The Chosen Seed (12 page)

The air was so cold that his nose had numbed and the dryness in his lungs made him want to cough. He had hoped the fresh air would clear away the niggling doubts, but if anything it made them sharper.

He should be feeling pleased. Thus far, everything was going according to the plan they had hatched all those years ago, when the First’s body had started to wither. It had been daring and dangerous but they had thrown themselves into it in the way they had that rebellion so long ago: with complete and utter belief in themselves, knowing that they could not fail. And they hadn’t … but still, there was undeniably something wrong. He knew it.

The First was still weak and bedridden, but his mind was clear. It had been good to talk to his old friend again after so long. He rarely admitted it, but since Mr Solomon had gone and he spent his days merely fulfilling his duty he had found less joy in his existence. It was good to talk to the First; it was almost like the old days. He had wanted to announce to the others that he was rising once again, but the First had shaken his head:
no, not yet
. That had surprised him; it wasn’t like their leader to hide away. He had always been so gregarious and flamboyant. Perhaps he was waiting until he was fully restored and adapted.

He paused and bought some roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, enjoying the warmth of the small packet
through his gloves. He should be less suspicious. He had spent so long having to manage everything alone that maybe he had learned to see problems where there weren’t any – though he had had good cause to be alert after first Mr Solomon’s behaviour and then Mr Bellew’s recent traitorous performance with the Interventionists – not to mention Mr Craven, of course. His disquiet, however, refused to die.

Something had been
wrong
. The First’s easy smile had been slightly too wide as he’d squeezed Mr Bright’s hand. The reaction to the news of the emissary had been
off
– Mr Bright couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was practised in watching responses, and the First was out of practice at hiding them. And why had he casually thrown in that question about Jarrod Pretorius? The name had come as a bolt out of the blue and it was Mr Bright who’d had to cover his reactions then. Sometimes during the last millennia he’d even managed to convince himself that he’d forgotten Pretorius completely.

His hands warmer, he threw the uneaten chestnuts into a bin. The First had not asked about the Jones family. Perhaps he felt that they were no longer relevant – and perhaps he would be right. Mr Bright was surprised by his own reaction to that thought. He had watched the bloodlines for so many years, long before he’d ever brought Alan and Evelyn together, and he’d felt a little private pride as they produced their children, enjoying the wilful human moments of all concerned. There had been disappointments – Alan Jones had been weak, after all that – but he found he was glad that the deal had been struck and it wasn’t Cassius who had been given up.

At the time, the wait for the extra years to pass had been mildly frustrating, and he’d become irritated by Mr Solomon’s fondness for both Cassius and Christian, which
had moved beyond the simple interest in the blood ties to something else – something deeper. Now, after so much time spent managing Cassius, he found he perhaps had more than a little fondness for the man himself. But fond or not, he was not oblivious to Cass’ nature: wherever he was, Mr Bright knew Cass Jones would still be coming after them. He was sure of that. Blood was truly thicker than water.

And that might not prove to be such a terrible thing, after all.

He picked his pace up slightly. Cass Jones was still the wild card. The First’s behaviour had been strange, and that might be expected, given everything he had been through, but Mr Bright still needed to plan around it. Cass Jones might well have a part to play in that too – Cass Jones and his bloodline were still important, and the others would be stupid not to realise that.

His mobile phone vibrated and he checked the caller before holding it to his ear. ‘Mr Dublin?’

‘Mr Bright.’

‘You’ve taken care of Mr Craven?’

‘In a manner of speaking. He still has some items to return, but he’s gone. I don’t think he has long left.’ Mr Dublin’s gentle voice always had a touch of the maudlin about it and today was no exception.

‘That’s good.’

‘I never thought I’d wish death on one of our own.’

‘Then don’t,’ Mr Bright said prosaically. ‘Your wishing of it or not will bear very little relevance to the outcome. I believe that is already quite certain.’ He didn’t have time for this endless sadness over the things that could not be helped. Their world was changing and they with it. Mr Dublin had never liked getting his hands dirty, but he was
no different to the rest of them under the surface. ‘Was there a purpose to this call?’

