Rifter (The Survival Project Duology Book 1) (12 page)

“Tea?” he asked.

“Ew, no. Can’t stand the stuff. Boiled leaves taste like just that, leaves. Coffee for me, please.”

The food was good. The cereal was covered in a layer of chocolate that dissolved into the milk, fresh cow’s milk. It wasn’t the bland porridge made from whichever cereal grain they could get and cooked with salted water. And the bread was cut so thin. You could never do that with the fresh baked loaves they ate, which, on balance, she preferred to the airy quality of the slice on her plate. But it was the coffee that really got her attention. She sipped it slowly, letting her taste buds get the full effect. It was the best coffee she’d ever tasted. There was such a fullness to the flavour, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant or overpowering. And if you sniffed it, it had an aroma. The coffee had an aroma. She closed her eyes as she savoured it and when she opened them she realised Kerry was watching her in barely disguised amusement.

He was getting into too much of a habit of laughing at her. How long had they known each other? He had to think she was crazy. First, the silly questions, now this.

“You really like your coffee,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but it felt a little like an interrogation. It made her feel guilty, as if she didn’t fit. Which she didn’t, but he couldn’t know that. She had to be more careful.

‘
Whenever you answer a question, try to be honest with your answer, without giving anything away
.’ Yes, Gordon.

She nodded, embarrassed.

“I don’t often get to drink coffee this good.”

It wasn’t a lie. The coffee they did have was strictly regulated and she was lucky if she had more than a couple of cups a month. Their staple drink, if you could call it that, was tea, made with the steeped leaves of the herbs they grew in their own hydroponic garden. She drank hot water instead. Tea of any kind made her screw her face up in disgust the moment it passed her lips. He seemed to think she was joking about the coffee from the quizzical expression her remark caused. He sipped his own coffee. A grunt came from his lips and at the same moment he screwed up his face. Clearly, he wasn’t impressed with its taste.

She had definitely made a mistake.

A rapid change of subject was required so that he didn’t consider her to be a complete freak. “So, where else have you been, besides London?”

Kerry’s hand went to his beard. He caressed the unruly strands thoughtfully. “You guessed I’ve been going for a while then?”

“Well, you’re hardly lacking in battle scars.”

For a moment, he looked hurt. Then, he looked down at the rip on the sleeve of his jacket and a dribble-stain on his t-shirt. She almost felt guilty for pointing it out.

“Yes. And I need to find a mirror after we’ve eaten. The hermit look isn’t really me, but I’ve been trekking across Europe. There hasn’t been much chance for luxuries.” She hadn’t meant to make him feel bad.

“What is?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Your look?”

“Oh, well, I prefer the designer-stubble, film-star look.”

Mara stifled a full-blown guffaw.

She knew what he meant. Films were no longer made back home. However, there were plenty in the archives, the labours of previous generations. She’d reserve judgement on whether his un-bearded state was worthy of being described as film star-ish until she’d seen it.

Kerry had an easy charm that made her feel relaxed and comfortable. For the first time since she’d arrived, she wasn’t worrying about what came next. They’d only known each other a short while and she already felt like she could tell him anything. If only that wasn’t a dangerous thought to have.

As if he could read her mind, he asked, “What did you come to London for?”

“Research.” The answer was a standard one that had been drilled into them. It was designed to be suitably vague and plausible. It would work for most locations, even windswept and desolate landscapes. Research could be carried out about anything and everything. What came next depended on his response.

“Research? Ah, you’re doing a degree?” She didn’t confirm or deny. “Don’t you just use the Internet these days?”

So, he wasn’t a student.

“I prefer books. They’re more reliable.”

There she was, quoting Gordon again. ‘
Books have been scrutinised by editors
,’ he’d say,
‘The facts have been checked by researchers. Anyone can post information on an info site. There are no checks or standards on the Internet.’

“But so much slower,” said Kerry, dragging the last word out to emphasise how much he seemed to dislike books. “I can’t remember the last time I looked for information when I couldn’t use a Find function. What’s your topic?”

Was that how her people used to think? Reading was a waste of time unless it could be consumed in bite-sized chunks on the digital waves?

She debated whether or not to tell him anything about the real topic. In her experience, people had such widely differing views on climate degradation that it nearly always got you into an argument, even on her world, where the outcome was clearly evident to anyone who had eyes, but if she was to get any help from Kerry at all, she needed to confide something. Perhaps he could suggest a way to get the information she needed without being visible. If he had a connection to their Internet ….

“I’m looking into the world’s potential destruction at the hands of man,” she said. That wasn’t a stock response, obviously.

This time when he looked up from his plate his confusion was apparent. He put half a sausage into his mouth all at once, and chewed, cheeks bulging. He was doing well with his mountain of food, she wasn’t sure about his table manners. When he’d dispensed with the mouthful, he replied, his fork waving emphasising his words.

“That’s either the possibility that we might have a World War III, or climate change.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her face, resting before he finished off his plateful. “Historian or environmentalist?” he mused. He leaned sideways around the table and observed her clothes. She squirmed uneasily. “No starchy collars or tweed jackets, but no flouncy skirts and braided hair either. I give up. Which one is it?”

She probably should have been offended by his remarks, but as she didn’t understand the references, she found it impossible.

“I’m looking for information on the way the world is dealing with weapons of self-destruction.”

He smiled and dug his fork into a wedge of the crispy potato pieces. “You know, I once went on a rally against climate change with my dad. I was very young at the time. Too young, really. It was back when no one believed it was happening apart from the enlightened few and there were people shouting all sorts of insults at us, none of which I’d repeat in polite company. Now, they’re beginning to believe, at last.”

