Reviews for other books by this author.
Jane Palmer’s first novel Is a real find -definitely a specimen of
higher lunacy. The Planet Dweller appropriates all the furniture of TV sci-fi and
duly stands it on its head, with a wonderfully pragmatic absurdity - that’s
been done before, of course (Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams), but not quite
this way.
A hilarious story in which the Earth is threatened by the deadliest
life-form in the universe: the Mott. Diana, a menopausal mother, and Yuri, a
practised drunk, are the two humans destined to fight them
Palmer has more in common with Muriel Spark than Marge Piercy. Her
alien invasion of Earth takes place among the kind of people who cause havoc at
the supermarket checkout.
Jane Solanas Time Out
Jane
Palmer’s novel, The Planet Dweller quite unashamedly a good sci-fi adventure,
The Planet Dweller is a much more traditionally sf novel, and also
funny in a Tom Sharpe/Douglas Adams sort of way:
Paperback Inferno
Jane
Palmer’s first novel The Planet Dweller comically (and Britishly) juxtaposes
menopausal female reality with a farcical chauvinist SF subplot about the Molt
and their plan to rule the galaxy.
The Planet Dweller has more in common with Dr Who . . . including a sense of humour.
David Sexton Sunday Times
Jane Palmer spins a confused but amusing tale of earth menaced by
extragalactic baddies. Her heroine, Diana, a menopausal housewife and
administrator of an architectural museum, is original, sympatico and fun.
The Drune
As in her 1985
debut novel The Planet Dweller, Jane Palmer likes to confront wildly eccentric
but plausible humans with alien weirdness, producing offbeat SF comedy
containing the occasional serious barb ... Palmer's narrative bubbles with
frivolous inventiveness and unhinged dialogue, and has a gentle sting in the
tail.
David Langford Amazon.co.uk
Palmer has some
points to make about humans, civilization, and civility. The fact that she
works them in to a wild, through-the-looking-glass adventure eases the lessons
into the most resistant brain, with little or no pain.
Lisa DuMond SFF
Site
Jane Palmer's
fabulous and complex universe is pleasantly refreshing … [this] lively,
bubbling and buzzing universe is a gentle call for a more harmonious, tolerant
and generous society.
Martha Fumagalli
WiPlash
And the story
itself is the most remarkable blend of sci-fi, fantasy, the self-defeating
effects of bigotry, power, control, love, self-sacrifice - and the ending is
simply perfect.
Joules Taylor WordWrights
NIGHTINGALE
by
First published in
by Dodo Books 2008
Copyright © Jane Palmer 2008
All rights reserved. This is a
work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons living or
dead is
purely coincidental.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as
the author of this work.
ISBN 978-1-906442-09-5
All right reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.
Other science fiction books by this author
THE PLANET DWELLER
THE WATCHER
MOVING MOOSEVAN
PRELUDE
‘Four
legs!’ snorted Tino, the strong man, ‘You never saw an alien, it was probably a
goat.’
‘I know what I saw.’ Ponder reeled a little. At any other time they would have said it was
a surfeit of home brew. Now the tent
master was too ashen to be anything but cold sober. ‘On the top of the downs - I thought it was
coming after me. If I hadn't taken that
tumble I wouldn't be here now.’
Bernice laughed and pulled some burrs from
his jacket. ‘What would it want with
you? I've been married to you for
fifteen years and still can't see the point.’
Despite his impressive bruises, Ponder knew
it was useless trying to make the performers and crew take him seriously. ‘All right, all right. If this is where you want me to pitch the tent,
then I'll do it, but don't say I didn't warn you.’
Hector, the ringmaster, straightened his top
hat and waved a batch of handouts under Ponder's nose. ‘We're not moving on after delivering a ton
of these things to the district. Out
here, we'll have days before anyone comes asking to see our licence.’
Angela petted one of her rather plump
performing dogs. ‘Well, it's not as if
we use wild animals.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Tino. ‘Those things are so well fed it's a wonder
they can get through the hoop.’
‘Alright!’ Hector bellowed in his stentorian
stage voice. ‘No aggravation! There's too much to do. Get your compressor working, Ponder. We want the tent ready for an evening
performance.’
‘Trapeze as well?’
‘Of course.’
‘But Chas Tharby is still on the
Tino was unable to comprehend how anyone
capable of performing dangerous stunts high above the arena could be afraid of
flying. ‘As soon as his child’s born, he
said he was leaving the high wire to do a tumbling act.’
‘Freelancers,’ murmured the disconsolate
Ponder. ‘You can’t rely on them.’
Hector twirled his waxed moustaches like a
benevolent demon barber and placed a paternal hand on Sandra’s shoulder. ‘This is the night of your debut, my dear.’
The young acrobat should have been elated at
her sudden promotion, but had just prepared a huge bowl of spaghetti and all
her tights needed mending. Her digestion
could easily recover from a mere tumbling act and ladders in the hosiery of an
acrobat performing with the clowns were quite acceptable. In the harsh spotlight above the audience,
sequins, straight seams and a pinched waist became obligatory. Sandra should have cursed Chas Tharby. The man was entitled to his idiosyncrasies,
though. He had come to the rescue of
many small circuses like theirs at the risk of losing his performer’s licence. She hoped his child wouldn’t become a test
pilot like its mother. Wrong moves in that
occupation tended to end up in permanent closure.
Under a leaden sky dotted with circling
seagulls, the tent was pumped up to sit like an inviting raspberry blancmange
on the rolling downs. It used to be
bright pink and was easily picked out from the air by patrolling community
police. Though happy to let the circus
carry on, they were obliged to turn over all their surveillance footage to the
National Security computers. It would
have been difficult to pretend they had missed a brilliant pink tent sitting on
the landscape like a boil on the backside of a slumbering hippo. If it weren't for government control of the
entertainment channels, the population would have been happy to stay at home
and watch television. However, most
people can only take so much brainwashing and mental pap. Circuses may have been mindless and lowbrow,
but they were exciting. The authorities
were suspicious of anything that was not soporific. Having reduced all the theatres to performing
works of spectacle with the lowest common denominator which only a few could
afford, there were no alternatives to small troupes like Hector's.
As Sandra, in tights borrowed from the knife
thrower, somersaulted and span through her practise routine on the trapeze the
clowns, dogs and trick cyclists went through their acts beneath the safety net
with surprisingly few collisions. The
opening night would yet again be snatched from the jaws of every performer's
nightmare. Ponder felt mellow enough to
put the sight of the monster on the top of the downs to the back of his
mind. It wasn't an apparition any sober
brain wanted to dwell on for too long anyway.
The audience began to trickle in with their
toffee apples, popcorn, crisps, and bioplastic bottles of lemonade that
collapsed when emptied; a precaution taken to prevent anything rolling under
the feet of the clowns who could get very annoyed about taking unintended
pratfalls. Only a dozen strong, plus
four musicians, the company were an energetic team and always gave of their
best, whatever the size of the audience.
One school had risked forfeiting their term's
funding by hiring an airbeam ship to bring several classes that should have
been studying social discipline. It was
also necessary for Ponder to remove some seating to accommodate a retirement
club who had streamed along the valley in their monofloats.
Surfeited on the smell of sawdust, acrobatic
stunts that had been outlawed for years and dazzled by rhinestones and sequins,
the audience roared for encores and clapped until their self-correcting watches
forgot what time it was. Hector's troupe
was riding on the crest of adulation that made all the hassle worth while. How could anyone in such a state of
exhilaration have anticipated the hideous incident that would torment them for
the rest of their lives?
It began with a sound.
Sandra was first to hear it as she took her
bow from the trapeze. It was a high
pitched whine which penetrated the top of the tent like a needle.
She dropped into the safety net.
The applause died away and everyone
listened.
During the catastrophic plague years that
decimated the human race and deluges that tried to wash the survivors away,
many different warning sirens had been used.
Some to remind people to wear their filter masks when a new pneumonic
infection appeared, others to get to high ground before a flash flood. This sound was like none of them. Having lived with alarms for so long, it
could not be ignored. The floods had now
settled at their optimum level and the plagues that couldn’t be treated run
their course. After so much trauma,
everyone expected a new horror to present itself at any moment.
Tino put down the four acrobats he was
supporting and darted out of the audience entrance. Ponder and Hector followed
him.
A globe of brilliant ultraviolet illuminated
the brow of the hill. Ponder dashed off
to arrange some light while Tino and Hector bounded up the slope in the thin
moonlight.
A stream of people from the tent followed,
their way lit by the floodlight Ponder had redirected.
Seconds later, the air was filled with
screams.
* * *
The only
warning the circus troupe had of Nightingale’s approach, was when one of
Angela’s dogs heard the faint purr of her powerful Amethyst. Bernice, who was on lookout, was first to see
the sleek body of the gleaming car as it wound its way down the narrow road
like a magenta serpent.
Hector couldn't guess how the strange woman
had found his troupe furtively huddled in the old Dutch barn due for
demolition. The local community leader
had promised to give them time to get away before they were obliged to call in
the authorities; time to roll up the tent, pack the equipment onto their
antiquated trailer, and recharge the gas cylinders that powered the circus from
one secret location to another.
The visitor was no normal woman.
Nightingale was long, lean, lantern jawed, and looked too scary to put
in a sideshow. She may have appeared as
dangerous as an old tiger act but at least she hadn’t brought a security team
with her. Not only was Nightingale as
long as an anaconda, she was a very strange colour for a human. That was not the troupe’s immediate
concern.
They watched apprehensively as she pulled out an identification
card. Billy Bloggs, the clown and
one-time master forger, examined it.
Satisfied, he handed it back to Nightingale. Only then did they relax.
Hector played with the rim of the top hat
that he had been carrying around like a security blanket ever since it had
happened. ‘What is Group Indigo then?’
Nightingale slumped onto some bales of
straw. ‘We investigate unexplained
phenomena. I understand you have one for
us?’
Bernice was suspicious. ‘Who told you?’
‘I have contacts.’
‘Security contacts?’
‘Not if I can help it. I have to be careful.’
‘Why?’
‘World Government set up Group Indigo to
investigate these occurrences. Security
would soon become interested if they thought anything threatened the planet.’
‘For pity's sake!’ blurted out Ponder. ‘That bloody creature snatched Tino!’
‘He was your strong man?’
‘We always thought so.’ Ponder calmed down. ‘I saw the thing earlier in the day, but no
one would have it. I thought it wanted
to snatch me.’
Nightingale stretched her long legs and the
black zipped body suit faintly creaked.
‘What did this creature look like?’
