Provenance I - Flee The Bonds (15 page)

The elderly man had responded with a grand-paternal, almost sad smile. ‘So do I. But those are in case you aren’t. It’s quick and quite painless.’

Penny’s concerns returned to the present. While her eyes scanned for an escape route, her hand smoothed over her leg into a thigh pocket. As a non-combatant, she carried no weapon, but she had a lethal penjector, a crash helmet, and sufficient martial arts skill to incapacitate opponents twice her size. Before her plan could take shape, the Prosecutor spoke again.

‘You work at Barlton hospital, the hospital with the highest medicine spoilage rate in the zone. Do you know why that is?’

‘My priority is the patients.’ Her trainer’s voice was clearer now,
avoid negative responses
,
avoid arguments
.

‘As a Critical Care Executive I would have thought stock control would also be a priority.’ The Prosecutor leaned towards the window, his coat creaking in the shadows. ‘Perhaps we ought to have a look in your ruckall.’

Penny looked down, her gaze locked onto hypnotic eyes, eyes that appeared lit from within. She cleared her mind, shifted her weight and gripped the penjector. A Defender broke her concentration.

‘Sir, we’re receiving flash traffic. Immediate response required.’

The Prosecutor’s eyes dimmed and a thin smile stretched his gaunt face. ‘Good night, Penny. It would appear fate has other plans for you.’

* * * *
 

Later that evening, Penny shivered by the fire and made her report. SIS had unleashed Prosecutors into the Intra Zones.
But why? Are they looking for someone?

20:46 TUE 24:10:2119

FH 1, Black Zone, England, Sector 2

The Whisper climbed silently through the starlit sky, its soporific throb coursing through Steve’s seat.

He’d plotted the route. They’d fly southwest to pick up the first beacon at Southampton, then cross the channel to Cherbourg. Nantes would be the last checkpoint before a bearing of 191 took them out over the Atlantic. One hundred kilometres offshore, they’d switch off the transponder.

Dee’s voice rose above the whining engines, ‘If Morton’s gonna stay with us we need to give him a name.’

‘I already have a name.’

‘Yeah, but not one we’ve given you. Bo?’

‘Tin head.’

‘Yeah right, very imaginative. Boss?’

Steve’s contemplation remained on the padded ceiling, ‘He’s only on a short secondment, let’s stick with Morton.’

Dee hadn’t finished, ‘What about Francois? He’s gonna be around for a while.’

‘I also have a name already.’

‘Yeah, but it’s two syllables. Come on Bo, surprise me.’

‘Frenchy.’

‘I don’t believe you, man.’

‘My name is Francois. That means French. If you do not like it, you can call me sir.’

Steve sighed. ‘That’s enough about names, let’s concentrate on the mission.’

For the next half an hour only the rhythmic purr of the four vortex fans disturbed the silence.

An authoritative voice filled the compartment. ‘Commander to the cockpit.’

The BRD bleeped under Steve’s thumb and the cockpit door slid back. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. Beneath the steeply raked cockpit window, two silhouettes sat in a nebulous of phosphorus green. The Captain’s full-face helmet turned in Steve’s direction, pinpoints of jade reflected off gloss black.

‘Hello, Commander. I would like your permission to carry out a hard drop over the LZ. My number two has an EV next month.’

Steve peered at the slight figure in the first officer’s seat. ‘How many hard drops has he completed?’

‘It’s a she, sir. Lieutenant Davies has successfully executed two previous drops.’

Steve couldn’t resist it, ‘Any unsuccessful ones?’

The response was flat. ‘Obviously not, sir.’

Ahead, the luminosity of civilisation twinkled. ‘That’s fine, Captain.’

‘Thank you, sir. We’re coming in off the Atlantic now and we’ll be above the LZ in six minutes. Descent from twelve thousand metres will take two minutes.’

‘Understood. I’ll make sure everyone’s strapped in.’ Steve turned to leave, but stopped at the sound of a female voice.

‘You’ll find the sick sacks under the seats,
sir
.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

Steve returned to the passenger compartment and gripped the overhead rail. ‘We’re going to hard drop in. It’ll take about two minutes, everyone okay with that?’

Dee looked down the line of upturned faces and grinned. ‘Cos if you ain’t . . . the door’s over there.’

‘Thanks, Dee. Anyway, just in case, the sick bags are under the seats.’