‘The Experiment,’ Mr Dublin said. If he had been offended by Mr Bright’s tone, then it wasn’t reflected in his own. The words were still soft and precise.

‘What about the Experiment?’ Despite the rash of suicides and the investigation that had followed, all blame had landed squarely on the shoulders of the unfortunate Dr Shearman – who, wisely, had opted to stay silent regarding his knowledge of the missing Jones child, and who would reap the benefit of that when his case finally got to court. But the search for the Walkways continued, more quietly, perhaps, and with less carefully selected test subjects, but it continued all the same. They couldn’t afford not to, even if the results were still a dismal failure so far.

‘I’d like to be more involved.’

‘Are you saying you want to try for the Walkways yourself?’ Mr Bright allowed himself a small laugh of good humour.

‘Of course not.’ Mr Dublin did not join in his mirth. ‘I would like to take a greater part in it – perhaps oversee the facility for a while. Especially given the … disappointing nature of the First’s recovery. And you are, of course, always so busy.’

Mr Bright almost smiled. They always come in friendship when they plan to stab you in the back. It had ever been thus.
They
were the same.

‘Thank you, Mr Dublin,’ he said smoothly. ‘That would be a great help.’

He ended the call. Wheels within wheels, as Mr Solomon would have said. Wheels within wheels.

Mr Dublin slipped the phone back into his pocket and smiled softly. ‘We have the Experiment.’

‘Good,’ Mr Escobar grunted. Mr Dublin was sure that he could smell the hot grime and corruption of South America on the swarthy newest member of the Inner Cohort. He was Mr Bellew’s replacement. Although he was rougher in appearance, there was something similar about the two. Mr Escobar didn’t have the inner strength or intelligence of Mr Bellew – he had led them in battle all that time ago, while Mr Escobar, bloodthirsty as he was, had been far behind in the ranks – but he was a warrior. And like Mr Bellew, he had changed his allegiances.

It was interesting, Mr Dublin thought, to watch the warriors among them. They had always been the most loyal back then, but once the revolt had come and they had been persuaded to side with the First, it was as if something inside had broken. Perhaps once a traitor, the potential was always there.

‘Does he suspect anything?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘With him it’s hard to tell.’

‘We should move against him – before he makes moves to attack us.’

‘Not yet.’ Mr Dublin sipped his coffee. And sometimes warriors were like children; they certainly never understand the complexities of politics. ‘Let him find the emissary. Right now, he won’t be looking to fight – he’ll be looking to consolidate. He’s not a fool. He knows he’s in danger.’

‘What about the First?’

‘He’s moved him.’ Mr Dublin was annoyed about that. The old man in the bed was a gibbering fool, so why had Mr Bright decided to hide him away? Perhaps he didn’t want the others to see him – that would make sense. But it
didn’t actually matter; Mr Dublin had filmed the visit after the First’s awakening and when he was ready to make his move against Mr Bright, he would send it to all of the cohorts. Mr Bright would be finished. He hoped there would be no bloodshed. Deception had never been part of his nature, and even though he knew he was doing what was best for them all, he had not rested well since his decision to go against Mr Bright.

‘I thought we were going to use him for the Experiment?’ Mr Escobar’s eyes were dark knots of wood and his skin was leather. Mr Dublin tried to remember what he had looked like before he became small. Fierceness was all his memory could muster.

‘We were, but on reflection, I doubt he would be of any use. He has no
Glow
– none that we could see anyway.’ He shivered slightly and saw Mr Escobar’s frown deepen. It was an unsettling thought for all of them.

‘So what are we to do? Sit and twiddle our thumbs?’

‘No.’ Mr Dublin slid a thin file across the table. ‘I think we might try this man in the Experiment.’

Mr Escobar opened the folder and looked at the photograph. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s Mr Bright’s pet project. He’s the bloodline.’

‘So the rumours of the boy were true.’ Mr Escobar looked up sharply.

‘Mr Bright still has the boy – I don’t know where. In fact we don’t even know if the boy is alive. The records are unclear.’