‘Horrible.
Large glowing eyes like a fly’s and four legs! Four legs!
I ask you, what creature needs four legs?’
‘What happened?’
Hector stopped toying with his hat. ‘He dissolved. Tino rushed towards the thing - I don't know
what he thought he was going to do. And
just as he reached this odd violet glow, he ... dissolved. Not like fading from view. He fell apart!’ The ringmaster took a deep breath. ‘Each particle - he was a big man - floated
away. It was like an explosion in slow
motion. Horrible it was! Never seen anything like it before, and I've
seen a few things in this business I can tell you.’ He looked Nightingale in the eye. ‘Will we ever see him again?’
Nightingale paused. Despite her natural brevity, there was no
point in being brutal. ‘I'm sorry. We've had reports of this happening before,
and there is no record of anyone ever being retrieved.’
‘What was it, for pity's sake?’ asked a trick
cyclist.
‘As yet, we have no idea,’ she lied. ‘Whatever you do, keep well away from the
creature if you see it again and leave a message on this machine.’ She handed Hector a card with a number, then
rose.
‘But?’ protested Sandra. ‘What about us?’
Circuses were a world away from Nightingale’s
priorities. ‘What about you?’
‘We're bound to be taken off the road,’
complained the trapeze artist. ‘They're
not going to let this pass when they find out Tino's missing. I know the way they work.’
‘Just as well Chas Tharby never turned up
after all,’ muttered Ponder.
‘Shut up!’ hissed Bernice.
Nightingale half heard him. ‘Chas Tharby?’
‘He wasn’t here,’ Hector quickly said.
She already knew the name. ‘Wife’s a test pilot.’ Dangerous machines she could understand. ‘Proto-aviation reckon it was bloody inconvenient
of her getting pregnant like that.’
Nightingale reached into an inside pocket of
her ankle length black coat and pulled out a small coder. After tapping in a few words, it printed a
strip of plasticized card. She stamped
the corner of it with an authorisation insignia on a small pendant hanging from
her collar zip and then handed it to Hector.
‘This will give you clearance for as long as you want, but get a few
social awareness discs for the intervals.
No need to show them. It'll just
look better if you're searched.’
Sandra was exasperated. ‘So what was the thing that snatched
Tino? We’ve got to have something to
tell his mother. The last rise in sea level
washed away the family home in the Med.
She’s an old woman. She won’t be
able to cope.’
Nightingale handed her a very low-tech
writing pad. ‘Jot her contact code on
here.’
The acrobat was apprehensive. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’ll save me having to access her
address from World Government files.’
‘Why don’t you?’
The tall woman shrugged almost
girlishly. ‘They tend to be suspicious
of anything I do.’
Sandra’s common sense tended to agree with
them, though her instincts trusted the woman.
If authority kept a cautious eye on Nightingale, she must have been a
kindred spirit.
Sandra jotted down the contact code of Tino’s
mother.
Nightingale took the pad back without a word.
The company silently watched as she sped away
in her Amethyst.
Hector carefully tucked the plasticized card
in his wallet, then took a map from his briefcase. ‘Well, about time we were back on the road
again.’
CHAPTER
1
Ben
watched in sour disapproval as thousands of bees swarmed in the branches of his
favourite apple tree. It had the
sweetest fruit and lowest branches. His
father forbade him to climb trees. The
eight-year-old was expected to keep wicket when the village's most ferocious
spinners bowled, though was not allowed to chase butterflies through the
nettles or explore anything more than a metre from the ground. Those activities were immature, even if the
resulting injuries were less severe than being struck by a lump of wood and
leather travelling at thirty miles an hour.
The bees belonged to Mr Humphreys. More swarms were busy in the stand of orange
blossom which had sent perfume wafting into his bedroom as the sun rose that
morning.
Out of sight of the French windows, Ben
skipped with all the immaturity he could muster through the orchard to call
over the hedge to the old beekeeper.
Something attracted his attention before he reached it. A bonfire?
There was a still smouldering pile of ashes in a depression near the
compost heap. The gardener never burnt
anything there. She claimed it
frightened off the beasts making all that wonderful compost. Ben hadn't seen Bertha for several days. He would certainly have compelled the
gardener into conversation if he had, even though she usually ended up telling
him that such a wise head should be on wider shoulders because it was bound to
be knocked off sooner or later.
The eight-year-old carefully poked the ashes
to see what felony had been committed.
As he was also forbidden to play with other children, his imagination
was not yet prepared to accept the mundane.
How was he to know that the remains of every bonfire didn’t necessarily
conceal a crime? It seemed that the
culprit had incinerated all the evidence.
Then a sparkling jewel bounced off the end of
his stick. Ben snatched up the hot
glittering bauble - and quickly dropped it.
He flicked his find away from the embers and waited until it had cooled.
Even when it was no longer hot, it tingled
the tips of his fingers. Then Ben
remembered where he had seen it before.
When his mother had last visited, she had been wearing a pendant exactly
like it. She had taken it off and placed
it in the secret compartment at the back of her dressing table drawer with a
bundle of letters.
The pendant was with a fine chain, which he
rubbed clean with some dock leaves. The
catch still worked, so he threaded the pendant onto the chain and spun it in
the sunlight to watch the jewel's iridescence.
It refracted the colours in a strange way, not like the cut crystal in
the cabinet that Ben shone his torch through.
Each facet of his mother’s jewel had minute squiggles engraved on it, as
though a millipede had been using it as an ice rink and lost control of its
skates.
The eight-year-old was subject to spot checks
and told to empty his pockets at the most unlikely moments. Where could keep the pendant? Being a scrupulously honest child, he would
naturally ask his mother if she wanted it back.
Until then, he decided to put the chain round his neck and tuck it under
his shirt.
By the time he had finished exploring the
rest of the orchard for more treasures, Ben had forgotten he was wearing the
jewel and didn’t rediscover it until he was changing into his pyjamas, so he
kept it on as an act of defiance.
The light slowly seeped from the chintz
curtains. Eventually, the
eight-year-old's fear of the dark could no longer keep him awake. Thinking up some dastardly prank he would
never dare commit was a better aid to sleep than counting the sheep on his
farmyard wallpaper. Fancy giving him a
room with walls covered in cattle!
Everyone knew he was terrified of anything that had horns or so much as
bleated.
But weirder night companions appeared over
the horizon of his slumber.
These creatures were not much taller than Ben
and whispered amongst themselves in an alien language. Despite his father's efforts to drill any
niceties out of him, he was an innately polite little boy and stood watching
from a proper distance until they noticed him.
Because it was only a dream, he wasn’t too
worried about whose tea party he might have gate crashed, though he hoped that
the spherical room they were floating about in wasn't surrounded by a herd of
cattle. After all, the four creatures
did have the same number of legs as a cow.
Fortunately, there the difference ended.
Their movements were far too deft to belong to something as clumsy as a
cow. They were more like the centaurs in
his “Stories of Ancient Greece”. They
had small pointed feet that resembled hooves in dainty cream boots and feathery
heads that were an orangish gold. The same
shade in the pattern of the front room carpet - in the spot where he had spilt
the paint that Agatha had spent an hour trying to clean off.
It was odd to see the floating creatures tip
toe about in mid air as though on some invisible floor. They might have turned off the gravity to
assemble the machine they were working on because its components were so
delicate. They made strange noises, but
their eyes were even more puzzling.
Three pairs of multi faceted discs that occasionally blinked were lined
up above their mouths. Ben was surprised
that with so many eyes, they never realised he was there. They were too intent on their task. With alien nimbleness, they passed the
components of the machine to each other.
After holding each item up to the six winking discs, it was replaced in
the machine.
The creatures only become aware of Ben's
presence when they stopped working.
The smallest of them lost its footing on the
invisible floor and tipped over in surprise.
The others reached for the tops of their heads and pulled off their
three sets of eyes.
Then Ben tipped over.
Once upright, he reached out to try and pull
off the smaller creature's mask, but his hand refused to make contact. However hard he tried, he couldn’t grasp
it.
Now he could see their real faces, it was
obvious that they were laughing at him.
Although very weird, he was able to make sense of them. Apart from the feathery hair sprouting
eccentrically from the top of their heads, they had no ears, two huge faceted
globes for eyes and tiny noses that looked as though they had been glued on as
an afterthought to keep the eyes and mouth apart.
One of the creatures flicked a switch. The machine lit up and Ben heard a voice say,
‘We have caught a fish.’
The eight-year-old was indignant. ‘I’m not a fish.’
‘Whatever you are, little minnow, your
molecules are very uncertain of themselves.’
‘What are molecules?’
‘They are what this machine assembles.’
‘Did it make you?’
‘It is a very bright little minnow,’ said the
smallest creature.
‘Shall we throw it back,’ said the tallest.
‘Oh no.
It cannot do any harm. It would
wake too suddenly and fall out of bed, wouldn't you, little minnow?’
‘I'm a boy.’
One of the larger creatures
interrupted. ‘Do not listen to these
jokers. What is your name?’
‘Ben.’
‘I am Tamble.
The short one is Hysle, the tall one is Dey and the serious one is
Datch.’
‘But ... What are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Oh.
The small one, Hysle, is a boy, the rest of us are girls.’
‘But that's not right. He should be taller than you.’
‘We are big girls.’
‘Oh.’
‘The boys here are always smaller, little
minnow,’ added Hysle. ‘There is no point
in us being large as well.’
‘Why not?’
‘Then we would be expected to do all the
work.’
‘But my mother and Agatha do far more work
than father, and he's taller than both of them.’
‘Put together?’
‘How could anyone be put together?’ scoffed
Ben.
‘Oh, we do it all the time.’ Hysle patted the machine.
‘With that thing?’ Ben took a closer look. Now he thought about it, the apparatus seemed
more organic, like a complex colony of fungi, coil upon coil pulsating with a
muted glow.
‘Of course,’ Hysle went on, ‘we have to use a
big box to keep the molecules from floating off.’
‘Can you change things into something
else? Like a bird into a bat?’
‘It is possible.’
‘Shut-up!’ a voice in the background snapped.
Ben paid no attention. He thought hard as though confronting a
genie willing to only give one wish.
‘Can you change me into a ... a seagull?’
‘What do you want to be a bird for?’
‘So I can fly away from home.’
Hysle considered the suggestion. ‘No, you would need a similar number of
molecules. They can only be compressed
so much.’
‘You mean, you can't pour a pint into a quart
pot?’ Ben wasn’t sure what a pint and
quart were. One of his father's cricket
team was always using that expression, and many others he only half understood.
