Engineer
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Part One
The room showed no signs of life. It was pristine, immaculate, like a perfect hotel room. From the stainless steel bathroom to the four-poster bed, the entire place was perfect. Too perfect. People were cluttered creatures, flawed, and as such they created flaws in their living space. Unless they were insane. But this place, with its smooth lines and elegant beauty, was home.
It was not quite like the apartment Sophia Lyons had shared with her boyfriend; rather more sparsely equipped and less familiar, but the familiarity of the old apartment had been turned to nauseating revulsion after what had happened to her there.
Lyons, stood in the centre of the room, shuddered. She hadn’t slept properly since it had happened; her boyfriend had been taken into custody, not for what he had done to her, but for another killing, one she herself had committed in self-defence. She wasn’t sure how that worked, how Cooke had achieved it, but he had, and now she was safe.
What was the price she had paid? She was to become an Engineer, one of the feared representatives of Cooke Hall. From the bureaucracy of middle management, she was now to enforce the law, and protect the Society, no matter what the cost. How literal was Cooke’s phrasing there? It hardly mattered now; she had made her choice. Cooke had saved her, and in her hospital room she had seen something in him, something... vulnerable, beneath the controlled exterior, and so she had come here to serve the Society, to serve him.
There was a knock at the door. She barely heard it, still in a daze even as she shouted for the knocker to enter. The door opened, admitting a tall, muscular man with a thick crop of blonde hair; the same man who had driven her here a few hours ago.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Lyons.’
‘Good afternoon, Doctor Occam. How can I help you?’
‘Your training will begin tomorrow morning at dawn; you will take breakfast with the trainees and then be given a morning briefing with their class. After that, Master Cooke has requested that you join him for training in the East Dojo.’
‘Where is...’
‘I will be taking the morning briefing, and then I will be more than happy to escort you to the dojo.’
‘What’s a dojo?’
‘That... will be your first lesson. The stewards will bring up whatever you desire for dinner, and then I advise you get some rest and prepare yourself for a long day tomorrow. It will be the first of many.’
‘And if I choose not to?’
‘You are at leisure to explore the building, or the grounds; I would just ask that you do not stray too far from the main house, or you may set off the alarms.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Doctor Occam.’
‘Just Occam is sufficient. You have been accepted by Master Cooke: you are family.’
‘Thank you.’
Occam nodded slightly and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Lyons looked around the room again. It was a bit dull; maybe she could get some of the stuff brought from the apartment. But would she want it, she wondered. It had been there. She shuddered again. Occam was probably right; she needed to rest. If she went to bed now, she could be up early and explore then.
Breakfast was a dull affair, though the food was tastier than she had expected. The recruits dined in one of the smaller dining rooms, still large enough to hold the twenty would-be Engineers and Lyons as they ploughed their way through plates laden with food.
Afterward she followed the crowd to the morning briefing, which was held on the south-east lawn. The recruits, mostly younger than Lyons, having not yet earned the right to wear the distinctive lab coat, were all dressed in black clothing, comfortable and suited for physical activity,. Lyons felt overdressed in the suit she had chosen to wear.
‘Good morning,’ Occam said to the group, standing authoritatively in front of them, his lab coat still despite the morning breeze, suggesting to Lyons that something inside weighted it down. ‘Today you will have the pleasure of helping us move all of the books from North Wing Library to the East Wing Library. I’m afraid that this is not going to make for an exciting day for any of you, but I assure you that your work will be most valued, and that we will try not to keep you any longer than necessary; I suspect you’ll be done no later than three this afternoon, after which I’d advise you all revise for your examinations. You will be briefed by your tutors on when those are, but needless to say, they will be important, as half of you will not be standing before me after them. Doctor Oldham is supervising the library movement, so if you could all go and report to him, that would be very much appreciated.’
The crowd of trainees dispersed quickly, leaving Lyons alone with Occam.
‘Good morning, Miss Lyons.’
‘And to you, Doctor Occam.’ She smiled at him.
‘I remember telling you to drop my title.’
‘You referred to me by mine.’
‘Ah, very good; shall I call you Lyons then? It hardly seems appropriate.’
‘Sophia will do fine.’
‘Jolly good. Do follow me.’ He walked past her, not waiting for her, and re-entered the building. Lyons followed him, struggling to keep up with his long, striding gait.
‘So what is this dojo?’ she asked.
‘A large room, formerly one of the smaller libraries, I believe. It was the first to be transformed from its original purpose.’
‘Where do all the books go? It seems like a lot of libraries get re-designated.’
‘A number of places; mostly they get put in the new Great Library.’
‘And where is that?’
‘An outbuilding on the grounds. Master Cooke designed it himself, so I don’t doubt he will show you it soon enough.’
‘Is there much around here that he doesn’t design?’
‘The majority of Engineers have design duties; most of the weapons technology and security devices are designed by us lowly Doctors now. The Masters tend to turn their skills to loftier projects.’
‘Such as?’
‘Everything and anything. They are a talented bunch, these Masters, or we would call them something else.’ Occam gave a small smile at her bemused look. ‘You will see soon enough.’
‘See wha—’ Lyons began, when Occam stopped abruptly.
‘We’re here. Good luck.’
He turned and left her standing by the door.
‘Occam!’ she shouted after him, and he looked back. ‘Thanks!’
‘See if you’re still thanking me in an hour,’ he said enigmatically, and left.
The door was an unmarked, rather dreary oak affair, much like the rest of the doors in the building; nothing to indicate it was special. Maybe it wasn’t? Maybe ‘dojo’ was just a posh word for cafeteria?
She pushed open the door. Definitely not a cafeteria. The dojo was a large room, its floors and walls lined with bamboo. On either side of the hall were vast weapons racks, loaded with everything from relatively benign swords to bizarre, exotic devices, strangely shaped, with hooks and blades protruding at strange angles.
In centre of the room was a small chess table and two chairs. In one of these sat Master James Cooke, looking pensively at the board.
‘Good morning, Sophia.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘You’ll excuse the pedant in me, Sophia, but ‘sir’ is a salutation used for military personnel. My civilian rank outweighs my military one now.’
‘S-sorry... how should I address you?’
‘Members of this organisation call me Master Cooke; my apprentices just Master.’
‘And am I to be your apprentice?’
‘Yes. I believe I made that clear?’
‘Of course, abundantly; I was just concerned that what happened had made you change your mind.’
‘Why?’
‘I allowed myself to be...’
‘I’ll stop you there, Sophia. You allowed nothing. A thing happened to you that was not your fault. If you blame yourself it will eat you
alive, and I have no intention of permitting that. You are my apprentice.’
‘Very well then, Master.’
‘Thank you. Let’s begin then, shall we?’ Cooke smiled and rose from his chair, his body slowly unfolding. ‘This is a dojo. I imagine you have never heard of such a thing. It is a training ground for a specific form of combat; in the case of this arena, that which does not pertain to the use of firearms. Many ask why I teach my apprentices such techniques in a time of guns and explosives, where to subdue an assailant without using lethal force, or at close quarters, one might only need use a taser or shock baton. My answer to this criticism is simple, though perhaps unclear to one as young as yourself. The skill in using a firearm is limited. I fought in the wars that established this Society, and every one since. In between I have earned my keep by following the whims of my political masters and designing more and more advanced technology that has allowed us to prosper; I have no qualms about saying that much of my work has been groundbreaking. I have bested people with guns with my bare hands, infiltrated fortresses without guns, and killed many men with a sword; men with guns, even at some distance. I cannot guarantee that you will not be taken in your sleep by a man with a gun, I cannot guarantee that a sniper’s round will not take you from two miles away. All I can do is teach you how to close distance effectively and how to defend yourself.’
‘To what end?’
‘Since the dawn of this Society there have been threats to its existence. At every one, me and mine have been there to fight them, and so it will continue, long after my body is extinguished. You are the next in a line of Engineers sworn to protect the Society.’
‘I see. So you’re going to teach me to kill people?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘What you say cannot be done. If it can, I have yet to see an effective way. I will not teach you to kill. I will teach you to fight, and you can learn to kill of your own accord, or not. It is the only way.’
‘You will let me decide when to kill?’
‘Broadly, yes. It is often not a hard choice; the first time will almost certainly be in self defence.’
‘When was yours?’
‘Quite precocious, Sophia.’
