger. Short sharp breaths that fuelled more clarity and focus. The world about her gained detail. It wasn’t blood she witnessed but light from a lamp. A circular shade hung above her head, its bulb blushed her vision with a rouge coloured glow.

Get up. She could only move her eyes. Move, why can’t I move? Get up.

‘You’re awake, that’s excellent. I thought you were going to sleep all day.’

Who’s there? Lya asked. Only she didn’t. It was all so confusing. The words stuck fast in her head and refused to occupy her mouth. Why couldn’t she say the words out loud? Help. Please. Help me? Her limbs refused to comply. Something warm trickled from her open mouth as a shadow half covered her face.

Please, who’s there?

‘I’ve been waiting,’ the voice said. The man’s tone gentle, almost apologetic. ‘You’ve been sedated. Are you comfortable?’

The voice moved, its shadow lifted. The light above returned like a crimson shroud.

Who are you? Where am I? Help me . . . Lya wanted this dream, this nightmare, to end. Then the lightning struck. It flashed throughout her body. What is that? The sound of metal being scraped and dropped. The sound of wheels turning, squeaking as something was rolled close behind her head. Metal tools being shifted into trays.

‘Things will seem a bit hazy, but your head will clear. I’ll put drops in your eyes to help with the dryness. But I like the light, I think it helps. Much better if we all stay relaxed.’

All? Who else is here? Please, whatever this is, stop it. Why couldn’t she speak? Help! Someone help me.

‘I expect you’ve realised you can’t move. That’s because I have given you a powerful muscle relaxant.’

Why? Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone. Please. Let, me go!

Something moved above her. The world slipped below a puddle as liquid ran from her eye, first one then the other.

‘This will help sooth your optics. I’ll loosen the straps, just a little, but you won’t be able to move. There, how does that feel?’

Lya felt her hand jerk upward. A tiny movement as pressure on her forehead eased. She managed to move her head slightly.

Cabinets, she saw cabinets, and below them a work surface. Taps, and two shiny sinks. There was a table just a few feet away. It was so difficult to focus, all she could do was stare.

Where am I? Why am I here? She could feel herself drooling again. Is that a bear? A child’s toy sat on the table. It was old and wearing a small jacket. Despite being half turned she could make out letters sewn across its back.

H a r l. Harley?

She couldn’t see the rest and didn’t understand what it meant. Confusion sank into despair. No, no . . . The metal objects that lay around the bear. Please don’t. I won’t tell. Tools. She realised their sole purpose. Let me go. I want to go. Somebody help me.

Lya’s breathing quickened. Became short sharp and erratic. Her pulse an avalanche of beats, too fast and too loud. Around the bear the images sharpened. Mean seditious devices lay in wait. Instruments intended for surgical practice.

Misha, Mother of Saints, please help me. Please, please, I beg you. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

She wanted to jump up and run but gravity pinned her down. She shrieked for help, the words locked inside her head. Her mind reeling with nowhere to go. Lya’s world reduced to a silent scream.

It all ended suddenly as the shadow returned. Shutting out the light as it crept across her face. She stopped breathing.

Who’s there?

Difficult to see, to make out the face. But the eyes were gentle. He looked confused.

Help me. Please, unstrap me. Get me out. No, no, please no.

The stranger pulled a small white mask to cover his mouth and nose.

No, no, no . . . Please, no.

A large syringe floated downward. Lya squirmed and tried to back away. Desperate to recoil. She felt her hands tighten into balls. The terrible screams in her head resumed. Sordid screams that blasted like pipers in a storm. The man above her hummed a tune. He seemed bothered by the silence.

The needle stabbed deep into Lya’s neck, then retracted. A moment passed and then nausea seized her. The temperature in the room leapt upward by ten degrees. It became difficult to breath as the carnival of tantrums emptied her head by her ears.

‘We just have to wait for a few minutes and you’ll be ready,’ he said.

Ready? What does that mean, ready?

She heard a buckle unclip. Her head limped down and stared at the bear on a table

‘That’s right. Focus on Harley. I just need to check there’s no damage. No, good, it all looks fine.’ He fingered her eyes, her mouth, and her ears, as if checking the merchandise. Then spoke in a language she’d never heard before. Quietly muttering to himself as he circled the table. Making noises she didn’t recognise. For reason she didn’t care.

‘In case you’re interested,’ he said, ‘the injection I just gave you was a concentrated solution of hormones and painkillers. They’ll swim about in your blood stream and encourage some remarkable chemical reactions. Would you like to see?’

He turned her head fully the other way.

Oh Misha, sweet Misha. Her favourite Saint; Misha, the mother of a dozen sons and two dozen daughters. She was Misha the Sentinel. Misha the protector; guardian of a mother’s womb. Forgive me. Forgive me. How could she be so selfish? How could she forget?

The mirror opposite presented her lying on a table. A long plain sheet covered her from neck to knee. The large bump in her belly prominent and undeniable. A square of cloth cut from the fabric, two tubes held fast by tape being fed from her bump.

So fearful for herself, she’d forgotten. So selfish and stupid, so filled with pity for Lya, she hadn’t given the baby a thought. It wasn’t her wretched life he desired, it was the innocence she carried.

My baby. My beautiful baby. The other children. Her three wonderful girls. The fourth asleep inside her womb. Stay away. Leave my baby alone. She didn’t want to look anymore. She tried to look away. Oh Misha, the baby? My baby. Why wouldn’t she wake up and leave this dreadful dream?

Reality stared back from her reflection. It scowled and cursed at her frailty. Then sadness settled like snow in her veins. Was she dying? He’d said it would happen, a reaction, something. Best to look away. Fade in ignorance and pray to be forgiven. Their lives were being drained away one droplet at a time. Barely a measure filled in the jar on the floor. She just wanted to imagine being at home with her children. To see their pretty faces and wrap them in her arms for one last time.

Lya stared at the reflection, at the tubes. Despair encouraged her gaze to stare away. To let the image widen. There was another reflected on the wall. Not one, but two, no, three other women; all pregnant and prostrate on tables. Fluid drip-dripping into jars on an earthen coloured floor.

Oh Misha, look at them. Look at their eyes. They can see me.

Lya started to scream again. In her mind the sound reached out to shake the city. She thrashed with her feet and arched her back, all the time screaming for help. For someone, anyone, who’d carry her to safety.

She realised now that they too were screaming. She could feel them, each and every one of them. Screaming, just like Lya.

46

Why did he bother being sociable with Tass? Last night the woman was uncharacteristically sympathetic, until he’d helped himself to her coffee. He gave it to her. So that meant he could help himself, right. Wrong. That woman could spit piss. She’d threatened to move him downstairs into the basement with the two bottle washers from a local wine bar. To avoid any repetition he’d left early. Taken the long walk to tram stop 131 and got on the first carriage in the right direction. An hour or so of silence and he’d be calling on Rubi. Last time he’d been there, they hadn’t parted on good terms.

Scout pulled up his hood and settled into the corner. He liked the feel of the carriage, its slow pace. He’d ridden these old things all his life, always sat at the back, watchful as others came and went. It helped ease the silent arguments playing out in his head. It always had as a kid. The busy footplate and pole, the hundreds of citizens a day. Maybe thousands in a busy shift. Strangers hopping from one stop to the next. A brief interval in their lives until they stepped off and continued as if it hadn’t happened.

There were hundreds of these wonderful work horses ambling their way around the city. They gave continuity and flow to the human traffic, their diesel motors long since run dry of fossil fuel. The low geared engines now sucked in corn oil reaped out in the fields. Outside of the city centre the trams were the only way to get about. Cars were for those more important than the rest. Fuel was State controlled, as were the permits for both.

Tram number 142, the number carefully hand painted on the wall. A route map to its right. The only colourful object in the grey and black of the vehicle’s interior. All the local routes were highlighted. Above both on the ceiling was an overview of the city. A mosaic of different coloured sectors that made up the Northern Line that went around the southern part of the city, and then back towards its centre, towards the heart of the map. The City Centre was surrounded by the Quarters, each one a different colour.

Orange was the Labour District. Workers crammed, one family one room, sometimes two for a big room. Traditional Duma territory. He’d heard rumours about expansion for the Labour District into areas on the other side of the river. The best kept secret in town. But the Commission would have to start a war to make that happen.

Promotion was the way out. Advance yourself and take your entire family out into one of the Public Housing sectors marked in yellow. One more step away from the North. It was a move towards prosperity and paradise. The Reliquary in the City Centre.

Blue signified the Old Quarter. Scout didn’t much like to venture up there, too close to Downtown where the air was scented with prayers and the streets were filled with sandals and cassocks. Home base for the religious sects, where the devout preached and the cults of the many Saints flourished. It was a hole for the devoted to tumble into after dark.

Green left a far more palatable taste in his mouth. It represented the Market Districts and there were plenty of them. Bread, soya, everything bland in the world was available at a hundred different outlets run by the Commission.

For a more varied diet there was nowhere else to go but the markets. They sold everything from raw insects to meat and honey. Apparently even coffee was on the market if you knew whose palm to grease. Duma influence was especially heavy where the map was marked with green. It should have been black. Markets awash with little luxuries only the Duma could provide.

An old woman got on the tram and limped slowly in front of him breaking his eye-line to the map. There were other seats but she fell heavily into the one next to him. The woman’s backside taking more than the seat could offer. It flopped out into Scout’s personal space.

‘Praise the Saints, it’s a fine day,’ she said, and tugged her dress out from where it had jammed between them. A jingle of effigies as the bracelets she wore jarred with the effort. ‘Are you visiting, or just riding?’

He counted a dozen Saints including the two that hung prominently from her ears.

‘Goodness, I thought I’d missed my ride.’ If she hadn’t sat next to him she wouldn’t have to wriggle. ‘I’m off to visit my daughter,’ she said. ‘But sometimes I just like to ride. A chance to talk to people. What about you?’

Scout closed his eyes. He thought about moving but wasn’t sure he could.

‘Dabriel,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Why?’ His tone betrayed him. ‘Why, that’s a very nice name.’ He really should think before he opened his mouth. First she flattens me and now she wants to talk.

‘Alexander,’ he said, and managed a smile. This was good, he was being polite.

‘Going far?’ she asked with a needle sharp voice.

‘No.’

‘I’m visiting my daughter in the Old Quarter. It’s been a while. She doesn’t visit like she used to. Do you have children?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve got three beautiful daughters.’

And three chins. Just smile. He did. She’s just a nice lady. His stop was coming up.

‘My youngest lives in the Labour District. I like to visit when I can. She’s given us four wonderful grandchildren. I’ve got pictures, would you like to see?’

No. Scout viewed the rest of the carriage. Several inviting seats beckoned.

‘I’ve got pictures of them in here,’ she shuffled, ‘I’m always losing things.’

‘Lady, please, keep your bag on your lap, not on mine.’ The twin handled cotton tote was pushed from his thigh.

‘How rude!’

‘You can always sit somewhere else,’ he gave her a cautionary glance. Or you could lose the other person attached to your backside. The woman wore a good deal of fat when food was scarce. Proof maybe that prayer doesn’t always go unanswered. She squeezed him again trying to burrow a little more of her rear end into his seat. He got up, scowled, and moved to the front of the tram.

He looked back at the map again and followed the routes north. The City ended at the river. The end of the line. You walked from there. Uptown was a short walk across heavily patrolled bridges. A river walk across the Line. Just because the map doesn’t show, it didn’t make it so. It was dirty and dark but good people, people he knew, that he hadn’t seen for years, they still lived out there, across The Line.

The carriage slowed again. Two women jumped on with children in tow. One child a piece, both skipped down the aisle, neither more than six years of age. Why were they staring at him? Scout sat forward and growled silently. Both took a seat near their parents. The road picked up speed again.

Stupid thing was he’d wanted kids once. Despite all the disappointments that waited for them in life, he would have gladly brought several into the world. They’d talked about it often; Chia and Scout, or Ma and Pa. It made her eyes sparkle to talk about parenting. She’d have been a wonderful mother. He’d have been a decent dad.

Scout refocused on the map. Followed it north to where the trams ended and The Line began. Further out was the Forbidden Zone. He’d always wondered what was out there. What lay beyond the boundary of The Line?

There had been a time when he’d wanted to explore the Exterior. Join up with the Loaders who ventured out into the wilds in search of Golden Goods. Some considered them grave robbers, with permits. One in four didn’t return. But those that did brought back drugs, tools, and machinery. Pieces of iron and steel were brought in on sleds to be blessed, and then reforged in the Commission’s name. All manner of goods were brought in from the Old World. But there was a list; artefacts forbidden by the Commission. Top of it was technology. That didn’t stop a black market trading in the past, and the Duma controlled that.

He’d heard it gets crazy the further north you go. Out beyond the mountains the earth is parched and dry. Cleansed of everything by Armageddon. They say the world ends beyond the Forbidden Zone.

Was that true? Scout had been as far as the Commission would allow. He’d seen the miles of open land. Nothing but dry dirt and hard rock. Danger signs everywhere. Warnings of impending doom. The promise of radiation left over from the War. It was death and unpleasantness in an invisible guise. He’d even heard the plague was out there, waiting to return.

His mind drifted to the arable lands that lay east of the city. The wheat fields and the power station. The back breaking work he’d always tried to avoid. Everyone knew there were other towns and cities out there, but they were quarantined, dangerous areas. A cordon of JAG to check the curious and keep the workers safe. Only Loaders were allowed to scavenge beyond.

He’d seen what the city limits had to offer. There was nothing out there for him. Nothing tangible at least, but there was a tale his Grandfather had told him. That if you walk far enough west the land ends, and a vast ocean of water begins.

Scout pictured the Preacher’s paintings. Is that what the sea really looks like? He’d always wondered. What would it feel like to swim in the sea? The painter’s brush strokes had captured something majestic, if a little scary. That’s where he’d go if he ever left the City. Head west to find an ocean.

The tram was slowing. He opened his eyes. The fat lady was staring, he caught her gaze before she could look away. Time to get off, his stop next.

47

Work District seven was Scout’s stop. He left the tram and hit the pavement running. It was a short walk to Rubi’s. Not much to look at; mostly bricks and no inspiration. Factory dwellings built in a time when practicality outweighed the city’s love of architecture. This was as close to city centre as you could live; from the far edge to the river, dwellings came with wealth and good friends.

He could just make out the Dome of the Reliquary; the sacred home of the pious and faithful. The very heart of the City, a palace from where the city’s Patron dispensed the words and blessings of the Saints. What had either ever done for him?

It was pretty though. Maybe he’d take a tram to the centre after seeing Rubi. It would be dark soon and he could follow the river upstream. Maybe take the time to sit by a bridge and admire the Reliquary close up. The lights that led to the Square of the Saints were always ablaze. He’d grab a bite to eat. Take a walk to the river. The massive dome on the Reliquary would be lit up, it always was. A hundred lamps hung from the castle’s walls. The bridges would glow in torchlight. They all cast a willowy reflection in the river as it drifted by below. Believer or not, it was a treat for the eyes.

He remembered being inside the Reliquary once, as a child. Url and Greshia, Mum and Dad, they took the pilgrimage every year. The first weekend of every June, come rain or shine. It was inevitable that he and Jorja would be dragged along in homage. The need to worship was passed down from one generation to the next. The Commission insisted.

For two days and nights they prayed in the Square of the Saints sleeping under clear night skies. A two day fast mixed with hours of prayer and the chance for his parents to instil in their children the importance of faith. Especially mother. It was important for her that they both believed. And how could they not with the Prophets looking down from on high. Those great Saints who ringed the Square. Each one watched eagle eyed the frightened little rabbits below. He was too fearful to look up, to take on their stony gaze.

Playing hide and seek with Jorja. Trying to lose each other between the colonnades was more fun. Saluting to the JAG who stood watchful. Hearing the echo of children’s laughter fill the square. Disapproving looks and raised eyebrows. The games made it bearable. They even made it fun.

Inside was so different. The Reliquary’s interior was a sprawling vision of silver and gold. A candle-lit palace of birch and oak, with fine white plaster inlaid into the walls. It had cavernous ceilings that reached up where no man could ever hope to fly. The silence soaked through your skin during the weeks of Homage. A rare ghostly whisper heard, and nothing more.

He would never forget the first time he visited the Reliquary. On that day he had truly walked with the Saints. On that day he had started to understand the pride in Greshia’s smile as she watched her children’s awe. How it filled her with pride.

He would have continued to believe if later events hadn’t sent him down a different path. Now they were just memories. Faith and belief were beaten from his soul a life time ago.

48

Kids, no more than eight years of age, mulled on each landing. Some were sat, others stood. All were aware of his presence. They were observing. Kids employed by the tenants to give warning. Behind the doors, four on each landing, were drugs, booze, loose women, and probably a poker table or two. In about three hours when the workers returned these stairs would become a hive of traffic. The whole damn City would shunt back into life.

Scout barely broke a sweat as the tattered carpet passed below his boots that sprang two steps at a time up the six flights of stairs to the top floor. By now the entire block knew a stranger was in the stairwell.

Three hard raps as his fist assaulted the wooden door of apartment forty; the four and the zero gone but the wood a shade darker than the rest of the door. He banged impatiently a second time.

‘Who is it?’ a hesitant voice demanded from the other side. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me.’

‘I don’t know anyone called, Me. Go away.’

‘Me, Scout,’ he knocked more gently this time. ‘Open the door, Rubi.’

‘Scout? You’ve got a nerve after last time.’ Pause. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Scout took a look about the empty landing and peeked gingerly over the railing. A long drop into dappled sunlight through multi-paned windows set in the stairwell walls.

‘Shit, JAG.’ He pressed his face against the door. ‘Open up,’ he whispered. ‘Open the frigging door, there’s JAG on their way up.’

It sounded like someone had tripped over the cat inside and taken a bookcase down as they fell. Nothing ever changed. Rubi still saw faces in the shadows. He was too paranoid, too easy. Probably best not to aggravate him any more. Scout put his ear to the door. He swore he could hear Rubi’s heart pounding like a cannon even with the door between them.

‘I can hear you panting,’ Scout whispered through the lock. ‘I’ll tell them you’re a Heretic if you don’t open up.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘An accusation is all it would take to make you disappear. Open the door, Rubi.’

‘It’s just you. You’re lying aren’t you?’

‘Yes, now open the door, Rubes.’

The ratchet grind of two locks was followed by a chain being unhooked on the other side. The door opened just wide enough to see a partial face and a curious eye that worked its socket from one side to the other staring at the empty space behind Scout.

‘You owe me,’ Rubi scowled.

‘Bollocks,’ Scout put his best boot forward and the door parted with the chain to a shriek and a curse.

‘Think yourself lucky it was the door and not your face.’

If Rubi objected he kept it to four words. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he mumbled. ‘Look, about last time. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. I thought we were good now?’

A misunderstanding that almost cost Scout a beating, or worse. But that was water under the bridge now. He was going to give Rubes the chance to put things right.

‘I would have opened the door,’ Rubi said. ‘No need to be like that. You’re not going to hit me, are you?’

‘I should tear you a new one.’ Scout dropped the redundant chain, its retainer having been propelled across the room. ‘You knew what was in those packages.’

‘No, no, I didn’t. If I had I would have walked away. No way would I have involved you. They lied to me as well.’

The penalty for running Stems was harsh. To make it worse the recipients had tried to default on paying. He’d had to encourage them with his friend, Mr Glock. That’s when things had got ugly and two men had got hurt. Rubi had fainted at the sight of blood.

‘It was just a misunderstanding.’ The door clicked shut. ‘Scout, are we good? You know I don’t like it when you go all tense and quiet. Things get broken. I didn’t know, I swear. Please don’t stare at me like that. I said I was sorry. I’m really sorry. Are you going to pay for my door?’

Scout already knew the truth. A few well placed blows on a scumbag’s face had loosened his lips to tell him everything he needed to know. Rubes wasn’t entirely to blame. Even so, Scout still had doubts about his, old friend. If he’d thought for one moment that Rubi had known what was in those packages he would have done a lot worse. Their long relationship and past friendship would have counted for nothing. He stepped past Rubi still sat on the floor.

‘So, still friends then? Scout?’

Rubi was shorter than Scout. The man was a lean piece of meat that covered a wiry frame. And he’d something done to his hair. The usual thick dark mop had been cut with a blunt knife whilst using a broken mirror. His face hadn’t seen a razor for days.

‘It’s cold out there, you want a brew? Shall I put another log on the fire? What do you want, Scout?’

‘What’s wrong, Rubi? You look nervous.’

‘Yes. No. You did just kick my door through?’

No, it’s more than that. You’re hiding something.

‘Is there someone else here?’ he asked. Hand instinctively moving to his side. Rubi looked like he’d just got out of bed. ‘You want to put some trousers on?’ he said.

‘Yeah, sure, just a minute. Do you mind if I . . .?’ Rubi took a peek through the spy hole in the door. ‘Can’t be too careful, not since I got new neighbours. A couple of tarts moved in next door. Got guys coming up and down all the time? No pun intended.’

‘Next door? What happened to the old couple?’

‘Thirty-eight got moved on by the JAG. Nearly gave me a heart attack when I heard all the noise. I half expected my door to come off its hinges.’ Rubi engaged Scout directly for the first time. ‘My mistake,’ he said, ‘that was you.’ He walked into the apartment.

‘What happened?’

‘When?’

‘To Mr and Mrs Stollen, the old couple at number thirty-eight?’

Rubi lowered his voice to a hush.

‘They were Trins,’ he said. ‘Freeking Heretics right there, living on the other side of my wall.’ He kept pointing. ‘Can you believe it?’ Rubi plucked something from his pocket and kissed the fist he made around the hidden item.

They’d always seemed such a nice couple. Mr Stollen was a polite and considerate man. His wife always wore a smile, and a scarf, no matter what the weather. Scout found it hard to believe.

‘Bad business. Bad business.’ Rubi was circling the only chair in the room. ‘It was rough. I saw them through the peep hole. The JAG dragged them down the stairwell. The old man’s face, it was all covered in blood.’ He kissed the fist again.

‘Trins?’ said Scout.

‘Shhh, I shit you not. And I guarantee there’s at least a dozen eyes parked on this building. Out there right now, watching us.’ Scout’s eyes narrowed on Rubi. ‘Oh, didn’t you see them? Don’t worry, we’re cool. I’ve got friends.’

Rubi was well connected. But nobody had friends where the Trinity was concerned.

‘Followers of the Old Religion. Bad Ju Ju. Scout, you really need to get out more.’

‘I know what they are, Rubes. They seemed like nice people that’s all.’

‘Trins don’t have three heads and Tourette’s syndrome. You don’t hear them cussing as they come down the street. They’re a bit harder to spot than that. Here, you want to hold this?’ His hand trembled as he held it out. In his palm rested a leather thong with a shard of bone attached. ‘It’s Celia. Not too many tarts make it as Relics. Apparently she was quite the little home maker.’ Rubi shrugged. ‘No? Suit yourself. I hear they’re in State detention now. It doesn’t bear thinking about. That’s heavy shit. Do you have any idea how bad the Commission want to find Trinity followers. Fuck, those guys are degenerates. There’s an underground movement out there and it’s growing; Heretics everywhere. Did you know that the Commission has set up a secret tribune to deal with the problem? Legates have been given holy dispensation to do, well, bad things. Shits coming, Scout, and lots of it. Did you say you wanted a brew?’

‘Rubes, stop talking without breathing.’

‘I am? Shit, they were living next door to me. Ever heard of suspicion by association? I promise you will. Have you any idea what the Commission can do to you? You need to pay attention cos things are gonna get real bad. Real bad for anyone that doesn’t believe. And frankly mate you’re walking on thin ice. Are you sure you don’t want her?’

‘I’m good.’

‘Good, that’s good. You remember when they crossed the Line to deal with the gangs? You remember how bad that was for us?’

Scout nodded. ‘It was worse for others,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well I hear rumours that the JAG will cross the Line again. They want to clear the place of Heretics and dissenters. Open up the living space for workers. The Commission’s warming up to go on a witch hunt,’ he laughed. ‘The idiots don’t realise how bad the problem is. Start looking closer to home, that’s what I say, and not just across the Line. I mean, those fucks were living next door to me. I had no idea.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure? Sure of what?’

‘Are you sure that you didn’t know?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean. Are you accusing me of something?’ Rubi started to pace. ‘Live and let live that’s my motto.’

Fine words, but Scout wasn’t exactly convinced of their sincerity. Rubi was man who had a dozen Relics sown into his pillow. His paranoia would have his ear to the walls.

‘Live and let live,’ he repeated, ‘just don’t involve me. I’ve got a nice thing going here. People respect me. I mean, why rock the boat?’ Two meaningful steps and he was beside the bed and yanking open a drawer below. Out came a handful of objects he scattered over the covers. Two pendants, three chains, and an assortment of small bones. Mostly fingers by the look of them. ‘I’m a believer,’ he said aloud, as if others in the building needed to hear. ‘I believe in the goodness of Saints. Yes, I do. Saints are good for business.’ His meek, frightened personality turned scathing. ‘You still have it, right?’ Rubi pointed to Scout’s neck. ‘I know she meant a lot to you. You kept it didn’t you. Are you wearing it now?’ He started pacing. ‘They’re a comfort, don’t you think? We all need more than we have. You know it’s never too late to find comfort in the Prophets, Scout. You’re a man that needs to find comfort. You need to find some peace.’

He was going for the hard sell. This was one of the reasons Scout only came round on business. Fragile, life had made Rubi, fragile.

‘I want you to look at something for me,’ Scout said.

‘Sure, anything for you. What is it?’

Four strides were all it took to cross the small bed-sit being careful to avoid the newspapers piled everywhere. Copies of the ‘The City’ lay in abundance. Rubi must have collected every edition of the weekly for months. If the paper was a fire hazard then the unfinished meals and thick scent of body odour were a definite danger to his health. The bed hadn’t seen clean sheets in months and as far as Scout could recollect, Rubi never opened the curtains. Not that anyone could see in with The City taped all over the glass.

‘Don’t you ever throw this shit out?’

‘Hey, don’t mess with the piles. Everything’s in order.’

Scout fingered the top edition on the pile closest. ‘You actually read this shit?’

‘It’s local news.’

‘It’s Commission propaganda?’

‘I gotta know what’s going on out there.’

‘Try leaving the building once in a while.’

‘Out there? No, not me. People come to me. I don’t go to them. I buy and sell, you know that. Why would I go outside? All I have is all I need, the rest is up here,’ he tapped his forehead.

‘It’s a mess.’ Scout cleared a pile of papers from the table onto the floor.

‘Whoah, not the pile. Not the pile.’

Scout intervened before a clean up could take place. A well placed hand, and then the envelope held aloft to keep Rubi’s attention.

‘Ever wondered why no-one likes you?’

‘You like me, Rubi. And you’re gonna show me how much. I need you to find the person in these pictures.’ He dropped the envelope onto the table.

His curiosity aroused, Rubi slid the photos out. ‘Who’s the Ninja in the bad lighting?’ he asked. ‘Oh yeah, I’ll need a closer look.’

Rubi was a slob, but he had an obsessive eye for detail that made him invaluable to many people. It also had made him wealthy. He didn’t have to live like this.

‘What’s this woman to you?’

He’d spotted it straight off. Scout had stared at the photos for some time, worked them in sequence before Sasha’s movement had helped him make the connection.

‘I have to find her for a client. Anything jump out at you?’

‘Yeah, she dresses badly.’ He snatched up all the photos. ‘Come with me.’

49

Scout knew it was there, but it impressed him every time. An inch of industrial metal that looked like a wall. It moved on silent hinges the size of a grown man’s fist. Rubi’s secret door into his other world; a scary place that would get them both arrested.

‘We need to be quick,’ said Rubi. ‘The power will be off in an hour.’ He flicked a switch just inside and a tube light on the ceiling buzzed with anticipation. Rubi kept a vigilant eye on the apartment as the door closed.

Twelve steps lead them down.

‘Welcome to number thirty-four,’ said Rubi.

Rubes had spent years setting this place up. Spared no expense to ensure the apartment was invisible from the outside. Downstairs was just a wall where the door used to be. Heavy soundproofing meant no one could hear you from the outside. This was Rubi’s pad.

Inside there were rows of small boxes against the far wall. Half a dozen shelves above them all filled with forbidden goodies. There was a crazed abundance of wired looms and connectors hanging from the walls. Every corner was stuffed with relays, contacts and isolators. The closest table had its surface covered with circuit boards stacked in piles. It looked like the inside of a giant slot machine. Everywhere was salvaged parts from Pre-War electrical goods; two televisions, a computer, an alarm.

‘Is that an old toaster?’ he asked.

It was a techie’s delight. He recognised the tools and testers of his youth well organised on a smaller bench that Rubi now made use of. A handful of cell phones lay on a second desk. These were rare and Scout made sure Rubi’s attention was elsewhere as he flipped one open.

Son of a bitch. The damn thing had a signal. That meant a satellite connection. Not that they were a secret. Great big hunks of technology lost up there in orbit.

‘Just like old times, eh?’

Yeah. Just like old times, Rubes. Only back then the two of them had fixed things to benefit others, not just for profit. This shit was part of the reason the Gangs were broken. Technology was considered heresy unless it was sanctioned by the Commission. The ‘clunkers and clickers rule.’ If it made a noise you could probably keep it. All you had to do was repair it. That’s what they did, him and Rubi. It was inevitable that their talents would lead them into more profitable, more illegal ventures; deep into the world of the ones and the zeros.

This was only a workshop, Scout wondered where the rest of the treasure trove was stashed as he slipped the phone into his pocket

‘Rubes, the photos?’

‘You’re so bloody impatient. Here take a look. You know what this is don’t you?’

‘Trouble,’ Scout replied.

‘I remember when this shit gave you a hard on.’ Fingers tapped on the keyboard. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’m protected. I’ve got friends in high places.’

It was difficult to imagine, but there had been a time when Scout had yearned for this kind of knowledge. Youth it seemed, was a distant memory. Its rebellious excitement now replaced by a more sinister feeling as he felt the sweat begin to seep through his pores.

Rubi had the laptop on his knees, fingers dancing across the keys.

Why was it so damn hot in here?

He heard a door slam somewhere, followed by another. Hard metal jammed against a frame as large keys jangled and tumblers were turned in locks. Rubi’s fingers barely paused. A moments silence before a scream shrieked in the distance, a man’s voice distorted by pain.

Still the keys tapped.

Scout watched the door. What if they come? What if they see all this? He didn’t want to be here, he shouldn’t have come. Just being present would get him sent him back. Get a grip.

‘Voila,’ Rubi snapped him back. ‘You got lucky. There’s a gap between her glove and her sleeve as it catches on the safe door. She probably didn’t even notice and impossible to see without our little plastic friends here. A totally innocuous and irrelevant action unless, that is, you have the technology and programming to exploit her misfortune. Look, do you see? It’s a reflection on something glass in the safe.’ He kept tap tapping on the keys.

‘If I adjust the resolution and zoom. A bit closer, and closer still. Wow, there it is. That’s an etching of a Cutter if I’m not mistaken.’ Rubi looked up. ‘That’s a single mast boat with two or more headsails. The masts are set further back than they are on Sloops, and that’s how you tell the difference.’

Scout remembered the glass object in his hand. Some kind of paper weight.

‘What will really interest you,’ Rubi continued, ‘is what I can detail for you in the reflection?’ He looked up. ‘Pay attention class.’

‘Just get on with it, Rubes.’

‘Sure, sure.’ His finger hovered. Then dropped and hit the return key. He spun the laptop round for Scout to see.

‘Tell me how good I am. Tell me I’m the freeking best. I got you the last few bars of her Tag.’

50

‘Can you find her from a partial Tag?’

‘I can send you in the right direction.’ Rubi checked his watch. ‘Forty minutes till lights out.’ One of three drawers below the desk was opened. ‘Let’s see what we can find,’ he said and before his words had faded a printer clunked into operation. A few squeaky revolutions saw paper fall into its tray. What he did next surprised Scout.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Don’t you listen? I’ve got friends.’

‘That’s a Tag scanner, Rubi. Where did you get it?’

‘People bring me things. The State can’t keep count of all of their hardware.’

‘Yes, they can.’ Questions arose. ‘Who are these friends of yours, Rubes?’

‘Right now it’s you, and look what you brought me. Nothing I wouldn’t do for old friends. Did you know these used to scan shopping? Bet you didn’t. It’s been modified, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ Scout recollected the tale of the unfortunate Stollens. Nice people. Maybe he knew Rubi in the past, but not so much in the present. His old friend had become increasingly erratic, borderline unstable over the years. But there was something different about him.

‘I can see your mind working overtime, old friend.’

‘Who is she?’ I don’t need, or want to know anything else. ‘Get me close to this woman.’

‘Done,’ he said, and the scanner beeped. ‘Interesting things, Tags, did you know they are made up of two stripes, the ink and the skin? It’s all about numbers. The entire population are distinguished by numeric code. It’s all in the Tag.’ He flicked the scanner to flash the light and a tiny needle popped in and out in unison. ‘This little bastard has coitus with your upper dermis.’ He clicked the trigger several more times. ‘It’s disgusting really. But it doesn’t lie like you and me. It takes a teeny tiny sample of blood, then compares it to the Tag. Your thief there,’ he pointed at the screen, ‘has her Tag tattooed inside her wrist. Bit odd, don’t you think?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it means she’s older than we are. No-one has their kid tagged where it can be seen, not anymore. That craze went out with our Grandparents. Put it somewhere convenient for a scan, sure. But on show, no way.’

‘And that’s relevant, why?’

‘Be a bit old for this sort of thing, don’t you think?’

‘Rubi, who is she?’

‘I can’t tell you her name. That part of the code is under her sleeve. But she was born in the Old Quarter. District named Sassia, ever heard of it? Me neither, don’t have the street name, you’d need access to Commission records to be that specific. What’s she stealing from the safe?’

‘Jewellery,’ he’d been waiting for Rubi to ask. ‘Some stuff my client is sentimental for.’

‘Is it valuable?’

‘Not particularly, they belonged to his mother. She died. You know how it is.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Rubi closed the laptop. ‘Why are you lying to me, I thought we were friends? I mean, Ninja’s in the dark? Come on, who you trying to kid. That safe’s heavy shit. You’d need a licence signed by a Legate to own something like that. And robbing the Preacher, whose that stupid? Come on, cut me in on the action. We’re friends, right? We are friends, aren’t we?’

‘Sure, we’re friends, Rubi.’

‘Friends share, Scout. You’re in on something big. I’m not stupid, a bit crazy maybe, but not stupid. I can help. We could work together. Partners maybe?’

‘No partners, Rubi. You’d just be disappointed. I have a habit of disappointing people.’

Scout turned away, just enough to hide his hand reaching behind his back. Fingers and thumb slipped onto the warm moulding of the Glock’s grip.

‘What else can you tell me, Rubes?’

‘That she’s twenty-four years old and got blue eyes.’

‘Twenty-four? But you said . . .’

‘I know, it’s a puzzle, right? Oh, and she’s blonde. There’s a hair on the ninja suit just below the shoulder. Gets a bit fuzzy the closer I zoom. But I got clever software, and she’s a definite blonde. Am I getting paid for this, Scout? Because I’m expensive, I don’t do it for free. I have friends who’ll collect for me.’

So you keep saying.

It wasn’t the Glock that filled Scout’s palm but a wad of notes. One hundred dollars that he’d counted out before entering the building. Hard currency tossed down onto the copier’s hood.

‘It’s all there.’

‘Sure, I wouldn’t count. We’re friends after all.’

‘That’s right Rubi. We’re friends.’

51

It was with a sense of relief that Scout left; Rubi was too heavy a reminder of the past. A dangerous past that needed to stay gone. He was careful to check for watching eyes as he walked slowly to the nearest tram stop. If they were there, he didn’t see them. At least now he had a solid lead to help find the woman. How many blonde twenty-four year olds lived in Sassia, if she lived there at all.

The Old Quarter was just south of the River, a stone’s throw from the Reliquary, and Downtown. He hated Downtown. It was a hive of religious lunacy. But it would make sense that this woman was some kind of religious nut. It was a Relic that she’d stolen. And what about the Tag? Either her parents were retro nuts or she was one hell of a limber fifty plus.

No, the thief was young. Blonde and extremely fit. Intelligent too; opening the safe had proven that. This girl was smart too. To get in and out of the Preacher’s home undetected like that. It proved she had balls, and she wasn’t driven by greed, that was a lot of currency she left behind. He liked her already.

Scout’s hand dipped into his pocket and retrieved the cell phone. He flipped it open, careful it couldn’t be seen. Its signal strength was full. His thumb skipped through the menu; nothing in any of the directories. The memory had been cleared. No incoming or outgoing calls. It snapped closed in his palm. He shouldn’t have taken it. He should take it back to Rubi before he realised it was missing. Rubi could get into serious trouble. A smile breached his features as the tram pulled up.

Ting ting went the bell.

52

For the second time that day the door at number forty resounded to sharp strikes from the outside.

‘Take it easy. I’m coming.’ Rubi paused as another salvo beat against the door. ‘Stop beating on my door?’ He placed both palms on the wood and his eye to the peep hole; nothing but darkness.

‘Take your finger of the hole, Scout.’ Still nothing. ‘Scout, stop fucking about.’ Several more curses were spat as he pulled the bolts back. ‘You better have brought my property ba . . .’

He didn’t finish the sentence, the door slammed into his face, a second time. Two teeth forced from his mouth in different directions. Rubi went down hard. Then found himself lifted by strong hands and carried marionette style to be deposited in the rooms only chair.

‘Easy, easy. Whatever you want, it’s cool,’ he said and tried to get up.

Powerful hands pulled his torso back into the chair. Another yanked his right arm outstretched. A sharp stab of pain told him he was being Tagged. His cheek smarted fiercely to a violent slap.

‘Ow, fuck, what was that for?’ The octopus released him. The room was still a daze. ‘Who the fuck are you people? I’ve got powerful friends, you’re all fucked. Deep in the shit now.’ Malicious sounds filled his ear-space. Goods being tossed, furniture broken. One eye stretched open and daylight pierced the haze. Much better, he could see again. Then wished he couldn’t. Half a dozen JAG were abusing his room.

‘Don’t touch the papers. Please, not the papers.’ They were kicked and hurled. ‘Do you know who you’re messing with?’ A globule of phlegm and blood was discharged. ‘I’ve got friends.’

‘Your name is Henri Dvorak?’ an unfriendly voice demanded to know.

‘Huh, what?’

‘Is that your name?’

‘No, yes, you shouldn’t know that. Hey, stop this. You shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a loyal follower of the Faith.’ He tried to look behind but had his head returned to looking forward. He flashed back to old man Stollen being dragged down the stairs by his hair. Rubi’s fingers fumbled toward his pocket trying to get his fingers to Celia. Celia? What possible use would the Homemaker be? Saints should be a little more spiteful. And where were the eyes he’d paid to watch the landings?

An odd looking little man stepped into view reading a scanner.

‘You shouldn’t be doing this. I’m protected.’ Talking with no teeth really hurt. ‘Never trust kids,’ he said. ‘Did you bribe them with lollies? Have you killed them? Oh shit . . .’ The man that stood in front of him looked like the walking dead.

‘Your name is Henri Dvorak. Your file says that you are a thief, a liar, and a Heretic.’

‘Heretic?’ Rubi didn’t like the sound of that. ‘No, no Heretics here. I love the Saints, and I can prove it. Take a look in the . . .’ The drawers were gone, their contents scattered about the carpet.

‘Look, over there, that’s John the Prior, and Peter the Walker, there by the bed leg. Have you no respect for other people’s property? And there are others, somewhere. I, I, just can’t see them. They’re all here somewhere. Why are you doing this to me?’

‘You have an interesting file, deviant,’ the man said.

‘No, not a deviant,’ Rubi protested. ‘I’m not a deviant.’

‘But you are a bastard from the North Reach Orphanage. A child born out of wedlock.’

‘Well, that’s hardly my fault.’

‘Your mother was cast out. Sent across the Line.’ His oppressor raised an eyebrow. ‘Just-deserts for a maternal slut. You, on the other hand were given an opportunity. Placed as a State Ward. It says here that you absconded from the love and protection of the Commission?’

‘No, not absconded. I, I was mislead, by others. I came back; I came back and I served the Faith.’

‘It says here that you were arrested four years later trying to avoid arrest during a raid on a Stem house. Interesting, you turned State’s evidence against other members of your gang and were subsequently released back into the community. Ah, so you’re a spy for the Commission. Citizen Dvorak, I applaud you.’

‘I prefer to think of it as gainful employment by the State.’ How the fuck can you know that? ‘My file was sealed, by a man at the top.’ Only a Prime can access me. ‘I was saved again.’

‘So you’ve been saved?’

‘Yes, saved. I love the Saints. I love my Patron and the Commission. Who doesn’t?’ Which one do you work for? He wasn’t bowled over by the lack of response. ‘What is all this? How do you know about me? You shouldn’t know anything.’ You shouldn’t even know to look. ‘I’ve got friends in high places.’

‘I’m the only friend that you have now.’

The hand he placed on Rubi’s shoulder sent a chill down his spine.

‘I haven’t introduced myself. Citizen Dvorak, my name is Liam.’

What stone did this one crawl out from under? He must be such a disappointment to his mother. Not to mention scaring the other parents shitless. ‘Hi,’ Rubi stuttered. Have you ever thought of dying your hair? And those eyes. Rubi couldn’t help staring. ‘I have sunglasses,’ he said. Shut up. Stop talking. He’s not a nice man.

‘Over here, sir,’ the voice of the JAG Trooper attracted both men’s attention. ‘We’ve found something, sir. It’s hidden in the wall.’

It was a small apartment; easy to search. When the JAG found nothing they’d put holes in the walls. If they’d asked, Rubi would have told them there was a catch under the architrave. Just run a finger below and it would spring open. He supposed that would have spoilt their fun jabbing rifle butts against the wall.

It was a plaster massacre; debris strewn across the floor. A size twelve boot finished the job and a heavy metal box was pulled from hiding and dragged out into view.

‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said Rubi.

‘I believe you.’ Liam addressed the looming figure who held Rubi to the chair. ‘Captain, instruct your men to leave.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘This has all been an unfortunate mistake,’ said Liam.

‘Really? You’re going to leave?’

‘Praise the Saints.’ Cuthbert, Ferdinand, Celia . . . Rubi reeled through a roll call of deities in a brief and thankful moment. Give the order. Tell them to leave. Go. Two callous faces stared down at him. Oh shit.

A cold shriek of realisation pumped a gallon of adrenalin throughout Rubi’s body. Unable to move, the drug threatened to collapsed his nervous system.

‘Good one,’ the words hushed and whispered. Barely able to leave his mouth. ‘Sarcasm, I like it. No really, I do.’ He took a good look at the lack of empathy on Liam’s face. ‘I think I might need a potty break,’ he said.

‘It’s important that you understand I don’t have a sense of humour.’

Rubi felt them, he cowered beneath them; Liam’s bulbous eyes stared deep inside his soul. Then rose up to his confederate as he gave a fateful nod. Rubi felt big hands tug his torso back. His arms were yanked backward and stretched until he felt they would tear from his shoulders.

‘The item in the wall, tell me what it is.’

‘It’s an old generator.’

‘It’s a radio transmitter, Rubi. May I call you, Rubi?’

Rubi nodded. ‘Call me anything you like, you bastard.’

Both arms were yanked back again and this time his right shoulder dislocated. The sudden clunk of muscle and tissue was followed by searing pain and the need to vomit. Rubi screamed.

‘Stop, stop. Whatever you want? I’ll tell you whatever you want.’ Blessed are the Saints, goodly are the Saints. ‘Blessed is Liam,’ he shouted. ‘Please, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell.’ Anything you want to know. ‘It hurts.’ Help me. Intercede on my behalf. Make them stop. ‘Stop! I’ll say, anything, you want.’

‘Yes, you will.’ Liam wiped the tears gently from Rubi’s cheek. ‘The radio is a seditious tool. The artefact is forbidden. I can take you away and put you in a place you would never be found.’

‘Don’t do that.’ I’m crying. ‘Please don’t put me anywhere.’

‘All I require from you is information.’

‘That’s good. I can do that. I’ll always help the authorities. Just ask.’ Please put my arm back. ‘I’ll tell you. There’s no need for any of this.’

There wasn’t. He’d have told them whatever they wanted. Just put his shoulder back where it had come from.

‘Tell me everything you know about the man who left here a few minutes ago.’

He’s a bad ass mother fucker who’ll blow you away.

‘Barely know him,’ he said. Then laughed. It was more a crazed giggle, more manly than crying. ‘He’s an acquaintance. He was looking for someone. Aaargh, stop, stop. My arm.’ The pressure reduced. ‘Oh, blessed are the Saints. They are goodly and they are kind. Please don’t do that. You have no idea how much it hurts.’

‘Tell me about your friend.’

‘Not a friend, just someone I know. He gave me some photos. Wanted to know if I knew who it was.’ You like that? Want to hear more you fucking freak. ‘Let go of me, please.’

Liam motioned and the officer released him. A gesture of good will, no doubt that hurt even more. Rubi slumped forward but felt like his shoulder had been left behind. He tried to be brave but tears flowed like Niagara. He ventured a glazed look back at his abuser. Captain? He’s a kid. Six feet plus of dark grey uniform that shouldered a malicious glare. That in itself made Rubi want to cry.

Stop clicking your fingers, I can hear you.

‘The photos. Who, why?’

‘I don’t know. The image was some Ninja chick stealing from a safe. I enlarged the photos. Messed with them a bit.’

‘What did you find?’

‘If I tell you, you’ll go?’

‘Yes. You have friends, remember.’

‘Yeah, friends.’ You shouldn’t be fucking with me. ‘I found him a partial Tag.’

‘You made copies of these photos?’

‘He took them with him.’ He didn’t want to lie but what else could he say. He’d copied the photos onto the hard drive of the laptop. No way could he tell them about that, without telling where it was. The Saints preserve him, what if they found the workshop?

Liam stepped aside and a Trooper raised his weapon. The wooden stock kissed Rubi violently on the lips. A sharp impact, but no pain. It took a moment. Yes, there it was, howling like a Banshee. Sharp searing and rampant as half his face began to swell. Stars jigged chaotically inside both of his eyelids.

‘My fa, face.’

Captain Kid grabbed his arm and dislocated his shoulder some more.

‘Stop, please, stop.’ Blessed are the Saints. Blessed are the Saints. ‘Its downstairs, I copied everything downstairs.’

Everything else that was bunged up in his head now started to blurt out of his mouth. Scout had done this. They could have the arsehole, and the laptop too. He was happy to tell them everything. Turn the fucker in and let him get what was coming.

Better him than me.

He told them about the wall, its combination, about the laptop and he begged them to let him be. ‘I have friends.’ He kept saying. ‘I have friends.’

‘I’m not a sinner.’ Rubi protested. ‘I love the Prophets. Praise be to the Saints. All hallow, the Commission. I have friends. Make, the call. I’m an informer, for the Commission.’ It was getting harder to speak. ‘I won’t, say anything. I’m a man of Faith. Not like that criminal. I’m not a sinner, see. I’ve been lied to; misled. I think Scout, might be, a Heretic.’

‘A Heretic? And you heard that from whom?’

Oh crap. Rubi shrugged, then wished he hadn’t.’

‘I, I, don’t remember.’

‘But you admit consorting with Heretics.’

‘No, I don’t consort. I just heard.’

‘You consort, associate, and conduct illicit proceedings with Heretics?’

‘No, that’s not true. Blessed are the Saints, all of them. ’

‘Tell me, what do you know about the Relic?’

‘Relic? What Relic?’

‘Tell me about the Relic stolen from this safe?’ He had the laptop in his hands; the images on the screen. ‘You’re involved with Heretics’

‘No, I’m not. I don’t know.’

‘The Relic?’

‘What Relic? Scout said it was jewery.’ Swelling lips couldn’t say the word. ‘Please, I want to be saved.’

Liam came close. Rubi felt those soul-less eyes try to peer inside his mind. It was unnatural.

‘Then this Scout, he doesn’t know what the Relic is?’

‘No, I don’t know. I don’t think so. What Relic?’

‘I like you Rubi, I do.’ He stroked Rubi’s face and smiled.

Liam was going to kill him. He knew it right then. Why? He hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault.

‘I know your secret,’ Rubi whispered. ‘I know what the Commission is trying to hide.’

‘Secret? What secret?’

‘I can hear them, at night. On the radio, they whisper.’

Liam backed away, as if the word were a weapon being jabbed toward him. ‘What do you know about whispers?’ he asked.

‘I hear them on that.’ Rubi pointed toward the radio set left forgotten on the floor. ‘I hear the ghosts hiding in the static. The Commission lied to us. It’s not just the Saints out there, is it?’

The effort was too much and he sank back into the chair, closed his eyes and began to pray. He prayed to anyone that would listen. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for a pardon. He begged the Prophets for eternal joy. And one more thing, he prayed that this bastard would get what was coming to him. He was going to fuck with Scout, and Rubi knew that was a really bad thing to do.

It was a blessing indeed that Rubi did not see the Captain re-enter the room. He didn’t hear him. Nor did he see the movement of Liam’s eyes toward his subordinate. Rubi’s only sense that the officer had returned was the tingle of a chord as it stroked his throat. A strangely sharp sensation as it cut into his skin and jerked his neck and head upward.

Rubi fought for air; all thoughts for redemption or revenge forgotten as his lungs turned to stone, unable to fill. Rubi took one last futile lunge for breath and then relaxed.

I hate you. Liam’s face twisted and warped. I hate you all.

Rubi knew their darkest secret. The Commission’s biggest lie. He knew it didn’t matter. Dead men know nothing, and they tell even less.

53

‘Is the shipment ready?’ The man who asked was taller than Isabella. He wore a white coat and black gloves. A surgical mask that covered his lower face.

‘It’s ready. Delivery will be the same as before,’ Isabella answered. ‘Any problems?’

‘No,’ the man replied. ‘Everything is going to plan.’ He crossed his chest with his finger. ‘The work we do here, Isabella; it’s too important, we must not fail.’

She nodded. Was it really going to happen? Was the prophecy going to be fulfilled in her lifetime?

Of course it was. If it was God’s will, then all would be well. The Surgeon stepped aside and she entered the building.

Build the laboratory here in the City had seemed madness at first. But it had proven the quickest and safest way to procure all that they needed. The Trinity had many Agents working against the Commission. But the Surgeon had told her many times that she was more important than them all.

Such serious eyes, yet always so calm, so suspicious.

‘You look worried, Isabella.’

‘How can you not be when we are so close?’

‘Come.’ The Surgeon took her hand. He led her down the steps of a candlelit passage.

She was always sad to descend these steps. The thought that God’s work must be hidden in such a dark place? It should be in the light; shouted about from the rooftops.

Soon, she thought. Soon there would be nothing that the Commission could do to stop them.

Isabella let him go ahead. A sense of sadness turned to guilt that caused her to stop. A door on the first landing, she opened it. Part of her wished that she hadn’t.

Inside six women lay on tables. The tubes from their bodies as horrifying to her now as they had been the first time. Is this really God’s work? She asked herself. She whispered a prayer for their wellbeing and moved her fingers through the air in the sign of the cross.

‘They look so peaceful,’ she whispered. ‘Can they hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Must there be so many?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you face them toward the mirror?’

Why hadn’t she asked that question before.

‘Do you suppose it would it be better for them if they thought they were alone?’

‘No,’ She didn’t suppose it would. ‘They look, peaceful.’ Isabella closed her eyes and allowed the music that played in the room to soothe at troubled thoughts. Soft violin played by a soulful bow. She hoped that it helped too, in some small way.

It did her no good to stare. She closed the door silently.

‘Please tell me they’ll be the last?’

‘Their biological material provides the key to our future.’

‘Don’t say it like that. They’re people. They’re God’s children too.’

‘Of course.’

‘And they won’t remember? The babies will be safe.’

‘The same questions each time. I’ll put a lock on the door to stop you. Come, let me show you.’

The door was shut gently. More steps descended to a short corridor. She walked to the left, toward the lab, the other direction a dead end.

‘No, this way,’ he said. ‘I have something to show you.’ The smile evident even behind the mask.

He touched the wall in two places. It moved inward as he pushed.

A secret room?

‘What is this? Why have I never seen this?’

‘I’m showing you now. You deserve to know. I want you to see everything.’

The wall opened into an antechamber. A short passage led to a metallic gate that rose eight feet in height and half as far across. Its presence lifted her heart rate. A soft purring sound emerged from the darkness beyond as the door opened.

Where are we? She’d wanted to say it out loud.

‘Please,’ the Surgeon offered his hand toward a large mechanical lever as he unclipped his mask, and let it hang. ‘Lift it,’ he said. ‘I want you to see God’s work.’

The air in here was cold. Her mouth suddenly dry as she lifted the heavy lever upward. She took one last look into the darkness, then shoved it between two copper connectors. A strong electrical zzzz startled her hand away. Then lights began to glow. What she saw in the lamp-light took her breath away.

* * *

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘but the other lab?’

‘Is in case we are discovered. It was never designed to do God’s work.’

‘Is this what I think it is?’ She crossed the room to three large boxes that flickered with chaotic patterns of lights. ‘It’s beautiful. But I thought, the other one . . . you said it was years from completion?’

‘A decoy, built in plain sight, should it ever be discovered.’

‘Will it be it powerful enough?’ She asked. ‘Is it ready?’

‘Yes, our people have managed to scavenge enough parts to construct this, a working main frame. I’ve had to write most of the programming myself of course, but it’s ready.’

‘But how? You said . . .’

‘We found a hospital. It’s lower floors untouched by Loaders.’

‘So you can make it happen?’ she asked. ‘Will it really happen?’

‘We have two generators now. Independently fuelled; both capable of supplying the energy required.’

Another switch was turned. Lights glimmered everywhere. Clunking strips that pulsed and flickered one after the other until the entire room was lit from end to end.

‘The breaker you lifted has begun the work. From this moment on, the power will not be disengaged until the work is complete. Everything we need is here, Isabella.’

Her fingers were keen to touch everything inside the room. ‘What is this? What are these?’

‘That’s the Incubator. The glass tube in the middle of the room is the maturation chamber. I will submerge the biological matter in a concentrated cellular solution that contains dense nutrients it can absorb.’

To Isabella it looked like a fish tank. She had no idea what most of these things were. Nor did she care. It was only important that the lab was at last complete. She’d had no idea. But then she supposed, that was the point.

‘You see those white boxes,’ Surgeon pointed. ‘Freezers that hold every culture I have ever taken. The serum for your Patron is in the fridge to their right. Take it with you when you leave.’

‘I’m giving him stronger doses. It’s not working as effectively . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter. Give him whatever he needs.’

‘Will it harm him?’

‘Harm him?’ The Surgeon’s eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. ‘Is that concern I hear in your voice, Isabella? Has devotion to your Patron rooted itself with feelings for the false Prophet?’

‘No,’ she answered.

‘He’s a monster and deserves no pity. You do understand that?’

‘Of course.’ He wasn’t always that way. ‘I understand.’

She’d watched him change. Twisted by ever stronger methods employed to safeguard those he served; the people. Isabella looked away. Her faith would sustain her. The Trinity Elders had a plan, and she would play her part, as she always had.

Isabella reached down to the fridge and opened the door. She reached inside for the small bottle on the left, but paused. The serum for Patron; the drug that extended his life. Besides it, above and below, the shelves were stacked with ampules. Each one no larger than the nail on her thumb. She’d never seen such a large shipment of Stems.

‘Is there a problem, Isabella?’

‘No,’ she lied. God’s work is funded by Stems. Of course it’s a problem.

‘We detach ourselves in hope of bringing a better world.’ He hooked the mask back across his face. ‘Be strong, Isabella.’

She nodded. It was his only way to fund the project. To pay for his anonymity and protection. To pay the bribes.

“The end will justify the means. Nothing else matters.”

But those poor women up in that room? Doesn’t that make us monsters too?

‘How much longer must I remain with him?’ she asked, trying to shake the image.

‘Patience, Isabella, This room has taken nearly two decades to complete. It’s been a jigsaw, but now the final pieces are in place.’ He seemed pleased, and motioned her gaze toward an unfamiliar object in the far corner of the room. ‘The procedure will commence over there,’ he said. ‘That robotic arm will inject the initial cells to be cultured.’

Isabella put the serum in her pocket. ‘The Lord be praised,’ she said, and meant it. This was the culmination of her dreams; the pinnacle of the Trinity’s endeavours. Why then, couldn’t she shake the image of those women? Or the serum? So many addicted to its properties, and she was just as responsible.

She’d worked so hard, and for so long. Knowing every day could be her last if discovered. From the moment Patron had found her on that bridge, she’d understood the opportunity that God had offered. From her faith had come the courage and strength to endure servitude as a Commission Ward. It was their enemy that had taught her to ignore her own needs. They’d groomed her to be the woman that Patron now relied on, and trusted. They’d instilled in her her greatest weapon; patience, but it was running thin.

So many lies told; so much deception and deceit. So many dead in his name. In His name too. All had taken its toll. But Isabella was a soldier of God. And this was a war. And wars have casualties. Thank God it would all soon be at an end.

‘It’s a beautiful thing we are about to do,’ the Surgeon’s voice brought her back.

Was it excitement, or the expectation of the coming days that fuelled the perspiration on his brow. She couldn’t blame him. A knot had settled in her own stomach.

‘In that room,’ he gestured to the far wall; a small metal door. ‘I keep the cultures. It will be a simple procedure to remove the ovum from an ovary of one of our guests. And none of the women will be harmed, I promise. It’s not necessary. The difficult part will be extracting the cells from the donor tissue. The sample inside the box is old. Though I have been assured that atrophy will not be a problem.’

‘Assured? Who has assured you?’

‘That’s none of your concern.’

‘Who? Who has assured you?’ He thinks that ignoring me will keep me quiet. ‘It’s him isn’t it? The one you call, Wyatt.’ Yes, I know his name. But who is he?

‘Our work, is his work, Isabella.’

Three times in my life I have seen this man. Not once has he spoken. Yet he knows I see him. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘It’s not your place to trust, or question. You’ll do as you are instructed, is that understood?’

‘Of course.’ He was angry, she didn’t want him to be angry. ‘I’m sorry.’

Surgeon moved to a shiny metal table. Test tubes, beakers and syringes organised neatly around its surface. From the pocket of his lab coat came a child’s toy. A small bear, its colour soiled with age, that he placed on the table.

‘This is where Harley and I will open the box. Where we’ll extract the cells and place them into an RPMI medium, that’s a growing solution. I’ve used some creative licence with the ingredients to help stimulate the cell growth. What I’m doing is a form of somatic cell nuclear transfer. Though I’ve had to improvise the process somewhat with the tools at hand. There, now you know.’

Don’t patronise me. She’d never been so engaged. So willing to defy him. ‘I want to know,’ she said. ‘It’s my life’s work as well.’

Surgeon’s hand slammed onto the table and startled her.

‘Your life?! Go ask your great and mighty Patron how long and hard a life can be. How lonely it is living life in the shadow of something greater? Do you think I live down here because I enjoy the dark? I’ve lived three lifetimes; and will live a fourth if that’s what it takes.’

‘I meant no disrespect,’ she lowered her head but kept her eyes fixed on his. ‘I need to know you can do this.’

‘Of course you do.’ He seemed to calm. ‘So would I,’ he said. ‘You see that metal box, it’s an incubator. It’s where I’ll put the cells and leave them to begin division. They will continue to divide until they reach what is called the, quiescent state. Then they’ll be ready for implantation into the ovum. The egg, if you prefer.’

She had a flash image of the women lying upstairs.

God forgive me.

‘I’ll remove the nucleus of the egg and implant the quiescent cell into the zona pellucida; the egg’s outer coating. Then I’ll electroshock the egg to fuse it with the donor’s cell. The egg will be placed in there, the maturation chamber. It’s important to stop any degradation or scavenging of the cells. Certain cell functions can be tripped, or ended, but even with this limited equipment I’m confident I can nullify the risk. Suffice to say, Isabella. We all have our parts to play. We each have pieces of a puzzle that no-one else can place.’ He looked around the room. ‘You’ve done so well. You have played your part in saving Humanity.’