The alien hesitated. He obviously had little idea what it meant as
well. ‘Why would I want to do that? I know I could not turn you into a rabbit -
five rather plump rabbits perhaps.’
‘Shut-up, Hysle!’ scolded Tamble. ‘Stop teasing the child.’
‘Well, I am only a bad dream he will not
remember.’
‘I am not so sure. Do you understand what has happened to you,
Ben?’
‘I think I fell asleep.’
‘Did you find a pretty bauble?’
‘Why yes.
How did you know?’ Ben pulled it
from his pyjama top. The aliens gazed at
the iridescent jewel as though holding back their terror. ‘It belongs to my mother.’
There was a desperate edge to Tamble's
tone. ‘Well, return it to her as soon as
you can and say nothing about it to anyone else.’
‘Why not?’
‘Questions, questions - the child is full of
questions,’ complained Dey. ‘That is
your fault for encouraging him, Hysle.’
‘It is part of their growing process,’ Datch
explained. ‘They have to struggle for
every scrap of information they absorb, not take it for granted as we do.’
Hysle laughed. ‘He is cute, though. Can we keep him?’
‘Do not be absurd. He would be unable to understand anything
useful to us.’
‘He managed to operate that “pretty bauble”.’
‘Why can't I stay?’ asked Ben.
‘We do not want you to be upset.’
‘Upset?
Why should I be upset?’
Datch hesitated. ‘There are things here you can never
comprehend.’
‘But I like it here, even though you are so
strange.’
Dey sneered.
‘Perceptive as well.’
‘And I don't know where my mother is anyway,
so I can't give her the pendant. My
father will probably find it and put it back on the bonfire.’
Hysle was puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘He doesn't like Mummy very much. I don't know why.’
‘He sounds quite a shark.’
‘And he parts his hair in the middle.’
‘How did you end up in the same pond, little
minnow?’
‘I don't know.’
‘It is important you return the pendant,
Ben.’
‘But I don't know where she is.’
‘We will tell you.’
‘No,’ cautioned Datch. ‘He is too young to wander about
unaccompanied.’
‘It is only a short distance.’
‘I do not like it. They can face dangers we are unable to
comprehend.’
Despite everything, Ben was an innately
helpful child. ‘Oh, I'll do it.’
‘You could remember us when you wake,’ Tamble
warned. ‘You may not be frightened by
our appearance now ...’
‘Oh I won't be, I promise. I want to see Mummy.'
Tamble adjusted the machine, and the
creatures discussed something in their own strange language. As he listened, the eight-year-old fancied
that he could make sense of the odd word.
Eventually Tamble asked, ‘Do you know
Bellwood Farm, Ben?’
‘Yes, we often take our Sunday walk in that
direction. One of the cricket team owns
a real pub near there.’
Tamble indicated a map projected onto the far
wall. The child recognised it. ‘Just a little way down the farm lane is
another road. It is quite narrow and not
signposted.’
‘Oh yes, that leads to the hayricks.’
‘If you follow it past the hayricks you will
come to some locked gates. On the other
side of them is another road.’
‘I didn't know that.’
‘If you turn right and follow the road for
twenty minutes you will come to a high wall.
This is the place where your mother works.’
Ben was silent for a moment. ‘But I thought she was a long way away?’
‘Not even your father knows this. You must promise not to tell anyone else.’
‘I promise.’
‘He is far too young to walk that distance by
himself,’ said Dey.
Tamble disagreed. ‘Given how honest he is, he needs to be
tough.’
‘His father might punish him.’
‘Oh, he's going to
‘He leaves you on your own, little minnow?’
‘Quite often.'
‘Yes, he is a tough little fish,’ agreed
Dey. ‘Perhaps we should keep him.’
‘How do I get over the wall?’
‘There are several breaks in it,’ explained
Tamble. ‘You should not have any trouble
finding the large house. There is no
need to knock the door. A voice will ask
why you are there. You must say that you
want to speak to Nightingale.’
Dey gave a hard laugh. ‘Oh that will please her.’
‘She will be even angrier if that transmitter
key is not returned.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Ben.
‘The Senior Controller.’
‘Is she in the army?’
Tamble laughed. ‘Oh no.
She does not care much for soldiers.
You will be quite safe as long as you do what I tell you. When you have returned the pendant, you will
forget everything and never dream of us again.’
‘There, little minnow, we cannot keep you
after all,’ Hysle sighed.
‘All right,’ Ben yawned. ‘All right ...’
Ben
rolled over and saw the early morning sunlight glowing through the
curtains. The scent of orange blossom
wafted into the room and the bees busily buzzed. He lay thinking for some while, and then his
hand automatically reached up to grasp the pendant. He quickly took it off and reached over the
side of the bed to tuck it under the rug.
It was only five o'clock. His
father wouldn't be leaving until eight.
But what if he finished his research and decided to come back early?
‘Oh, who cares,’ Ben thought to himself. ‘I’ll stay in the big house with Mummy and
that woman called Nightingale-’
Suddenly Ben remembered the sinister night
creatures. They hadn't been conjured up
on his teaching screen - they had been real!
He leapt out of bed. Had he really been talking to them with the
same familiarity he used on Mr Humphreys' dog?
It must have happened. The child
was too young to deceive himself that it had only been a dream. The aliens had been so friendly. He could hardly dash out and return the
pendant to the ashes of the fire.
Ben sat on his bed and thought. Should he risk the rage of an already
wrathful father for their sake? The
aliens insisted it was very important he returned the pendant. He picked up his well-worn teddy bear and
hugged it. Now Ben was eight, he would
soon be parted from the toy. He would
need another friend.
CHAPTER 2
Jeff
Devlin noted the thermometer reading then deftly confused the mercury with a
flick of his wrist. There was no point
in shaking the antique so brutally, but every movement he made had to have a
cavalier flourish about it. After nine
years of infatuation, Sally was just beginning to see her colleague for what he
was.
Devlin had an eagle-like glamour and, when
thwarted, his brow furrowed with a predator’s cruelty. No one was sure why he had given up his smart
Space Security uniform to join Group Indigo.
Even Nightingale hadn’t been told.
As she was obliged to take at least one assistant selected by World
Security, there was nothing she could do about it anyway.
The awareness of Jeff Devlin’s true nature
had come as a perverse relief to Sally and she no longer had any qualms about
him standing hostage at the next encounter.
If someone had to run the risk of having their molecules disassembled
and reconstructed in a different dimension, Sally preferred them to be those of
her self-obsessed lover. No alien was
likely to be conned by his stunning good looks.
Jeff replaced the thermometer in its case and
they once again paced the well-trodden grass to check the layout of the
proposed location. Although the Lictana
were the ones who controlled things, a little pointless preparation helped
steady the nerves.
‘How do you think they do it?’ Sally asked.
Jeff stopped pacing to patronise. ‘Well, they align their atomic structure with
our dimension, don't they.’
‘I didn't mean that.’
‘We’ll ask them the next time we meet.’
‘Nightingale is the only one who
understands.’
‘Then she should be risking her atoms instead
of ours.’
‘You know what the regulations say about her
taking risks.’
Jeff laughed loudly. ‘Given the way she looks, I bet she took
quite a few.’
‘Shut-up!
You know she can lip read.’ Sally
darted a glance at the tall angular figure watching them.
‘So what?
Any woman who looks like that must be used to having comments made about
her.’
A cuckoo made its presence known a short
distance away.
‘Damn, that bird scarer isn't working again,’
cursed Sally.
‘Leave it alone. It's only after crumpet.’
Sally was quiet for a moment, then suddenly
snapped, ‘You don't give a toss about what happens to poor little Ben, do you?’
Jeff was unfazed. ‘Well, when the divorce comes through, your
husband won't have any claim on him, will he?’
‘Right.
And nor will you!’
It took Jeff a few seconds to register what
she had just said. ‘What do you mean?’
Sally fastened her tunic belt. ‘If I can't find him a decent father, he'll
be better off without one.’
Jeff's disconcerted gaze fell on the golden
buckle she had just pulled tight. He
walked away without a word.
Sally pursued him, so he was compelled to
turn and face her.
‘You would like the aliens to carry me off,
wouldn't you?’ he accused.
Sally could now see that the tight frown she
had always taken to be inscrutability was actually dangerous malice. ‘It'd solve a lot of problems. You can't prove paternity without your body
and, from what we already know, matter from each others dimensions breaks up
pretty quickly.’
As well has the malevolent streak in Jeff
Devlin’s character, he was also full of clichés, bravado and bull. Sally wondered how he had managed to get into
Group Indigo as well as her bed. Even
the military division responsible for World Security must have known what they
were planting in the secret investigation group formed by World
Government. Nightingale was very touchy
about being compelled to take on anyone from a military division. Jeff must have looked very impressive in his
blue and gold Space Security uniform.
Nightingale, however, believed that it took more intelligence to be a
civilian.
Though not much older than Sally, Nightingale
had clocked up a record in energy research that awed other scientists with
twice her experience. It was her success
in fuel cell development that now maximised the advances in renewable
energy. With a windmill and solar panels
on their property, householders could store as much power as they needed and be
independent of such monsters as the old fossil fuel suppliers. None of them knew that they had Nightingale
to thank. Even the grateful World
Government she had freed from one of its greatest problems, only reluctantly
allowed her to pursue her new obsession.
Chasing aliens.
The authorities assumed that her eccentric
interest was a side effect of genius.
Also, Nightingale was safer where they could keep an eye on her. No alien could be more dangerous than this
scientist with a grudge. Nightingale was
to be indulged until the next catastrophe when she would be needed again.
World Security had been aware for several
years of interdimensional alien intrusions.
They had been insignificant compared to the decimation of the human race
by antibiotic resistant plagues and climate change. Nightingale would have been more useful
researching weather control. When her
credibility was eventually compromised by her pursuit of extraterrestrials, the
scientist would have to return to the fold of conformity, and no one else was
willing to risk their integrity to investigate reports of ghostly aliens and
missing people. The military would
prefer to lock away anyone who reported such encounters and bury the evidence
in a restricted file, even though there could be no doubt that the Earth was in
collision with a planet from another dimension.
No one else understood Nightingale’s
research, any more than they understood the disastrous fuel cell experiment
that left her brown skin with a purplish patina which blocked out ultraviolet
and scared small dogs.
As Nightingale was playing around with
dimensionally volatile atoms, Group Indigo carried out their research in an HQ
isolated at the centre of a large country estate. They had insisted she take Jeff Devlin as an
assistant and Sally, because she would be near to her son, was the only
molecular biologist willing to join the mad scientist. Nightingale
eventually tired of her assistants bickering.
