The Chosen Seed (36 page)

‘Science fiction is only ever fiction until someone achieves it. Look at everything around us that started as an idea in a book.’ Mr Bright smiled. ‘Your imaginations are so much brighter than
He
ever realised.’

‘Who’s “he”?’ Dr Cornell asked. He had started pacing backwards and forwards, small shuffling steps, across a small patch of carpet. ‘And what is on the datasticks?’

‘Can we get back to Luke?’ Cass snapped.

‘
He
can wait for now,’ Mr Bright said, ignoring Cass. ‘The datasticks will answer every question you could possibly have about the First, myself, and perhaps more importantly, all of you. They are your
history
– the true history of the world.’

‘So why can’t we open it?’

‘There are four. They all have to be inserted together to open.’

‘These are the
scrolls
?’ Dr Cornell’s eyes had opened so widely he looked as if he was about to have a heart attack.

‘The scrolls themselves are hidden in various locations around the world, places that are special to us. These are the modern version. The scrolls were scanned, of course, but on the four datasticks are stored the details of
everything
we have done here. Each member of the Inner Cohort wears one around his neck, and they are updated annually.’ He turned to Cass. ‘If you help me, I will give them all to you, and you can see
everything
– but you have to trust me. I have your nephew – he’s trapped in an old man’s body, and he’s somewhere safe – for now at least. The others will be looking for him, just as they’ll be looking for the boy. I’d rather Mr Dublin found him than the emissary, but something tells me she’ll get there first.’

Cass’ head whirled, and he thought of the woman with the red hair whose car he’d dived into as the bullet ripped through his shoulder. He remembered her voice on the phone –
The boy is the key. Don’t let them keep the boy
– and the effect it had had on him. Was she the emissary he was talking about?

‘We’re going to run out of time,’ Mr Vine muttered. Cass didn’t like how afraid he looked.

‘If what you say is true,’ he said, ‘then why are we suddenly on the same side? If you did all this for your First, or whatever you call him, why are you now so deep in the shit that you need our help?’

‘It would appear that we’ve all become dispensable.’ For once Mr Bright’s eyes didn’t twinkle as he spoke. ‘It seems that a brush with death can bring out the worst in people.’
He looked back at the grainy pictures. ‘And in some families, the worst can be very terrible indeed. But if it comes to it, then we will fight, you and I, Cassius Jones, we’ll die side by side, whether you like it or not.’

‘Why don’t you call Luke,’ Freeman said, ‘and just check everything’s all right?’ The old gangster sniffed. ‘Can’t do any harm, can it? And I’ll have a word with the boys, tell them to stay alert.’ He handed Cass his mobile phone. ‘Go ahead.’

Cass stared at the screen for a second and then punched in Father Michael’s number. Why the hell was his heart racing so fast? Did he really believe what Bright had said? Could his nephew’s body have been stolen? He thought of the
Glow
and Mr Solomon’s death, and the sights he’d seen while strapped down on the bed, and he realised that maybe it wasn’t that hard to believe after all. His stomach churned. The phone rang out in his ear, and with each second, his mouth dried further. At last he shook his head and handed the phone back. ‘No answer.’

‘I’ll try Osborne.’ Freeman said. ‘That fucker has his phone glued to him.’

‘He’s gone,’ Mr Bright said. His words were like a death knell in the silence. ‘The emissary has found him.’

‘How?’ Cass was already reaching for the car keys as Brian Freeman frowned and redialled. ‘How would she know where to go?’

‘Was he sleeping much?’

‘Yes.’ Cass looked up. ‘Why?’

‘He was calling to her, using the old ways. It’s probably why he’s been so exhausted. He called her here from very far away.’

‘There’s no answer,’ Freeman announced, ‘from either of them.’

‘I’m going back,’ Cass said. ‘I need to see what’s happened.’

‘There’s no time,’ Mr Bright said, his normal urbanity replaced with urgency. ‘We need to find a man called Jarrod Pretorius – the First asked me about him when he woke. He’s the key.’

‘I’m going.’ Adrenalin raced through Cass’ veins and shook away the remains of his exhaustion. At least he had always thought of it as adrenalin. Maybe it had always been the
Glow
. ‘It’s an hour away if we push it,’ he said to Mr Bright. ‘I need to see what’s happened. You can either stay here or come with me. It’s up to you.’

