Truthseer Page 7

  Parry snapped out of his uncomfortable train of thought and watched the unfolding video footage of teams of enforcers trying to herd people against the glass doors of the market while Razz and his tigers were fighting to get them out of harm’s way. Then it cut to a flash of fire and smoke as the bomb detonated.

  Moris looked up and fixed Parry with an unfriendly stare. He was in his late forties, pale and thin-lipped, his artificially black hair smoothed back and tightly controlled with heavily-scented spray. His voice was very smooth.

  ‘Just before this started yesterday those disruptive individuals hacked all the security cameras but missed this one. It had a decoy in front of it.’

  ‘The problem is what, exactly? People being rescued by private citizens?’

  Careful. That irritated him. He’s got one of his devious plans in play here.

  Moris glared at him. ‘After the event, those so-called private citizens discovered they’d missed this camera so they tried to intercept and destroy the footage. Presumably so we couldn’t identify and arrest them. When they failed, they downloaded a copy.’

  ‘So?’ Play it dumb, Parry, but not too dumb.

  Moris was getting exasperated. ‘So. We can identify and arrest them, but as soon as we do, those images of military personnel pushing people towards a bomb will be posted on the underground networks and we do not want that.’

  ‘Why would you want to arrest private citizens for undertaking a rescue operation?’

  That’s your last dumb question. Any more and he’ll explode.

  Moris continued, slowly and carefully, between gritted teeth. ‘There’s an election soon and we need to convince voters they’re being kept safe from this bombing campaign. We need to deliver the perpetrators, quickly, with evidence.’

  ‘And that’s your evidence?’

  ‘It will be.’

  I can imagine how that sleight of hand will be achieved. Parry kept the thought to himself, trying to keep his face blank.

  Moris had regained his cool now, but it was a dangerous, threatening cool. ‘And we do not want that coming on top of another incident concerning a pathology report.’

  Parry tensed. Now we’re getting to it. Detention centre? Or worse?

  ‘I just thought it best to have a second opinion.’

  ‘I’m sure. But it leaves us a difficult choice.’ Moris picked up the control and flipped to scenes Parry recognized. The illegal east side clinic he’d visited, with its rows of patients lying on the floor wrapped in blankets. Images of several large rats nosing round a back street appeared briefly before Moris switched off and the screen went blank.

  ‘Intelligence picked this up a few hours ago already on the underground networks. With a deal of hype about the epidemic and the government’s lack of action to control it and take care of its victims. So we need to be seen to have done something to control it. I believe you endorsed Burton’s gassing of the sewer system?’

  ‘Yes, that is the case.’ Parry hoped his frantic mental guesswork wasn’t showing on his face.

  Which way is this going? Has he found out Raine had already told me there was no one down there?

  Moris was still absorbed in his own plans. ‘Good. We don’t have to mention that Burton was actually pursuing dissidents. He happened to get rid of the rats and stopped the epidemic. You can take credit for that. We’ll prepare a press release for you.’ He picked up his handset, barking a sharp order to his secretary. ‘Get a TV interview set up immediately.’

  Parry still felt unsure if this was the reprieve he’d inwardly written off as impossible, or if he was being set up to take the fall for something worse. If there was anything worse.

  ‘Press release? TV?’

  Moris ignored him. ‘And those unfortunate twenty-three casualties examined in that pathology report were gassed elsewhere by Burton exceeding his authority, trying to remove human sources of infection as well as animal. An action this government considers reprehensible and unacceptable––remember to include that in your TV interview––unacceptable, and the person responsible will be held to account.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Play for time here, till you catch up with where this has got to.

  ‘Meaning Burton gets arrested and packed off to the most remote detention centre we can find. The man’s useless! No results, no nearer to capturing these rangers and causes too much collateral damage that we have to cover up.’

  ‘You’re sure there isn’t a different group responsible for these bombings?’

  Moris stared at him and spoke slowly, as if to someone truly dim-witted. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? These rangers are supporting the city resistance networks with their damn food banks and clinics, and that makes them popular. That is the threat to maintaining our control, particularly with elections so close. A few small groups tossing IEDs around are the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that this government is the nation’s protector.’

  Parry wasn’t particularly surprised by the political strategy, only the frankness of the admission. This sort of logic was usually well disguised with vague platitudes.

  ‘Where does the press release come into this?’

  You, Colonel Parry, will make a short TV statement regarding your government-mandated role in successfully eliminating the source of the epidemic and you will take charge of security, replacing Burton.’ Moris paused, fixing Parry with a threatening stare.

  ‘Of course, all copies of any other pathology reports you might personally have commissioned showing those twenty-three people died of variant H5N1 will have to disappear. Now. Because the number of deaths from the virus has been greatly exaggerated.’

  Parry hesitated. It felt wrong. He was used to the lies but maybe he’d also got used to his boss always dealing with the political side.

  Burton tries and fails to gas a bunch of dissidents and forges the path report to convince Moris he succeeded. Then something gets videoed and threatens to become public knowledge and Moris immediately flips the story to mean something else...

  How many times can a story be reversed back and forth and still hold together? Is the public really that gullible?