Praise be to God.

‘Remember to thank your Patron for me. His last delivery of donors was most suitable. Though I don’t think he would have been quite so generous with the women had he known what they were actually for. After all, technology is Heresy,’ he mused. ‘Patron would see all of this as an abysmal sin. He’d kill us all.’

Isabella nodded. She’d neither initiated, approved of, or ever condoned the trade in Stems, but no matter how she wriggled with her conscience, how she tried to justify her actions, it made her sick to think of those women, up there, lying there in that room.

‘Can you do it?’ She had to hear the words. ‘What about the memories, the soul? A body is just a shell without the man.’

Tell me, I have to know. I have to be sure this is all worth the sacrifice. ‘Can you really make it happen?’

He seemed to deliberate, then relent.

‘DNA,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘It’s so much more than just a complex combination of switches that tells a cell how to grow. What we are about to do is, well, it’s biological beauty.’

Isabella wanted to hear. She needed to understand. Her entire adult life, over twenty years spent in the service of a man who she’d hated, at first. Who she’d lied to every day since they’d first met. A man who had done so much for so many when all had seemed lost; she knew that now. What they’d told her, the Trinity; so much of it was untrue. Half truths and religious propaganda whispered in her young ear. Designed to fortify her faith against him. The irony was, whilst mainly lies, it had mostly come to pass.

Her entire life, it had to be worth more than just words.

‘Tell me you can do this.’ If not, what’s it all been for?

‘Memories and perception,’ he said, ‘every familiarity we ever experienced,’ he tapped his head, ‘retained as electrical impulses up here. A trillion supernova that flash tirelessly across the synapses storing knowledge and reason, feelings and emotive response. It’s the process that creates individuality within the individual. That stops us becoming another one of nature’s clones. It’s the process that denies the hive; that allows us to turn our backs on the swarm.’

‘I understand,’ she said.

‘I doubt it.’

‘I do.’ It’s called faith. ‘This is God’s work.’

‘Then why isn’t God breaking His back down here trying to make this work?’

‘You’re His instrument,’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ Surgeon replied. ‘Let me tell you how it is; how it was. Before the world got fucked up I’d taken an interest in a uniquely strange phenomena. certain individuals who’d suffered head trauma, and then discovered they had changed.’

‘Changed, how?’

‘Some gained the ability to speak in a language they’d never spoken before, or a language that hadn’t been spoken for hundreds, even thousands of years. I discovered people who could understand complex calculations, who’d been previously uneducated. There were numerous other dexterities that included becoming gifted in art and music. Talents that they’d never exhibited prior to their trauma. Some even claimed they were in contact with themselves from another period in time.’

‘They lied, surely.’

‘So I thought at first, as did many others. But I did what no-one had ever done seriously before. I researched the familial ancestry of each case that I came across,’ he smiled, as if remembering the past with pleasure. ‘I convinced my superiors this research was vital if we were to weaponise virus’ against profiled DNA. With my clearance and scientific studies published on the internet, it revitalised my research. And what I discovered was, well, incredible. In every case I observed there was an ancestor, or ancestral trail, that gave credence to their claim. I came to believe that, somehow, they’d accessed the knowledge of their past. I know, it sounds crazy. But if these were true memories, as some claimed, then where did they come from? Logic dictated they must be stored somewhere?

I began to link the observations with my work. I began to believe there was something tangible to be found.’ His face suggested he doubted that she really understood. ‘You see that computer,’ he said, ‘are you familiar with how it works? Then imagine that each individual cell in your body works on the same principle as the computer’s hard-drive. It has coding that operates the system similar to the coding in a strand of DNA. It also has space in which to store information.

When I remove the hard-drive it is no longer part of the machine. All connections to the hardware have been removed. It’s just ones and zeros. Both the computer and the hard-drive serve no purpose without each other.

But unlike the hard-drive, the cell doesn’t need a computer to survive. In the right environment the information the cell contains is enough for it to reproduce itself. Its DNA contains all the instructions needed to begin life. All the coding required to trigger reproduction and tell the cell how to work; how to grow. A child knew as much before Armageddon. Common knowledge you might say. But there was so much more left undiscovered inside of the cell.’

Tell me. I want to know. She couldn’t tell if Surgeon was in awe of the equipment in the room, or himself. Tell me.

‘What I was trying to achieve, no-one thought possible,’ he said. ‘A direct link between the patient’s, seemingly miraculous abilities, and an invisible coding that lay hidden within our Junk DNA.’

Junk DNA?

‘It was because of my work that I first met him.’

‘Him? Who are you talking about?’ Oh my God, he means the man who smokes too much. ‘You’re talking about Wyatt, aren’t you.’ Why don’t I know anything about him? Or you, so it seems? Please God, no more lies. ‘Who is he? Tell me who Wyatt is?’

‘Our salvation, Isabella.’

‘I don’t know what that means?’

‘He’s the reason any of us are here; you, me, the Trinity, all of us. Wyatt helped start it all. He was responsible for ending it too. Before Wyatt came along the scientific community considered my research a joke, but he understood the work I was doing. He had faith in the science. Isabella, he had faith in me.’

‘Faith is a powerful thing,’ she said. She wanted to know more. It was time she understood the history, and the process, not just the end result.

‘How,’ she asked him, ‘can either of you make this happen?’

‘Are you doubting the work?’

‘No,’ I want to understand. ‘Tell me how you’ll do it.’ No more lies.

‘Take a look around you,’ said Surgeon. ‘All this equipment that you’ve worked so hard to obtain. All of this will make the magic happen.’ He was assured, smug even. ‘Do you remember when we looked at cells under the microscope? When I explained the process of cell division to you?’

‘Yes.’ A curious thing.

‘Our talk about what lies dormant in all our cells?’

‘Yes,’ I remember. ‘DNA,’ she said.

‘DNA, that’s right. Well, DNA was only partially understood before Armageddon. Only two percent of the genetic material was thought to be coding. That left a lot of surplus DNA that seemed to serve no purpose. None of it seemed involved with the gift of life.’

‘Tell me,’ she insisted. ‘I want to know how you’ll make this happen. I’ve earned the right to know.’

‘Yes, you have. No-one has done more for our cause than you. To be honest, it would be good to share with someone other than him.’

The man in the white coat toyed with a glass beaker. Tell me! He was thoughtful. I’m not leaving until you do. Then nodded as if a silent conversation was approved.

‘There’s a vast network of stranding inside DNA that science didn’t understand,’ he began. ‘A few of these sequences produced non-coding components like transfer, regulatory, and ribosomal RNA. But what was all the rest for? Ninety-eight percent of our DNA was labelled by scientists as, Junk DNA. But not so much junk was involved as the label suggested.’

Go on. She didn’t understand the words but was keen to hear more. Tell me.

‘I had a theory about my growing list of trauma patients. That their injuries had somehow interfered with their normal ability to store memories. It had shaken things up; up here in the brain. Somehow their injuries had plugged these people into a functional form of activity hidden within the Junk DNA. Some unknown process of adaptation throughout evolution. They’d somehow accessed a functional area of their DNA. They were experiencing flash-points. Misfires if you like.’

I don’t understand. ‘I don’t understand.’ I’m trying.

‘It’s really very simple, after you’ve spent years trying to solve the puzzle. Our DNA isn’t just trying to evolve us into physically better specimens, Isabella. It’s recording everything we learn along the way.’

‘Recording?’ Is that possible? ‘What is it recording?’

‘I call the process, bio-updating. The nervous system is being used to store information. Simply put, we have a library of genetic data stored in our DNA. The Junk contains the memories of all our previous hosts. Specifically, the Junk DNA stores data from the past, that doesn’t interact with its coding to initiate its future. Junk DNA contains our ancestral memories. It was the only explanation for how these people could access abilities they’d never experienced or learnt. Junk DNA is a Plankton database for all the information that defines us. The un-quantifiable. What we write everyday and store up here,’ he tapped his forehead. ‘The data that’s up-dated and overwritten the entire length of our life. We call it knowledge, experience, even wisdom.’ Surgeon clasped his hands together. ‘It was a Eureka moment, to find that missing link. To study and understand how the brain periodically flashed this data into the Junk space within each new cell growth. The atheneum of life, Isabella. Piggy-backed on our ability to regenerate. Fucking awesome, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ she so wanted to share his excitement.

‘It’s a natural biorhythm that begins the day we are born. Autonomic Bio-updates that upload our neurological impulses. The junk strands in our DNA capture our memories, our character,’ he sighed, ‘and also our flaws. Much like the ones and zeros captured magnetically on that computer’s hard-drive. New cells have to be regenerated to replace those that are aged and worn. We shed and absorb the old genetic material, it’s how we survive. But our bodies can’t be prolonged indefinitely. Our hardware rusts over time,’ he tapped his head again.

‘The reality of life is we live it up here, in our minds, in a world of light and impulse, and with each new batch of cells produced, the information from our brain is logged within them; shunted into our Junk DNA. The ninety-eight percent of DNA that is non-coding, that no-one had the courage, or the imagination to explore. The empty strands that didn’t seem to serve a purpose. They are the most powerful of all. Look at it like this, Isabella. They’re lifeboats. Places to store every individual that our DNA has ever produced. Continuously updated during each and every lifetime and then dumped forward into the next.’

She’d never seen him so eager, so expressive with his hands. Why had he never told her this before?

‘Why?’ She asked.

‘How the fuck should I know? But it’s a transfer that never tires. It passes on in our offspring; the data leaping from one generation to the next. As one lifetime elapses into another. A hundred lives, a thousand; one hundred individuals. Past, present and future. Isabella, we do so much more than pass on our genetic code. We pass on ourselves. Tell me you understand?’

‘Yes,’ it was clearly important that she did, and she wanted to. She tried to get to grips with what he was saying.

‘From the first beginnings of Man,’ he said, ‘his first impulse; his compulsion to grow and survive; his very first thoughts, all of his decisions, its individuality in perpetuity. Every action and experience stored within the ninety-eight percent.’

Isabella didn’t really comprehend, but she wanted to. The only thing she needed to understand was a miracle was about to happen. Everything that they had done was a means to this end. It was God’s will. God was instrumental in their work. God was guiding their hands. In a few days they would have resurrected more than just a symbol of faith. Yes, she would listen to him; to the Surgeon. She would listen for as long as he desired to speak. Because he spoke for the Faithful.

‘Remember how you pointed out “that a body was a shell without the man”. You were absolutely correct,’ he said. Surgeon pulled a drawer open from a table. He lifted a plastic container onto its surface. Isabella felt drawn toward its contents. ‘Our donor doesn’t carry the baggage of Evolution. I don’t have to randomly guess who is who, or in which particular packet of data to look. Our donor is a one-off; a one of a kind. We have a unique specimen to work with. His DNA contains a singular contribution of genes. I'll re-grow the subject, that part is relatively easy. The important detail is I can release the consciousness stored within the cell. I’ve done it befo . . .’ Surgeon stopped talking.

‘You’ve done this procedure before? When? Why didn’t you tell me?’

He felt he’d said too much, that much was evident.

‘I wasn’t ready. The results were, disappointing. There was no need to concern you with failure.’

Surgeon opened one of the fridges. He retrieved a small bag and placed it on the table. Inside was a package. The sight of it gave Isabella a chill. She’d seen too many like it before. Always bound in the same brown paper. Its contents would be packed in cotton wool. She saw something else in the fridge. Isabella saw the box.

To think that such a small and insignificant thing could contain the destiny of Mankind.

To be a part of it was too much. It almost wasn’t enough, as Surgeon’s foot eased the door closed.

‘I have a lot to do, Isabella. You should go.’

Go? ‘Yes, of course.’ So much to think about. ‘I should get back before I’m missed.’ She picked up the bag.

‘The serum you have there is the purest I’ve ever produced,’ he said, and I’ve added something else. It’s wrapped separately inside for when the time is right.’

‘What is it?’

‘Odourless and tasteless. Stir it into Patron’s drink,’ Surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’ll show no symptoms for several hours. It will be quick and painless. More than he deserves.’

Her heart quickened.

‘You want me to kill him?’

‘Do you feel pity for him? That man would have the flesh stripped from us both, without thought or hesitation.’

‘He’s dying,’ she said.

‘Death comes to us all. And believe me, it wasn’t my decision to keep him living this long.’

‘Whose then?’ Not the Trinity’s? Was it Wyatt’s? ‘Why now?’ she asked.

‘His body has begun to reject the serum, you said so yourself. If it were up to me he would die screaming. But the solution in the package will end his pain.’

Is that the truth? Is it really a mercy?

‘He wasn’t always bad,’ she said.

‘Neither was he good. Patron has lied to you all since the very beginning.’

‘Everything I have ever done is concealed with lies.’ Isabella turned away. My entire life is a lie. It helped somehow to smooth her hand across the strange transparent chamber as she walked away. Inside this casing, apparently, the miracle would happen. He said he’d carried out the process before? When? There’s still too much I don’t know.

‘Do I need to worry about you, Isabella?’ Surgeon called out.

She stopped, shook her head.

‘No, I’ll do what is necessary.’

‘Remember,’ he said. ‘The JAG are not a force that keeps us safe. They are a net to keep us in.’ He raised his voice. ‘Find out what he’s planning first. Don’t fail us, Isabella. Not when we’re so close. Remember, Patron rejected God. He’s a man who cannot be saved. The question is, can you do what has to be done?’

‘I understand,’ she said. Don’t I always do what’s necessary. ‘Tell me again. Is it really going to happen?’

‘In a few days the world we know will change, Isabella. The blasphemer’s will burn for what they’ve done. The worthy will rise and rejoice. The Entity has foretold it.’

The Entity. It’s him, isn’t it? Wyatt, he’s the Entity.

54

The pen stopped writing as Scout adjusted the lamp beside his bed. The nights were getting dark earlier now. The two old rechargeable lamps gave surprisingly good light. He started writing again.

I’ll head to Downtown at first light. Find the Via Al Santa. Hopefully get a lead on the girl. I’ll look for San. Maybe that old hermit can help me find her. Has she still got the box? The pen exaggerated a question mark. I’ve got a strange feeling about this one, about Dok. Something about this Relic has got under his skin. I think it’s getting under mine too, must be. I got the shakes at Rubi’s. Flash back, real bad. I almost pulled the Glock on him. Maybe I should have done. Put him out of his misery, lol.

A gentle knock on the door coaxed his attention from the diary’s pages.

‘What?’

‘You decent man? Got something here for you. Hey, open door.’

Maybe if I’m quiet she’ll go away?

A key turned in the lock. He watched her ease the door open with her foot.

‘Why you not open door?’

‘Because it was locked. Doesn’t that mean . . .’

‘I bring food, you eat now. Got big job on, important you keep up strength.’

What are you, my mother? He raised a smile, or was it a grimace?

‘Thanks, put the tray on the bed.’ He swung his legs off the covers and closed the diary on his lap. Tass held out a mug with fingers crooked from age. Her skin looked pale and thin, almost transparent in the lamp light. The room looked positively warm in the woman’s ghoulish presence.

‘You feel okay, Sebastian? I worry about you.’

Obviously. Scout eased his knees up as Tass sat beside him.

‘You make old woman happy tonight, yes? Make me happy tonight.’

‘Make you, what?’

The question had the chilled charm of a gun pointed at his head. He wasn’t sure how to answer.

‘No,’ he said.

‘I put something in coffee. Make special for you. Will help.’

This was awkward. He politely refused the mug and shuffled himself some space.

‘I got other tenants, remember?’

‘Then make them coffee.’

‘Not want other tenants to complain. Not make noise and upset others.’

‘Tass, we’re not going to make a noise.’

‘They not like it when you dream out loud, Sebastian. Say it worry them. It worry me. Drink will help you sleep.’

‘Sleep? So you don’t want to . . . What’s in the coffee, Tass?’

‘Just potion my mother teach me. It help you sleep. All night long. You be strong in morning.’

‘So the coffee, it’s because the others have complained?’ Thank the Saints. He took the cup. ‘Thank you. I appreciate the thought.’

‘No sleep with crazy screams, okay. Get too many complaints.’

He stood and took Tass by the hand. He led her toward the door. ‘And the food. Hmm, yummy, looks great.’ It didn’t. Last time he saw a preparation like that it had been vomited by number four’s cat.

‘I here if you want talk, Sebastian.’

‘No. Yes. Maybe?’ He feigned a yawn. ‘Need coffee and big sleep. Got early start. Night, night,’ he said, and the door was closed.

OMG. The first letters he wrote down in the journal. I thought she wanted . . . no, I can’t even write it down. A fist fight at the Odyssey had way more appeal. The pen started to scribble again.

Dok is not himself. He’s shoved me in the middle of something that has a bad smell, and I hate to even think it, but I’m not sure I can trust him. Oh, and someone’s following me. Probably one of the Preacher’s goons keeping tabs. But I’ll be careful, just in case.

The pen paused. Then wrote slowly, as if the author were ashamed of the words.

I’m tired, Chi. Tired of the nights, and getting more and more lost in the days. I just don’t fit anymore. The more I try, the less I want to. I don’t know how. All I know is I miss you. Both of you. She’d be twelve in a few weeks. A young lady. I try so hard to imagine what she’d look like now? But I can’t.

The truth is I can’t remember what either of us looked like back then. I can only find you in my dreams, and I have to wade through darkness just to see your face. It’s always covered in blood.

The pencil broke sending the tip rolling across the page. What was left scratched a single X into the paper.

Scout folded the diary closed and let it slip to his blanket. He stared, then stood, and walked to the window. He teased the curtains apart and waited. A moment later a tiny glow broke the darkness outside. Somewhere between the two houses opposite, a few yards from where the Duma men had pulled up that morning.

Stalker man was still out there, smoking, obviously not bothered that he was aware. The curtain eased back.

‘Fuck you.’ Scout marched across the room and pulled open the top drawer beside his bed. He reached in and grabbed out the Glock. Thumb pressed the slide release to drop the clip into his hand. Sixteen ten mil stub nose rounds, fully loaded, slapped back inside. The handgun slipped between his belt and spine. It was time to have a word with the man outside.

Down three steps and out into the tiny garden he shared. Six feet of wall was scaled and he dropped to the other side. The alley beyond followed to its end. The street beyond in total darkness; not a soul visible at any of the building’s windows. The lamps that lined the tarmac hadn’t been in use for a decade.

Let’s pay Stalker a visit.

Scout walked casually out and crossed to the alley on the other side and was quickly into a sprint between the walls at the back of the houses. The cobbled blocks passed with almost silent procession below his boots into the garden at the end of terrace. He was up and over the wall to hang and drop to a moss covered flat roof which he crossed close to its edge. Careful to avoid the numerous pots filled with flora. He jumped and grabbed, pulled himself hand over hand up some cold railings until his feet could find purchase. Then jumped from balcony to balcony until he reached the last one. Scout hunkered down to breathe.

Where are you? He could see the alley from the back end. No sign of Stalker. When did this kind of shit get so difficult? He took a deep breath and went over the railing to drop silently onto the ground. The Glock already pointing ahead, its sights foraging for signs of any movement. A nice surprise for Stalker.

55

He’d moved like an alley cat. Quick and fluid not stopping until Stalker was right around the corner, hiding in the alcove. No reason he’d have moved in the last two or three minutes. A few choice words were due with whoever was trailing him. Maybe even a bruise or two, it was turning into that kind of evening.

The Glock came swiftly round the brickwork. Sharp hand movements swept the barrel around the open space

Son of a bitch. He wasn’t there.

The weapon fanned from two o’clock to ten in a single movement. The wall was a good ten feet high. Stalker could have scaled it and gone over, but why? No way could the bastard have known he was coming. Scout lowered the Glock to a seven o’clock position, gun still poised and ready. Hugging the brickwork he peeked out. The street was empty. Where are you? No movement. Not one open doorway or wall to hide a man. The buildings went straight up.

Scout’s body drained of adrenaline. The Glock lowered and hung by his side. That’s when he felt the cold steel press against his neck.

Fuck. No way.

A split second to decide. A nano-decision to make. Stay passive, or duck and roll, start shooting? The latter wasn’t really an option. The Glock was dropped, cushioned by a sigh. He started to turn his head.

‘No.’ A calm authoritative voice. The muzzle of the weapon pushed a little harder to ensure compliance. ‘I’m no threat to you. I’m just here to watch.’

‘Which makes you a pervert.’ The gun poked down into his neck, which made the man six foot four, maybe taller. The weapon’s pressure was constant, which meant steady hands. The fact that the wrong gun was jabbed into the wrong neck meant he was a ghost. How the hell did you get behind me? ‘What do you want?’

‘All you need to know is our interests coincide. As long at that continues I am not a threat.’

‘Good to know.’ Scout was grateful for that as he stared at the empty street. ‘Maybe we could get a drink? Exchange information. Help each other out?’

‘What would be the point? I am forbidden to involve myself, unless there is no other course of action. I added that last bit myself.’

‘Forbidden? Who by, the Preacher?’ No answer. ‘Or maybe Dok, is that who?’ It would make sense. ‘Hey, speak up. Everyone works for someone.’

A stream of smoke wafted past Scout’s face. A moment later the butt was flicked into road. He tried to turn and felt the weapon hit his head. The barrel dug harder into his neck.

‘Don’t you ever do what you’re told?’

‘Used to, but mum’s not here anymore.’

‘Smart mouth. They told me about that.’

‘Who? Who told you what about me?’ A change of approach was needed. ‘You shouldn’t smoke whilst on the job,’ he said. ‘Bit of a . . .’ Shit, an invitation? ‘You made yourself visible didn’t you?’

He’d accepted like the idiot he was. ‘You knew I’d come out.’

‘I wanted to see if you were as good as I’d heard.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘I beg to differ. You’re quick, agile, and silent. Just try to leave the emotional baggage at home.’

There wasn’t time to absorb the last sentence as pain entered the equation. Another sharp tap on his head, harder this time, caused Scout to drop to one knee and grab the back of his head.

‘Bastard! What was that for?’ Muzzle met skull and jerked his head forward. This close to the ground he could count the cracks in the paving.

‘To remind you what can happen when you get careless.’

Scout’s needle hit boiling, he pushed himself up.

‘I like you,’ Stalker said. ‘Maybe she will to?’

‘She? Sorry, I’m not into threesomes. I’ll have to meet your Mother another time.’

Saints alive. That hit stung more than the last.

‘Fuck, fuck . . . okay, I asked for that one,’ he smarted. ‘I don’t know her, and already I don’t like her.’ Whoever she is. ‘Ah, wait, does this mystery woman have a tendency to steal things?’

‘You see, you’re smart as well amusing. I’ll run out of adjectives for you.’

‘Here’s an adjective for you, arsehole,’ Scout waited for the metal to bounce against his head again. It didn’t.

‘She’s going to need your help,’ Stalker said. ‘They’re coming for her, and they’ll kill her if they can.’

‘You like her so much, you help her. She’s already ruining my life.’

‘I’ve chosen you for that job, you are the Guardian. Things must run their course, there’s a lot more going on than you realise.’

‘No shit, there usually is.’

‘She’s as big a part of this as you are, Sebastian. There will be a time soon, when I am gone. It’s game-time. Time to face your daemons.’

‘Sure, whatever. I’ll settle for mystery thief’s name and address?’ The muzzle pressure had lifted. ‘Well, you gonna help or not?’ He took a cautious peek behind. Mother . . . The alley was empty. Hey, why spoil a good mystery?

56

It had been four days since she’d made the delivery. Five since she’d wowed the world with her skills. Not that anyone would ever know. The Preacher would hardly acknowledge the theft publicly.

“Wait until you are contacted.” Her contact’s parting words after she’d handed him that lovely little box. She’d heard nothing since of course. She never did. That wasn’t the way it worked, which was fine with her. Or was it? Just once, it would be nice for someone to make a fuss. To hear the City shout, wow!

Kat eased the contact lens from her left eye and put it with the right. ‘Hey there pretty girl,’ she said aloud, gazing at her image in the mirror. ‘If it was easy, they’d do it themselves. Which is why they pay you so ridiculously well every month.’ Her index finger dabbed the worn surface below and traced slowly through the numerous items of vanity. ‘All that for a box?’

She’d toyed with it. Tried to open the puzzle and failed; not very professional, very naughty in fact. Not something she’d ever done before. She’d had flashes of the damn thing in her sleep ever since.

‘Red,’ she said aloud. Red was the colour for tonight. The shade of lipstick in her hand as it teased against her lips. The pigment applied, she puckered and blew herself a kiss.

This shit was expensive. Not hard to get hold of; not if you knew where to buy. Kat knew that somewhere, out there, was a big warehouse full of the stuff. Piled high in hoards like a lot of things in short supply. There was a treasure trove of girly stuff out there that needed to be liberated.

Kat dropped the cloth and puckered again. Inactivity held no purpose. It bored and stifled her. She sat back and revisited her choices. Blonde or auburn? Maybe black? No, not black as she teased the darkest hairpiece on the stand next to the mirror. Not black, not tonight.

‘Hey Foxie, it’s been a while,’ she said slipping the deep auburn wig onto her head. ‘How about you and me blaze a trail this weekend. Hmm, yeah Kat, that would be great.’

She wore wigs like hats. The sharper the colour, the wider the brim, the more shade they gave to her face. Keeping the rain off what lay below. She smiled, stood, stepped away, grabbed and opened the two doors set in the wall.

Every hat needs a coat. She slid the hangers aside and weighed up her options. ‘Not you, not you . . . Ah, you I like,’ she announced as if the dress cared. Plucked from the wardrobe, it dangled in her hand, the wig was hovered above; both fired her approval. ‘Red over black means a girl don’t come back.’ She wanted company tonight. ‘You two, out here, now.’

The red heels, it had to be the red heels. Three inch Weapons of Male Destruction. One flipped one out with her toe, the other followed close behind. The dress was draped across the bed, the wig dropped on the pillow. A moment later the nightdress she wore was shimmied to slide gracefully away. What man didn’t want what she had to offer. Kat stretched her hair back till it tugged at the roots. She reached for the pins to keep it tight.

Maybe I’ll meet someone? Kat laughed out loud. Men were hardly a problem. A night of passion, well, sex at least. Worst case scenario, I get drunk and ride the tram till I pass out.

As the final pin clamped into her hair Kat circled the bed. Bare feet on the satin sheets half flung to the floor. Eyes smiling, head lost in invisible clouds. Her body slinked to the rhythm of every last dance she’d ever heard.

Maybe I’ll finish you when I come back? She pointed at the mural on the wall, wasn’t sure if it was finished. That’s how it is when you painted like a child. The paint pots closed now, abandoned on the carpet. Another time, perhaps. Art should never be hurried.

She moved on, imaginary headphones clasped to her ears. The air breathing life into her body as one sultry move followed the next. Not one thing in Kat’s Girl-cave was how it was meant to be. No books stood upright on either shelf. Unwashed clothing lay strewn across the floor. The mirror on the wall stood from floor to ceiling. The impromptu dance brought her back to the Babe Station. ‘Hey pretty girl.’ Every girl needs a bubble, and this one, this room, it belonged to Kat.

The door in the far wall sucked a sigh from Kat’s lungs. The bedroom door had come ajar from the frame. It did that sometimes. Why? She’d meant to fix it, oh, say, a hundred times. It left a gap for the rest of the loft to be visible. A half square of light that broke the spell. Out there was a Spartan world, clinical and clean; devoid of possession or personality. Everything out there, about there, was a reminder of the line she could never cross. Had no knowledge of ever crossing. Nothing but a Void out there. She wished sometimes that here was no out there. It called to her like that bloody box?

‘Go away!’ She stamped her foot. ‘Look, look what you’ve done.’ It had dulled the sheen of the dress. Pastelised, the colour of tonight’s hair. My mural? Suddenly less important than the brush that had made the strokes. She stomped naked across the soft carpet and kicked the door shut.

She’d been like this ever since the accident. Out there her world, small as it was, had order. Limits that restrained her. It was so fucking clean and tidy. Fuck, she’d ironed the curtains at least twice this month. They said she was like that before the accident. Just the way she was; fastidious and smart, clinical and beautiful. Plain and ordinary more like. It had to be a side effect. Some sort of accident at birth that damaged her brain. Had to be. Or was it the accident? She still wondered, tried to remember. Couldn’t recollect a thing. They had awoken her. Everything before them was like a big sleep. It’s aftermath months of rehabilitation. Trying to find herself. A month of learning to talk again.

It’s difficult to be twenty-seven years old. When two is all you remember. Two years of life, the rest hovered below a curtained veil. She only knew because they’d filled in the blanks. Told her everything she knew about herself from before; who she was, what she was, and from the skills she’d retained wasn’t it obvious they told her the truth. So why then, why, did she doubt them? Why, when she looked at herself like this did she still have doubts about who she really was? Why, when she dreamed, could she only glimpse bit piece at her past?

Her past? The problem was, it didn’t feel like her past. It felt like someone else’s even though she knew the memories could only be her own.

Stop it. Did she really just stamp her foot again? You’ll give yourself another headache. She took a deep breathe. In through the nose and out from the mouth. Put on that dress. Belch up a smile. Tonight I feel nothing but wanted. Someone’s gonna get lucky night.

Right now all she wanted was fun. She wanted a man, and the red and black would ensure she find one that fit. It wasn’t so much the desire to get laid, not wholly, as a need to feel desired. No string, no baggage, not for one night at least. She wanted to feel a part of something more than just herself.

Kat crossed the room and closed the door. On the carpet sat an old dvd player. She pressed play and the metal box thumped into life.

Too loud? No, never too loud. She smiled as her hips struck up a percussion of slick movement. Elbows out, head back, her chest jarred to each thump of the drumstick. Fuck out there. Fuck the past and everything forgotten. Right here, right now, that’s all we have. Just a tiny piece of chaos to call our own.

Kat danced her way into the bathroom. She slipped the lever down and moonwalked backwards into the shower. Hot water tumbled down her face and body. Whoever her benefactors where, whoever it was who paid to retain her service, they could well afford the luxuries that kept her happy.

57

Liam turned another page. The story he read had taken quite a turn. The words conjured images as bright as the candles that offered them light. Moonlight, as it captured the tops of the waves. The oarsmen as they heaved on their paddles, their longboats rising on the swell. Then falling as the sea parted, sudden and away. “On” the captain urged at the bow of the lead vessel. “Put your backs to the oars.” Eyes straining through the spit of the sea. He was hard on the trail of the whale as his longboats slammed from one wave through the next. One last bold effort to catch and kill the monster.

Liam read the Captain’s immortal words out aloud. A hushed whisper as if encouraging the crew himself.

‘Thar she blows, Captain!’ What a thrill it must have been to live life in the vast expanse. Subject to the whim and extreme of the sea. Forever on the edge between the calm and swell. ‘Go get him, Captain. Don’t let the beast escape’.

The sound of gentle footsteps broke Liam’s concentration. He closed the book, placed it on his lap, he looked up.

‘Sir?’ A female voice. A single word offered with hesitation.

Only three people ever came to the cellar. Patron, of course. Radan, his secretary; the man was a snivel and a bore. The only other was Kara, a ward of the Commission. She brought food twice a day. It was she who had left the apple hidden in his tin.

‘May I?’ she asked.

Liam gestured acceptance with his hand. Kara stepped fully into the den.

‘I’ve brought juice and a sandwich. I know you like honey so I smeared a little on the inside of the bread.’

Twice in one day; a treat indeed.

Kara paused as if waiting for him to say something. He didn’t. Why did her mouth always open when she smiled? What was it she wanted to say? How lovely she looked in the candlelight.

Kara smiled and bowed her head slightly, as she always did. There was something fresh and virtuous about the woman; about her demeanour. The dresses she wore dropped a hem to cover her ankles. Only the toe of the grey rounded shoes she wore could be seen. He’d only seen her wear three dresses. All repaired with stitch-work from a very delicate hand. He admired the precision of the stitching.

He supposed she was pretty but had no real experience with which to compare this young woman, somewhere in her late teens. He’d never seen her wear her hair in any other fashion than the way it was now. Pulled tight to the head to hide any volume, bound and dropped down her neck into a short tail. A slender figure with barely any shape from her chest or hips. Her features sharp and set above mousy lips that held barely any colour. Something about this woman fascinated him.

Liam understood that he was different from other, more ordinary people. He accepted his lack of empathy towards others. You can’t miss what you’ve never had. But there was something about Kara. She hardly ever looked directly at him, content to raise her eyes now and then; mostly when she spoke. She showed such clarity and brilliance in those emerald swirls, the clear lustre of their white flesh set his heart rate soaring. This lone diminutive figure was his only furtive pleasure.

‘What are you reading?’ she asked.

‘It’s a fiction,’ he replied, ‘about the Captain of a ship who pursues a white whale across the seas.’

‘He does? For what reason?’

‘He wants to find it, and kill it.’

She smiled.

‘Do you think him foolish to embark on such an obsession?’

Kara placed the sandwich on the table. Before she could turn and leave, Liam did something out of character. He reached out and touched her arm. An impulsive act.

‘Stay, please,’ he said, and offered her to sit on the bench. ‘If you’d like to?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. Her hesitance still present but more relaxed. Kara sat.

‘The Captain’s name is Ahab. He hunts the whale, not because it took his leg. But because the white whale stole his pride.’

There was that open smile again.

‘Shall I read to you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Each time the word was accompanied by school girl nods and a refusal to raise her eyes to his. But not through fear. More an awkward pleasure.

Liam flicked back through the pages. There was a passage that he particularly liked. It would be a good place to start.

“The White Whale swam before him,” he recited, and glanced up. Just as her gaze slipped away. “As the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in their statue devil; Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.”

Liam lifted his attention from the page to see Kara, seemingly enthralled by his words, instinctively look down. He wondered if she understood what the passage meant. The smile on her face suggested it didn’t matter.

‘He was wrong,’ she said abruptly.

‘Wrong?’ Why would you say that? ‘In what way was he wrong?’

Kara put both her hands in the pocket at the front of her dress. She lifted her gaze.

‘The Saints gave all living things a purpose,’ she said. ‘The whale’s purpose was to feed. The Captain’s purpose was to murder the whale.’ Kara stood.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘I have work to do.’

‘Of course.’ Her response had been unexpected. So refreshing, and yet so naive. ‘Kara, the Saints gave us reason so we could understand a higher purpose.’

‘And what is your purpose?’ she asked.

‘To ensure that their purpose is understood.’

Kara smiled, and with a nod of her head turned and stepped away.

‘Kara,’ Liam called after her, ‘may I read to you again?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I would like that.’

I would like that too.

He could no longer deny it. He liked her, but not in a sexual way. At least he didn’t think that was how it was. No, this was a different feeling of pleasure. He decided he was willing to embrace it. Perhaps even to revel in it. For tomorrow Liam would be outside in the City again. Consumed within his own obsession. Fully engaged in the work of the Saints.

Liam would be prowling the streets on the hunt for his own white whale.

58

An early start and three busy trams had seen Scout traverse the City. This last stop was Downtown. All Saints as it was more commonly known. From here to the city centre the majority walked, only a few held permits to drive.

Already the hypocrisy was in the air. Stalls were being erected whilst the chosen prepared. People prayed and chanted. The colours of numerous religious Sects were being wrapped around posts and railings. Bunting already strung where possible. It was still early. Scout liked little about Downtown. Just another market place, it sold redemption and faith.

When the foot traffic gained weight they would start to Preach. Hundreds of voices in proclamation. A choir of sound running street after street. A noise being made for anyone prepared to stop and listen. Hawkers with pamphlets; their Prophet always greater than the last, or the next. Their Saint always able to promise much more. Three times a week and never a shortage of believers. Already he felt some unwelcome attention.

The word was that in the past these streets hadn’t been big enough. Far too many groups had converged to find new followers. The back biting and name calling often turned to fists and fights. A new law had to be passed to limit their number at any one time. A ‘Cord’ was introduced; a minimum spacing between pedlars of Saints. Every Hawker had one tied to his belt. Better it was tied round their necks.

Scout walked on, head down, the first of the voices probed at his personal space. He politely declined each invitation to stop and chat. On the pavement small pictures appeared.

‘Pictures of our Prophet,’ a man said. His face well weathered It looked more like a child had scrawled stick man on the tarmac.

‘Gaze with me Brother,’ said another who wore a grey robe. His hands and eyes lifted toward the heavens. ‘Share the light of the sky through Jonas’ eyes.’

Jonas? Not a Saint Scout was familiar with.

‘Come Brother, take vigil with me.’

‘Bless you Brother,’ Scout replied, ‘but when I look at the sky the sun hurts my eyes, and my face gets wet when it rains.’

Well, that look wasn’t very Saintly.

Banter helped. He had a short fuse with the religiously afflicted. The next pitch came with only a moments delay.

‘You look troubled my son,’ the weathered face said. ‘Take a moment and sit.’ Unwashed feet poked out from the fraying hem of a long coat. ‘Unburden yourself and Saint Constance will listen.’

Hardly. Something ahead changed his mind and direction toward Barefoot.

‘I need to unburden, and quickly. Can you help me?’

‘Of course, Constance always listens.’

‘Which way?’ Scout asked.

‘There are many paths to salvation.’ The crinkled face wore a welcome smile. ‘Tell me, what burdens you?’

‘I’m bursting for a pee. Please, I really need direction.’

Barefoot hesitated, scowled, then pointed. ‘Down the street,’ he said, ‘second turning on the right.’

‘Blessed is Constance,’ Scout called out. ‘She’s answered my call.’

‘She? No, Constance is a he.’

He, she? There were many ways to salvation, and as fun as this was he didn’t have enough rhetoric. There were at least a dozen traders on either side of the street before it wound out of sight. And he had no intention of giving the three JAG Troopers who’d emerged behind an excuse to stop him.

The man he’d come to see would be in the main Square. San, offered his own kind of salvation. He’d find him by the ancient fountain, where else?

The further in Scout went the more numerous the banners with the badge of the Reliquary. Twisted lines within a purple circle on backgrounds of red or black. And there were more JAG. No point in trying to avoid them now. One thing was becoming blatantly obvious, this was the wrong place for a non-believer to be.

59

Security was heavy; Troopers everywhere in twos and threes, mostly. They were the Commission’s most visible deterrent, but they also maintained an invisible presence. The unseen soldiers of the Reliquary. The Informers and spies. The Commission would have them out in force, and who could blame them. The Trinity had been active across the city. This last year alone the Heretics had upped their game. Everything from symbols painted on walls, to murder. The killing of a Prime Legate, the man murdered in his home. The Trinity threat was a clear and present danger. The festival was an obvious target.

Scout headed towards the river. Through the busy traders who blocked the streets as they unloaded from wagons and boxes. Tables were fast filling with provisions. The Faithful were putting the finishing touches to their boards and banners. The smell of food was present in the air.

It had been a few years since his last festival. The memories flashed back; Chia’s smile. He’d never been a believer but for her he’d been willing to try. Not since his childhood had he experienced this mad collage of cults and Saints; the Hawker’s and helpers, the barrows and stalls. Their carnival sound. He even listened to the call of the righteous. All for her. She believed in the Saints, and he wanted to believe, for her.

Scout took a breath, none of this was real. If it were, then why did they take her? No, it was all a lie. Religion was a commodity like everything else. Over a hundred and fifty Saints officially endorsed by the Commission and sold like sweets in a shop. Hope, had become commercialised. Salvation offered for sale, but from what? It was a form of control wrapped up in the form of trinkets and bones, cloth from the hanger. Rack upon rack of scarves and shirts, hats and bonnets, dyed in the shade of a favourite Saint. Jewellery made from metal and wood hung up like meat up in a butchers window. Everything from the Prophet’s lucky dip, to a complete collection of Saintly toes in a wooden frame. Holy Relics to give the meek meaning in their lives. Sold under licence by the Commission. Blessed by the mighty Patron in his Reliquary. No, fuck them all, them and their Saints. They did nothing to save Chia, or him.

Scout joined the back of a large group of Pilgrims. Used them as a buffer before he turned off alone toward the Square. Now he was angry, at everyone. He didn’t want a finger or a toe. He scowled at the man offering pendants, and pushed away the towel that bore the face of a Saint. This was the centre of the City, the great tree from which all Saints hung. They dangled like ripe fruit, soft and juicy, ripe and ready to be plucked. The root of every Saint on offer had to be watered by money. Scout had none to spare. What he liked least of all were the Cult members who hunted in packs for the souls of the weary. Avoiding the crazies was like trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement.

One last turn and Scout walked out into the Square. Into a dense crowd of people. This close to the Reliquary he could see the domes above the rooftops. At noon the bridges would be opened, the Pilgrims allowed to cross. Twice a year you could cross the water without a pass. Enter the Reliquary through open doors. Patron’s gift to the faithful.

If he took another deep breath to get through the bodies ahead he’d probably pass out. They needed to get out of the way. Much more of this and he’d have a panic attack. Fists would fly. He imagined loosing a gunshot into the air to move people. Get the fuck out of my way. Finally he broke through and stepped out into the Square. Took the chance to breathe. The urge to shoot people passed. It seemed things had changed since his last visit to the Square.

New marble pillars circled the Square. Faces carved into polished stone that he didn’t recognise; maybe the name plates were coming later. Most prevalent were the symbols of the Reliquary. The scaffold erected and draped in the scarlet and black. The Square was now the Commission’s domain. A place to hear the Legates’ words. They’d upped their game since his last visit.

Scout walked toward the ancient fountain. To his left three Legates preached to the gathering crowd. Tubed pulpits covered in cloth that ruffled in the breeze. The entire area had received a facelift. The tall residences that framed the Square now billowed with red and black sails hung from windows and railings. Streams of bunting swayed high above him in the strengthening breeze. All the windows and doors had been painted in silver and gold. Small herds of chairs were corralled into the narrow walkways around the Square. Seating for Pilgrims in the shade below archways built by the Ancients. There was an air of serenity despite the coarse preaching of voices from the pulpits.

It was a sight to behold, this work of the Saints. A tall poster of Mikael; Patron’s favourite Saint was fixed to scaffold between the crimson cloth. The Legate’s voice preaching out from above through hidden speakers as Scout scanned the crowd to find San. He’d be by the fountain. The last time they’d met was at the orphanage in the Work Quarter. It had been year since then.

Scout took the long way around under the archways. He followed the pavement in the shade. Somewhere in the Square was a friend. The reason he’d come. Then he saw him, the old man sat on the wall of the fountain, face raised, basking in the early morning sun.

He’d first met San running packages for the Duma, way back as a kid. He never did find out what he left in the old man’s mail box every week. He could only guess.

The old man who sat so innocently on the wall had a most colourful past. He’d had been a fervent JAG officer in his younger years. A Legate’s clerk when his hair had first started to recede. By the time San had reached his mid life crisis he’d been Chief Clerk at the Office of Historical Study, and overseen the Department of Buildings and Parks. He’d been studying for Legateship at the Reliquary, before a scandal got the old boy excommunicated by the Commission. Scout assumed it was connected to dealings with Black Market Antiquities. The ban was later lifted, and San encouraged to retire into private life.

He’d told Scout once that he would sit in the Square every day, at the exact same time, and would do so until one of the many enemies he’d acquired decided to retire him for good. They were taking their time.

The old man was sat wearing the heavy habit of a monk. By his feet lay a wooden cane, and bag that opened and closed with use of a drawstring. On his lap was a bowl. It saddened Scout to see him like this.

60

‘Move your arse out of the Square, old man.’ Scout gave his best mimic of authority. ‘We’ve had complaints about an old pervert lusting after decent and righteous women. Know anything about that?’

‘I know everything about that. I was young once. Being blind may stop me undressing women with my eyes, but there’s no lack of imagination I can assure you.’ San picked up his cane and threatened to stand on frail legs that refused him. ‘Women are still beautiful up here,’ he said and raised the cane to his head.

‘What’s not pretty is the smell of stale urine. Are you responsible for that?’

On reflection he shouldn’t have said that to the old man. There was a bit of a whiff in the air. Still, if he couldn’t mess with a blind man what could he do for fun?

‘I’m impressed that you can tell the difference between stale and fresh urine.’ San responded. ‘I’ll have you know the habit I’m wearing was worn by Saint Jude himself, who according to historical reference was a very reluctant bather.’ San shrugged. ‘He believed most sincerely that a man’s sins couldn’t be washed away. And they should be carried like a bell, and be denounced with hardened fervour at all times. As for my own hygiene, I’ll have you know I wash at least once a week.’

A smile breached the ragged hairs around the old mans lips. It was doubtful that he’d trimmed the lengthy beard, or his eyebrows, in years.

‘How are you Sebastian? It’s been a while.’

Scout parked himself on the wall beside San.

‘I thought you were blind?’ he said. ‘How did you know it was me? And don’t tell me it’s my smell.’

‘Don’t be silly. Though my other senses are more highly tuned than most. No, I recognised you by your gait.’

‘My what?’

‘You have a distinctively awkward walk. Your left leg always follows your right. In ninety-eight percent of people it’s the other way round. I only know one person who resides in the remaining two percent.’

You do? I do? Scout considered the statement. ‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘And I suppose the blind walk in straight lines?’

San laughed. ‘How are you, Scout?’

‘Getting old,’ he replied. ‘Something you know all about.’

‘Every day is a gift from the Saints, and don’t say bollocks again, some of us still have faith,’ he smiled and looked down for the first time. The white pigment in his eyes had spread further since they last met; it covered the irises completely now.

‘How are you, San?’ he asked

‘Oh, my arthritis still plays me up, and I have a twinge down here in my lower back. It comes and goes.’ He tapped his rear. ‘I have a rash on my arse that pains me when I shit sometimes. And my knees . . .’

‘It was a rhetorical question. You’re fucked, I get it. But it’s good to see you.’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Pleasantries over then, what do you want? And make it quick, I have a living to earn.’

‘Let’s talk in the shade, it’s getting hot.’

‘No, I prefer to talk here. The fountain and I enjoy each other’s company. We have much in common. Neither of us is young anymore and we both have problems with our plumbing.’

‘Can’t get it up?’

San grinned. ‘For the record, I got laid last week. A couple of tourists from the other side of the Line. They have a thing for old men with dirty habits.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Not at all. They thought I was a Prophet and capable of divine intervention. And for the record I was, twice.’

‘You realise that’s disgusting.’

‘It’s bloody miraculous, but not what you want to talk about. Considering your religious predilections are zero, I have to assume you’re not here to enjoy the festival?’

‘No, this is business, sorry.’

‘Then get to the point, I’m working.’

The bowl at his feet had a couple of small coins in its base. San had probably put them there himself, to encourage others. Scout dropped a coin in to make it three.

‘I need information,’ he said, ‘of a geographical nature. Considering your age and previous employment I thought you could help.’

San pulled his hand from the fold of his habit. Aged fingers picked up the bowl and jarred it twice. The coins inside chinked together.

‘You did say this was business.’ The coins chinked again. ‘It’s such a small bowl and you have such a big heart.’

‘Information first,’ Scout insisted.

San sighed. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I need to find a woman.’

The old man’s grin exposed more gaps than teeth. If they’d ever been white, it was a long time ago.

‘I know two lovely girls,’ he said. ‘I could rent you my habit for an extra consideration.’

‘Not necessary, but thanks.’ It looked flea ridden and old. Just like it’s present owner. ‘I got a partial address from her Tag.’ Not much point in showing you the photo. ‘The girl lives in a place called Sassia. You heard it? It’s in the city somewhere.’

‘Sassia, you say?’ Contemplation turned to a shake of the head. ‘Sassia?’ he repeated.

Shit. Scout stood and kicked the marble basin. I thought you’d be the one person to know. ‘If you don’t know, I’m out of options,’ he said.

‘I know where it is.’ He lifted the bowl as high as the withered arm would reach. ‘It’s an old name that no-one’s used for decades. An area of exclusive residence; your pensioner has expensive taste.’

‘Pensioner?’ It seemed an odd thing to say. ‘No, this woman’s in her early twenties, that, I am sure of.’

‘No,’ San shook his head. ‘If you got that address from her Tag, she isn’t young and pretty like you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The bowl knows all, my friend.’

‘For fuck’s sake, I’ll see you right, okay. But I’m not putting it in that thing. I don’t care how much you shake it.’ The wooden bowl relented back to San’s lap.

‘Tags,’ San said. ‘They don’t use names any more, not for sixty odd years. They phased that out when I was a Novice. People with Tags like that are older than me.’

‘She’s no geriatric, San. I’ve seen the photos.’

‘Then you’ve seen what someone wanted to show you.’

‘No, they’re for real. Rubi’s a whack-job but he doesn’t make mistakes.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Don’t give me that look. You don’t have any feelings to hurt. San, how can a girl have a Tag that belongs to her grandmother?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

‘How? I’ve never met her.’

‘Why are you looking for a woman you’ve never met?’

‘I’ve got my reasons.’

‘How many reasons?’

‘Enough to buy you bread for a month.’

‘Make it two.’

‘Fine, enough for two, but the information first.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll tell you what I know. And I’ll tell you this for free. In the space of a few seconds it’s become obvious to me that you’re involved in something you should have walked away from. I’m wondering who it is that has a gun to your head?’

‘No-one. Just tell me where to find her.’

‘You want to find a woman without a name or an address, and it seems that her age is in doubt as well.’

‘That’s pretty much it, yeah.’

61

‘Women are strange creatures,’ San observed. ‘They’re the cement that binds society together. The driving force in nature. It’s a fact that only women can move evolution forward. They don’t need a man. Just the fluid he carries around in a sack.’

‘Nice thought, San. No wonder you sit here on your own.’

‘But it’s true. We are mere playthings to them. A woman can manipulate the fire in a man’s veins. Cause our bodies to secrete magical potions. Induce us to experience a little bit of Heaven, or a very large dose of Hell.’ He paused and then pointed. ‘You see the dome at the far end of the Square?’

It was a bit hard not to. Bloody thing was massive. ‘Yes,’ Scout agreed.

‘Do you know what it was?’

Scout knew where this was going. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you’re going to tell me again anyway.’

‘History is important. It’s why we know who we are. How we judge how far we’ve come. And before you say it, I insist you let me indulge myself. You don’t come to see me anymore. And as you see I don’t have too many friends. Besides, I already know more about your female than you do. Information is gold.’ He chinked the coins again. ‘My cup does not runneth over.’

‘But unfortunately your mouth is about to.’

He knew what was coming. A history lesson about something he couldn’t care less about. He supposed he deserved it. It had been a while since he’d bothered to come see the old man. He knew exactly why San sat here. It wasn’t as a target for insults. The old man liked the smell of women as they walked by. It was all he had left. As the crowds grow the women become plentiful. San had often referred to the Square as a whore house for the blind. Scout couldn’t answer for that but the Square was becoming quite colourful. There had always been a tendency for people to wear their best clothing, and fragrances, when coming to this part of the City. Prayer was obviously more intimate when you looked and smelled your best. As if to order a woman in floral pants stopped to stare at them both. A small party of five filed in behind her. San responded, his bowl rattled in his hand toward her.

‘Pennies for an old scholar? I gave my eyes for the Faith.’

‘You should take better care of your father,’ she said.

‘My what?’ Are you scolding me?

‘Blessed are the Saints,’ San called after her. ‘Wretched are a blind man’s children.’

‘Cheeky cow, I can’t believe they actually give you money.’

‘Some don’t need to be asked.’ The cup angled toward Scout, who pushed it away.

‘I was going to ask you,’ he said.

‘Fucking Saints, they ensure we all have to pay our own way.’ San paused. He looked up, and then left. ’Do you see the dome at the end of the Square?’

‘The same one as last time?’

‘In the ancient world they called that dome the Pantheon. It’s old, Scout, a religious temple for prayer. Can’t get in there now, it’s structurally unsound. A bit like me, I suppose. I sit here sometimes and try to imagine what it was like to go inside and make offerings to the Gods. How grand it must have been burning sweet smelling incense in dappled sunlight. It must have been bloody marvellous to slaughter a goat or three on its altar. They were Pagan’s, did I mention that? Fiercely devoted to a hundred different Gods. Nothing really changes.’

The bowl was raised as more walkers came close by.

‘Alms so an old man can pray one last time in the Reliquary. One last pilgrimage before he lies in the arms of the Saints? No? Well, may the Saints watch over you anyway?’ A snide shake of the cup followed them. ‘This city was once the centre of the known world did you know that? An empire was conceived, conquered, and then administrated from where we sit now.’

‘From a fountain?’

‘You’re such a philistine.’

‘A what?’

‘Some evenings I go to the Colloseo.’ San shook his head. ‘The big circular building down the road. You’ve been there?’

‘Of course I have. Everyone has.’ Granted he hadn’t been since he was a child.

‘Before the Commission bricked it up and put roofs on for the rent, that structure was a place were men fought and died. It was an arena of combat and honour. I like to sit there and . . .’

‘Shake your cup?’

‘Imagine what it was like before the Apocalypse.’ San put the cup on the ground as a dozen people walked by. ‘You see that monstrosity across the river? The Reliquary; the big house where they dream up names for a hundred new Saints?’

‘Easy San, there’s always someone listening.’

‘Fuck them.’ The old man wagged a wrinkled fist. ‘Market whores all of them.’

‘Easy, San, let’s not get too excited.’ The Square was filling; at least twenty JAG, in twos and threes, several hundred in the crowd now. Most looking up to the scaffolds. He’d blocked out the voices, now his own seemed louder than theirs.

‘It wasn’t always like that. The Reliquary was like the dome over there. It was a channel, a vessel, a transmitter of prayer to God.’

Scout felt the hairs rise across his body. He needed to be sure no-one was close enough to be listening. What was the old bastard thinking?

‘San, you feeling okay?’

‘I’m tired, Scout. Sometimes things have to be said.’ He took two painful looking breaths. ‘We live in a City where men kiss objects because they are venerated by others. The word can no longer be heard, it lives on as a whisper. Saints are just commodities to be sold and bargained. This City has a fire that burns out of control. It’s a furnace of false faith that blows with commercial winds. Phoney prophets conjured by the greed of Legates who sin!’

‘San, shhhhh, easy now.’

‘Do my words frighten you? Are you frightened by what you might hear?’

‘I’m frightened by what others might hear. Now shut the fuck up, old man.’

62

‘Are you trying to get us both arrested? If you want to rant about the Commission do it somewhere less public.’

‘They’re still here, did you know? The bodies of the Prophets Mark and Peter are entombed below the Reliquary.’

‘Who?’

‘The original Saints, Fathers of the Old Religion.’

‘That’s enough, San. We’re in a yard filled with Legates and JAG, remember? Just tell me about the woman and I’ll go.’ Shit, I should go now. It felt as if the entire Square was staring.

‘They say Mark and Peter sat at the feet of Jesus Christ. Scripture says He was the son of God.’

It was like a wave of foreboding crashed through his stomach. At least now he kept his voice to a hush.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ He grabbed the old man’s hands. ‘Are you trying to get yourself arrested? Get us both arrested?’

‘Listen to me, Scout. So many Saints have been hijacked from the Old Religion. The truth isn’t what they tell us.’

The truth was he didn’t want to know, but he’d heard stories, tales about the Old Religion, about the Trinity who still worshipped the Old God; the One and only God. He’d heard whispers over the years about how their faith was returning. How it had seeped back into the city, into the homes of ordinary people. He remembered the poster again.

Science is dead

Technology is dead

God, is dead

Then put a hand gently over San’s mouth.

‘Why should I care?’ he asked in less than a whisper, ‘God is dead, right?’ There, he’d said it, God. Just a word, right? So why take such a deep breath after? It hardly made him a Heretic for saying it. So why did the goosebumps spread like a rash across his skin?

‘God isn’t dead.’

‘Easy, old man.’

‘He’s here, Scout. Here and now, and he’s calling to you.’

‘Me? What, why? No-one’s calling me. Look, I think it’s time I left. Safer for both of us if I go, okay.’

‘She needs you, Scout. We all need you.’ The toothy grin returned to the weathered face. ‘The time has come.’ His voice raised as if about to give sermon. ‘The time is upon us,’ he said aloud.

Scout rose to his feet, head moving, glancing about. A group of elderly women had stopped to watch. Others had noticed. He’d seen San pull this, “I’m in touch with the Saints shit” before. It attracted attention, which was the point. Right on cue he saw JAG approaching. Ten, maybe twelve in number. It was time to leave.

63

None of the Troopers were armed. Probably off duty, they’d come to hear the Legates preach. Suddenly he heard them himself as oration filled the air; an inciting and provocative collage of words from the three pulpits; the fountain at their centre.

‘Sit down,’ San insisted. ‘You’ll attract attention.’

‘And you’ll get a slap. Don’t pull that phoney shit on me.’

San raised himself, one arm on Scout’s looking for help. He rattled the coins in the bowl toward those that stared.

‘Donations for widowers and orphans?’ he called out, ‘the blessings of Arminus on you all.’

Scout watched the numerous shake of heads, and breathed a sigh of relief as feet moved away; the Troopers passed with barely a look toward them.

‘Sassia?’ It was more than impatience in his voice. ‘Or shall I buy a map?’ he asked.

‘You wouldn’t find it. There are no maps for the City centre. They like it that way. Gives a sense of mystery; adds to the privacy.’ San leant against his cane as if considering whether to share or not. ‘You look a bit pale, my boy?’

‘Fuck you, old man.’ The cocktail of heady drugs that had pumped so fervently about his body began to drain. ‘San, please. Can you help me or not?’

‘You’ll find your woman in the Santo Spirito. The old name plates can still be seen if you know where to look. It’s where the old hospital church stands . . . or at least stood. But you’ll have to cross the bridge to get there.’

‘It’s on the other side?’

‘Oh yes, your girl lives in a very exclusive neighbourhood. There are Legates who live in more deprived areas.’ He took a sharp breath. ‘Tell me about this woman?’

‘She’s a thief.’

‘Professional?’

‘Very.’

‘What did she steal?’

Scout considered the question. He had to consider his client’s confidentiality. There was the matter of professional ethics.

‘An old Relic,’ he said, ‘and from a Duma Overlord.’

‘Interesting. Which one?’

‘The Preacher.’

‘Why would a woman from an affluent residence take so great a risk for a Relic? Want to know what I think?’

‘Sure, why not?’

‘We know several things about your mystery woman. She’s obviously wealthy, or has a rich benefactor. I suspect the latter with her questionable occupation. She’s most likely single and probably a loner. It’s hard to be a wife or a mother with such a nocturnal and dangerous occupation, though not impossible. And I suspect she’s acutely religious. I wonder which faith she follows?’

‘You mean which Saint?’

‘No, I said what I meant. Or why else would she steal a Relic from such a dangerous man? The thrill? I doubt it. Relics can be bought on any street corner. There are easier, more profitable things to steal. So ask yourself, why this Relic? What’s so special about the one she stole? And none of these questions are rhetorical.’

‘I don’t know, San. I’m being paid to find her, nothing more.’

‘And there’s another question you should ask yourself.’

‘Of course there is. Well?’

‘Why you?’

‘Why me, what?’

‘I wonder. Can I trust you Sebastian?’

‘No, definitely not.’ He knew that look. ‘Just direct me toward Sassia and I’ll be on my way.’

‘When you want to conceal something,’ he said aloud. ‘It’s often best to hide it in plain sight.’

‘That’s nice, San. Now where’s Sassia?’ This was like pulling teeth.

‘I think she’s Old Religion, Sebastian. And I think I know what she stole.’ San lifted his gaze to the sky. ‘My boy, you’ve really dropped yourself in the shit this time.’

64

‘It’s a box isn’t it?’ San asked. ‘An old silver box scribed with strange inscriptions?’ He sat, almost dropped to the fountain wall. ‘You used to have a better poker face. My goodness, so it’s not just a rumour.’

‘How could you know that? What else do you know?’

‘That they’ll fight to the death to protect their own. Kill to keep their secrets.’

‘Who will?’

‘The people whose property you’re trying to steal.’

‘Steal? But it belongs to the Preacher, doesn’t it?’

San laughed. ‘You have no idea who the real owner is do you? And I promise you it’s not some psychopathic sadist from up river. No, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Sebastian, but you’re in trouble, and it’s the type that comes with big doo doo.’