Bo nudged Morton. ‘Can you puke?’

Steve sat and fastened his harness. He was no stranger to hard drops, but they were always better on an empty stomach. He’d known of only one accident, it had killed an entire Quad and three Council members. Their Whisper had punched five metres into the ground. The co-pilot had been training that day as well.

A female voice cut into the silence. ‘One minute to drop.’

Dee slapped his thigh plates. ‘Oh man, tell me she’s not holding the stick.’

Steve leaned with the lateral g-force. It subsided and the female voice returned, ‘Drop in, five, four, three, two, one.’ He clenched his stomach.

‘Drop.’

The sudden jolt pushed Steve’s stomach up against his diaphragm. He expanded his chest to control the adrenalin rush. The vectors had reversed, each of the four engines producing 12,000kg of downward thrust. Vision blurred, the cabin shook violently. Plummeting to the ground at 100 metres per second, the airframe clamoured as it fought to restrain the girder twisting torque. Bin catches rattled, eyeballs bounced behind closed lids. Steve felt lightheaded, nausea heaved. He gripped the armrests when his feet rose.

He counted to one hundred; in another twenty, he’d count no more.

The co-pilot’s shuddering voice mixed with clatter. ‘Coming out, in five, four, three, two, one. Now.’ As the vibration subsided, deep breathing filled the compartment.

Dee belched. ‘Next time, say no.’

Steve released his harness and stood up. ‘Helmets on, visors down and locked. Dee weapons, Morton help Bo with the Styrelam.’ When his gaze met Francois’s he stroked the side of his mouth. In response, Francois wiped the back of his hand over his. Steve suspected this was Francois’s first hard drop, and mission.

The Captain’s voice filled the darkened cabin. ‘Thirty seconds.’

Steve stood beside the door, his finger hovering over the glowing red button. Red turned green, the Captain’s voice chopped in, ‘Down!’

Steve stabbed the button. ‘Go!’

22:56 TUE 24:10:2119

RS 26, Gironde, France, Sector 2

Steve followed a shadow path to the tree line and crouched. Beyond the dead-zone’s barren expanse, security lamps cast down pyramids of light from the top of the fence, their beams forming a line of sharp teeth. The cylindrical concrete towers were as Francois reported, ten metres from the corner. On top of each, a drum like structure held the targeting cameras, motion trackers, and plasma cannons.

A Prefect arrived from the north, gliding in and out of the light. As the hum drew closer, Steve looked up into his helmet, 23:02:32. The yellow shell reached the corner and stopped. Its indicator panel blinked white.
It’s receiving a command.
Coarse bark pressed into Steve’s back and the thump of pumping blood filled his helmet.

The Prefect pivoted and moved off along the eastern fence. Its hum faded into the dark, 23:05:48, the countdown had begun. Steve aligned the Styrelam roll with the fence corner, kicked it out and walked flat-footed across the dead-zone.

It took less than thirty seconds to cut a C-shaped section to the right of the northeast corner post. He crossed the gravelled patrol corridor and began cutting the inner fence.

The Prefect’s hum registered as he cut the last link.

He scrabbled through and sprinted across the fifteen metres of artificial grass to the accommodation block.

With his back to the wall, Steve watched the Prefect glide by, 23:12:26. So far, Francois’s intelligence had been spot on. The Prefect turned and began the return journey. Each time it obscured a lamp, its long shadow smirched the plastic grass. As the hum receded, Steve slipped around the corner and edged towards the road.

Winding his way amongst the buildings, he finally arrived at a football pitch of concrete and the giant doughnut shaped exhaust baffle. Tall lamps lined the concrete apron, reflecting ghost-white off the baffle’s burnished metallic curves. Thirty metres in diameter and three metres high, a ring of hydraulic dampers raised the baffle fifty centimetres above the ground.

At each corner of the apron, a red and white checked building stood sentry, the stubby barrels of their domed turrets aimed at the baffle. The fire suppression battery kept the hyperlon test pad under constant watch.

Steve strode onto the apron. He was in the open, relying on the phase suit. Adrenalin pumped; without any materials to mimic, a concentrated beam of light could refract on the suit. He reached the baffle, crouched in the tube’s shadow, and through a slit in his suit, extracted the two kilogram’s of dummy Tyhdratex.