‘That's enough you two. Inside.’
More used to obeying orders, Jeff turned
without waiting for Sally. He marched up
the steps into the large house. She
followed on thoughtfully, oblivious of the impatient Nightingale waiting for
her.
‘What's the problem?’
Sally hesitated. ‘You don't have any children, do you?’
‘Wouldn't recognise one if I met it.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No.
Given how much you worry about yours, it can hardly help anyone's peace
of mind.’
‘Just how safe is this encounter?’
‘There's no reason not to trust them.’ Nightingale always put on a taciturn front,
but could tell someone needed reassurance.
She stopped climbing the steps two at a time. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘If something does go wrong, there’s no one
to look out for Ben. The mutated virus
he inherited from his father may only make my son a carrier, like him. Then there is a chance it could attack his
mind. No doctors I’ve consulted know
enough about it. I don’t want him to
live with that. He must have proper
treatment. My husband would just give
him tranquillisers and tell him that it was all a figment of his imagination.’
Nightingale pondered for a few seconds. She didn't need to meet the child to
understand his mother’s problem. With a
deceitful philanderer for a father and gullible flibbertigibbet for a mother,
Ben needed all the help he could get.
Nightingale had enough access to World Government database to
destabilise nations. She might as well
use it for something positive, and the luxury of being generous was
seductive. Despite her ruthless persona,
Nightingale never saw the point in doing harm if she couldn’t do good.
‘I’ll see what I can do about it,’ the Senior
Controller announced. She strode inside.
Sally gave a sigh of relief. No down payment in any of the world's four
currencies could equal the value of her superior’s word.
When they caught up with him, Jeff was on the
roof irritably pacing up and down by the photovoltaic panels as though trying
to prevent the sunlight from reaching as many cells as he could. A light deep in the cellars may have
flickered, though little else made note of his annoyance. He sensed that the two women were talking
about him or, even worse, perhaps they weren't.
By the look of relief on Sally's face and the enigmatic expression
Nightingale perpetually wore, he was unable to confirm or dismiss his worse
suspicions. He had always believed Sally
to be the best catch of his many affairs.
Now her ardour had cooled, he could only see a cunning woman trying to
outmanoeuvre him at every turn.
Nightingale, her long, dour face framed by mass of tightly curled hair,
was just another unexploded bomb.
‘Is the perimeter secure?’ she demanded.
Jeff looked through some binoculars, then at
the small screen that mapped out the grounds.
‘Few rabbits. No breaks in the
current made by anything larger than that.’
‘Good.
Get Perry to reset the current and put down the flags.’
‘Not expecting an alien invasion are you?’
Nightingale gave Jeff a long hard look that
unsettled even Sally. On the verge of
hearing the detonator ticking, Jeff quickly made the call down to security.
Nightingale scanned the grounds with the
binoculars.
‘Is everything clear?’ asked Sally.
‘Too much wildlife.’
‘Well, Conservation's done a marvellous job
over the last fifty years.’
Nightingale slowly lowered the glasses. ‘I hope this sudden bout of sarcasm from both
of you is due to nerves and not a cluster of loose molecules somewhere? At this moment in time, every atom needs to
be in the right place.’ She sometimes
wondered how safe Group Indigo's valuable equipment was in their hands. Sometimes it was like trusting a couple of
marmosets at the wheel of her state-of-the-art Amethyst car.
Nightingale glanced at Sally's belt. ‘Loosen that buckle, it's too tight. Not metal is it?’
‘Resin.’
‘And lose those earrings.’
‘Resin and amber.’
Nightingale grunted. ‘Can't understand what you need jewellery and
tight clothes for?’
Nor did Sally, so she never replied.
Nightingale turned to Jeff. Although she counted on him to check out the
wildlife, she trusted him with little else.
‘When Perry's team have finished resetting the flags, tell him to mend
the bird scarer and flush some of that fur out.
We don't want anything interfering with the signal.’
‘The aliens said it wouldn't make any
difference to them.’
‘I'm damned if the first creature to witness
the success of an experiment this important is going to be a hedgehog. Do as I tell you!’
Jeff obeyed.
Sally sighed.
‘I can't understand why they wouldn't allow the materialisation inside
the house.’
Nightingale did. ‘They still don't trust us. How are they to
know we don't have some sort of containment portal to trap them?’
Sally paused.
‘Do they really believe that the disappearance of my transmitter key is
some sort of plot?’
‘By the last message they sent through, they
didn't seem unduly bothered by it.’
‘I got the impression they already know.’
‘What?’
Nightingale was uneasy. Sally was
an expert communicator. Though often
irrationally sensitive, she had an agile mind able to use language
comprehensible to the alien's translator.
She wasn’t likely to be mistaken over something like that.
Jeff waved the receiver of the roof's
intercom. ‘Perry wants to talk to you on
this line, Controller.’
‘What's wrong with his phone?’
‘Doesn't have voice security.’
Nightingale swore at herself for restricting
the number of secure lines to stop the staff bothering her.
She leaned precariously over the parapet to
call five stories down. ‘You'll have to
wait!’ then muttered under her breath, ‘He'd want the end of the world
announced in triplicate.’ She turned to
Sally and Jeff. ‘Now we've established
the whereabouts of the wildlife, you can go and check your kit.’
‘We still don't know when they're coming
through,’ protested Jeff.
‘As the aliens are the ones operating the
portal, we'll have to wait around until they're ready. Not having any more “bowel problems”, are
you?’
Jeff flushed in anger and left the roof.
Sally giggled.
‘And how is your problem caused by his
“bowels”?’ Nightingale asked.
‘Heggarty's tablets worked. I haven't had a bout for five months now.’
‘Might have more to do with you keeping away
from the source.’ Sally opened her mouth
to protest. ‘I wasn't being moralistic,
just practical.’
‘What else?’
Sally had no idea that the rare virus Jeff had infected her with would
prove fatal and Nightingale saw little point in enlightening her. ‘You might be more inclined to watch your ex
inamorato with a less infatuated eye.’
‘Watch him?’
‘Very closely.’
‘I don't understand?’
‘You don't need to.’ Nightingale pulled on her driving
gloves. ‘Let me know as soon as they
make contact. I won't go too far.’ She then descended the fire escape to see the
officious Perry and take her Amethyst for a brief spin.
CHAPTER 3
Ben
carefully slipped past the hayricks without catching the attention of the farm
equipment sensors. He darted towards the
large five bar gate at the end of the manure-covered lane. After scraping the muck from his shoes, he
climbed through the gate's bars and onto the road the other side.
The countryside was suddenly different, as
though he had passed through an invisible curtain. To one side was a vast water meadow where the
stunted remains of a town built on a flood plain had been undermined and
allowed to crumble. Come autumn, they
would be immersed yet again.
Ben had to go in the other direction, where
the countryside undulated up and away from the river’s clutches.
He strained his eyes to try and see the
ubiquitous power generating windmills or solar sails that usually peppered the
land. The child had often wondered whether such a plethora of the machines
speeded up the rotation of the Earth or slowed it down. But here all the land's furniture was totally
natural, bar a tiled road. He gingerly
picked his way along it and the smell of manure gave way to the odd pocket of
perfume wafted from foliage he was unable to identify.
Distracted by the wonder of what he had
trespassed into, Ben didn’t hear the purr of a car's engine behind him. Its sudden warble made the eight-year-old
freeze to the spot in fright. As she
stopped, the driver slowly removed her polarised glasses and looked at the
small, fair interloper with more curiosity than annoyance. Ben gazed back at the angular mauvish-brown
features of the woman with a huge shock of tightly curled hair. There was something fierce about her and she
drove the sleekest vehicle he had ever set eyes on. The battery for the Amethyst must have had at
least four charging units that needed a whole windmill's worth of power.
The woman's features creased into a tight
smile and Ben discovered he could move after all. He scrambled up the buttercup-covered bank
and the car sped off.
Ben reached a grassy verge that made his
journey much safer. On either side,
downland peppered with bright flowers rolled away like an ancient French
tapestry. He half expected to find
knights, damsels and dragons woven into the landscape and, sure enough, a huge
unicorn had been carved into a distant chalk hillside. It must have been near the virtual fantasy
park Agatha had promised to take him to.
Ben was tempted to go there instead, but he only had one entertainment
token and packet of biscuits in his pocket and, of course, was on a mission as
bizarre as anything he was liable to find in a virtual reality cubicle.
The tiled road led to a long, high stone
wall. What if that strange woman in the
car was on the other side? What would he
say if he met her? She was very
intimidating, even though she hadn't tried to run him over.
Ben looked up at the stone blanketed in
ivy. He was frightened. There must have been hungry wild animals on
the other side.
He cautiously trudged through the weeds
outside the perimeter. Even though he
had braved a field of cows to reach here, things that no campaigning zoologist
would be willing to pluck out of the grass by its whiskers and conserve must
have lurked on the other side of that wall.
The eight-year-old was growing weary. He knew it wasn't possible to put off the
mission any longer. Ben gingerly
clambered up the ivy and into the estate beyond at the next section of crumbling
stone.
It was like stepping into one of those
ancient fairy stories from his grandmother's collection. Though the regular world Ben lived in was
green and buzzing with life, it was also organised, cultivated and cared for. Here, he half expected the fearsome sprite
and her sleek car to suddenly come charging out of the undergrowth at him. This was the unruly world he had been taught
to fear in social awareness classes. “The
disorganised is wasteful, the undisciplined dangerous and the imagination a wild
beast.” The child hadn't understood what
it all meant of course, even though he was shown pictures. He was very good at organisation, though
suspected that an undisciplined imagination would be the death of him.
‘Oh well,’ Ben sighed fatalistically, ‘at
least I can't be told off when I'm dead.’
He jumped down into the mysterious wood.
He felt a tingling sensation as though
something had registered his presence.
Alarmed, Ben bounded for the cover of the bracken. As he ducked out of sight, a bright orange
flag snapped up from nowhere. Realising
that this meant discovery, the eight-year-old plunged deeper into the thicket.
By the time Ben stopped to look about he was
lost and very scared. It was becoming
difficult to remember the odd dream instructions, so he sat at the foot of a
tree to organise his thoughts. He had
run in a more or less straight line away from the wall that was probably
circular. So, if the large house was in
the centre of the grounds, all he needed to do was keep moving in the same
direction. He was bound to reach it
sooner or later.
Ben struck out through the bracken
again. At times, the tall fronds totally
obscured the eight-years-old's view and made him wish he had brought his pocket
compass.