‘S-sorry, I didn’t think...’ she stammered, confidence suddenly gone. Had she offended him? Why had she assumed he would want to talk
about it?
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He smiled a thin smile, but it didn’t look forced; just as though he was unaccustomed to doing so. ‘I was fourteen. I was holed up in a flat somewhere, after the evacuation, and things were bad. Before the Others took control, and it was all darkness and mayhem; people were eating anything they could find, disease was rife. Murder was common, and there were even rumours of cannibalism, though I never saw any evidence of that myself. I had food; I looted a store and managed to rig up a refrigerator using a fairly rudimentary dynamo. A group attacked the flat, trying to take what I had; they were older than me, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, but they were stupid and half-crazed by hunger. Those two were large enough an advantage. I managed to push one of them down a stairwell, but I’d hardly count that as my first. The others fought me, and eventually I lost, beaten badly. They left me for dead and ate my food. They slept and I tried to escape. One of them woke up. It would only have been a matter of time before he roused the others, and I couldn’t take another beating. I throttled him with electrical cable.’
‘How...’
‘Did it feel? Interesting. I could tell when he was dead, as if I felt the life leave his body. I took his knife, and what was left of the food, and left. And that was the first. Not the last, by any stretch of the imagination.’
‘Can I ask how many?’
‘You can ask, but I don’t know. It all depends how you measure a kill; up close? With a gun? In a battle? With explosives? Or as a result of all the weapons I’ve designed and built? It doesn’t matter how you measure it though. It’s a lot.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘Not for a second. Each one has been the right decision to make at that point in time. Everything else is just filler.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I’ve got to.’ He gave that same, uncertain smile again, and then suddenly brightened up. ‘Now: today I teach you sword fighting. Shall we begin?’
‘I’ve done some sword fighting before.’
‘Excellent, where?’
‘The Civil Service Gym; seemed like a good idea.’
‘Aha, and how long did you do this for?’
‘Six months.’
‘Okay; fair enough. Go and take a bokken from the rack over there, would you please?’
Lyons walked to the rack Cooke had indicated and took the first bokken she saw, picked up the white oak sword and feeling its comforting weight and solidity in her hands.
‘You are familiar with the bokken?’
‘Yes. It’s a training sword.’
‘These days. But it was not always such. The bokken is a powerful weapon in itself, if a good enough one is in the right hands. More than capable of besting a lesser warrior with a metal weapon.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do indeed.’ Cooke smiled. ‘Now; show me what you know.’
‘You’re unarmed.’
‘I am. I wouldn’t let that stop you.’
‘I don’t want to hit you.’
‘A foolish decision. Take off your jacket,’ he instructed, and she shrugged off the suit jacket.
‘Good. In future, I’d recommend more practical clothing. Now. Strike me down, if you can.’
Lyons moved, making an overhead strike. Cooke stepped aside before the blade hit him, but the distance was narrow.
‘Not good enough, Sophia.’
She adjusted herself, adopting a defensive stance in front of him once more and taking a deep breath. He was quick; she’d have to try something more complicated. The sword instructors had always said she was a good student. She darted forward, lunging with the sword. He bent aside, avoiding the blade. She brought it around, undeterred, in a side swipe across his body. His back bent sharply away from Lyons as he dodged the weapon, and she brought it back up for a quick overhead strike this time; there was no way he could avoid this one, not with his back bent like that.
The blade arced down; it was going to strike his stomach, and would easily put him to the floor, but she accelerated it nonetheless, not willing to take any chances. She wasn’t sure what happened next. One second he was bent practically double and backwards, facing up at the blade, and the next his body curved aside, out of the way of the blade, forcing its arc into the floor as he stood upright in front of her, as if he hadn’t moved during the entire exchange.
‘Good, you’ve got some moves. This time, I’ll be fighting back.’
‘Yes, Master.’ She took stance, trying to use the techniques she had learnt in the gym to focus her mind. This was terrifying; Occam’s cryptic comment about her soon seeing the Masters’ talent was repeating in her ears. She was almost certain Cooke wouldn’t kill her, but how much pain would he be willing to subject her to in the name of education? She steeled herself against the coming fight, confident that the worst of her life was now behind her, she may lose, but she wasn’t going to be a disappointment.
She lunged forward, faster than before, and again he was out of the way before the blade got near; she moved into a second strike but he was already inside her guard, one hand gripping her shoulder, lifting her and throwing her to the ground.
‘Again,’ he ordered and she got to her feet, taking stance for only the briefest of movements before attacking again. He dodged two attacks, quickly, too quickly for a human being to move, and then his fist barrelled past her defences, striking her in the chin and again she was on the floor, nursing the wound.
‘Again.’
She grabbed the sword from the floor and scrambled to her feet, swinging harder and faster than before, grunting with exertion as she put her all into the fight. It still wasn’t enough: he moved just the tiniest bit faster than the blade, no matter how hard she attacked.
‘Good. Now you’re trying.’ He leapt a low swing, kicking out at her and she just had the presence of mind to step backwards. Retreat was a wise move, but countering was wiser, she knew, and she raised her sword, taking advantage of his moment of reduced balance as he landed and the increased momentum of her moving forward to make the powerful overhead strike.
He didn’t even look as his hand shot up, blocking the sword on the edge of his closed palm. His leg rose and his foot struck her just below the ribs, winding her. The sword clattered to the ground.
‘Well done. Today’s first lesson; do not underestimate your opponent.’
‘Yes, Master,’ she said during exhalations from her wheezing.
‘How did I beat you?’
‘I had you at the last, but you’re too strong; you just took the sword blow.’
‘I’m too strong?’ Cooke asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And what determines strength?’
‘Training, muscle mass.’
‘Good, rudimentary biology. Now look at me.’
Lyons looked up at Cooke. He was not a young man anymore; he had been fighting since he was fourteen, but that was twenty years ago. Time had certainly taken its toll on him, greying and thinning his hair, sinking his cheeks and forming huge bags under his eyes; he may have been in his mid-thirties, but he could easily have been mistaken for twice that age.
Slowly, with great care, he removed his lab coat and placed it delicately on the back of the chair he had been sat on. Beneath it he was wearing a pair of loose black trousers and a black T-shirt that seemed to somehow contradict his entire personality.
What was more interesting was what the T-shirt revealed; his arms, fully exposed, were emaciated, almost completely lacking muscle mass, and from the size of his torso, it seemed as though the rest of his body was much the same. There was nothing about him to indicate where his strength and speed had come from.
‘How can you do that?’
‘I have trained my entire life. When I was young I was taught to fence. During the time under the Others, I learnt to fight on the streets of Bristol, where my name and my wealth meant nothing. During the war against the Others, I learnt to be a marksman with a pistol and a rifle, and how to defend myself with a sabre or katana. During the Faction War I studied, partly from the few masters that remained and partly from books, a wide variety of martial arts. Since then, I have devoted my life to the service of the state, through whatever means necessary. My power over you in this arena is simply one of knowledge. Knowledge of how to dodge; the most efficient way to avoid each type of blow from each position; the ways to block swords with your bare hands without sustaining injury.’
‘It’s all about knowledge?’
‘Apply force in the right place and in the right way and you will need far less of it.’
‘How much less of it?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’ He picked up his lab coat once more and put it back on. ‘Your skills with a sword are good, but your training is limited and rudimentary. Today we will do kata training for three hours, then I will let you rest.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Cooke reached the door of his study and slid a key from the recesses of his lab coat, slipping it into the lock and turning it before he opened the door. There were far more sophisticated ways of securing a door, but he remained a fan of more simple mechanics, which could not be rewritten or overridden easily.
He locked the door behind him and stepped into the darkness.
‘Desk,’ he muttered, and the room was illuminated by a warm orange light from an art-deco lamp on his desk.
He sat down and gave a small sigh. He loved this study, with its eccentric angles and secret entrances. The main level, on which he now sat, housed his desk, two chess boards, one with a game currently in play, a series of bookshelves; his own private library — though of course he owned all the books on the Cooke Estate — and a series of screens, each protruding from a bookshelf, wall or floor on a silver bracket that enabled them to be viewed without them obstructing anything else; like most of the technology in the room, he had been reluctant to install it, preferring to maintain the aesthetic appeal of the his grandfather’s office with its oak panels and art deco furniture, only allowing those pieces of equipment that were either invisible, as with the light controls, or essential to do his job. Most of these were found on the second level of the study, accessed by a staircase behind him; the second level held two holographic panels, one for sending and one for receiving holographic communications, a workbench which he could use for designing technology, and a small armoury, containing in progress weapons, as well as some of his favourite completed ones; some his work, some that of his students.