Lying on his back Steve eased under the tube, attached the explosive, and tensed. Voices resonated off the concrete. He rolled his helmet sideways. Two Defenders ambled into the apron’s luminosity and stopped. Out of sight, someone shouted and one of the Defenders waved.
Terrific.

The wail of siren rose and fell. Steve stared up, the baffle tube’s black underside filled his vision, Francois’s assurance his thoughts. ‘
They only test in daylight, never at night.’
The siren tailed off, the tube pulsed, vibration echoed in his chest. Seconds later, the tube’s pulsating throb accelerated to a screaming roar.

Steve’s body shuddered on a bed of jagged stones. He tilted his helmet. Inside the baffle ring, a glowing firebrick-red tube perforated brilliant white concrete. Hyperlon fuel; a metastable metallic form of hydrogen combined with rods of solid oxygen. First, they’d discovered how to contain it, and then how to ignite it. His helmet bounced on the ground, heat permeated the suit, the phase light blinked.

He swung his head left and right, Hobson’s choice. Scraping his body over coarse concrete, Steve entered the screaming tubular ring and stood in the eye of cyclonic red heat. The tube rising from the concrete radiated a pearlescent hue, cooling to pink where it pierced the baffle. He raised his head, the visor compensating for the eye-piercing brilliance. Exhaust vents atop the baffle, blasted shafts of white flame into the black sky like a crown of enormous roman candles. Vibration numbed Steve’s feet; hot rarefied air stung his face. The helmet became heavy, sweat trickled into stinging eyes. He might need to sit down.

The thunderous roar ceased, a tapering whine reverberated around the baffle. He lifted his thumping head. Cooling tubes creaked and the heavy scent of burnt marmalade gummed the singed air. Behind him a French accent shouted, ‘
Attention!
’

Steve spun around. Yellow and blue flames licked the underside of the baffle tube, while flaming strands of the dummy explosive dripped onto the concrete.

He backed away from the shouts, lay down and belly-crawled over scorching concrete and under plinking metal. Once clear, he ran across the apron to a fire suppression building.

From within the shadows he peered out. A buggy arrived and two men wearing the golden brown uniforms of SCITECH walked towards the Defenders. Steve concluded he had less than ten minutes before they switched the lights on.

In a series of darting runs, he hurried back to the shadowy rear of the accommodation block. He crouched down and rested his back against the wall, barely noticing the chill leaching through his sweat sodden suit liner.

His head jolted up, the Prefect’s screech swallowed every other sound. Light burst all around, voices barked, sirens wailed.

Leaving the Styrelam, Steve raced along the tree line in the direction of the screech, and Bo. Ahead and to the right, a flash splintered amongst the black trees, the forest boomed. After ten minutes, he veered right into the forest, reaching Bo two minutes later.

Steve knelt beside the charcoal suit and sprung his visor. The delicate aroma of moss and sage dissipated, he was back at the farm, frying steak. A short distance away, smoke curled from the shattered carcass of a Prefect. His eye darted.
Where’s the APR?

To his left, torchlight beams danced amongst the trees.

‘
Qui vive
?’

Three Defenders appeared brandishing rifle mounted torches. The Prefect’s ominous hum arrived shortly afterwards. Circles of light fidgeted over Bo’s body, the once immense frame deflated by a scorched hole puncturing his chest cavity. Steve released the blackened visor. Bo’s tortured face arched back, his neck sinews strained rigid, a final desperate attempt to distance the head from the body. A torch beam reflected in Bo’s wide-eyed stare, his bulging eyes opaque, boiled.

Night erased the grotesque death mask as the beams jerked up into the forest.

‘
Repos.
’ The voice was unexpected, but unmistakably Francois’s. He stepped out from behind a tree, his phase suit shimmering under a barrage of torchlight.
One found his face.

‘
Détendez-vous, Je suis Capitaine Thibeauchet.
’
The missing APR dragged on Francois’s right arm.

Steve stood and walked towards him, ‘Why didn’t you bug out?’

Francois placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. ‘I would not leave you.’ He nodded at the smouldering Prefect. ‘I am sorry that I did not arrive sooner.’

‘So am I. Unfortunately we won’t be getting any answers from it now.’

A Defender intruded. ‘
Messieurs
, we go now, the Commandant waits.’

Francois slanted his head towards Bo. ‘You go. I will stay and take care of Dee.’

‘It’s not Dee. It’s Bo. I changed them out. Bo wanted to test the night sight mods.’