He heard the murmuring of voices. Ahead, a lattice of sunlight patterned a
small arena of closely cropped grass.
Spotlighted in the centre was a man wearing a magenta suit. He remained still for some while, listening
to instructions coming from his lapel receiver.
Then he strode to where a machine sat on a pedestal. There was a similar device quite near to
where Ben hid. The sight of it filled
him with inexplicable terror.
Another figure, also wearing magenta, walked
in from the other side of the clearing.
She silently made her way to the machine near Ben then turned to face
her companion.
The woman was his mother.
Ben nearly called out. She was obviously doing something very
important, so he stopped himself.
His mother and her companion placed their
hands on the alien looking machines and synchronously turned two keys. The devices began to thrum loudly. Ben covered his ears.
‘Translator engaged,’ a metallic voice droned
over the din.
Eventually the sound stopped pounding Ben's
eardrums. He carefully moved closer as a
third figure started to take shape in a busy, ultraviolet cloud. The softer the thrumming grew, the more
distinct the strange creature became.
It was standing quite near his mother.
The prickling terror of recognition combed
Ben's scalp.
The alien had four legs. That bizarre feathery hair and large facetted
eyes - it was one of the creatures he had met in his dream!
He now knew for sure that this errand was no
flight of his own fancy. What sort of
trick had these alien creatures played on him?
And what sort of trick were they playing on
his mother?
The creature was now quite solid and moved
from foot to foot to foot as Ben's mother held a conversation with it. Suddenly the child became tearful. The experience was overwhelming him, even
though he could tell by the relaxed way his mother stood that she was quite
enjoying the encounter. For fear of her
hearing him cry, he silently pushed his way through the bracken and round to
the other side of the clearing.
The man by the second machine was watching
the meeting with a tense, twitching expression.
Ben studied the intensely handsome face.
The eight-year-old didn't like him.
About the same age as his mother, the man had a cold look in his
eyes. Having been sheltered from normal human
contact, Ben could see into the depths of a depraved psyche which social
conditioning would have blinded anyone else to.
He also noticed something familiar about him. That was more terrifying than anything alien.
Ben shuddered and quickly returned his
attention to what was happening.
The alien and his mother were enclosed in a
large bubble that curved the ultraviolet light about them like a lens. Inside it, the air seemed to buzz as though
fine sand was being whipped up by a vortex.
She was treating the occasion with such nonchalance that they might have
been discussing the new fuel cell she wanted for her car.
As though he had just been about to leap away
from his post, the cold gaze of the man in the magenta suit suddenly fell on
Ben. He was startled and hesitated. For a second the man was frozen in mid
air. Then suddenly dissolved!
As that happened, there was silent
explosion. Ben's mother and the alien
were shattered to pieces. The bubble
disappeared. Fragments of his mother and
the alien lay strewn about the clearing.
Nothing moved.
Ben suddenly missed the bird song. He heard himself whimpering. That bloody mass of dismembered limbs must
have appeared from nowhere. That had to be it.
The eight-year-old felt sick and couldn’t
stop trembling.
He was moving. He didn’t know how and was hardly aware of
climbing back through the gap in the wall.
As Ben tumbled onto the road, he heard voices
calling. They must have been on another
planet - this one had become a blur.
As the eight-year-old ran, the tapestry
landscape was transformed into a realm of dreams where he could escape the
brutality of recollection.
He had to reach his room and hide under his
duvet. Only there could he be safe -safe
behind the bolted door of the new compartment in his mind. Anyone trying to drag him from it had to be
fought off at all costs.
Ben was inexplicably calm by the time he
reached his front door. He went to the
kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. Agatha had left him a meal, so he microwaved
it and sat down on the living room sofa to eat.
His father would have been furious if he knew.
The child slowly placed his knife and fork on
his plate then realised that he had forgotten what his father looked like. It didn’t matter.
Ben went to the picture window to stare at
high nacreous clouds and dangerous dimensions buzzing outside his secure
sanctuary.
CHAPTER 4
Perry
pushed the orange flag back into its slot.
The scanner's needle indicated that it had been activated by something
heavier than a muntjac. Whatever it was,
trespassing wildlife was nothing compared to the tall savage human he had to go
back and report to.
The security chief ordered his team to
methodically pace every metre of the estate.
They only found body parts. The
remains they had collected added up to one human and a rapidly dissolving alien
with four legs. Jeff Devlin, or his
remains, was probably further away than Perry's organised brain could
imagine. Nightingale knew. If he was that cynical, Perry would have
realised how pleased she was at the prospect of never having to see his
glamorous good looks again. This was not
a logical deduction for a uniformed mind like his to make. The explanation had to be spelt out for him
in the secrecy of Nightingale's basement laboratory.
‘He was a plant.'
Perry's jaw dropped. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘He couldn’t have been anything else. When you see an urban rat, you can be sure
the sewer isn’t too far away.’
That made sense. Being an uncomplicated security man, Perry had
easily comprehended Jeff Devlin’s true nature.
It was the machines, laser tools and circuits Nightingale was forever
tinkering with he couldn’t make sense of and he hardly dared look into the
anteroom where she kept her biological samples.
The place had that odd antiseptic smell of the cheap mortuaries that had
once prepared the dead for quick cremation.
Since the plagues, nobody would handle bodies without enough
disinfectant to wipe out the region's cockroach population. For all Perry knew, Nightingale was creating
a human species resistant to all the mutated viruses, germs, and bacteria that
had devastated the immune systems of the old one. Given the massive range of technology the
survivors had inherited, the Chief of Security supposed somebody ought to make
use of it.
Perry was suddenly aware that Nightingale was
waiting for a response. ‘Plant?’ He darted an uneasy glance over his shoulder
to make sure none of the equipment was listening.
‘World Security planted Jeff Devlin when
Group Indigo was being formed.’
‘How can you be so sure? World Security were the ones who set us
up. They've access to everything we do,
so why should they need a spy?’
Nightingale lounged back in her chair and
swung her feet onto a bench. She had a
far worse suspicion than the one that she was prepared to admit to Perry. It would endanger him and his family if she
aired it. ‘They are beginning to realise
that these aliens could be dangerous and that they have invested the safety of
this planet in Group Indigo. When World
Government decided we should be a civilian organisation, World Security found
it difficult to swallow.’
‘Well that's the way it had to be. There are still plenty of regions who refuse
to trust uniforms after the clampdowns.
It's not as if this is some natural disaster or nuclear waste clearance
that only the military can tackle. They
would go crazy if they suspected that aliens had managed to penetrate our
defences.’
‘And now these aliens believe that Group
Indigo blew up one of their agents, we probably do have something to panic
about.’
The admission coming from someone as
adamantine as Nightingale was enough to daunt Perry.
He took a short intake of breath. ‘Can't we contact them again?’
‘Devlin's key is damaged, Sally's is still
missing, and mine was destroyed in the explosion.’
‘Did you find out what happened to hers?’
‘She thought her husband took it. He probably keeps it with the wax effigy of
me stuck with antique hypodermics.’
‘That bad is he?’
‘Like Dracula with a toothache. He'll sink those fangs into her child if he
isn’t stopped.’
Perry looked worried. Nightingale was no child snatcher. She was more likely to put a silver bullet
through the Dr. Harold’s brain.
‘Surely he won't make a fuss over parting
with the boy?’
‘The housekeeper reported him to Social
Concern centres twice. You know what
they're like where the medical profession is involved. Prosecuting a doctor doing research for a popular
provincial government is like trying to slice a slug with a feather. No, I’ll work something out.’ When Nightingale told Sally that she would
look out for her child, she didn’t think it would involve adoption. Wriggling out of that commitment without
breaking her word would take more working out than the blueprint for her
revolutionary fuel cell. Dealing with
people was more difficult than mathematics.
Perry always found her calculating expression
disconcerting. There was the inevitable
fallout to clear up afterwards. ‘You will
be careful, won't you boss?’
Nightingale looked up. ‘Careful?
I'm always careful.’
Perry resolved not to mention the word
“doctor” for at least six months. With a
little luck and her preoccupation with damage limitation after the disastrous
alien encounter, premeditated murder might somehow slip the Senior Controller's
mind.
‘Have you any idea what caused this
explosion?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Nightingale lied. The only thing which puzzled her was why
Devlin was willing to stand as surety, only to miscalculate the time of the
detonation and not jump clear.
‘It must have been someone who knew Sally
well,’ Perry went on. ‘As far as we can
tell from her injuries, she was carrying the explosive in her belt, probably
disguised as a buckle.’
‘Little present from an affectionate
“friend”.’
Perry had no idea what she was driving
at. ‘There's not much left of her torso,
though ...’
‘All right, all right. We'll have to think up a cover story for her
husband. Something to do with
radiation. That'll ensure he doesn't ask
to inspect the remains.’
‘Lead coffin?’
‘Largest you can find. There must be plenty in government storage
since they over anticipated the casualties from the last nuclear accident.’
‘Thank God we're now driven by wind, waves
and sunbeams.’ Then Perry inwardly
groaned as he remembered the car that had been crushed for being a serious
pollution hazard.
‘The worst thing a windmill can do is whine
when it needs servicing, although too many neat sunbeams can give you a
complexion like mine?’
Perry feigned ignorance. Some things Nightingale consistently lied
about. ‘Thought that was genes?’
‘Playing with the wrong end of the
spectrum. Luckily I was brown to begin
with. The other two were white and
turned cobalt violet.’
Against his better judgement, Perry believed
her. ‘How the hell-?’
‘Never mind, Perry. We gave up that line of research when the
ozone renewal plant in the Antarctic was put on stream and it became evident
that we weren't going to lose the ozone layer after all.’
Perry shook his head. With her fuel cell research and the Natural
Energy Grid she had helped to bring on line, she had enough qualifications to
comment on the state of the planet. He
had no intention of asking what there were.
He knew he wouldn't like the answer.
‘I'll see what the database can dig out in
the way of lead coffins. What about the
alien?’ he asked.
‘She's still breaking up. We've got her remains in a vacuum but the
molecules won't be stable in our dimension for very long. By the time we get her companions to speak to
us again, we'll be able to hand her back in an egg-cup.’
The grisly always brought out Perry’s longing
for the security a military uniform had given him. He had an overwhelming urge to salute
Nightingale as he left, before remembering her reaction to any form of forelock
tugging.
The Senior Controller paid no attention. She was deep in thought.
As soon as Perry had gone, she leapt up and
flicked the cover from the machine that had transmitted Jeff Devlin to another
dimension. She threw the lever on her
console and thick lead screens slid into place, sealing the laboratory in an
airtight shell.