‘Is there any other kind?’

‘Yes, the kind where bad people don’t try to shoot you in the face, or cut bits from your anatomy. Slice your nether parts, or stick you in the . . .’

‘I get it, okay. Now what do you know about the box?’

‘Shh,’ San pressed a finger to his lips. A moment later coins dropped into the bowl. ‘Blessed are the virgins and the eunuchs, the humble and the meek. The generous are remembered for their goodness. You need to keep your voice down, people might hear,’ he added. ‘That sounded like two big ones. Did she have big ones, Sebastian, did she?’

‘You’ve been sat in the sun too long. Come on, let’s find somewhere cooler.’

‘I’m old and I’m blind,’ he said his thumb picking at his teeth. ‘I piss far too much and most of these teeth are not my own, but I’m fully compos mentis.’

‘That sounds disgusting.’ Scout grabbed San’s hand and disarmed him of his cup, placing it back at his sandalled feet.

‘No touchy, touchy . . . San no-like. Just like Sebastian.’

‘Tough, now start talking. You tell me everything you know about this box. If I’m in the middle of something hot, I want to know why.’

A beardy smirk was followed by a grimace.

‘Can you smell that, Sebastian? Can you smell the people in the square?’ He pulled on his habit and tightened it around his throat. ‘It’s a strange odour,’ he said. ‘A heady brew of excitement and deceit. The entire City is bathed in the same scent. Do you smell it?’

‘The only thing I smell is bullshit, so I’ll be going now.’ He got to his feet but wiry old fingers grabbed his wrist; the old boy was stronger than he looked.

‘I know, no touchy, touchy. You wouldn’t hit a blind man, would you?’

‘Don’t push me. I tend to disappoint people.’

‘Change is coming, my boy. The box will make it happen.’

‘Is that right?’ He had to stop looking around, he was making himself look suspicious. ‘What the fuck is the box San? No bullshit, no cryptic bollocks. The truth.’

‘The truth? That may be difficult because fact gets mixed with myth over time. Sit, please. I’ll tell you what I know.’

Probably best to sit, there were several JAG by the middle scaffold taking an interest. He took San’s hand from his arm, knelt, then kissed his fingers before placing it on his head.

‘Say a prayer, then tell me everything. My knees aren’t as young as they used to be, and take that smile off your face, I can feel it.’

‘The box is a holy vessel lost in time,’ said San, his other hand cupped Scout’s cheek. ‘Some think it’s a powerful weapon, or perhaps the ultimate receptacle of knowledge. I read a book once that suggested it holds an elixir to give eternal life?’

‘It’s had books written about it?’

‘Oh yes, the Relic is thousands of years old. Maybe more? The last written recording was in the middle age, hundreds of years ago.’

‘What is it?’

‘Who knows? Personally, I’d like it to be a recording of God’s voice. I’d die happy hearing that. Would you kiss my hand again?’

‘Fuck you.’ He did it anyway. ‘God’s voice? San, are you a Heretic?’

‘Ah, now you’re starting to understand.’

‘This thief I’m after, she’s a Heretic?’

‘Almost certainly. The Trinity believe the box is theirs by divine right. They’ll buy or steal anything that relates to the Old Religion. And if they know about the box, then Patron knows about it too.’

‘Why would he be interested in the box?’

‘Simple physics, two worlds cannot occupy the same space and time. Believe me, Scout, Patron will stop at nothing to find and destroy this box. The Trinity is a threat to everything he’s built here. And our movement grows every day.’

‘It’s just a box.’

‘Trust me, the last thing Patron needs is this artefact in the Trinity’s hands. He’ll mobilise everything he has to find it. And kill anyone who has knowledge of it.’

‘Shit, and I’ve got stuck in the middle?

‘Doo doo?’

‘Yeah, big doo doo.’

‘You’d best find the girl. She obviously knows more than we do.’

‘Your insight is invaluable.’ He was remembering what the gunman in the alley had said. ‘How long, San? How long have you been Old Religion?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s not old,’ he said, ‘more like New. There are two testaments on the subject, we lean toward the more forgiving of the two.’

‘Terrorism and murder are more forgiving?’

‘It’s a paradox, I agree. But it’s been my life’s work to spread the word, discreetly of course.’ San pulled the bag at his leg close and opened the draw string. Forefinger and thumb pulled wiry frames that held two dark circles of glass. He put the arms over his ears. ‘Do you realise you could be arrested just for talking to me? I’m a dangerous man, according to the Commission.’

‘You’re certainly full of surprises.’

‘Tell me, Sebastian, are you scared? You should be. If the box has resurfaced, it may well be time for it to open. Though why God would choose you to facilitate that rite is beyond me. I suggest you use your gifts to find the girl. Ask her what’s going on. I think that you and she may have a destiny to play out. It sounds rather delicious, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe I’ll just quit. Retire to the coast.’

‘You could, but you’d look guilty of something if you did. No, I think you’re in this up to your neck now. Walk away, and the authorities will bring you in. That’s if the Preacher doesn’t find you first. Either could believe that you found the box. Kept the box. Maybe gave the box to the Trinity. They’d be on you like a rash. Twist and turn your life inside out. Your body would get a similar treatment.’

‘You want me to keep looking don’t you. Why?’

‘Prophecy,’ said San. ‘The box is here. You’re here. The girl . . .’

‘Is here. Yeah got it.’

‘Blessings upon you,’ San shouted. ‘Upon us all, he understands.’

A loud kind of silence ensued. Somewhere between the murmur of the growing crowd and the voices of the three Legates. Whose preaching now carried with a more threatening tone. The square shrank and the black uniforms multiplied.

‘Are you trying to get us arrested?’

‘I’m doing my job,’ San replied. ‘Circumstances dictate that you do yours.’ The old man stared at Scout as if he could see. As if he could pick out the detail of his face. ‘Can it really be you?’ he asked. ‘God surely works in mysterious ways.’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘I’ll scream if you do,’ said San. ‘Not really, just joking. Oh, I wish I could see your face. It’s been a while since you did anything meaningful, and now you find yourself stuck in the middle, not knowing which way to turn. So listen carefully, my young friend. The only way now is forward.’ He took Scout’s hand and kissed it. ‘Sassia?’ he said. ‘It’s the old name for a small cluster of buildings that you won’t find on a map. Cross the river and head for the Reliquary.’ The strange silence returned. ‘Stop shaking your head,’ San added. ‘Now, I’d say your biggest problem will be the stench of poverty you carry. We both know they’ll smell you coming a mile off. You’ll need new shoes just to walk on such humble pavements.’

‘Who needs shoes, I’m a humanitarian. Being a good person opens up a lot of doors.’ His hand was twisted over.

‘You mean this? This ink won’t even get you on the bridge let alone over it.’

‘I’ll get over.’

‘Really? It’s obviously been a while since you took prayer at the Reliquary. The bridges were closed two days ago. You need a licence just to cross the river now. There was some trouble. The JAG found a den of Trins, they blew themselves up. A small explosive device, but took several Troopers with them. There’s a cordon around the City Centre.’

‘A bomb? I didn’t hear about that.’

‘The Commission suppressed it.’ He shrugged again. ‘I suppose if you wait till the summer you can join the Pilgrims; they might let you in by then. Sighing won’t help you.’

‘Come on, you must know someone that can me get across?’

‘Sure, come back in a week. No problem.’

‘By tonight, San.’

When he’d stopped laughing the old man sat up and put his glasses back on.

‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘And before you mention it, it’s not about money. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘Then how do I get across?’

‘With Divine help, probably. Look at it as your first test. The first of many I expect.’

‘My first what?’

‘How much did the Preacher pay you? I’m guessing you were stupid enough to take payment in advance? Hmm, another sigh. We’ve established you can’t go back. So what are the options? You could fly. Stow yourself in the boot of a car. Can you swim, Scout? It’s just a matter of avoiding the guards, the lights, and a few river monsters.’

‘Sounds like fun, you want to come?’

‘Got no wings, and I never learnt how to swim,’ he said. ‘Did I ever mention I’m claustrophobic?’ He opened his arms as if readying himself for a big hallelujah. ‘Why do you think I sit out here in the Square? I need to have a nap after taking a crap. No, this is your journey. But if I’m right, and you and this mysterious girl have a part to play . . . Well, you’ll figure it out, smart boy like you. On the brighter side, I do have a friend who’ll help after you’ve crossed. You just have to get there first.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Sassia is a pious district. The tenants are wealthy, and devout followers of the Saints. They like their privacy. The Commission allows it in return for donations towards the cause.

There are only three sets of apartments in use for single occupancy. Two are exclusively male and occupied by Prospects who study at the Reliquary. Most want to join the Cloth, the others prepare for the JAG academy. They’re hard core believers, best to avoid them.’

‘And the third?’

‘Is right in the centre.’

‘Of course they are.’

‘You’re sighing again. And we haven’t even got to the good bit. The block in question is, shall we say, accommodating towards society’s elite. Where wealthy men keep acquaintances that they don’t want their wives to run into.’

‘It’s a brothel?’

‘Goodness no, these people go to social events, but if I was a girl trying to hide in plain sight, that’s where I’d be. The building has a nickname: “Lucky Blu.” You’ll find it behind the old hospital.’

It seemed money well spent. He had a place to start looking for his mysterious thief. A woman who should be much older than her years.

San whispered a single word, followed by an address. ‘Write nothing down.’ He instructed. He repeated the instruction, clear and concise, and then raised his voice. ‘Saints preserve you,’ he said aloud. ‘Just one more thing, and this is for free. You’re being followed. I presume you know?’

‘I do. But how do you . . .’

‘There are two of them, but I don’t think that they’re together.’

Scout studied the Square in the direction of San’s gaze.

‘Wrong direction, they’re behind us,’ San said.

‘What do they look like?’ he asked.

‘I’m blind, Sebastian.’

‘Okay, so what do they smell like?’

‘One walks in a dangerous manner, he’s hard to track. He stinks of smoke?’

‘That one I’ve met.’

‘It’s good to have friends,’ said San. ‘The other is shorter, he shuffles his feet. He’s sneaky and hides himself well. I suggest you be very careful of that one.’ San poked his glasses tight to the bridge of his nose then reached for his bowl. ‘Alms for a poor beggar who has spent his life pursuing goodliness, and failed. Be kind, be generous. Be quick, there are others who seek to be enlightened.’

A group of women had begun to hover just out of earshot. It seemed a queue had started.

‘Don’t give the Saints silver, their words are gold. Taking advantage of a blind old man would be a sin.’

The coins in the bowl began to chink, loudly, as the audience watched. Scout peeled several notes from the wad in his pocket. He slipped them between San’s robe and chest.

‘Are they tens or twenties?’ San asked.

‘You’re the Mystic.’ Scout leaned in close. ‘You’re a charlatan,’ he whispered.

‘I know. Tell me, are there any beauties waiting to sit with me?’

‘Yeah, the woman in the blue dress.’

‘Does she look desperate?’

‘Oh yeah, and she has a great pair of . . . The Saints bless you,’ Scout said aloud. ‘My path is clear to me now.’

‘Which one? Give me a number in the queue. Which one? Sebastian? Scout? Are you still here?’

65

The Old Quarter was a thin stretch between Downtown and the river. A warren of narrow streets and alleys. Its main roads were open to official traffic only. It had boundaries that overlapped with the Reliquary itself. This was the richest and most pious district of the city; the spiritual and financial heart of the Saints.

It was short walk to reach the river. It seemed that whoever had built the City was infatuated by straight lines, and flat surfaces. Exterior facades with an obsession for fine detail; even if most were broken or damaged. Everywhere he looked the repaired remains of capitals and cornices, fancy corbeling and plinths. Oasis was a city rich with ornate doors, at least for those who could afford them to hide behind.

Dok spoke sadly, and at length, about how the city’s ruins had been pillaged and scavenged. Carted away until only the dregs remained. Oasis was blessed to have survive the Wars, that’s what they said. Dok wasn’t so sure. Most of the big awkward buildings, the ones made of steel and glass, they’d been pulled down. Most marred by fire and damage. An eclectic mix of old, and older still had been remodelled by ingenuity. The good stone and marble sent on to the city centre; decades of recycling taken central for the good of the City. The landscape across the Line had suffered worst from the purge of resources; raped of its timber and metal. The cream of its citizens moved inward as well. That was the way it had to be: the needs of the few. It was never about the needs of the many. At least that’s how it seemed if you lived across the Line.

Although he hated how the wealth had been accumulated, he did have to concede an admiration for its cage. Who wouldn’t want to live in a building by the river? Or up on the hilltops under the shade of trees? Survival is as much about love, as it is grit, and there was a love of nature across the Line. Sweet atrophy that brimmed with the colours of nature. Cascading waterfalls of vines at every turn. Cultivated to be beautiful. In summer the colour from the thousands of window-boxes and rooftops was a sheer delight. Gems of floral delight and sunshine which hid the poverty below.

How he hated this part of the city. It reminded him how he’d spent his life living between the Lines, but belonging to neither. San was right, he wouldn’t fit in.

It was a short walk to the river’s edge and the bridges that crossed. San was right also about their security. Black shirts in triplicate; heavyweights behind barriers guarding the crossings. Without the right paperwork he wouldn’t be able to cross. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. On the other side stood a castle, of sorts; the headquarters and main city Barracks for the JAG. Their flags flying from the ramparts. He quickened his pace, careful not to be seen staring. He tried to blend in, not so easy, everyone looked so serious. Just a touch of paranoia crept in as he felt the eyes of the passers by.

There it was, the bridge of Angels; the pilgrim road that led across the river to the doors of the Reliquary. He could see the hallowed dome itself, and below, the Saintly statues that ringed it. It was so beautiful. A glory to the Prophets carved in marble along its frontal parapet. Scout recalled the wonders inside the Reliquary that he’d seen as a child.

He needed to move on before someone decided to question him. Follow the riverbank north past the busy shops and cafes that lined the river. Business was obviously good in these parts.

Every corner or two he’d stop. Take a glance in a window and check for Shorty. He wouldn’t have noticed him without the warning from San.

This will do.

A green door in a black frame. The sign said Curio. He opened the door and entered. Curio obviously meant junk. Stacks of furniture and clothing. A far wall that was lined with boxes. A glass counter with Relics below. And there was a smell, like something had died recently. Scout walked through as if he lived there. Out through the back office and into a small yard where he scaled an old brick wall that threatened to topple under his weight. He doubted Shorty could even reach its top, let alone climb over. A few seconds passed by and no-one had tried. Probably waiting for him to come back out the front way. Things were looking up.

‘Who are you, what are doing down there?!’

Maybe not as the red cheeked face of a large woman was thrust through an open upstairs window. Nosy cow had a big mouth. What was the point of concealing himself if Big Mouth was going tell everyone where he was? He had to shut her up.

‘I’m an officer from State architecture, Courtyard Department.’ It was the first thing that came into his head. ‘We’ve had a permit request to upgrade your yard to courtyard status.’

He stepped fully into the light.

‘I have to tell you Madam that I’m not happy with what I find. This yard is six square feet below the minimum size permitted for consideration. If you’d checked the forms properly you would have understood this. I may have to instigate a full investigation into the improper use of department forms, and the improper use of a State official’s valuable time. Both of which are serious offences and carry penalties.’

Big Mouth stared but said nothing. Scout took a last look over the wall. ‘But I compliment you on the hanging baskets and your window box.’ He felt it a point well made. Whoever tended the half dozen or so bowls that hung from walls had nurtured a particularly fine floral arrangement. The window-box itself was a spectacle of colour.

‘I’d like to come back . . .’

Big Mouth closed the shutters. Hardly hospitable, but he thanked the stars for a limited exchange.

For most of the day Scout walked the river. There was a heavy JAG presence on the bridges and the opposing riverbank. Cars were searched, boot lids opened. Security was keen and the traffic too light. JAG Troopers were quick and efficient, and they had dogs. He wasn’t going to mess with canines. It seemed the only way across was to swim.

He’d find a convenient place to enter the water and make the crossing after dark. Once across the water he’d find a way up the far wall. From there his directions were a bit hazy, but he had a name and an address of someone San said could be trusted on the other side.

The other side?

What the hell was he doing? Scout had no doubt that San’s contact was a Trinity sympathiser, maybe even an agent. He was jumping in bed with Heretics and what worried him most was his own lack of concern about the situation. It was something that Stalker had said; something about having to face his demons and find the answers about his past. That last bit still hung on his mind.

Twenty-four hours ago he’d been content to mind his own. Let the city pass on by. San was right, he could hardly back out on the Preacher; he remembered how quickly he’d taken the Duma Boss’ money. Then there was the coffee, was it too late to ask for it back? What he wouldn’t give for a hot steaming shot of caffeine right now.

66

One thing that he’d always liked about the river were the trees that lined the bank on both sides, so maybe he’d sit and watch for a while, give himself a chance to change his mind. Once he got his feet wet there was no coming back. Sink or swim; not much of a choice, but then he didn’t really have a choice, did he?

Do it.

Anyone with sense had headed for bed. People around here didn’t party they prayed.

Do it.

One thing in his favour was the crossing point. From the bridge a casual look wouldn’t reveal his progress. On the other side he could see the water stairs he’d use to access the promenade on the other side. Problem was, it was lit up like a night club. A pretty sight, and a false dawn that reached halfway across the water. Even this far up-stream, and the flow was quick, the water looked cold. If either got him before he got out, it would be a one way voyage out of the City.

Do it, now.

From the shadow between the buildings he moved quickly toward the river. Slipped over the wall. Dangled from his finger tips and dropped. The woman he searched for would undoubtedly consider this to be having a good time. He didn’t agree as he dropped ten feet, rolled, and was up moving quickly to the water’s edge where he slipped off his shoes and pushed them into a bag with a zip he’d bought. In with his cash. The Glock and both clips, a pen knife and the cell phone followed. Twisting the bag’s neck he tied it with a boot lace to his belt and stepped toward the lapping water. Its surface bore a grim look and a sour smell the closer he got.

Holy Saints, it’s bloody freezing. Sharp breaths, several steps, he took the plunge. Holy shit, shit, shit. Brisk was an understatement. The water assaulted his skin and made him dizzy. Swim little fish, swim. It was true; there really was something wrong with him. Enough people had told him over the years and now he was a firm believer. Bolstered by each frigid stroke that hauled him further away from safety.

Keep heading for the nice warm lights. Coffee and dry clothes waiting on the other side. He wished.

Each stroke forced the water behind and propelled his body forward. Within moments he’d noticed a fatal flaw in the plan; the current, it had him. Water was side swiping him fast. The bridge in the distance getting closer.

Swim, damn it. Swim.

With each stroke the bridge’s piers came closer. Granite effigies loomed high above and then the water went dark, became choppy. The central pier of the bridge hit him hard, turned him, he tried to grab hold. Finger tips grasping at bricks that passed him by. And then light again as he emerged from the underside swept on by the water’s flow.

Voices, clear as a bell from the bridge. The loudest voice his own as it scowled at his stupidity, and urged him to swim harder. Halfway across and the strokes had more bite, more purchase on the wet stuff around him, slowing his passage sideways. Only thirty yards from the other side. Ahead was another bridge. What had taken fifteen minutes to walk had passed by in moments.

Cold, swim. Come on!

Voices in the night. JAG on the bridge. The sounds of their voices clear enough for him to join their conversation. Not that he had much to say as the structure loomed ever closer. Just fifteen yards to go now. Ten . . . nine.

Scout struck for home. Hands pawing against the current. Seven yards, six, only five more to go as the bridge rose high above his head. About to pass overhead. Scout grabbed out with his hand. More strokes, stretching for something, anything to grab hold of before he was sucked past and carried away downstream. His next stop would be the spotlights from the castle’s walls.

Scout kicked on with his feet. Stretched out with his arm. The buttress only inches from his fingers as he passed into darkness below the looming arch. Fingertips scratched at the brickwork, being teased by their rough edges. Nothing to grab, no purchase to find, he kicked again with his feet. It was all passing by so quickly, and then his hand made contact. Slipped and was pulled away. Harder kicks with his feet both hands grappling for purchase.

Grab something. Nothing would stick. You’re a fucking dolphin. The light was almost upon him. His finger found a hole.

Scout’s hip bounced hard against the solid wall as his momentum was checked. Fingernails worked at the bricks, his left hand took hold. The water flowed but no longer carried him. Deep breaths as he felt his way, careful not to reach too far, desperate not to slip. He had the corner. Scout’s fierce grip pulled him around and into safe water and out of the main current. He was a bridge hugger, and not letting go. Moments later he stepped out onto concrete and backed himself tight against the masonry.

Never again.

Scout listened to the guards talk above him. One thought the night a bit chilly, bless him. Try taking a midnight swim. As more voices joined those above him, and headlights from the road opposite blew away his shadows, Scout crouched low. He became as one with the wall, and said a silent prayer as the vehicle’s lights passed on. Moments later someone wasn’t happy about being stopped.

Two car doors clumped shut and the engine died. The voices above moved away. Scout seized the moment. He had to get up the river steps and put some distance between himself and the water. Find somewhere to dry before he went hyperthermic. If anyone looked back?

One step after another until he reached the top. The road above was empty. Then the car engine turned over. The engine fired and its main beams lit the bridge and all beyond. Scout rolled into a bush. Watched as three Troopers walked back towards their checkpoint. They’d see him for sure if he tried to move. The car trundled across the bridge. That’s when he had a stupid idea.

The ground ahead was too open. The JAG had resumed their positions barely twenty yards away. He didn’t have a choice. As the car turned off the bridge it lit everything ahead. As it passed, Scout slinked out like an escaped geriatric. He made a grab for the bumper and took hold. Both hands jolted forward and he slammed sickly silent into the tarmac. Even at low speed he felt the friction through his clothes. He couldn’t stop himself turning over onto his back as his arms were yanked in their sockets. If the Saints really were up there, now would be a good time to smile on him. He’d take a toothy grin if it helped him hold on. Anything, just don’t let the friction burn through to his arse. Don’t let anyone look his way.

Just keep looking the other way. I swear I’ll buy all of Stick Man’s drawings and look at the sky for an hour. Just keep them watching at the other side. The light from the river bank faded. He let go and felt his feet catch up with his head as he rolled. Then lay like a roadside kill. Best not to move, not yet, wait till the car gains some distance.

He was up on his feet and dashing behind a nearby tree. Finally, he was bathed in shadows, more than thankful that he could no longer be seen. Scout opened the bag, pulled out the Glock, and headed away from the riverbank to find darkness.

From the far bank a short man with dark hair pulled an object that had buzzed discreetly in his pocket. The man opened his phone and spoke.

‘Yes,’ replied Shorty, ‘we’ll pick him up on the other side. No, he actually swam the river. That’s right, he swam to the other side. Okay, we’ll watch him. See where he goes. Yes, we’ve picked the old man up from the Square. No, he hasn’t said anything yet, but he will.’

The phone flipped shut and the hand slipped it back into the pocket. Shorty watched the river. It seemed a placid expanse but he knew the water had a strong current. He’d just seen a strong swimmer fight hard to survive it. But that was what these people did. They swam against the tide. Shorty’s tide came from the Reliquary and it flowed throughout the City. A holy gift to its citizens. Shorty really believed that. He loved the Saints, truly, and he loved his work for the Commission. He hoped above all things that this man, this swimmer, would lead them to the Heretics, to the Trinity terrorists who threatened his way of life.

Shorty made his way to the bridge.

67

Isabella fingered the tiny glass phial in her hand. Its contents clear like water. Odourless and tasteless it was a silent killer. A few drops of the toxin would more than serve her purpose.

How easy it would be to mix the solution into Patron’s drink. How easy to smile as she served the beverage, but could she really look into his eyes as he drank this silent assassin. She took no pleasure from the thought. Once consumed this tiny ticking bomb would spread through his body. It would saturate and disrupt his nervous system and cause it to fail. He would simply shut down and cease to be alive. Could she do it? Was she capable of murder? No matter how necessary they said it was.

Isabella placed the phial on top of a book. Now was the time. She was a vessel of the Lord. She had taken an oath to ensure the safety of all concerned. Patron was the enemy. He was a Blasphemer who denied the existence of God. He was a danger to all her kind. Patron must die.

Isabella slid open one of the panels in the wall. The wood was dark and the lighting in her room dim from candles. Inside this secret annex she could pray, as her hand clutched the heavy silver cross that she had kept hidden for years her focus changed from murder to humility.

‘Help me, Father. I know it is a sin to take life, yet so many have been taken to ensure your return. I have been instrumental and I have been complicit. The burden weighs heavy.’

It wasn’t that she questioned what they tried to do just the methods applied. Old Testament judged that an eye was worth an eye. That we should do unto others as they would unto us. It was God’s will. And her path had been chosen for her. From the very first time she had met the man she knew as Patron, she knew she would be called upon to bring him down.

So why do I hesitate?

She was thirty-nine years of age. Six years of age when the Lord had first shown her the way. The light of the fires, the stink of the charred remains. She could still hear the dogs bark; see the soldiers that had so terrified a little girl. There were gunshots and screams, sobbing and cries for help.

Look at them. These hands have not trembled since that day.

They trembled now.

She recalled how she the lines of refugees had trudged past at the point of a gun. Legates and JAG had forced an exodus across the river. Rifle butts against soft flesh as they forced the march. No-one had taken poor Isabella by the hand. There wasn’t a soul who cared. Those that had, were gone. She’d been alone the first time the JAG had pushed back the Line.

She remembered it as if it were yesterday. How he’d strode toward her like a warrior King. Knelt and taken her hand. Kissed it as if she were a Queen. He’d ordered a Legate to take her as a Ward of the Reliquary.

From the moment she could speak, the Sister had taught her about God. She knew the penalties if she were caught, but had accepted the risk. They schooled her, but she opened her mind. Taught Isabella about God and his son Jesus Christ. Taught her that, “Forgiveness is the only path to Heaven.” Taught her well the art of deception and secrecy; abilities that served Isabella well, that had kept her true beliefs hidden for so long.

Isabella clutched the crucifix to her breast. How could the Father and the Son be so different? One demanded that the Patron be sacrificed for the Greater good. The other would spare him. Understand that he hadn’t always been the monster he was now.

Pray Isabella. Pray for guidance, pray for strength.

She had read the books, the true history of the past. She knew how many had survived because of Illuminai, because of the man and not the monster. Oasis was here because of him. The people were were alive in the city because of his will to succeed.

In two days the prophecy would be fulfilled. The contents of the box . . . would sweep aside the bastard religion. It would bring new light and new understanding. A new direction for anyone who would listen.

But still, she wondered. What about those that would not? What would the Word of God mean to those who denied Him. What to do with them? This had been Patron’s great dilemma.

The good book had promised a Second Coming but it had never delivered. No-one had come forth with the word of God. Now the Trinity were forced to take things into their own hands. Forbidden science to resurrect hope. Man would do it the hard way if he was ever to resurrect the true faith.

Her heart fluttered at the thought.

Was it really about to happen in her lifetime?

68

An old tower with an octagonal roof was an easy spot when Scout wasn’t climbing walls in wet clothes, and avoiding JAG who were everywhere. Cold breath streamed from his mouth as he watched the tower, eyeing the lion above the entry arch. Confirmation that luck and good judgement had delivered on San’s directions. He crossed the road and passed unseen into the rear of the building.

It was nice beyond the walls. A metal column supported a roof that girdled the entire yard. Below were cars, parked in little houses of their own. A wide set of stairs ascended the far wall which led up to a walkway, one of four above him. Behind one of those doors was his thief. He’d be back when he’d figured out which one.

69

Scout stood under a small portico in a narrow street. This was the address that San had given him. He tapped gingerly on the door. Nothing. Again, louder this time.

Open the door.

He was exposed. Cold. The muscles in his body seizing below wet clothes.

Open up damn it.

He rapped again. Too loud, the neighbours? Then sounds came from the far end of the street that he didn’t want to hear. One hand on the small bars that covered the peep hole. ‘Open up,’ he demanded as loud as he dare. Not a sound from beyond the doorway.

The sound of boots, several pairs. This time of night there was no doubting who they belonged too. Scout kicked the door and squeezed himself tight under the canopy. The shutter in the door slid back. A slim pale face on the other side eyed him with caution.

‘It’s late.’ Narrow eyes looked beyond him into the street. ‘What do you want?’

‘Open the door.’

‘And why would I do that?’

Why? San had given him a phrase. What did he say? It was a code. This is no time for a crappy memory. The sound of voices carried on the night air. Troopers coming ever closer. ‘Open the door.’ Scout pushed his cheek against the small bars. He shoved his hand in the hole before it could be closed.

‘For the love of Gabriel,’ he said. Why the pause? ‘What, did I say it wrong?’

The boots were relentless, coming on unseen, just around the corner.

‘I’m sorry, would you repeat that?’ the frail looking face asked.

Scout forced his face against the rods of iron. ‘Gabriel,’ he said. ‘No? Maybe this will help.’ The Glock slid into the hole beside his face. ‘Don’t make me say it again.’

Scout stumbled through the opening as the door swung inward. Two, three steps, and then down on one knee. A moment of clarity as he levelled the gun back at the door. Thankful it had closed, his relief melted into a heady swirl. The man’s home was hot. He felt as if he would pass out. The muzzle of the Glock dropped to the floor.

‘Who sent you?’ the man asked calmly.

‘A friend, San, he said you’d help me.’

‘Did he now? And why did he suppose I would do that?’

‘He said it had something to do with God. Destiny. Oh, and there’s a box that everyone’s looking for. You mind if I lay down? Just here, the floor’s fine.’

70

‘I said I was sorry about the gun. I was somewhat pushed for time. The tea’s lovely by the way.’ It really was. But why such a stupid cup? It had been made for children. A skinny lip above a wide brim; a handle he couldn’t put his finger through. Some kind of blue dragon hiding behind a tree painted around the bowl.

‘It’s Porcelain,’ Prosper said, as if Scout should know. ‘The design is Chinese, from the Tang dynasty. Most are Qing replicas. It was a popular time to copy the older dynastic earthenware.’

‘Yeah, I heard that.’ Scout lied. ‘Oh, and thanks for the clothes.’ There, he was making an effort to be grateful as he sipped on the hot tea. ‘Nice jumper,’ he added. It wasn’t.

The buttons were ridiculously big. Its collar went up his neck and refused to lie flat. He’d never seen knitwear this chunky. And the trousers were a bit wide at the bottom? Though he did have to concede that the footwear was nice. Full grain leather and a perfect fit. He’d hang on to them if he got the chance.

‘So, has San been a friend for long?’ Scout asked.

‘We were Novices together.’

Novices? ‘Is that right?’ Scout lowered his cup. Suddenly aware that his gun was just out of reach. ‘So what, you work for the Commission?’

Prosper raised his tea to his lips. Eyes fixed on his guest.

‘I’m retired now. But I still have friends at the Reliquary.’

‘Friends? Like, San?’

‘Yes, and you ask me to believe that you are his friend too?’

‘I’m a friendly person. Very likeable, that’s me.’ If this man had a weapon, Scout couldn’t see it. ‘Nice room, by the way.’

Most of the furniture was old, mostly wood, the finely crafted kind. A lot of flat surfaces and fancy metal knobs. Everything well polished. There was history everywhere. Books and pottery on show, at least it wasn’t knives. Why was it that people with money felt the compulsion to surround themselves with the past? In Prosper’s case, most of it was blue. A familiar theme on the plates displayed, and in the prints hung on the walls. Blue caricatures were abundant; they all seemed to bow, or be fighting each other?

‘I like the Tang stuff. It’s very, blue.’

This was good; they were getting to know each other. San had sent him to meet a former Legate who lived a couple of doors down from the Reliquary, and his friends in the Commission. A cold thought struck him. The boots he heard, were they waiting outside?

Play it cool. Don’t upset him.

‘I like the candlesticks.’ He pointed. Two big ones, there were plenty more. ‘You have a lot of stuff here that’s hard to acquire.’

‘Perhaps you’ll appreciate this.’ Prosper picked up a small hand device. The soft tinkle of piano keys played out through hidden speakers.

‘Very nice, but I like my music with more of a beat.’ The conversation was stilted. This man didn’t trust him. Time to change tact. ‘How long have you been taking Stems?’ he asked, and raised his own cup.

There it was, the first flinch. Prosper’s secret, out there, at least one of them. Scout was sure a man like this had plenty more.

‘Your skin’s too smooth,’ he said, then pointed to his own eyes. ‘Too clear for someone your age. You’re taking pure stems. Not the stuff the ghosts take.’ The inevitable lines of ageing had definitely been narrowed artificially, he recognised the signs. Nothing to say? ‘Novices only serve in the Reliquary for seven years. That’s long enough to learn the trade, or be deferred. After that they’re assigned to shadow a Legate in the field. Further induction for more practical means. If you were trained with San, you look good for your age.’

The kicker was his stare. Beautifully masked by a clever man, but when you’d seen that stare as often as he had . . . Scout slurped his tea.

‘Such a high quality product means you know some interesting, and very dangerous people.’

‘Bravo, it appears I have nothing left to hide from you. You knock on my door, drink my very expensive tea, and then you read me like an open book. It’s a very impressive talent.’

‘I haven’t finished yet.’

Prosper clearly welcomed the review. Sitting back comfortably in his tall chair he opened his hands to invite Scout to continue.

‘You’re ill. You’ve made it very subtle with practise but, by the way you blink. You also rub your forefinger and thumb when you think I’m not looking. I’m thinking that it’s probably degenerative. Something that frightens you. And I don’t think you’re a man that frightens easily.’ Scout tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m guessing it’s a problem up here?’

Prosper clapped his hands together. ‘Bravo again,’ he said. ‘I have AD. Commonly referred to as . . .’

‘Scary,’ said Scout.

Prosper smiled for the first time since Scout had arrived.

‘You know about dementia?’ he asked.

Scout shrugged. ‘I know a lot of things. That’s why I’m so popular.’ He couldn’t help himself as he waded in. Size tens, feet first, going all the way. ‘How’s God these days? Spoke to Him lately?’

First his eyes, and then his head turned. Concerned scrutiny in the gaze, his narrow face sending no signals of alarm. The lean body of the man, still comfortable in his chair, showed no signs that betrayed him, or so Prosper thought. Scout saw it, despite the obvious signs of Saintly devotion in the room, the history books, the teacup and the glasses on the table by his chair. A lifetime of deception was engaged. His astute, scholarly looking host, a well trained duck treading water. Searching for a way to resolve the question.

‘Dead,’ he answered. ‘As far as I’m aware.’

Good answer, but he took too long. The man was a stone cold Heretic.

Thanks San. Thanks a lot.

‘Such unfounded allegations are objectionable,’ Prosper said. ‘Perhaps I should call the JAG. You could put them to the Commission.’

Scout grinned. ‘That’s the last thing either of us want.’

‘What do you want? Why should I even talk to you?’

‘Because I got your address from a friend. I gave the right password at the door. And I didn’t shoot you earlier.’

This was much better. They really were bonding now.

71

‘I’m not here to cause trouble.’ That much was true. ‘San pointed me in your direction because he said you could help me with a problem.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ He didn’t look it. He did like to show his palms to invite more.

‘The problem,’ Scout stood, ‘is that everyone knows more about what I’m doing, than I do, and trust me, that sucks.’ He picked up a vase without thinking. Pawed at it like a child. ‘Is this old?’ he asked.

‘Extremely, please be very careful with the objects in this room.’

He gave the slim table a wobble as he put it back down.

‘Is this table made of teak?’

‘Mahogany,’ Prosper replied, rising from his chair. He looked nervous to his new butterfingers friend. ‘Please, follow me.’ Prosper was on the move. ‘I have a room more suited to a man . . . who wants to learn.’

‘I like to expand my mind.’ About time. He thought he was going to have to drop something to get the man’s attention.

He’d drunk tea from a thimble and resisted the urge to break or steal his host’s possessions. Like most collectors he cared far too much about the objects he desired. The Tang’s, whoever they were, needed to work on their designs.

The hallway outside led past two more living areas, each one more spacious than Scout’s apartment. Stairs led down into a kitchen. An old scullery, its walls pristine white. Large plate racks on either side of a bath sized sink. Pots hung from hooks that were made from copper, and that alone made them valuable. He could empty this room alone and not pay rent for a year.

His host stood in front of a tall dresser. He moved his fingers from forehead to chest and then from shoulder to shoulder; the sign of the cross. Proof if needed of his true colours. Scout reciprocated the movement half expecting assassins to leap from the pantry cupboards.

‘You mentioned three things,’ Prosper said. ‘God, destiny, and a box?’

‘That’s right.’ Unfortunately I have all three in my life right now.

‘Brother San was right to send you here. I’ll help you in any way I can.’ Prosper placed a hand behind the plates on the second shelf; a moment later the dresser opened silently inward. He motioned Scout to follow.

‘Where are we going?’ Scout asked. ‘What’s down there?’

‘Enlightenment,’ Prosper replied from somewhere inside.

It didn’t look very enlightened. The space beyond the dresser was dark, very dark. Scout followed reluctantly. And then the entrance closed behind him cutting out what light there was from the kitchen.

Dark spaces sent the sparkles rampant across his body. A sudden glacial feeling ran from head to toe. The darkness acted like a poultice to suck out buried memories; bad ones, and they came all at once. Galfstram.

Screams in the night. An emptiness of breath as the lash bit deep. It was all too vivid. Too real. One flashback hit him after another, too quick to deny.

No, don’t do this.

‘Light, Prosper, where’s the light?’

The sharp pull of a chain seemed real. The perpetual soreness of manacles that slowly corroded the skin. Scout rubbed at his wrists. Tried closing his eyes, as if that would help. It only served to heightened the faces of those he thought he’d forgotten.

Breathe! That’s it . . . slow, deep. Scout checked himself. Used the wall for support. Felt a drip of perspiration fall from his forehead. Anxious moments before a sudden flame ushered away the phantoms.

Coiled wadding sheaved around a pole had been lit. A bubble of light that was drifting away.

‘I should fix this closer to the entrance.’ Prosper’s voice hollow in the tunnel.

‘Might be a good idea,’ he said. Fuck . . . Did he see any of that? Was there anything to see?

Scout let his weight take him forward. A first step that encouraged another. A fifty metres walk seemed like a thousand before the exit was revealed. There was light at the end of the tunnel. A warmth that invited him to quicken his pace. The room he entered already bathed in the bright warm glow of artificial light.

‘My apologies Gabriel,’ Prosper dipped the flaming end of the torch into a silver bowl on a stand. ‘We are in a bolt hole constructed during the Second World War. It was used to hide Jews when the Nazi’s occupied the City.’

Who? During what? He didn’t care. The names meant nothing.

The urge to sit on the cold slate floor was immense. Panic brought on fatigue. And why was Prosper staring? A more imminent urge was to slap the man.

‘Are you unwell?’ Prosper asked.

‘I’m fine. Where are we?’

‘You said you required information. The facilities in this room will provide what you need. Please, make yourself comfortable.’

That seemed unlikely. The light was from several bulbs hung like pendants from a cracked plaster ceiling. The decorator obviously had a strong liking for white. And a passion for hand painted religious pictures. Half a dozen of them on the far wall. Prosper was busy lighting candles below them.

It wasn’t all bad news in the hole. A tall wine rack, old looking bottles, most inviting. A small arch above the rack drew more concern. The wooden image hung at its centre. Someone had nailed a man to a cross. It looked painful, heretical too. Scout looked away to see this wasn’t all the room had to share. A large desk and chair to his rear, the only furniture in the room. Parked on its surface was a monitor, next to it a keyboard and mouse. Joy upon joy. Below was a metal case with lights that winked at him.

‘You have one that works?’ he whispered.

More drugs released into his veins. A heady cocktail that wiped away the badness of the previous few minutes.

What kind of software are you running? What’s the processor speed? The memory size? Prosper had a computer!

Scout wanted to touch, but not seem too eager. He settled on feigned indifference. Besides, something else had his attention. Amid the whitewashed brickwork was a heavy curtain. What else did he have down here? The drape was in his hand.

‘The light switch is just inside on the left,’ said Prosper.

Scout ran his gaze around the room, still no sign of a weapon; no indication of hostility. The need to feel the Glock tucked inside his trousers was immense.

Why have you brought me down here? Why didn’t he just ask? Fine. Lets take a look. Scout eased the drape aside. His hand felt across the wall until it touched a box. He flipped the lever that protruded.

Blinking strip bulbs coughed out intermittent light. Flashes of brilliance released ghostly images; that couldn’t possible be real. The bulbs ended their glaring seizure and came fully alight.

It’s not possible. It was unbelievable.

‘Would you look at this?’ he said out loud.

72

More a bunker than a cellar, he could see the lines where the concrete had been poured. A long time ago according to the atrophy chipping away at its surface.

What he saw below was remarkable. He had no idea a place like this existed. Books! Corridors of shelving laden with books. Rack upon rack hard jammed with books. A treasure trove of the written word.

‘How’s this possible?’ he asked. ‘How did the Commission miss this?’

Scout stepped inside. Which aisle to walk down? Row upon row, each parallel to the other; forty, maybe fifty feet in length. He’d never imagined so many books in one place; thousands of spines. He glanced down each one, one at a time. The last was filled with manuscripts and scrolls.

‘You realise this would get you a death sentence.’ Of course he did. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘You are Gabriel.’

‘Oh yeah, sure.’ Gabriel? He didn’t even know what it meant. Saints alive, this is magnificent. ‘Thank God,’ he said. It just came out.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed reading, no, it was their value. Even the cheap paperbacks were worth money. Older looking leather bindings would fetch a good price from the right person.

A broad wooden desk sat behind the doorway. Thick scrolled legs and deep wooden surface. Two oil fuelled lamps, one at each end. Three large manuscripts lay open with pages marked with strips of red ribbon. Rubi would love organising all of this.

Prosper did the thing with his hands again.

‘Down here is a history of our world,’ he said. ‘Some of it hand written as it happened. It’s a marvellous sight, don’t you agree?’

‘Why the sad face then?’

‘So few will ever see it.’

He could change that. Their value on the black market was, well, lots. Probably best if he backed out slowly. Good relations would be dependant on his hands staying in his pockets.

‘Do you read these?’ he asked looking at the open volumes on the desk.

‘I try. I’ve been at it for almost sixty years. I add to the collection when possible. Books are a rarity these days.’

When were they never? ‘Where did they all come from?’

‘I inherited the Library from my father, it was his father’s before. Both added to the collection in their lifetimes. Abandoned houses and private collections were the main source. My great grandfather was an avid collector after the Apocalypse, before the Commission took exception to seditious literature. Sedition being anything the Prime Legates disapproved of. Most books were burned, executed like the people who had them. These days I purchase from other, more clandestine sources.’

‘From Nazis?’

‘No,’ Prosper laughed. ‘The Nazis were vanquished a long time ago. Theres was a hateful ideology and best left forgotten. This room is a relic from their time. There are many such places scattered across the City. Too well used when the Commission began its purges. It was before your time, but those who refused to give up God and worship the Saints were imprisoned, re-educated . . . or simply disappeared. It was a bad time for all, but not everyone lost their faith. It survived, handed down, and now the word of God is blossoming again, as you well know.’

Scout nodded. Now wasn’t the time to mention he had no faith at all.

‘Our Faith went underground,’ Prosper continued. ‘We use these facilities to hide knowledge,’ he smiled, ‘and our Faith.’

‘Well, let’s not linger on the past,’ said Scout.

One thing he was certain of, this was a bad place to be if the JAG turned up. He clicked the light switch down and the books vanished back into darkness. He pulled the curtain across.

Secret cellars, seditious libraries, and a priest of the Old Faith?

What kind of religious nightmare had he fallen headfirst into?

It was the lure of the computer that drew his mind away from thoughts of imminent arrest and probable torture. Books were clumsy and took too long to read.

‘Why haven’t you asked me who I am?’ he asked, staring at the keyboards. ‘I’d want to know.’ He stared hard at Prosper. ‘I’d insist.’

‘You are Gabriel. That’s all I need to know. You may use the computer’s data base. I can instruct you in its use.’

‘Not necessary,’ Scout didn’t need asking twice. For the first time he was appreciative of the eyesore woolly jumper. The temperature had dropped considerably; good for the computers, bad for the operator. He gave a light touch on the enter key and the monitor’s screen lit up. What wonders would he find hidden away in here? Computers were a secret portal. A window into, well, he intended to find out. This was hardly the first time he’d fingered a keyboard, though it had been a while. Feelings arose that hadn’t arisen in years. Not felt since his younger more rebellious days when finding things was what he did best.

Collectors paid good coin for old, and sometimes seditious commodities from the past. He’d been outside the city, and knew some who’d gone further. Forbidden places were a goldmine of artefacts. It was the electronic ones that roused his passion, one that he and Rubi had shared.

‘Where does your power come from?’ he asked.

‘It’s syphoned from the main lines under the city. Some creative wiring inside a junction box. We have many spurs hidden in the walls of the sewers. It took a lot of time, and a lot of patience.’

I’ll bet it did.

Scout had a sudden epiphany; an understanding for the collectors and their compulsive obsessions. Here was something precious and mysterious. This was an artefact that only the past could provide. Not just an object of beauty, but a fully working machine. Something fuelled by light that chatted in a binary code. The Commission would spew if they saw it. This was a true relic of the past. He couldn’t get enough of electronics back then. Guess he still felt the same way.

The cursor hovered at his command. If the Commission hadn’t found this place by now, it was unlikely they would by later today. The girl, she could wait an hour or two.

He dragged and clicked. Open, control panel, device manager. An assortment of drives, controllers and system devices dropped down. Another click and small towers emerged to indicate Power usage. A clock showed the CPU, the heart at the centre of the motherboard. It ticked over on idle, waited to flex its considerably muscular hardware. This little puppy was barely breaking a sweat. A fact he was about to change.

Swift movement of the mouse terminated all the displays. The cursor, unnervingly shaped like a cross, moved toward the dozens of folders now positioned on the screen.

‘You wish to find information?’ Prosper asked

‘Err, yeah.’ He had to get rid of him, somehow. What would he expect me to look for? ‘Where do I find God?’ he asked, first thing that came to mind.

‘God? I don’t understand. You’re Gabriel; you know God.’

He was being too blunt, too obvious.

Dumb it down.

‘I want to know, about Him.’ Scout pointed to the wooden cross that hung on the wall.

‘Our saviour?’

Scout gave the man his Friday night look. Reserved for revellers who threatened to get out of hand at the Club.

‘I understand,’ said Prosper. ‘You have a lot to catch up on.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘You can start here. I’ll leave you to acquaint yourself with the past. It will help you to understand your future.’ Prosper retired backwards and left the room.

Understand my future? Who does this guy think I am?

He watched Prosper leave, and another gut feeling took hold. So much had happened in so short a time. How was it possible to get so deep in the holy shit, in such a short time? The gut feeling suggested someone was pulling his strings. Were there other forces at work here intent to direct him.

No, that’s absurd. A stupid thought.

But still, he was curious as to why someone would nail a man to a cross. And why a religious idea refused to be put down.

He was going to regret this. Scout double clicked on the folder Prosper had suggested. It opened onto the screen. He really wasn’t ready for what saw.

73

Had Scout known a few hours previous what he’d be doing right now, he would have taken his chances with the Preacher. Saved himself a swim. But a strange calm had settled within him. The only thing of consequence here was the monitor. He’d been intrigued; entranced by the technology. Become oblivious to the dangers he’d inadvertently set into motion.

The cursor hovered. Cushioned on the wispy sound of the computer’s fan. All he had to do was click on the icon Prosper had suggested, so simple. So why did he have such a dry mouth? Not like there was a bomb inside. Wouldn’t go bang when he opened it. The mouse clicked twice.

Small folders opened across the screen. The first title read, King James Bible. He’d heard of the Bible. The pages opened like a real book, that was cool. It didn’t take him long to close it again. People didn’t speak like that anymore. Besides, folder number two looked more interesting. Its title a single word, GOD.

74

Gods had been around for thousands of years. He understood that; they were like Prophets and Saints. They made people feel comfortable. Gave them excuses for all that went wrong in their lives. It seemed that nothing had changed despite the passage of time as he read about the Pagans who worshipped many Gods; the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and Barbarians. They had Gods for the most mundane of things. The list was endless.

Until a new boy arrived on the scene. He seemed to linger where all others had fallen. This was a God who denied his followers the comfort of any other deity. He seemed intent on stealing worshippers from all the other Gods.

Scout read the highlights. The long list of His Prophets. And it was a long list. Names like Abraham, Moses, Ezekiel. Unfamiliar and strange titles; stick men peddling their new God.

One thing was for certain. This lone God asked a great deal from His prophets. Most of whom came to a violent and bloody end. His chosen people had fared no better. Persecution through the ages for pissing Him off.

So far the campaign for the Old Faith wasn’t winning him over.

At least the wine was good as he sipped from his second glass. Good stuff, a nice fruity taste. Even the smell was restful as more scanning and skipping of text followed. Then a new name stood out. A proper name. John, the Baptist, a Prophet who foretold the coming of someone special.

It seemed that this lone God had sired a child. The product of a virgin birth. All end product and no fun. The more he read about the child the less he skipped through the text. It was dry eyes that finally encouraged him to stop. He left the monitor and flipped the switch on the wall. Let the darkness in around the edges. Scout put a second bottle of wine to his lips and settled down to read more.

75

Jesus Christ, the Christian folk hero, the Son of God going walkabout. It was quite a story, and a fascinating read. Even the Commission would struggle to pen something as imaginative.

This son of God, he talked about the Kingdom of His Father as a place of egalitarian social transformation. He was pretty sure that meant all people should be equal; a nice sentiment, but hardly applicable in the real world. But maybe that was why the idea of Heaven became so popular. In reality only the dead are truly equal? He decided he’d live a long healthy life before he’d put it to the test.

Nevertheless, there was something about the man that struck a chord. Maybe it was his words, or just the way that he’d tried to live his life. A wry grin imprinted itself on Scout’s face as he read about the man’s twelve disciples. What a thieving bunch of bastards. Not his disciples, the Commission. They’d hijacked most of the names into their own religion. Parallels were popping up everywhere. He read on.

Raising the dead man Lazarus, that was a good trick. Not that it worked out too well for Lazarus. He read on. A big bust up with the local money lenders. It seemed the Duma wore that hat now. Then a final meal with his Disciples, this was interesting. The Prophet was betrayed by his friend, Judas. Arrested by the Romans and imprisoned, then questioned and tortured by the priests of his own religion he was found guilty of blasphemy; of claiming to be the Son of God. Scout looked at the wall; the figure on the cross.

‘So that’s you, wow, they crucified you.’

It stirred surprising emotions. In that moment he understood the true power of Relics. And how another one of God’s prophets had been hung out to dry, quite literally. And it was written that Jesus forgave his murderers. God’s chosen people. He was beginning to understand why they were victimised.

Why would you do that to a man who preached love?

Scout read on. Text about the resurrection. About how the Prophets spread His words. How the one true God had sent His only son to preach a New Testament, and decidedly more liberal than the last.

Is this what the Trins believe? That their Saviour is the son of God. Who isn’t really as dead as the Commission wants us all to believe. He kinda got it. So God, this inflexible and infallible Deity, let his son die in a vicious and heartless manner. So he could spread an idea filled will peace and love? Dysfunctional family or what?

The Old Faith was clearly descended from the man Jesus Christ. So again, if their God now preached love and understanding, why were the Trin so violent?

Faith, he decided, was fascinating; and scary.

He had none himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t empathise. No, he refused to do that. It was one step away from believing. All he needed was to absorb the information. To understand what this was all about. To understand why a man with no religion was stuck in the middle of a religious war.

Peter, the first Bishop of the Faith, another of Jesus’ Disciples. It seemed his own faith had wavered when faced with torture and death. Long enough to deny his beloved Prophet three times. When the coast was clear, he’d repented. Gone on to spread the word and lay the foundation of a church. Another believer in God who’d suffered a nasty demise. Maybe he deserved it, probably not. Maybe that was why the Old Faith seemed riddled with guilt. It was orchestrated on the words of a coward and a liar named Peter?

Scout flicked through page after page of text and pictures, the cursor jumped from one link to the next. He was amazed how fast the Christian faith had spread, how it had grown. How it was imposed on others throughout the centuries.

He realised that some of their churches still existed in the City. He’d seen them. Buildings rotting on both sides of the Line. Shells now, burnt out and forgotten a long time ago.

Scout opened and closed a lot of windows. In truth he was feeling tired. The hour was late and the wine had softened his resolve, and more importantly his concentration. That all changed with the next click of the mouse.

A single image opened that took his breath away.

76

There it was the ultimate lie and hypocrisy. The title read “St Peters Square.” He read on.

Text and images about a place called the Vatican, about the Apostolic Palace. About the great lie, more like. Scout knew it by another name. To the citizens of Oasis it was the Dome of the Reliquary and the Parade of Saints. Laughter escaped his mouth, his fatigue forgotten.

Building started on the Basilica in 1506. It was a place of pilgrimage built by the Christian Popes to honour their God. That wasn’t what the guide books said now. School, when he had bothered to go, had taught everyone that the Reliquary was a labour of love and devotion started during and finished just after the Apocalypse. The Commission had used materials from the old world to build the new. More laughter ensued but louder this time.

Cheeky bastards. They really were. Why build a home of your own when you can move into some else’s? It appeared that his years of cynicism had been well founded after all.

“Knowledge is gold.” That’s what San had said. Scout wasn’t feeling very wealthy at the moment. It was a bomb and as the minutes passed he began to feel the fallout. A wave of justification and scorn receded to leave shock and anger. He was even sliding toward feelings of hurt at being lied to. Not just him, he could handle that. No, it was the others he felt for: two others in particular.

His hands covered his face. Url and Greisha smiled back at him. They’d believed the lies, and with all their heart and soul. Like so many others they’d never questioned the Patron.

Scout reached for the pendant around his neck. He wanted to tear it away. Throw it to the floor and stamp the shard into dust, but how could he? It was his only physical link to the woman he loved. Chia had worn the Relic since childhood. She’d adored it, and kept it close to her heart. Her last thought was to kiss the pendant before pressing it into his palm. A moment later she was gone.

His fist softened and opened. This Relic was the thing he cared for most. No, knowledge wasn’t gold. It was cat shit and vinegar. Knowing too much only left a bad taste and the need to forget.

‘I’ve brought tea,’ Prosper said as he entered the room.

Tea?

‘Great, thanks.’ Its smell preceded him, and stank. ‘I’ll drink it in a minute,’ he lied.

‘Honey dew crushed with lilac petals and left to simmer in a boiling pot for an hour. Only then do I add the secret ingredients.’ Prosper sniffed the mug. ‘I’ve often though it should smell nicer.’ At least it wasn’t one of Chang’s tea cups. ‘You’ll find it a smooth and soothing beverage with a little kick for late night study. And may I add that eyeing the mug with suspicion will not alter the aroma.’

Scout relented. He risked a sip and was surprised. Sip led to slurp. It wasn’t that bad once the aromatic assault had passed.

‘Are you answering questions?’ asked Prosper. ‘Or finding that you have more to ask?’

‘Is this all true?’

Prosper peered over his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A few brief generations have seen the world reduce itself to one tiny island of mankind; an Oasis of lies.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘It’s too late for the Commission to tell the truth. So they keep it locked away.’

‘But you know. I assume there are others.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why don’t you tell everyone?’ This was going to involve pulling teeth again. Having to ask or state the obvious was becoming a bore. ‘Why don’t you share what you know?’

‘Would you have believed if I’d told you upstairs? We work towards a time when everyone can be free, but we do it quietly, in whispers. Patience is our greatest weapon, and our boldest defence.’ Prosper took a thoughtful pose, hands behind his back and eyes toward the ground. ‘There are more of us than you think,’ he said, ‘but not so many that we have gained a voice. The Commission has guns and troops; they have spies and informers everywhere. They have history with the population, if somewhat distorted. They have a physical link to everyone.’ He pointed to Scout’s hand. ‘Relics are powerful and suggestive. It’s difficult to purge an idea. The habits of a lifetime.’

‘Is that soft soap for you’re frightened of them.’

‘Yes, without a doubt.’

At least that was honest. There was something else more important than the lies that Scout had to know.

‘Do you really believe, in God?’

‘Yes, with all my heart.’

Scout walked towards the alcove; gingerly touched the wooden effigy. ‘And this man, do you believe in Him?’

‘Without reservation,’ Prosper crossed himself. ‘Gabriel, is this a test?’

Stop calling me that. The Friday night stare came with true meaning this time. ‘Answer the question.’

‘Jesus died for us,’ Prosper answered. ‘He died for our sins. I don’t want to live in a world without Him.’

‘I don’t understand what that means. Tell me what that means. How can someone die for another’s sins?’

Prosper considered the question behind a gaze laced with awkward concern.

‘You wear a ring on your finger,’ he said. ‘You’re married?’

‘Yes. No. She’s gone now.’

‘Was she a sinner?’ the question spoken softly. Then repeated with more malice in its tone. ‘Was she a sinner?’

‘No.’

‘Then she must have been a Saint, because we all sin; some far worse than others.’

‘Fuck you!’

‘Would you have sacrificed yourself? Would you have taken her sins upon yourself to save her? Would you have died in her stead?’

‘Yes,’ No question, no consideration. No doubt in his mind at all. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you understand more than you think. God asked the same thing of his own Son. Jesus led by example, but we were too weak to follow. We have too many faults and His sacrifice was in vain. “Whatever you hold true on Earth I will hold true in Heaven,” those were Jesus’s words to Peter. We are still ashamed that we couldn’t follow His example. There was only ever one true religion, and we spoilt its milk. Our Lord spared us the rod and gave us New Testament. He sacrificed his own offspring to prove its worth. And we failed Him. That’s what I believe.’ Prosper took a breath and closed his eyes. ‘I believe that faith will return the Old Religion. Only this time it will be practised as Jesus intended. I believe that God’s children will be redeemed.’

Scout doubted there was anything left for him to believe in. The State had seen to that. Where were they when his parents needed protection? Where were the Saints the night that Chia died? Where were any of them when they were needed most?

‘Nice chat,’ he said and turned his back on Prosper. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m done.’

77

This was interesting. He’d opened a host of new folders onto the screen. They’d had a colour change, from blue to brown. One title in particular, Armageddon. The cross swept across the screen and clicked.

Files, videos, documents, all filled the screen; several dozen in chronological order between the years 2013AD to 2019AD. That must have been when it happened. The cursor hovered over the first folder. Jump right in. It wasn’t every day that you got to read about the end of the world.

78

Kat lifted one eyelid, and then let it close again. The light out there was way too bright. And who was pounding cow bells inside her head? She tried again.

This isn’t my room? She lifted her head. Oh God, this isn’t my face. It couldn’t be, it sagged too much. She tried to lift the skin back into place with her fingers. Widened her gaze to a stare. Stretched her jaw and pulled at her scalp. What the hell did I have to drink last night?

She shed the bed sheets and swung her legs over the edge. These weren’t here legs. Couldn’t be. Too rough, needed a shave. She was clinical about such things.

‘I feel sick.’ Where in God’s name am I? It was all starting to come back. Dormant parts of her brain shifting back into gear. Uh oh. Loud music; she remembered loud music. And a lot of energetic dance. Yeah, you moved it good. She beat it out with the best of them. Was that last night? Or the night before? It was definitely coming back to her. She sniffed her armpit. Oh, definitely two nights involved.

She hadn’t realised her head was laid in her hands. Gravity was too much. W had happened to the cute guy at the bar? All blue eyes and blonde hair. He had a rich daddy, or so he said; he’d brought the drinks all night for a crowd of them. Ha, she remembered the way he danced. Several hours on the floor doing windmills and air guitar. What an idiot. She peeked again at the unfamiliar surroundings. Did we?

A deep breath went in, and then spluttered back out with noisy spasms. She staggered to her feet to find her bearings. There was a lot of glass in the room. The table next to the bed, and the units against the wall, both made of glass. There was a full length mirror but she decided not to risk a look, not yet. That was something to work up to.

Wow. Look at the window.

It was huge. Oversized glass framed within the walls. She walked over and pulled the transparent curtains aside. It wasn’t light out there yet but the view was obscene. She could see all the way to the river from here.