‘All screens,’ he declared, and the various screens dotted around the room activated, each displaying a different piece of information; one his schedule, others reports from different engineers or other branches of the government. One held his e-mails, others schematics of various buildings or weapons; he could bring any piece of information in the Society instantly onto any of the screens, and then navigate them either through vocal commands, or through the touch-sensitive screen. He hated the idea of a desktop computer, one which was anchored to the desk, ruining the appeal of a potentially beautiful piece of furniture, but, unfortunately, time marched ever onwards, and some concessions had to be made; albeit reluctantly.
‘Schedule, Master Terry McInnes, desk screen.’
Holographic projectors around the room formed a crystal clear image of the requested document in the air in front of him, and he read it quickly.
‘Find and contact Master McInnes, please.’
‘Requested individual is in Cooke Hall; study of Master McInnes.’
‘Not surprising.’
‘Do you wish to contact this individual?’
‘Yes, please.’
There was a pause while the computer worked; still not as quickly as he might like, and then the round, friendly face of Terry McInnes appeared in front of him, where the document had been a moment before.
‘James, what can I do for you?’ McInnes, one of Cooke’s oldest friends, and his partner in running the WTDD, asked genially.
‘Nothing much, Terry, just calling you for a chat.’
‘How nice of you. How was the new girl?’
‘Good; she learns quickly, and her sword work is coming along faster than expected.’
‘Someone who exceeds your expectations, James? How rare.’
‘Thank you, Terry, for your reproachful tone.’
‘Hey, what are friends for? What about your concerns?’
‘I think she blames herself, but she’s coming to grips with the reality of the situation, much better than I could honestly have expected.’
‘You’re sure it’s not too soon?’
‘She’s functioning, which is frankly amazing, given what she’s been through, and she wants to be here. Until she says otherwise I’m happy to allow her do so; I’m not about to force anything on her.’
‘Good. Do try not to be too convincing, though, would you?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know what I mean. You have this tendency towards turning people into mini versions of you.’
‘Firstly, that’s not true, and secondly, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Say what you like about its truthfulness, but you’re a morally bankrupt bastard, Cooke.’
‘Thanks, I’m here all year; and that’s not true either.’
‘No, it isn’t, and that’s the scary part. You’ve got an over-developed sense of morality and yet you still decide to murder people.’
‘For the greater good.’
‘Many have said that in the past.’
‘They didn’t have you to keep them in line. If I go too far, you’ll have me executed.’
‘I’d rather not execute you myself, but I doubt there are many others capable these days.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we?’
‘Indeed. What are your plans for the girl tomorrow?’
‘Simulation training, then I’m going to show her the baby.’
‘Covenant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early for that? You know how people react to it...’
‘You mean, “You know how Verity reacted to it,” Terry, and yes I do.’
‘Then why?’
‘Verity was on her way out already, this just pushed her over the edge. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for what I did to Julia.’
‘That makes two of you. What’re you going to do about her? Rumour has it she’s planning to meet with Chiswick.’
‘He’ll never agree to see her; he’ll think it’s a trap.’
‘Maybe, but he might just be desperate enough to do it, if you keep on the way you are.’
‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘You’re fighting him, muscling in on his territory.’
‘I’ve been asked to. By his Lordship.’
‘Semantics, James. Chiswick’s a twisted bastard fucked up by the coup, with no moral centre and no regard for who he hurts.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Everything you’ve built here can be destroyed all too quickly if you get involved in a crusade to avenge Kay.’
‘That’s not what this is.’
‘Good. I can’t be having with a Holy War at my time of life; especially not with Verity Robbins on the wrong side of it.’
‘I know. There won’t be a war, Terry.’
‘Good. I’ve got to go and report to Senator Thatcher on the status of the Nautilus refit, and why it’s so far behind, so I’ll have to leave you to your work now, if that’s alright.’
‘Of course. Give Hannah my best.’
‘Will do.’ McInnes’ head vanished and Cooke was once again alone. He sighed to himself and spoke once again to the computer.
‘Send short message, closest device. Recipient Miss Adler. Message content: Are you busy? Send message.’ He waited a few moments at his desk before opening its bottom drawer, removing a small bottle of whisky and a crystal glass.
Drinking was not outlawed among Engineers; and he could see no reason why it should be, but it simply would not do for the great Master Cooke to be seen to have any vice at all. They were quite foolish, really, the others; blinded by their own faith in him. He didn’t doubt that he was extraordinary, but he was still human at his core. Unlike McInnes, whose intellect more than equalled his own, his capacity for thought had been garnered at the high price of a turbulent childhood and destructive, borderline insane, adolescence; only at the age of nineteen, during the Kensington Coup, did he overcome these disabilities and become a functioning member of Society. Before that, he thought, a single glass of whisky of an evening would have been unthinkable. So, too would a single bottle of the stuff.
He crossed to the chess board that was in the middle of a game and set the glass down alongside the pieces. A message appeared in the air in front of him in bright green letters, illuminated against darkness of the room.
Papers to read, dinner alone.
In the darkness, Cooke smiled.
Lyons jogged around the grounds of Cooke Hall. The earth beneath her feet was moist from the earlier rain, and flicked droplets of water onto her exposed legs.
Every joint in her body was screaming at her in protest; she shouldn’t be pushing so hard, she knew, after the exertions of the day. Four hours of training in the morning, then an all too brief lunch, a session on martial philosophy in one of the libraries, then another three hours of fighting. She had learnt a lot, but her body would come out in bruises by the end of the day for certain, for which she had no special preference.
It would not be the first time she had been so badly bruised, but it would be the best; Cooke had explained everything, and had taken no apparent pleasure in administering it. She would go to bed tonight exhausted, and sleep well, ready to awake tomorrow morning and gleefully accept more punishment.
She stopped and looked back up at the house; it was a vast edifice, and many of the lights were still on, glowing brightly in the night as Engineers worked away at their various pursuits despite the hour. She wondered which light, if any, was Cooke’s, and what he did with his evenings.
It was getting late, and she had an early start tomorrow; best she headed back to the house and went to bed. She set back off at a jog.
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Engineer
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Part Two
Michael Chiswick, head of the Special Services division of the PFS military, strolled onto the trading floor of the Society’s largest investment bank, flanked by three men dressed all in black.
The security guards didn’t move to stop them, and everybody made a point of looking away as they passed, not wanting to see their faces.
The floor bustled with traders buying and selling shares. Chiswick himself had never taken any real interest in how the economy worked; as long as it did, it was none of his business. He spied the man he was here to see a few metres away and approached the trader, who was waving his arms frantically, trying like his colleagues to maximise the profit he made for his firm that day in the fiercely competitive arena of the floor.
‘Good morning, David.’ Chiswick spoke softly, but his voice cut through the noisy discussion and hubbub of the trading floor.
The man turned around. ‘Hi. Who’re you?’
‘My name is Michael Chiswick; I’m here to help you.’
‘Oh yeah, and what makes you think I need help?’
‘You stand accused of a murder, and you were attacked. I hope to rectify both of these situations for you.’
‘And why would you want to do that?’
‘It’s in my interest to see that justice is served. Do you remember anything of the man who attacked you?’
‘No. Just like I told the Guard.’
‘Of course, of course. Perhaps if you’d like to go with these gentlemen, they’ll be able to help you with your little memory problem.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘You don’t have a lot of choice.’ One of the men stepped forward and stabbed a shock baton into the trader’s side, causing him to collapse, spasming uncontrollably even as Chiswick’s men dragged him out of the building. His colleagues quickly turned back to their business, developing memory problems of their own.
Sophia Lyons leaned on the bar, a martini in front of her and a busy dance floor behind. She checked her equipment underneath her jacket and sighed; it would only be a matter of time before—
There came a scream from the dance floor and Lyons snatched her taser from her belt as she turned, raising it and barging through the crowd to see a young woman lying on the ground, blood gushing from her neck. She ran towards the woman, but didn’t bother tending to the body. There were other people for that. There was a gap in the crowd to her left, where her quarry was forcing an exit; she raised the taser again, but as she aimed water began to fall from the ceiling; he had smashed the fire alarm and activated the sprinklers. Very clever.