  ‘How long have I got for making this decision?’

  ‘You haven’t.’ Moris shut down the screen for emphasis. Parry felt uncomfortable and pressurised, an inner commentary running through his mind of himself trying to justify to Raine his reasons for going along with this.

  Why do I feel accountable to an outlaw? Why should I?

  He knew the choice was obey or face jail, but he knew he’d find it hard to live with. He straightened his uniform, trying to avoid Moris’ eye. It had been so much easier when Burton made the unpleasant decisions and he could feel justified in his ethical objections.

  And yet, what’s the harm? Twenty-three people won’t come back to life whether the official report says gas or virus. And it gets that psychopath Burton out of the way.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll deliver the only copy of that report to you today. And I have no objection to being put in front of TV cameras, provided you give me an accurate autocue to read. But I do have one request.’

  ‘Which is?’ Moris’ pale eyes narrowed. Parry knew he hadn’t reached his position by accident. A cunning strategic mind and keen eye for details he could manipulate had served him well for fifteen years at the head of this administration. And if he played it right they’d all be stuck with him for many more years of power.

  Parry paused, trying to work out how much he might get away with.

  ‘If you still want me to track down these rangers, I’ll need a new security unit, trained in the way the outlaws think and operate. Standard practice will never work. I know that from my time as observer.’

  Get some discipline and accountability back into the service. It would leave people like Burton no place to hide.

  Moris was calculating. ‘Numbers?’

  ‘Start with fifty? If it looks promising, build up from there?’ Parry hoped
he’d not been too ambitious.

  ‘I’ll need to see results.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you get them.’

  13

  It was very quiet in the central clinic. No new casualties had come in for two hours, and those already in were sleeping. A few volunteers moved silently between them.

  Fin finished checking the patients’ charts, almost daring to hope that all those who had made it here alive would stay that way, in spite of their limited resources. Her gaze returned yet again to the far end of the room, this time with a sense of foreboding. There was one who wasn’t responding the way she had hoped.

  Kit was lying unconscious on the bed by the wall, the deep cut on the side of his head cleaned and stitched. There were no other marks on him apart from bruises, nothing to immediately explain why he hadn’t come round or why his breathing was so shallow. Unless he had internal injuries. And they had no scanner to help them find out.

  Bel was sitting beside him holding his hand and staring into space. Fin knew she was re-living the last hideous hour in the market, trying to control the despair, another nightmare of losing someone close.

  They had run back into the building as soon as they’d struggled to their feet after the blast and worked out they were still alive and could still run. They had found Kit lying face down under a pile of rubble and cleared away the debris, frantically pulling lumps of dusty concrete off him with bleeding fingers.

  He had still been unconscious when they’d dragged him out. He must have thrown himself on top of the boy just before the blast because the kid was curled up underneath him, miraculously unhurt. She’d given him back to his anxious mother, then followed Razz as he carried Kit to the clinic.

  In the strangely disjointed way of respites in the midst of disasters she’d noticed the heavy enforcer presence had melted away. The only people left in the streets were civilians, either injured or trying to help those who were.

  Fin walked over for the tenth time and took Kit’s pulse. Still too fast and too irregular.

  It was going to be a long night.

  *

  Kit was drifting in a world that had existed three years before, deep in memories and images, some his own, some re-created from what he’d learned afterwards, woven together in a strangely surreal narrative. Disconnected from his physical body by pain and shock, his only reality flowed in disjointed dreamlike sequences through his mind.

  It was the day he deserted the military and went looking for the Resistance.

  *

  Late afternoon in the western forest, trees catch orange rays of setting sun. The gun battle has been unrelenting since midday. Kit and Daniel are wedged behind a rock, communications cut off from the rest of their unit, firing spasmodically at the unseen enemy the far side of the clearing.

  At seventeen, they only enlisted the year before. Physically fit and expert with the heavy military-issue automatics, but with no training in strategy for this situation. They face a determined group of outlanders fighting to defend their food supply and as usual air strikes are slow arriving.

  Daniel weighs up the positions opposite them. He gives Kit a push, pointing to the forest.

  ‘Go!’

  Kit looks blank for a moment, makes the decision, smiles, thanks Daniel with a quick grip on his arm.

  He’s only known for a week how desperate I am to get out, and now he’s done this...

  Daniel lets off a burst of automatic fire while Kit moves from cover, vaults over the rock and runs forward, keeping low and weaving between the trees, firing as he goes. He breaks through the line of desperate outlanders and throws himself flat behind a boulder, gasping for breath. A shadow passes over. He looks up. A single brutal flash as the air strike erases the isolated farm and every outlander in and around it. The boulder barely prevents Kit being incinerated as well.

  It’s suddenly very quiet except for burning trees and dying flames. Kit takes off his helmet, wipes ash and sweat from his face with his sleeve. Blackened devastation behind him. He makes an effort to concentrate, sheds the cumbersome body armour, buries it with the helmet under a pile of stones.

  Burying my old life along with its trappings...