‘I’ll get looking into this Pretorius,’ Freeman said. He tossed Cass the mobile phone. ‘I’ll get my people on it. You stay in touch.’ He looked at Mr Vine. ‘And he can stay with me. As can that datastick.’

Mr Bright handed the silver stick over. ‘So be it. But we’d better move fast. I hate to sound like a cliché, but for once the fate of the world really does hang in the balance.’

‘There is no fate,’ Cass muttered, and stepped back out into the crisp December air.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

M
r Dublin fought to keep his trembling hands under control as he reached for the ringing mobile phone. It had been thirty minutes since he’d realised how foolish he’d been in thinking that such simple methods as locks and torture could keep Mr Bright controlled, and since then, starting with the discovery of Mr Escobar’s body, the situation had gone from bad to worse. The death of one of their own had shocked him, but he didn’t have time to deal with it now; he’d left the corpse on the floor of the Experiment room where it had been found and locked the door. Mr Bright and Mr Vine were gone, and so was Cassius Jones. He had to keep this from the others for now, until he worked out how to put it right. He felt sick, nausea cramping his stomach – this was
fear
. Mr Bright’s rage must have been very powerful indeed, for him to destroy Mr Escobar like that. Even in the great rebellion all that time ago very few of their kind had died. They were too strong.

Mr Bright’s phone, taken from him during his capture, began ringing, and when Mr Dublin clicked to answer, the voice at the other end didn’t even give him time to speak before releasing a stream of panic.

‘They’re not projecting the Rapture any more – they stopped an hour or so ago. Now it’s Jarrod Pretorius – his face is everywhere, on all the screens. Does that mean
He’s
not coming? Does that mean we’ll survive? Or is Pretorius bringing it down on us?’

Mr Dublin waited for Mr DeVore to take a breath. ‘What are you talking about?
What
projections?’

‘Mr Dublin?’ The panic was replaced by momentary uncertainty. ‘I thought I’d called Mr Bright.’

‘You did – this is his phone.
What
Rapture?’ Mr Dublin asked.

‘Didn’t Mr Bright tell you? Didn’t he tell you
He
was coming – that they’ve been projecting the end of the world? It’s so terrible—’

‘Send me the data streams,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘I want to see for myself.’ He was pleased with the calm in his voice, despite his dry mouth, sweating palms and roiling stomach. ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve seen it.’

He ended the call, not wanting to have to answer any of Mr DeVore’s questions. What was happening? What had he missed? What had Mr Bright held back from them?

He flipped open the laptop and waited for the file to arrive. As he watched, all else but the horror of the destruction in those silent images was forgotten for a moment.
He
was coming. That much was certain.

The morning’s grey chill had never lifted and now, as Cass drove swiftly through the late afternoon traffic, not even the steady stream of headlights dispelled the gloom.

For a long time they sat in silence as Cass tried to process the information Mr Bright had shared while his heart was still pounding with worry for Luke and Father Michael – and even for the two heavies. He found he’d become fond of the Steves – they were straightforward, and honest in their own way: with them, what you saw was what you got, and there wasn’t enough of that in Cass’ life.

He glanced sideways at Mr Bright, who hadn’t volunteered any conversation since they’d started their journey. He’d regained his composure and tidied his clothes, but Cass wondered if his quiet came from as great a need to regroup as his own. What had they done to him? He looked exhausted, not the relentless Machiavellian Mr Bright he’d come to know, always one step ahead of the game. In fact, the Mr Bright who had plagued Cass for the past year had always been
in control
of the game. Well, not any more: now he looked to be playing catch-up and surviving on his wits. Cass stared out at the road as he cut through the traffic to their exit. Mr Bright was down on his luck, so why didn’t he feel better about that? Why did it disturb him so much?

‘Why is my family so important?’ Cass asked. ‘If all you needed was one child, then why have you watched me all these years? Once you had the boy, why did you bother?’

Mr Bright had been so lost in his own reverie that when he looked around at Cass he appeared momentarily surprised to find himself in the car. He let out a long breath. ‘I don’t like to leave things to chance,’ he said quietly. ‘If something had gone wrong with the boy, we would have needed another, you or your brother, if it had come to it. I needed to know where you were – I needed to keep you safe.’