She ran after him as he headed to the upper level, taking the stairs two at a time; she reached the top of the steps to see her target jumping through the window at the end of the corridor and out of the building.
Holstering her taser, Lyons crossed the room and leapt lithely through the gap in the window, dropping to the ground. She reached again for her weapon as she rose, but it was too late; a shot rang out from behind her and she felt death take her.
Sophia Lyons leaned on the bar, a martini in front of her and a busy dance floor behind. She checked her equipment underneath her jacket and sighed. The scream rang out from behind her and she drew the taser, this time using it to clear a path to the front door. She reached it just as the sprinklers went off behind her and barrelled out into the street, weapon still raised. Around the corner she heard glass smashing and ran to it. A bullet struck the wall beside her as she turned the corner and she leapt back, narrowly missed by the second shot.
A car engine revved up and she knew what came next. A chase through the city was dangerous without backup, but she had no choice at this stage. She turned away from the noise of the car and went back to the entrance.
Her bike, a yellow Fireblade, stood waiting by the door and she waved a hand at it. The engine started and the stand began to fold up as she leapt onto the bike, kicking it into gear and squeezing the accelerator.
The car shot out of the alleyway beside her and she span the bike around to pursue it, grabbing her radio with one hand.
‘All law enforcement agencies, this is Sophia Lyons of the WTDD; am in pursuit of a silver Mercedes. Request backup from any available units. Be advised, target is needed alive.’
Lyons weaved her bike in and out of traffic, avoiding the bullets that whined past her. She couldn’t fire conventional firearms if she wanted the target alive, but her taser would be useless against an automobile.
‘Lyons to any available Engineers; please advise how to proceed.’
And the world vanished.
Sophie Lyons opened her eyes and looked up at the grim face of Doctor Bernard Occam.
‘Nice try, Sophia; you’ll do better next time.’
‘I’ve been trying for a week; he always gets away.’
‘True. Asking for advice isn’t the best move though; you’ll fail if you try it.’
‘So I see.’
Occam extended a hand and she took it, allowing him to help her out of the device she had been immersed in.
She looked back at the Artificial Reality Chamber — or ARC, as it was called by the Engineers — and wondered at its design. The small silver capsule made everything feel so... real.
‘There are other tests, right?’
‘Oh plenty.’ Cooke said, standing in the doorway. ‘Having fun, Sophia?’
‘Yes, Master. I have had a most... educational afternoon.’
‘Good. Care to risk life and limb?’
‘Yes, Master,’ Lyons replied with a smile.
‘Good. Follow me.’ Cooke turned and stalked from the room, his lab coat trailing away behind him. In her time here, Lyons had come to associate the lab coat, traditionally a symbol of suspicion or even fear in the society, with the warmth the Engineers had shown her and the wisdom Cooke had conveyed to her.
She followed him diligently through the corridors, the task of keeping up with him easier now than it had been when she first arrived here, until he took a sudden left turn; she had been expecting him to carry on.
‘We’re not going to the dojo?’ she asked, a touch disappointed; she felt she was making progress with her training.
‘No. This will be more interesting, I promise you.’ They reached a door, secured by a keypad lock, and Cooke quickly tapped in the long access code. The green light above the pad clicked on and he pushed open the door, revealing a staircase directly inside, leading down.
‘After you, Sophia,’ he said, gesturing for her to go first. She walked through the door, descending cautiously; they were already on the ground floor, which meant she was heading underground. Her few weeks of training were already affecting Lyons’ instincts; she felt herself tensing, ready to fight if necessary.
The staircase opened out at the bottom, into a large room. It was not, as she had been expecting, a dojo, or a room full of explosive traps, or anything else designed to teach her a lesson in evasion or violence. Instead, a long line of vehicles stretched away from her to the far side; mostly high performance or luxury cars.
‘What is this place?’
‘The secondary garage; the less practical vehicles are kept here, mostly those owned by the Masters,’ Cooke explained, a thin smile forming on his face as he observed her awe. ‘The jeeps and suchlike are kept in the primary garage, under the East Wing.’
‘Oh.’
The Master passed her, going over to a coat stand; he took off his lab coat and hung it up. He pulled down two leather jackets, one black and one tan, from the rack, and quickly put on the black one. He threw her the other and she caught it.
‘Should be your size.’
‘Going to an easy rider convention, are we?’
Cooke turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised.
‘Master,’ she added quickly.
‘Good; I’ve rigged up one of the cycles for you.’ He took her around the cars to where two motorcycles stood waiting in front of one of the ramps that led out of the garage. They were both of much the same design, Fireblades like the one in the simulator, but one sat lower to the ground; she assumed this was to be hers.
‘There’s a pistol under the seat, loaded with training ammo,’ he told her, throwing his leg over the taller bike and sitting down. He checked his gauges for a second before thumbing a button on the tiny dash.
In front of Cooke the garage door started to open automatically.
‘Try and kill me.’ He drew a pistol from the holster by his thigh and kicked the bike into life, tearing away from her.
‘This sort of thing never used to happen in my old job,’ Lyons remarked, grabbing her weapon from beneath the seat and getting on. Chasing the old master was no doubt a stupid and fruitless task, but he had told her to do it, and she wasn’t about to refuse. Besides, it might be fun.
She turned the key in the ignition and the bike flared into life. She kicked it into gear and leaned into the handlebars as it shot forward, quickly upping the gears and accelerating after the Master.
Gripping the throttle tensely with her right hand, she held the gun in her left as she turned into the great driveway of Cooke Hall. She could see Cooke in front of her, his jacket flapping in the wind.
She looked away from him for a moment and down at the gun in her hand. Training ammo. Occam had explained it to her; it fired a pulse of some kind — she didn’t really understand — that would know if it hit the target, in this case Cooke, and relay this information back to the gun. The gun didn’t fire real ammo, but the recoil was real enough, so it made for a good simulation, Occam said.
Reaching the gate she turned to follow him. He was moving slower than her, and she would catch him easily, but at close range the disadvantage he suffered aiming behind himself would be overcome by his superior skill with a gun. She raised her right arm and snapped off a single shot at his exposed broadside as he turned. Her arm jerked back with the recoil, taking the force rather than trying to fight it; the less painful way to operate a weapon, but foolish when riding a motorcycle, she realised, as the bike skidded laterally for a few feet before she wrested control of it again.
She leant further into the handlebars and twisted the accelerator once more, forcing another quick burst of speed as she reached the end of the driveway and pulled onto the single-track road that led to Cooke Hall.
She saw Cooke’s motorcycle pulling around the corner; he wasn’t far away now. She raised the pistol again as she tore into the corner, half expecting what was to follow. As she rose from the turn she caught a glimmer of the shining white bike out of the corner of her eye, quickly snapping two shots off as she hurtled past it.
‘Shit!’ she muttered, and heard Cooke’s voice, a memory from her lesson only yesterday: Be mindful while pursuing that you do not find yourself out of control, forced to become the prey, and not the hunter.
She heard the sound of Cooke’s bike behind her; he would easily be able to get off a killing shot if he wanted to, but was holding back, as he always did. She opened the throttle into a burst of acceleration, the noise of her own engine rising in volume to drown out Cooke’s. The wind blew back her hair and she leaned into the handlebars, trying to eke more speed out of the vehicle while staying in control.
She leaned into a corner and the front wheel hit a clutch of loose stones. The world shook violently for a few moments. Lyons gripped the handlebars in desperation, leaning against the turn now to try and right the vehicle as she cycled down the gears and gently applied the breaks, trying to decrease the velocity with which she crashed The bike would not right itself, its velocity now not dependent on the wheels as it bounced into the air and slammed back into the ground a couple of yards further down the road, jolting Lyons’ hands from the accelerator and brakes.
Lyons stared at the bush, fearing what now seemed inevitable, and the world jammed suddenly to a halt, a few feet from the hedgerow. Shaking and bewildered, she squeezed her legs together experimentally; the bike was still there. She felt a gentle sensation on her shoulder and looked around. Cooke, his bike discarded in the middle of the road, stood beside her, one hand gripping her shoulder and the other holding her now immobile bike, both of them stopped in their path by his intervention.
‘Going too slow is better than going too fast, Miss Lyons,’ he told her, thoughtfully.
‘Yes, Master. I will bear that in mind.’
‘Good. Now...’ Cooke trailed off, looking around. He could have sworn he heard a voice.