  He navigates due west, using the last hour of sun and his watch, noticing streams, saving water, aware he’s badly camouflaged. The blue-black combat fatigues only blend with the deepest shadows and his exposed skin is too pale by contrast. He rubs it with walnut leaves to darken it.

  Stay in the shadows. It’s what they do. How they stay alive.

  He isn’t carrying much spare food, lays out the single small packet, cuts it in half. It’s night, he looks around, can’t risk a fire, eats half the packet.

  Keep heading west. Save the rest of the emergency pack. You can fast for days if you have to.

  He sleeps uneasily till dawn. When he wakes he drinks water, checks direction, heads west. Sees a small deer, flips his gun to single shot, stalks and shoots it.

  Raine and Bel are on ranger scouting. They hear the shot. One almost imperceptible hand signal from Raine and they turn their horses to the sound. They catch up with Kit’s position as he completes cleaning and cutting the deer. They watch from the cover of the trees.

  Kit leaves the waste in a neat pile, packs the meat in plastic, straps it on top of his pack. He checks direction again and walks on. The rangers silently shadow him till late afternoon. At last Kit allows himself rest and food. He lights a fire, well hidden by rocks and uses sticks to roast some of the meat.

  I can feel them out there. Why can’t I hear or see them?

  He takes the two haunches, seals them in their skins, looks round again, hangs them in a tree, then packs, heads west. Rangers still watching.

  Raine asks, ‘What’s that all about?’

  Bel emerges from her gestalt focusing for a moment. ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘He can’t know we’re here?’

  ‘He’s waiting for us to find him.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s different. Deserters, refugees, they’re usually disoriented, don’t know where they’re heading or even how to survive. The only mistake he made is using the gun. Paramilitaries will hear it, same as we did.’

  Bel says, ‘He wanted us to hear it.’

  Raine turns his horse westward. ‘Educated deserter... or well-trained spy. Be careful.’

  Bel signals, ‘Well, do we accept the gift?’ Raine nods assent, she collects it. They shadow Kit until evening.

  Kit pauses by a rocky outcrop, working out the best way around it. Raine signals to Bel, points.

  ‘Tree just in front of him.’

  Bel puts an arrow in the tree just in front of Kit. He reacts instantly, sensing the direction of the shot, moving behind the broad trunk, gun ready. Then, almost as quickly, he looks again at the arrow, steps into the open, carefully lays his gun on the ground, takes a few paces back, slowly goes to his knees on the grass, hands visible, very alert, waiting for someone to appear.

  Surrender by choice is harder than I thought. I can’t even see who they are. And I’ve put my life in their hands...

  He concentrates on keeping the fear under control, vulnerable to unseen weapons. He sees Bel first, standing on the edge of the trees, her arrow aimed at him.

  Stay calm.

  Raine steps out from the trees, picks up the gun, watching Kit carefully.

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘West.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Waiting for you to find me.’

  ‘Deserter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Silence. Kit doesn’t find this easy. Then, ‘I was on land sanitizer support. I don’t want to poison people’s food anymore.’

  Raine catches Bel’s warning look, acknowledges they have to be careful. Kit sees the cord in her hands, signals acceptance, holds his hands out to be tied.

  R
aine looks around. ‘We stay here tonight.’

  They tether the horses, collect water, unpack their gear. Bel is uneasy, constantly looking into the trees. Raine notices. A silent conversation about sensed danger, confirmed by a bullet hitting the rocks beside them. They take cover, fast.

  ‘Over there. Paramilitaries.’ Bel points to the flash of an automatic in the trees opposite.

  ‘Give me my gun.’ Kit gets to his feet awkwardly with bound hands. ‘I’ll draw their fire so you can fan out round the side––it’s what they’ll be doing.’

  Bel shakes her head warily.

  Kit holds Raine’s gaze. ‘Deserter or spy––either way I’ll be trying to prove you can trust me.’

  It’s easier from here. Whether I die or not––it’s in the hands of others now. Fate’s already written somewhere beyond my control.

  Another shot hits the rock. Raine makes the decision, cut his prisoner’s wrists free and hands him the gun. He watches him for a moment, surprised and impressed by the way Kit follows their suspicions and deals with them. He signals Bel and they move forward, flanking the centre line.

  Kit takes cover behind a rock, firing at regular intervals. He has a sense of the running fight beyond the first band of trees. More paramilitaries than anticipated.

  Four of them coming, well spread––

  He hits one of them, sees the other three are too far apart to cover efficiently. He moves, rolls, scrambles to the side, back flattened against a broad tree trunk.

  At least one’s going to get here. Make sure you’re on your feet and ready or you’re dead.

  One of the guns stops firing.

  Jammed or out of ammunition. But the guy’s still heading this way. That’s crazy. He’ll catch a bullet or the others will have to stop––

  Maybe not so crazy. Kit has to concentrate for a moment to stop the guns moving closer and catches the blur out of the corner of his eye as a heavy bulk hurls itself on top of him. He sidesteps and twists as they fall, jabbing the butt of his automatic into the man’s neck. They roll over in the damp leaves and grass, the paramilitary coughing and choking, trying to get his broad-bladed knife free of Kit’s grasp.