With some difficulty, Nightingale wriggled
the distorted crystal that had been Jeff Devlin's transmitter key into
place.
She hardly expected anything to happen. The Lictana were the ones who controlled
their encounters. It was somewhat
optimistic to hope that they still wanted to talk.
There was no sound for some while, then an
erratic whirring.
It rapidly built to a crescendo.
With controlled desperation, Nightingale
tried to pull the key free. It had
jammed tight.
Before she could take cover, an almighty
“crack” lashed out from the machine and sent her sprawling. It was like colliding with the blade of a
rotating windmill.
Feeling more like a stunned Don Quixote than
Senior Controller, Nightingale tried to regain her senses. It was obvious by the machine's furious
reaction that she had managed to raise something.
An alien voice activated the translator. ‘Who is there?’
The scientist gave her temple a swift rap to
make her name come. ‘Nightingale.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to Tamble.’
‘Not possible.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Datch.’
Nightingale daren't hesitate in case the
translator cut out. ‘You know what
happened?’
‘No.
We assume you do?’
‘We're still trying to find out.’
‘You are aware that we have your agent
hostage?’
‘Keep him.
He probably planted the explosive on Sally.’
Datch sounded less mechanical. ‘Why?’
‘Someone in World Security obviously doesn't
want Group Indigo to fraternise with aliens.’
‘We understand that they set Group Indigo up
for that purpose.’
‘That's what I thought. Now it's apparent they're worried about us
making too much progress.’
‘That sounds like a problem even you cannot
solve.’
Nightingale chuckled. ‘Oh yes I will, even if it takes the next
hundred years. This situation is too
serious to trust to authority.’
‘You realise that if your agent is to remain
molecularly intact, we will have to keep him in suspension?’
‘Spread him on toast if you want. It wouldn't bother me if his molecules did
drift apart. There's nothing much left
of your agent, I'm afraid.’
There was a brief silence.
Nightingale sensed the calculation in Datch's
next question.
‘Was the missing transmitter key returned to
you?’
On hearing that, a chasm opened up in her
carefully laid plans. Nightingale was
plotting even before she found out what the Lictana were up to. How could the aliens know where the
transmitter key was? As it wasn't
molecularly stable in their dimension, they shouldn’t even know that it was
missing, unless... If Jeff Devlin didn't
take it, there was another player in the field!
Someone else without a name or identity recorded on her database. Nightingale’s scars tingled in terror at the
thought.
She tried not to sound alarmed. ‘Should the key have been returned to me?’
‘The incident probably interfered with our
plan.’
‘What plan?’
‘I have said enough.’
Enough to worry the wits out of the Senior
Controller. ‘If there is another agent I
know nothing about, you do realise what that means? Perry can keep his mouth shut. I can't speak for anyone else.’
‘We control the link and will be prepared for
further sabotage.’
‘You seem sure that I'll never make it a
two-way system?’
‘That, Nightingale, will take you longer than
a human life span.’
‘So how many years will our planets remain
interdimensionally linked? How many more
alien sightings can we expect to hear about?’
‘You sound as though you do not trust us?’
‘People have disappeared.’
‘Some other aliens nearer to home, perhaps.’
‘Yes, I suppose there are bigger monsters
than you walking the Earth. Before I do
anything else, I have to pay one of them a visit.’
‘Do not take our willingness to negotiate
with you for granted,’ warned Datch.
‘We've never been any threat to you.’
‘While our dimensions overlap, you will keep
trying to cross into our world as easily as we can cross into yours.’
‘Group Indigo are the only ones able to contact
you and I protect the system like a basilisk with a platinum egg.’
‘Is this another aspect of your perverted
diet?’
Nightingale wasn’t taken in. ‘Don't try to kid me you don't understand
irony after the amount of “research” you've done on humans.’
‘We could learn more.’
‘What for?’
‘Our own security. What else.’
Despite the translator, the threat in Datch's tone was unmistakable.
‘I'm the only one you can make contact
through. I'll decide how much you need
to learn.’
There was a pause. Datch was conferring with someone else.
‘You will have no choice but to come to an
arrangement with us before long,’ the Lictanan eventually announced.
‘Don't try and blackmail me with Jeff
Devlin.’
‘Nothing could be further from our wicked
alien minds. But we will keep him all
the same.’
Nightingale was silent. Behind the creature's familiarity was a
culture she couldn’t visualise, though she knew that the Lictana were testing
the resolve of the human species.
Then she remembered the missing transmitter
key. Datch knew who had the device. Nightingale had to get to it first. She would sooner shake the truth out of
Sally's husband than discover what “arrangement” Datch had in mind. Although the aliens had been cooperative so
far, that could change if they had found a human able to operate the key.
CHAPTER
5
Although
he was a physician, Colin Harold had never been able to fathom the chemical
reactions that had conspired to give Nightingale her purplish brown
complexion. He had only ever seen the
woman once, and that was early in his marriage when he had arranged to meet
Sally at a restaurant on one of
Dr. Harold had stowed his car half a
kilometre beneath the green turf, next to one of the City's main arterial
roads. He took the lift up to the pure
food restaurant and saw his wife step from an alpha licensed vehicle. The Amethyst was being driven by Nightingale,
of course.
It was hate at first sight.
Nightingale needed only one look at the man
to confirm the suspicions she had about Sally's taste in the opposite sex. Dr. Harold immediately realised that the
Senior Controller had been the one to try and talk his wife out of the
marriage. Most people now thought that
the concept was a decadent arrangement and the legal contract that catered for
all combination of genders was quite adequate.
Dr. Harold liked order in his life, though. Knowing his wife was involved in important
secret work that she was not allowed to discuss with him only added to his
resentment.
On that occasion, Nightingale had not stepped
from her car to further daunt the doctor with her height and taciturn
manner. Now, ten years later, Dr. Harold
looked out of his study window and saw every inch of that towering purple
affront to his ego. He had just arrived
back from
But Dr. Harold had gone out of his way to
find other masters. Given his wife's
important status, his ego demanded he approach World Security. He had gleaned enough from Sally to realise
they were a massive bramble in Nightingale's secret garden. The doctor also
craved that magic pass which would let him through doors bolted against the
usual hoi polloi, and the sense of knowing that, although he may not have been
on the right side, he was on the winning one.
It was a comedown to learn that they were only interested in his wife.
When Colin Harold had learnt about Sally's
death, he cut short his trip to
They had badly miscalculated. Dr. Harold had been more annoyed by the early
morning mists and several checks by conservation squads for the odd hitchhiking
bear than distraught at losing his unfaithful partner.
The doctor knew why Nightingale had come and
saw no reason why he should he part with Ben.
Legally he was responsible for the boy, if not biologically. She would only have him fostered out to some
comfortable family circle with enlightened attitudes and solar powered
toothbrushes. That was certain to
announce to the world that the physician's wife had cuckolded him. In fact, the world had too much on its mind
to worry about his private life and probably forgotten what cuckold meant.
Dr Harold summoned Agatha and asked her to
send Ben in. She told him that Ben
wasn't well enough to come down so soon after his mother's death. The housekeeper was disconcerted by the
child’s remote behaviour as though he hadn’t taken in what had happened. She would have called in a therapist to
investigate Ben’s dissociated state of mind, but the doctor refused to allow
it. All Agatha could do was humour the
eight-year-old.
She went to the stair cupboard where Ben was
hiding and gave him a glass of orange juice and several biscuits then persuaded
him to go to his room. As soon as he was
out of sight, the housekeeper opened the front door to see what manner of
creature was casting the weird silhouette on its stained glass.
Throwing a steepling shadow into the hall,
over two metres of lean, mean, secret scientist peered down at the homely pink
housekeeper.
With mutually amazed curiosity, Nightingale
noted Agatha's apron and rolled down socks.
Given the advances in domestic technology, it had never occurred to the
Senior Controller that people were still employed to do housework. When Sally had mentioned what a blessing
Agatha was, Nightingale assumed she had been referring to some domestic
appliance.
There was even more to wonder at inside the
house. Its interior had stopped evolving
over a century ago. Instead of a
positive ion counter and humidity dial, there was an antique barometer by an
equally old-fashioned coat stand.
Neither of the hall windows was triple glazed, though judging by the
amount of stained glass, there was no lack of funds. Every door had a gap of at least a centimetre
below it as well as being hinged instead of sliding. Dr. Harold might have had some exemption on
grounds of preservation so Nightingale went on to count a dozen more
transgressions she could have had him prosecuted for. It was hardly surprising that Sally had been
trying to get authorisation to place Ben in a more civilised environment.
The Senior Controller stiffened. She felt a pang of guilt for insisting that
Sally live at Group Indigo's HQ where no pets or children were allowed. Even watching Perry scream at the wildlife
and his security team would have been less traumatic for the child than having
to contend with an emotionally stunted guardian and illegal draughts.
Agatha dawdled off to see if Dr. Harold was
ready to meet the visitor.
As Nightingale waited in the hall, she
noticed a movement at the top of the stairs.
Sitting there was a fair-haired child with a solemn expression and large
blue eyes. His gaze was motionless. Unlike many eight-year-olds, who all tended
to look the same to Nightingale, this was not an easily forgotten face. It was the same boy she had encountered on
the road leading to Group Indigo's HQ.
The truth dawned like a supernova.
Immediately all the plans the Senior
Controller had so methodically calculated to confound Dr. Harold and the Lictana
started to unravel. The aliens knew
where the transmitter key was. In all
probability, so did Sally's son.
Still mentally reeling from the revelation,
Nightingale was escorted with old-fashioned courtesy into Dr. Harold's
presence. As he set eyes on the tall purple creature in the long black coat,
both noted that their mutual dislike had not waned.
He hardly seemed overcome with grief, so she
never bothered to offer her condolences over Sally's death.
Nightingale towered over the doctor like a
Norway spruce, so he insisted she take a seat.
She slumped into a wicker chair without moving her gaze from the sternly
handsome face just beginning to be pinched by intolerance. Again she wondered why Sally had always set
so much store by the way her men looked without bothering to analyse those
embryo lines of meanness. Given her late
assistant's intelligence, there must have been some deep-seated aberration
learnt in babyhood that had not shown up in a personality scan.
Harold flicked a strand of black wavy hair
from his forehead. ‘What can I do for
you, Senior Controller?’
‘I understand that our provincial government
has commissioned you to undertake the research for a report of a delicate
nature?’
He smiled smoothly. ‘Yes, though there's nothing secret about it.