He heard it again, this time more clearly, and realised that the speaker was not present. He held up his index finger, indicating to Lyons to wait a minute, and turned away from her, walking a few yards before responding in a hushed voice.
‘Verity?’
‘Ah, you’re there,’ said Verity Robbins, her gentle voice edged with sarcasm.
‘Of course I am, you’re transmitting your voice directly into my ears.’
‘You might have left them at home this morning. Or just pretended not to be able to hear me while you’re out and about with the Lyons girl.’
‘Spying on me, Verity? That’s awfully rude of you; I may have to rethink my policy of not mutilating you.’
‘I prefer “espionage” — it’s got such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’ she replied happily.
‘What do you want, Verity? I seem to remember you “never wanting ever to speak to me again”. Or was that just a dream?’
‘Only in your dreams will I ever come back to Cooke Hall, James, but at the moment I need your help. I’ve just been informed of an assassination attempt.’
‘So tell the Civilian Guard; why bother lowering yourself to talking to me?’ he demanded suspiciously.
‘It’s Julia. I hoped you still cared enough about her to...’
‘I’ll handle it. Don’t interfere,’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Good luck, Master Cooke.’
Cooke turned back to Lyons. ‘Something’s come up, an emergency; go back to the Hall and wait for me there, I won’t be long.’
‘Master?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s important. I’ll explain later.’ He leapt onto his bike again and sped off down the road.
‘Go back to the Hall?’ Lyons asked aloud, ‘Not bloody likely.’
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Part Three
Senator Robbins swiped her identity card through the scanner and the electric doors opened in front of her. She walked outside and her phone began to ring; she took it from its belt clip and glanced at the screen to see who was calling.
‘Senator Robbins?’
She looked up, dropping the phone quickly into the holster; she would call Cooke back later.
‘Yes?’ She didn’t recognise the man, and the ill-fitting suit he wore couldn’t have been the choice of anyone who cared about his appearance; it could only serve to conceal weapons. Another man was approaching from the right, similarly attired. Stupid, she thought to herself. Should have answered the phone, or at least looked at who was coming before holstering it.
‘It seems you have some powerful enemies.’
‘Powerful enough to risk assassinating a Senator in broad daylight?’
‘We’re protected.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it. Who do you work for?’
‘We wouldn’t be very good hit men if we knew that.’ They slipped weapons from their jackets; slender black pistols with silencers screwed to the ends.
‘I suppose not, no.’
Robbins could just hear the dull roar of an engine overhead - like a low flying aircraft - growing louder with every passing second.
Something struck the man on Robbins’ right, a white blur falling from the sky at speed, tumbling along the ground and taking the would-be assassin with it until it struck one wall of the Senate building, a tangled mess of metal tied up with the man’s corpse.
A hand snaked around the neck of the second man and gripped his jaw, quickly tugging to the right. The man died as his neck broke, and the newcomer dropped him to the ground.
‘Hello, Julia.’
‘Master Cooke, to what do owe the pleasure?’
‘Well, you were being attacked, thought I’d pop in and say hi.’
‘Very nice of you; I see you’ve written off your motorcycle though.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it, I have a spare.’
‘You always have a spare.’ She smiled at him, but Cooke frowned with concern, a device in his ear beeping frantically.
‘Now what?’
He stepped forward, put his arms around her and tapped his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand.
A hemisphere of green light appeared in the air around them. A moment later a nearby car exploded, showering the area with flame and hot metal shrapnel. As Cooke held Robbins the devastation tore apart the area around them but left them unscathed, protected by the shield.
The firelight flickered dimly outside the barrier for a few more seconds and then vanished as the fire ran out of fuel and extinguished itself. Cooke tapped his arm again and the barrier vanished.
He looked down at Robbins, gratitude on her beaming face.
‘Just like old times, eh?’ she asked, cheerily. He nodded gently and looked around. Around a dozen more men were running towards them, guns raised. They hadn’t fired yet, their weapons just out of range, but they would close the gap quickly.
He looked back down at her; she had seen them too, and slipped her arms around his waist, gripping the hilts of two pistols contained within his coat.
‘Just like old times.’ Cooke smiled his thin smile and stepped back. Robbins brought the guns around and fired two shots from each; the nearest two attackers fell, and before the others could react, Cooke had drawn two more pistols. Robbins span to her left and Cooke slipped behind her so they stood back to back.
The first rounds from their attackers’ guns whizzed past the two of them and a trace of a smile flashed across Cooke’s face as he returned fire. One of the fallen men pushed himself onto his knees, raising his pistol, and Robbins placed another shot neatly into his head before turning her attention to the others. Between herself and Cooke it was only a few moments before the area was clear.
Civilian Guard vehicles swerved to a halt nearby and guardsmen piled out, some stopping to check the bodies and the remainder approaching the two survivors.
Cooke raised his black pentagon and Robbins flashed her Senate ID.
‘Very well,’ the captain in charge murmured, disappointed that he had no-one to arrest, ‘but I’m going to have to take your weapons.’
‘No problem.’ Cooke handed over his pistols and Robbins did the same. A sergeant approached them.
‘Master Cooke, there’s a young woman outside our perimeter wanting to speak with you; she says that she’s your apprentice.’
‘Let her through,’ Cooke ordered.
‘Excuse me, Cooke,’ the captain retorted, ‘you may be beyond my power to arrest, but this is a crime scene and hence the responsibility of the Civilian Guard; you have no authority to give orders to my men.'
‘Au contraire; I am a member of the executive council and I hold the rank of Colonel. Whilst I am, of course, grateful for the ex-post assistance of your men, Captain, my men will conduct the investigation into this attempt on the life of Senator Robbins.’
‘This is most irregular,’ the captain grumbled.
‘Perhaps. It is, nonetheless, completely legal.’
Lyons arrived, pushing past the guardsmen.
‘Master, what happened?’
‘You failed to follow my instructions, Miss Lyons. Normally I take a dim view of such things, but perhaps you will have learnt something from this.’ Cooke turned to Robbins, ‘Senator; someone from Cooke Hall will be along to interview you later on; are you alright to get home?’
‘Of course, Master Cooke. Thank you for your help.’ Robbins smiled.
‘Excellent; you are free to go. Captain; if your men wouldn’t mind remaining here until a team of Engineers arrives, I would be very much obliged.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Good; Miss Lyons and I will leave now, my team will be along shortly.’ Cooke said, and led Lyons away from the crime scene.
‘What happened?’
‘The former Master Robbins contacted me and said her sister was about to be attacked by the mob. I had to save her, but now I suspect that there was something more to it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I suspect it was a trap, that the attack on Julia was a front; I think someone’s after me.’
‘Who, Master?’
‘I don’t know. It could be Verity herself, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but it’s not really her style to put her sister at risk. All we can hope is that Doctor Occam can uncover our enemy before their plans can come to fruition.’
‘You won’t conduct the investigation yourself?’
‘No; if it is Verity my views are too biased, and she knows me too well.’
‘She was an apprentice of yours?’
‘Yes. One of the best, and she was quickly made a master; eventually she betrayed my trust and has been living underground, beyond my reach, ever since.’
Lyons contemplated this silently.
‘Let’s go home, Miss Lyons; I doubt you’re particularly in the mood for more instruction today.’
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Part Four
A six-foot tall hologram of Doctor Occam appeared on the floor of McInnes’ study, where Cooke and McInnes sat in armchairs, watching the projection.
‘Sirs,’ he said, addressing the masters, ‘I have traced the materials used in the car bomb back to a bomb-maker in Knowle; he has been known to work with the mob in the past. I’d like permission to send in a team, but I am concerned that the situation may be extremely dangerous.’
‘Given the amount of effort they went to in order to kill Senator Robbins, it seems likely,’ McInnes agreed.
‘Yes, but we cannot afford to lose this lead; if they realise that we’re pursuing them they might go to ground,’ Cooke told him. ‘I’ll meet your team there in two hours; two teams will be enough, I suspect.’
An hour later Cooke had finished picking the lock on the apartment block door. Slipping his lockpicks back into the pocket of his jacket, he stepped inside and looked around. He spotted a security camera and waved a hand at it. The red light on the side dimmed into nothingness, and Cooke walked away. Before he left the Hall he had read the brief on the target, scribbled the details urgently onto a notepad and sped away, keen to beat Occam’s team there. By rights he knew that he should wait for support, but by rights he should never have taken the investigation from the Guard. Either someone was trying to get to him, or someone was trying to get to Julia, and neither of these were acceptable to him; this was personal now.