The buildings beyond were coming to life with the very first signs of sunlight rising from behind. Fancy that, he hadn’t lied. Daddy really must be loaded. This was a view that a Princess should rise to every day. Talking of which, where was Prince Charming?

A disgustingly nasal tone broke the ambience. A throaty slobbering followed somewhere behind her. It sounded like there was a dog in the room.

Kat cast her gaze from Paradise back toward the bed. It appeared she wasn’t alone. A man lay in the bed half covered by its satin sheets. She purred. Prince Charming had a good body. Not too muscular but well honed. Tanned too, she liked that. Her eyes moved up his back.

Oh my God.

He had the back of a Werewolf.

Oh my God.

The Werewolf wore a wig. The sleepy mop was half way across his face. And he wasn’t blonde anymore, he was grey. The image worsened. Most of his own hair was missing.

The lying, balding, bastard.

He had told her he was twenty seven. Forty seven more like. The light must have been really bad last night. Dear God she was more tanked than she remembered.

Charming rolled over. Oh God. Spittle, he had spittle hanging from his mouth and chin. And there was that raspy gasping noise from his throat again. Saddle up, it was time to leave. She picked up her own hair from the floor. Okay, she’d give him that one. But no way would she have lied about her age. That was unforgivable.

Where the hell are my clothes?

It was a quite a distance between her dress and her shoes. She had no idea where her knickers were. No way she was going under the covers to retrieve them. She grabbed everything she could see. Slipped the dress over her head. Put the shoes on her feet.

Damn it, she had no choice. Kat moved to the mirror, paused, then took a peek. A silent scream filled her head. Her face! The alcohol had sucked the life from her skin. She had to get home and fast. The situation had just become a crisis.

79

History had held little interest for Scout before today. Just its monetary value, and the contacts it brought him, but even these things were in the past now. He read on.

It seemed that weather patterns had become unstable toward the end of the twentieth century, positively erratic and volatile. ‘Global Weirding’ had become the buzz word for a new phenomena. No-one knew for sure if it was natural or mechanical. A normal cycle, or Global warming helped on by man. Everything from the moon, to Sunspots, were blamed. Temperatures climbed and dropped to new levels right across the planet. Places where it had never rained suffered Biblical deluge. Other, more temperate climates, suffered from terrible drought.

It seemed the world’s finances had hit similar pitches and troughs. Starting with the banks, it ended with entire countries going bust. Scout opened a video link.

A man in a loose shirt stood hunkered in front of the camera. From a balcony above a wide road, the scene below was a riot of people surging forward to throw bricks and bottles into a line of Police with shields. Fires raged in shops and buildings as the camera panned round.

He’d experienced this kind of event personally, as a youth, when the Commission had moved the Line. The city had to grow. Those on the wrong side had to make way.

‘There’s no going back now, John.’ The reporter’s narrow face strained, his voice sharp and clear. Obviously frightened by what was happening. ‘The Police have used teargas. They are . . . Was that gunfire? Guys, that’s gunfire. The camera zoomed down. The crowd in panic as more shots rang out. ‘John, those shots are from the protesters. They’ve opened fire on the Greek Police.’

Half a dozen men firing weapons as the crowd disbursed. Uniformed officers on the ground.

‘Are you getting this, John?’ Continuous gunfire in the soundtrack. Bodies falling on the road; the innocent who couldn’t get away fast enough. The Police had returned fire.

‘Do we know where they’re getting the guns?’ the voice asked from off camera. ‘Do we have any reports of who’s supplying the protestors with weapons?’

‘No, John, but there have been rumours of Russian involvement. It’s happening here just like it did in Athens. A lot of people are going to die if this continues.’ An explosion rocked the camera. A cloud of dust before the lens ducked behind a wall.

‘This is bad, John.’ Shouting now. ‘The Greek government . . .’ Bullets zipped across their balcony. ‘Holy shit, were being shot at.’ Footage of the sky was replaced by a tiled floor. ‘John, the Greek government has no choice now but to make good on its threat to mobilise the army and impose martial . . .’

The screen went blank.

‘Okay, we seem to have lost the picture; we’ll return to our reporter Ron Moody as soon as we can. Let’s hope he’s okay out there. Well, tension is definitely rising in countries surrounding the Mediterranean.’

Scout paused the footage. He opened more folders to find more of the same in countries he’d never heard of; Spain, Portugal, Italy, the reasons always the same. Food banks and soup kitchens just couldn’t keep up with demand. Protest and unrest by hungry people.

He found a link to a series of reports about Global Weirding. It seemed that the weather was oscillating so intensely that much of the agriculture around the world was failing. Global Commerce was in decline. Banks refused to invest. Instead they panicked and tried to force repayment of investments worth trillions. They enforced closures on businesses to protect themselves. Trade around the world had begun to collapse. Banks had become the most hated institutes on the planet as they tried to protect themselves at everyone else’s expense. Global debt was bringing down governments. The social order was breaking down, and then, as one newsreader reported it, “Fire and Brimstone arrived.” The first of the Plagues.

There were several sub folders on the subject. Scout opened one. Its title, Catastrophe.

There was no sound just the vibrating of the image as if the ground was shaking violently. The image captured was a mountain in the distance, above it a dark and terrible sky. Then, incredibly, the side of the mountain began to slide.

Some kind of warning on the screen, he couldn’t read the language. Then the mountain side exploded. Millions of tons of rock forced instantly into the air. Its silent movement unnerved him as he realised the cloud of dust and ash was rushing across the landscape. A pyroclastic blast, on a merciless mission of destruction. Eating up the land, and a town that lay in its path. Superheated debris destroyed everything in its path.

Text dropped down onto the screen. The strange words had an English translation below. It read. ‘Behold the power of God.’

Scout opened two others and found more of the same. The Mountains across the South American continent were erupting. The planet was venting itself inside out. The Pacific Rim was, as one reporter put it, “A depiction of Dantes’ Hell”. Scout turned the sound off. He could only listen to so many people scream. Towns, villages and cities were being wiped out. Reporters had to wear masks as the cameras recorded the chaos. A cloud of dust had risen above a continent to block out the sun. The air had become impossible to breathe . . . and hundreds of thousands died.

Was this what had happened outside of Oasis?

The final report in the sequence was a woman stood beside a flag covered with stars and stripes. She was Scout’s age, attractive, but her face long since hardened to bad news. He turned the sound back up to hear her speak in a melancholy voice.

‘ . . . southern continent is now officially cut off. No food or aid is possible. Mexican authorities have confirmed that the number of refugees crossing their border has reduced drastically in the last two days to only a trickle compared to previous weeks. Reports are saying that no-one has crossed in the last few hours. It seems the inhabitants of the southern continent are now unable to find a way out, or there’s no-one left to cross. Sue Roley, Mexican Border, CNN.’

80

One phrase kept doing the rounds in his head. The reporter had said, “The first of the Plagues.” The mouse moved the cross above another folder. Social Networking, that sounded interesting. The first line of text read:-

October 2015: One point five billion people worldwide now subscribe to Facebook. It’s a record! Facebook?

Top five subjects trending between Fookers.

1. God, should He take more responsibility?

2. Is it too late to repent?

3. Are the scientists the ones bringing us down?

4. Panic: Worldwide unemployment tops 28%.

5. Who’s got all the oil?

Scout scrolled down the chronological listings, he opened dates at random.

September 2017: Six hundred million people worldwide subscribe to Facebook.

Top five subjects trending between Fookers.

1. XV41: can you really catch it online?

2. Peace with the Arabs or war over the Oil?

3. Archimedes’s principle: Who filled the Chinese bath too high?

4. Hang all the Bankers; is it really the right thing to do?

5. Is God still out there?

It seemed the Fookers were dying out. Their numbers decreasing exponentially. How could a billion people all talk at the same time anyway? It didn’t make any sense.

August 2019: Sixty-thousand people worldwide now subscribe to Facebook.

Top five subjects trending now between Fookers.

1. XV41: Can we survive?

2. Is it too late to bring back God?

3. Record numbers turn away from Social media. Where have they all gone?

4. One hundred ways to find your faith.

5. Do we really need God?

81

The falling number of Fookers was disturbing. Were they dead? He knew what a virus was. Had XV41 been a viral Plague? The cross moved on to the next box. A single word was typed below.

TWITTER

There was something innately pointless about the word. The cross moved on.

YOU TUBE

Scout double clicked. Hundreds of home videos saturated the screen. Tiny capsules of time. He opened one at random and began to watch.

A young woman edged away from the screen and sat herself crossed legged, her body wrapped in a blanket. She wore a thick hat with tassels and fingerless gloves. She was cold; everything about her manner suggested a lack of warmth. At first she just sat there on the floor leant against the foot of a metal bed. Two candles on the floor the only light in the room. The lens too narrow for him to see more. The silence was intriguing. The longer he looked at her, the sadder her image became.

‘Cathy,’ the girl said suddenly.

She cleared her throat and spoke.

‘My name is Catherine Jones. I live here in my flat in Greenwich, London. I am posting this via a wireless connection. For some reason they still work. Lucky me, eh?’

Silence as she considered her words.

‘I don’t really know what to say. Except that I’m glad that it will all be over soon. It’s not that I want to die. But I don’t really think I want to live either.’ Her drawn expression hardened. ‘Sorry, I should sit up, stop slouching. How many times did Mum tell me that? There, is that better?’

‘I’m seventeen years old,’ she said, ‘I’m the daughter of loving parents, Mike and Carol Jones. Both died of XV41 earlier this year. I haven’t seen my sister since, well, I can’t remember when. God I hope she’s all right. This, this is my home now,’ she shrugged. ‘The previous tenants left, died, I don’t know. Their loss, my gain, eh?’

‘It all happened so quickly. Things just got crazy. Nobody told us that the masks didn’t work. Campus looked like Peking in the rush hour.’ She raised a nervous grin. ‘I didn’t really get scared until the other students stopped coming into college. I thought they were just staying at home, being overly dramatic. But they were dying, and I never realised. Pretty stupid, huh?’ She rubbed at her head, then her eyes. The words came hard for her. ‘That’s when I took little Stevie out of school. It was the day Mum phoned. Told me that Dad was ill.’ She shook her head. ‘Mum insisted that I wasn’t to come home; that we stay indoors and protect ourselves. I miss them.’

Cathy leaned to the side just out of shot. She shuffled out, and then back, a small wrap in her arms. Tears in her eyes as she cleared her throat.

‘I mostly wanted to introduce you to little Stevie.’ Her voice wavered, her eyes blinked incessantly. She tried so hard not to let cry, but the tears forced their way out anyway. Cathy’s right hand half covered her mouth. It trembled.

‘This is my little boy; my little sweetie.’

Scout didn’t want to watch. He found it harder to look away.

‘I wanted to make this, and put it out there, so he wouldn’t be forgotten. Se we wouldn’t be forgotten. Stevie died from exposure to XV41. He must have caught it from someone out there? Now I’ve got it too. Oh God, I’ve got it too.’

Her hands trembled as she hugged the bundle to her chest. Rampant tears now and broken breath, but her voice remained resolute. This was her story and she intended to tell it, no matter what.

‘I just want a record. I want someone, anyone, to remember us. I’m so sorry.’ The mother inside the little girl broke down. She leaned forward and shut the camera down. The monitor filled with static.

What the fuck? He hadn’t been ready for that. Curiosity had opened the file. Now a sense of empathy kept his hand on the mouse. He clicked the next box and the screen returned. Cathy was back.

‘Another episode,’ she said. ‘I’ll post one every day, for as long as I can.’

She looked pale. Her skin more drawn across her cheeks. She looked emaciated. How quickly did this disease work? Her sweet blue eyes were discoloured, her speech obviously more difficult. Scout found it hard to believe that just a single day had passed. The illness was incredibly aggressive.

‘There’s nothing much left out there. I found half a dozen tins in Tesco. They were wrapped in a cloth so I think someone must have hidden them. I guess they couldn’t come back. Their loss, I suppose. Tins of beans and soup,’ she laughed, ‘I love beans. I hate minestrone. What I wouldn’t give for a kebab and a bar of chocolate.’ She shrugged. ‘At least they’re easy to swallow.’ An impish smile followed. ‘It’s difficult. My throat feels so raw. Hey, I saw smoke whilst I was out. It was a long way off but it proves there are others out there. Maybe they were burning bodies. It’s the only way.’

She shuffled in an attempt to find more comfort. Pushed herself to sit more upright.

‘I thought about making contact, but I couldn’t leave Stevie. I can’t leave my baby, can I?’ She stared straight into the lens. ‘What’s it like where you are? I hope it’s nicer than it is here. I do, honestly. Anywhere would be nicer than here’.

‘Night-time is worst; I hear the dogs at night. They’re as hungry as the rest of us. God, they won’t stop howling at night. I hate it.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’ll try and find a pharmacy tomorrow. Maybe I can find something to sooth my throat.’ Her hand moved instinctively to her neck. ‘I’ll try and find some more batteries for this thing. You can’t make a movie without a camera, eh?’

Cathy shuffled forward on her knees. She stared at the camera, just a moment, as if hoping to hear a reply. Then reached out and the screen went blank. Scout opened the next file.

‘Four days now,’ Cathy said, unable to lift her eyes, her breathing laboured. ‘Most don’t, last five. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll be, the exception.’ Her words paused between wheezing. She managed a wry smile as she lifted her gaze toward Scout.

For the love of . . . The candlelight framed her as she moved away. He paused the film. You poor girl. Her lips, blue, bruised. Bloodshot eyes that had been so clear and blue just a few days previous. He clicked the film to continue.

‘I feel, as if, I know you. What’s your name?’

‘Scout,’ he said without thinking.

‘Hi. My, my name. I’m Cathy. Have I told you, that already? So difficult to remember.’ An unexpected smile. ‘Hey, good news. It rained last, last night. Came down in buckets; so lovely. I went out and watched. Got wet. Crazy, yeah? My first, proper wash, in weeks. Clean water, to drink.’

She took a few breaths and tried to speak without pausing.

‘Have I told you where I live? London, I live in London. It’s kinda weird. No, its downright scary, being here, in the middle of a big city, with no-one else around, they’ve all gone. It’s just me and little Stevie. Have you met Stevie? He’s my Sweetie.’

She sat there breathing heavily. Unable to look up at the camera. Talking had taken its toll.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, unable to look up. ‘I’d love to know your name.’

‘Scout,’ he said it out loud this time.

‘That’s a nice name,’ she whispered. ‘I bet it’s, nice, name. Mine’s Cathy,’ she started to sob. Tremble. Her breathing turned quickly into panting. Unable to take proper breaths. Then she seemed to calm, slowly. ‘Sorry, I do that, a lot. Sorry, I have to, go now.’ She lifted a small device. Pointed it at the camera. The screen went dark.

It seemed that Cathy was the exception. Two more files filled with strain and effort followed. She was fading rapidly; each exertion more difficult than the last. A young vibrant Cathy had aged in video instalments. Once pretty, now sad and difficult to watch. Perhaps it would be best to end this now. Best for who he wondered, certainly not her. He decided to watch the last posting. How could he refuse? The first words she’d ever spoken to him were a plea for someone to remember. If it was difficult to watch; how painful had it been to record. This girl, this brave young woman, this ghost from the past deserved to be heard. Scout pressed the last icon in the short list.

Cathy used her elbows to drag herself back to the foot of the bed. Then struggled to pull her blanket around herself. Everything was so difficult. Her body alive with small jerks as she tried to move. So many unwanted movements, each out of time with the others. She was distressed, in pain. Her face had yellowed dramatically since yesterday. Dark scabs now evident below her nose, in the corners of her eyes.

‘Such, such, a bad night, last night. Everything hurts. I just, just, want it, to be over.’

As bad as Scout wanted to look away, he didn’t. Cathy found the strength to pull her little bundle onto her lap. Laboured gasps between virtually every word now. Poor girl, her whole world was wrapped in that stinking blanket cradled tight in her arms. Her motor function was out of control. She was worn out and fading fast as she stared into the camera.

Several minutes earlier an attractive young girl had started this diary. Now a poor pathetic wretch tried to speak. Unable to keep her head still, and yet somehow her eyes never left his. Even Cathy’s voice wasn’t her own as it wheezed out in a whisper.

‘I had, such dreams. I, I, wanted to be . . . a mum, a teacher. Big dreams, eh?’ She clutched Stevie. Pulled her own blanket around the bundle. ‘I have to, tell you, it’s dark, and so cold, here. I, I . . .’ Cathy’s head jerked up. The act of someone who refused to sleep. ‘Stevie’s dad, he left us. Did I tell you that? I thought . . . that he was the one. Turns out, he had a stable, of girls.’ A chesty giggle was released. ‘He left us, when I started, to show.’

Cathy’s head dipped forward, the effort too much. But lifted again. She had something to say.

‘Wish, wish, he was here. Don’t want, to be alone.’ She started to cry. ‘I’m scared.’

It was difficult to accept those haunting eyes, so tempting to look away. It wasn’t necessary as they finally closed. Cathy’s head rolled to one side and her body fell limp.

Hey, hey.

‘Cathy?’

Staring at the screen seemed foolish. The poor girl had been gone for a long time. He looked at the time remaining, nearly six minutes. He moved the film on several times its speed. She didn’t move: four minutes, three, two, one. He stopped the forward motion and watched the last few seconds play. A red dot had begun to flash, probably the batteries. Staring at her didn’t help either of them. Cathy sat doll like against the bed; one arm still clung tight to little Stevie. The image paused, then disappeared. The monitor’s home screen returned.

At least she’d been given her final wish. Someone would remember her now. Scout could hardly forget.

He stared for a moment at the folder. There were a hundred other videos waiting to be watched. He had absolutely no intention of opening any more if they were like that.

82

If questions trumped answers Scout had a losing hand.

‘It’s a big world out there. I had no idea.’

‘Do you believe we’re alone?’

The Glock whipped up to be pointed at the door, at Prosper.

‘Do you believe the Commission when they tell us that no-one else survived?’ he asked.

Scout lowered the gun. ‘There’s no-one out there,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been outside the city, there’s no-one out there.’

He didn’t want was to have this conversation. He’d already seen enough, too much probably. Two days ago he’d been happy in his own little bubble. No, not happy, content maybe. Okay, he was treading water in a shrinking pond.

‘Is it light outside yet?’ He got up and headed for the exit. ‘I need to find someone, and you need to start helping.’

Upstairs the music still played. His host had been reading. Prosper’s glasses and a book lay on a table by his chair next to a wine glass, something red in the bottom. Prosper followed him up.

‘Tell me where to find the Lucky Blu.’

‘Through the blind,’ Prosper said.

And this is why I hate religious nuts.

‘Let’s have less of the cryptic captions. No parallels or fortune telling. Just directions, please?’

‘Through the blind,’ Prosper pointed, ‘raise the one to your left.’

That seemed clear enough. Scout pulled the chord.

‘See the iron gate opposite, on the other side there is an alleyway; follow it to the end. A set of wooden gates will open onto a road. Opposite is the entrance to the courtyard of the Lucky Blu. May I ask what you expect to find there?’

‘Less than I found here.’ Maybe he should be more grateful. ‘Err, thanks for the clothes.’ Kinda. ‘And for opening the door last night.’

‘Anything I can do,’ said Prosper. ‘But you won’t be able to stop it.’

Ignoring the statement would have been easier, but it seemed his curiosity had become a liability.

‘Stop what?’ Scout asked.

‘Fate; it has all the speed and mass of the future, and it’s calling for you.’

‘Listen, I appreciate your help. But you’re a Heretic, and I need to leave.’

‘You’ll have no choice but to get involved. You can feel it already, can’t you. It’s like wading into water with a great thirst, and being unable to drink.’

Scout opened the door. ‘Sure, I’ll cross the road when I see it coming.’ He closed the door and headed toward the iron gate, unaware that he was being watched.

* * *

Shorty had waited patiently throughout the night. He’d posted men in the buildings out front of the house. It was an educated guess the man would leave through the back. He had a comfortable vigil from a seat by the window. The owner had even brought him breakfast. He flipped open his phone.

‘The asset is out,’ he said. ‘What do you want us to do?’

The voice on the other end was clear. Shorty would continue to observe. The man was to be followed with utmost discretion.

Shorty clicked the phone closed. This was unusual, the Boss was on his way.

83

Prosper’s directions were as brief as the walk; an alleyway, a large set of wooden gates. Scout crossed the road and entered the courtyard. Nothing had changed since his previous visit, and if San was right, the thief lived up there. Behind one of those doors was his only link to the box. Problem was, which apartment?

Maybe there was a fire alarm; he could get all the occupants out at once, but wake half the City at the same time. No, he needed a plan; best ones came off the top of his head. Deep breath, get inside, see what happens.

The entrance led to a desk. A set of wooden pigeon holes to one side, a glass window behind. On the other side was an office. A man, in a waistcoat being stretched by his belly, sat with his feet up on a table. His dark hair had all the hallmarks that mummy had licked her fingers to keep it flat behind his ears. He had weasel features and an intense stare, as he gazed at the latest copy of ‘The City’ lying open on his lap. As time was limited Scout could only hope the man’s looks ran in tandem with his intelligence.

He tinged the bell on the front desk and startled Weasel. Who stood and brushed briskly at his ill-fitting top. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked. The pitchy voice and unfortunate feature confirmed to Scout the one thing what women had known all of Weasel’s life: ‘Undateable.’

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘Who, sir?’

‘My wife, that’s who, and don’t give me any bullshit about confidentiality. She’s here, and I want to know where?’

Weasel was unsure. He folded the paper and placed it onto the desk giving himself time to think.

‘I’m sorry sir, but . . .’

‘Is it money, do I need to pay you? Because if that’s what it takes.’ Scout pulled some notes from his pocket. One note was peeled away from the others and slipped across the desk.

‘I would prefer to keep this between my wife and I, but if I have to knock on every door in this house, I will.’

‘No, please, the other guests.’

‘Give me her room number.’ Scout slammed his hand on the desk. It lifted to reveal another note.

‘I’d like to help you, but . . .’

‘Three years of wedded bliss.’

Another twenty fell to the desk.

The sigh went in instead of out. Weasel was faltering.

‘And you’re sure she’s here, sir?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to look now would it?’

‘This is very improper. Our tenants are intensely personal and private people. It would be unprofessional . . .’

Another note slid toward him. He cracked and dragged the money away and out of sight.

‘Your wife’s name, sir?

That was the question Scout had hoped for. Good for Weasel, he was playing the game.

‘Nina.’ As good a name as any. ‘But I doubt if she’d be using her Saint given name. She’s done this before. If only I’d known before I married her.’

‘I see. Perhaps if you gave me a description?’

‘Twenty-ish, with blonde hair.’

‘Blonde, sir.’ He opened the register. ‘Blonde, Blonde?’

Are there that many?

‘Ah, Miss Dalores in room Thirty-six.’ He looked up. ‘Five foot two, round face with thin lips. She has big . . . eyes, and a lovely smile. She’s very blonde.’

‘Not her, my wife is taller. It’s all very unfortunate,’ he added. ‘We think it’s the strain of her social position; too many charity galas for the Commission. You have no idea how demanding it can be trying to raise funds for the devout. I was saying to the Legate Prime, only last week. We really should take more time off; but the devout are just so needy.’

‘You know a Prime Legate, sir?’

‘More than one. Friends of my father in law. Regular guests at our house. My goodness, the endless debates we’ve had about the unworthy; about the lazy, unhelpful, and obstructive.’

‘Yes, of course, the unworthy. Could be room sixteen, sir? My height, in her early twenties, but she has a lot of visitors, sir. A very popular woman.’ He shook his head. ‘No, not her, I’m sure. That only leaves Miss Katie, but she’s a long term resident. Miss Katie has been here for nearly two years.’ He looked up from the book. ‘Five foot nine and very slim. The most gorgeous blue eyes, if I may say so. She’s blonde, sir. Black, red, and sometimes brown, but predominantly blonde.’

That’s her, it has to be.

‘Nina,’ he said, ‘I’ve found you.’ He was sure of it.

Weasel’s descriptive talents mirrored every sense in his body. Miss Katie was his thief.

‘Really sir? When was the last time you saw your wife.’

‘I told you, she’s done this before, disappears for weeks, months on end. I bet you don’t see her for long periods at a time, do you? And the rent is always paid in cash, in advance. Straight from her Trust fund, I expect. I swear this will be the last time I come get her.’ He tapped his temple and leant in toward Weasel. ‘She isn’t always herself.’

‘Ahh, is that why?’ Weasel touched his hair. ‘Changes so often?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Scout recognised Weasel’s sudden awareness. He could work with that. ‘It’s a parenting issue,’ he said. ‘In and out of medical care since she was very young.’

‘I see. Most of the younger women that stay here have problems,’ he whispered.

‘I’m glad you understand. That’s why I’ve come for her alone. No doctors required. She’ll come quietly if it’s just me.’

‘But it’s Miss Katie. Maybe I should call someone.’

‘You’re right. We don’t need a repeat of last time. Her screaming tizzy woke the Saints, and most of the street. The JAG got involved and it turned into a bloody circus.’

‘The JAG?’

‘Oh yes, her father has friends in the Officer Corp. You have no idea how difficult it was last time. She made allegations of kidnapping; accused the staff of abuse. They hauled everyone off to be inter . . . questioned.’

‘I see.’ Weasel had gone pale for some reason. ‘Best to do things quietly,’ he said.

‘Hmm, which room did you say?’

‘Number twenty-three. It’s on the third floor. Top of the stairs and across the landing. The second door on the left, the white one with the silver handle.’

‘I’ll need your pass key.’

‘Of course, sir. Anything I can do.’ He stepped away and opened a drawer in the bureau behind. Weasel returned with his master key.

‘Please don’t disturb the other residents, sir. We have a reputation for discretion.’

‘Quiet as a mouse.’ With his finger to his lips, Scout headed toward the stairs.

84

What was so good about it? Why did people feel the need to say the words? It just wasn’t necessary. Today was just another day no better or worse than yesterday.

Kat forced a semblance of a smile toward the woman who had just said, “Good morning.” Obviously she hadn’t had a skinful and just woke up staring at dribble and a balding head. Boy did he get lucky last night. And thank God he was a heavy sleeper. Awkward or what explaining what wouldn’t have happened with fewer drinks and better lighting.

Kat checked her watch, barely six twenty am. Her head was still full of nails as she cast a glance back at the woman. And what gave that bitch the right to be so energetic and friendly? Early morning joggers, she despised them.

Another ten minutes and she’d curl up on the sofa with hot tea. Nettle and chamomile was the best remedy for dehydrated brain cells. Maybe take a power nap. Then a shower and dress in something with less exposure. Sun might be up but the temperature was down. Her goose-pimples were as large as her nipples

Six twenty-two, stop looking at the time. Golden Promise wouldn’t opened its doors till nine. She’d call in and check the board; see if Emilio, or Uncle, had been in touch. At the very least camp down in the garden out back and soak up some sun. Home first. Take a nap. Grab her sun glasses and go chill below the willow in the GP’s garden.

Maybe jogger girl was right. It would be a good morning after all.

85

Number twenty-three was just where Weasel had directed. Scout placed his ear to the shiny white panelled door. No sound from the other side. Could still be asleep? A soft knock seemed prudent. Another check of the hall and stairs. No-one answered so he slipped the pass key into the lock. One hand twisted the handle while the other raised the gun to eye level, as he eased the door inward.

The gun’s muzzle pointed sharply around the door and then back to the hallway as he entered. He moved quickly. The Glock keen to check ahead. Check the kitchen and toilet, all clear. No-one found hiding behind the large couch or the tallboy in the lounge. His gun was now fixed on the only other door in the residence, presumably the bedroom.

Scout twisted the well-worn knob and pushed the door inward. Bedroom was clear, as was the en-suite.

He flicked the safety back on, no-one at home.

Nice place. Whoever Katie was she lived in a pleasant space; big one too. It must have been fifteen metres from one end of the lounge to the other, and half as wide. The area was split level with lush carpeting through the lower living room and thick wood planking where the floor rose to a long window with big blinds. He’d never seen anything quite like the metal shutters that dropped from ceiling to floor.

Three steps led up to the raised area and a glass table with seating for four. The kitchen itself was a simple affair. A dozen white cupboards with stainless steel handles looking down on a glass breakfast bar. No marks or stains on the bar or table, not so much as a scuff on the floor. No-one was this tidy. He leant against the gallery rail. Below was comfortable leather seating around a small coffee table. Two cupboards and a tallboy stood erect against the walls. There were numerous empty shelves. Not so much as a keepsake to adorn them. Three steps back down to check out a small box lying on the coffee table. He picked it up and checked it out. Okay, he’d press the red button.

Scout went down onto one knee, his Glock levelled at the window. The box had remotely activated the shutters; the long foils sliding back to reveal the glass. It was kind of cool with the sunlight streaming in. He went back up the steps to check out the view, and caught the very moment the sun rose above the spires and towers of the City, as it washed them with its warm orange glow.

The Great Dome of the Reliquary was resplendent; truly beautiful. It somehow seemed a different world up here, looking out there, where money and power bought you privilege. He’d never lived above the ground before, or anywhere with a view come to that. The spectacle filled him with deeply mixed emotions.

It reminded him of how things could have been, should have been, without Dok’s intervention. When you are seven years old and no-one gives a shit, the city pushes you out like a rotten splinter.

As a child Scout had fended for himself. He’d been a runner for the local Duma. Skipping school to run packages across the city. He’d run anything that would fit in his pockets or a small bag. Why not? The perks were good. They paid in cash and food, real food, not the stamps issued by the State; food trucked in from the Productivity Fields south of the City: soya and onions, potatoes and beans. If it could be grown the State had made a field for it.

He’d networked the lower echelons of the Duma. It was exciting and adventurous. Definitely not what his parents, Url and Greisha, had wanted for their child.

It’s difficult to be a good child when your parents are such pillars of the community; good people, productive people, role models elevated by the Commission. When your parents are so esteemed its easy to find a reason to rebel.

Url was an engineer; Greisha, a third generation doctor; a sanctioned healer of the sick. A gentle woman with a gift for healing and a smile that lit your life. For a moment he saw her reflection in the glass.

Stop it. Scout stepped back. He didn’t want to go there. Best not to resurrect the past, not when it’s buried so deep. But he could still see her face, see her smile. She always wore that smile.

Don’t remember, leave it buried.

Too late.

He hated the past flying through his head space. Nothing good was in there to recall. Just bad shit cut away at the roots. Soft shoots that waited for the chance to spread, to flourish and grow again. Memories that could open the sluice gate for every other crappy little thing in the past to flood out alongside.

Here we go. He couldn’t help himself. Fuck. It was all about to get resurrected.

Sebastian was at home with his older sister when the door had knocked and a neighbour had come timidly inside to tell them that their world would never be the same again. That their parents had been gunned down by persons, and for reasons unknown.

That’s what believing in the Prophets and Saints gets you.

Url and Greshia had believed, with all their hearts, what the Legates taught. How the good would be interned within the ossuary of the Great Reliquary. They’d spoken about it often, decisions were made with that in mind. A bone or trinket from each of their bodies was to be donated to the Greater Good.

“How bright a Relic shined in death was indictment of productivity during life”. “A few will shine and eclipse the stars; their names honoured forever.” Those that didn’t live up to could be put down amongst the great pile. Its accumulative power directed toward the Greater Good. A nice spot outside the city. Well tended gardens to inspire all.

“Those that deny the words of the Saints or shy and refuse to toil, their spirits will find damnation. Theirs will be thrown out on the winds and left to scream in purgatory. Forever damned and left to linger, unheard and unseen by the living.”

His parents had been keen to avoid that particular fate. True believers. Faithful workers. Parents most adamant that their children believe too.

Well, that belief didn’t protect Url and Greisha. The Prophets provided no shield for the bullets that gunned them down, and those that were holier than crap didn’t help with the rent for the children they left behind. Maybe that was what hurt the most, orphaned kids get three choices; not that they choose. Adopted by relations, not an option when there are no relatives to be found. Enter service with the Commission, becoming a ward of the State, The final option was the harshest of all, be sent alone across the Line because no-one wants you.

The Commission took Jorja. It was a long time until he saw her again. A wry smile as he remembered her as a child. It hadn’t been all bad before the end, until he’d found himself left on the street like a stray dog, alone and unwanted. Afraid, and armed only with his father’s genes, the man’s eye for detail, and a dexterity and passion to tinker. Everywhere he looked things needed fixing. In some respects it was the same on both sides of the Line. So young, but so eager, a student in all things mechanical and electrical, a boy who’s skills were in demand; all things legal, and not so. A gang of youths took him in, taught him well. It was productivity that kept him alive. Some things he could fix, others he could sell. It wasn’t long before a more secretive and dangerous trade beckoned; the scavenging of commodities from the Old World. Sebastian earned himself a new title, Scout. One who finds what others desire, and had killed to do so.

That was back then, before he’d tried to begin his life over. Leave one lifetime behind to start another, with her, with Chia. It was her blood on his hands, his hand on the knife. Why couldn’t he remember?

Aaaargh. ‘Fuck you.’ A pang of guilt and anger slammed deep as a bullet into his gut and left him unable to breathe. Issues that obviously needed to be dealt with, resurfaced. Scout steadied himself. Tried to clear his head. Right now he had a thief to find. All he had was an empty apartment. No problem, he’d wait.

He headed back toward the bedroom. That smell again, worse than when he’d first looked; a full and heady scent that made his head pound, and something else too. Miss Katie obviously left the clean gene at the door, he had to look twice.

Nice bed, big enough for three. Its blankets heaped on the floor. A nice vanity table, big mirror, it looked like a child had been at the makeup box. Lipstick and finger prints all over the mirror with powder scattered across the wooden surface. There were pens, potions, and attractive containers opened and upturned. And he understood now why the clerk was confused over hair colour. Miss Katie liked wigs, four were propped on stands, another, a bright red one, lay on the bed.

Whatever personality was keeping the apartment outside so proper and prim, it was obviously let loose in here. He checked through two walk-in cupboards taking inventory of the clothing with his hand, but found nothing that helped. Both floor spaces were filled with shoes, no two shoes parked together as a pair. He’d never felt such an urge to clean up.

Miss Katie had nice clothes. More than a dozen pairs of jeans and trousers. Enough blouses and t-shirts to go retail, and she liked long and revealing dresses. Fashion and expense and a body to show it all. Nice.

One dress caught his attention as he fed the fabrics through his fingers. It wasn’t the material, soft as it was. Or the strapless back in a high neck fashion. It was the colour that drew his eye, and the size. Twelve. Chia had been a twelve. She loved all things green. It would have hugged her body, showed off her slender legs, framed her delicate skin. A perfect match for her eyes.

Scout pulled the dress from its perch, stared for a moment, then dropped it to the floor. He didn’t notice his feet on the garment as he knocked at the wall behind feeling for hollow panels. He found nothing, but nothing can reveal a lot about a person.

No pictures, no ornaments, and no memories; no history and no family. Absolutely nothing of a personal nature on view. Why? Everyone kept a photo or two. Most women he’d known kept mementoes, memories, history for others to see.

He walked back to the door. Out there was immaculate. A few generic prints on the walls; hung to fill the space. But not a single picture of a Saint, or lover. No family snaps.This was a show-home. He gazed back at the bedroom.

Who the fuck leaves a mess like this?

It seemed Katie shifted from one extreme to the other. The clothes and make-up screamed look at me. Only it wasn’t her, not really. This girl liked façades; appearances she could let slip on a whim, or a necessity. A complex personality for sure, that, or a whack-job. There was nothing else to do but sit back and wait for Miss Katie to come home.

86

Everyone has secrets, so where were Miss Katie’s. Not in the drawers or the cupboards, Scout had already checked. He’d found nothing taped beneath or hidden in the furniture. His gut told him there had to be more. Where would she hide what was important?

He slid one of the dining chairs from the table. Before parking himself he noticed small indentations in the leather. None of the others had the same. Scout looked higher and a small vent high in the wall caught his eye. Had small feet been standing on the chair to reach it? Why not, he’d looked everywhere else.

The small silver grill lifted easily from the wall. Now why would a thief hide a brown envelope inside a vent? Only one way to find out. Scout stepped down and back to the table. He opened the flap and emptied out the contents.

Photos, a dozen or more. The first two were a baby in a mother’s arms. The mother looked overjoyed, the child small and wrinkled. They were stacked in sequence. Baby became a child toddling in a garden. Three more showed a young girl with a smile. A birthday image with candles and friends. The last few were a young teen posing for the camera with friends. Pictures of Katie? If so what happened next? Weasel had said she was older. So he still didn’t know what his thief looked like.

He tipped the envelope and a silver chain slid out and caught on his fingers. A Christian cross dangled. An inscription scribed on the back in a strange language. It was pretty. It was dangerous. He placed it on the table.

He pulled open the envelope to be sure. A piece of paper still inside. He teased it out to find a prayer penned on its surface. Words of praise for the ‘Almighty’. The last line was more personal. The author apologetic, it didn’t say for what; the words were an oath to return. It was signed at the bottom, Mama.

Not much here to commemorate someone’s life. It left him an overwhelming feeling that this woman was angry. She even hated her bedroom. It resembled a crime scene.

The room went dark. Lights out for an instant, followed by a numbing sensation at the back of his head and a harsh ringing tone. The wall stopped him falling. Reflex kicked the chair and into the git who’d just smacked him on the head. A moment later he was staggering down the steps trying desperately to clear his head. Someone heavy jumped him from behind.

‘Hold him.’ A pissed off voice gnarled.

The Neanderthal on top was doing that too well. Powerful hands had him pinned down to the floor. The carpet smelled nice. He saw his Glock thrown onto the couch.

‘He’s clean,’ Neanderthal said.

And you’re fucking fat.

‘Get him up,’ the first voice ordered. ‘Get him on his knees.’

Scout didn’t resist. Another hit might put him to sleep.

Play dead; give the head a chance to clear. Almost there.

‘Hold him up.’

Eyes had refocused. Head was clear. Still had a ringtone in his ears. ‘Hello,’ he said to the short man he’d given the slip earlier. And was obviously better at his job than Scout had given him credit.

‘You’re in a lot of trouble.’ Shorty was being patronising. ‘Personally I’d cut your throat right now. Get it over and done with. But the Boss says not to. Maybe if you tell us what we want to know, he’ll forgive and forget.’

Whoever their Boss was. Scout doubted the sincerity of the man.

‘Fuck off,’ he said.

87

Unusual for the desk to be unattended.

Kat had wanted Russell to make her tea. Where was he? It was the wrong hour for his rounds. And why had he left the door wide open? Kat leaned across the desk and whistled. Tried to. Mouth was too dry to get a serious note.

‘Russell,’ she called. ‘Are you out back?’

Kat craned her body over the desk. A single boot lay on the floor, attached to a leg. And it had a pair.

‘Russell?’

Kat vaulted the desk and knelt next to the body fingers checking the neck for a pulse. Thank God. He was still alive. ‘Russell?’ She stroked the lad’s face. Nothing. She slapped him and he groaned.

‘Russell, what happened?’

‘Is that you Miss Katie?’

Aww, that was nice. He smiled as he realised who she was. Poor little wounded soldier.

‘What happened?’ There was blood on her hand. A wound on the back of his head. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘They were looking for that man.’

‘Man? What man?’

‘Your husband.’

My husband? It must have been a better night than she remembered. I’ve got a husband? What did my husband look like?’ she asked.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I’ve got a bad memory. Try hard, Russell. Tell me what my husband looked like.’

‘He was tall, with dark hair. Handsome, I suppose. About forty, give or take. He said he’d come to take you home.’

‘Did he now? That’s nice of him. Did you tell him what room I was in?’

The pause in the conversation answered her question.

‘I’m sorry,’ he sounded genuine.

‘Why did he hit you?’

‘No, it wasn’t him. There were others. Three men came a few minutes later. They barged in and grabbed me. Demanded to know what room he’d gone to.’

‘And you told them?’

Again the pause told the story.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s okay. You did the right thing. It’s probably just the rest of the family. No, don’t get up. You need to rest. Try to sleep.’

‘But Miss Katie, I have to get help. Miss? Miss Katie, what are you doing?’

‘Sorry, but this is for your own good.’ Kat’s arm had snaked around the young man’s throat and the pressure applied was cutting off his air supply. She didn’t want to hurt him. The pressure was just enough to put him to sleep. He slumped forward unconscious.

She didn’t blame him, but there was a question of privacy. The owners of the building guaranteed discretion. A letter would have to be sent to the management.

Kat checked her surroundings. Not much in the way of weaponry, just pigeon holes filled with leaflets and post. There was nothing in here. There never was.

Kat tried the back room. Russell’s chair lay upturned in the corner, as was the waste basket.

Didn’t these people keep anything to ward off undesirables?

Assorted paperwork was strewn across the table. A banker’s lamp on the floor alongside an old fashioned telephone, kept for decoration. There hadn’t been private lines since the Apocalypse.

She spotted a long handled brush coupled to a deadly dustpan. The kettle hung from the wall to remind her that a good brew was off the agenda. Kat’s eyes narrowed toward the window ledge. It would have to do. She grabbed the slim handle of the letter opener. She ripped the cord away from the phone.

Somewhere up there were three thugs, and a husband. She reckoned it was time to greet the witnesses and renew her nuptials.

88

Scout spat a mouthful of blood down onto the carpet. That was the second time Shorty had punched him. He was going to pay for them both. Just as soon as he had worked out how to free himself from Neanderthal’s grasp.

‘Is he alone?’ Another voice, someone he couldn’t see. ‘Did you find the girl?’ it asked.

‘Just this one,’ replied Neanderthal.

‘Hello? There’s been a mistake,’ Scout intervened. ‘Wrong apartment, happens all the time. Whoah,’ he saw their Boss. ‘Who let you out?’ A bug eyed intenseness from a sharp narrow face. The salt and pepper hairdo was a blast. ‘Shouldn’t you be scaring crows?’

Shorty slapped him.

Fuck you. Scout lunged forward and caught Shorty by surprise. He got to his feet but Neanderthal’s boot stabbed into his calf and brought him back to his knees. Bastards had him.

‘Where’s the woman?’ Scarecrow asked. At least he was polite.

‘What woman?’ he replied, ‘If you’ve got problems finding a date, try using a service.’

Scarecrow’s hand stopped Shorty’s fist mid throw.

‘The woman who stole the box. Where is she?’

Now how could you know that? He shrugged. Shit, you’ve been talking to Rubi.

‘Tag him,’ Scarecrow ordered.

Another needle broke Scout’s skin. Two short beeps and Shorty passed the machine to his boss.

‘Have we met before?’ Scout asked. Something familiar about you.

‘I think I’d remember,’ Scarecrow replied. ‘Ah, it says here that your name is Sebastian, aka Scout. Is that a gang name?’ Obviously rhetorical. ‘I see you have strong ties with the Duma. And you’re a convicted murderer. Well, now this is interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone being reprieved from Galfstram? How did you manage that?’

‘Clerical error. I shouldn’t have been there.’

* * *

Liam was impressed. This man’s incarceration would have to be looked into. Find out the reasons that had earned him a release. It also followed that Rubi hadn’t exaggerated. This man was a dangerous individual, and almost certainly a deviant. His file read like a sinner’s handbook. And what misguided individual had granted this man a Commission Permit to fund food aid for underprivileged kids?

Liam lifted his gaze to the prisoner. There was a name on his file that he recognised. The woman this man had been convicted of murdering. Her name was Chia Hirlonga.

Liam realised for the first time that their paths had indeed crossed in the past. But that wasn’t relevant now, or was it?

‘Why are you looking for this woman?’ Liam raised a hand to stop Shorty thumping the deviant. ‘Answer the questions honestly and you can leave. Why?’

‘I’m being paid to find her.’

‘By whom?’

‘Sorry, client confidentiality.’

Why you? Why are you still alive? Galfstram should have killed you.

‘You feeling all right?’ the man asked. Though he doubted the sincerity offered within the question. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky. You got that panda face thing that’s going about?’

‘You’re working for the Preacher,’ Liam said. ‘That much I know.’

‘Then why the fuck are you asking me?’

‘Your Duma affiliation is of no interest to me. Just the girl who lives here.’ Threats were obviously not going to work with this man. It would require a change of tact. ‘I apologise for the heavy handed nature of my colleagues, Mr Scout. My name is Liam. Please tell me what I want to know and you can be on your way.’

‘And do I get my teeth back? Huh? Do I? No, I didn’t think so.’

* * *

Kat counted four men. A hundred and ninety pounds of thug held a man to his knees. That one, she assumed, was pretending to be her husband. The Short guy seemed to enjoy hitting him. By the foul language coming from his mouth she understood why. The fourth man’s face she couldn’t see, just the grey hair. He looked like he’d slept under a cinder bush.

Who are you? What are you all doing in my loft?

The man on his knees was cute, in a feral kind of fashion. She liked the way he kept smiling; it was really jerking them off. She eased her head back as another man entered from her bedroom. He had a stocky build and a narrow face that looked incapable of smiling. Whilst not as tall as the one that restrained her hubby he looked just as mean and experienced. So that made it four against one. But as it wasn’t her problem she decided to move on. Hubby would have to take care of himself. Consider the proceedings a divorce. She’d sneak back later and get what was important.

Then Kat’s heart sank as she noticed the grill on the wall was gone. Where was the grill? The fourth man had picked something up from the table.

No, put it down. The cross dangled from his hand. That’s not yours. He was dropping her photos as he looked at each one in turn. Kat’s heart rate leapt by twenty beats a minute.

It seemed a rescue mission was on the cards.

* * *

This was getting tedious. Scout had no intention of telling them anything. His mouth had closed for business out of spite. He would never have predicted what Scarecrow said next.

He leant forward. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he whispered. ‘I should have taken them, back then.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You have sinner’s eyes,’ Liam said.

Time stood still. His heart and nervous system stalled into limp mode. Those words. Whispered in his ear once before. It’s him. Scout’s mind was sucked back to that night. Instant recollection, he felt the flames and choke of the smog. He closed his eyes to anguish as he heard her scream. Chia!

The voice from his dreams had returned. Those words, the ones that had founded his nightmare. It was him, the man, from that night. “You have sinner’s eyes.” He heard it again and again, and then another word consumed them all. Revenge.

Scout’s heart pumped again. A firm beat that rose quickly in tempo. He drew deep breaths as the numbness receded. The silence in his head started to purr. It growled, spat, and then screamed. Scout screamed. He cried aloud for the life this man had taken from them.

‘Ah, I believe I have your attention.’ Scarecrow seemed pleased with himself, and then bemused as Scout offered a smile. ‘What’s so amusing?’ he asked.

‘Her, she looks just as pissed off as me.’

Liam turned to follow Scout’s gaze. A strange black object hurtled towards his face.

89

The metal prongs caught Scarecrow full in the face. Their energy unleashed at the end of a chord that gave no time to react. Liam went down holding his face.

Is that a plug? She took him out with a plug?

Plug and lead were whipped around the woman’s head and lashed out again, toward him. Shit. Scout closed his eyes and hoped the second assault was equally precise. The groan from behind suggested success. He felt the boot that pinned his calf pull away and his hands released.

Scout launched his body upward. The top of his head crunched into the reeling man’s chin. But Neanderthal man didn’t go down. The brutish figure staggered back with severe indignation. A tooth was spat out. At least now he wasn’t the only one dribbling blood on the carpet. Neanderthal charged, caught Scout, both men went back over the couch.

The carpet didn’t do much to displace the onrush of weight as Neanderthal landed on top and forced Scout’s back to flex like a gymnast. A big mauling fist missed its mark. Scouts’ left knee didn’t. It stabbed into Neanderthal’s solar plexus and was followed by a sharp elbow to his face, and then another that encouraged the ape to roll off. He had to finish this man fast, then find the fucker with the sickening face. His fist piled into Neanderthal’s cheek. It came with everything Scout had to offer. Son of a bitch wouldn’t stay down.

Neanderthal’s bloodied face came up fast and drove hard into Scout’s, throwing his head back. The pain bit him hard; but if he let this man get up, he probably wouldn’t put him down again. Scout threw himself on the bigger man. Arm wrapped around Neanderthal’s neck. He locked it tight and began to squeeze. Tighter and tighter, he couldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let go. Despite the frenzied grapple of bearlike hands and the slam of the wall against his back. Scout refused to release the pressure.

As the sleeper tightened Scout could see Shorty lying on his back. Was that a paper knife sticking out of his chest? On the raised kitchen level the woman was taking the other man down. She feigned to the left and jabbed a leg out that snapped his head back. The blow forced him back to the table but he didn’t go down.

Sleep you fucker.

The bad guy swung twice and whipped a kick out from a full spin. An impressive move, if he hadn’t missed. Miss Katie was just too quick.

Go, to, sleep!

She was good. Her arms blocking the man’s well-drilled fists. Muting his obvious power. Then she jabbed, stabbed, and poked him in the eye with her foot.

I could do that.

It preceded some sort of half spin, quarter flip, back kick that landed in his face to send him through the foils of the blinds. The coupe des gras was the full spin kick into the man’s face. Then the crunching lunge of her boot into his chest. Bad guy went through the glass pane. It shattered into rain as his flailing hands grabbed nothing but fresh air. The scream he let out was an after-thought. Long and loud until the ground outside silenced him.

How long can you go without air? Pass out damn you.

Scout was losing his grip. Arms getting tired. But Neanderthal was weakening.

Shit, shit. The woman had turned to face him. Shit. A plan B was needed. Scout let Neanderthal go.

He coughed and spluttered but the bear got up. Punch drunk but ready to re-engage, and he looked twice as pissed off and angry as before. So did the woman, but neither of them was meaner than a loaded handgun. Plan B, Scout squeezed the trigger three times. Three holes blown into Neanderthal’s chest. The hot barrel swept ninety degrees to face Katie before he dropped.

On the face of things it probably seemed ungrateful. She had just saved his life, but right now all Scout cared about was the Scarecrow. He fanned the weapon around the room, Neanderthal and Shorty were both dead on the carpet, another body was outside on the pavement.

Where the fuck is he?

Scout rushed to the door. Toward the sound of shoes pounding down the stairwell. The bastard was running. Scout was giving chase. Leaping down stairs in threes. Gaining fast. That man was there that night. He had information. He might know why Chia was murdered. Who was responsible?

No way the Scarecrow was leaving this building.

90

Scout stumbled out into the main street. Unfamiliar surroundings, a moment to get his bearings, to see the awkward gait of the man who ran; faster than he looked capable. It wasn’t going to be fast enough. At the end of the street Scout took a right turn, he was getting closer. Another seventy yards and he had the bastard.

Run him down.

That’s when he saw them, the four JAG who exited the building with shutters. Scarecrow saw them too. He called out. Pointed behind. Shouted harsh words followed by rifles being un-shouldered. They pointed then at him, and then down as Scarecrow flashed some sort of ID. The tide had turned.

Scout came to a stop. He eased the gun from his belt but kept it hidden. From this distance a shot wouldn’t be a good one. He needed Scarecrow alive.

Fuck the Saints. This isn’t fair.

Several people on the street had moved to cover. Bystanders between them could see bad things about to happen. Scout lifted the light polymer based weapon. He aimed the static sights and fired twice. Did he get him, did he get the bastard? One of the JAG went down. A volley of shots returned fire. Single shots only but quickly followed by semi auto bursts. He was already on the move as dull thuds and whistles followed the gunshots. He threw himself back round the corner. The sound of bullets replaced by running boots.

Fuck, fuck . . . Run you idiot!

91

He re-entered the Lucky Blu quicker than he’d exited as bullets slammed against the door and ricochets plugged the inside walls. He slammed two inches of seasoned oak and threw several large bolts across the frame.

That should hold them for a while.

‘Head down,’ he shouted at Weasel, who looked mortified he’d returned.

‘Russell, get in the back room.’ A woman’s voice. ‘Now,’ Miss Katie ordered as she exited the stairwell and marched towards him. The gun in her hand was pointed at Scout.

You took time to change your clothes?

Gone was the tight dress, and low heeled shoes that laced around her shins. She wore combats and a yellow fluffy jumper. Military style boots on her feet. What had she done to her hair?

‘Yellow?’ he said, the Glock aimed at her chest. ‘Yellow? Just what I’d wear if I wanted to hide in a crowd.

‘Or in plain sight,’ she answered.

‘Russell, leave, lock the door.

‘You heard her,’ Scout ordered. ‘Go hide. Tell them a canary held you at gunpoint.’

Weasel scuttled across the floor into the back office and slammed the door shut.

This was awkward. Scout’s gun pointed at Miss Katie, pony-tails and all. She reciprocated the act with what looked like a Beretta hand gun, and the envelope he’d last seen on the table upstairs

‘Easy,’ he said. ‘I could have shot you earlier. I didn’t.’

No reply, but he could tell she was weighing her options.

‘Who are you? Why did you bring them here?’

No pleasantries then? She looked hostile and angry. Very demanding.

‘I was passing,’ he shrugged. ‘The door was open. Anyone could have walked in.’

She took two steps closer, the Beretta rock-steady at his head.

‘Try again,’ she insisted.

‘Sure, but somewhere else?’ He pointed at the front door, where numerous JAG were insistent that it opened. Time was short. Miss Katie didn’t seem in a hurry.

‘You stole something, I’ve been hired to retrieve it,’ he said ‘What, you need a hint? Do a lot of moonlight romping through Duma property?’

It was Katie’s turn to shrug.

‘That door won’t hold forever. They’re here for, you do know that. Scarecrow face asked for you by name. “Where’s Miss Katie?” Seemed pretty insistent.’

‘That man asked for, the woman. He doesn’t know me.’

‘He will. Five minutes after that door comes down, he will. Hey, you were listening? You could have intervened before they messed with my face? Fuck you!’

* * *

This was unbelievable. How bad a morning could this get? Toupee man and a headache had escalated into a gun fight. The loft resembled a war-zone. Were there really two dead bodies on the carpet and another on the street? The door’s hinges were starting to give as more rifle butts joined the assault outside. It wouldn’t take long before one of them decided to come round the back.

Why? She wanted to know why he’d come here. Why the fuck this man had screwed her life in less them five minutes. Why?

She wanted answers to questions she hadn’t even thought of yet. Kat lowered her gun.

‘Follow me,’ she said, knowing they were words she’d regret.

Kat jumped the wall at the back of the building. Quick marched across the neighbouring yard, and took the steps down toward the kerb. With her back to the wall she checked the street and took her first chance to breath. To register it was gone. All gone. Her clothes, her shoes, her home . . . Her life.

The JAG would have hammered the front door down by now. They’d be ransacking through the loft, then the other apartments. The entire area would be closed down within minutes. She pulled up her hood and walked.

A mile later and she’d circled the Reliquary. Good use of courtyards and climbing walls. Keeping to the back streets and shadows.

That word, it kept rattling around her head. Why? Why had this happened? Why had this man brought the sky down on her head? The loft, her anonymity, her life, all come to an abrupt end. Kat ceased the fiery pace. Thirty minutes of silence was about to end. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into a doorway.

‘Fuck you,’ she said.

‘Are we doing the gun thing again?’ he asked her.

‘You think this is funny?’

‘Hardly.’

‘I’m screwed now, you do understand that. No, don’t you say a word. Not a fucking word.’ She turned to walk away, then changed her mind. Things needed to be said. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Scout,’ he said.

‘Scout? Scout what? What does that mean? Boy Scout. Army Scout. Girl Scout?’ She stepped away and then back. ‘Well, say something.’

‘My name is Scout, it’s not my occupation.’

‘It’s an idiot’s name. No, I told you not to speak.’ She couldn’t stop pacing. ‘Why? Idiot, why have you just gate-crashed my life? Why? What gives you the right to bring seven shades of shit down on my head? Yes, you can speak now, and don’t you dare look at me like that.’

‘Those men had come looking for you, not me.’

‘Me? No, I don’t think so.’ She was finger pointing. ‘They followed you. Me, I’m invisible. Oh no, wait, half the city is looking for me now.’

‘They followed me, yes. But they were looking for you.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense. Fuck . . . I don’t know you, or them; whoever them are.’ She had to keep pacing. That or shoot him. She came back close. ‘Let’s recap. I have a man I don’t know, that’s you. Who’s looking, for me? And he’s being followed by people that neither of us know. Oh, and it appears that they, are looking for me, and not for him? Do I have it right? Is there anything I’ve missed? Hey, give that back.’

‘Is it in here? Is it in the bag?’

‘What? Is what in the bag?’ Kat grabbed her rucksack back. ‘You want to know what’s in my bag?’ She threw it back to him. ‘Go on, take a look. You’ve already rifled through my loft, my possessions . . . my life. Go ahead, open the bag . . . No wait,’ What had she put in the bag? Kat tried to picture her actions. She’d grabbed a couple of tops and a dress, a pair of shoes. Some make-up, powder, some paint, and other, more feminine items.

‘Give me the bag back. Give, give, give it back.’ She reached behind her back and Scout reciprocated. Both stood pointing a gun at the other.

92

‘I can do this all day.’ Scout was fed up with people pointing guns at him. ‘You sure you know how to use that?’ He had absolutely no doubt that she did. He kept one eye on her whilst the other watched his hand throw the bag’s contents to the ground.

‘You had a few seconds to grab what was important, and you took these?’

Make-up spilled onto the ground. In his hand draped a dress, not that there was much material. His weapon parted a split that ran from hip to heel. A shoe came out in the same hand that held the dress. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked.

‘Fuck,’ she replied.

‘You only grabbed one? That was stupid.’

His hand left the bag with the brown envelope.

‘It’s not a box,’ he said.

‘Put those back, or so help me I will shoot you.’

‘Tell me where the box is.’

No reply.

Scout turned the gun on the envelope.

‘What? You’re going to shoot my photos?’

‘I’m not bluffing.’

‘I’m on the run with a psycho who shoots photos?’ She lowered the Beretta. ‘This cannot be happening to me. Who the fuck are you?’ She tucked her weapon behind her back.

She was upset, he could tell. Lots of pent up aggression as she snatched her possessions back into her bag.

‘Give, now.’ She held out her hand.

Those rich blue eyes had lost all their allure and turned into gun ports salted with a dash of crazy. He couldn’t tell if she would attack him, or burst into tears, or both. Scout gave up the envelope.

‘We need a place to hide,’ he said. ‘City Centre will be crawling with JAG looking for us.’

‘Looking for you,’ she insisted, her finger pointing again. ‘You’re the one who needs a place to hide. I need a bath and a mirror, and my name’s Kat, not Katie. Let’s be clear on that.’ She marched off to muttered words it was best that Scout couldn’t hear.

She was right. By nightfall the JAG would know more about him than he did about himself. They’d visit all known associates, and Preacher would hear too. He wouldn’t want dead Commission Agents on his doorstep. He’d doubtless look to tie up loose ends. Scout didn’t like being a loose end. Best not to forget Kat’s employers, the Trins. Would they see Kat as a loose end too?

Probably.

There was another consideration. The man with the weird eyes and the chalkboard hair. Who the fuck was Scarecrow? What did he know about that night? Was he responsible? If he wasn’t, he could know who was. Was it even possible that Scarecrow had killed Chia and his baby girl?

Loathsome eyes burnt toward the woman ahead. Scarecrow had a weakness. He wanted this woman more than he wanted him. It didn’t matter why, only that he did. And that gave Scout an advantage. It gave him collateral with which to bargain.

‘Hey, wait up. You and me, we’re a team now, right?’

‘Fuck off.’

93

‘You should kill him,’ said Isabella. ‘Kill Stax, and all those that plot with him. Patron, please, what are you waiting for?’

‘Cut the head off the snake and the body will wriggle away and hide. We must wait.’

‘There’s more, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.’

‘Are we prepared, Isabella?’

Isabella looked down the long corridor, both ways. Aware her voice had raised. ‘Stax, will not move against you until the Assembly back him fully,’ she said. ‘They want the land on the other side of the Line. Each time you block them, the more support for you wanes. At some point the Commission will revolt. He will have enough votes to remove you. At that point you will be vulnerable. He will act swiftly.’

‘Yes, I expect he will.’

‘Patron, I don’t understand your . . .’