It was plausible, but it didn’t ring true. ‘When I was undercover, were you watching me then?’

‘Of course,’ Mr Bright said.

‘Then why didn’t you stop me from killing that kid?’ The sentence sounded strange in his voice. He never talked
about
this; he talked
around
it – he and his wife Kate had talked around it for years.

‘You weren’t in any immediate danger.’

‘How the hell do you know?’

A twitch of a smile played on Mr Bright’s mouth: the old Mr Bright was fast coming back. ‘Because someone else in the room that night would have shot Freeman before anyone hurt you.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I told you, Cassius Jones, I’ve been looking out for you.’

Cass’ head reeled again and the headlights of the oncoming traffic became the whites of a boy’s terrified eyes as he stared down the barrel of a gun at them. He felt sick. The boy could have lived – Brian Freeman would have been dead, but Cass would have been spared all these years of guilt. How different would his life have been? Would he and Kate have still been married, or would they have gone their separate ways and gone on to be happy with other people? She’d still be alive, he was sure of that, and she wouldn’t have had that destructive affair with Bowman. He’d pushed her into that with his endless coldness, always shutting her out.

He could barely breathe. He watched his hands, changing gear, turning the steering wheel, and they belonged to a stranger. His body was operating on autopilot, while the rest of him had been transported to the stinking back room of that snooker hall, where, in that single moment, the futures of so many lives hung in the balance while his sweaty, terrified finger sat on a trigger.

‘You cunt,’ he said eventually. ‘You fucked up my life.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Mr Bright’s voice was light, as if they were discussing pleasant weather on a sunny day. ‘I
protected
it.’ He looked over at Cass. ‘You
chose
to shoot: you chose your life over the boy’s. Your life is simply a sum of your choices, Cass, just like anyone else’s.’ He smiled. ‘But if it’s any consolation, I did become more interested in you after that; I was glad that we hadn’t taken you as a baby. I saw how
you
struggled
, and it reminded me of my own struggles, I suppose.’

‘This has always been more to you than just watching us – you’ve played too many games with me. You could have stayed hidden from me for ever, whoever you are, you’ve got that kind of power. So why didn’t you?’

For a long moment, Mr Bright said nothing. His smile slipped into something wistful. ‘I suppose I became affectionate towards you,’ he said softly. ‘I’d watched your family and seen you grow up so troubled, so reluctant to be who you really are. Even as a little boy, you were so determined, not wanting to see anything beyond this gritty earth.’ He hesitated and for the first time in their acquaintance Cass thought he was struggling to find the right words. Was Mr Bright so used to talking in riddles he couldn’t speak the plain truth?

‘Our blood is so strong in you, Cassius Jones. I’ve seen it in others, of course, but not like with you. You’re as close to family as we have here.’

‘So was my father, and Christian – you didn’t fuck around with Christian like you did with me.’

‘I took his child. That was enough, wouldn’t you say?’ Mr Bright turned away. ‘After that I made sure he had a good job, and prospects. I wanted him to be happy.’

‘No.’ Cass shook his head. ‘That’s
not
you. You took one child and gave him another; in your eyes I’m sure that was a fair swap.’

‘Oh Cass, you think so badly of me. There are times when none of the choices presented can work perfectly. I hoped they’d have another child, or that Jessica would get pregnant during the time you were sleeping with her.’ He winked at Cass, but the gesture didn’t stop the words snagging Cass’ heart like a barb. ‘In fact, I will admit that I hoped for the
latter somewhat more than the former. Still, I have a list of other eligible and appropriate ladies, so who knows? Perhaps in the future.’

Cass ignored his digression. ‘It wasn’t the same. You didn’t fuck with Christian like you did with me. You didn’t watch over him like you did with me or else Sam Macintyre wouldn’t have been able to shoot them all.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I did,’ Mr Bright finally agreed. ‘But Christian wasn’t like you. He saw the
Glow
– he loved it. He and Jessica both embraced the strangeness of it, the
other-worldliness
. Once I had the boy, I found them interesting, but that was about it. They had no anger, no passion. They didn’t fight against anything.’