He climbed the steps to the third floor. He pushed open the door and looked out onto the corridor; buildings such as this had sprung up all over the PFS after the Coup, designed to hold the Society’s burgeoning population, and as such their layout was identical. The target apartment was at the end of this corridor.
Cooke drew his pistol and advanced down the corridor. He reached the door and stood outside quietly for a moment, listening. A high frequency beeping was the only sound he could hear.
It took a moment before the Master identified the noise as not coming from the room beyond the door but from the earpiece in his own left ear, but in that moment it became too late.
The door in front of him gave way to a yellow fireball as the bomb inside went off, the force of the explosion throwing Cooke back down the corridor. He crashed through the door behind him and back out into the stairwell, smashing into the concrete wall opposite and falling forward, into the stairwell.
As he fell through the space between the stairs he tried to stop himself, scrabbling for a purchase on a banister but succeeding only in redirecting his fall so that his legs collided forcibly with the rail of the next floor down before he continued on his descent, smashing face first into the ground.
He slid his hands out from under him and pushed himself up. Men had entered the building; from his prone position he could just see three pairs of legs. They must have known he was coming, rigged the bomb to explode when he got close enough; but that was impossible, surely? Who had the power to observe his movements that closely? Not even Stanford was that influential.
His pistol was gone, lost somewhere on the trip from the door to here. He had a spare, but somehow he doubted he could retrieve the weapon from his coat before they shot him.
The men were close now, looking down at him. Through the ringing in his ears Cooke could just make out the sound of laughter.
He grunted painfully as he pushed himself up from the ground and into the air, landing on his feet in a single motion, though less gracefully than he would have liked.
His vision was blurry, but in the half second it took the men to react to his sudden movement he was able to tap a combination into his armlet; he felt his energy drain as their bullets flew around him, deflected by the technology implanted within his body.
He reached for his gun, taking advantage of his temporary immunity, and drew it quickly, emptying the clip in a broad arc as he did so. One shot hit a man in the leg and two hit another in the chest, sending both men down, one of them permanently.
The third man fired again and Cooke’s shields defended him once more. The Engineer dropped to one knee, his energy all but spent, and his empty pistol fell from his hands.
A shot rang out at the end of the corridor and Cooke watched hazily as the third man fell to the ground. He managed to focus on the figure advancing toward him, in particular on the long green trench coat they were wearing. The beeping in his ear began again.
‘Cabot!’ he shouted hurriedly, summoning the last of his strength to issue a warning. ‘Bomb!’ Cabot dived aside and the second bomb detonated, slamming Cooke into the wall once more.
McInnes ran out to meet Cabot’s jeep as it swerved violently to a halt outside Cooke Hall. He had sent the majority of the Engineers to their quarters, needing to be the first to see what Cabot was carrying with him, and only Master Bishop accompanied him.
‘Liam,’ he said in greeting as the younger man exited the jeep.
‘Terry; he’s breathing and flickering in and out of consciousness, not sure how long he’ll last... I didn’t know what to do.’
‘You brought him to the right place.’ McInnes went around to the passenger side of the jeep and threw open the door. Cooke was sat up in the seat, his eyes barely open.
‘James. What happened?’
‘Bombs. Two of them. And they shot at me.’
‘If they’d shot you it would have been easier; you know how much energy the shield uses. It’s a wonder you’re alive.’
‘Pen... Terry.’
‘Of course.’ McInnes slipped a slim black metal object from his pocket and reached across to Cooke’s right arm. He pulled back the sleeve of the injured man’s lab coat, slightly charred at the edges, revealing a bronze plate, surgically attached to his forearm. He spun the black pen through his fingers and positioned it against the plate, squeezing it gently.
Cooke exhaled sharply.
‘That’s better.’ He swung his legs out of the car and got to his feet. ‘Let’s get inside; you can berate me there.’
They made their way to McInnes’ study, and Cooke slumped into an armchair while McInnes locked the door.
‘Seriously, James; how stupid do you have to be to go after the mob on your own?’
‘I would have been fine if they hadn’t blown me up...’
‘Ah yes, of course; but they did. If Cabot hadn’t come after you, they would have killed you.’
‘You sent Cabot, I presume?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t wait for Occam’s team.’
‘I doubt it would have made a lot of difference. They knew I was coming. Thank you, though.’
‘Not a problem. One of these days you’ll have to learn to let go of the past.’
‘The past makes us who we are. To forget it is to forget ourselves.’
‘You’ve achieved wonderful things, James, but as a human being you’re diabolical; forgetting some of that may not be such a bad thing.’
‘Ah, touché.’
There was a knocking at the door.
‘Who is it?’ McInnes asked.
‘It’s me,’ Cabot answered. McInnes waved one hand in front of the door and it unlocked.
‘Come in.’
Cabot opened the door and smiled apologetically at the two masters.
‘Sorry to bother you, but I thought you’d want to know; a warrant has been issued for the attempt on Senator Robbins’ life.’
‘Who?’
‘You’re not going to like it. On the basis of a testimony by a member of the mob, members of the Civilian Guard are moving in to arrest Richard Davison.’
‘Richard? What possible motive could he have?’
‘Apparently he’s an anarchist.’
‘Yes, I can see how a man who searches for patterns in everything he sees but is generally unconcerned with affairs of state would want to plunge the society he helped create into anarchy.’
‘He is a little odd.’
‘He was in the Unity Alliance, Liam. He’s being framed.’
‘That’ll all come out once he’s been brought in.’
‘If he’s brought in. He’ll not have any difficulty wiping out whichever squad you send,’ Cooke mused thoughtfully.
‘I might advise, Master Cooke, that you use your influence to ensure that does not happen,’ Cabot responded darkly.
‘Very well. Thank you for providing me with this invaluable evidence.’ Cooke paused for a moment, then added, ‘No doubt you have important work to be getting on with?’
‘Yes, Master Cooke,’ Cabot bowed out of the room. McInnes looked at Cooke, and raised one eyebrow, quizzically.
‘You’ve got that look on your face, James.’
‘What look is that exactly, Terry?’
‘The look that says you’re about to outthink someone far stupider than you.’
‘I doubt it. I suspect I’m about to walk into a trap.’
‘Aha. Those are very similar looks: I apologise.’
‘Good.’ Cooke was on his feet in an instant, snatching up the phone on McInnes’ desk and dialling quickly. The call was answered in two rings.
‘Richard, it’s James and there’s no time for pleasantries. Men are coming for you. They believe you tried to kill Julia. Get out of your apartment and go into hiding; I’ll protect you as best I can. You know what to do.’ He put the phone down.
‘I think Liam meant for you to ask Davison to hand himself in peacefully.’ McInnes told him.
‘Oh, really? A shame I misunderstood that.’
‘James...’ McInnes began reproachfully.
‘Yes, Terry?’
‘You know I don’t have a problem with you trying to protect our friends-’
‘Then we don’t have a problem here. If Richard is guilty of attacking Julia then I’ll find out and I think we both know I’ll kill him myself. If he isn’t, whoever’s setting him up will have to play their hand if they want to get any further with this.’
‘Alright, James; we’ll play this your way, but if anything else goes wrong we’re going to have to rethink our strategy.’
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Part Five
It was dark outside when the limousine pulled up beside the PFS High Court. The chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for his employer. Black silk rustled as Michael Chiswick emerged from the vehicle, a folder held in one hand and a smile on his face.
‘Thank you. Stay here and wait for me, I won’t be long.’
‘Yes, Councillor.’
Chiswick walked between the columns that supported the classically-styled building and went inside. There were two guardsmen on duty, languishing against the pillars in the large, marble-floored foyer. The clicking of the SS chief’s shoes echoed around him as he followed a corridor to the office of the man he had come to see. He approached the door and knocked gently on it.
‘Come in!’ a gruff voice shouted from inside the room.
Chiswick opened the door and stepped inside, checking the corridor behind him before closing the door again. ‘Good evening, your honour,’ he said, addressing the judge, still in ceremonial robes, who sat behind the office’s large desk.
‘Is it? What do you want, Chiswick?’
‘I’ve come for a warrant.’
‘At half past ten at night? Couldn’t it wait until the morning? And couldn’t you have sent an underling? You do still have some, I presume.’