‘And this man?’

‘His name is Cassius Jones. He’s out there somewhere. We need to find him before anyone else does.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘We wait and we watch. He’s a fighter. You’d probably
quite like him. He’ll be coming after Mr Bright.’ He paused. ‘He’ll be coming after all of us.’

‘And you think he can find the Walkways?’

Mr Dublin gazed out over London. Everyone wanted certainties. His sympathy for Mr Bright was growing. How had he managed everything for so long after the First started sleeping? Yes, he’d had Mr Solomon for a while, but he too had changed, and a long time before his madness came. How those glorious three, the shining lights who led them all the way here, had fallen. It made him ache inside. Perhaps they were fighting a losing battle – perhaps they always had been. He had never thought the day would come when he wanted to go home, but now with the Dying, the First’s degradation and no doubt imminent demise, and the rage and rot that was filling the world they’d been so proud of, he ached for the heat of home. He ached to be truly himself. He was tired of being small.

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘He’s of the bloodline. If an emissary has found the way here but we can’t go back, then the only logical conclusion is that someone has locked the Walkways
outwards. He
must have done it to keep us out, so perhaps if it is His own blood trying to get through
He
will open them –
He
will know.’

‘
He
always knew everything.’ For the first time, Mr Dublin heard nervousness in Mr Escobar’s gruff voice.

Yes, and there was the downside of home:
He
was there.

‘Well, let’s deal with
Him
if and when we have to.’

Mr Dublin smiled. He needed to lift this mood before Mr Escobar left. He pulled open a desk drawer. ‘I have something for you.’ He held out the item hanging on a slim chain. He had taken it from around the neck of the wrecked Mr Bellew. ‘Wear it well. It’s our history.’ He smiled. ‘Welcome to the Inner Cohort.’

Chapter Fifteen

D
r Cornell hadn’t slept in two nights, not since Alan Jones’ boy had visited. Even when his brain was at its feverish worst, he knew that was too long for a man of his age to go without rest – it was too long for a man of any age. That level of tiredness allowed the shadows to creep in at the edges of his mind; the demon paranoia he knew was always
somewhere
back there now had full rein with his friends fear and doubt.

During the long hours he’d reordered piles of paper to try and keep his mind clear. At some point he’d cried a little. Not for the first time he wondered if they’d put something in his water to keep him just the wrong side of confused – a touch of LSD? No, it wouldn’t be anything so basic. He couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of drugs
they
must have at their disposal.

He had dozed in his office chair for an hour or so at some point between the grip of the dark night and dawn, and awakened with a jolt – the kind that made you feel like you’d been somewhere other than in your body. That disturbed him; the idea that he could have left his body and all his amassed information, both completely unprotected. And what if he’d left his body and couldn’t get back in? What then?

He sipped his coffee and looked down at his gnarled,
ageing hand. He didn’t recognise it as his own. Time passed so quickly. For a blissful moment, the demons fell silent and he was aware of his own inadequacies. He was in a battle for his sanity, he knew that. In his clearer moments, he wondered if perhaps he was experiencing the onset of dementia. So many years spent living in fear, trying to get to the bottom of what might possibly be the world’s biggest secret – no,
was
the world’s biggest secret – had taken their toll. His mind had been pushed to the limits even before natural wear and tear set in, and the shame of being decried as a lunatic had gone some way towards turning him into one in truth.

The knots on the back of his hand were like those in his mind: calcified. Damaged. He looked again at the stacks of paper around him. Alan Jones’ son had been here – Cassius, the eldest, the man on the run. He rubbed his tired eyes. Or had it been him at all? Had it been one of
them
? How would he ever learn to tell the difference? Perhaps it had been Cassius Jones, but maybe he was working
with
them. Maybe the whole murder charge was part of some elaborate plan not yet revealed. He sighed. It was exhausting trying to work out all the possibilities. He looked for links in everything, because
they
were everywhere, controlling everything. At some point over the years, he’d lost the ability to believe in any random turn of events. Perhaps that was his madness.