Unlike projects some other people are engaged in.’
‘It will ensure you are away from home a good
deal.’
‘Quite possibly.’ So she didn't know about his connection with
World Security. An idea started to
form. ‘Some intensive interviewing will
be necessary. Very few subjects are
local.’
Nightingale couldn't tell if he was
lying. He would have sounded just as
devious if he was telling the truth.
‘Your wife was concerned that, if anything
happened to her, Ben should be brought up in a family circle.’
‘Yes, I know.
After Ben has recovered from the shock I think the matter should be
looked into.’
This was too easy. Something was wrong. Nightingale was unable to work out what. ‘I have approached various agencies. You will naturally be consulted about the
home he goes to. For the boy's sake,
things should not be left too long.’
‘I will contact you in a couple of weeks.’
The man could have got up to anything in that
time. ‘I'll contact you. How is the child?’
‘Agatha tells me that he hasn’t been able to
take his mother’s death in.’
‘You prescribe for him yourself?’
Dr. Harold sensed that she was dangling a
noose in the hope he would put his head into it. ‘I've never treated any of my family. If his condition deteriorates I will take him
to a colleague. He should be all right,
though.’ The doctor was obviously not
going to acknowledge the condition that Ben had inherited from his true father.
Nightingale recalled Ben’s motionless gaze
and wondered if the man really knew how serious the boy's condition was. ‘A very active child, is he?’
‘Not very.
The furthest he ventures is to the far side of the orchard. Wouldn't go into the fields. He's terrified of cattle.’
‘So he would never wander off by himself?’
‘He wouldn't dare. Courage has never been one of his strong
points.’
‘I see.’
Dr. Harold knew even less about his “son” than Nightingale had
suspected. ‘Oh, by the way, your wife
was entrusted with a small transmission device.
You may have seen her wearing it?
It looked like a pendant.’ By the
expression Harold tried to suppress, it was obvious that he had assumed it to
be a gift from a lover. ‘We must have it
back as soon as possible. I will naturally
expect to hear from you as soon as you come across it. My ferrets are well trained, but tend to mess
up any burrow they’re let loose in.’
Her threat certainly had an electric effect on Dr. Harold. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one she had
intended.
Nightingale rose. ‘I'll contact you within the week. Can't leave you my number I'm afraid.’
‘Of course not.’
The Senior Controller left without another
word, grateful for a few days grace to work on a new scheme. Though she felt guilty about it, Sally's
child had now assumed an importance that wasn’t necessarily going to help his
welfare.
Before Nightingale could step outside, Agatha
caught her arm. ‘When does the child
go?’
‘Within the fortnight I hope.’
‘He agreed then?’
‘Yes.
Why shouldn't he?’
‘He's up to something.’
‘Why?’
‘That's the sort of man he is.’ Agatha rummaged in her apron pocket for a
stub of pencil and shopping pad. ‘Give
me your number.’
‘It's not possible to contact me.’
‘Then give me a number I can leave a message with.’
‘Why?’
‘I know that man. You may just dislike him, but beneath that
efficient exterior beats the heart of a medieval torturer.’
‘Sounds eerily quaint.’
‘Now his mother's dead, someone's got to look
out for Ben. I thought you were going to
do it.’
‘You were listening at the door,’ Nightingale
accused.
‘So what?’
During her time, Agatha had stood up to bigger tyrants than
Nightingale. The young now counted more
than ever and she was determined to do what she could for Ben. The child was swimming with sharks without a
flight reflex left in his brain.
Faced down by the scruffy, middle-aged woman
with the pitted pink complexion, Nightingale relented. ‘Ring X line 20ZA7. There's a tape you can leave a message on. It's checked every hour.’
Agatha scribbled the number down. Nightingale strode back to her Amethyst,
which
purred
off through the tidy patchwork countryside.
CHAPTER
6
Ben
tried to get a closer look at the clucking creatures in the lollipop-shaped
trees. There was a whirring in his ears
and lights throbbed behind his eyes. He
wanted to wake up but couldn't turn back now.
There was something he had to know.
The child concentrated and found himself back
in the spherical room with the Lictana.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, little minnow?’ asked Hysle
brightly.
‘You said everything would be all right.’
‘We did not know someone was going to
sabotage the meeting.’
‘What's sabotage?’
‘The explosion. It killed one of our best communication
agents.’
Ben was outraged. ‘It killed my mother as well! You have to catch who did it!’
Hysle sighed.
‘We would need help to do that.’
‘I want whoever killed her punished! I'll help you.’
‘Would you, little minnow?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘Perhaps you would,’ humoured Tamble, ‘but
you are very young.’
‘I don't want to grow any older. I don't like adults.’
‘I am sure all human adults cannot be that
bad, can they?’
‘I don't know many others apart from Agatha
and Bertha, and they’re all right.’
‘You live a very sheltered life, little
minnow,’ laughed Hysle. ‘Would you like
to know the Lictana better?’
‘Lictana?’
‘That is what we are called.’
Ben hesitated. Just because the four-legged aliens were very
odd, it didn't mean they shouldn't have a name.
Knowing it somehow helped him see them in a clearer light. Strangely balletic, the Lictana weren't half
a human grafted onto the body of a horse and were as carefully designed as any
creature he knew; they probably never had back trouble. It must have been difficult to make their
four-legged overalls with so many fringes and pockets.
The eight-year-old was also little
suspicious. ‘You don't really know that
much about us, do you?’
Datch was quick to mollify him. ‘Not as much as we would like to.’
‘Why do you want to know about us?’
‘We are close neighbours.’
‘How close?’
‘Closer than most humans would dare guess.’
‘As close as ... Jupiter?’
‘Closer than that.’
‘The moon?’
Dey decided to join the game. ‘Even closer.
From here we can count the welds on that new base being built on the
moon.’
Ben gasped.
‘I didn't know they were building a base there!’
‘Right next to the one that decompressed
suddenly and killed all its occupants.
This new base has a double pressurised shell. The air in the outer one collects the sun's
heat during the day and it is used to keep the hydroponics dome warm.’
Ben gave sour look. ‘My father said that now there's a world
government, we'll never know what's going on.’
Hysle laughed. ‘You are an old-fashioned little thing,
aren't you.’
‘Very proper,’ agreed Tamble.
‘Would you like to stay the same age, Ben,
yet know everything an adult does?’ Datch suggested calculatingly.
He would have liked nothing more. However, he lived with a doctor whose
patients died more frequently than on average.
This made him a realist on the subject.
‘It's not possible.’
‘Oh, it is.
Can you guess how old we are?’
How could Ben know what the signs of ageing
in a Lictanan were? They might have
grown even more legs for all he knew.
‘No.’
‘We are all over two hundred of your years
and will probably live to twice that.’
‘But I don't want to live to be four hundred;
I just don't want to grow any older.’
‘We could help you do that.’
Datch's serious manner didn’t intimidate
Ben. If anything, he trusted her because
of it. ‘Would you really?’
‘We can teach you everything you want to know
while you are asleep,’ Hysle added.
Datch gave him a disapproving glance.
‘Would it be a sort of swop for all the
things I can tell you?’
The small Lictanan laughed. ‘My goodness, you are a quick little minnow.’
‘But I don't know that much.’
‘Do not worry. We will tell you the sort of things we are
interested in.’
His suspicions addressed, Ben felt more
comfortable. Though he would never see
his mother again, he had found some friends in a place nobody else could
find. He knew there was no world closer
to the Earth than the moon, and they would easily explain that when they were
ready. He needed someone to depend on
too much to worry about elementary astronomy.
He felt so comfortable he started to fade.
The Lictana switched off their translators.
‘Damn,’ cursed Datch. ‘What is he doing?’
Tamble turned on her and Hysle. ‘What do you two think you are up to? How could an eight-year-old human know
anything that would be useful to us?’
‘Nightingale is in a corner. She might be prepared to take a gamble to
maintain contact,’ Datch explained.
‘What sort of gamble?’
‘The sort their World Security would kill her
for if they found out.’
Hysle laughed. ‘She does not seem to be the sort of human
easily killed off.’
‘Can't you take anything seriously?’
‘Earth's small mammals, pond life, and
children.’
‘You may know more about those subjects than
anyone else, but they will not be any use if Nightingale manages to build a
portal and Earth's military finds out.’
Dey realised what Datch was driving at. ‘If we use Ben as a spy, we will have
something to blackmail Nightingale with.
She is not to know whether he can tell us anything useful or not.’
‘Neat,’ agreed Tamble. ‘How do we go about it?’
‘We are going to be very nice to an
eight-year-old human as soon as he comes back.’
* * *
Ben
briefly woke to smell the orange blossom scent filling his bedroom. The rays of the rising sun shone through the
chintz curtains. Someone was thumping
about downstairs. It was too early for
Agatha, so it had to be his father. The
child pulled the duvet over his head and returned to the safety of that room in
the back of his mind.
* * *
Ben
glanced out at the puzzling Lictanan landscape.
Nothing was the right colour or had shapes he was familiar with. He felt like a hamster escaping from the
known world of its cage and quickly returned to the spherical room.
‘Where did you go, little minnow?’ asked
Hysle.
‘Nowhere.
I just looked outside. That’s
all.’
The other Lictana froze in alarm.
They turned on Hysle.
He had forgotten to switch on his translator!
Datch was the first to say something, albeit
under her breath. ‘What an adept.’ She just hoped that Ben hadn't overheard them
plotting.
‘Not many Earth’s small fish would be capable
of doing that,’ agreed Tamble.
Hysle felt protective. ‘He has just had an awful shock. How about frightening you out of your skin in
the name of science.’
‘Do not argue you two. He is important to us.’ Datch scolded.
‘Oh now we must keep you, little
minnow.’ Hysle was thrilled at the
prospect.
Tamble took Datch aside. ‘Do you think there is a chance we could
stabilise his molecules?’
‘He could never become solid.’
‘He is able to communicate without the
translator. That is more than we ever
managed to do before disintegration set in.’
Hysle skipped about the sphere like a cartoon
centaur. ‘I want to see if he can move
away from the transmission portal.’
Datch wasn't enthusiastic.
‘Oh he will be all right. The worst thing he could do is wake up.’
‘Oh yes, I would like to explore,’ Ben joined
in.
‘I will go with them,’ said Dey.
Datch was worried that her careful scheme
could be scuppered by Hysle's ebullience.
‘I am concerned about the effect on his mind. If he is fully conscious, it might be
traumatic.’
‘What could be more traumatic than seeing his
mother killed?’
‘All right.