‘Plenty thank you, your honour. And no, it couldn’t have waited until the morning; the man in question is extremely dangerous.’
‘They usually are, with you. What’s the crime?’
‘Assisting a fugitive, perverting the course of justice, partaking in vigilante activity, assault, murder, planting evidence, concealment of technology... there are others.’
‘Aha. A particularly dangerous man, then. Many would say that this particular individual was... unkillable.’
‘Not having died yet is not a statement of immortality,’ Chiswick replied coldly. ‘Besides which, I am not asking for a death warrant, merely one for his arrest.’
‘Are those not much the same with you?’
Chiswick gave the man a dark glare. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied levelly. ‘I gave you your position; saw that you were nominated and that you got confirmed. You owe me.’
‘Be careful what you sow, Colonel Chiswick; I’ve been made a judge now, you can’t just have me impeached.’
‘Impeached? Oh no, you’re quite right there.’ A grim smile came over Chiswick’s face. ‘But I can see to it that the Civilian Guard are fishing bits of your corpse out of the river for months.’
‘You wouldn’t...’
‘Of course not. And you wouldn’t deny me a warrant.’
The judge looked ready to protest, but thought better of it, closing his mouth slowly as he looked sadly down at his desk. ‘No. I suppose not,’ he said, finally. With a sigh he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a document, and signed it quickly, tossing it across the desk. Chiswick snatched it up.
‘And the name?’
‘I presume you can fill that in for yourself. Goodnight, Colonel Chiswick.’
‘Sophia, come with me.’ Cooke appeared at the door to Lyons’ bedroom for a moment and then strolled away. She gaped at where he had been standing briefly before getting to her feet and running after him. She caught up with her Master as he stood in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.
‘What’s in there?’ she asked.
‘A lab.’
‘I thought the labs were in the North Wing?’
‘Most of them are. This one is special. Open the door.’
Lyons reached for the door handle and her hand slipped through it. She tried again, but her hand travelled through the insubstantial knob.
‘It’s a hologram,’ she told Cooke, dumbly. ‘There’s no way to open the door.’
‘Very astute. Take my hand,’ he held out his hand and she took it silently, noting that his skin was cold but smooth. She watched him as he reached out with his other hand and touched the surface of the door, frowning with concentration.
The corridor went suddenly dark and Lyons was thrown sideways. She tried to thrust out her arms to balance herself; they were unresponsive, but then she was standing on her feet again, albeit uneasily, staring at the floor. Cooke had let go of her hand, and she looked up to see him walking away from her, into a large laboratory that had not been there a moment ago.
Suspiciously, she turned around and stared at the door behind her. It had definitely been solid, but she was equally certain that she was now on the other side of it.
‘Teleportation?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Not really,’ Cooke replied, crouching down near a bench. ‘Teleportation is extremely dangerous... haven’t quite mastered it yet.’
‘You’re joking, right? Teleportation isn’t dangerous - it’s impossible.’
‘At the risk of become a cliché, I never joke about my work, Miss Lyons.’ Cooke stood up again and tossed Lyons a bottle of water. ‘Drink this, it’ll help with the loss of equilibrium.’
Lyons took a swig from the bottle. ‘So how did we get through the wall?’
‘The entire door is a projection.’
‘But it’s solid.’
‘Yes and no. The door is made of glass. Glass is not so much solid as it is a supercooled liquid, and hence it is permeable: there is space for particles, such as those which make up the air you breathe, to pass through.’
‘With you so far.’
‘What we have done here is create a computer program which stores the users’ information in data form, disassembles the physical components of that information to an adequate size, and then reconstructs them on the far side of the glass.’
‘What do you mean information?’
‘Shape, mass, DNA, intelligence, personality—’
‘A whole person?’
‘At the moment the system can handle four at a time; obviously less complicated data can be transmitted in a greater amount.’
‘So we got into this room by...’
‘Being broken down into your constituent parts and reassembled exactly on the far side of the glass.’
‘So, while that was happening...’
‘You, as you now, ceased to exist. Your body and mind were effectively separated; the former travelling through the glass, the latter inside the computer. Hence the disorientation; you continue to receive signals from parts of your body which no longer exist.’
‘So am I the same person as back then?’
‘Exactly the same; the technology is extremely reliable.’
‘And you trust that?’
‘If I didn’t, I would hardly do this, would I?’ he tapped his wrist and exploded. It happened in a moment but Lyons took it all in; how his body disintegrated, swirling away into smaller and smaller lumps until all that remained was a faint mist, circling where Cooke’s body had been. A few seconds later, he reformed, particles snapping back into place. Steadying himself against the workbench, Cooke looked up at Lyons. He smiled.
Lyons stared wide-eyed at him. ‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘Miss Lyons, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Follow me.’ He led her down the rows of workbenches, lined with various weapons and devices Lyons didn’t recognise, until he reached a door at the end of the laboratory.
‘This one made of glass as well?’
‘No. It is, however, the most secure door in the society, I’d warrant.’
‘It just looks like a door to me; the gold repository must be more secure, or the entrance to Lord Stanford’s Manor?’
‘No.’
‘How are you so confident?’
‘I designed both of those security systems, and this is my finest work; step aside a moment, please?’
Lyons moved out of the way and Cooke laid both hands on the door. Green light coursed from the metal, arcing up his arms and into his torso. He shook, eyes closed with deep concentration, until the light abruptly stopped.
‘Covenant, open chamber door one. Authorisation Master James Cooke. Password Flamingo.’
‘Biometric data and stress test confirmed, opening chamber door,’ replied soft female voice, and the door swung open.
‘That didn’t seem so hard,’ Lyons muttered.
‘The electric current running through the door is five times that used by the Civilian Guard to disable light aircraft, and if I had let go of the door at any point, it would have to have started again. Crude, but effective.’
‘The doctors were saying you were blown up earlier — if you can withstand this kind of energy...’
Cooke rolled up the sleeve of his lab-coat, and Lyons saw for the first time the thin strip of metal wrapped around his forearm, with several raised panels on it.
‘What is it?’
‘I just call it an armlet; it allows me to interact with computers, and is the means by which the technology built into my body is constructed. It also contains a small hardlight power core, which is why electricity doesn’t harm me. The energy has, as you are no doubt aware from the newspapers, some healing properties; these are significantly magnified when the body is integrated with the technology itself.’
‘That’s how you survived the bomb blast.’
‘Amongst other injuries. Thanks to the technology, the majority of the pain I should have felt today has been passed onto my pride. Now, do you want to see the big secret?’
‘More than anything,’ Lyons admitted; her throat was dry with the anticipation of what lay through the door in the darkened room, but she was proud that Cooke was showing it to her. She wondered how many others he had brought here. The door and the security procedures were elaborate — clearly this was a secret even most of the Engineers were not supposed to know.
‘Lord Stanford, Senator Robbins, Master McInnes, General Sharp-Adams and the former Master Robbins are the only people who know what is through that door,’ Cooke said. ‘Only Robbins has actually seen it, and that is among the reasons she is no longer with us.’
‘Is it dangerous?’ she asked, more excited than afraid.
‘In the wrong hands, I don’t doubt that it is. Deciding whose hands are right and whose are wrong will be a matter for you and you alone; Master Robbins decided that mine were... unsuitable.’
‘Master—’
‘Don’t worry, Sophia,’ Cooke responded simply and stepped into the darkened room. Lyons followed him and the door swung shut behind her. She heard Cooke’s voice in the darkness, and could tell that he was smiling.
‘Normally I don’t have a great deal of time for theatrics, but some moments are too good to pass up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Covenant... let there be light!’
Around the room numerous bulbs flicked on, revealing to Lyons that chamber she was in was much taller than the last, filled with screens and holographic displays, all illuminating as she watched, and displaying information she couldn’t comprehend; not the she had the interest in doing so for long, as she became fixated on the centre of the room.
Dominating the room was a large hourglass, at least thirty feet tall and with a diameter of around ten feet at its thickest. It emanated a bright green light, swirling as though something swam within the glass.
She opened her mouth to ask what it was, but couldn’t find the words... green light was typically associated in the Society with hardlight, but the brightness of this light, and the size of the structure: it must have contained an inordinate amount.
‘Miss Sophia Lyons,’ Cooke said, stepping into her view. ‘This is Covenant.’
She turned her gaze from the device and looked at him.
‘What...’ she managed.