‘Your Agent has identified his supporters?’

‘It’s a growing list.’

‘And how it will be done?’

‘Made to look like a Trinity plot.’

How easy the lies slipped from Isabella’s lips. She smiled. She knew that Patron liked to see her smile. Beauty and charm had always worked best for her when stirred within the same cocktail.

‘Then the time is nearly upon us. Come, Isabella, I want to show you something.’

‘But you’re meeting with Radan and the others?’

‘Cancelled.’

Isabella was intrigued. She was nervous too, but showed no outward sign. Since her visit with the Surgeon something had changed. The shadows of the Reliquary had darkened. They watched her and filled her with dread and fear. She wasn’t sure how, but the order to murder Patron had undermined and exposed her.

The Trinity had always benefited from her eyes and ears. Her position kept her close to Patron. To the man. And despite how it seemed beyond these walls, he was only the balance and check on the Commission’s power. Assassination was a very personal act, hardly an act of self defence. The intent only served to highlight all the doubts of the last few years. The Trinity’s acts of terror. The women abducted for experimentation; for the production of Stems. “Smoke and mirrors to keep us all safe”. “Commercial necessity to keep the Faith alive.” Those were the Surgeon’s words, how he justified his actions.

‘Isabella, are you all right?’ Patron asked.

‘Of course.’ She needed to concentrate. Though her shoes made an ominous tone as she stepped to catch him up.

Neither spoke as they passed through several palatial rooms with ceilings framed with gilded plaster.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

They entered the Old Palace. Unused and unrestored, the architects had deemed the building unsafe. Six years ago the Primes had argued for use of the building. Conversion into their own private office space. But Patron had blocked them. Used the money for city sanitation. And set up the food aid programme that irked the Legates so much. “Productivity not poverty”. They’d even designed a poster that Patron had banned.

He had conceded that the area be scavenged. Its high walls and roman pillars scraped of their gold leaf. Robbed of their marble. The huge candelabras that once hung had been spirited away. She had no idea where. The only light now came through the numerous panes in the tall windows. Many of which were broken.

This part of the Reliquary was unfamiliar to her. It was a cold space filled with the chill of emptiness. Light that gave way to dark. More and more shadows to walk through. Why didn’t he speak?

Does he know? No, that’s not possible.

Isabella could hear her heart beat, surely Patron could too. Had he brought her here to be arrested? For interrogation?

The statues of two pious looking monks welcomed them at a tall doorway. Many more watched from plinths sculpted into the walls. She smiled as Patron glanced towards her. A decade of intrigue weighed heavily as the effigies stared at her like that?

Where the hell were they?

Patron thumped three times on the towering door with no handle; its sudden movement inward sent her cold. The light from the cracks were blinding and hid all that was beyond. Scripture overcame her sense of fear. A need to bend her knee. Was it possible? This Man who had lived so long, had created so much. He seemed to enter the forbidden kingdom of Heaven.

‘Isabella?’

Breath entered her lungs. The light was assimilated. Only a man stood before her.

‘What is this place?’ The words difficult to say.

‘This is what I wanted you to see,’ said Patron. ‘Come, I should have brought you here sooner.’

So, not a dungeon and a chair with chains. Breathe, Isabella. The interior was a vast open space in a circular design. It’s ceiling high, even for the Reliquary. What is this place? Why Didn’t she know it was here? ‘Where are we?’ she asked. Taking in every detail of the colonnaded walls that ringed her surroundings. Three levels stepped up from a circular base. ‘Is that a map?’

Below her feet lay a huge chart inlaid into an open marble floor space; the centrepiece of the rotunda. Her eyes followed the columns upward to a domed ceiling painted blacker than night. Between floor and rooftop each level had workstations; wooden desks that curved in sympathy with the architects design. JAG working at each station.

‘What is this place?’

‘My crowning achievement; my legacy for the city when I am gone.’ Patron walked out into the middle of the floor. A map below his feet of a land mass half surrounded by sea. ‘Unfortunately recent events have forced me to accelerate my schedule,’ he said.

‘Schedule?’ She stepped out staring at the floor. Then upward to watch the movement of the JAG Troopers between their stations.

‘Are those radios?’ The men seated had headsets. ‘I don’t understand, what’s going on?’

As she turned to take it all in she realised the walls behind held huge boards. Men with tall sticks moving coloured discs around. Another map, more detailed. Covered in lines, or was that boxes? It was a grid map, but of where?

‘Those are the Forbidden Zones,’ she said pointing. ‘What is that? Is that the land beyond the mountains? What’s going on here? What are these men doing?’ She saw the words Oasis on the map. It seemed small in context with the wider view.

‘You told me, I’m dying,’ Patron said. ‘Half the Commission wants me gone, the other half will follow suit. So it is time to put my plans into action. Come Isabella. I welcome you into my War Room.’

War Room? ‘War with whom? What’s going on?’

‘Below you is a map of our City, Oasis. Come, I hope your feet are clean.’

He was right, she recognised the river. The colours of the city zones. It had different letters at its heart.

R O M E

She didn’t recognise the name.

What is this place? What war is he talking about? It gave her a deep feeling of foreboding as her eyes took it all in.

‘The other cities you see highlighted on the map behind, they are Naples and Florence. To the north we have Turin, Venice and Milan. There are many others. I use their old names because I like to remember them the way they were, before He changed everything.’

She recognised some of the names. She’d heard the Loaders mention them.

‘He?’

‘Here, you see the black and yellow dots around our City. They are troop deployments. The number besides the charts are lists and timetables,’ he pointed to the walls, ‘numbers of troops and equipment. Logistical affairs that we don’t need to discuss right now. Suffice to say, I have three thousand JAG at my disposal. They are all well-armed and extremely well trained.’

Three thousand? It wasn’t possible. Or was it? A sudden feeling of anger jump-started her sense of reason. ‘Is this why enrolment numbers for the JAG have been so low for the last few years?’ This is incredible. The other Primes had taken it as a sign of Patron’s weakness. ‘Why was I not told about this?’

‘It wasn’t necessary.’

‘But the other Prime Legates? Do they know?’ The grin suggested not. ‘How could you do all this without their knowledge?’

‘It’s knowing who to trust, my dear. The proposal to clear the Line has given me the opportunity to increase troop numbers in the City without suspicion. Numbers are considerably more than the Prime’s realise. I have also built a network of Legates that oversee operations in more forbidden parts of the countryside. It’s difficult to hide things unless we operate outside of the City. Stax and the other Primes may suspect, but they have no idea of the numbers or scale. The room we are standing in, it doesn’t exist. These young men you see, they were brought up and indoctrinated outside of the city. They are loyal only to me.’

‘But why?’ Is this some sort of fantasy, a result of your illness? ‘I don’t understand any of this. What, does my anger amuse you?’

‘No, I was just imagining similar faces on my Primes when I have them arrested.’

‘You intend to arrest them all?’

It was important that she understood. The Trinity had to know.

Her attention shifted to three large tables on her right, each one curved with the same symmetry as the others around the outer wall. Four chairs rested behind each. Most occupied. She had to take a chance. Take in every detail. Her eyes followed the arrows on the map as she stepped across the floor. They went north mostly. Up toward the mountains where they crossed and then spread out on the other side. Smaller pointers went south and east into territory that was well-known but still considered dangerous.

The Wars had left radiation in the other cities. The plague was an ever present threat, but if that was so, then why were Patron’s dots presented in most of the major cities?

‘I’m cold,’ she said stepping up to the first level, taking a jacket from a chair. It was warming as it wrapped her shoulders. The soft quilt slipped on over her blouse. A chance to cast a discreet enquiry over the documents on the table.

‘We have caps too.’ Patron seemed to be enjoying her surprise. ‘I’ll get you one that fits,’ he said. ‘The complete uniform comes with an AK47 assault rifle. The Loaders found containers full of them some years ago in the port of Naples. Who knows where they were going, but they never arrived.’ He turned his back on her. ‘As you are well aware our Loaders accumulate a variety of provisions for the city.’

Loaders? Does he know?

Isabella’s chill returned. No, it’s not possible. Her contacts were followers of the Faith. She had only ever used Trin Loaders to supply the lab. They had been ultra-careful, building supplies slowly. But still, it would take just one mistake. Anyone could betray them if torture had been used.

‘You seem confused, my dear. I must apologise for keeping you out of the loop.’ Patron raised his hands and turned them around the room with pride. ‘Welcome to my War Room. From here I will send the JAG out into the world. They will extend our law and order far beyond Oasis. They will spread the word of the Saints and convert the Heretics in all the lands beyond.’

‘That’s, incredible,’ she said, and it was. ‘I, I wouldn’t have believed it possible.’ He may as well have said they were going to the moon.

Three thousand JAG, armed and trained. How could he achieve all of this without her knowing. Without the Primes finding out.

The surprise slowly drizzled down to a more personal agenda. This could wreck their plans. She had to warn the others. Let the Surgeon know what was going on.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said walking back across the map. Her eyes down committing every last detail to memory. ‘How long have you been planning all this?’

‘Fifteen years, give or take. Each year there are more interns at the JAG academy than we account for. We’ve been cooking the books, so to speak. My Loaders have been scouring far beyond the other cities for supplies. We’ve been stockpiling them at various sites.’ He pointed up to the maps. ‘The sites marked in yellow. It was the weapons we found ten years ago that confirmed everything I knew to be true. They were a gift from the Saints, Isabella. Mikael has answered my prayers, and given his blessing for the Love of the Saints to be spread.’

94

It was agreed under protest then. Both guns were to remain in the rucksack that Kat would shoulder at all times, and Scout was to change his clothes, he gave no argument to that request.

A convenient wash-line provided his change in apparel. Prosper’s jumper and slacks left pegged as recompense. It was the least he could do. Then two trams were taken, and a long walk was endured to reach the southern sector of the City. A non-residential area designated for commercial land and Productivity. Large warehouses were abundant; used for crop storage, produce from the fields. A light JAG presence, mainly on the roads, no difficulty in staying discreet.

The old mill house had a faded yellow door. It was an inspiring piece of architecture, a facade of big windows and large bricks. A large round hub with no arms that had once turned sails on the wind.

Kat teased a key from a hollow above the front door. Inside they trod well-worn steps to reach the top floor. The same key gained their entry.

‘Roomy,’ he said.

A spacious storage area. The chocolate brown walls couldn’t do the cream skirting enough justice. Great chunks of timber criss-crossed above to hold the roof aloft. A hole in the wall, now a window, where the grain had been unloaded in the past. Scout took a look outside.

‘You’re a girl who likes a view,’ he said.

‘Don’t stand by the window. Most of the City is looking for us by now.’

‘Most of the City has better places to be,’ he said. Scout pulled a long drape across to cover the glass. ‘I’ve changed my mind, give me my Glock back.’ The look she returned was an obvious rejection of the request. ‘How about telling me where we are?’

‘This is a safe house.’ She threw the rucksack onto the couch.

‘And why does a two bit thief need a safe house?’

‘This two bit thief saved your life back there.’

‘The distraction helped, but I had the situation under control.’

‘It looked like it. Every time the short guy hit you he wet himself.’ Miss Katie moved into another room out of sight.

You could have walked away. He would have, probably. Bad idea to get involved in other people’s fights. Then it hit him. The tall one with the long coat, he’d been pawing over the contents of that envelope. That was the reason she intervened. The photos and the cross, they were that important to her?

Scout pulled the zip of the rucksack, checked the doorway, then lifted the envelope out.

He sat, smiled. Oh yeah. Cushion had just the right amount of padding. Arms were a perfect height for his. He wriggled back into the soft padding. This was perfect, his backside was in ecstasy.

‘So you can’t keep your hands off things that don’t belong to you.’

‘That’s a bit rich coming from a thief,’ he hung the envelope out to taunt her. ‘What’s in here that’s worth risking your life?’ Silence. ‘You could have walked away. You didn’t know they were there for you.’

‘I still don’t.’ She snatched the envelope away and held it to her chest. ‘Why were you in my loft? Why did you bring them into my home?’

‘I want what you stole. That Commission man, Scarecrow, he wants what you stole. The owner, who happens to be a murdering psychopath by the way, he wants what you stole.’

Kat pulled the bands from her hair and let the tails fall open across her shoulders. She reclined into the sofa opposite him and stared up at the ceiling.

‘The Preacher is a bad man,’ she said.

‘You think?’ You have no idea. ‘Where is it? Take me to the box.’

‘What box? Gone. Why do you care? Frightened you won’t get paid?’

Scout was more concerned with the money he’d already taken in advance. Half of it had already used to get him into this mess.

‘I do have another motive, and I’m breaking a sacred trust here. Katie, I need your help.’ He feigned a nervous look around. ‘I’m working for God,’ he said.

Kat sat forward.

‘Personally?’ she asked. ‘The Almighty gave you a job to do?’

‘Yeah, kinda, look, can I trust you? Looks like I have to. Katie, I’m working for the Old Faith. I’m a Trinity agent.’ The words seemed to grab her attention.

A rasp came down her nose quickly followed by a howl of amusement.

‘Please, I’ve had better lines from drunks. You’re a fucking liar.’

‘And you’re a thief.’

Miss Katie sat forward. ‘And you’re buzzing,’ she said. ‘Why are you buzzing?’

Short ‘zzz’ noises from his pocket. Scout reached into the pocket of his stolen jeans. Kat’s hand went behind her back for a gun that wasn’t there.

‘Easy, I don’t know why this is making a noise.’ He held up the phone he’d borrowed from Rubi. Aware she was closer to the rucksack than he was, and how quick she could move. ‘It’s not mine. The owner’s probably pissed off I forgot to give it back.’

‘You’re a liar. Only Commission Agents have a cell phones.’

‘No, no, he’s a friend.’ Frankly Scout was surprised she knew what it was. He was even more surprised that it had decided to ring.

‘Well, aren’t you going to say hello?’

Scout flip the phone open and moved it to his ear.

‘Rubi?’ He said with genuine surprise.

“Are you with the woman?” the voice on the other end asked him.

Scout got to his feet and stepped away from Katie. Scarecrow?! How could that be? ‘Who gave you this number?’ He didn’t know the number. Scout resisted the urge to look toward Katie.

“Give me your location and I can make all your problems go away. All we want is the woman.”

Scout considered the unexpected offer.

‘And the Preacher?’ he asked.

“The city will be a better place without him.”

‘You can do that?’

“If you do this one thing for me, yes.”

If Kat came any closer the woman would be parked on his lap. He stepped back again, his hand raised. The conversation was under control. Unlike the hairs on his body that prickled.

“I understand, you have questions. Give me the woman and I’ll give you answers.”

Scout lowered his voice so Kat couldn’t hear.

‘Was it you? Did you kill Chia?’

“Give me your location.”

‘Did you kill, Chia?’

“No, it was not done by my hand. But I can tell you why. And I can give you back your life. Just give me the woman.”

This time he couldn’t help himself. He turned and looked straight at Katie. Who was she to him? Truth was she was irritating and annoying. Everything he had ever desired to know, truths that had kept him from sleeping at nights. It was all on offer, so why did he hesitate?

‘Call me back in ten minutes.’ Scout closed the phone.

95

‘Who was that?’ Kat asked. She hadn’t thought this day could get any worse. ‘Only Commission agents and high ranking officials have access to that type of hardware.’

‘I told you, it’s a friend’s. I don’t think he’ll need it anymore.’

‘So who was on the line?’

‘Wrong number,’ he replied.

Wrong fucking answer. ‘You’re a liar,’ she said.

It was less than eight feet to the bag. He’d moved further away, and already looked at it twice. He was going to make a move for the guns.

‘The man on the phone said his name was Liam.’

That was unexpected. Was this an attempt to distract her?

‘Back at your place, he said his name was Liam. You know him?’

Kat shook her head, aware this was an obvious distraction. He was forty odd pounds heavier, capable, tough. The bruising on his face slight despite the beating he’d received. But he would go down because she would make it happen. What was he doing?

Why are you sitting down?

He’d pulled the chair closer and slumped, head back with feet up on the arm.

‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, hating the fact that he’d done the unexpected, again. It made him difficult to read. She had no idea what was going on his head. And began to wonder if he did either.

96

‘Do you know a man named Prosper?’ Scout asked.

He had to make sense of all this. She didn’t answer.

‘Okay, he’s a friend. Well, not a friend, more an acquaintance. I stayed with him last night. He has a library, and a computer. I learnt some interesting shit that you may want to know.’ He sat forward. ‘For example, that box that you stole; it’s wanted by the Commission, the Duma, and by the Trinity. All of the aforementioned will kill you, and me, to acquire it.’

‘Is that right?’ she said, ‘and which one of them do you work for?’

‘I don’t. I’ve just gone freelance. I’ve just realised I’ve been set up.’ He held the phone out. ‘The charmer on the other end works for one of the interested parties, and you were right, this is personal. Scarecrow just made it personal.’

‘Go on.’ She looked interested. She’d also looked at the bag.

‘Get your gun, if you’re worried I’m lying’.

‘Oh, I know you’re lying.’

‘Try this then. Scarecrow wants you, and he’s offering me a pardon, and information that I want, very badly.’

‘And he wants the box in exchange?’

‘No, he wants you. I get the aforementioned if I hand you over.’

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Stalker had said. That she’d need his help, and the other thing, about facing his own demons. San had intimated something similar.

He didn’t understand why, but Miss Katie was the key to putting all the pieces of a puzzle together.

‘Do you know a big man, smokes a lot? Wears a long leather hand me down; likes big guns.’ There he saw it. She tried to hide the reaction. ‘You know him don’t you. You know who Stalker is.’

‘Stalker?’

‘It’s a term of endearment.’ He crossed his fingers. ‘We’re like this, him and me.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘Brothers in arms. And he told me you’ll need my help. How about a blind man who likes fountains, know him?’

She shook her head.

‘Okay, here’s what I know for sure. You stole a box. That box contains an item that a lot of scary people will kill to obtain. I know that you work for the Trins. Did you give it to them? No, not directly. I’m guessing you gave it to someone who will though.’ He sat back. ‘I also know that Stalker wants me to help you. And oddly enough, he’s the one that scares me the most. Who is he?’ She seemed reluctant. ‘Tell, or I’m leaving. You’re on your own.’

‘Really? You promise?’

Wasn’t much of a threat, granted? Right now he needed her more than she needed him.

‘All right, then help me out here. I’m stuck right in the middle of this. It might help us both if we pool information.’

More silence. At least she looked like she was considering cooperation.

‘It sounds like you’ve met the Entity,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know. I thought he was a myth.’

‘No myth, he called me, the Guardian. Does that mean anything to you?’ Now that was a reaction.

The phone began to buzz again. The plot had just got thick and gooey.

97

When you’re up to your neck in crap you may as well freestyle. He had to forget all the stupid notions being planted in his head by one faction or another. He had to stick to the job and this girl was his best lead. The only way to resolve this situation was to get the box back. If he could do that, the Preacher was off his back, screw Dok. If he handed the girl over to Liam, then maybe, just maybe, he could come out ahead.

So what if she’d saved his life. He’d have figured it out, probably. He cursed at his conscience. Cursed at his bad luck to find himself in this nightmare. He’d been sucked into a river of religious calling. San, Prosper, even Stalker seemed to be guiding him where he didn’t want to go. What made it worse was the image that wouldn’t move on, still niggling at the back of his mind. That man; the one long since dead. Nailed to a cross over two millennia ago. What the fuck did all this have to do with Him?

Listen to yourself Scout. Come out alive and screw your conscience.

Scout poured water from the bucket down the bowl. He leant against the cistern. It seemed his life was going the same way, rapidly

‘Feel better?’ Kat asked as Scout closed the door.

‘Not really.’

‘Where are the gun’s magazines?’ she asked, holding the Glock and Beretta for him to see. ‘I know you’ve got them.’

He pulled several clips from his back pockets.

‘When? How?’

‘You need to pay attention. And ask the real question, which is why?’ He grinned. ‘For all I knew you were working with Liam.’

‘And now?’

‘Oh he wants you, and bad. It’s pretty obvious he works for the Commission. He showed his ID to those JAG and they lined up like good little Troopers for him. Me, I’m just a means to an end for him.’

Phone started buzzing on the table again.

‘What do you intend to do?’

‘I’m already doing it.’ Scout flipped open the phone and closed it for the third time. ‘I just wish I could see his face.’

For now he had the upper hand. Liam was at arm’s length, Kat was vulnerable. She was a thief not a spy and he had one more card left to play. His eyes flit up to meet hers. Two clips thrown that she caught.

‘Gabriel,’ he said.

There, it was written all over her face and she knew it. She tried to hide it, but the Kat was out of the bag.

‘Who are you, really?’

‘I’m a follower of Jesus Christ,’ he lied.

That was it. All his cards played and laid on the table. The pot was stacked and he was all in. What would Miss Katie do now?

98

Kat had no intention of shooting Scout; it was just for show as she jarred the magazine in with her palm, then pulled the recoil to snap a round into the Beretta’s chamber. Just to let him know that she could play games too. Let him know he may have miscalculated. Then again, maybe she would shoot him. Wasn’t it a girl’s prerogative to change her mind?

Who are you, really? He looked sincere, but most con-men had the same smile. Is all this an elaborate charade? Are you playing me?

The JAG had tried to kill him, she was sure of that. The bullets that hit the door of Lucky Blu nearly took his head off. And the thugs in her loft, they weren’t playing either, but was it possible they’d staged all this for her benefit? Also, why? An elaborate ruse to find the box?

She’d stared at it back at the loft. Tried to open the damn thing; but found it to be a puzzle. No-one, including the Surgeon had deemed to tell her what exactly was inside. Just that it would be, “The beginning of the end, the start of something wonderful”.

As if she wasn’t confused enough, this aggravating man had spoken the word. Few knew its meaning. Did she honour the request? No, he needed to say more than a word.

‘You look worried,’ she said.

‘Miss Katie’s tapping a gun on her knee,’ he replied.

‘It’s Kat, not Katie.’ She got up from the sofa and circled him. ‘Why do you think that word; what was it, Gabriel? Why would it mean anything to me? Who told you to say it?’

‘A blind man with a penchant for dirty habits.’

‘I though he liked fountains?’ More lies. ‘You mentioned someone else. What was his name, Prospect?’

‘His name’s Prosper; he likes blue cups and plates. You know him?’

She did know him. They’d met several times. He was a trusted friend of the Surgeon, of Uncle. No, despite everything he said she didn’t trust him. But this man had met Wyatt? The man he’d called Stalker? His description, that had to be Wyatt. An enemy who’d met the Entity would not be sat with his feet up talking about it.

Besides, what choice did she really have?

Kat dropped the magazine clip out of her gun and then slapped it back in. Her slender finger grazed the slide release and the clip dropped out. She slapped it in again. Kat reached for the Glock and threw it to him.

‘I need to stop somewhere. Check something,’ she said. ‘You’re coming with me’.

‘I am? And then what?’

‘We’ll see.’

There was only one place that she could think to take him. It was dangerous. She’d be exposing someone she cared for, but he’d know what to do.

Kat checked her watch. They could make the Golden Promise in an hour if they kept off the main roads. She’d check the message board. If there was a problem with this man it could already be posted. She had no intention of sharing any more than he seemed to know already.

99

Was this real?

Isabella found it hard to believe. She’d followed Patron into a den of iniquity. JAG operatives working forbidden technology. Some twenty or so men and women, some seated at computers, monitors, and God only knew what. A low drone filled the room and numerous voices competed with the noise of the equipment to make a garbled sound.

‘What is this place?’ It was at odds with every rule she’d grown up accepting. To know that Patron was at its heart shook her. She was no stranger to computers and other remnants of the past. It was inevitable that such things would surface. That’s why they were outlawed, confiscated, studied, but this, this was unprecedented. It was unacceptable. ‘What’s going on here?’ she demanded.

‘This is my War Room.’

‘So you said, but there is no war.’

‘It’s a war of attrition, Isabella, at least for now. From this room I keep in contact with my ground forces through radio and cell-phone communication. We managed an uplink with a satellite in orbit some years ago. It has taken some time and effort to restore but now all of this, it works for me.’

Patron was sweating. She could see the strain on his face; she was feeling the anxiety herself.

‘But why? What’s it all for?’

‘Crusade, my dear. This is the central hub from where I will direct operations. Look at the screens. Each of those monitors relays information from units outside the City. I can communicate and direct them without leaving this room.’

Dear God, the Trinity? They have to know about this. I have to know what this is.

Her thoughts cast back to the Surgeon’s lab. The goal she laboured so hard for, risked so much to procure. Intelligence. Yet, clearly, she knew so little about either of the men in her life.

‘You did all of this without anyone knowing? Without telling me?’ She felt a wave of nausea. A sense of giddiness. ‘Why don’t I know what the fuck is going on any more?!’ Angry words that preceded a sense of release. Then caution, as heads were raised and several JAG moved toward her. Patron raised a hand to end their advance.

‘You have no idea how often I’ve wanted to share this with you,’ he said.

‘They know,’ she said. Suddenly hateful of everyone in the room, ‘I don’t.’

‘But secrecy was paramount. I took the decision to confide in these men and women, and a handful of others.’

‘Who are these people? And since when do the JAG wear black?’

‘They are sworn to obey me, alone. My JAG. They were raised outside of the city.’

‘Outside? Why? To what end? I don’t understand any of this. And why call it a War Room?’

‘We need living space. You read the minutes taken during Assembly. The Commission want me to move the Line, again. I’ve had to do it before. As the population grows, the city becomes smaller. Where will I move the Line to this time? I’ll be forced to move thousands of families outside of the city. There’s not enough infrastructure; not enough water or sanitation. Productivity improves life,’ he said, ‘those are my rules. This city lives by my rules, Isabella. But Oasis is a very different place than it was when I wrote them down. I had to find another way. Any fool could see this day coming. The Commission want space for industry and commerce, so I will give it to them, but I intend to give the citizens of Oasis more, if they want it. I’ve had troops living in other cities for several years. There’s no threat out there, not any more, just opportunity. We identified several locations suitable for habitation and growth. Utilities have been repaired, readied. The people who migrate will have to do the rest.’

‘This is incredible.’ Unbelievable. ‘The Commission won’t like this.’

‘The Commission has outgrown its usefulness; it will be replaced by a new governing body; one more fitting for the times. In time, I’ll end all travel restrictions. Redistribute stock-piles. Allow elections and freedom of speech.’

An end to the Commission, this is wonderful. No more Line . . .

‘Freedom,’ she said, ‘to start again.’ Can it really be true? Dare she ask the question. ‘Freedom of speech . . . what about thought?’ Choose your words carefully. ‘What about the Trinity?’

He seemed surprised by the question. Had she gone too far?

‘Look closely at the map,’ he instructed. ‘You see the arrows, intended troop movements. When resettlement is complete, I am ready to advance beyond the mountains. The roads are passable. When the JAG reach the other side I’ll order them to deployment. Instruct them to make contact with the Outlanders. The JAG will take the words of the Saints beyond the mountains’

‘Outlanders . . . what Outlanders?’

Hope plummeted into her shoes. She felt it drop. A single word he’d said came to the fore. Crusade. Crusade on whom?

‘Are you saying we’re not alone? There are others out there? Patron, are you telling me there are other survivors beyond the mountains?’

‘Yes, there are survivors beyond the mountains.’

This was to much. It wasn’t enough. Troops and weapons meant a War-Machine. Technology and a satellite were powerful advantages over others. Did he intend a hand of welcome, or to conquer them? She looked at the uniforms in the room. Dear God, Patron was going to subjugate other survivors. She looked away as if to stop him reading her mind.

‘You’re shocked.’

Outsiders? There are others outside of Oasis?

‘Of course I am. But I’m excited too,’ she lied. ‘What will you do if the Outsiders are, different?’ She closed her eyes. ‘If they are blasphemous? They may not know about the Saints.’ Oh dear God what if the Old Religion has survived beyond the mountains?

‘I’m making proclamation in the next few days,’ he said. ‘Everyone in the City will be required to take the Oath of the Prophets. The same Oath will be offered to all Outlanders.’

‘And if they refuse?’

‘It would be better for them if they didn’t. All those we come into contact with will be offered the Oath; the protection of the JAG, my protection. Those that are foolish enough to decline will be set to work in the fields. Some will be used as a deterrent to others.’

‘As it should be.’ Isabella knelt. She kissed Patron’s hand. She wanted to cry. How could a man be so gracious towards his own people, but so heartless towards others? ‘I want to be the first to take the Oath,’ she said. ‘To show my loyalty beyond all others.’

For a moment she’d felt like taking the poison herself, for doubting him. Surgeon was right, she could see it now. How long had he known? Contact with Outlanders; other survivors of Armageddon, it should be cause for joy, not for conquest. Then there was the Oath, what would this mean for followers of the Old Faith? Her faith.

‘I’m feeling tired,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time for my injections.’

‘Of course, Patron.’ She took his arm.

‘You’ve been to see our contact?’

‘Yes, he’s supplied everything. He was very pleased with the women.’

‘Good, then walk with me, Isabella. Tell me what’s on your mind. All of this must be quite a surprise for you.’

That was an understatement. Patron had never included her in matters that concerned the JAG. He’d often hold council with obscure Legates; unfamiliar faces. He had a need to micro-manage. There were aspects of his rule she wasn’t privy to. Even so, the last few minutes had left her breathless.

Reasoning was clearer without anger as she mulled over Patron’s actions. His midnight liaisons, the not so secret meetings that they all knew about. Clever Patron: the obscure Legates, his personal dealings with Loaders, this was how he’d kept this from her, and others. He’d been operating in plain sight of them all, and they’d all drawn the same conclusions. That he was obsessed with the Trinity problem. Clever, clever Patron, she began to see more clearly now.

Radan, of course, the faithful Secretary. He left the City on regular inspections of the fields; the power station, obscure coastal regions. The least profitable, the most mundane, they all fell under Radan’s perview. Often absent to keep the wheels of industry turning. They’d all been watching the wrong wheels.

Liam too, he came and went like the sewer rat he was. No wonder Patron was so keen to keep him away from others. She began to see with different eyes.

Clever, clever, Patron.

100

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ Kat insisted. ‘You’re like a schoolboy staring at his teacher stood in her underwear.’

Damn cheek of the woman. Scout closed his mouth and walked to the window. It might help if the towel she’d wrapped around her body was bigger than a handkerchief.

‘I’d rather look at factories,’ he muttered. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. A woman’s body could be a lethal weapon. He took a last peek as she went back into the bedroom.

She was tight. A healthy slice of attitude all wrapped up in a soft smooth butter coating. He grinned. Show the male moron what’s on offer. Get him all warm and gooey inside. Have him licking out of your palm in no time.

Not that easy. Nice try.

Several minutes later Kat reappeared. She wore a short skirt over black leggings and black ankle boots. A black tee shirt and the same yellow cardigan that was fashionably too small. Her hair was shorter, and blonde.

Have you got wigs hidden all over the City?

On went the finishing touch. A narrow pair of glasses slid above her nose. She looked different. Less chain mail, more fluffy pillow. Was it even the same woman?

A touch of face paint, a few accessories; you’d swear she was a teenager.

‘What do you think, white or black?’

‘White,’ he said. Like he had a preference.

‘Proof, as if needed, that you’re an idiot.’ The white handbag was launched back into the bedroom. ‘You never put yellow with white.’

What was I thinking? Oh yeah, that’s right, you’ve got a personality disorder.

101

‘Do you really want to go in there?’ asked Scout

That was the fourth time he’d asked her. They’d smiled between insults as they sat on the wall above the river below. Opposite was the café they’d been staking out.

‘It stinks of Security,’ he said.

‘You’re being paranoid. No-one knows what this place is.’

‘You give the Commission to much credit for being stupid.’

Kat took another look at the busy café. The Golden Promise was a popular haunt with those that could afford the view. She agreed, it was a risk, but one she felt inclined to take.

Most of the seats outside were occupied; people enjoying the sunshine from below the café’s awning.

‘The guy reading the paper next to the door,’ Scout said. ‘Has to be. Why do they always read papers?’

Kat agreed. ‘I don’t recognise one of the waiters.’ She stepped back. ‘How did they know we’d be here?’

‘Because you’re not as smart as you think you are.’

‘Oh really? Well, I wasn’t the one who let them follow me round the city for two days. Hey, idiot, what are doing?’

She felt Scout’s arm slip around her waist and felt his cheek touch hers as several men walked close by. Too close. Were they plain-clothes doing the rounds, or just locals taking a stroll? Indecision was the only reason she didn’t kick him in the sunshines, and what was that smell?

Oh my God, you’re wearing my perfume?

Did he have any idea how much that stuff cost? Had he applied it with a shovel?

She breathed in the scent, somehow sweeter on him. It smelt nice. The jumper he’d chosen from the safe house, it was soft; looked good on him. She squeezed a little, just for effect. Wow, you obviously work out. He was firm, surprisingly solid.

‘Are you checking me out?’ Scout whispered

Shit, no. ‘I’m performing for the audience, dear.’ Last night had obviously been more traumatic than she realised. She imagined he had a hairy chest. She couldn’t abide men with rugs on either their head, or their chest.

Kat let her lips brush his. A teasing smile followed. He was cute, if a bit rugged, and simple.

‘Get off me before I castrate you,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m going in and you are waiting here. If Emilio,’ or Uncle, ‘knows what’s going on. One of them will have left a message for me.’

Kat shouldered Scout aside. Before he could complain any further she was out into the street. A few moment later she’d blended in with the locals.

The new waiter smiled as she passed him. Kat shied slightly but kept eye contact, gave him her best girly smile. Now he was cute, she decided. And youthful, unlike the idiot she was saddled with.

‘Can I get you a seat?’ he asked.

It was turning out to be a gorgeous day. Bright sunshine bathed the café veranda from a clear blue sky. A few hours ago she’d planned to drink tea below the willow out back, eat lunch and enjoy a dreamy sleep. He’d ruined her day. They were spoiling the ambience. The waiter was a Commission Agent for sure, she could feel his watchful eyes.

Kat slipped between the window tables and said hi to the girls parked by the window. They were nice, pleasant girls. Just a few innocent remarks and a question or two as her eyes discreetly checked the board. Emilio always posted in the top right corner. There was nothing. Just business cards and a note from someone trying to find a home for two adorable looking kittens.

Kat kissed the girl closest on the cheek. It surprised her but she wasn’t offended. As far as any onlookers were concerned she was part of the group. She told them how lovely they looked and walked out the way she’d entered; newspaper man discreetly watched her leave. That was when she knew for sure that the café had been busted. She crossed the street, walked down the path, and took Idiot by the hand, careful to watch for anyone following.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Nothing? There should have been something.’

‘So what now?’ he asked.

‘You said you were friends with a man named Prosper, yes?’

‘Err, we’ve met.’

‘Then you know where he lives?’ Kat indicated Scout should lead the way.

‘He’s not to keen on strangers,’ he said. ‘Oh, right, is this like a test or something?’

102

The last time he’d seen this door his face was squashed up close, he was keen to get in. So it seemed suspicious it was ajar.

Scout pulled his gun. Kat did likewise, but pointed it at him.

‘You first,’ she insisted.

‘Are you still angry at me?’ he scowled. ‘I thought we’d moved on from earlier.’ He pushed the door open.

‘Prosper?’ he called out in a loud whisper. ‘Hey, you in there?’

No answer as his Glock led the way. The Beretta close behind.

He motioned Kat to check right whilst he continued into the lounge.

‘It’s clear in there,’ she said a moment later.

‘Something’s wrong. That table’s on the wrong side of the chair. And check out the book on top.’

‘Is it a bad novel?’ she asked.

‘Probably, look at its pages, they’re all creased. He’s not the type to treat a book like that. He’d probably iron it, and on the sideboard, you see, several of those ugly figurines are facing the wrong way.’

‘Maybe they’ve been naughty.’

‘There’s been a struggle; someone’s tried to tidy up. We need to leave. Hey, cloth ears, the front door’s that way?’

Scout backed through the room and followed her as she kicked open the doors in the hallway. She impressed him with the way she moved. Light on her feet and using the wall space for cover. The Beretta’s movement sharp and incisive it checked the spaces ahead. Then started down the stairs toward the kitchen. Extended as she rounded the bend and out of sight.

‘After you,’ Scout called out. He’d watch the rear until she called the all clear.

A few moments later he heard his name and followed. He didn’t like this. Who has a fight and then clears up? Going down put them in a box.

The scullery hadn’t changed since last time; pots were hung from the wall. The walls were still white.

‘What?’ Why’s she looking at me like that? Oh, right. ‘Second shelf up,’ he said, ‘third plate from the right.’

But she knew that already. So Miss Katie knew Prosper after all, and she’d just confirmed that he did too.

Smart girl.

The dresser opened silently inward. The muzzle of her gun swung his way again.

‘After you, husband.’

‘You’ve got an attitude problem, you do know that.’

Scout obviously had a heart problem. The big muscle was racing. It had been years since he’d handled a gun. Five minutes later and people were trying to kill him.

Like bobbing for apples. His head popped forward, and then retracted. Nothing to see in the dark. He moved quickly across the floor space, then settled his weapon toward the drape.

It was a mess down here. Prosper’s computers had been ransacked, their guts removed. Empty tins lay shattered on the floor.

‘Hey, hey. Wait up.’ She’d already moved behind the curtain.

Scout followed, flicking the lights on as entered the library. More apple bobbing; checking each aisle of books. Aisle number five held a terrible secret.

Kat was on her knees. Prosper’s body bloodied and tied to a chair.

‘Shit, is he?’

‘He’s still alive,’ she said, ‘barely.’ Trying to release his bonds. ‘Help me.’

Bastards had put a bullet in his shoulder, another in his knee. The chords that tied him the only reason he wasn’t prostrate on the floor.

‘Easy, easy, he’s lost a lot of blood.’ Scout lowered the man’s head to the ground.

This wasn’t just torture. The blood on Prosper’s face was the result of more than just a beating. Both the man’s eyes had been removed. There it was, no disguising the message. The scene had the Scarecrow’s fingerprints all over.

But how? How did he know about Prosper?

Prosper groaned as his head touched the ground. Kat was crying.

‘Why have they done this to him?’ She sobbed. ‘Why?’

Isn’t it obvious?

Prosper was Trinity, and obviously high up in the chain. Prosper had information the Commission would torture and kill a hundred Heretics to procure.

‘How did they find him?’

‘It wasn’t me.’ He sounded more sure than he felt. Shit, did Liam’s men follow me here? Did I lead them to Prosper?

‘Kat?’ Prosper was conscious. ‘Is that, you?’

‘Shhh, don’t talk. We need to get help. Scout, please, we have to get him out of here.’

‘Is he, with you? Scout, are you here?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’m here.’ Scout took a step back. If he tells her the JAG turned up after I left. He wanted a head start before she started shooting.

‘Oh God, who did this to you? Why have they done this to you?’

‘Come closer,’ he said. His hand raised and shaking. It was difficult to watch. And it reached out for him, not for her.

Was he about to make a death-bed accusation.

‘Take it easy, we’ll get some help. You’ll be fine.’

Scout fixed his eyes on Kat’s; he slowly shook his head. Prosper had a few minutes at best.

‘I told them,’ Prosper found the words difficult to speak. ‘I told, them. God, help me.’

‘Shh, it’s all right. You had no choice.’

‘I was weak.’

It was difficult to listen to the man; harder still to watch. Why wouldn’t Prosper let go of his hand? He didn’t want to touch him, or her; not now, not ever.

He’d thought himself so clever; so up for the task. But Liam had been clever too. Let Scout loose on a rope to slowly reel him in; catching all the bystanders in a net; first Kat, and now Prosper. Had they been following him since his meeting with the Preacher? Was he in on it? Was the Odyssey a target? Had he given them an excuse to take down Doc?

Oh shit, San?

Prosper’s hand pulled his arm, brought him back. The man’s fingers feeling their way to his wrist. He grabbed hold of Kat’s hand.

What are you doing?

He pulled them together.

‘Take him to the Surgeon, you know what to do.’ The man’s hands slipped away. His body began to tremble uncontrollably. He was going into shock. ‘God, forgive me . . .’

Scout put his lips close to Kat’s ear. She shied away.

‘Why isn’t he dead?’ he said.

‘What? You bastard.’

‘Why didn’t Liam finish him?’ One reason he could think of. ‘They left him to keep us here.’ Scout pulled his hand away; stood, his gun aimed toward the curtain. He moved toward the doorway.

‘We have to go,’ he called back.

‘I’m not leaving him like this.’

‘They’re probably up there right now. Filling the house and waiting for us to come up.’

‘I can’t, not like this.’

‘Kat, we have to go. Now!’

It all suddenly made sense. Without realising it he’d managed to serve half the Trinity onto a Commission platter. Worse still, that ugly little bastard was probably up there waiting.

Maybe there’s a deal to be done? Liam still wants the girl, and he wants her alive. Scout watched her, still holding onto Prosper’s hand. He swung the Glock towards them.

It was every man for himself now.

103

‘We have them trapped in the Heretic’s house,’ Liam said into the phone. ‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Patron’s voice sounded pleased on the other end.

‘Yes, I’ve dispatched troops to the addresses that the Heretic, Prosper, gave us. A round up of suspects will commence in less than an hour.’ He took a deep silent breath. ‘No, the box’s location is still unknown. If she doesn’t have it, she’ll tell us who does,’ he paused, ‘there is one other thing of interest about this woman. I’ve had the records checked twice. It seems that she died some time ago.’

He paused and listened.

‘Yes, it’s intriguing. When I have the primary information I’ll discover who she is. How shall I deal with the man? Yes, I understand. We have no further use for him.’

Liam clicked the phone’s cover shut. Had it been a mistake to omit certain information about the man? After all, that situation had been resolved some years ago. Patron was not aware that the husband had survived. Admitting the mistake would serve no practical purpose. No, he was right to save Patron the concern. The woman, however, interested him beyond her Trinity ties.

She bore the name, Katerina Corito. But the age of that woman, and the girl in the cellar were several decades apart. The young woman in the house obviously wasn’t her. Liam was intrigued. She’d been tagged eight years ago by the local JAG, compulsory for anyone moving so close to the Reliquary. She could have made herself look older at that time, but he doubted she could lose the years so easily. He waited for a search of the written records. He also wanted to know who had sponsored her residency back then.

When they had the fugitives in custody he would questioning about her past. As for the man, he was expendable. Liam motioned to his men. It was time to close the street down. He circled a finger to snipers in the building opposite and then pointed at the door. The trap was laid, nothing to do now but sit and wait. Eventually they would have to come back outside.

104

Still no movement on the stairs. If they were going to come, Scout hoped they’d do it sooner rather than later. He was in the mood to shoot someone. Empty a clip into the first body that exited the stairs. But no-one came.

Fuck, fuck . . . Right from the start he’d been set up. Give the dog a bone and set him sniffing. Well, he’d sniffed all right, and now people were dead. Dok, Rubi? Were they okay? Have they been arrested? Scarecrow was showing epic efficiency. He’d probably pulled in everyone Scout knew. Tass?

‘He’s gone,’ said Kat.

About time. The man was a mess. Death, a release, not a burden.

‘I’m sorry. I liked him.’

‘How did they know?’ Kat levelled an icy stare. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’

‘Yeah, we have to leave,’ If it’s not too late already? ‘and I meant it. I’m sorry for the old man.’

The phone began buzzing. Butting into their conversation, it only helped to raise the tension.

‘Answer it,’ Kat insisted.

Scout flipped the phone and lifted it to his ear. Eyes on Kat. Weapon tight to his chest; ready to point in either direction.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘You should have taken my offer.’

‘Who am I speaking to?’

The voice on the other end seemed amused.

‘The only person who can save your life,’ Liam answered. ‘The building is surrounded, I thought I’d give you the opportunity to come out. To bring me the girl, unharmed, and I’ll let you walk away. Delay, or defy me, and I will see to it that your last hours are excruciatingly painful. You have three minutes to decide.’

‘I have a counter offer,’ Scout replied, then fully cocked the slide of his weapon. It snapped back to ram a ten mil round into the chamber.

‘Scout, what are you doing? Why are you aiming your gun at me?’

* * *

‘What do you want?’ Liam asked.

‘I want a way out of here, but first you’ll tell me everything about that night.’

Liam listened to the man talk. An unexpected twist. A gunshot rang out from inside the house. Liam cautioned his men not to react.

‘Are you still there?’ he asked

‘The next shot makes this conversation pointless.’

‘Are you threatening to kill the girl?’

He wouldn’t do it. Or maybe he would? This man was undeniably desperate, and somewhat unpredictable.

‘You said it yourself, there’s no way out. And I’ve got no-one left to give a shit about. So if you want this woman, you’ll tell me everything about that night. Or I’ll end her, and then me. I’m not ending up like the old man. You’ve got until the count of three. One . . . Two . . .’

Liam heard a scream.

‘Threats are not necessary. Please, give me a moment?’ Liam stepped away from the JAG beside him. There could be no eavesdroppers on this conversation. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Everything, and if I hear a lie, if I sense deceit, she dies.’

‘And if I comply. Will you release her to me, alive and unharmed?’

‘Yes, but I walk. We can pick up where we leave off at a later date. Agreed?’

This was awkward. It would compromise another, but he couldn’t risk harm to the girl.

‘Agreed,’ his answer reluctant. ‘Ask your questions.’

‘Was it you. Did you kill my wife?’

‘No, it was a colleague. A rather distasteful man; a doctor as it happens. I can text you his name and address.’

‘You do that. I’ll pay him a visit. But you were there too, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, it was I who struck you. You were supposed to die in the fire.’ Am I really going to tell him? Give the names of others involved? Yes, the girl is the primary concern. ‘I have to admit that I was disappointed you survived. We allowed the authorities to dispense justice. May I ask, how did you get released from Galfstram?’

‘Tell me why? Why did Chia have to die?’

‘Secrets, Sebastian, my job is to find them out, and to make sure they are kept.’

He wasn’t sure how to continue. The man on the other end was astute, no fool. One perceived lie could end his hunt for the Relic. That would displease Patron. No, he couldn’t risk her injury.

Tell him what he wants to know. The knowledge will die with him.

‘I’m waiting?’

‘Very well. But you may not like what you hear.’ Liam glanced back. He needed to be sure that no-one could overheard. ‘Your wife, she had an unfortunate occupation.’

‘Her name. Use her name.’

‘Chia Hirlonga, she was a whore, and as such had many clients.’

‘She’d stopped. We moved on.’

‘Untrue, for the last two years of her life she retained a single, benefactor.’

‘Liar.’

‘No, I’m telling you the truth.’

Silence from the phone.

‘Who?’ he said at last.

This was awkward. But the man was desperate, possibly unstable. Tell a lie and he could kill the woman. Tell the truth and he may kill her anyway. Either way, Scout ended up dead. Liam decided the truth was necessary.

‘I can only tell you how it was. For my own part, I had a certain amount of sympathy, but my own views and feelings were irrelevant.’

‘You’re stalling. If I see one boot come down those stairs, she’s dead.’

‘I understand. But you must understand that what I tell you, you will not want to hear.’

Silence again.

‘Very well. Chia had a single benefactor. A man who carried great responsibility and high office. A man somewhat obsessed and blinded by feelings for your wife.’ Liam’s turn to pause. Was he really going to say this? ‘When he discovered that Chia was pregnant, it brought matters to a head.’ Liam took a deep breath. ‘She lied to you, Sebastian. The child Chia Hirlonga carried in her belly, it was not yours.’

105

‘You’re a fucking liar.’

‘No, no lies, that was our bargain. I will not lie; you give me the girl. We have an agreement.’

Liam heard doubt in the fugitive’s voice, a lack of confidence for the first time. Keep the man talking, keep him on the edge. Keep him wanting more. Give the man hope that he could still salvage the situation.

‘Leave the building and we can talk. Give me the girl and you can walk away. You will have your life back.’

‘Tell me who the child’s father was? I want to know why she had to die. You tell me why my baby had to die!’

A storm of anger in the words. Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea. People skills were not Liam’s forte.

Keep him calm. Control the situation. Try to encourage him to leave.

‘Bring the girl out,’ Liam insisted. ‘I want to talk. It’s time you found out the truth. Come outside and talk to me.’

‘No lies remember? Who and why, or so help me I’ll do the girl and then myself.’

‘Your wife refused to cooperate. She was instructed to have the baby, the State would bring up the child. You were not supposed to be there when we took her in. She was not meant to be harmed. Things, got out of hand.’

‘Out of hand.’ The voice seemed less assured. Almost confused. ‘I had a knife,’ he said, ‘in my hand?’

‘You stabbed one of my men with it. You were knocked unconscious; left for the flames. I can only assume you left the building with it still in your hand. Your amnesia a result of the blow. Sebastian, bring the woman out.’

‘You killed Chia, my baby. You tried to kill me.’

‘A series of events that were not intended.’

‘Are you telling me it was all an accident?’

Choose you words with care, Liam. This man sounds unstable, but then, who wouldn’t be in his situation.

‘No-one was supposed to be hurt. Our orders were to bring her in, unharmed. It was you who instigated the fire fight.’

Liam turned to his men. This had been a mistake. He circled his hand in the air, the sign for his men to move in.

‘Listen to me, Sebastian. We can bring this to our mutual . . .’

‘Who gave the order?’

‘I cannot give you that information.’

‘Who, gave, the, order?’

‘I cannot tell you what you want to hear. Only that your intervention caused a change of events I could not stop.’

‘Who ordered my baby’s death?’

‘The woman was an infatuation. She was a mistake. But he believed the baby to be his, and wouldn’t listen to reason.’

There, it was said. The mission a foolish thing; the deed done. In Liam’s eyes, its outcome best for all, except of course for the man on the phone. He signalled with his hand and two JAG began sticking plastic explosive to the doors.

‘Sebastian? Can you hear me, Sebastian?’

A single muffled gunshot broke the silence on the street. For a moment Liam stood paralysed, unsure. Has he done it? Had the fugitive shot the girl? Another shot rang out.

‘Go!’ Liam signalled the assault on the house.

Moments later explosives fired; the front door was swept away. Troopers on either side of the opening hurled canisters over the threshold and the space beyond erupted in thunder and light. JAG wearing breathing apparatus stormed through the opening.

‘Go,’ Liam ordered. ‘Find them. Find the girl.’

I need to be in there. Too much was at stake to remain outside. Come on. Come on. Surely that lunatic hadn’t carried out his threat.

The signal came. Liam hurried inside. Weapon drawn he advanced through the lounge; the smog half clearing as he descended into the kitchen.

What . . . what is it? Troopers walking out from the library. Masks being raised. Another held the curtain aloft with a gloved hand. He shook his head.

What the fuck does that mean?

JAG at the far end of every aisle he passed. Stationary, guns down.

No, no, this does not end here. It cannot.

The young Officer by the table indicated he should follow his lead. He too shook his head.

‘Show me,’ Liam ordered, lowering his gun as he walked down the aisle. He saw blood everywhere. Troopers at the far wall reluctant to make eye contact.

‘This is not possible,’ he shouted. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let this happen?

106

Only Prosper’s body lay on the floor. The JAG commander lowered his eyes as Liam turned on him.

‘Search it again. Find them!’

The house is empty, sir. My men are upstairs taking the furniture apart, looking for another way out.

Where are they? Heretics can’t just vanish into thin air. In the name of the Saints, how was this possible? ‘Take this building apart. Find me their exit.’

It seemed that Prosper’s bolt hole, had a hole through which to bolt. An unforeseen variable.

‘Captain, the men who searched the building before we left. Have them arrested.’

‘Sir?’

‘Now!’

What had he done? The information given on the phone, it was out of his control. The fugitive had played him. Was that a spark of admiration he felt? Quickly trampled by another surge of anger.

The fugitive had been a dead man when the conversation had taken place. He’d been overconfident. Made a rare error in judgement. Now he’d lost his only link to finding the Relic. Liam felt sick.

‘Sir, over here,’ one of the Troopers who thumped the walls with their rifle butts. Liam stepped over Prosper’s body keen to learn more. ‘The wall here is hollow,’ he said.

More JAG descended toward him. Rifle stocks jammed at the wall.

‘Just this area here.’

‘Then open it. Break it down.’ Why hadn’t they done it already?

He watched as fingers ran across the brick, pushing pulling, feeling for mechanisms. The wall sprang open. Two JAG slid through the opening. One re-entered.

‘It’s a tunnel, sir. Probably a walkway down into the sewers. There’s a junction further up that leads in several directions.’

‘Find them, Captain.’

‘Sir, teams of four,’ he ordered. ‘Search every tunnel you find. Go, go, go.’ He turned behind. ‘Contact headquarters and have them send me every man they have. I want boots on the street. I want a gun on every manhole in City Centre. Do it!’

Boots scrambled on the floors above. More JAG filed down the stairs at a trot. The scene in the library slipped into ordered mayhem as one Trooper after another passed into the tunnel. Liam stared at the body of Prosper.

The man had resisted at first, but time was short, and this man was obviously important in the Heretic chain. He’d given up names and addresses. Who wouldn’t when their eyes are being prised from their face?

It was the usual story; Prosper had only known persons in his own cell. It would take time to find them, and from them find others. It gave the Heresy grapevine the time it needed to end the chain, go into hiding, or some ending their own lives.

‘Captain, find out if the fugitive has left his phone activated. See if we can get a fix on its location, and make a call to the archives. I want to know who originally sponsored that woman to live in City Centre. I don’t care who you have to call, or harass. If they are sleeping, or fucking their mistress, I want answers, and Captain, members of the Assembly are Commission. My orders come direct from the Patron, himself. My words are his. Are we clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he turned to leave.

‘And Captain,’

‘Sir?’

‘You would be well advised not to hesitate again when I give you an order. Find a hole for the men who missed that,’ he pointed to the wall, ‘and make sure they stay there.’

A respectful nod preceded the Captain’s exit from the library. The room now silent. Only two men assigned as guards for Liam, one at the arch and one at the hole.

What to do with this Heretic’s cave?

Most of the books would be considered seditious, but probably not all. Liam walked up the closest aisle and allowed his finger to run along the manuscripts. It dipped in and out amongst the spines. His eyes followed the C’s. Cicero, Chaucer, Childs, Crichton. The D’s on the other side. Darwin, Dahl, Dante, Defoe. Dickens? Dickens, what a shame. Patron had given him a book by this author. It was this one. The story of a young child, and an odd personality named Fagin. An absurd tale, its characters had reminded him of those who lived across the Line. Back when the gangs and the Duma had wielded greater power than the Commission. A den of Heretics and deviants that had been duly broken. So what to do?

This was a valuable stock of titles that the Commission would impound without hesitation. Then sell on for profit.

Liam’s gaze settled on two oil lamps on the desk. Prosper liked to read by natural light, he assumed. Good for him. The eyes of that sinner had been plucked out. Only fitting that they should read one last time by the light of the lamps.

Liam raised the glass bowl on both lamps. He plucked a match from the pot beside the nearest. Drew its tip spitting and sparkling across the desktop. The wick in the lamp and the glowing flame embraced like lovers. Both lamps greedy to be lit.

Fire, the ultimate purification. He slipped the conifer shaped glass back into place. Pages of filth and deviance. He hurled the lamp against the farthest aisle. Burn!

The oil burst free and spewed across the shelves. Flames spread greedily upwards. The guard at the hole backed out through the brickwork. Liam smashed the second lamp across the piles of paper by the desk and walked to the stairs. He watched to be sure the flames matured into a raging blaze. A furnace that would consume everything in the room. Soon there would be nothing left of this snake’s pit.

Liam tore down the curtain and threw it into the inferno. Then motioned the Trooper to follow him up the stairs.

107

‘Do you even know where we are?’ Scout asked. ‘Hey?’

Kat was angry, he got that, and scared too, but he wasn’t sure if she was trying to lead him out, or leave him behind.

‘Hey, blondie. Suck it up and tell me where we are?’

If looks could kill he’d have dropped instantly into the affluent that splashed away from his shoes.

‘A good man is dead,’ she said, refusing to slacken the pace. ‘I’m on the run and I don’t know who from, or why. And you want to be reassured? Suck it up, asshole.’

Scout aimed the Glock at her backside; went through the motions like a child with a toy gun.

At least they were talking now. Not that he supposed either had much to say. Truth was, the less she knew the better.

Scarecrow had played him. Pulled his strings and watched him dance. She was right, a good man was dead, because of him, maybe. Probably, those two shots had helped. If only he could have seen the bastard’s face when he’d heard them. Found them gone. She was bound to ask again, why he’d shot at the books before she closed the exit.

Best he could do now was follow, through water that was getting deeper; his feet already wet and cold.

‘Up here,’ she said. ‘We need to get out of the system before they discover how we got out.’

She was already halfway up the ladder. A noisy metal cover being slid back onto tarmac. He followed her up. The manhole cover heavy as he heaved it back into place, then a sudden realisation.

Where is she? The temperature dropped to Artic levels.

‘Kat . . .’ His loudest whisper. ‘Kat.’ Fuck you. ‘You heard what he said back there. We need to stick together. Kat?’ He couldn’t stay in the middle of the road.

‘Over here.’

‘Here . . . where’s here?’ Her voice came from one of the gardens to his right. He hugged the wall that ran in front of them, peering over each in turn. ‘Shine a fucking light or somethi . . .’

A hand dragged him behind cover.

‘We should rename you, Lost and Needy.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Let’s settle for, follow me. Now move. I know a place we’ll be safe, for a while. It’ll take a while to walk there.’

A car’s lights lit the road.

‘My feet are wet and cold.’ Scout rushed out into the road Glock primed toward the driver’s face. ‘I need to dry my socks,’ he added. ‘Stop the car. Pull over, now!’

The brakes of the little green Fiat squealed it to a stop.

‘Out of the car. Out, out . . .’

The car door opened and an officious looking man who wore glasses shied out from behind the steering-wheel.

‘You work for the Commission?’ Scout asked.

The man nodded nervously. A punch in the face knocked him cold. Scout caught the man and dragged behind the wall.

‘Get in.’ He was already in the driver’s seat. ‘Hey, you want to walk?’

‘It’s green,’ she said.

‘I’ll paint it when we get there. Get, in.’

Kat slumped into the passenger seat.

‘You do realise you’ve hijacked a kid’s toy.’

‘It’s a classic, and quicker than walking.’

The motor revved and the rear wheels gripped at the tarmac. The car limped forward. It phut-phutted its way down the road.

‘Are you sure?’ she said.

108

‘You should have tried first gear,’ Kat observed.

She was right, he’d pulled away in third gear.

‘End of the road, turn left,’ she added. ‘Keep going. If we’re lucky we’ll beat any roadblocks they put up.’

‘Road blocks are the least of our worries. We’ve got a car coming up fast behind us. Looks like he’s flagging us down.’

‘Well, don’t stop.’

‘You want me to outrun them in this? I’ll pull over, bullshit them. Take them out if necessary.’

The vehicle behind was big, black, and eating up the ground between them.

‘Go, faster, stupid little car,’ Scout urged, and it did.

Nippy was an unexpected adjective to describe the tiny car’s performance. Back into third gear now, and unexpectedly creating distance. Saints bless the obvious modifications as blue smoke trailed in their wake. The car moved faster as it crunched into fourth.

‘Where did you learn to drive?’

‘In the Outlands when I was a kid. I normally take the tram, so it’s been a while.’

‘You’ve been outside the city?’

The conversation ended as the rear screen erupted into a thousand shards that blanketed the rear seats. Scout hauled the wheel left to the scream of tyres warping on rims.

‘You’ll turn us over you, idiot.’

‘I’ve got this.’ The wheels bounced up the kerb, ran over the pavement, then jarred back down to the road. ‘Fuck . . . it’s a small wheel, turns quickly.’ The long gear-lever in his left hand ground third hard into fourth again.

He was doing sixty and about to run out of road.

‘We need to take a right. Take a right.’ She looked back.‘Okay, take the next one.’

Hard right as the gear lever whined downward. More power engaged as the brake released. It was all coming back to him.

He’d stolen enough of these things as a kid. Short runs, straight into hiding, chopped for spare parts on the black market, until the Commission had limited ownership and permission to drive. The bottom fell out of the market; he hadn’t driven since. The windscreen blew forward and the cab filled with turbulence.