Mara smiled, although that was probably the wrong thing to do. It was good to hear something useful, but not good to hear that this world was experiencing climate degradation. She knew the attitudes he was referring to. Demos about climate degradation had not done much good on her world. Governments had always thought they knew best, but with a science contingent divided down the middle, she couldn’t really blame them for the choices they’d made.

“You believe?” she said.

“God, yes. If I’d had the brains, I’d be doing what you’re doing, but I only scraped my exams. I wasn’t accepted for university. Even one of the ones no one else wanted to go to.”

It wasn’t regret she heard in his voice, but resignation.

“Is that why you’re travelling?”

“Oh, no. I would’ve done that anyway. We all need perspective.”

He was right, perspective was what was needed, but sooner rather than later. And from more than just one person. His interest in the subject made her feel a little reckless. She’d already decided she needed help and being part of a couple would help her to blend in with the crowds.

“Would you be interested in coming to the library with me today? I’d love some help, and I’d like to find out more about your point of view. I’m thinking of doing my thesis on the attitudes of different kinds of people toward climate degradation.”

“Degradation? Is that the new buzz word?”

“Um, one of many,” she covered.

“I don’t know, I really need to sleep.” Mara knew her expression had fallen. “But sleep is overrated.” He pulled his t-shirt up to his nose and sniffed. “But I absolutely do need a shower first, and maybe that shave.”

“Agreed,” she said, without any hesitation at all. He wasn’t the only one who needed a shower.

Fourteen

Leo packed a protesting Mayra into The Department car and waved her off. She wasn’t happy about the prospect of being questioned by his boss, especially as he’d previously denied that it was his Department’s business. She was suspicious, of course, and it had taken all his powers of persuasion to get her to go. Who wouldn’t have been? There was little he could do about that. He reckoned that after she came back she’d be so hacked off with him that she’d pack her few belongings and never return.

He knew Debra would be angry that he hadn’t gone back to the office with Mayra, but he didn’t care. The truth was that his discussion with the boss had unsettled him more than he would ever admit to her face. He hadn’t expected her to solve the mystery of who had come through the rift quite that quickly. He’d thought, no, he’d hoped the penny wouldn’t drop until afterwards, when he’d executed his plan and could no longer be questioned about it, but that had probably been hoping for too much. She must’ve had a whole raft of people working on those videos through the night to have discovered Mara’s identity, and to have put the pieces together about the similarity to his girlfriend in such a short space of time. And now, she not only thought he’d been lying to her, she knew it for a fact. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d already assigned someone to trawl through everything he’d ever told them looking for other omissions or inconsistencies. That definitely wouldn’t help.

He needed time to cool off and to calm his mind. Not something that would happen under the watchful gaze of his colleague. Atwood, he was sure, would be under strict instructions to prise information out of him that he didn’t want to reveal. Although Atwood didn’t have the hound dog quality that Debra possessed, everyone who worked there had been trained in soft interrogation techniques — basically, tricking someone into giving them information without realising it.

It stood to reason that you were unlikely to succeed with interrogating your work colleague when they knew the methods used. He was saving Atwood the hassle.

Leo wandered back into the flat. He knew he had to progress his plan and quickly. He’d already lost nearly a whole day. Time to up the ante.

He walked to the end of the corridor and into the bedroom. He picked up the pole, neatly tucked away behind the door, so he could hook down the loft ladder. He pulled it down in one clean sweep. He hadn’t been up there for months, could even have been years, and he was expecting more dust motes to assault him than he got. It made him pause. He turned on the loft light switch in the kitchen and climbed to the top of the ladder. He studied the entrance. There was a hand print in the dust around the hatch, but no sign of footprints.

Which one of them? Mayra, or Mara?

It didn’t matter. Whoever it was hadn’t bothered to go any further, and as he’d be gone within two days, a padlock was unnecessary.

He climbed over the edge.

Although the loft covered a large space, about two-thirds of the surface area of his flat, it didn’t contain much. He had little in the way of possessions, and most of those were in the flat proper. A couple of suitcases he used mainly for when he had to travel for work. A box or two from TVs and computers he’d bought. And one small, plastic box, that looked so insignificant you might not even notice it, which he kept up there away from prying eyes.

He went straight to the box and snapped the catches open.

He pulled out his brac and ran it around in his fingers. He held it to his mouth, almost as if he were communing with it in some way. It felt familiar. It felt like home. It was useless.

He’d tried so many times to recharge the failed power cells in those first few years, but nothing had worked. It had been ruined by The Department’s destructive experimentation and returned to him only after they had no more use for it. Well, you wouldn’t have much use for it once it no longer worked. The technology on this world wasn’t advanced enough, that was the problem, and Debra didn’t want to alert anyone to that fact. His one way back home had been as dead as the poisoned ocean.

Without a brac, it would be dangerous to travel through a rift. He would have no signal. No one would know he was travelling. It was potentially suicidal. And he knew for sure that Gordon would close the door on any traveller who didn’t emit a signal.

He needed a brac to ensure success.

He pushed the rigid bracelet over his hand and snapped the catch closed around his wrist. If he held it to the light, he could still see the faint impressions of the functions on the narrow screen, along with their last readouts. The temperature had been twelve degrees centigrade. His heart rate had been, it looked like twenty-three, but that couldn’t be right. The traffic light had died on red. That was the colour it had gone as he stood trapped by twenty heavily-armed guards at the site of the disruption.