‘A power source, large enough to run the entire Society and far, far more. But hardlight power cores are hardly rare. It is also the most powerful computer ever built; the source from which all PFS technology will spring in the future, by which the fragile peace we have created for ourselves will be maintained in the coming years, and the means by which this Society will survive.’
‘How?’
‘You have seen the beginning of Covenant’s power this evening; the ability to transport us through glass. It can be used to make a man invisible to the naked eye and to current scanning equipment, power trains that can travel faster than all but fighter-pilots have experienced, cure diseases thought incurable and — one day — teleportation.’
‘What you’re talking about could change the world,’ Lyons said.
‘Yes.’
‘But people are so often resistant to change; don’t you worry they might not accept your ideas?’
‘People are foolish, but eventually technology and advancement will win the day. The public simply cannot resist something that makes their lives easier. Besides, I’m quite used to people calling me insane.’
‘Do you think they’re correct?’
Cooke considered the question for a moment; the question had not been intended as an insult, or a condemnation, but as exactly what it was, a question. ‘Perhaps. I used to hear voices in my head, like another person living inside my mind.’
‘Used to?’
‘One day, when I was nineteen, the voice just went away, and I was alone.’
‘Oh.’ She felt she should volunteer something further. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ He was facing away from her now, staring at the machine, as she had been a few moments before. ‘So, do you think my hands are the right ones in which to be trusting such technology?’
‘I don’t know why you’re keeping it secret.’
‘It is the only way, for the moment.’
‘You are supposed to reveal all technologies under development to the Senate.’
‘Senator Robbins knows.’
‘I’m reasonably certain that isn’t what the constitution meant.’
‘I’m reasonably certain you aren’t supposed to carry firearms in my house, Sophia.’ Cooke span on the spot, a cold look in his grey eyes. ‘Who told you to carry a gun when you were with me?’
‘I... I don’t know,’ Lyons replied, frozen still. Stupid, stupid girl, she berated herself; of course he would be able to tell.
‘They told you not to trust me?’
‘It was a note,’ she replied, feeling stupid, ‘saying my life was in danger while I was with you and I should make sure I was safe.’
‘A gun is the way to achieve that, is it?’
‘You can’t dodge bullets.’
‘Ah, but like I said, Sophia; at close range, a gun is of very little use against someone with the proper training. Take it out.’
This was a trick, she thought, but there weren’t any other options. At least with the gun out she would have a chance if he tried to kill her. She reached into her jacket and drew out the pistol; it felt lighter than when she had put it in.
‘Excellent. Now, if you want to kill me, what do you need that you don’t currently have?’
She thought about this. ‘Will, courage, and a reason?’ she guessed.
‘Good answers.’ Cooke smiled his thin smile; she had come to associate it with the times that the Master was about to win something. ‘Though the more common sense response would be: the clip, the round in the breach, and the firing pin.’
She looked at the gun; the parts he had listed were indeed missing, and as she held it, the gun collapsed, falling through her hands.
‘Oh, and the screws that hold the gun together.’
‘Who was the note from?’
‘I imagine Master Robbins, trying to cause trouble. I understand that I am something of a monster, and that my... way of doing things is a little disconcerting—’
‘Borderline terrifying, Master,’ she volunteered.
‘Very well. But I am not deranged or crazy. I am neither a zealot nor am I apathetic. I think about the best course of actions and pursue them, as per my remit from the elected officials to whom I report. As for my reasons for keeping things secret: I fear you will find out why sooner than I would like.’
‘I’m sorry, Master, for doubting you. You saved my life and I didn’t trust you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. A single act should not earn my—’ Cooke stopped talking and placed one hand to his ear. ‘We have visitors.’
‘Where is Master James Cooke?’ a man in black shouted, angrily pressing the Engineers assembled in front of him.
‘Master Who?’ Occam asked, dumbly.
The man in black faltered. As an officer in the Special Services, he was used to attempts at defiance or subversion, and he was expecting resistance from the Engineers, but their dumb, unknowing gaze in the face of insurmountable odds had caught the man unprepared. Instead of the standard squad of three agents sent in to arrest a suspect, the Special Services captain had been given a team of forty-five — a sizeable portion of the resources on the night shift — and sent in to Cooke Hall, where a line of Engineers stood in the foyer, facing off against the arrayed firepower of the SS, and stood there without so much as a hint of worry: they hadn’t even drawn their damn swords! And all the while, they were claiming not to know who Cooke was.
‘Come on, man! The building’s named after him, you fuckwit.’
‘It is, in fact, named for my great grandfather, Captain,’ Cooke announced as he arrived, strolling down the stairs, Lyons on one side and Master McInnes on the other.
‘Master James Cooke?’ the captain demanded.
‘Who wants to know?’ Cooke asked calmly.
‘That isn’t how this goes.’
‘That,’ Cooke snapped back, a sudden edge to his voice, ‘is exactly how this goes. Until such a time as I hear otherwise, I have the right to demand your name, Captain.’
‘Captain Bryan Shore. And you are?’
‘Councillor Colonel Master James Cooke,’ Cooke replied. ‘What do you want, Captain?’
‘We have a warrant for your arrest, James.’ Through the open front doors of Cooke Hall strode Colonel Michael Chiswick, leader of the Special Services.
‘Ah, Michael.’ Cooke reached the bottom of the stairs and walked to the front of the line of Engineers. ‘I wondered when you would come. One final battle, just you against me?’
‘Not exactly. You are under arrest.’
‘Concealment of technology?’
‘Among others.’
The two men stared at each other, and Lyons marvelled at the dissimilarity between the two Councillors; both were greying prematurely, but the similarity stopped there. Chiswick was short and dumpy, while Cooke was tall and slender, and though the Master of Engineers had the eyes of a much older man, his skin was smooth and unblemished, whereas his rival’s age was beginning to show in the lines in his face. Nowhere was the contrast more spectacular though than in their choice of dress. Chiswick wore jet-black silk around his padded frame, and Cooke’s narrow body was fully concealed by the stark white fabric of his lab coat.
‘Very well,’ Cooke said, at last.
‘What?’
‘Doctor Occam; stand your mean down, and get everyone back to bed, this is a routine law enforcement matter.’
‘Master?’ Occam asked.
‘Hold on just a minute, Cooke... I’m taking in all of your men!’
‘Do you have a warrant for them too?’
‘I can get one.’
‘Should have brought more men with you, Michael.’ Cooke took a step towards Chiswick, and noticed out of the corner of his eye one of the SS men take a step back. ‘Now, listen to reason. You don’t have a warrant for the rest of my men, and I’m coming quietly, so how about you quit while you’re ahead?’
‘I don’t have to listen to reason presented by a criminal,’ Chiswick replied levelly.
‘Then listen to a threat. I don’t know what’s better at this range, your guns or our swords. My men are several yards away from yours, but they are very quick. That doesn’t matter, though. What you have to ask yourself, Michael, is this.’ Cooke leant in and spoke in a hushed voice that only Chiswick could hear. ‘Do you think you can kill me before I get you? And I’m not a few yards away, Michael, I’m close enough to have an intimate threatening conversation.’
‘We’ll play this by the book,’ Chiswick announced, and Cooke smiled. ‘Gentlemen, arrest this man.’
Four SS guards ran forward, quickly surrounding Cooke and sliding two-foot long metal poles from holsters on their belts. As one, they raised their sticks and struck Cooke. The Master dropped to the ground, and as he began to rise, he was hit again and a foot in his stomach. He groaned as he laid on the floor, but tried to rise again; another stick struck the back of his head, smashing his face into the ground.
‘No!’ Lyons ran through the Engineers and at Chiswick, rage consuming her common sense as she charged. As she ran towards him she saw an SS officer raise his gun, heard the explosion as he pulled the trigger, and watched the bullet fly towards her on its inevitable path.
Then, mere inches from her face, the projectile stopped, still gently spinning in the air, but not travelling any further.
All eyes turned to Cooke. The Master lay on his back, blood covering a face contorted with pain, one arm stretched out towards the projectile. He closed his fist and the round dropped to the ground.
‘That’s enough,’ he snarled. ‘You can take me now, Michael. Leave the girl.’
Occam stepped forward and put a large hand on Lyons’ shoulder, gently guiding her back into the crowd of Engineers as she stared mutely at her wounded master.
‘Put him in the truck,’ Chiswick ordered. He turned on his heel and marched out of Cooke Hall, followed by the men carrying Cooke.
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