‘Left, go left,’ Kat screamed. ‘There’s no road ahead, go left.’

The little car turned as instructed, to find another spine jarring kerb edge. A right followed, then a left. Roads too short to get good speed. Their pursuers had more engine, more acceleration; they were closing fast.

‘Would you?’ Kat offered Scout her Beretta. ‘You’re a way better shot than me, honest.’ She pointed to the wheel. ‘May I?’

Is that sarcasm? A scream followed as both their heads hit the roof lining; another kerb rebounding from the tyres. Scout took the gun now thrust against his chest. She looked angry. Ever since they’d met she’d looked angry.

A bullet zipped through the cab and the rear view shattered sending more glass around the cab. Kat was almost sat on his lap, insistent; she smelt nice.

‘Are you sniffing me?’

‘No,’ he lied, and tugged himself toward the rear seats.

With one foot on the roof, the other probing at Kat’s ear, he didn’t need to see her face to know she was unhappy.

‘Slim, think slim . . .’ she shouted.

‘Are you saying I’m chubby?’

A final grunt and he wriggled free. Fell back into the passenger seats and wriggled his knees onto the leather. The Beretta braced on the headrest and took aim. Two shots, both missed their mark. There was too much turbulence, not enough space. He looked up. That’ll do nicely. Both hands grabbed at the soft sunroof and tugged. It slid back to reveal the night sky above. He shoved his head and shoulders through the hole.

‘Keep it steady.’ A third shot rang out and the chasing car lurched away. The big saloon slammed up a kerb and side-grazed a lamppost. But resumed the chase with a more comfortable gap.

Need, better, purchase.

‘Get your bum off my head,’ she demanded.

One foot on the passenger seat the other on the headrest, his knee on the roof.

‘Nice and steady.’ He braced the gun in both hands and took careful aim at the driver. ‘Steady. Keep it steady.’ The Beretta dipped, then pointed at the sky. ‘Hey . . .hey!’ Had she lost control?

The car bounced and began to climb. It swerved one way and then back the other. A steep gradient had thrust him backward. He grabbed at the hole that had been a window. His knee sliding, his foot flailing and searching for the seat. Gravity forced him to lie flat, and hold on.

‘Kat . . . shit . . . problems up here.’ More bruises as Kat turned the car again. Shit, nothing to hold onto. He slid further over the roof until his belt caught, and held.

Don’t scream. Keep hold. Oh fuck . . .

Scout pushed back on the rear bumper. Below him the ground was a blur of black and light. Loud scary squeals from the tyres, and now they were bouncing again. Why are we bouncing? Up and down, as one hand desperately gripped at the car’s boot, the other fumbling for purchase to haul himself back. Oh no. The pursuing car’s bumper was coming fast. Shit, shit, it’s going to hit. He closed his eyes, felt the car swing away. Then a downward motion as the Fiat gained more speed downhill. Gravity ease his thighs back through the sunroof. His body followed. He slumped inside and grabbed hold of the seat.

‘You okay?’ Kat shouted.

No, no, not okay!

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘You’ve stopped shooting?’

‘A moment, please?’ He grabbed the seat belt and clicked it into place. ‘I think I may have lost your gun,’ he added.

The Fiat turned left, and then weaved across into the other lane. Kat jammed the brakes and began to slide. She let go of the wheel and the car straightened. She gunned the little car straight toward an impossibly narrow gap between two buildings.

‘I loved that gun,’ she said.

‘I’ll buy you another one. Please slow down. Kat . . . Don’t do this . . . we’re not going to fit through there. Oh, fuck!’ He braced himself between the dash and the seat, closed his eyes for the second time on their road-trip, and braced for the inevitable.

The remaining door mirror smashed and disappeared. Scout’s adrenaline surged to record levels; but no internal body parts were launched through his ribs. Not a sound bar the noise of tarmac on the tyres. He peeked as the car shot out the other end and sped away. Another gear change made in perfect harmony with the clutch. Scout looked back to see their pursuers veer away and stop.

He didn’t want to speak. The purr of the engine said it all. For several minutes all was well in the world. Then she was it again. The wheel being turned, released, grabbed. Gears being changed as she took one street and then another. He looked behind to see the pursuing car half a road behind. A flash of gunfire in the darkness. The inevitable squeal of tyres as she cornered hard again. As he braced from one lurching motion to the next. The Beretta slid out from under his seat.

Maybe there was someone up there, looking down on them, after all.

‘Hey, Idiot, shoot back at them.’

She was really pushing her luck.

He didn’t like the Beretta, it was heavy. All metal and balanced like a brick. His Glock was lighter; a better fit. It had a striker system instead of a normal hammer. It meant the gun couldn’t discharge if accidentally dropped whilst cocked. He picked the gun up and clicked the hammer closed. Safety was important with hand guns. He leant out of the window and took careful aim. Then emptied the Beretta’s clip before throwing it onto the back seat.

The Glock slid from his belt. If she kept the car steady he might actually have a chance of hitting something. Several ten mil slugs went on their way. Each one a copper tipped rhino burst free from a cylindrical metal cage.

Prophets help the poor bastard that got in their way.

109

The problem with shooting at people is that they tend to shoot back and the guys chasing had bigger guns. Bullets whipped in and around the cab. Scout was being outgunned and the chasing car wasn’t being left behind.

‘Lose them,’ Scout urged.

‘Trying,’ Kat replied. ‘Really, I’m trying.’ What did he think she was doing?

Twice the saloon’s horsepower rammed their rear end. Kat fought with the wheel as their boot caught up with the bonnet. She went with the flow and took a hard left, followed by a right. Kerb met tyres and bumper glanced off wall. Sparks flew from a buffeted door. She found the middle of the road again. It felt good to be heading in just the one direction. Another lurch as the big saloon lunged their puny vehicle forward.

‘Lose him.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I obviously wasn’t listening the first time you said that.’ She cranked the little car around a hard left and side swiped a recycling box with the back quarter. Foot flat on the floor, she slammed into third and gunned it. Valves bounced and the exhaust screamed. Kat was sure the tiny engine might explode.

Another hard left followed by another. Roads were narrower, shorter. That had to be an advantage. A crushing blow from behind suggested not. Bullets zipped and whistled and then stopped.

Where’d they go? Had they missed the turn? ‘Can you see where they went? Can you? Hey, Idiot?’

‘I’m looking, okay. Shit, yeah, they’re still behind. Why have they slowed?’

‘Look ahead,’ she shouted. ‘It’s a roadblock. They must have a radio.’

Kat slowed the car to a halt. The big car had them boxed. The occupants obviously didn’t want to get shot by their own. The Fiat wasn’t in range of their guns yet.

‘What now?’ she asked

‘You wanted to drive.’

She decided that Prosper was right. There was only one place left to go. Surgeon would know what to do. Kat backed the car up slowly then turned the wheel fully to the right.

‘What are you doing?’ Concern in Scout’s voice. ‘That’s a lot of steps’.

‘Steps? Oh, might be.’ She clicked her seatbelt into place. ‘We can’t go forward or back.’ Kat smiled, and shoved the gear-lever forward. The rear wheels grabbed hard and thrust the car phutt-phutting towards what looked like the end of the world.

For a moment the wheels left the ground. Their touchdown a reminder of why cars don’t fly. The cab shook with the impact and the wheels took on a life of their own. If there was a safe speed to drive down a staircase she had no doubt they were exceeding it.

‘Watch out for the . . .’

‘Wall, I see it. Can’t, stop, car. Get, back, to, you.’ Her voice oscillating in tune with each step.

Half way down, the Fiat threatened to tip, pitch, and roll at the same time. Then it bounced off the ancient wall adjacent, still descending the marble staircase. The car coughed and spluttered as level ground was resumed.

Kat looked up to see their pursuers out of their car. They were shouting. Several gunshots followed. Too late as Kat sped away; out onto another road with a plume of grey blue smoke ejecting from the exhaust.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘I threw up,’ he answered. ‘But it’s okay, I swallowed it again.’

Kat started to laugh. Then she wanted to cry. She drove fast and slick down numerous side roads without mounting a pavement once. One small square after another was crossed as a plethora of stone built fountains sped by.

‘We’ll have to head for the river,’ Kat shouted. The air still buffeting through the missing screen. ‘There’ll be patrols, on every bridge.’

‘No, City South isn’t like the Line.’ The words seemed to catch in Scout’s throat. ‘Couple of uniforms, probably. We’ll get across, especially at this speed. I’d be more worried about them.’ Scout pointed to their right.

‘You have got to be joking.’ How could they find us? ‘Shit, has this car got a tracker?’ Kat gazed about the interior as if it would be on show. ‘Do cars have trackers? Who did we steal this thing from?’

‘Get on the main road and head for the Work District. It’s a nice straight road. Let them come up beside us.’

‘They won’t need my help to do that. They’re coming fast.’

Scout slapped his last clip into the Glock and snapped back the slide, just as the Fiat was shunted violently toward the other side of the road. A small wall disintegrated under the wheels as the car left the ground for the second time. Kat’s hands fighting for control; shifting around the steering wheel as the car slid sideways. She slammed it into third gear, floored the accelerator, and the Fiat snapped back into a straight line.

Where’s the gun? It wasn’t in Scout’s hand anymore. Please be in the foot-well.

The car shunted forward again. Clobbered by the aggressive bumper behind. It was David vs Goliath. Pipsqueak vs the schoolyard bully. Two ton of saloon bore down again on the runt to inflict another chassis grinding concussion.

‘Get off the main road,’ he shouted.

‘Make your mind up.’ It was two lanes on either side with nowhere to hide; just an open road for another two miles. ‘You said you had a plan. What’s the plan?’ she demanded, as her internal organs shifted sides again. The car shunted forward. ‘You lied about having a plan?’

Oh God, other road users ahead.

Violent swerving left two cars trailing in their wake.

He said he had a plan!

Scout released the seat belt and bent double to fumble between his feet. I don’t like this fucking game. Now was the wrong time for the Glock to play hide and seek as his finger tips stretched and clawed. Then touched it. Tried to tease it from hiding.

Just need to contort my back. Reach under seat like a monkey. Come on. Come on.

A pulverising shunt heaved the car forward and his body back. Every disc in his spine groaned’ with pleasure as the gun slid forward.

He grabbed. Kat weaved. The Glock was retrieved.

‘Keep the car in a straight line this time,’ he tried to sound calm. ‘Straight, only straight.’

She nodded. He braced himself.

‘Brake!’

The air filled with the wail of tyres; the smell of rubber increased ten fold. Scout stood up through the roof. Took aim at the road beside the car.

Too late the driver of the chasing car realised what was happening. That the Fiat was coming alongside. The last thing he saw was the flash of the muzzle before he slumped dead over the wheel. His passengers desperately tried to take control of the car.

It was over in a second. The big motor smashed into the metal rail, its motion stopped. The back end launched into the air. Up and over to send a trail of violent debris cascading across the road. The car erupted into a fireball that spewed flames twenty feet into the air.

Scout dropped back into his seat. The image of the driver’s face burned into his memory. It had been a long time since he’d shot someone.

‘You can slow down now,’ he said. ‘Kat, take it easy. You can slow down.’ Why did she always have to have a mood on? ‘Hey? Foot, brake . . . slow.’ What’s wrong with you?

The look on her face. The way she kept pumping at the brake.

‘You’re joking?’ he said.

Kat’s foot jabbed up and down on the brake pedal.

‘I think I broke it,’ she said.

The speedo was rising too. It read forty-five. Now fifty. Fifty-five. The throttle wide open despite her foot having left the throttle to pump the brake.

‘I think we’re going to die,’ she said.

Scout had to think. There had to be a way out.

‘Handbrake, pull the handbrake.’

‘At sixty-seven miles an hour? The road’s damp, the tyres are tiny. You want to join them at the barbecue.’

Okay so that wasn’t his best idea, but there had to be some way of slowing their speed, and before they hit the river, which was coming up around the next bend. It meant Checkpoints, and Troopers. Even he’d find it difficult to bullshit someone shooting at him whilst driving at . . . Crap, seventy-one miles per hour.

She was right. They were going to die.

110

Kat yanked at the wheel and took the Fiat across the outside lane. The car bounced off the central barrier.

Too hard, Kat. Be gentle.

‘What the . . . are you doing?’

‘Having a bad day,’ she said. ‘No, do not look at that handbrake. We’ve talked about that. I’ve got this.’

The wheel turned again, the car crunched. It slowed, but continued to accelerate as the car and barrier parted.

‘Try not to ram it. Be as one with the barrier.’

‘I think the wheels are wobbling. It’s difficult to keep traction.’

‘Try harder.’

‘If you have a better idea, you let me know.’

She eased the car toward the barrier. The steering-wheel began to gyrate in her hand. Something was amiss in the wheel department. The door made contact, grinding into the metal plate. Less forceful this time, more application than devastation.

Seventy reduced to sixty-five. Down to sixty. It was working; the metal obstruction slowing their speed. They were going to live.

‘Err, Kat . . .’

‘I’m, busy.’

‘Kat . . .’

‘I don’t, need, advice.’ Can’t, hold it; need help.

‘Kat?!’

She felt his hand on her shoulder. ‘We’re running out of barrier,’ he said.

‘What? Why didn’t you say?’ The car moved back into empty road. The barrier ended less than half a mile ahead. ‘Who took the barrier?’

‘Maybe we should try the handbrake now?’

‘At this speed the wheels will lock. We could flip this stupid thing. No offence little shoebox. No, God has seen us this far, he won’t forsake us now.’

A long sweeping turn began and the road began to rise. They were slowing, naturally. Sixty-five . . . Sixty . . . Fifty-five . . . The Engine noise was fading. This was it, they were saved.

Thank God. Kat mumbled. I swear, I’ll pray more. If you could just stop the car.

Fifty . . . Forty-five . . . There it was, the bridge that spanned the river, no more than a mile below.

Across the bridge was the Southern Sector of the City. She’d been there numerous times. Wide open, mostly deserted. Filled with industry and warehouses left over from the Old World. Lots of Troopers to guard, who knew what? But a thousand places to hide. This car wasn’t how she’d choose to cross the river.

‘It’s making a noise again,’ Scout said.

The engine sound was picking up. It seemed the Fiat battered shoebox had passed the horizon and was beginning its descent on the winding road.

‘Use the barrier on the inside. Kat, the inside barrier, hit it . . . hit it!’ A resounding wallop of metal on concrete ensued. ‘Not that hard,’ he shouted.

God, please make him go away.

The impact battered all thoughts from her head. They were out in the middle of the road and banking right, picking up speed. Heading down toward the river.

‘We should have jumped.’

‘We’d have died,’ she said.

The increased speed accentuated the judder of the wheel in her hands. Had God finally forsaken her? All those times in the dark. The fear and thrill of getting caught. This journey, with him, it seemed so short, so final.

A sign flashed by, the writing barely legible. Three symbols that read, A91. It was comforting to know the name of the road she was going to die on.

One last attempt to stall the highly erratic, unresponsive vehicle before the steering-wheel came loose in her hands. Kat hit the concrete side on. The car jumped away. Idiot smothered her to avoid the impact. They were out of control as the speedo flitted between 0 and 90, and then dropped as if the car were dead. No choice now.

Fuck it! Kat yanked up the handbrake, so hard she thought it may come away in her hand.

For a moment, nothing, then the view moved sideways and the back end of the car came up alongside. A fearful sound from the tyres, like nails down a blackboard, but the steering no longer attempted to leave her hands. Her only thought to keep the slide from flipping the car. It seemed their fate was in God’s hands now.

It was a strange feeling as they entered the bridge. Impact imminent. The power-slide barely a few seconds in duration but a lifetime in length. She saw men with rifles being unslung as they left their hut. Close enough now to see the disbelief in their faces. Their intent to intervene already waned.

Get out of the way!

She turned her face. The idiot had his hands outstretched and was screaming something. A face bounced off the bonnet, a body close behind. And then the cabin on the bridge assaulted the car and their motion stopped.

The Afterlife collided with Kat’s world. Each joint in her body separated, and all her organs were thrust hard against her ribs. A momentary blur as she shut down. Her brain cautioned against restarting. What followed sounded like hard rain, but was pieces of guard-post falling back to Earth.

Kat sucked in air. She groaned. Actions that proved she was still alive, that God had smiled upon her. It took a few seconds for the fuzzy vision to clear and the numbing shock to dissipate. She then tried to account for her limbs; all present, but the dashboard seemed closer than she remembered.

‘Scout?’ Where was her passenger? Where the fuck is he? ‘Scout?’ More panic in her tone.

Outside the rain had stopped and left an eery silence behind; broken by a groan from the rear.

‘Oh good,’ she said, ‘God’s in playful spirit.’ He’d decided to save the idiot as well.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘Did we hit a shed or a wall? It’s all a bit of a blur.’

She felt her seat tugged back as he pulled himself upright.

‘Scout, please don’t move.’

‘I have to, this is really uncomfortable.’

‘No, Scout, the car’s swaying.’ So it wasn’t concussion after all. ‘I think we’re perched on the edge of the bridge. We should both stay, very still.’

111

‘Can you move?’ he asked.

‘No, my leg’s stuck.’ Something pressed against her foot.

‘I’ll get out; you stay there.’

The car inched forward.

‘Stop! What? Idiot isn’t enough of an adjective, not affectionate enough? Please, stay still.’ She was trying to be polite. ‘Something’s against my foot. I can’t get it free.’

‘I can’t just sit here. We have to get you free.’

The Fiat slumped again. Kat grabbed the steering wheel as it moved, agonisingly slowly, as metal ground hard against metal. The car settled and she breathed again. A wave of calm flush away her panic. Then a laboured groan as the car leaned forward again. The back encouraged to rise. Kat’s fingers gripped at the wheel in panic.

‘Scout . . . Scout?’ she couldn’t see him as she turned both ways to see. ‘No . . . no . . .’ The bastard had climbed out the back. Oh God, no. The car slid, stopped, and then an awful squeal as the car’s motion began again. Slowly at first and then building momentum, one gratingly slow inch after the other.

‘Scout . . . Scout? Please no, no . . . NO!’

The car tipped, lunged, toppled away into free-fall.

‘Bastard!’ she screamed, as the car plummeted away from the bridge.

112

Impact forced the water away and the car sunk down, only to be thrust back up. A bobbing motion. Brief respite as it levelled. Kat grabbed at the door, thumping it to open, then grabbed at her leg to pull it free.

Panic stood every hair on end as the sinking motion began.

‘Help me,’ she screamed. Eyes searching the riverbank. ‘Scout? Please . . . Oh God, no.’

Water rushed in through the openings. Hundreds of gallons pouring over each edge of the car. No stopping the river’s flow as the front end began to fill, the car gaining weight. The back forced upward so she stared down at her fate.

Kat pulled on her leg. She screamed and pulled. Shouted for Scout to come and rescue her. She kicked at the dashboard and began to cry. Sobbed obscenities at the man who’d left her. Words she could barely hear above the whirl and burble of water now up to her chest.

And then it moved, her foot. One wriggle after the next, a centimetre at a time, it was coming free. The water up to her neck, now stretched. She gasped for air as water splashed into her mouth.

‘Please, Scout?’ Words filled with water.

One last deep breath and then totally submerged. The car drifting downward, the moonlight lost to a smudgy blur.

Her leg was almost free. One last attempt to release her foot. To survive, as the weight of the river began to tell. The cold now seeped into every muscle and joint; the air in her lungs about to expire.

One last effort, a final roll of the dice. Kat’s foot came away from the metal that pinned it. Kat’s fingers loosened from her calf. Her eyesight had darkened, her eyes closed.

As the car hit the river’s bottom, Kat’s body hung suspended in the water.

113

The water’s embrace was numbing. Death was taking her, she could feel it. The Spirits were lifting her head and encouraging her to follow.

She had thought death would be more sedate, more serene, passing on into the Afterlife, but not so. It yanked and tugged on her with little or no compassion. She opened her eyes. So, not dead then, just suspended in an uncomfortable moment before she took that final breath, and inhaled her ending. So what the fuck was grabbing her round the neck and tugging at her?

Kat looked back; it wasn’t Death who stared down at her. Scout was trying to get his arms around her body to lever her out.

The idiot? He’d come to save her. You shouldn’t have left me in the first place. She realised she was still holding her breath. Kat panicked and grabbed at him, but had her arms pushed away.

No, if death was coming, there would be no panic, no hysteria. It was okay, he’d tried his best. She didn’t blame him for all of this, not really. Well, she tried not to. Kat grabbed at the door and tried to help.

Fuck it, it was his fault. The idiot had gate crashed and ruined her life. Everything had been good until he’d turned up. She twisted and kicked, tore at the seats, grabbed at his shirt. Son of a bitch. This is all your fault. Her head was shaking from side to side fingers clawing at the rim if the door. It wasn’t going to end like this.

Scout restrained her; he took her face firmly in his hands.

What the fuck? Is he trying to kiss me? I’m drowning and he wants a kiss?

She was suffocating. She didn’t want to die. No good, the autonomic reflex forced her jaw to lower and she tried to breathe, knowing the water would rush into her lungs, flow into the empty spaces and asphyxiate her. She couldn’t help it.

It didn’t happen. There was no cerebral hypoxia, just air. The idiot had closed his lips around hers and she was sucking the air from his lungs.

More, I need more. Why was he trying to pull away? He had air. It was wonderful, invigorating. The way it coursed from his lungs into hers. Give me more. I want more. He needed to share it all.

Kat felt herself pushed away and then grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Scout wriggled his torso back out of the window and pulled her head first out of the car. His stroke was forceful and in earnest. He dragged her up, kicking for the surface. Kat’s head broke free from the water and she gasped in the fresh air.

Scout was sucking in air, gasping like a fish out of water. Now she got it. Now it made sense. She was suffocating him down there; literally sucking the air out of his lungs. Well, he deserved it, the bastard, for fucking up her life.

There was nothing quite like the taste of fresh air, and then she blacked out.

114

Scout dragged Kat unconscious from the river. Took a moment for breath, and then carried her up the bank.

As far as he could see the devastation on the bridge had included the JAG Troopers. One body was floating in the water; he guessed the other two lay hidden under debris. There was an open top Jeep parked just a few feet away.

Scout placed Kat in the rear. She was heavier than her slim frame suggested as he half rolled the girl over the side, then jumped in behind the wheel. Maybe there was a God after all. They’d both survived, and the keys hung from the ignition.

Scout drove, foot down and keen to leave the tarmac behind. Nowhere was safe in the City now, Scarecrow would see to that. So he headed west, toward the sea. A blue curtain that crossed the land that everyone knew about, but few people had seen since the Apocalypse. It was said that only “storms and ghosts resided there now”. Sounded like just the place they needed to be.

The further he drove the more open the terrain. The countryside more stunning than he could ever have imagined. The trees were still in leaf, and some of the flora held onto its blossom. The world’s prettiest garden, so why keep it a secret? He’d never seen land this green that wasn’t being farmed.

The Jeep’s four wheel drive growled like a playful dog across the dirt, Scout keen to avoid the roads. Avoiding patrols and checkpoints was easy at night, the camp lights and warm fires easy to spot.

For the first time in days he felt free from watchful eyes. Shit, he just felt free. Free to breathe the open air and the cool night breeze, if a bit chilly now. He’d stopped and wrapped the sleeping girl in a tarpaulin; even considered waking her. Then thought better of it. He liked the quiet of this wild and fantastic adventure, as he drove through towns long since abandoned.

Whatever had happened out here had played out a long time ago. Nothing but shells of walls remained. The Jeep moved slowly, its wheels stumbling over errant brick and stone. Even in this low light he recognised the holes blown by the indiscriminate strafing of bullets, and the impacts of larger shells. Lifeless ruins deserted since the Apocalypse. A remnant of the conflicts that had ensued.

115

As dawn broke the Jeep reached the summit of a high bank. Below its wheels the land fell steeply as Scout felt for the handbrake. As he eased it upward a bright orange hue spread across the night sky. He felt drawn to watch as the powerful glow melted away the darkness to leave previously unseen clouds in its wake, and what looked like the end of the Earth below them.

In a moment the sun would rise, but something ominous, yet beautiful, had been captured by its light. A dividing line had appeared where the sky met the ground. An impossibly flat surface stretched as far as he could see. Only it wasn’t still, it glistened like ground glass in the sunlight. It was the Old Faith that preached, “Belief in God leads the faithful to a place called Heaven.” Well, it was just possible that Heaven was where they’d arrived. Scout switched the engine off.

He’d dreamed of this place as a child; where the land ended and the sea began. The middle place where the earth refused to be idle. This is incredible. One after another as far up the coastline as he could see, their raw power unleashed, as each wave broke, then spilled across an empty stretch of sand.

The crisp air breeze was laced with salt; he could taste it. He knelt and took a handful of sand, and let the grains blow through his open fingers. A moment later the sun broke the horizon and night merged seamless into day.

Scout walked cautiously leaving footprints in the sand, each step closer to a dream. No picture, no painting on a wall, could capture its majesty. He lowered his hand onto the wet sand as the water dissipated down around his fingers. It disappeared like memories, and then came again like his dreams. Scarecrow’s words came back in a ghostly whisper.

Had that strange looking man really told him the truth; or was it more lies? He replayed the conversation, and then again. Over and over, until the argument that ensued in his mind came to an end; its conclusion, Scarecrow lying dead. Not even a body of water this powerful, this large, could wash that outcome away.

Scout flipped the phone open. One call was all it would take. Arrange a meeting with Scarecrow and offer him the girl. Unlock the past, and then end it with a ten mil bullet in the freak’s temple.

Scout ambled slowly down the beach almost losing sight of the house above. He’d carried Kat into the lounge and left her sleeping. She needed to rest. Near death experiences could be tiring.

He’d found the building by chance; unloved and abandoned. An abundance of white droppings was clear evidence that only the birds took advantage of the dramatic view. As the veranda disappeared behind the dunes only the roof remained visible. It’s worn shingles no longer fit to repel the coastal rain, but still, it was beautiful. Positioned high up in the dunes, its vantage above the breaking waters of the sea, and the beach that swept along the coast as far as he could see. There was a sense of freedom here that he’d never felt before.

But not even an image this wild and beautiful could resist the past. Scout was going back. All the pain and nightmares he’d suffered, they now had focus. Everything revolved around one single man, and Scout would roast that fucker over hot coals; pull every nail and hair from his body to discover what he knew. There was one small problem, he’d have to offer up Miss Katie to get to him.

A Gull cawed overhead. A coarse cynical vocal that ended his mental ramble. He should go back; wake the girl. Find out what she knows.

116

If this was Heaven; what was it she’d done wrong to deserve it?

Kat’s eyes were dry from the river-water. Or were the walls really damp and dishevelled? The harder she blinked the more blurred they became. The ceiling was bowed too. It had collapsed near the door. And what was that noise outside? Squawking banshees that seemed to be doing fly-bys!

She teased away the tarpaulin that covered her, with just a thumb and forefinger. Something smelled, and she was hoping she wasn’t wrapped in it.

Oh, dear God? Flashbacks, Idiot clamping his lips to hers. Did he put his tongue in my mouth, did he? The image lingered as she buried her head in her hands. Wait, there’s more. It was all coming back. He saved me. Oh no, I panicked. Tried to suck the lungs from his chest.

Oh dear God, no. Kat felt the nausea rise. Got that, “End of the world is nigh,” kind of feeling. She teased the tarp back; had to check. I would have killed him. She was still fully dressed, if a bit damp around the edges.

Where is he? Where am I? Was this some sort of Purgatory? Is something being tortured out there?

Kat tried to stand. Getting up wasn’t as easy as she remembered. No longer a quick step, more of a slow waltz. Six wobbly steps across creaking floorboards toward the double doors. She pushed them open and a dozen large white birds took to the air. Their indignation at being disturbed was obvious, as was the mystery of the tortuous noise. It was flapping away with them.

Where the fuck am I? Kat stepped out onto a long veranda that appeared to surround the house. ‘Oh sweet God!’ Despite the pain induced by the light in her eyes, she refused to close them. ‘Oh, sweet, God,’ what else could a girl say when faced with such a sight?

117

Where am I? It was an incredible view. Am I dead? Did I die in that river?

The sea was blue, it stretched far away to a place where it joined the sky. The water’s edge broke in a big clumsy fashion all along a golden shore. A soothing whisper as the water soaked into the sand. Kat had seen some golden sunrises from the hills around the city, but nothing like this.

If this is heaven, why all the bird poop?

‘You should sleep.’ A voice she recognised, from behind.

So, not Heaven. Heavy steps clunked up a wooden staircase. Not Purgatory, either. She turned. It was Idiot. A constant reminder that God had a mischievous side.

‘You look cold,’ he said.

She hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out. The breeze did chill her skin. It didn’t matter as her hands rested on the railing. The bird poop thankfully dry; just a bit flaky below her fingers.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Oh, you know, the normal. Like I’ve been shot at, and molested by a large car. Falling off a bridge hasn’t helped. Oh wait, let’s not forget. I’ve lost my home. My life . . . and didn’t I just drown?’ She leaned down to stare in one of the broken panes of glass in a window. ‘You think any of that shows?’

‘A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?’

‘No, actually, being melodramatic is having someone shouting “pull the handbrake!” and then being thrown into a river.’ She gave him her best scowl. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any dry clothes?’

‘As it happens, I do.’

The sound of something large and soft dropped onto the decking. She felt obliged to look at him.

‘I’m sorry, is that a joke?’ Grey wasn’t her preferred choice of colour. ‘I’m not wearing a JAG uniform.’

‘Comes with vest and trousers; there’s boots inside. Clean laundry I found in the Jeep.’

‘We have a Jeep?’

‘Outside and ready to go. Put them on before you get hypothermia,’ he started back toward the steps.

Did he say boots? ‘Are the boots black? Do they come with laces or buckles?’

‘Just get dressed.’

* * *

How unusual, she was moaning again. Dragging her arse out of the river should warrant a smile, and he had just smuggled her out of the City? So ungrateful. He’d even carried her inside and wrapped her up; put a soft kit bag under her head. He should have put it over her head, it would have been kinder, at least for him.

‘You’ll look the part in those,’ he said. ‘Just two Troopers heading back to the City.’ He dangled a chain. ‘I’ve even got ID.’

‘I looked good in yellow.’ She was annoyed again. ‘And look at this. No, not my jacket!’ Yellow fluffy jumper was now limp and mustard flavoured as it dangled in her hand. ‘This used to be fluffy, and yellow. I like yellow.’

You’re not real, are you?

‘And I don’t suppose you saw what happened to my hair?’

She looked good as a Trooper; especially the facial expression.

Seriously, your hair?

‘No,’ he lied. The blonde hairpiece last seen floating downstream. ‘Look, we have guns.’ He showed a hand gun in his palm and released its clip. ‘Found a bag of them in the Jeep. I’ve dried the phone out; it still has a signal.’ What are you doing?

Rooting through the tarp he’d wrapped in her in.

‘My bag? Where’s my bag?’ She looked angry again. ‘Please tell me you got my bag from the car?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You seemed the higher priority, seeing as you were drowning.’

‘No, no . . . you’ve lost it,’ she said, her eyes welling. ‘You should have gone back for it, for the envelope.’ She clutched the tarp to her chest. ‘It’s all gone,’ she said, ‘everything I had, it was all in that bag.’

He opened his mouth, but decided not to speak. Let her rant it out. Leave the building, give her space.

‘You should have gone back,’ she shouted.

‘Hey, you lost some photos.’ Hardly my fault. ‘How about a bit of gratitude that you’re still alive.’

‘They were more than just photos,’ she said wiping at her eyes. ‘Fuck you, what would you know? I expect the closest thing you get to a feeling is holding your gun. Look at you, smug bastard now you have a uniform. You just don’t care, do you? You come into my life and fuck everything up. They were more than just photos, okay; they were all I had.’

She kicked the tarp away, slumped back against the wall and began to sob.

Scout had no idea what she was talking about. The girl was what, twenty, twenty-one? Possibly Bi-polar? Borderline depressive? He pictured her loft, or what was left of it. A spartan space devoid of affection. With no family ties on show, no friends either. Her bedroom suggested unresolved anger-issues, and yet he was the one with problems?

‘I saved your life.’

‘You just ended it.’

‘Again, a bit melodramatic.’

Scout realised he was touching Chia’s pendant. He’d have given anything for one photo of Chia, but that life had come to a full stop when her life ended. No black hole back there, more a raging furnace

I’m going to regret this.

‘Those photos, why so important?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

‘Why should you care?’

I don’t. He didn’t want to empathise with this woman. Chia?

‘I know what it’s like,’ he said, ‘to lose everything you’ve ever cared about.’

Why wouldn’t she stop staring at him? Scout grabbed the empty holdall and walked to the door.

‘I had an accident,’ she said.

Aww shit, she’s gonna tell me her life story. He was doing it again, touching her pendant.

‘I can’t remember anything before,’ she said.

Good.

‘We should go,’ he took the door-handle in his palm.

‘I don’t remember anything about my life before I woke up,’ her voice was armed with a suspiciously damning tone, ‘and now you’ve taken away whatever future I had left.’

‘Hey, no-one held a gun to your head and forced you to steal that box.’ They didn’t, did they? ‘No, you like the thrill, and what does that mean, anyway, “When I woke up?” I know a Legate who’d hand you a lead in his amateur-dramatics.’

‘You bastard! I had an accident, okay. Near death experience. You know, like the ones I’ve been having since you gatecrashed my life. No, you know what? Fuck you. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have everything precious ripped away, and not even remember?’

‘Did you ever consider it could be worse if you did?’

‘Oh, and you’re an expert are you? You think knowing something is worse than losing your memory. Your connection with the past? Not knowing the people you cared for, who cared about you. All wiped away in an instant, and you, you’ve stomped all over what’s left.’

Now he wanted her to stop talking. He wasn’t that good at listening anyway. Everyone had shit in their lives, didn’t mean they had to share it, and what was she doing now?

‘You lost something else?’ he asked. We might need to write a list.

‘My cross, it was hung round my neck.’

‘You mean this?’ Scout pulled a chain from his top pocket. A silver cross dropped and dangled.

‘You stole it?’

‘No, it was caught on your, yellow fluffiness. I took it off in case it got lost.’ Truth was, he was going to keep it.

‘Give it to me.’ She clutched the cross like a lost child been found. ‘It was my mother’s. Oh God, I can’t even remember her face.’ She looked Scout straight in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’

‘Are you always this emotional?’

‘Only since I met you. Is it a gift?’

He wanted her to stop talking now. Stop staring at him too. All that happened before they’d met; that shit was not his fault.

‘You need to get up.’ She was getting back in her makeshift bed. ‘We need to go back.’

‘Why, what’s back there for me now?’

‘We can’t stop here. So get up, and get dressed.’

‘No.’

‘I said . . .’

Kat’s hands came out from under the tarp. She lay a handgun on her lap.

‘It’s nice here,’ she said. ‘I want to stay a while.’

118

‘I have questions,’ Kat motioned Scout to sit. ‘I need time to process you. It’s all been a bit, chaotic.’ I’m going nowhere until I get answers.

‘You’re right,’ Scout dropped the bag. ‘Questions are good.’ He sat on it. ‘I’ve got a bundle myself. Like err, how do I even know that you’re really who you say you are?’

No, no, this is my interrogation. ‘That’s my question.’ Don’t you dare.

‘It can’t be yours if I’ve asked it first. I mean, see it from my point of view. A girl turns up swinging plugs; which I concede was very impressive, but how do I know you’re who you claim to be? That the whole thing wasn’t a set up to get me to run?’

‘You’re right, hands up. Look what I discovered. Your secret idiot . . . shack? Love the decor, very rustic.’ Fuck you. ‘I come home to find you, and your Commission buddies, ransacking my loft, and you want me to prove, what, that I’m me?’

‘Sure, why not? Or we could just assume we’re both the people we claim to be. Then neither of us can accuse the other of lying, and we don’t have to start making threats with guns.’ He looked concerned. ‘Did you take that from my bag? You stole from me. Isn’t that breaking one of your twenty commandments or something?’

‘There’s ten,’ she said. Is he serious? ‘Are you for real?’

‘Though we’d agreed on that? So why don’t you start with whichever question you’d lined up for number two.’

End this nightmare, shoot him.

‘Where did you get that phone?’ she asked, ‘Only ranking Commission have use of technology, breaking their own heresy laws when they feel like it. Who were to you talking to? Was it your freaky friend from the loft? Why didn’t you want me to hear what you were saying? Are you a spy for the Commission?’ She raised the gun, watching carefully for a sign. One of her questions would get a reaction.

‘How about one question at a time,’ he said. ‘You first, then me, see how it goes.’

Not so much as a twitch from him. You’re not normal. She smiled. ‘Are you going to tell me it was a wrong number?’

‘No, definitely the right number.’

‘Freaky guy on the other end?’

‘Scarecrow, yeah.’

‘Well, what did he want?’

‘He wants you.’

What, why? ‘You’re a liar,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t me he was beating on.’

‘It was your place we were in.’

‘You brought him there.’ She didn’t like this; his sudden candidness. ‘Why?’

‘Where’s the box?’ Scout asked.

‘Box?’ She felt her blood pressure drop and the cold return. ‘What box?’

‘The one you stole. It’s written all over your face.’

I don’t think so. She looked away. Shit, now I look guilty.

‘I’ve answered truthfully,’ he said, ‘you’re supposed to do the same.’

‘You think this is a game?’

‘If it is, we’d better not lose, or we end up like Prosper.’

‘Don’t say that. Why did they do that? How could anyone hurt someone like that?’

‘Tell me about the box. Prosper told me it had the power to change everything. How? Why? Hey, you need to open up here. Prosper showed me a lot of shit I didn’t want to see, the Preacher’s put me in a place I don’t want to be, and now we have a psycho who’s using me, to find you. You’ve just seen what he’ll do to get what he wants. Hey, girl, look at me!’

‘Shut up, please, I need to think.’

‘The last thing Prosper said, his dying words were for us to find the box, together.’

‘No, he didn’t say that.’ Are you playing me? ‘He said Surgeon would know what to do.’

‘That’s right, Surgeon. Let’s go find the Surgeon. Is he one of us?’

‘Us?’

‘A Heretic.’

You’re not one of, us. Kat got to her feet, gun raised, if unsteady. ‘You said that man was looking for me, why?’

‘He didn’t say, but I think it’s safe to assume he wants the box.’

I don’t know you. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Prosper told you, you could trust me.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Think about it. He put your hand in mine. “Find the Surgeon, together.” His words.’

He did. He put our hands together. She could feel her hand in his. What did he mean? ‘No, that’s not what he said. You twist things,’ she stepped closer. He didn’t say that. She moved the weapon closer. He didn’t, did he?

Kat was confused, tired. She got too close. Scout’s hands were too quick. The gun was out of her grip before she could react. Fuck. She stared down the muzzle and froze.

A moment of silence followed. His eyes narrowed.

Oh God, he’s going to do it?

‘Why?’ He demanded.

‘Why?’ What does that mean? Scout was staring, but not at her, at her chest, no, not that. Her hand moved instinctively to touch the cross she wore.

‘Why?’ He sounded angry. ‘What’s so special about, Him? Why do you believe in Him? In Jesus?’

Jesus? ‘Don’t you know?’ Who are you?

The slide of the gun was ramped back, a bullet ejected. The projectile clattered to the wooden floor and rolled out of sight.

Stop it.

‘Why?’ He demanded.

Leave me alone.

‘Tell me why!’

‘He died to save us,’ she said. ‘His death was an example for us all. We should be better than we are. Okay?’ Don’t you know?

‘Would you die to save Him?’ The question more thoughtful than forceful.

Kat shied. Turned her face away as the gun came close. Please don’t do this. She closed her eyes. I don’t want to die.

‘Would you sacrifice yourself for Him?’

I don’t know. Why don’t I? I should. The indecision made her angry. He, made her angry. Things have to change. She felt her pulse rise. ‘We were saved for a reason,’ she said, ‘given another chance.’ Adrenaline surged through Kat’s veins. ‘Yes,’ the word whispered, ‘Jesus wanted a world without greed. “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die”. Yes,’ the word louder this time as she lifted her head. Was it silly hoping he couldn’t see her tremble? ‘Yes, I’d die for Him.’ Just do it.

The gun lowered and Scout backed away. She felt a spike of euphoria, then thought she would faint.

Scout tucked the weapon behind his back. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to be sure what side you were on.’

Kat took what felt like her first breath since he’d disarmed her. It came deep and long and with the force of tempest.

I don’t understand . . . what? Was that a test?

‘What you said earlier, about your dark hole. Was that true? And remember, we can’t help each other if we lie.’

‘You’re not going to shoot me?’

‘No, of course not. Why the fuck would I shoot you? You and I have to work together.’

Was that a test? ‘Was that a test?’ I fucking hate you.

119

‘My head’s empty of anything that happened before the accident,’ said Kat. ‘My past’s a dark blank.’

‘And Surgeon, he’s your uncle?’

‘Yes, everything I know is because of him.’ She kissed the cross. ‘It was a week before I could feed myself. A month before I could hold a conversation. He’s all I have left.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘Both gone.’

‘So it’s just you and this uncle of yours. Did he teach you how to steal?’

‘No, but he encouraged me. Uncle said each experience would help me to remember.’

‘And did it?’

‘Not really, it was just little things at first, petty theft. I pick pockets too.’

Uncle must be so proud. ‘You enjoy it, don’t you.’

‘Maybe, yes, but don’t you think it’s odd that I remember how to do things, but not why I can do them?’

‘Isn’t that the point of amnesia?’ Not really? ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? You do remember things, don’t you?’

‘No . . . Yes, I have dreams,’ she said.

‘Yeah, don’t we all.’ That was a jolt. Dreams were nasty, horrible, sometimes vindictive, but they brought Chia back. That alone made the pain worthwhile. ‘What sort of dreams?’ Spit it out.

‘Just stuff. It doesn’t matter. Why are we talking about me?’

‘You think they’re memories, don’t you?’ he asked. Keep her talking. Creating trust meant listening. It was hard work. Then Kat did something unexpected. She offered him the first genuine smile since they’d met.

‘I get flashes,’ she said sitting forward. ‘It’s like . . . like I’m watching myself in the mirror. It’s me, but not me, and yes, I know how that sounds. I started to remember things too. Stuff from when I was a kid, but it’s not me. Well, it is, but it’s not. It’s like they’re not my memories. Well, maybe they are, I’m not sure. Who else could they belong to?’ She looked away. ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

It’s difficult to listen too. The short pause meant she’d finished, right? Who did he have to thank for that, the Saints, or God?

‘It’s like I didn’t exist before the accident, but I remember the woman that did.’ She was staring at him again. ‘Does that make sense?’

That’s rhetorical, right?

‘My uncle gave me that envelope. Remember, the one you lost.’ The frown returned. ‘He said the things inside might help me to remember, but the more I looked at the photos, the less I recognised myself. You know what I mean?’

Again, rhetorical?

‘So, Surgeon, your uncle? He has the box, right?’ Stay away from poker tables. ‘I need to meet him. Maybe Uncle can sort this mess out?’

‘Maybe,’ her head dropped into her hands. ‘All I want is to remember. It drives me mad, not being able to. I don’t know who . . .’

‘Kat, sometimes the past, it’s best forgotten,’ he said, and tapped his head. ‘Something dark can manifest where the light used to shine.’ There, he’d said something. He’d empathised. Hey, popular opinion was right; he felt much better. ‘Look, we’re in trouble. Uncle is our best bet to survive. We have to think about the here and now, not the past.’

‘You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?’ Kat asked. ‘I’ve seen that face in the mirror often enough.’

‘We need to get going.’

‘Not until you tell me.’

‘We’ve got the Jeep and uniforms.’ The ID’s don’t have photos, just names. ‘We drive straight into the city.’

‘Who did you lose?’

‘Troopers don’t check each others tags.’ Why would they, we’re wearing uniforms. ‘Should be easy.’

‘Who was she?’

Jeep, bridge, City. All he wanted to think about. Deep down he’d always liked the uniform. Being JAG for the day, it sounded a blast.

‘What was her name?’

‘Chia!’ he snapped. ‘Her name was, Chia, okay.’

You see, that’s what happens when you talk about shit. People want to wallow in it. It’s none of your business.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you angry.’

‘I’m not angry.’

‘You sound angry.’

‘Kat, I’m not angry.’

‘You look angry.’

I’m not fucking angry.

‘It’s a lovely name,’ she said. ‘Chia, it’s nice. Were you lovers?’

Questions, questions?

‘Tell me about her?’

‘She was my wife,’ he said. ‘The part of my circle that made me go round. She’s gone now, okay.’ We get back in the city. Go find Uncle. Beat on him till he tells me what I want to know. It’s a good plan.

‘Was she pretty?’ Kat was smiling again. ‘She was wasn’t she? I know she was.’

Deep breath, she’ll get bored.

There was something almost wretched about the woman opposite. The reddened eyes. The way that she held that infernal cross in her hands. She looked like a kitten, confused and yearning for affection. A little girl had replaced the woman. A woman who couldn’t remember who the little girl was. Or was she someone else’s girl? He didn’t really get that bit.

‘Why?’ he asked abruptly, ‘Tell me why?’

‘Why what?’

‘You believe in something that you can’t see? That you can’t touch? What’s God to you?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Let’s pretend I’m a non-believer. That I don’t subscribe to Gods, or Saints.’ He was glaring at the cross in her hand? ‘You hold that so tightly, why?’

‘Is this another test?’

‘It’s a fucking question, that’s all.’

She seemed confused.

Well, if you have to think about it?

‘He’s the promise of something better,’ she said, ‘something wonderful.’

‘Who?’

‘Christ, our saviour, an example to all that there is a better way to live.’

‘And you follow His example by stealing?’

‘Uncle said it’s important. He said I’d be forgiven. It’s what I’m good at. It’s all I’m good at.’

‘Don’t lie, you do it for the kick. Stealing’s easier than working, is that it?’

‘Don’t you dare look down at me like that. I do what I can. The Commission is corrupt, it’s Primes are self-serving. We live in a City where the innocent look down at their feet in the presence of a uniform. I work for the promise of something better; in this life, and in the next.’

There she was, the fierce self-assured woman who pissed him off. It was far easier to bitch, than it was to talk.

Scout got to his feet and crossed the room. He held out his hand. She seemed reluctant. Then took it. He pulled Kat up, and pulled her tight.

‘Chia’s light went out,’ he whispered, ‘something very dark was left in her space. Trust me on this. If you can’t remember, it’s probably a blessing. Now suck it up, and get in that uniform.’ He put his fingers to her cheeks and smeared the tears like war-paint. ‘We’re going back to the City. And you’re taking me to meet Uncle.’

120

Liam sat; only one candle burnt on the table as he stared at his books. On the table lay his phone, and a Kel-Tec PF9 handgun inserted into a belt holster. In his hand a slim glass filled with wine.

There’d been no sign of the fugitives since the incident at the bridge, and though it was doubtful either had drowned, the riverbed was being searched. In the meantime every man and women in a JAG uniform was aware. The Commission’s considerable resources had been put to work. They would be found. A situation that would doubtless attract unwanted attention.

Liam lifted the glass and sipped. The fresh and fruity taste of the wine that would normally amuse his palate, refused to bring him pleasure. Mistakes had been made, and there would be consequences. He looked again at his phone.

It was thirty minutes since the last report. One of the fugitives had switched on their phone. Its location was being tracked. A car waited on the road outside to take him where he needed to go. He glanced again.

The phone rang. It’s classic tone reverberated throughout the cellar, beyond his meagre lodgings. Liam stared at the light on the screen. Then put the glass to his lips.

It rang again. Then a third time before he answered. The voice on the other end was animated.

“We’ve found them. They’re hiding in a deserted beach house southwest of the City. I wanted to make sure we had a location before I called.”

‘I understand.’ Liam swirled the wine around the glass. ‘What action have you taken?’

“I’ve got men watching the cottage. I’ve ordered no further action until we’d spoken.”

‘Good, do nothing but observe. If they leave, follow them. I will contact you with further instructions.’ Liam ended the call.

So, they’re still alive. This man is resourceful. Liam rolled the wine around his mouth before he swallowed, then reached for the gun. There was still a chance that the woman would lead him to the Relic. It’s the only thing that matters; the only thing.

The conversation with the man replayed in his head. He’d been foolish, unprofessional.

I panicked? ‘No’ . . . Yes, how else could the Heretic have manipulated me? It meant that Evil had triumphed, and that alone had earned him a death sentence.

The glass shattered and scattered in all directions from the wall. All around Liam the air stirred into dire Whispers. Slithering sounds that circled around his head. He clipped the gun to his belt.

The past had been resurrected. Old business had returned and must be attended to.

121

Isabella handed documents to the fresh faced young man in the silken habit. He bowed, clutching the papers to his chest, as he backed dutifully away to the door. Isabella pushed it closed.

Another one of Patron’s lackeys; an obsequious and secretive man. A pious sycophant who prayed five times a day to his Saints. She was losing track of Patron’s growing entourage of personal secretaries.

‘Well, what news?’ Patron demanded, as he slumped into his chair. A fire made, ready but not yet burning.

‘Let me open the windows,’ she said, ‘it’s a beautiful morning out there.’ Why use candles when we have electric light? She snuffed the nearest and drew the curtain from the closest window. Its light was measured through opaque panels of glass. ‘There, I’ll just open the one. Just an inch to allow in some air.’

‘The girl is still alive,’ said Patron. ‘The Saints bless our endeavours. Though I think Liam is unhappy that I’ve allowed your oversight.’

‘Too many heads will be raised with his efforts to find her. He understands this, and yet he allows gunfights on the streets. We have dead Troopers to explain. The Primes will come demanding an explanation.’

‘And it’s your responsibility to give them one. You will provide oversight. But Liam has absolute authority in the field.’

‘You should let me deal with this my way.’

‘No, I trust Liam to secure her. You will help him, and you will brief the Primes if they become curious. Tell them it’s a threat from the Trinity. That usually keeps their heads down.’

‘And what if she’s hurt in the crossfire?’

‘I’ve been very clear to Liam. No-one will harm the woman. She’s our only link to the Relic.’

‘Perhaps you weren’t clear enough. She’s no good riddled with bullets, or lying dead at the bottom of a river. Please, allow me to bring my own people in?’

‘No, Liam has my confidence, for now.’

‘As you wish, Patron. And what about her male companion?’

‘Irrelevant.’

‘Hardly, he’s the one causing the trouble.’

‘Then Liam can deal with him as he see’s fit.’

‘That may be unwise,’ she said.

‘Unwise?’

‘Your pardon, perhaps hasty would better describe your decision.’

‘Why?’

Isabella took a deep breath. Placing herself between the girl and Patron’s Troll wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Roll up your sleeve, it’s time for your medication.’ She sat on the arm of the chair and opened her handbag. Taking out a small caddy and opening the lid, she stared at the two glass phials it held. Should she do it now?

‘Why are you interested in this man,’ asked Patron.

‘Three reasons. The first is we don’t know anything about this man before he was sent to Galfstram, for murder. The name of the victim isn’t recorded. Please keep still. And before you ask, I don’t know how he got released. That reason alone is worth investigation.’

‘Who was he before, Galfstram?’

‘That’s the second reason. It seems his file was purged. Please, remain still.’

‘Sealing a TAG’s history would take a Prime’s authority.’

‘Exactly, it will take time to discover who’s authority was used.’

‘And the third reason?’

‘His presence with the girl. We need to bring him in, alive. We need to interrogate him. If he knows nothing, send him back to Galfstram, but we need to be sure.’

‘Very well. The girl remains Liam’s absolute priority. Take the man if you can, but he remains expendable.’

‘Of course.’

Patron smiled as he rolled up his sleeve. ‘You have my absolute trust,’ he said as his hand reached up, He gently touched her cheek. ‘But there are some things best left to others. Now give me that infernal injection.’

‘And then you’ll rest?’

‘No, not until we have the Relic. Not until my plans are set fully in motion. It’s time for our city to grow, Isabella. We have new souls to enlighten. A New World to explore. I pray it will happen before I meet the Saints in person, before I bend my knee and beg their forgiveness for all the wrongs I’ve done.’

‘You’re being melancholy, stop it.’ She took his hand. ‘We’re all forced to do things that shame us.’

‘I promise. I’ll answer all your questions.’

‘I look forward to enlightenment,’ she said, as Patron’s eyes closed and the needle slipped into his vein.

122

Isabella wanted to run down the corridors, but it would attract unwanted attention, so she walked as quickly as she dare. Careful to avoid eye contact with others that passed.

Just look down, do not stop. Just be somewhere else.

To kill was a mortal sin. No end truly justified the means, if those means were evil. Her heart pounded from the stress as she marched down the corridor; sure that the Novices she passed stared back in accusation. Somehow they knew what was in her mind. She wanted so much to stay angry with Patron but the rage had already begun to pass.

Several minutes later Isabella shut the door of her rooms. Dear God, my hands, they won’t stop shaking. Her thoughts tumbled around like a gymnast inside her head.

She knew it had to be done, she knew why, but it was still murder. “Thou shall not kill.” It was the sixth of God’s commandments. It was a sin, no matter its justification. What a fool I was to think taking a life could be so easy.

A few seconds and she’d crossed the room. Such a beautiful room that Patron had assigned her so many years ago. If she’d done it, if she’d really ended his life, hers would be tainted forever.

Patron is a great man. I can’t wipe that away because the Trinity say it’s so, or because the Surgeon tells me. Oh God, please, send me a sign. Patron has shouldered the grief of a broken people. He’s forged hope from despair, and built a city from desolation and ruin. Oasis is Illuminai.

It made her sick to think of what she’d nearly done. The truth was they were no different, the Trinity. They’d chosen to follow the words of an angry God, and not those of His Son, and it had taken her until now, when she’d held the scales of life and death in her hands, to understand that.

What about the things that I’ve done? Did that make her evil? Fuck, fuck. ‘No, I follow the Son,’ she said aloud, ‘not the Father. The flesh and the spirit that men like these nailed to a cross.’ Forgive me.

Isabella knelt. She clawed back the carpet and pulled up the board to reveal a small cavity. She reached in and took a wooden effigy in her hands. A Cross no longer than a cigarette lay in her palm. On its surface was a Man, his body hung being crucified. The details of His face and limbs intricate and defined.

Such a slim body, naked but for a cloth. His hair was long, as was His beard. Nails protruded from both hands and feet. Isabella kissed the effigy and begged for forgiveness. ‘I live for the Son,’ she said, ‘who gave His life for our sins.’ Oh God, we’re all fucking monsters, aren’t we?

From the moment Patron had chosen her she’d been terrified. Expectant that one day he would visit in the night. She’d feared she was chosen to be his whore. Her faith had prepared her for that. She’d steeled herself to accept such a union, regardless of its obscenity. The Trinity had used her fear against her ever since, but that night had never come. Patron had treated her with respect; love even, the kind a father might share with a child.

More and more she’d seen the Trinity as they were. Inflexible and unwilling to talk. Their intention to be a harsher landlord of people’s souls than the Commission. The Trinity? The Commission? From where she sat, there was little difference between them. In truth, only one man had weighed the balance between them; Patron. At least his actions were calm and considered; taken honestly and for the good of the people. At least that used to be the way he was. But like Atlas, the weight of the world has become too much to bear.

Isabella clutched the cross, whispered a prayer, and stepped away from the window. She needed a bag for her things. Several hung above an ornate set of drawers. Just taking the strap in her fingers was harder than she could have imagined. Her hands trembled and her stomach hurt. She felt sick. Moments later she stood bent over the sink, and puked. Her stomach keen to expel the guilt from her body. As she stumbled back her hand spilled the contents of a shelf around her feet. Isabella sank exhausted to the floor.

Patron had been a great man once. Maybe he still was. Who was she to decide? There would be no City; no life in Oasis if it hadn’t been for him. It was Patron who had ordered the bells to be rung. It was Patron who’d gathered the survivors. It was Patron who returned the gift of life to the Damned; his own life spent in their service. Such a long life that was now blighted with illness. A struggle of the mind; adulterated by the medication that had kept him alive for so long. Isabella stared at the mess on the floor.

Maybe it isn’t such a mess after all. Maybe this is the work of God, after all?

How easy it was to justify sin. The Trinity were Hell-bent on destroying the Saints. The Saints eager to persecute the faithful. Both desperate to get their hands on a Relic, with neither truly understanding what it was.

A moment of clarity shone through the pain.

Why did Surgeon tell her to bring him the box? Strange it had not occurred to her before. Isn’t he an agent of the Trinity? Yet he’d taken these actions alone. All these years of serving, and she’d never met a Trinity Elder, only Surgeon. All things went through Surgeon. Why were there two labs? It wasn’t just to fool the JAG, no, another reason came to mind. Was he lying to the Trinity? He’d been lying to her since they’d first met. Is it possible Surgeon is working for someone else? Only one figure came to mind. Wyatt?

Doubt had been a creeping bed-fellow for some time, but why make such a leap now.

Just when I asked for a sign? She touched the small wooden cross to her lips. Surgeon said he’d known him since, before . . . Could it be? Is it possible. Wyatt?

She had to go, now, to see the Surgeon. That man had answers to questions that were not yet fully formed. A knock on the door stopped her shoving essentials into her bag.

Someone thumped again, harder. She stepped away and closed the bathroom door. Took a breath and reached for the handle. Then pulled her hand away seeing the cross still held in her fingers.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, face pressed to the door.

‘I have news, Madam.’

Isabella wiped her face. She tucked the cross into her pocket and opened the door, just enough to see out. The face on the other side was a friend.

‘They’ve found the girl,’ the young Novice said.

‘When?’ This changes everything.

‘An hour ago, I came the moment I heard.’

An Hour? Why didn’t Patron tell me?

‘Is the man still with her?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Thank you,’ she eased the door closed.

‘Madam, wait, my source told me they’re heading back to the city. That Liam is ordered to follow them. The man is to be killed the moment they take her.’

‘Killed?’ That can’t be. ‘He lied to me.’ No, I can’t let that happen.

‘Madam, what do you want me to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Go back. I’ll call if I need you.’ She closed the door.

So many questions exposed now. Motives rampant that she was unaware of. She’d spent her entire life weaving lies, only to find out she was the one being lied to. She took the cross in her hand. What would He do?

Only one thing was important now. She had to find the girl. She had to warn them both. Somehow Isabella had to stop them walking into a trap.

123

‘You look good,’ said Scout. ‘I’d do whatever you ordered me to wearing that uniform.’

Hmm, really? She wondered if that included shooting himself in the head; no, probably not.

She was more of a buckles and straps girl, but the uniform had a certain appeal, and had obviously belonged to a woman. No man could look this good in black. She pulled the Kalashnikov over her shoulder.

‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said. I can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into this. Too many questions meant she doubted any plan coming from Idiot would go without a hitch.

‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘Hey, use some of that faith I’ve been hearing about. Say a prayer, sing a hymn. Get your arse outside in the Jeep.’

Kat took a deep breath and a squint up at the ceiling. A prayer couldn’t hurt.

Lord, I only ask one thing. When this is all other, please, make him go away, Amen.

She followed Scout out of the beach-house. The sound of grinding shingle below her boots quickly replaced by the gentle crunch of sand. She snatched the keys from Scout’s hand.

‘You need lessons.’ It was the first time Kat had actually seen the vehicle. Two door open top with a sturdy roll bar. She approved of the big all-terrain tyres, very useful for City getaways. Sunlight showed a nice sheen to the jet black bodywork; at least it didn’t clash with the uniform. She slid into the driver’s seat ready to orchestrate their departure.

She twisted the key and the engine growled with life. She took one last look at Idiot.

Still sulking because I won’t let you drive?

Of course he was. Kat floored the pedal and the Jeep’s wheels dug hard into soft sand to lurch the Jeep forward.

124

Liam closed the phone; excellent news, the fugitives were heading back to the City. This changed everything.

‘Commander,’ he beckoned one of three men. ‘Contact all bridge units.’ He had to make sure the fugitives could get where they were going. ‘Allow free access. No vehicle or ID check for any uniformed patrol that enters the City.’

‘Understood.’ Was the Commander’s reply. A man two heads taller than Liam, and twice his age. His face weathered by time and experience. He issued instruction to his underling, who instructed a Trooper who waited by the open door of the closest truck.

Two dozen uniformed Troopers sat waiting in the back of three open trucks; big wheeled, military issue, ready to roll.

‘Bring the car,’ Liam ordered the third man, stood dutifully waiting in a well tailored suit. His sunglasses worn like a deadly weapon. Sunglasses motioned to the driver of a dark sedan that rolled up close. He opened the rear door.

‘Head south,’ Liam instructed Sunglasses. ‘Find a spot close to the river. I’ll give further instruction when I have them. We’re going to play cat and mouse,’ he said to the troop Commander. ‘Whatever happens, the girl is not to be harmed.’

Liam got in the car. Sunglasses closed the door. There were no guarantees the Relic would be at the fugitives’ final destination. If not, it was imperative that Liam could question the girl, if not. He’d chosen Commander Hirsten for years of dedicated work against the Heretic threat. A good and pious man who commanded crack troops. Liam lowered the smoked glass window of the car. ‘We must not fail our Patron,’ he said. The sedan pulled away.

Hirsten circled his hand in the air and the lead truck fired fumes up through the tall exhaust behind the cab, encouraging its big wheels to roll forward. Hirsten stepped up onto the foot plate. Powerful diesel motors roared in unison as the convoy moved out.

125

Isabella hurried down the narrow corridors of the staff billets. Not the most direct route to Patron’s chambers, but fewer prying eyes. A few minutes later she crossed the Great Hall below the twin statues of Atlas and then leapt up the staircase two steps at a time. She slowed, and smiled at two Novices making their way down.

Take a breath. Calm yourself. As she stopped outside Patron’s chambers. Focus. Focus on what has to be done. She gave a gentle tap on the door, and then entered without waiting for a reply.

Dear God, the heat is stifling. A fire blazed in the grate, its heat oppressive. Patron was asleep in his chair. Isabella checked the corridor before gently closing the door, then moved to Patron’s side and knelt. You’re burning up. She put a finger on his wrist to be sure. Then startled back as Patron grabbed her hand.

‘I thought you were sleeping,’ she said.

‘No, I’m waiting.’ He didn’t open his eyes. ‘He’s coming, Isabella. Can you hear him?’

‘Hear who?’ she asked.

‘His wings beat with anticipation as he descends.’

She had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Sit up,’ she said. Patron was delirious again. Hardly surprising in this heat. ‘I’m going to give you some more medication.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s important,’ her hand fumbled to reach inside her bag. ‘I want to help you sleep,’ she said.

A small glass phial was pulled from the bag. A glass of water poured. The two liquids mixed.

‘Isabella, I have to tell you. I should have told you everything, I’m sorry.’

‘Shhh, not now, you need to drink.’

‘I need to tell you. Before it’s too late. Only you.’

‘Drink the water, please.’ She lifted the glass to his lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

Patron turned his face away.

‘He’s back, Isabella.’ Patron opened his eyes. They widened, happy to see her. Then narrowed with grit and concern. ‘He’s come back.’

Her hand covered her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes as the glass waited. Suspended in front of him.

Do it. Grab his nose and force him to swallow. Do it!

‘Who,’ she asked, ‘who’s come back?’

Patron moved his lips toward the glass. She pulled it away.

‘It’s warm,’ she said. ‘I’ll pour you another.’

Isabella stood. What would the city be without you. Who would stop the Commission taking absolute control? For a moment she considered drinking the potion herself. Then poured it away down the sink.

‘I never thought I’d see him again,’ Patron said. ‘I hoped I would never see him again, but he’s come back.’

‘Who? Who is back?’

‘Wyatt’s back,’ he said.

The glass fell from her hand and clattered down into the porcelain sink. It didn’t break.

‘Wyatt?’

‘Yes, it’s what I called him the first time we met.’ A deep breath preceded shorter inhalations. ‘He’s come for the Relic. I think he may soon come for me.’

Isabella turned the chair around. She took water in a bowl for washing and threw it on the fire. Then moved to the windows and opened them all.

‘Tell me about him. Tell me about Wyatt,’ she pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped the old man’s brow. ‘Who is Wyatt? Tell me everything. What is his interest in the Relic?’

These weren’t the ravings of a deluded man. Patron knew Wyatt? But how could that be?

‘I lied to you,’ he said. ‘Liam has found the fugitives. He’ll follow them to the Relic. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘How long?’ she feared the answer. ‘Do you know the name of the man with the Heretic?’

‘Yes, it’s all there, in the top draw.’

Isabella opened the heavy draw, several files within. Her hand lifted the top folder and opened its cover. She flipped one page at a time. Reports, text, and then photos.

The girl, she didn’t know. The man, it was him. Confirmed now beyond any doubt. How could that be?

‘What orders have you given to Liam?’

Patron tried to sit up. His breathing laboured somewhat but the man was looking stronger.

‘Why is it so hot in here?’

‘Because you tried to cook yourself. Patron, what instructions have you given to Liam?’

‘Liam is not your concern.’

‘I understand. Your Troll is extremely capable, but . . .’

‘Liam will follow the assets back into the City. He will acquire the Relic. His orders are to eliminate anyone who resists.’

No, I won’t let that happen. She would get word to the Surgeon. Warn him. The girl, Kat, was she stupid enough to lead them to the Relic? That girl was putting all of their lives in jeopardy. She had to be stopped.

Isabella lifted the tumbler from the sink; she opened the tap and encouraged the water to rinse round the glass. She filled it and took the water to Patron.

‘We mustn’t allow your body to dehydrate.’ He took the glass. ‘You said Wyatt was back?’ A prickly sensation wafted across her skin. ‘Who is Wyatt?’

126

‘Up you go, Harley. You can see much better from up here.’ Surgeon placed the bear on the top shelf. ‘I told you we could do it. I told them all, it could be done.’ Is it too much to glory in ones achievements? And what an achievement it was. What he’d done in the last few hours would stun the world, such as it was. ‘We’re no longer alone, Harley. I think it’s time to celebrate.’

Surgeon pulled a rusted tin from his lab coat pocket. A powerful aromatic odour as the lid popped off.

‘I know, I know, it’s bad for my health.’

A small strip of paper was in his fingers. A moment later tobacco drizzled along its length. A match struck a deal with its box and a flame burst into a short but energetic life.

‘Much better,’ he said, reaching up to a cupboard, the door pulled open. ‘Vodka, Harley? A shot to celebrate. No, no, I don’t want to hear it. This has been a long time coming.’

The bottle retrieved was half empty and unlabelled.

‘I was going to wait for Wyatt, but fuck him.’ He poured the clear fluid into a glass beaker. ‘Za vashe zdorovie.’ (Here’s to your health). The shot swiftly necked. ‘Ha, that’s good. Another one?’ The bottle’s neck tipped. ‘He’s coming, Wyatt’s coming. I saw him last night, Harley, in a dream. Nasty business. That’s how he does it; let’s me know. He comes in a dream, and then arrives attached to a gun. I think he enjoys scaring people. Best not to be sober when he arrives.’ The glass raised to his lips. ‘It’s been a few hours, and he knows we’ve succeeded.’ Surgeon drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘Shush, it reminds my lungs that there are other things to do than just breathe.’

He sat forward, smoking fingers pointed up at the bear.

‘Our time may well be done here, Harley? When Wyatt comes this time, all of this, the equipment, it might as well be scrap.’ The tobacco glowed. Smoke streamed between his lips. He pulled at a string of leaf left on his lip. ‘Maybe we’ll continue in the pharmaceutical business? We’ve enough time, you and I, to live a little. Find a woman, no, two; and a big house? Relive the good old days. It won’t be long until my body does the same as Patron’s. I wonder if someone will end it for me?’ More vodka gurgled from the neck of the bottle.

It was the end of two lifetime’s work; the pinnacle of his obsession. Success had a bitter sweet taste that even the vodka couldn’t remove. Surgeon pulled the white mask that hung from his neck and threw it to the ground.

‘No more alter-ego, Harley, not any more. My name is Yuri. Yuri Greminov,’ another shot was delivered; the glass refilled. ‘He wouldn’t come if we’d failed, Harley. I don’t like it when he comes.’ Long forgotten memories began to resurface.

He’d been a respected geneticist before the Apocalypse. Perhaps he should have realised his life plan before he even met Wyatt. Cherry picked by Russia’s military during university, he’d found himself shipped off to a backwater laboratory, somewhere in what used to be called, Azerbaijan.

He remembered that night clearer than last night. He’d been banging a whore in a four poster bed in Baku. She was older than he. Firm and juicy. He was a regular at the brothel. That night his life had become serious. He’d been mid stroke when a huge man had entered. The girl, what was her name? She’d been frightened, grabbed her clothes and left. What a prick! Wyatt always had a lousy sense of timing.

That was the first time he’d seen it, the box. The resulting conversation turned medical study, into the obsessive research he’d practised ever since. A decade, and a lot of drugs later, the world had ended. Ceased to be recognisable. And it was all his fault. Wyatt’s!

‘Apologies,’ Yuri whispered as he entered. ‘I must check your vitals. Please excuse the subtle lighting, it’s necessary for your eyes to adjust slowly. Sensitivity will be a factor for the next few hours.’ He stepped around the large gurney parked in the middle of an almost empty room. Adjustment of the lines that hung from the drips was followed by a check of the heart monitor. Its line and spike had a constant rhythm, but the machine made no sounds. ‘Can you understand what I’m saying?’ He watched the face, hoping for a sign.

What’s wrong? You should be responsive by now. Everything went to plan. Like clockwork. Why won’t you respond?

‘Time,’ he said, ‘you just need time.’ Yuri reached out toward the figure lying below and manually checked the patient’s pulse.

Should he even be talking to the patient? Why not? Hadn’t he already presumed more than any other man in history? Look at him. He was flesh and blood, a man like any other. Not true. No man could ever be like you. He needed another drink. The ethical and moral issues weighed in his head like bad gravity. Did you know, Yuri wondered? Did you ever suspect you’d return, like this?

He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately. It wasn’t healthy. For fucks sake, he was talking to a cuddly toy.

‘I want you to know,’ he said, ‘that I think Wyatt was right to do all of this. To fight so hard, and for so long.’

He needed to get a grip. Start thinking like a scientist. Look what he’d done. This was no time to be emotive. He had to remain objective. To a true scientist this was as natural a birth as any delivery ever made in nature. It may even have been how God started creation in the first place. He hadn’t thought of that.

Yuri checked the drips again, adjusted the flow. It was comforting to check and recheck. It failed to stop the nervous thoughts flashing through his head. Dear God they were wearing him out. What had he done? Fulfilled a prophecy, that’s what; a prediction made over two millennia before he’d been born. This perfect and pure creation was the result of science and mystical prophecy combined. Everything he’d strived and worked so hard to achieve was the result of something that had been prophesied thousands of years ago.

This was God’s work, he had to believe that. Wyatt had told him as much. So he should be proud. He was proud. But still, Yuri couldn’t quite believe it had finally happened. After so many years, one secret endeavour after another, always hiding his true goal and agenda.

Yuri knelt and prayed. He whispered worshipful words to the Almighty. Thanks and praise for the success of his endeavours. This wonderful creature had returned to life.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he said as the patient stirred. ‘Sip this,’ he whispered. ‘It will help to revitalise you, body and mind.’

He, Yuri, had made this happen. He’d been summoned by God, and the Lord had not found him wanting.

‘Drink slowly. No, not so fast. Yes, that’s better. A few hours and you’ll be able to talk. You’ll remember everything.’ Yuri closed his eyes. ‘Blessed be to the Father, the Holy Sprit, and to you His only Son.’

127

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Kat was having reservations about the plan.

‘Stop whining. There’s no reason for anyone to stop us wearing these uniforms.’

It was too late now anyway, the bridge was in sight. As were the JAG Troopers who checked the loads of two trucks; several smaller vehicles queued with intention to cross. Below them the river that would have been Kat’s grave but for Divine intervention.

‘I don’t like this,’ she said. ‘This is a bad idea.’ As the Jeep’s engine quietened and they rolled past the trucks, two JAG were already heading toward for them. ‘They’re obviously looking for something.’

‘Yes, us, now shut up and let me do the talking.’

Everything about their posture said, “I don’t like you. I’m going to give you a hard time.” The lead man had an unsightly scar that ran from eyebrow to cheek.

‘Papers,’ he ordered, one hand held ready on the shouldered rifle, finger perched on the trigger. The other hand beckoned for ID. ‘State your reason for crossing?’

‘R&R, we’re headed back to the Work District to see family,’ Scout replied. ‘I’ve got a lady-friend who’s missing me. Hey, has something happened?’

‘There’s been an attack by Heretics. Three of our own were killed.’

‘The bastards, when? Did you catch them?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. We’ll find them.’

Kat wondered if Scarface could hear her heart pounding. Demanding it be released from her chest. She handed over her badge as Scout offered insults and indignation towards all Heretics.

How can you be so calm? She smiled as her badge was returned.

‘Sorry to detain you,’ said Scarface. ‘Keep tight to the left as you cross.’ The Jeep rolled forward. ‘Hey?!’ he shouted.

Kat froze. I knew this wouldn’t work. Her hand dropped to her holster. Fuck. She felt Scout’s hand press down on hers.

‘You have a nice time with your lady-friend,’ shouted Scarface.

‘Count on it. You stay vigilant, brother,’ he insisted. The engine growled motion from the four-wheel-drive.

She wanted him to bury the pedal and make greater haste, but walking pace sufficed. Just enough room despite the wing mirror kissing the rail of the bridge. She raised a smile and gestured a hand toward the remaining Troopers as they passed. The Jeep left the bridge.

‘Lady-friend?’ she scowled.

128

‘It looks like we have company, Harley.’

The monitor showed a vehicle had arrived in the courtyard upstairs. Its owners wore JAG uniforms. This wasn’t good. What was the point of giving expensive bribes to high ranking officials if the people that received them couldn’t guarantee his privacy? Yuri pulled the drawer open and took the Tokarev pistol into his hand.

It had been a gift from a colleague a very long time ago. The man had said it belonged to his father. That he’d used it to kill Germans during the World War. Yuri supposed that it still worked; he’d never actually fired it.

Chimes from the door-bell upstairs. His unexpected guests demanded entry.

129

Your uncle lives here? Scout was impressed. No wonder you don’t have to work like the rest of us.

The building rose two storeys; a picket gallery extending the length of both. A lot of windows, all filled with glass, and pretty too, if it wasn’t for the iron bars set in the stonework around each one. The entire edifice was mounted with a powerful vine not yet ready to flower. Straight ahead of them was a fountain circled by a knee-high wall, an unfamiliar statue at its centre. Twenty yards beyond was a Castle-Keep of a door, all metal studs and wrought iron frame. The crunch of stones beneath his feet reminded him of his visit to the Preacher that had started all this.

‘Which side of the Line does your uncle walk to afford this?’ he asked, and was ignored.

Kat reached her hand up above the door, and retracted with a large iron key.

Inside an open marble floor was cooling. Wood panelling covered all the walls. A cage-like door stood in their way.

‘Security,’ Kat smiled. ‘Can’t be to careful,’ she pulled on the fifth panel down, fourth one across, to reveal a keypad. It seemed technology wasn’t as rare as everyone was led to believe.

‘The door?’ she said.

Fine. Scout pushed the heavy front door closed, and heard the tone as a five digit code was pressed into the keypad.

‘Close the gate please,’ she said.

Do I look like a Doorman. The metal was heavy. The panel inside flipped shut as it slid closed. Nice workmanship. He turned to leave. Fuck. What he saw ahead, he really should have seen coming.

130

Scout raised his hands.

‘I thought we’d stopped pointing guns at each other?’

‘We have moved on,’ she said, ‘he’s pointing it at you, and you’re not pointing one back.’

So funny.

‘You going to introduce me to your gun pointing friend.’ All he could see were glaring eyes above a face mask. ‘Is he a Dentist? My dentist doesn’t point guns.’

‘Uncle, I had no choice. I had to bring him here.’

‘Who is he?’ Uncle asked. ‘And why are you wearing a JAG uniform?’

‘Hugs all the right curves, don’t you think? If I wasn’t . . .’

‘Old enough to be my Grandfather?’

‘A gentleman.’

‘Well, whatever else you’re thinking, don’t. Unclip the gun and kick it over, please.’

That was the most polite she’d been since they’d met. He didn’t like it.

‘I thought we were getting on.’ Scout’s gaze unflinching toward the stranger. ‘I dragged her arse out of the river.’

‘And I’m still wondering why?’ she said.

‘I’ve got a soft spot for drowning animals. Does your uncle speak? Hello? Hiding a deformity behind that mask? Got a big nose; a touch of halitosis?’

‘He does that, Uncle, tries to push buttons.’

‘It’s a gift,’ he said. ‘They say it helps the real person shine.’

‘Who is he?’ Uncle asked. ‘What were you thinking bringing him here?’

‘Prosper told me to. Oh Uncle, he’s dead.’

The man’s eyes widened. Then shock turned to contempt directed at Scout.

‘It wasn’t him,’ she said. ‘He helped us, both of us.’

‘And Prosper told you to bring him here, to me?’

‘Yes, with his dying words. They tortured him, Uncle Yuri.’

Yuri? What sort of name is that? Scout wondered.

‘They left him to bleed to death. It was horrible. Prosper told me to bring him to you. He’s one of us, Uncle.’

‘Is he?’ There was sadness behind the mask. Anger too. All mixed with a large dose of mistrust. ‘On your knees.’ Uncle’s gun seemed insistent he comply.

The flagstones were cold as Scout took in his surroundings. He’d give them a chance to chat. Try to figure a way into Uncle’s good books. It seemed saving his niece wasn’t enough.

He knelt in a large reception, no furniture. The only light entered through three windows to reflect on white plastered walls. Some fancy block-work in places to give a sense of expanse, and of grandeur. Above them was a cat walk suspended along the first floor. A single exit at its end, that suggested a long walk down to answer the front door. Surely he’d have seen Uncle coming down the stairs?

Something’s not right. He was thinking of the hidden exit into Prosper’s library. “Bolt hole” was the term Prosper had used. Could the staircase be a diversion? Sneaky bastards these Heretics. Intruders go up. Heretics, it seemed, had a habit of going down, but if this room held a secret door, he couldn’t see it.

He did spot something more familiar; almost invisible between the mortared joints of the far wall. Scout shuffled to his left for a better look, hands still on his head. His captors stopped talking.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said.

A faded mural, an image he’d had since he was a kid.

“Homage to the bearded Titan.” The same Deity that Dok had lovingly restored on the wall of the Odyssey, and it was here too. The God of the Sea surfing powerful waves, a big fork in his hand.

It has to be a coincidence? He doubted it. But that would mean . . . He’d never suspected. His friend and mentor, Dok, he was a Heretic.

‘There was a man,’ Kat said, and she frowned at the thought of him. ‘He had sunken features, his hair wiry and white. He looked like a retired goblin,’ she pointed toward Scout. ‘He seems to know him. He’s not telling me everything.’

‘That’s good enough reason to kill him,’ said Uncle.

‘No, don’t, Prosper told me to bring him here. They were his dying words.’

‘That’s right,’ Scout chipped in. ‘Prosper was adamant. Can I ask, do you know a guy called, Stalker? No? A big man; wears a long dirty coat. Smokes waaay too much. Yeah, that’s right, you know him. He told me I had to watch out for your niece. Said something about being her Guardian?’ Now that’s what I want to see.

Uncle removed his mask.

‘You’ve met him?’ he asked. ‘You’ve met, Wyatt?’

‘Sure,’ Who the fucks Wyatt? ‘lousy sense of humour. Likes to hit people.’ He wasn’t sure which of them looked more confused.

‘Who’s Wyatt?’ Kat asked.

‘My name’s Yuri.’ The introduction came without a handshake. The man’s eyes all over Scout in search of deceit, as if it might hang from his clothes. ‘You’ve met Wyatt?’

‘Stalker, yeah.’ He felt the need to rub the lump on his scalp. ‘Big guy; stands a head taller than me. Got short spiky hair and a face that only a mother could love. We had a run in. A few harsh words were shared. We bonded.’

‘He didn’t kill you?’

‘Must be my affable nature.’

‘I doubt that. Tell me what he said to you.’

‘It’s a bit hazy. Somewhere between cracking my head and shoving a really big gun in my neck, he mumbled something about me being a Guardian.’

Uncle motioned for Scout to stand up.

‘Come upstairs, we can talk there.’ Yuri reached the stairs alone. He turned, neither had followed. ‘Kat, is there a problem?’

‘Who’s Stalker, Uncle? Or Wyatt? Or whatever his name is.’

Yuri looked drawn between sharing the secret, or keeping it.

‘Come up,’ Yuri said. ‘We all need to talk.’

‘I’d rather we went down,’ Scout replied.

‘Down?’ Kat’s irritation was growing. ‘What’s he talking about? Scout, there is no down.’

‘Doesn’t she know, Yuri?’ That mural has to mean something. There has to be something hidden over here. The look on Yuri’s face suggested there was. ‘We’re all here now, Yuri. Stalker, Wyatt; he’s orchestrated this from the beginning, hasn’t he?’

Yuri raised his gun again.

‘Wyatt will be here soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll decide.’

‘Decide what? Uncle Yuri, what are you talking about?’

You really don’t know, do you.

‘Where’s the box, Yuri? Scout asked. ‘I know you’ve got it.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Kat asked. ‘The Trinity has the box.’

No, I don’t think so. ‘Tell her. Tell her how she risked her life to steal the box, for you.’ It’s the only thing that makes sense. ‘Why?’

‘What’s he talking about, Uncle? The Trinity have the box.’

‘Wyatt told me someone would come, but I didn’t think he would bring you with him. I’m so sorry, Katerina.’

‘Sorry, for what? What’s going on?’

Yuri left the stairs and stepped out in front of the mural. He took one last look at them both, a final moment to decide. ‘Are you truly the Guardian?’ he asked. ‘We’ll see. Wyatt will decide.’

‘You can stop looking at the door, we came alone. Now why am I here? This is where I’m supposed to be, isn’t it? The same place as the box. This is where Stalker, or Wyatt, or whatever his name is wants me to be.’

‘Perhaps? Come, I’ll show you what it is that the Guardian is required to protect.’

Yuri did something that Kat obviously didn’t expect.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Where the hell does that go?’

131

‘So the big fella organised this, paper-chase just so I’d find you? Knowing that you’d bring me here. Why? Why not give me your uncle’s address in the first place?’

‘I don’t know. I swear, I don’t.’

‘If Wyatt wanted you to find Katerina,’ said Yuri, ‘he had good reason, and one he didn’t share with me. No, please don’t stop, I’d hate to have to shoot the Guardian.’ Yuri’s pistol encouraged Scout to keep going down.

‘What is it with you Heretics and dark holes?’ Every time a bulb in the ceiling lit up the previous went off.

‘You’ll find a door at the bottom, open it and go through.’

It was all making sense now. Dok was a Heretic, he had to be. Wyatt used his friend, must have. No way Dok would have put him in the middle of a religious war. He wouldn’t!

‘Wyatt has chosen you,’ said Yuri, ‘if what you’ve told me is true.’

‘I’m not feeling very chosen. What’s down here anyway?’

‘You’ll see. And if you’re lying, you won’t be coming back up.’

‘The only person lying around here is you. The rest of us are being lied to, isn’t that right, Kat?’

‘Shut up, Idiot.’

‘But you see my dilemma; everyone’s lying. Ah, is this the door?’

‘Do you see another one? Excuse me,’ she said pushing by.

The door opened onto a landing, more steps led down, another door closed to their right.

‘What’s in there?’ Kat asked.

‘Keep going down, Katerina. Please, until you reach the bottom.’

She was complaining; something about secrets. Scout heard the sounds but not the words, even when she asked if he was feeling unwell.

The onset was as sudden as it was loathsome, first came a sheen of perspiration rampantly secreted, then a lightheadedness that verged promptly toward a waking coma. Good reason not to venture under-ground. He’d finally reached his deep-point. Was she still talking? Saying his name . . .

Scout reached for the handle and opened the door. He took a step inside to follow what little light the tunnel could spare. If he’d expected Yuri’s living quarters, he was wrong.

Tables, about a dozen, set out in three lines across a grey concrete floor. There were bottles stacked in the corner with long rubber hoses piled in a heap. The far wall had sinks attached, small cupboards below. His reflection stared back at him from a mirror covering the entire wall surface above.

‘Scout?’ Her hand was on his arm. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

The empty space helped, as did his curiosity.

‘What happens in a room like this?’ he asked.

A pause preceded Yuri’s answer.

‘I run a clinic for pregnant women. I had to close it recently.’

‘So you’re a doctor as well as an uncle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of medicine?’

‘This isn’t a tour, and I’m not your guide. Wyatt will be here soon, he’ll answer all our questions.’

‘Sure, Wyatt, can’t wait.’ What sort of a clinic needs a supply of jam-jars and hoses?

‘I’ve been thinking, Guardian. Perhaps Wyatt is testing you? Or maybe he’s been trying to teach you?’

‘Really? Well, school wasn’t my forte. Though I did have a thing for a Nurse who worked for my mother. Freckled girl, always wore her hair in a ponytail.’ Head’s clearing. The room wasn’t spinning around Yuri anymore. Just take that fucking gun away from him. It beckoned him from the room toward the stairs. He began another descent, keen not to show his discomfort.

The steps ended. A short passage and a dead-end to his left. Kat waited patiently. She looked angry, no, subdued. Was Yuri’s gun on her as well? He hadn’t considered that.

‘You’ve stopped talking?’ said Yuri.

I need air. ‘I love rabbit holes,’ he replied. ‘Then pointed to the doorway whilst looking at the brick-wall. ‘Some misdirection here? Which brick; this one?’ It moved.

As did the wall, away from his hand. You had to admire the ingenuity of Heretics.

‘Why don’t I know about this? Is this where you hide the rest of the family?’

Kat was pissed. She was finding out she knew less than Scout, apparently. Was it luck that he picked the right brick from so many? Lucky guess. Not fate, or mystic allure. At least he didn’t think so. He’d been prompted and nudged from the moment he’d undertaken to find the box. Keen to follow the trail. He took a deep breath followed Kat inside.

132

‘What is this place, Uncle?’

Scout knew. Yuri wasn’t just a doctor, he was a scientist. He recognised some of the instruments he was lifting and prodding. He knew what the burners and tubes were for. Greisha had used similar to mix herbs and to extract useful properties from plants, but this place was so much more than his mother’s preparation room. There were freezers in the corner, and something that had ‘electron microscope’ written on its side.

Why did he need to look at things that small? And why did Yuri need such a large and powerful generator? Holy shit. He was running a working main-frame. He had to touch, had to. The sleek black tower was impressive. No power? It should be lit up like All Saints Day. ‘Does this work?’ he asked.

Power should be surging through its silicon veins; its fans humming, microchips heating the room. What data was there on the hard-drives? Scout was looking for a keyboard. He wanted to see what made it tick.

‘Tell me, exactly, what Wyatt said to you?’ Yuri asked.

‘Hmm? Oh, he said, “There would be need for a Guardian.”’

‘For Katerina?’

‘Well, no, he didn’t actually mention her name. Can I touch?’

‘His exact words, please.’

‘He said there would be a, “Need for a Guardian”. Oh, and something about a time, soon, when he’d be gone. A bit melodramatic don’t you think? It’s a bit of a blur, he was hitting me at the time.’

‘Gone?’ Yuri didn’t like the sound of that. ‘How can that be? Wyatt is Eternal. Why would he say something like that? He will always be here for . . .’

Yuri crossed himself. The sudden look of a man who’d just witnessed his own death.

‘Frankly, I’m happy he’s not around. Where’s the keyboard?’

‘There is another who needs a Guardian,’ Yuri said.

‘What are you doing down here?’ asked Scout.

‘Is someone going to let me in on what’s going on?’

‘Don’t look at me, Kat, he’s your uncle.’

‘Do you keep fish?’ Scout asked.

It did look like a fish tank that took pride of place in the room. It gurgled with bubbles, a sudden surge as the generator began to hum. The sound of electricity connecting machine to machine. Lights flickered from the ceiling and the main frame glittered like a nebula woken from its slumber. Scout could almost hear the ones and zeros flexing their muscles.

Yuri had restored power. The Lab was coming to life.

‘What have you been doing down here, Uncle?’

‘He opened the box; didn’t you.’ It seemed a logical conclusion. ‘What was inside; some sort of biological matter? What could possibly remain viable after being sealed up for two thousand years?’

133

Yuri put his gun on the table. He opened a drawer below. The box retracted in his hand. Scout felt compelled to reach for it.

‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ Yuri slid the silver box across the table. ‘Take it,’ he said.

‘Why would I want an empty container.’

‘There was never anything inside?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Take it and leave.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’ Yuri picked up the gun and walked around the table. ‘No-one will be able to open it,’ he said. ‘Empty, full, no-one would ever know.’

‘I would.’

‘So would I.’ Kat took the box. She turned it upside down and shook it. ’What’s going on? Why get me to steal an empty box?’

‘Because it wasn’t empty, Idiot.’

It was obvious she was considering throwing the box at him, before she followed his eye-line toward a rack of journals stacked upright on the shelf behind Yuri. Five thick volumes, the cover of each title: Subject K. They were numbered 1-5.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kat asked. ‘What is it, what are you looking at?’

He drew his hand away from volume 1, wishing he hadn’t been so obvious.

The box, those journals? He shifted his gaze around the room. Why such a big main frame; what sort of work requires such powerful computing? Come on, put the pieces together. The microscopes, the incubators, everything in here suggested the growth of tiny things. A virus? Why did he need two huge freezers, and so many chemicals? Why go the trouble of finding a robotic arm? He’d seen them in books.

No, it’s not possible, not any more. The hardware and chemicals suggested otherwise. That’s no fish tank. And Yuri had a maturation chamber. He’s been growing cells? Those journals; K 1-5. Oh no. It was a big leap. He shouldn’t have looked at her, not like that.

Subject K 1-5. A more than uncomfortable conclusion, and it explained why Kat had only two years of memories. Why she dreamed about herself, believing it was someone else. Scout knew exactly what Yuri was doing.

‘The box,’ he said, ‘it stored blood, didn’t it.’

Yuri looked impressed. ‘So Wyatt has chosen well.’

Fuck Wyatt. Scout was thinking of the girl. ‘Kat, I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘Sorry . . . for what? Why are you sorry? Uncle Yuri, what’s he sorry about?’

‘Tell her, Yuri.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Tell her why she can’t remember anything before her accident.’ It’s true isn’t it. ‘Did you do the work down here? Did she wake up in this room? Or was it the one upstairs?’

He was sick and tired of being manipulated. Duma, Trinity, Scarecrow, they were all a part of this. It was time he understood exactly what was going on. Kat too.

‘Whose cells are so important that you manufactured your own thief to go and steal them?’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ she gave him her full attention. ‘Uncle, what’s he talking about? Scout, what is it. What the fuck don’t I know?’

The door clicked closed and all eyes turned toward it. To see a tall rugged figure leant against the door, a cigarette between his lips; smoke trailing from his nose.

134

‘Wyatt, you’ve come,’ said Yuri.

‘Stalker? I should have guessed you’d be a part of this,’ said Scout.

The hammer of Kat’s Beretta clicked back; the weapon fixed on Wyatt.

‘Where did he come from?’ Do I know you? ‘Is this him?’ she asked. It is isn’t it. ‘Is he the Entity? He is isn’t he.’

‘Easy, Kat, let’s all take a step back. You need to put the gun down. That man is dangerous.’

‘So am I when I find out everyone’s been lying to me. They’ve lied to you as well. No, don’t you look at me like that. I want to know why you keep looking at me like that?’

Kat’s head reeled from the way they both refused to hold her gaze.

‘You, Mr Healthy, you know don’t you. I’ve seen you before, up here, in my dreams.’ She pointed the gun at him. Stepped toward him. Got to close. Wyatt’s hand-speed was impressive. Her wrist twisted upward toward the ceiling. The Beretta snatched from her fingers, its clip ejected and tossed to the floor. He knocked her down.

‘Hey, hey, that’s enough,’ Scout intervened.

Yuri rushed to Kat as she lay on the floor.

Wyatt opened his coat; hand rested on the abnormally large pistol on his hip, ready to draw. Scout backed away.

‘Easy big fella, we’re all calm. Kat, are you hurt?’ he asked.

Fuck you.

‘Get off me.’ She didn’t want Yuri’s help either.

‘That was unnecessary,’ Yuri scolded. ‘You could have hurt her,.’

‘Children have to learn, my friend. Besides, bullets hurt. And I’m in no mood to be shot.’

Wyatt crossed to the table and ground his cigarette into the metal surface. He took a half empty packet from inside his long coat and flicked a cancer-stick free from the pack. He bit on the butt and lit the end. Scout was as engrossed in the man’s actions as the others. There was something about him that kept you silent. Kept you waiting.

‘Show them,’ he said to Yuri. ‘Let them see what we’ve worked so long and so hard to achieve. He has to understand if he is to help us.’

‘Show him what? Get off me.’ Kat pulled away from Yuri. ‘Uncle, tell me, I don’t like being the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on. No, don’t look at him. Look at me. Tell me!’

‘I will, I promise, but not now.’

What is it you can’t say? Both Yuri and Scout seemed anxious to see what Wyatt would do. Why won’t you look at me? She felt an overwhelming need to cry. Those books; what did you see? Why did you both look at me like that?

‘I have to leave the City, Katerina,’ said Yuri ‘I won’t be coming back.’

‘What, why?’ I don’t understand. ‘When? Why are we leaving?’ Where will we go?’

Yuri’s face suggested something awful. Right there in his eyes she saw it, the truth.

‘You, you weren’t going to tell me, were you? No, Yuri, you were going to leave me?’

‘Yuri, the Commission are close.’ Wyatt turned to Scout. ‘You were followed.’

‘What? No, no way, we were careful.’

‘Not careful enough.’ Three long strides and Wyatt was patting Scout down. Breathing smoke all over him.

‘Hey, easy.’ Scout’s hands objected to the search but were pushed away.

‘This is what they followed.’

‘They followed the cell-phone?’

‘The handset has GPS.’ Wyatt threw the phone in the air and drew his weapon. A loud burst splintered the plastic in all directions and put holes in the wall. ‘Now it’s turned off,’ he said. ‘Yuri, time has run out. Pack what you need.’

‘I understand. Katerina, I’m sorry. I have work to do.’ He backed off. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Everyone’s sorry,’ she said as the first tear smoothed its way down her cheek. Too late to put it back, and there were more queueing. Please. Don’t.

‘All of you, this way,’ Yuri moved toward the door on the far side of the Laboratory.

You were going to leave me? Kat’s belly ached at the thought. More tears fought against her. Why? No, don’t touch me. Idiot had her hand; encouraging her to stand. He said nothing which was probably for the best. Before she could say anything he turned her hand upward and gently placed the reassembled Beretta into her palm and closed her hand around the grip; he let his fingers linger. What? Something in the way he looked at her. What? What are you trying to say?

Whatever he intended, his expression changed. ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Now,’ she felt herself lifted.

Yuri was a shit. Wyatt, she didn’t know who, or what, that man was. At least the idiot was still here. Maybe that was what he was trying to say?

135

From the door Scout saw an interior of white walls. Along the wall that faced him ran a work surface topped with medical equipment. Above and below were cupboards and drawers. He peered inside to see a tall legged gurney with monitors either side, its wires dangling and twisted. Farther round he could see Wyatt, he’d dropped to one knee. Yuri to his side doing something, his back to Scout, he couldn’t see what.

Is that a man lying on the floor? A push in his back encouraged Scout through the opening. She looks upset. Who can blame her.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied.

‘Not sure, or don’t want to share?’ She really was pissed off.

‘Katerina,’ Yuri called. ‘Please, there is water on the table.’

She didn’t move.

‘It’s all right, I’ll get it.’ Scout stepped inside. He grabbed a bottle from one of the trays. Who’s that? Sat against the wall was a man, or a woman? Their hair was long. Who’s our new friend? ‘It’s getting crowded down here,’ he said. ‘Who’s your patient, Yuri?’ Scout asked.

Definitely male, and slim. Long dark hair to his shoulders that needed a brush. Scout guessed he’d released himself from the gurney’s wires and crawled to the corner of the room. From what he could see he looked about Kat’s age, dressed in short sleeved blue scrubs. There was something strangely familiar about the figure.

‘It’s too early to move him,’ Yuri said dabbing a cloth at the man’s face. ‘It could be dangerous.’

‘We have no choice, Yuri. Pack what you need, we’ve run out time.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Yuri grabbed a rucksack from below the gurney and began to rifle through the lower cupboards. What he didn’t need he dropped; a sense of urgency obvious.

‘Uncle, please, stop this and tell me what’s going on? Who is that man?’

‘Yeah, what she said.’ What was in the box, Yuri? ‘Why are half the JAG in the City looking for us?’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out, clever man like you.’ Yuri made no eye contact, his hands ferreting for supplies. Another cupboard opened, nothing taken. A pause for thought, and then a drawer yanked open. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you anything?’

‘Was it blood, or tissue?’ Scout asked.

‘Blood,’ Yuri replied. ‘A source of deoxyribonucleic acid.’ He stopped searching, ‘that’s DNA,’ he said.

‘I know what it is.’

‘Do you? I don’t think you do.’ Gauze, pills, syringes, all dropped onto the floor. He was looking for specific items.

‘Do you need help?’ Scout asked.

‘That man. Is he the reason you were going to leave me?’ Kat’s voice was passive, but weighed by stress.

‘You would have been well provided for, I swear. It was the only way to guarantee your safety.’ Yuri finally stopped, the bag slumped onto the worktop. ‘I, I had no choice. I still don’t.’

‘You’re going to leave me. Isn’t that a choice?’

‘Easy, Kat,’ Maybe I shouldn’t have given her back the gun? ‘You might as well tell her everything, Yuri. She has a right to know. Tell Kat what you’ve been up to down here.’ Me too. ‘Begin by telling your niece who she really is.’

‘What? What does that mean? Uncle, what the fuck is he talking about?’ Kat lifted the Beretta’s aim towards him. ‘No-one’s going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.’

Wyatt eased his coat open at the hip again. He looked disturbingly comfortable for a man faced by a gun.

‘Easy big fella,’ Scout stepped between Wyatt and Kat. ‘I’ve got this,’ he said, then turned to Kat. ‘I promise you, we will sort this out.’ Quickly too, as her gun-hand was shaking. ‘Please, lower the gun.’ She shook her head and shifted the Beretta’s aim toward him. ‘Are we pointing guns at each other again? Come on, I thought we’d moved on from that?’ Shit, is she going to shoot me? ‘Kat, I promise, we’ll sort this. You and me, okay, but you have to lower the gun.’ Wyatt stepped around Scout, the gun tracked him, Scout stepped between them. ‘No! She’s fine, so back off. Kat’s about to put the gun down.’ Or maybe not. ‘Tell her, Yuri,’ he shouted. ‘You tell her what you’ve been doing down here.’ It’s okay. He mouthed. I promise. ‘Yuri, tell her.’

‘Uncle? Talk to me, please. Uncle?’

‘Katerina, I . . .’

‘Do as Scout asks,’ said Wyatt.

Yuri looked uncomfortable. First toward Wyatt, who stood poised for a gunfight. Then toward Kat, her hand visibly shaking. The gun heavy, her cheeks wet.

‘Tell her,’ Scout urged.

‘Because Wyatt asked me to, that’s why.’ Yuri looked towards his patient. ‘Because this man is more important than you, my lovely Katerina. He’s more important than me, than Wyatt, than anyone.’ Yuri closed the bag. ‘Have you ever heard of junk DNA?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Scout nodded.

‘Good, because I haven’t the time to explain.’ Yuri was pleading for Kat to listen. His feelings of guilt exposed for all to see. Familial bond outweighed by his obvious loyalty towards the stranger. ‘Before the Apocalypse,’ he said. ‘I discovered what it was that hides in the Junk area of our DNA.’ He slumped the bag onto the gurney. ‘Katerina, it was for the best, I swear.’

‘Just tell her why, Yuri. Tell her what you’ve done.’ I’ve got a good idea already. And I’m not sure she’ll be happy when you do.

Yuri’s reluctance was obvious. Then he found a new determination. A stiffened resolve.

‘DNA,’ he said. ‘It’s the building blocks of life; the program that tells a cell how to grow, what to become. But the Junk; the space left over in our DNA. So much of it, there had to be a purpose. Katerina, it’s a record of what we’ve left behind. Not a part of what drives our species forward.’ He looked frustrated. Worried that his words were inadequate to explain.

‘It generates life,’ Scout contributed. He was keen Yuri got on with it. ‘What did you find?’

‘The Junk, it preserves the consciousness of every ancestor we’ve ever shared,’ Yuri’s tone firmed. ‘It’s quite remarkable. All the lives that have hosted our DNA are stored. Recorded by Nature. Accumulated over time and logged inside a repository, waiting; preserved. I’ve spent my entire life working to understand the process. Trying to separate the individuals collected within.’

He stopped talking to let his words sink in.

Are you serious? ‘Is this mad scientist week?’

‘You don’t believe me?’ said Yuri.

‘Are saying you can bring people back from the dead?’ Kat sounded equally dismissive.

‘No, Katerina, no-one dies. Not as long as a single cell from the host survives.’

Yuri opened the bag and moved back to the cupboard.

Scout placed both hands on Kat’s Beretta. She resisted, and then released it into his hands. ‘He’s making clones,’ he said.

‘No, not a clone,’ frustration in Yuri’s voice that he had to explain. That he couldn’t. That he was afraid to. ‘It’s possible to reprogram a body with an individual; any one of its previous hosts.’

Scout slipped the Beretta behind his back. ‘If that’s true,’ he said, ‘then won’t they be surprised with their new body? Inhabiting the end of the line model?’

‘It’s a problem, yes. And so is identifying the targeted consciousness. Each nucleic chain is host to a numeral number of souls. It would be random selection at best.’

Look at them, they’re serious. ‘So what you’re saying is you can only do the last host with certainty, right? And you’ve done this before, haven’t you? More than once, I’m guessing.’ Scout took Kat’s hands in his own. She was trembling. ‘Just tell her, Yuri.’

‘Tell me what? Scout, please? Yuri, why are you leaving me? What have I done?’

Yuri didn’t want that conversation. ‘The only guaranteed success is to initiate the last cognisant to reside in the body,’ he said.

‘You make it sound like a rental.’ You asshole. ‘So what was in the box?’ he asked.

‘Tell him,’ said Wyatt. His hand lifted from his guns. ‘Tell them both what they need to know.’

Yuri nodded.

‘The box contained something unique within the realms of DNA. A blood sample, its DNA preserved with only a single ancestral memory; no prior owners to this man’s nucleic properties.’

That’s not possible. ‘Who?’ Scout asked. Who the fuck has no previous owners?

‘What figure in history shares no deoxyribonucleic acid with his father or mother? Think, Katerina.’ She didn’t look in mood for a quiz. ‘The blood in the box was pure, taken from the donor just prior to his death. It’s been hidden away and treasured. Loved, honoured, and preserved. Great sacrifice made to keep it safe. Waiting until the children of God were capable of bringing him back.’

‘Who the fuck are you talking about?’ asked Scout.

136

‘The box contained DNA,’ said Yuri. ‘Taken from the direct, and sole descendant of its DNA.’ He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. ‘Katerina, that man is who we’ve dreamed of. Who we’ve prayed to and honoured all our lives. He is the son of God.’

‘He’s who?’ Is this a bad dream? Scout laughed. ‘You’ve resurrected who? Christ?’

‘Uncle, no, that can’t be true.’

All eyes went to Yuri’s patient. He looked ill.

‘Kat, don’t listen to him.’ It’s ridiculous. ‘It’s not possible.’

‘If you have faith, anything is possible,’ said Yuri. ‘It’s the Second Coming; though admittedly, I doubt He expected it to happen quite like this.’

‘Kat, we need to go.’ Scout pulled the Beretta from his belt. ‘If Scarecrow has followed us here, we need to be elsewhere.’

Kat grabbed Scout’s arm.’ Is it true?’ she asked Yuri. ‘Is it even possible?’

‘Kat, listen to me. They’re lying.’ They have to be. ‘We need to get away from here, and from them.’

‘Show him, Wyatt,’ Yuri insisted. ‘Scout needs to understand if he is to be the Guardian.’

‘The what? No, don’t think so. Kat, we’re leaving.’ He backed away, unsure how to react as the big man stepped toward him. The urge to lift the Beretta strong, but denied. Wyatt took his arm.

‘You need to believe,’ he said, gripping Scout’s hand. ‘Oh, and this may hurt a little.’

Oww, easy on the grip. The room span around and then went black. Whoah monkeys? Why am I seeing monkeys? In a forest. Images of them all around him, moving fast; everything surging on fast forward. Landscapes changed, grew, died and then grew again. All too quick, like flicker tape revolving around his head. Or in his head? Shit, I’m gonna be sick.

Scout watched as the world went by. Not sure how, or even why. But the images were clear and bold. The monkeys began to stand, their bodies shed hair. Families of Hunter-Gatherers grew fast into communities. Hunters became farmers. Villages, towns, and then cities. Empires rose and fell.

How was he seeing any of this? He grabbed Wyatt’s hand and tried to pull it away. Let go of me! Mankind seemed angry. Each evolution capitalised by more conflict. Punctuated by war-making. Humanity spread outward, and the world was trod down in its path. Bows and arrows, gunpowder and smoke; a flash of nuclear power. Scout felt the heat as he turned away from the light. It left behind a mushroom cloud that was somehow, beautiful.

The world went dark again. Scout couldn’t help but understand. The next thing he saw was Wyatt. Only it wasn’t the man who held his hand. The rugged gunslinger, his face tanned and unshaven, no, this Wyatt stood naked in skin that shone like marble. The man’s body ripped with muscles that could lift a car. Above him a dark sky, moody clouds that rumbled and shifted.

The giant lowered himself to one knee. One hand held aloft as the other struck and penetrated the ground. He glared at Scout.

Who the fuck are you?

Marble Man grinned as his eyes turned white. The sky above grumbled with the melody of a coming storm. A billowing darkened mass above; it erupted with thunderous sound. Marble Man’s eyes shone in unison. Then lightning flashed down from the darkness to strike his hand. He cried out in pain as he channeled the powerful stream of light down into the earth.

But that wasn’t what freaked Scout the most; it was the powerful wings that had unfurled from Marble Man’s back to greet the Heavenly light.

What the fuck are you?!

The air pulsed as if struck by a percussion-bomb. The wave showed him the others, just like Wyatt. Their wings outstretched, their bodies plugged into an angry world, directing the venom of Mother Nature across the globe. The sky turned a bright orange and the sea levels began to rise. The ground shook beyond any measure that Man could have mustered.

It was you. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And others like you. You caused the Apocalypse. Why?

‘You disillusioned your Father once to often,’ said Wyatt. ‘He can only turn a blind eye so many times.’

Father? You mean, Him . . . God?

‘He wanted to end it once and for all. That’s why he sent us. He’s decided to begin again, somewhere else. I was left to oversee His, “Final Solution.”’

Fuck this. Fuck you. ‘And why are we talking in my head?’ Scout tried again to pull away. Wyatt’s grip was too secure. ‘This is too much. Why are you even showing me this?’

‘You have to understand what’s at stake,’ said Wyatt. ‘Why so many have sacrificed so much to bring us here, to this point in your clock.’ In the distance a bright light flashed. Then another, followed by more. Strange mushroom clouds turned the sky around them red. ‘After you’d tried to kill each other for what was left. Father left me behind to end whatever had survived.’

But you didn’t.

‘Did you?’

‘I defied God, yes. I ignored His express command for Armageddon. I defied Him to give Mankind one final chance. He’s lying on the floor over there.’

‘Fuck, fuck. This is big. Too big. What do you expect me to do about this?’

‘Keep Him safe. Follow His lead. Give Him a chance to change His father’s mind.’

‘You want me, to protect, Him. Me? No, I’m busy. I was enjoying life before you rolled in.’

‘Your life was shit; I’m amazed you haven’t ended it. Your self-absorbing pity for yourself is Biblical in its nature. And why? Because you lost someone? They’ve all lost, every one of them, in that city, and beyond. I’m offering you a second chance to have meaning in your life. Chia’s gone, God has gone. Your only hope to have either of them again is to help Him, to convince Father to return.’

Scout understood now why the box was so valuable; its contents. Yuri’s betrayal of the Trinity to keep it safe. Kat? She’s still unaware of the role, the roles, she’s played in its preservation, and Wyatt, fuck, the guy’s got wings! It was all too much.

‘You do realise what’s going on?’ he said. ‘The Trinity want to carry that man into battle. They want to fight a Holy War in His name, and the Commission, I’m betting they’re not keen on the competition, right?’ Scout realised he was pacing. He stopped, turned to Wyatt. ‘The Duma will cut Him into bits to sell off as Relics. He’s power and profit to them all. Not one of them want Him alive, not even the Trinity. Terrorism and turning the other cheek don’t sit well together, and you’ve just put a target on our backs for anyone willing to cash Him in; which is probably half the city.’

‘Stop thinking so linear, so small. Oasis is not alone; it never was. There are others out there. Many more who search for hope and salvation. The people in Oasis weren’t the only survivors.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘The Commission has lied to you. Your Patron is ready for a Grand Crusade to build an Empire. He wants to conquer and subdue. Hammer the world into an image twisted and shaped by his fear. His religion will begin with enslaving all those who won’t believe as he does. You people, you never learn. That man lying there. He can teach you another way.’

The room was moving again. A woman giving birth in a stable. A young man walking in a desert. The whole story flashed by in a few seconds to see Him wearing a crown of thorns; being crucified. A Roman soldier pierced His side with a spear, then wiped the blood on lint before handing it to a woman in exchange for silver. She locked it away in the box that had started all of this.

He didn’t need to watch the rest. He had a fair idea of what came next.

‘And Kat,’ he asked, ‘where does she fit into this, this, scheme of yours?’

‘She doesn’t,’ said Wyatt.

‘Just like that? Not a part of the Master-Plan then? You were gonna leave her, why? Is it because she’s a clone? That is what she is, right?’ Your face says it all. ‘For crying out loud, at least tell her why.’

‘Sometimes ignorance is all the bliss that your species can handle.’

‘My species? Oh, I get it, you think you’re better than us. You just showed me what your kind is capable of.’ Let go of my arm. ‘Look, I get it, shit happened and now you want to do right. So let Kat help us.’ Don’t shake your head at me. ‘Deal her in, or deal me out,’ he said. ‘Up to you.’ Shit, did I just volunteer myself. Us? Shit!

‘You want to know why we couldn’t use her. There’s a flaw in the process,’ said Wyatt.

‘Flaw, what flaw? What process?’

‘There’s a problem within the initial cellular division of the subjects.’

‘By subject you mean, Kat?’

‘The subjects form perfectly, but fail prematurely. There were four others before her; they all failed.’

‘Failed, why? How?’

‘The process was trial and error. It had to be perfected before we could move on. That version, the one you know as Kat, she’s defective like all the others. She’s not important.’

‘You cold hearted bastard, of course she’s important.’ She is to me. ‘How long?’

‘Her life? The previous subject lasted three years. Yuri was unable to stop her cells losing cohesion. He suggested that this version may have double that time-span.’

‘You’re fucking joking me. You’re saying she’s dying?’

‘We all die. Our time-span here is irrelevant. It’s the way we live that makes the time we have worth living.’

‘What the . . . what? And you know what about living do you? What the fuck are you anyway; some sort of, what, Angel?’

Silence.

‘Okay, fine. Man of mystery, I get it. But I think I spot the flaw in your plan. Your, patient, He must have got the same defect as Kat, right? The Second Coming, I don’t think it’ll be around for too long.’

‘That’s something I can rectify.’

You can? ‘That’s great then. You can do the same for Kat. Do it for her. Hey, I’m talking to you. Hey!’ What, what’s wrong?

He was back in the room.

‘We’ve taken too long, the JAG are already outside.’

‘JAG, are you sure? How many?’

‘A lot,’ Wyatt replied.’

Okay, the God thing can wait. One mind blowing crisis at a time. If the JAG were outside, they needed to get out of here, quick. Kat? ‘Hey, Kat. You okay?’

It was a reticent response. A slight nod of agreement.

Crap, did she hear any of that? Did we have that conversation right here, or up here? Or was I in Wyatt’s head? He needed time to think. No, thinking was bad. Is she really dying?

Kat was sat with Yuri’s patient, holding his hand. The man looked weak, barely able to keep His eyes open. They were whispering, he couldn’t hear the words.

‘Guns. We need guns.’ I’m not going out like Prosper. ‘Yuri, you do have guns?’

Yuri nodded. The scientist shoved the trays off the long work-surface. He lifted the top and leaned inside. Two large holdalls were pulled from within.

‘These will help,’ Yuri said, as he dragged one of the bags and dropped it at Scout’s feet.

‘Big guns?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, now we need a way out of here. A back door?’ Scout’s fingers pulled holdall’s fat zip open from end to end. ‘You Heretics, you always have a back door, right?’

137

No back door?

That this was bad, really bad, was all Scout could think of as he dragged both bags upstairs and over to the middle window. Was Wyatt right? He’d risked going out into the courtyard to check, to see, the street outside filled with badly parked trucks on the far side. He watched Troopers jump out, guns being unloaded. There was going to be a shit-storm coming their way. And soon.

There was no sign of any windows in the roof. No back door. No hope of making a break for safety.

Scout looked down. He was wearing a JAG uniform. He should leave, right now, try to blend in whilst they were still disorganised. Walk away. Cross the road; do it now! None of this had anything to do with him. He didn’t even believe in God, the Trinity, or the Saints. Take a breath, walk out there and act like you belong. He backed against the wall, readied himself, this was it. That’s when he saw her, watching from the window beyond the fountain’s statue. Go, leave. She’s not my problem. Scout stepped away from the wall.

138

‘Why didn’t you go?’ she asked him.

‘Go? I was taking a recce at the opposition.’ It wasn’t a lie. Look at her; it’s written all over her face. Coming here, finding out they were leaving her. Watching me, just then. ‘We need a defensive plan,’ he said. ‘Three windows, all with bars, that’s good. The front door’s sturdy, the cage a God-send.’ She’s dying. He smiled, or tried to. ‘Let’s take a look in the bag shall we.’

Scout emptied the holdall’s contents. He grabbed a 9mm Glock-40 with extended magazine. ‘Nice in a tight space, if they storm the building.’ He grabbed a snug looking military jacket from the bag.’ Don’t want you shooting me by mistake, he said dropping the JAG jacket and slipping it on. He stuffed the deep pockets with ammo clips. ‘Talk to me, Kat. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

She said nothing. Fine. He helped himself from the eclectic bunch of assault rifles and began standing them beneath the windows, with magazines placed on the floor to match each weapon.

‘They’re on the move,’ he said.

The JAG were at the courtyard entrance, waiting, but what for? His best guess at their numbers, around fifty. So far.

He grabbed an old Kalashnikov and pulled open the collapsable stock. Old school and heavy duty. Nice. He hung the weapon over his back. On the plus side there was at least eight inches of wall between them and the JAG outside. Blocks thick enough to stop bullets. He could only hope they had nothing bigger to throw at the walls.

‘Talk to me, Kat,’ he said, as he peered through the middle window.

‘And say what? Thank you for ruining my life.’

Yeah, okay, should have left when I had the chance.

It was obvious she blamed him for all this. Maybe he should remind her that he wasn’t the one who planned on leaving her. Or had used her since she’d first opened her eyes.

He glanced outside again, and then across to Yuri who was knelt attending Him. If it really was Him? He still couldn’t get his head around the home-made Messiah story. He didn’t look like a Messiah. Hardly credible Messiah material wearing blue scrubs and white trainers. Each time He opened His eyes they looked confused, and in pain. Yuri encouraged his patient to drink. Something was wrong. He could see that. Neither Yuri nor Wyatt would take their eyes from Him.

‘Err, guys? Some help over here,’ he said.

‘Wyatt,’ Yuri beckoned.

The big man moved closer, doubt in his eyes, or was it sadness? Whatever, his feelings, if he had any, didn’t last long as a conversation began.

‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ he asked Kat.

‘Why don’t you stick your nose in and find out?’

‘Look, Kat . . .’

‘I’ll watch the airlock. Happy eavesdropping,’ she said.

‘Hey, Kat, hey! Don’t take this out on me.’

‘Why not? From where I stand, this is all on you.’

It wasn’t his fault that she was homeless, a wanted criminal, and about to engage in a fire-fight for her life. Okay, maybe it was. ‘How long are you gonna stay mad at me?’ he whispered after her. Then turned his attention back to the other conversation in the room; desperate to hear what was being said. He nearly dropped the Glock at what he saw happened next.

‘Kat . . . Kat, you need to see this.’ Wyatt’s eyes had begun to glow. Yuri’s patient tried to move away.

‘What’s he doing?’ Kat whispered.

‘I don’t know.’ The last time Scout saw glowing eyes, they ended the world. ‘I vote we let them get on with it?’ he said.

‘No, he might hurt Him. Yuri, what’s he doing?’ she demanded.

Yuri looked concerned; frightened even as his patient’s eyes began to glow like Wyatt’s.

Scout took Kat by the arm. ‘The last thing they’re gonna do is hurt Him,’ he said. ‘Kat, I need your help. Those JAG are scuttling about out there and preparing to assault.’

‘Did you see, their eyes glowed?’

‘Yeah, I saw. Hey, pay attention, we’re in trouble. Glowing eyes are not a priority.’

Wyatt was getting up. The long coat slipped from those broad powerful shoulders as he unholstered both his weapons in unison.

‘Maybe now would be a good time for prayer,’ Scout suggested. Then remembered her God was no longer around to pray to. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ Bad day all round. He un-shouldered the AK, slid back the bolt, and let it spring a bullet into the chamber. He pointed it at the Troopers who were tentatively heading en-masse into the courtyard.

139

Troopers filed through both sides of the gateway. Well-armed and well-drilled. They infiltrated the courtyard expecting to take fire, keen to find cover. The basin wall of the fountain became a crowded foxhole.

Scout changed windows for a different angle. Why didn’t they just rush them? What were they waiting for? A loud voice crackled out through a bullhorn. Its owner male, he sounded middle aged.

‘Throw down your weapons and surrender immediately,’ he demanded. ‘The building is surrounded, there’s no way out.’

Kat came to the window.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked, ‘That’s a lot of Troopers,’ she added.

‘I think they’re trying to scare us.’

‘They’re doing a good job.’

‘You okay?’ he asked. She obviously wasn’t. ‘Kat, look . . .’

‘No, don’t,’ she said, and placed her hand on his. ‘I got myself into this mess. You could even say that I dragged you into it. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, well, if people we trust had told the truth? I’m sorry I lied to you, and to Prosper.’

‘He’d understand. He always understood. Is it too late to make a deal? Give them the box?’

‘Why deal for what they can take?’

A sudden sprinkle of hailstones was how it sounded. Firecrackers being let off. Followed by the pop-pop-pop of masonry as the outside wall smarted to a volley of bullets that sent high velocity debris cascading inside.

It ended as suddenly as it began to the tinkle of fine glass falling to the ground.

‘Throw down your weapons and surrender immediately. There’s no way out.’ The heightened voice crackled through the courtyard.

‘There’s always a way out,’ Scout growled, though he couldn’t actually see one. And he hadn’t realised Kat was holding on so tight. He’d instinctively turned her away from the window and now she had her arms wrapped around him, her head pressed against his chest.

‘Are we going to die?’ she whispered.

‘Not without a fight, that’s just Scarecrow throwing a shot across our bow.’

The bullhorn echoed through the courtyard for a third time. The previous message repeated. The youthful voice sounded bored of repeating itself.

‘Kat, hey, Kat,’ his voice gentle as he lifted her chin, then teased her hair away from her eyes. ‘We need the Kat who throws plugs at people; is she still in there?’ She nodded. ‘Fire short bursts. Keep to the corners of the windows and vary your angle of fire.’ She looked scared. ‘And keep your head down . . . What’s he doing?’

Wyatt was up and moving towards him. Both weapons unholstered and held at arms length. Flames leapt from the muzzles of the hand-held cannons, the air rasping to the sound of automatic fire through the window above them. Both Scout and Kat scuttled away from the flow of empty cartridges falling around them.

‘Pick a window,’ Scout told her. ‘Keep this head well down.’ He patted her on the head, and opened fire with the Glock.

Kat crawled to the far window and joined in with the hail of bullets that strafed across the courtyard. Bricks blocks and pieces of statue thrown into the air. Barely a shot fired in return.

Wyatt dropped both empty mags and jammed his guns down onto two fresh ones stowed in his belt. A moment later the weapons were discharging through the window again.

When Wyatt stopped, Scout risked a look. He dropped the spent Glock and un-shouldered the Kalashnikov. He swept the courtyard looking for a target. All he saw were the dead and wounded. A Trooper made a break for the gate. A short rasp and the man fell face-first to the ground.

‘Hold your fire!’ Scout shouted. ‘Let them go.’

‘You want them to come back.’

‘No, but I’m not shooting anyone in the back. Let them leave. Grab your wounded and go,’ he shouted.

Some men outside tried to pull the wounded behind cover. Others used the ceasefire to find better cover in a courtyard littered with bodies. Someone cried out in pain. The others lay silent.

‘This is going to get worse before it gets better,’ said Wyatt.

‘You think this is going to improve?’

‘You’re the Guardian now. He is your responsibility. Find Him a way out.’

‘How?’ How the fuck do we get out of this? ‘Maybe you should have used a hideaway with a back door?’

‘There are others,’ said Wyatt. ‘They have decisions to make. Let’s hope they choose wisely, for Humanity’s sake.’

‘What the fuck does that mean; are you expecting help? Hey . . .’

The courtyard erupted with gunfire. The sound of shale being tipped through a hole. A fierce onslaught of bullets that pebble-dashed the walls as more Troopers came quickly though the gateway.

Scout returned fire, the AK47 angry, and so was he. The entire clip tat-tatting through the hole, one side to the other. Another clip was rammed home. Thirty more rounds shot blindly outside as the window reveals were slowly eaten away by hostile fire. The glass gone, masonry dust hanging in the air.

Wyatt emptied two more magazines. Both barrels smoked in tandem with the strained butt of the cigarette clasped tight between his lips. Its ash glowed from another deep draw, the smoke exhaled in a plume. He seemed to be enjoying this.

‘Just like Butch and Sundance,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Never mind.’ More venom emptied from his weapons.

‘Yuri,’ Scout shouted. ‘Yuri?!’ Damn it. He was up and moving toward the passage. Yuri crouched over his patient to protect him from ricochets. His gun pointed toward the door just in case. ‘Yuri?!’ The scientist looked terrified. ‘We need another way out,’ Scout called. ‘A secret passage, a window in the roof, anything?’

A shake of the head was not what Scout wanted to see.

‘Think, Yuri.’ He pointed below the stairs. ‘What about the basement?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

The sound of the explosion deafened him to any response as the door and its surroundings were blown inward, mostly caught by the cage. Wyatt was the first to react. He opened fire into the new hole as bodies clambered through the breach, only to jerk and lurch from the death-dealing machines. One, two, three and then half a dozen or more men thrown back and down as their flesh wilted under intense fire.

Scout was up, AK pumping semi-auto fire. Controlled and aggressive bursts into the hole where the front door had once been. The body count rising quickly, but still they came. Those who survived clambered over the dead and dying. Then died themselves unable to penetrate the cage that barred their way.

‘They’ll try again,’ Scout shouted ejecting a spent mag, just before he saw it, as the hand slipped down from the bars. The man’s hand stopped on a crossbar, a detonator ring dangled from his motionless finger. A small package stuck to the metal. ‘Fire in the hole,’ he screamed, turned, but wasn’t quick enough to the floor.

The high pitched thump wasn’t as powerful as the first. More imploding than exploding, but the ringing in his ears hurt just the same. A surge of smoke and dust roared into the reception and then hung like a mist in the air.

Scout tried to get up from his knees, his hand feeling through the crap on the floor as he lifted himself. Somewhere on the ground was the ammo clip he’d dropped when the world had erupted with violence. He couldn’t hear anything, except a horrible constant tone. His vision was as twisted as the cage was bent. Difficult to concentrate as his hand scraped through what was left of the doorway. He found it. Three attempts before it locked into the rifle. Scout stumbled forward, the Kalashnikov unsteady, but ready to shoot.

‘They’re coming again,’ he shouted, then fired twice toward what looked like shadows in a swirl of dust. He barely registered the objects that whistled past by return.

Flashes of light and sound; bullet trails parting the dust around him. Scout fired again. Single shots, and then full-auto. Tat-tat-tat, and then click-click-click, his weapon empty. Scout pawed at his jacket’s pockets. The fabric slots designed for ammo were all empty. Something hot nicked the muscle in his leg. Another singed his shoulder.

Fuck-fuck . . . click-click.

Bullets bounced off the cage as several men tried to enter. Not his, the AK still click-clicked. His head was clearing as he turned to see Kat advance. Shooting with purpose into the airlock, her magazine ejected, replaced, firing again with single shots. She kicked his leg and Scout fell.

‘Idiot,’ she berated as he fell. Awkward, painful, and hard on his belly as Kat dropped several magazines in front of him.

Deep breath. Lock and load. He almost wished his head hadn’t cleared as he fired alongside her unaware of how the body count upped in the cage.

Head clearing, Scout was up, moving towards the hole and grabbing whatever firepower he could from those that didn’t need it anymore. He slumped against the broken wall and fired down into the courtyard outside. His stance built on a wall of bodies almost three feet high that now blocked the hole. It looked like a bulldozer had swept them upward in a bucket and dropped them down to fill hole. The walls were painted with Troopers’ blood.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It all got a bit, crazy. You okay?’ he asked. ‘Kat?’ Shit. ‘Is that blood yours?’ Her shirt was stained red. ‘Kat?’ She smiled. Oh no. It was a grimace. The colour drained fast from her face as she dropped to her knees.

‘Hey, hey, I’ve got you,’ he said and dragged her back from the wall. ‘Yuri? . . . Yuri!’ The reception was a fog. He couldn’t see the floor for the rubble. ‘Yuri?!’ Where the fuck are you? ‘Come on, let’s get you away from here.’ He dragged her over broken bodies. Some seemed at peace, whilst others stared with lifeless resolve at their killers. It was difficult not to trip on the bloodied arms and legs. He pushed a face to look the other way as he settled Kat on the ground. A wall of torsos for cover. He lifted Kat’s top and then turned her.

‘There’s an exit,’ he said. ‘The bullet’s gone straight through.’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘I have to stop the bleeding, but you’ll be all right.’ Please be all right. He ripped a dead-man’s sleeve from its tunic, then pressed hard against the wound.

‘Aaargh.’

‘Sorry, should have mentioned it might hurt.’

‘Fuck you,’ she groaned.

‘That’s my girl. You’ll be fine. Yuri?’ He cradled her head. ‘For fuck’s sake, Yuri?!’

‘Scout, please, you’re giving me a headache,’ she said.

140

Scout took another look outside. Dead bodies littered the courtyard. Weapons and ammunition were needed badly, but they daren’t try to retrieve.

He turned away. ‘Are you sure she’ll be okay?’ he asked Yuri.

‘No organs or arteries were hit; she’s a lucky girl.’

‘She’s a drama-queen.’ Scout risked another peek outside. ‘Anything I can get you?’ he asked.

‘A belt would help to keep the compression tight. Find one for me.’

Sure, he was glad to help. Glad Yuri was a doctor.

‘Let me help,’ said Wyatt. He placed a cigarette between his lips and frowned at the wound. A zippo sparked and a tall flame was lit.

‘Is that a condom?’ asked Scout. ‘What’s he going to do with a condom?’

‘If you don’t mind, Yuri, I need some room.’ He moved the scientist’s hands away and pulled the makeshift bandage from the wound. Kat moaned as he pressed the condom into her wound.‘This is going to hurt,’ he said.

‘No, don’t let him.’ Kat fingered at the latex but her hand was pulled away. ‘Fuck off,’ she shouted. ‘Scout, stop him.’

‘Shhh, it’s okay. Maybe a bit agricultural, but we have to stop the bleeding.’

‘It’s not okay. Do it some other way. Scout, please . . .’

The red hot ash lit the condom like a fuse. A strong billow of smoke and an acrid stink of gunpowder as the condom ignited.

Scout grabbed her hand as she screamed and then vomited on his hand. She stared at him in disbelief. He caught her head as she fainted.

‘The wound is cauterised,’ said Wyatt, ‘she’ll sleep for a while. Both of you, pick up the JAG weapons and make a pile. We may need to use them.’ He returned to his window vigil.

‘Yuri,’ Scout whispered between the sound of gun stocks being dragged across the floor. ‘Who is he?’

‘He is Wyatt. He is Entity.’ Another rifle clattered down onto the pile.

‘Is he really, you know,’ Scout looked up . . . ‘Has he really got wings?’

Yuri shrugged. ‘Wyatt has watched over the Relic for over two millennia. He will continue until he is no longer required to do so. If you want me to tell you he has wings. Okay then, he has wings.’

‘You weren’t surprised at the question, were you?’ Scout watched as Yuri picked up a lone handgun.

‘This is a Stechkin pistol,’ Yuri said, rather pleased with himself. ‘I had one of these a very long time ago.’ He released the magazine from the handle, thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger - click. ‘All you need to know about Wyatt, is he’s not easy to intimidate, and even harder to kill.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not so sure, look.’

Wyatt had ripped his sleeve away and was plucking a bullet from his shoulder with a knife. He was obviously feeling the pain.

‘He is Entity,’ said Yuri.

‘He’s bleeding,’ said Scout. And from that look I’m guessing he shouldn’t be. ‘Earlier, that thing with the eyes, what was he doing?’

‘If I were to guess? Our Lord needs to know; to understand, so much has happened. He’s been gone a long time.’ Yuri shrugged. ‘Whatever it was, Wyatt does nothing without good reason.’

‘Shared experiences; makes sense. Or maybe it was something more. Yuri, take a real hard look at your patient. He’s not as pale as he was, and now Wyatt’s bleeding? I think he shared a lot more than memories.’

The man-mountain glared at them. Despite the whispers, he knew they were talking about him. Another cancer stick was lit; the paper burned hard as he watched them. Whoever Wyatt really was, he was born for a fight. Scout wondered if he’d already accepted that this would be his last. Wyatt smiled. He broke eye contact and knelt beside the other kit bag that Yuri had brought from the cellar. More smog from his lungs as the zip was drawn back. A moment later the holdall was emptied and Wyatt got to his feet.

You have got to be kidding.

‘Yuri, I think we may be going on the offensive,’ said Scout.

141

‘Is that what I think it is?’ asked Scout.

A disposable rocket launcher in Armageddon green, and marked with symbols painted in white he didn’t understand. He supposed they read, shoot from this end. Three rockets were stood on their fins against the wall.

What he picked out next resembled a small compressor with half a dozen gun barrels attached. It was lifted from the holdall like a toy, a feeding belt holding large calibre bullets hung below.

‘Is that a gun?’ Scout looked doubtful. I want one. He doubted he could carry one. He’d never seen anything like it as Wyatt hung the weapon’s strap over his shoulder. Scout scampered back to the window as the squeal of truck brakes drew his attention back outside. More vehicles passed the wide gateway. He counted four.

‘Ten men to each truck,’ he said. Plus those already out there. He slumped back against the wall and left Wyatt to hold vigil. Yuri was praying beside his unconscious Prophet. Kat lay in a deep sleep, unaware now of what was going on.

It won’t be long now, Chia. He could see her just an arm’s length away as he closed his eyes. He wanted so badly to touch her face.

If Stalker had wings, then it followed that there may actually be a God. That would mean she was with Him, somewhere, safe. Waiting. The problem was, he wasn’t quite ready to join her, not yet. He still had a score to settle with the bastard that had taken her from him.

142

‘Hey! Hey, Wyatt!’ You ignorant son of a . . . ‘Over here, yeah, here.’ Finally, I have your attention. Yuri’s too. ‘You think one of those could punch a hole in the wall?’

‘To what end?’ Wyatt asked.

‘To make a hole. To get us out of here?’

‘The building is surrounded, there is no escape.’

‘What about the roof?’ He turned to Yuri. ‘Why haven’t you got a secret exit into the sewer like most Heretics? Come on, there must be a way out.’

Yuri exchanged glances with Wyatt. Wyatt returned to his vigil.

‘What?’ Spit it out. ‘Stop with the looks and answer me.’

‘You really are slow, aren’t you?’ Kat was awake.

‘Hey, how you feeling? Wait, what? I’m sorry, slow?’

Moving was an effort but she managed to sit herself up with Yuri’s help.

‘I don’t think they want to leave. Isn’t that right, Uncle?’

Why wouldn’t they want to get out? Wait a minute; no back door? So many guns. Is that’s why Yuri didn’t want her here? ‘You weren’t running out on her, were you?’ Fuck, I’m so gullible. ‘You didn’t want her here because you want this siege? Why? For what possible reason?’ He said there were others? Wyatt said they would come. Who? What others? Scout slammed the AK’s stock against the cage. ‘You planned all of this? And you wanted me to be here when it happened?’

‘You’re cute when you get angry,’ she said. ‘Yuri, I thought you were running away. It’s quite wonderful, what you’ve done.’ The woman was obviously in shock. Exploding condoms could do that. ‘But why stay?’ she asked.

‘Because Wyatt asked me to. And because fate must happen; history must remember, one way or another.’

‘Oh good, that makes everything clear to me now.’ Scout’s stock hit the bars again, and then again. ‘We’re fugitives now. Half the City’s JAG are out there gunning for us. We’ve got two dozen corpses in the doorway, and you’re telling me you planned this? Oh, I’m gonna wake up real soon.’

Scout levered the magazines from several of the AK’s on the pile, then took a shiny new one from the top. He levered the bolt back and let it go. He slid it across the floor to Kat.

‘Point it that way, along with your sense of humour. I don’t know which of them will do more damage.’ You’re all insane. He needed a change of view. ‘Hey, Stalker,’ he said, ‘I have a question.’ Do you ever blink? ‘Who’s the patient, really? The truth now, I won’t be around much longer to tell anyone different.’

‘He is the Prince of Thorns,’ Wyatt’s voice melancholy, ‘you and your kind being the thorns.’

‘He’s a clone,’ said Scout.

Wyatt gave a slow shake of the head. ‘No, the body without the consciousness is just a copy. He’ll remember everything when his strength fully returns.’

‘He’ll have a lot to catch up on, if his strength returns.’ Was that a smile? ‘And the glowing eyes, what was that? He looks good for a copy with a flaw.’

‘I’ve taken measures to ensure His survival. And that He’ll understand everything that has passed since your kind crucified Him.’

‘Not me, I wasn’t there,’ Scout pointed accusingly, ‘and you let it happen, remember.’ Silence. ‘So they really nailed him to a cross? And you did nothing.’

‘It wasn’t my decision. Father, He could have stopped them.’

‘But He didn’t, did He? The Prince of Thorns was sacrificed. No, sorry, He sacrificed himself. I’m a bit sketchy on the finer points. And what exactly was the point? I mean, nothing changed afterwards. According to Prosper’s computer, things actually got worse.’ Was that a growl? ‘

‘Those that came after Him, they focused too much on the man; not enough on His words. Some called him Jesus, others the Messiah. I thought He was a fool.’

‘You think peace and humanity are ideals for fools?’

‘They’re nice sentiments, but they come with a price.’ He broke eye contact with the courtyard. ‘Let me tell you what Humanity is. It’s an Ideal, nothing more. It has less substance than a handshake. Humanity is a stage-light that burns with such intensity that it blinds the crowd. It shies away. To do harm and to think badly is far easier than looking for enlightenment.’

‘Hey, we’re creatures of habit. Made in His image, right?’

‘He made a mistake. I’ll define Humanity in two words shall I. Why, and Now. Humanity is a self-perpetuating delusion that has exhausted the resources that God allowed. You disappointed Him. You disappoint us all.’

Yeah, well fuck you too.

‘So why are you here? Why bother now? What’s with the solo mission to save what was left of us? Why bring Him back?’

Wyatt looked towards the man. ‘Because I love him,’ he said. ‘And because He loves you. He believes that you are worth saving.’

Stalker was looking cranky, not used to being quizzed.

‘So you waited, what, a couple of thousand years?’

‘I had to wait,’ he said, ‘the others would have stopped me. Besides, you needed a cull; your kind breeds like rabbits.

Mankind was on the verge of spreading its Humanity beyond this world.’ He looked up. ‘Eden is out there. It’s a garden of wonders, not a mine to be plundered for profit.’

‘What’s done is done, I suppose,’ Scout pulled the ragged remains of the curtain away and dusted at the window seat, glass crunching like snails beneath his boots. He sat down. ‘So what now? We sit here and wait for God to shit on everyone outside so we can get out?’

‘No, your kind must take the first step. Show Him that you’re worth saving. We must wait for the others to come, or not.’

What does that even mean? ‘Hey, easy with that thing. Don’t go pissing them off out there. Wyatt? Hey, Wyatt. Shit, what the hell is wrong with you?’

Scout slipped off his seat and backed away from the window, keen to find cover behind the wall.

143

The rocket left the building with the whoosh of a giant firework. A trail of smoke laid down between the building and the gate, before a deafening explosion as the warhead tore a truck in half.

Secondary eruptions as a fuel tank burst into flames and ammunition fizzed and whistled in the intense heat.

Scout turned away as another whoosh set his teeth on edge. His head barely steadied from the explosive that tore the cage from the wall. Poor bastards. Another explosion, men screaming. Small arms crackled their feeble response.

They’ll come now, all out and bitching for blood

The gunfire intensified. Metal arching through the openings that pinged off every surface. An orgy of gunfire from Troopers angry for revenge. Scout crawled on all fours toward the cage.

‘Hey, you okay?’ he shouted.

Kat nodded, and gave a smile of resignation. She sat against the wall with bodies piled to her left. Her face greyed by gunpowder and dust, smudged by tears, a pistol in her hand. Four rifles and a clutch of magazines at her feet.

‘They’ll come,’ he said, ‘hard and fast. They’ll try to overrun us.’

Another whoosh as the final rocket roared away and whistled across the yard, barely enough time to make the sound. It erupted into the fountain and tore it apart. The unknown effigy ripped into thousands of tiny carvings that terrorised the open space, and the Troopers crossing. A sucker punch that dropped every man in the courtyard, but it didn’t stop more coming. Nor the intense barrage of bullets that tore at the walls.

Scout opened fire, semi-auto mode. The recoil lifted the barrel after each ejection, three or four bullets with each discharge. Men fell. He didn’t know who they were, he didn’t give a damn. It was them or us, and he didn’t intend it to be the latter.

Kat opened fire through the cage. The dead men walled around her stirred and jolted to the impact of hostile fire.

Wyatt, an M16 in each hand, unleashed a hail of bullets through his window. Both barrels glowed as he sprayed the courtyard, shooting left and right, hitting one target, then finding the next. A dozen empty clips at his feet.

Outside the JAG kept coming. Men unable to find cover tried to storm the walls. The lucky few found protection and gave covering fire, as much as they could. Still they came.

Inside the walls the bullet casings fell; strewn across the ground, as empty magazines fell underfoot. They were running low. Pretty soon it would come down to single shots from his Glock. Maybe even using his bare hands.

It was then that the space he fought in changed violently. Part of the wall imploded and collapsed. The shockwave threw debris in all directions.

144

Yuri’s home shook from the impact as window number two erupted in a ball of flame. Ancient stonework melted from the heat, and the blast disseminated super-heated dust across the hall. The air burnt at Scout’s lungs and filled the space with airborne grit.

Scout picked himself up. His ears rang with a familiarly explosive tune as he stumbled over to Kat.

‘Door,’ he couldn’t breathe, ‘cover, the door,’ he pointed.

Scout couldn’t see the door, or Kat. Where is she? He had to gather his senses. Gunshots from behind, they meant Wyatt was still alive as he clicked his penultimate magazine into the Kalashnikov. Gunfire enveloped the hall as Troopers fired through the doorway. They keep coming inside. Must, stop them. There were too many as he fired into the breach, barely hearing the sounds. Another empty magazine clattered to the ground, his last one clipped in. Single shots fired at anything that moved. The AK was out. Fuck, fuck you. He pulled the Glock; shot 9mil slugs into the dust. Not enough firepower, they just kept coming. Three more shots and it was hand to hand, one at the man climbing over, a second at a shape in the dust by the hole.

He saw Kat, firing her Beretta. Flashes from its muzzle and then nothing. She threw the handgun into the hole, then fell back into her corner, knees pulled tight up to her chest. Tears streaming down her cheeks. She tried hard to make herself small.

One shot left. Movement at the hole. He’d seen what they did to Prosper; how they’d tortured an old man. They’d want retribution against the Heretics. They’d defile Kat and then they’d torture her. He wasn’t going to let that happen. He turned the Glock from the hole, toward Kat. A head shot; quick and painless. Scout squeezed down on the trigger.

145

He flinched hard before the shot could be fired. A heavy rasping sound from behind, he could feel the rush of firepower pass by. It sent an awful thrill throughout his body.

Two-seconds of whirring repetition and then a moment of calm. Again the Gatling gun revolved and discharged. A hundred rounds a second flashed from six barrels and carved through everything in their path.

Wyatt stepped into the opening and strafed the courtyard. Car panels popped and clunked; tyres exploded. Upstairs windows were blown into oblivion as Wyatt moved across the yard. His death-machine decimated brickwork and blocks. There was no shelter, no cover, behind which the bullets couldn’t find you. He turned the weapon toward the gateway. Sent a shit-storm of bullets to tear up the tarmac and anyone in the way. He moved from the gateway and then fired on the JAG trucks up the road; a tirade of malicious metal smashing against anything in their way.

The barrels whirred and clicked, whined with the need for feeding, but the belt was empty. Nothing stirred in the courtyard. No-one dared lift their head outside. Wyatt backed away toward the building.

‘Hey, Kat . . . Hey, are you okay? Kat, talk to me!’ She was numb as he reached for her. Scout pulled the girl, trembling, into his arms. Or was it him who trembled? He wasn’t sure. She scrambled out and hugged him tight. Blessed were the Saints that picked Stalker to be on their side.

Wyatt turned back toward the hole. Another belt loaded, the weapon slung over his shoulder. He was cut and bruised, his face stained with blood. He’d unleashed a maelstrom of death and hatred on the non-believers. A hailstone of bullets that had kept the JAG at bay, at least for now, but Scout was certain they’d be back.

146

A strange silence had ensued after Wyatt’s attack. A chance to take stock, and to reassess.

Why won’t this damn knot undo?

‘Shall I do it for you?’ Kat asked.

‘No,’ Scout warded Kat’s hand away, ‘I can manage.’

‘I’ll just bleed to death in the meantime then, shall I?’

‘You’re such a Drama-Queen.’ She was poking fun, he knew that. There it was done. He eased her shirt gingerly from the wound. ‘How about that? Might leave a bit of a scar, but the black bits will heal.’

‘A bit of a scar, can you see it?’

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘I’ve had periods worse than this.’

Somehow he doubted that, but it was good to see her humour return. Kat was full of bravado, but she couldn’t hide the fear. The past hour had taken its toll, mentally and physically. Poor cow, he knew exactly how she felt. Well, almost, apart from the hole in her side. That much he conceded probably hurt more.

With a gentle finger he teased Kat’s hair from her face, then dabbed gently with a cloth he’d doused with water.

‘When this is all over . . . I’ll buy you some new hair.’

‘I’d prefer you fished the one you lost out of that river.’

‘Sure, I’ll get the car out whilst I’m at it.’

Is that a smile? It was difficult to tell with so much crap all over her face. Yeah, that’s definitely a smile.

‘Think you can watch the yard for a minute?’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Good,’ he handed her a rifle he’d scavenged. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said.

‘How is he?’ Scout asked Yuri. He was checking his patient’s pulse.

‘Slipping in and out of consciousness, but his heart beats strongly now, thank God. Scout, we have to get him out of here.’

‘Tell him that.’ Wyatt, stood sentinel at the only window not reduced to a gaping hole. ‘He’s waiting for someone, or something to happen. You do know that?’

Yuri shook his head. ‘I didn’t understand when he said we had to wait. I didn’t think it would be like this, or that Katerina would be here.’

‘Yeah, well, he got that wrong. What else does he have wrong.’

‘No, we must trust in Wyatt,’ Yuri said.

‘We don’t seem to have a choice. Listen, Yuri,’ Scout was whispering. ‘Is He really who you think He is? It’s all a bit, well, fantastical.’

‘Miracles usually are, and yes, this man is the Messiah.’

There was that word again. He didn’t like it much. It made everyone a target.

‘Let’s say a Prophet, but he’s only a copy, right?’

Yuri smiled. He slowly shook his head.

‘How can you be so sure?’

He got his answer as Yuri’s patient took his arm. ‘Faith,’ the Prophet said.

If he doubted before, he didn’t now as every hair on his body stood rigid to attention and a wave of goosebumps flushed his skin.

‘You must not move, Lord.’ Yuri gently took his patient’s hand from Scout. ‘You must drink as much of the fluid as you can.’ He checked his patient’s pulse again. ‘Wyatt will get us out.’

‘Wyatt is searching for redemption,’ the Prophet said.

‘He acts out of love, Lord. He will find a path.’

‘He knows his path has come to an end. He has faith that ours is about to begin.’ The Prophet looked toward the doorway. ‘Yuri, this is not how I wanted to return.’

‘Yeah, well, welcome to the real world,’ Scout interrupted. ‘It’s often a bloody birth. I don’t suppose you know what’s he waiting for?’

‘The beginning,’ the Prophet replied, ‘or perhaps the end. Yuri, this is wrong. You must tell Wyatt to end this.’

‘He will not listen to me, nor you. To stop now he would have to admit this has all been for nothing. Rest, Lord. Whatever has happened, your hands are not soiled.’

‘Of course they are, Yuri. Lives have been taken, in my name.’

‘The last two thousand years is littered with them,’ said Scout. ‘I think Wyatt is trying to give you a clean slate.’ It suddenly made sense. ‘He’s doing for you, what you did for us. Frankly, I’m not sure we’re worth it.’

‘You sound like my Father; He was wrong.’ Yuri’s Prophet spoke with a calm authority, edged with frustration.

He didn’t look like a threat. A handsome man with blue eyes and long brown hair. His face youthful, but experienced. Scout supposed that he’d packed a lot of living into a short life. He started talking again.

‘Please, stop Wyatt.’ He pointed to the doorway. ‘My life . . .’ He had to catch His breath, ‘is not worth more, than theirs . . .’

‘You must rest, Lord. Scout, we must find somewhere safe.’

‘This has, to stop. Yuri . . .’ he slumped back into sleep.

‘Whatever happens,’ Yuri whispered, ‘I won’t let them take him.’ Yuri opened his hand. In his palm a grenade.

For fuck’s sake. Scout stood. There has to be a way out of this.

147

‘Why have your men retreated?’ Liam was incensed. ‘Order them back inside.’ This man was disobeying a direct order. ‘Send them back. I want this finished,’ he demanded.

‘I’ve lost half my men already,’ the Commander argued. ‘They have a clear field of fire. It’s a killing field.’

‘Their ammunition is finite,’ Liam replied.

‘My men are not.’

Why does he delay. He must send them back. ‘Let me remind you, Commander, that I speak for Patron himself.’ Yes, cast your insolent eyes to the ground. You should bow your head.

The bodies on the road were still being removed. Three of their vehicles were burnt out, and still smouldered. A wheel lay on its side fifty yards from the axle that threw it. The air was thick with the smell of burnt oil.

‘No, I’m not sending my men out there until we have proper support. I’ve called for more men and heavy weapons.’

‘It will take too long. They’ll find a way out.’

‘There is no way out, sir. We wait.’

He motioned toward the JAG who helped the wounded. Men who carried their comrades toward medics stationed half a block’s distance away for safety. The dead littered the ground inside the courtyard.

‘I’m giving you a direct order to re-commence the assault.’ Liam tried to be calm.

‘The Commander is waiting for reinforcements.’ Sunglasses seemed to back the Commander’s decision. ‘The garrison at the castle has been advised of the situation. Three hundred Troopers are on their way. Thirty minutes and you’ll have an overwhelming numbers for the assault.’

‘No, not soon enough,’ Give these Heretics time, and they will escape. Why are you looking at me like that? ‘You’re frightened, is that it?’ he asked. ‘There are no more than five Heretics inside. Five!’

‘And for now they have superior fire-power,’ Sunglasses seemed adamant.

Cowards, you’re all cowards. It was the only possible reason for their refusal. The box is in there. That man. He made a fool of me. Just forty yards away. ‘It was a mistake,’ he said aloud.

Why did I let him live all those years ago?

‘Thirty minutes?’ Liam asked.

‘No more, sir,’ Hirsten answered. ‘That’s all I need. Just give me thirty minutes, and I’ll take the building.’

‘Thirty minutes for what?’ a voice asked, and drew both Sunglasses and Hirsten’s attention from Liam. ‘Thirty minutes for what?’ it repeated.

Liam recognised the woman’s voice. Isabella? This was unexpected. What’s she doing here?

By the way they looked at each other, Sunglasses and Hirsten were just as surprised.

‘Until more Troopers arrive, Madam,’ the Commander replied, ‘we intend to withhold our assault until our numbers are bolstered.’ He bowed his head with respect, as did Sunglasses.

My Master’s bitch arrives and you show her reverence? You bow to her, but not to me? Liam felt rage. He turned. ‘May I ask why you’re here?’ It was difficult to suppress his anger.

‘I’ve been sent to assess the level of damage you’ve caused, little Troll.’

Sunglasses and Hirsten shared an uncomfortable glance. Both men stepped back. Both keen to concede authority, and responsibility. Liam’s anger raised at the insult.

* * *

Isabella had caught Liam off-guard. She had to keep him off-balance. Appearance was everything if her plan was to work. She had to take control of the situation. Reinforce the officer’s belief that Liam had overstepped his jurisdiction. Make him, and them, accept her authority.

‘How many casualties?’ she asked.

‘Forty,’ Hirsten answered. ‘We estimate twenty-three dead.’ He made eye contact for the first time with Liam. ‘We were ordered to make frontal assaults.’

‘Casualties are acceptable.’ Liam was angry. ‘Inevitable in the war against Heretics,’ he stepped toward Isabella, took her gaze, dared her to disagree.

‘Those are my men being carried away, Madam. I’ve called for more men, and heavier ordinance. Thirty minutes, less now.’

‘You’ll stand your men down, Commander. I’m taking charge here. I have Patron’s authority to end this calamity. Frankly, it’s become an embarrassment, both to him, and the Assembly of Primes.’

‘No, I don’t believe you. If you’re here to replace me, you’ll have a signed order from Patron. Show it to me. I didn’t think so. Commander, you will follow my initial instructions. Continue the assault. Your obedience is not to her, it is to me. I speak for your Patron.’

‘And you, little man, will stand down,’ she said. It was critical to all who observed that she showed confidence in both her words and actions. Start by belittling him. Get both the Spatzno and JAG on side. By the looks of the carnage it wouldn’t be too difficult.

‘Escort this woman away, Commander. She has no authority here.’ Why don’t you obey? ‘Do as I say,’ he ordered.

‘You both know who I am?’ Isabella asked.

She knew full well that they did. What they probably didn’t know was what, if any, her official standing was. This was the big test. Both men knew she was close to Patron. That she had his ear, and his trust. The question was, would they concede to her authority, over Liam’s? Patron’s pet executioner.

‘For the record, I have come directly from Patron. I’m here to appraise the situation, and to bring it to an end.’ She glared at Liam. Then turned her attention to Sunglasses. ‘This situation is delicate; it should have been handled discreetly, but by tomorrow morning it will be common gossip throughout the city. I assure you that an inquest will be held, with fine detail observed toward the reckless nature of al your actions. It will doubtless look to attribute blame for the loss of so many fine young men.’

Liam was incensed. What are you up to? ‘Why are you really here?’ he asked, ‘Patron gave me explicit instruction I am to handle the situation as I see fit. The ends will justify the means.’

Isabella waved a hand and a dozen armed men came forward. Every one of them wore a black shirt; hand picked for their loyalty to her.

‘You are relieved, Commander. And I will make sure that no blame is attached to you, or to your men.’

‘Yes, madam,’ he bowed his head. ‘Thank you.’

This was actually working. She saw relief in his eyes. Liam was restrained, confused, at least for now. But she had to put the second part of her hasty plan into operation. For that she needed the full cooperation of Sunglasses. She beckoned him with an almost nonchalant finger and stepped out of earshot from the others.

‘The Assembly will scream bloody-murder for this. You’ll probably have half a dozen Legate Primes crawling up your backside by tomorrow.’ She took pause, feigning consideration over the situation. ‘I’m going over there to talk to them.’

‘Madam?’

‘I’m going to promise them whatever they want, if they’ll come out. If they do, I want you and three of your men to arrest them. My men will provide a guard whilst we get them, out of sight. After that your men will conduct them to a more private facility. The important thing is that we get this resolved, as quickly as we can.’

‘I understand, but, I have to protest. They could take you hostage.’

She smiled. ‘If that should happen, your orders are to continue the assault when the Commander is ready.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll have failed, and you have your orders.’

He nodded a reluctant agreement and stepped back. Isabella took a slow and very deep breath.

148

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil. Kat watched as the others rallied. For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Was it really Him, the King of kings sat by the wall? Did the Entity really stand in defiance of the Commission? Lord, help them. If this is how it ends, stop it. She pulled the rifle tight to her breast. And him, Lord, the idiot, this isn’t his fight. Yet without him, we wouldn’t . . . Help him, please. Don’t let it end like this. I’ll be a better person, I swear.

Kat reached for a piece of glass. It was amazing that such a large piece had survived. The size of her hand as she held it in front of her face. A little higher to catch the light; to see her image reflected back. All those times, I stared at this face. This time she was certain, it was her, Katerina. This is bullshit. Kat dropped the glass. I want to go home. She didn’t want to look at herself, nor any of this. It was shit, disgusting, just like the wall of bodies she hid behind. And that face, sandwiched in the pile. It cussed at her from the long limbed sandbags, all fallen atop of one another. Using her rifle for leverage Kat lifted herself.

Oh God, fuck you, Wyatt!

The home made cauterisation kit, she’d forgotten. She’d never felt so much pain. Lord, you prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you have anointed my head with oil; Ow, ow, fuck . . . My cup overflows!

‘Scout?’ she called. ‘Scout?’

‘Hey, it’s all right, I’m here.’

She felt his hands take hers. ‘They’re all dead, she said. I want to go home.’

‘Shhh, you’re in shock. You need to sit down.’

‘No, I want to go.’

‘You need to sit back down.’

‘With them? No, he won’t stop staring at me.’ She wanted to poke the cadaver’s eyes out. Stop him staring. ‘Have you seen what we’ve done?’ she asked. ‘Look at them, they’re all younger me.’

He offered no response. Why should he; what was there to say? Kat leaned against the idiot, her face pressed against his shoulder. She wanted, no, needed someone to hold her. Come on. Did she have to ask him out loud? Hold me. Was she so covered in blood and shit that he didn’t want to touch her? Please, God, make him hold me.

It was wonderful. Gentle at first, a bit cautious and unsure. Then both his arms slid tightly about her. Drew her in, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. For God’s sake, hold me tighter. Tighter!

Tears followed, silent and steady. She wasn’t going to make a fuss; just let them go. Chuck them out there for anyone to see; not for herself, but for them. These strangers who’s lives they’d ended. That she’d brought to such a violent and young demise. Who else would mourn them?

No, she was lying to herself, this was nice. It felt good to be held by this man. But now she wanted him to let go. Get off. It was difficult to breathe. Get off me. She grabbed his jacket and pushed him away. ‘Let go of me.’

She still held his jacket clenched in her hands. She didn’t like the way he gazed into her eyes, not like that.

Let go. She did. Both hands free and reaching for his face.‘I don’t want to die here,’ she whispered. ‘Not like this,’ Kat pulled him close; she kissed him, and then again. ‘It’s time, for one of your stupid ideas. Get us out of here.’ She kissed him again. Let her lips linger on his.

No doubting it now, she was definitely in shock. Kat pulled the rifle up between them.

149

Was that a pep talk, or a proposal? Scout wasn’t sure. And why did she look like she wanted to slap him? Still, if he came up with a really good plan that saved them; she might be grateful.

Nope, I got nothing. We’re all going to die.

She looked angry as he backed away. Moved off low to hunker down next to Wyatt. He didn’t have to look at her to know she was still throwing daggers.

‘You think they’ve lost enough men to want to talk?’ he asked Wyatt.

‘If you think it would help.’ Wyatt invited him to leave through the hole.

Forty yards of open ground out there; a lot of itchy triggers. Maybe not such a good idea. ‘You okay?’ he asked. Wyatt didn’t look so good.

‘Want me to take a look?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Wyatt replied.

‘I don’t think so.’ Blood dripped from the big man’s cuff. The round neck of the jumper he wore was thick with crimson grit. And there was a bloody stain around his midriff.

‘Let Yuri take a look, check you over.’

‘A kiss might help,’ he said.

‘A what?’

‘Like the one she just gave you,’ Wyatt grinned.

He wasn’t even getting a hug.

Scout risked a look outside. All quiet. He looked back at Kat, sat in her bunker. Wyatt, their biggest asset, he was leaking like a sieve. What little ammo they’d scavenged from the dead was almost gone. He doubted they’re ability to repel another assault.

‘Heads up,’ he said. ‘Something’s happening outside.’

As he watched, what he saw, made him doubt his own sanity.

150

‘Is that a football?’ he asked.

A small leather ball bounced across the tarmac. It hit the gate post and rolled inside the courtyard. Outside more uniforms rushed to take positions behind the burnt-out vehicles.

‘Shit, no way.’ A small child ran into the courtyard to retrieve his ball. ‘Hey, kid, get out of here.’

The child picked up the ball. He stood in his shorts, and boots that looked to big for his feet, and studied the carnage around him. Then he stared through the hole at Scout, and smiled. Two more children came laughing through the gate.

‘What the fuck is going on? We have to get them away of here.’

‘No,’ Wyatt replied.

‘No?’ Scout leant out of the hole. ‘You want them to get hurt.’

‘They have come. It’s time for you to leave,’

‘Leave? Right, got it. We play football and blend in with the kids? You first.’

No answer.

‘You can’t be serious. These kids are who you’ve been waiting for?’

‘Hoping for,’ Wyatt said, ‘not quite the same. Sometimes we all need to have faith.’

Within a minute the road was a playground. Kids, seemingly oblivious to the guns. Scout watched as the ball rolled up to the the wall. The freckled infant first through the gate ran over to pick it up. He stood ball in hand and smiled again.

‘Kid, you need to go. Wyatt, whatever you’re planning, not with them. Make them go away.’ Oh shit. Wyatt was on his knees, head down, then falling to his side. ‘Yuri,’ fuck, ‘Wyatt’s down.’ His shirt bloodied, guns fallen from his hands. ‘Yuri, do something.’

Yuri left his patient, scrambling across the rubble to Wyatt’s side. Practised hands checking below, then ripping the jumper away. The body below impressive; but covered in blood. A solid mass of muscle with three holes, two in the chest and one in the abdomen.

‘Do something or he’s gonna bleed out.’

Yuri emptied his bag onto the floor and picked through what came out. He grabbed up several dressings and tore open the wrappers. ‘This isn’t possible,’ he said. ‘Wyatt, is Entity.’

‘He’ll be a dead Entity if you don’t stop the bleeding.’

Yuri took Scout’s hand. ‘Put pressure here,’ he said. The stomach dressing already bloodied. ‘How is this possible? This isn’t possible,’ he kept shaking his head. ‘He is Wyatt. He is Entity.’ Another dressing was pressed onto Wyatt’s chest. ‘Put your other hand, here.’

‘Can you hear that?’ Children’s laughter in the courtyard. ‘Yuri, there’s kids outside.’

‘They’ve come,’ said Wyatt.

‘Yes, they’ve come.’ The Prince of Thorns moved Scout aside and took Wyatt’s hand. ‘I should be angry,’ he said. ‘This is not how Father wanted it to be. This is not the way I wanted to return.’

‘Father, didn’t want you to return.’ Wyatt was feeling the pain. ‘I thought, you could change His mind.’

‘He will be angry at you.’

‘Father is always angry with me.’ Wyatt raised a smile. ‘Besides, Father’s not here, you are. Your Second Coming, just as the prophecy foretold.’

Yuri pulled the lint from below Scout’s hand. He pushed another dressing onto the stomach wound. ‘He needs surgery,’ he said, ‘I can’t stop the bleeding like this.’ He looked scared. ‘How is this possible? Wyatt, is Entity?’

‘Yuri, I got that the first dozen times.’

‘You don’t understand, he can’t be hurt like this.’ Yuri ripped another dressing from its packaging and put both his hands on top of the wound. ‘Lord, I don’t understand. Why aren’t his wounds healing? Lord, I . . . You’re recovered. How? What’s happened?’

Scout was as keen to know. Wyatt was bleeding to death, to Yuri’s utter amazement. Yet no-one was unduly surprised by the children who played in the courtyard.

‘Lord, help him,’ Yuri pleaded.

‘I cannot,’ he said, his face pained. ‘It was a foolish thing to do, Wyatt.’

‘Glowing eyes,’ said Scout, remembering. ‘You did something. Gave Him something. Did you give Him . . .’

‘My life? Yes, because His is worth so much more.’

‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

‘You’re their last hope, Lord. The other Entity have gone, there is no-one else. It’s up to you; one last chance to save them.’

‘But you’ve hurt people to make this happen. That was wrong.’

‘Your hands are clean, Lord. I did what had to be done.’

‘What you did was end our world,’ said Scout.

‘Yes, because I agreed with Father. You have to be controlled, checked, but not genocide. God was wrong to order us to put you down.’ A chesty cough brought up more blood that he spat out.

‘So the end, it justifies the means?’ Scout took a look at both patients; one given a chance at life, the other’s life almost gone. Scout grabbed the Prince of Thorns and pulled Him to the window.

‘Scout, no. Take your hands off Him.’ Yuri tried to stand. Wyatt held him down.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I think Scout has begun to understand.’

Maybe he had, though it didn’t feel like it. Manhandling the son of God seemed to help. ‘Those kids out there,’ he said, ‘they’re here for you. They’re just kids? Kat, get up, we’re leaving.’ He stumbled across the rubble and grabbed her arm, Lifting Kat to her feet. It was too late to stop whatever Wyatt had planned. ‘Something’s going to happen. We need to be ready when it does.’

The man in the scrubs watched the children outside. ‘What have you done?’ he asked Wyatt.

‘I made an executive decision,’ Wyatt replied. ‘One more chance for Man, another chance for you.’ He reached for the Prince’s hand. ‘It’s just you and them now. Show them there’s a better way.’ A wry grin swiftly broken by pain. ‘I’ve always wondered what pain is like.’

‘Shhh, be calm. You shouldn’t have done this.’ Yuri’s patient put his hands on Wyatt’s chest. ‘My life is not worth yours,’ he said.

‘Bullshit. Yours is worth a hundred of mine. It’s worth all of theirs.’ More chesty spasms ended in a grimace of pain. Wyatt grabbed the Prophet’s arm. ‘He won’t come back for them, but He will for you. A Father will not desert His Son.’ The effort was too much. ‘Show them,’ he said. ‘Teach them the real meaning of Humanity. Prove to Father that He can be wrong.’ Wyatt’s head dropped. The one known as Entity struggled for breath. ‘I made, a good bargain,’ he whispered. ‘The life of one disobedient Angel, in exchange for the true Son of God.’ His head slumped.

Yuri took his hand, held his wrist.

‘The Entity is gone,’ he said in disbelief. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone,’ Shit, now we’re fucked. ‘We need to know his plan,’ said Scout. ‘It’s something slick, clever, and fast. And it involves those kids out there?’

‘What about the adults?’ Kat asked.

‘Adults? What adults?’ As tough as it was to see the Entity lying there like that, outside resembled a school playground.

And they were all going to end up dead if he didn’t work this out, fast.

151

‘Tell your men to advance,’ Liam ordered. ‘Do it now, Commander, or I’ll have you arrested.’

‘There are women and children in the way. It would be a bloodbath.’

‘All Heretics are expendable,’ no compassion in Liam’s voice.

‘No, sir, I can’t agree.’

‘Nor should you,’ Isabella added, though she was still trying to make sense of the situation. Where had these kids come from? It seemed their parents were arriving too. This was fast turning into a kindergarten. Think quickly. Turn this to our advantage. ‘The Assembly will not condone the death of so many citizens,’ she said. ‘Commander, order your men back a hundred yards. ’

‘No,’ Liam barked. ‘This is a trick, don’t you see? It’s a diversion to help Heretics escape. Send your Troopers to finish this. That’s an order!’

‘Stand your men down, for now. Wait for reinforcements.’

‘Why are you here, really? What do you have to gain from interfering?’

‘Think this through, Commander. Do you think your Patron wants a blood-bath? Woman and children? This, man has overreached himself. Order the withdrawal.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ Hirsten was about to act.

‘Wait,’ Liam ordered, his voice calm. ‘You’re a part of this, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘There’s no other explanation for your treason.’ Liam drew his side-arm.

‘Sir, I must protest. Lower your gun.’

Liam turned the weapon toward Hirsten. ‘You too, Commander; are you a Heretic? Sent here to delay me?’

‘My men are dead because we didn’t delay,’ he replied. ‘Lower your weapon.’

‘You,’ Liam called to the nearest Troopers, ‘come here,’ he ordered. They looked confused. More on edge than before the battle. ‘One last time, Commander, or I will have you replaced. Arrest this woman,’ he turned the pistol back on Isabella and slowly circled behind her. ‘You, who’s been at Patron’s side for so long,’ he whispered. ‘When did they turn you?’

Isabella felt the chill of a killer’s breath on her neck. All eyes on her. Numerous Troopers had moved to their Commander’s side. Now was not the time for fear. There was too much at stake. No time to delay.

‘You’re mad,’ she replied, and managed to fake a smile. ‘Patron’s Troll,’ her title dismissive. ‘The sociopath who lives downstairs in the cellar. I wonder, does he ever invite you up for tea? Are you even allowed to pass the cellar door? No? I wonder, why would that be? Let me tell you why; you Patron is ashamed of you?’

‘Keep talking, Witch. You amuse me.’

‘I know your secret, little Troll. Doesn’t daddy want the others to know?’

‘We should stand down,’ Hirsten suggested; an uncomfortable glance toward Sunglasses for support.

‘That’s right, isn’t it? He told me. Bet he didn’t tell you where he found me?’

‘In a Viper’s hole, no doubt.’

‘I’m his, you do know that. Patron and I, we’re joined, if you know what I mean. He didn’t tell you that either?’

‘You lie, like all fucking Heretics. Patron is pure. He’s the vessel of the Saints.’

‘No, he’s a man. A real man, not like you, little Troll. What we have, he gives to me, sometimes twice a night.’ Liam’s breath had shortened. She could hear the anger breathing in and out from his lungs. ‘Did he tell you what’s in there?’ She turned to face him. ‘He told me. Really, you thought you were the only one he confides in. Your world is very small, little man. Whilst ours,’ she sighed, ‘is about to become so much larger.’ Much more and she felt she might faint. Would he back down, or shoot her? ‘You’ll be packed off back to your cellar, where you’ll wait until one of us calls for your services.’ Now, do it now whilst he’s confused. ‘Give the order to withdraw, Commander.’

‘No!’ Liam barked. ‘This ends now.’ He lifted his pistol and cocked back the hammer. ‘You fucking Heretic whore.’

A single shot rang out.

152

This isn’t how it is supposed to end. My work, it’s too important. Patron, father, you promised. Just you and me; that nothing would stand in our way. “All Heretics are to be purified.” The Saints had promised Liam long-life; their protection, they’d visited so many times in his dreams. You promised.

No hiss or whisper of reply for Liam. Even the light was faded. Nothing left but tiny snapshots of brightness. Micro-bursts of light that flashed before his eyes. This was wrong, and on so many levels.

Sunglasses’ bullet had slammed into his head; twisted him badly at impact. Sent him reeling to the ground. All sense and sensibility was shut down. Liam sank now into dark water. Glimmers of his previous life passing-by like bubbles.

* * *

A lot of mouths had opened but no-one dared to speak, all eyes were on Isabella. No doubting who’s hand held the smoking gun, as she wiped Liam’s blood from her hands. Grateful it wasn’t her own.

‘Order, your men, from the road,’ she said. ‘A hundred yards back. Now, Commander.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ he pulled a whistle from his pocket and puffed a loud shrill. ‘Fall back,’ the order re-enforced by a firm wave of his arm. ‘Make a perimeter at the next junction.’

Troopers moved uneasily from their positions. Confusion and relief in the ranks as they climbed down from the trucks. Heads lifted from behind walls. Momentum began in earnest as most seemed keen to move on from the firing-line Sunglasses stepped forward and offered Isabella a handkerchief.

‘You have blood on your face,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

‘It will be interesting to hear Patron’s thoughts on what just happened.’

‘Risking the lives of women and children was unacceptable. Patron’s position with the Commission is difficult enough without a massacre.’ Isabella wasn’t sure her heart could beat any quicker. What was Sunglasses thinking behind those shades; fight, or flight? She held out her pistol to him. ‘I expect you’ll be relieved to say you were taking orders, and not having to give them,’ she said. ‘I’m going across to talk to them.’

‘You think they’ll surrender now?’ He looked doubtful.

‘Let’s test their resolve. They’ll be frightened, they’ll have wounded. I’ll have to make promises, which I’m sure you’ll enjoy breaking for me.’ She offered him the handgun again, with impatience this time.

Sunglasses took the weapon. ‘Of course, Madam,’ he said, bowing his head. He stepped back and offered her direction toward the courtyard with his hand.

The urge to take a deep and gasping breath. Don’t let him see. Just to sit down and take stock. Go, Isabella. Could he see her hands trembling?

‘Make sure that thing is removed from the pavement before I return.’

153

‘Something’s happening out there.’ Scout crawled across the rubbles to see better. ‘Looks like they’re pulling out. Did we win?’

A truck drove into view. An old troop carrier, its rear exposed. The canvas cover only half draped across the bars. The high cab turned into the gateway and lumbered over the masonry on the ground. The driver exited the cab quickly towards the road.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Kat.

‘No idea,’ Scout answered. ‘Just be ready for whatever comes next.’ What would come next? Is this what Wyatt was waiting for? Kids sat seemingly oblivious to the devastation outside. Their mothers were quietly moving amongst the dead and praying.

Kat limped past the cage to the wall, weapon pointed at an approaching figure. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ A woman stopped outside the hole. ‘Hands up, don’t come any closer?’ Kat insisted. ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend,’ the woman answered.

‘Oh, I doubt that.’

‘Then you should have more faith. Can I come inside?’

‘No.’

‘Yes,’ Scout eased Kat’s gun down. ‘Isabella, what are you doing here?’

‘Unknown male involved with female terrorist. Imagine my surprise when I learnt the suspect’s name.’

Kat raised her gun again. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Yeah, we’ve met.’

‘Who is she? Who are you? Are these kids yours?’

‘Easy Kat,’ Scout eased the weapon down a second time, ‘I think the cavalry just arrived.’

154

Kat didn’t like her. This tall dark-haired woman; dressed for dinner, not for a gunfight. What the fuck are you looking at? Stood there in those snug trousers, a slight flair at the ankle. ‘Nice blouse,’ she said. ‘Is it silk?’ It shimmered like silk in the breeze. Dear God, your make-up is impeccable.

Kat looked down at her stolen uniform; her green jacket torn in many places. Oh my God. She remembered her reflection in the glass? I should shoot the bitch just for looking nice; looking so beautiful.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Who is she? Someone tell me before I shoot her.’

‘Kat, meet Jorja,’ Scout lowered her gun for a third time. ‘Or should I say, Isabella?’ he checked the courtyard. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he added. ‘What are you doing here? These kids aren’t with you?’ They’d all begun to gather behind her.

‘Am I in shock?’ asked Kat. ‘Are we being invited for dinner at the orphanage?’ She raised the Beretta. ‘And don’t you dare touch my gun again. Who is this woman?’

‘Kat, this is Jorga. She’s my sister.’

‘Your what?’

‘Introductions later, brother,’ Isabella tried to look inside.

‘Can I help you?’ Kat moved to block her view. ‘Your sister?’ It didn’t sound any better the second time. Dear God, she smells lovely.

‘Is He in there?’ Jorga asked. ‘Did it work?’ Her gaze followed Scout’s to the far end of the room. To the blue eyed young-man being helped to His feet by Yuri. She put her hand on her heart. ‘Is it really him?’ she asked. ‘Has He really come back?’

155

It is Him. The reality resembled the image kept secret in her mind for so long. Isabella tried to step inside, but the woman with the gun blocked her. Her every sense screamed that she should barge this girl out of the way. To take His hand and kneel before Him. There wasn’t any time.

‘All of you,’ she said, ‘get on the truck outside.’ Isabella fought her emotions. The urge to help Yuri. ‘Brother, you have to go. All of you, you must leave.’ She watched Yuri help the young-man to the hole in the wall. ‘Scout,’ she whispered, ‘is it . . . Is it really Him?’

‘Yeah, I guess so. Jorga, I . . .’

Isabella shied from his touch. ‘They’re watching us.’ I want to hold you brother, I do ‘If one of the Primes turns up, he’ll countermand my orders. We have to hurry. Listen to me, all of you. Put your weapons on the ground and make your way to the truck.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Kat, do as she says.’

‘No.’

Before Kat could react the freckle-faced child took her weapon gently in his hand. He smiled and offered her his football in exchange.

‘Kat, give him the gun.’

‘I’m not giving a child a gun.’

‘Well, I gave you one.’

‘Is he really your brother? I pity you.’

‘Kat, the gun.’

‘Fine, but I don’t want the ball,’ she scowled.

Isabella turned toward the gate and beckoned the JAG Troopers who stood waiting. She spoke to their leader. ‘Carry the injured man to the truck, with care. He has great value to the Commission.’

‘And the others,’ he asked.

‘Arrest the Trinity scum,’ she said.

He didn’t need asking twice, as rifles were raised. Orders barked.

‘On your knees, terrorist pig!’

‘Hands above your heads!’

‘Scout, what’s happening?’ Kat’s wrists were yanked behind her back and cuffed. She was taken by the arms and half-dragged toward the truck. ‘Scout . . . Scout?!’

‘Tell your girlfriend to get on the truck, or I’ll have her shot.’

Yuri was punched in the face. Kicked as he tried to get up. A rifle butt in his back sent him sprawling.

‘Jorga?’ Scout was cuffed, struck hard, and then pushed to the ground. ‘Jorga?!’

‘Give me a moment,’ she motioned the Trooper to withdraw and moved in close, as if to taunt her prisoner. ‘Help Him,’ she whispered. ‘Keep yourself safe.’

‘You can’t stay here, Jorga. You can’t explain all of this, not without us.’

Isabella wanted to hold him. ‘I’ll join you, soon.’ She dared not smile. It was enough to know he would be safe. That He would be safe. ‘Go, please, or everything we’ve done here will have been for nothing.’

‘What exactly have you done?’ his voice hushed, demanding.

‘We’ve changed the World,’ the words barely spoken as Isabella slapped him. ‘Take him away,’ she said.

‘No, no, wait,’ rough hands pulled Scout to his feet. ‘The box,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you where it is.’ Isabella’s hand raised.

‘What do you know about the box?’

‘That Patron wants it. And you can give it to him. Just let me go.

He says it so they can all hear, why?

‘It’s what you want, isn’t it, the box?’

She motioned the eager Trooper to stay. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘The mural on the wall, there’s a passage behind. Bottom of the stairs, take a right. There’s a secret room. I didn’t know anything about this. They made me go down there. Please, just don’t hurt me.’ His voice raised. ‘The box is down there, I swear. The box, it’s what you want?’

Very clever.

‘You’ll let me go, right?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘This isn’t my fault, it was the freak.’

What are you trying to tell me?

‘He should have done his job properly. All those years ago, when he killed her; when he killed, Chia.’

Chia?

‘Ask him,’ Scout pleaded. The emotion in his voice was genuine. ‘Ask Patron why his pet-freak killed my wife? Go on, ask him.’

Chia?

‘Ask him.’

I don’t understand.

‘Ask him!’

I will. I promise.

‘Put him on the truck,’ she ordered.

‘Yes, Madam,’ the Trooper replied, then struck Scout out of spite. ‘You’ll all pay for what you’ve done here,’ he spat, as he dragged Scout away. ‘Every one of you will pay.’

‘But I told where to find it,’ Scout shouted. He struggled convincingly. ‘I told you. Remember where it was.’

Gently. She yearned to give the order. Be gentle with them.

Scout stumbled across the flat-bed. Angry hands accelerating his fall. He looked frightened, but not for himself. No, she saw anxiety for having to leave his sister behind as he grabbed at the bars of the truck.

My brother, here, is it a sign? The others were all huddled closely by his side. Who’s the girl? The way she takes his arm; wants to be by his side. She’s frightened. Doesn’t know what’s going on. And Yuri. Yuri, Yuri, how fate has smiled on you, yet again?

The truck engine started; a lingering cloud of fumes from its exhaust. She wondered how any of them had come to be in collusion with the dead man who lay inside. The one Yuri called the Entity. The immortal who couldn’t be killed?

As the truck reversed slowly she was fearful to look at Him. That she may somehow betray Him. The young man who sat quietly on the flat-bed, Yuri’s coat wrapped around his shoulders. He would soon be free, that was all that was important, so why did he stare at her like that?

Don’t look at him.

She couldn’t help it. A mere flit of the eye. A simple glance. He held her in His gaze. He looked sad. Or was it shock and confusion? Isabella felt her gut tighten as she realised the Messiah stared at her with disappointment.

Look away, Isabella.

Every act that had led to this moment. All that she and Yuri had done to ensure His safe return. Flashed in stark imagery through her mind; a reel of unpleasant memories from a small child, to the courtyard here and now. She felt a wave of nausea and guilt, and felt she may even faint. Worse still, she wanted to cry.

The contact was lost as the cab turned and the vehicle edged back through the gate.

Breathe Isabella, breathe. The situation has been contained. They are safe now.

The children’s laughter so rapidly exchanged for gunfire; replaced by the rumble of the truck as it backed over the debris into the road. The kids and their parents had already dispersed. Melted away as seamlessly as they had arrived. The small leather ball that had ended the fire-fight lay in the gutter against the kerb.

A few seconds later the truck drove away.

Why wasn’t He pleased?

She stood alone in the eye of the storm. A brief calm that should have brought promise and hope for all of their futures.

Why couldn’t I look Him in the eye?

Troopers were entering the yard.

The box? We have to find the box.

This madness was going to need explaining. Isabella knew exactly who was going to get the blame. The Troll, Liam, who lay face down in his own blood. The others would bear witness to the facts. Liam lost control. Let his emotions run unchecked. He threatened me. Hardly her fault if the captives escaped; they were unimportant now. One more terrorist act to add to the growing Heretical conspiracy.

‘Commander Hirsten,’ she beckoned to him. ‘The prisoner said there are hidden rooms. Find them.’

Goodbye brother. She headed for the building. Her intention was to remain here in the City where she could do most good. Gather support for the struggle she knew would come.

Patron would be overjoyed when she handed him the box. A gift he could never open. Let him bury it. Conceal it deep within the Reliquary. It was of no concern now, the Resurrection was complete. The Messiah had returned. He had a second chance to herald a new beginning.

Last time He’d come, Mankind feared to change. Men were too insecure to take a leap of faith, but not this time. It will be different this time. His voice would be heard above all others. One man will make the difference.

This time we’ll make it work. We will.

Amen!