Do not take him past the perimeter.’
Ben had no idea why Datch was being so
stern. In his excitement, he tried to
grasp Hysle's hand. His fingers passed
through it.
Hysle and Ben fell about laughing.
‘Calm down you two,' Dey warned.
‘Where shall we take him?’
Ben remembered an ancient book he had
seen. ‘Have you got a zoo?’
‘A zoo?’
‘A home for different sorts of animals. The last one was closed down long before I
was born.’
‘What did you need zoos for?’
‘Oh, that was when there were far more
people. They took up all the space the
animals used to live in. Putting the
ones that were left in cages was the only way to keep them alive. Now there's much more space they could go
home to the wild. Not many people get to
see them, except on holiday. Daddy would
never take me on holiday, and now that Mummy's ...’ Ben sniffed. ‘I've always wanted to see a zoo.’
Before the idea appealed to Hysle as well,
Dey quickly suggested the next best thing.
‘Let us show him the Spacers' canteen.
There is always a weird bunch in there.’
‘Spacers?’ echoed Ben.
‘Space travellers,’ said Hysle.
Ben wasn't sure whether it was right to stare
at other people, even if they weren't in cages.
‘Space travellers?’
Dey couldn’t comprehend Ben's limited
existence. ‘Lictan is a busy place. It is at the centre of what you would call a
throbbing civilisation.’
‘Why would any civilisation want to throb?’
‘Oh come on, little minnow.’ Hysle guided the eight-year-old outside.
Ben immediately found himself tumbling out of
what looked like a huge toadstool.
Hysle flapped his arms mockingly in mid leap
then landed daintily on a lift platform.
‘He does not fly very well.’
Dey refused to see the joke. ‘Not many minnows do.’
Ben tried to slow his fall by clutching at a
wall of leaves. ‘Stop calling me a
minnow!’
‘Poor Omcrom,’ laughed Hysle. ‘Stop pulling its scales.’
Ben floated to the ground. He looked up to see that the leaves belonged
to a massive creature with no interest whatsoever in his presence. It had a huge, doleful expression as though
resigned to the fact that it would eke out its existence being mistaken for a
hill of foliage.
Ben was amazed. ‘What is it for?’
Hysle stepped from the lift platform and
joined him. ‘For?’
‘What does it do?’
‘Interrupts the view mainly. The Omcrom has a remarkable digestive tract
that wastes nothing it eats.
Consequently they can go on for ages, browsing the foliage about them,
and not need to stand up for anything very much. They can make dents in the lawns when they
move, but nobody really minds.’
‘Now I know you've been telling fibs.’
‘Why do you say that, Ben?’ asked Dey.
‘There's no creature like that on Earth and,
if you're closer to us than the moon, then we must be somewhere on Earth.’
Hysle was perversely pleased that Ben was
beginning the bite back. ‘What
impeccable logic, little minnow. What do
you say to that, friend Dey?’
Ben had hoped to provoke them into telling
the truth, but Dey evaded. ‘He is too
young to understand.’
The child was used to the response. ‘That's what Daddy always says.’
Dey hoped the eight-year-old would find
something else of interest. Ben was more
disciplined than that and his expression demanded an answer.
‘Oh very well, I will try to explain.’
‘Go on?
’
‘How would you travel to Jupiter?’
‘On a spaceship.’
‘In what direction?’
‘Towards Jupiter's orbit.’
‘How would you travel to another star?’
‘The same way I suppose, though it would take
much longer.’
‘Another galaxy?’
‘Even longer.
By the time we arrived, it might not even be there any more.’
‘Oh very good,’ chuckled Hysle.
Dey hesitated. ‘How about another universe?’
Ben thought.
‘I don't really know what another universe is.’
‘He must be the only one willing to admit
it,’ Hysle murmured.
‘Well, what is another universe?’
‘We are in another universe, Ben,’ explained
Dey.
The child had some trouble with this. ‘Like ghosts, you mean?’
‘Not quite.
If you went to another star, do you believe you would travel in a
straight line?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But you cannot travel in straight lines
through space. You just think in
straight lines.’
Ben was puzzled. ‘So everything's really curved?’
‘Everything.
Now, imagine what is a solid to you as curving in one direction, and
what you cannot feel, like us, curving in another. Two dimensions in collision where none of our
atoms can touch. This is how our
universes are overlapping.’
‘How odd.’
Ben would have to take this conundrum home and give it some
thought. The auto teacher could probably
explain it. ‘Can we see the Spacers now,
please?’
‘Do you think they are ready to meet our
little minnow?’ asked Hysle.
Ben was irritated. ‘Why does he have to keep calling me a
minnow?’
‘Humour him,’ said Dey. ‘In the selection tests for our unit, he came
first in your Northern Hemisphere's pond life.
We only took him on because he makes us look so efficient.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben.
Ben was no longer interested in where Lictan
was or why Hysle glowered at Dey. He
darted enthusiastically ahead towards a spot of bright orange in a wall of
shimmering stone. It was the oval
entrance to a huge hall. Inside, the
large sun’s rays shone through a concave roof.
As they entered, Hysle caught sight of some
frantic attendants clustered about an inflated spacesuit. ‘Oh look, there been a decompression.’
Dey ushered Ben away from the sight. ‘They never learn.’
‘What's a decompression?’
‘Usually fatal and always messy. We would rather you met people who at least
had the wit to remember to check their life support suits before they
disembark.’
‘I thought only very intelligent people were
allowed to be astronauts?’
Hysle laughed. ‘Hardly, little minnow. Who, with any intelligence worth using, would
want to spend at least half their life asleep and the other half talking to
computers?’
‘Our spaceships have only gone as far as
Jupiter, and the crews didn't sleep all the way.’
Dey was impressed. ‘These humans sound positively advanced at
times.’
Hysle murmured. ‘I only hope Nightingale does not manage to
become as advanced us.’
‘Shut up you fool!’
Ben only half heard. He was too busy looking at the visitors in
the Spacers' canteen. Now used to the
alien, they all seemed quite mundane - nothing green, slimy or bug-eyed about
any of them. Inside their thermal and
atmosphere suits, they appeared to be a friendly enough bunch.
Dey noticed his disappointment. ‘Seems our charge can stand more
stimulation.’
‘Shall we ask the Omcrom if it is hungry?’
Hysle teased.
‘Oh, a minnow would get stuck in its throat.’
‘No, no, that's a stickleback.’
Ben had a better idea. ‘Why don't we ask it to eat one of you two
instead?’
Hysle was delighted. ‘I think I hear the murmurings of rebellion.’
In this safe, surreal world, the nightmare of
his mother's death no longer troubled Ben.
‘I think it's about time I woke up.
If I'm not downstairs for breakfast before eight there's always
trouble.’
‘What does that monster make you eat? Gruel?’
‘No,’ snapped Ben. ‘Pondweed!’ and he woke with a start.
Dey and Hysle knew he would be back soon
enough.
CHAPTER 7
Agatha
dashed up the drive to meet the sleek Amethyst car.
Nightingale had been sending out a scout
every evening for the past week to keep an eye on Dr. Harold, and the
housekeeper's urgent call had not been expected.
Nothing about the house and grounds looked
any more eccentric than when the Senior Controller had first called. Local officialdom had made a half-hearted
attempt to serve an energy conservation notice.
That had been left pinned to the gate in its clear plastic envelope for
all the world and its goat to read - apparently it was the third attempt. The prosecution of doctors was fraught with
difficulty. Nightingale assumed that the
man had somehow escaped the obligatory social conditioning as a child that
produces responsible, homogeneous citizens.
She certainly had.
She strode over to Agatha who was flapping
about in agitation.
As they reached the antique front door with
its stained glass heat waster, Nightingale guessed the worst. She followed the housekeeper inside.
The bookshelves in Dr. Harold's study looked
like so many rows of gappy teeth where he had hastily snatched his most
essential volumes.
Very little else was missing. He obviously had a furnished home to move
into. But where? Dr. Harold had plenty of time to make good
his escape. Nightingale wished that
there was still such a thing as an old fashioned passport. Under World Government, it had fallen into
disuse, being regarded as an affront to a person's self esteem. Now, with far fewer people to keep tabs on,
the individual was allowed freedom from carrying such demeaning documents and
this, on the whole, encouraged better behaviour from a population being
cosseted back from the edge of extinction.
There was the fingerprint pass.
All air and seaports insisted on them for casual travellers as
identification in the event of accidents or anti social behaviour. Civilian ranks like lawyers and doctors were
exempted. It was politely assumed that
their agents would know their whereabouts.
Unfortunately, Dr. Harold only answered to provincial government.
Nightingale lifted the receiver of the
ancient phone on the desk and tapped out a complex code. Then, Nightingale. Request voiceprint pass. Her voice signature approved, she was
connected to a department deep in the hive of government records. ‘Check: - Harold, Colin; medical doctor. Should be registered under research.’ Agatha could hear the clicking and bleeping
of an electronic index file.
‘Discharged.’ Nightingale
sighed. ‘Fully paid up two weeks ago.’
‘Well I never!’ gasped Agatha.
‘Damn!’
Nightingale replaced the receiver.
‘But he was researching something.’
‘Probably how to evade minor agencies, like
World Government.’
‘Why didn't I realise he was going to take
off like that?’
Nightingale was light years away from
Agatha's self-recrimination. ‘Perhaps he
knew that his wife was going to meet with an “accident”.’
The housekeeper registered the sarcasm in her
tone. ‘Accident?’
‘You don’t seriously believe it was a
radiation leak, do you?’
‘Well, that’s what Dr. Harold was told?’
‘The last nuclear reactor was buried in
radiation proof silicon over ten years ago.’
Agatha had to give that some thought. ‘So you think he had something to do with
Sally’s death?’
Nightingale shrugged.
‘You can't be serious?’
‘Wiring a miniaturised bomb does have some
similarity with micro-surgery.’
‘Well, that lets Dr. Harold out. He still uses the needle on his
patients. You ask Bertha about her
wart.’
Bertha's wart was the last thing on
Nightingale's mind. ‘You're probably
right. Sally wouldn't have given him the
chance to plant explosives on her.’
‘Harold was an ill-natured sod, but he
wouldn’t take those sort of risks.’
‘Have you been paid?’ the Senior Controller
suddenly asked.
‘Oh yes.
Left what he owed me, but no discharge bonus.’
As the doctor had flouted every other rule,
he was bound to have ignored the caffeine regulations. ‘Make me a cup of real coffee and I'll make
sure you get it.’
Agatha padded out to the kitchen.
Nightingale returned to the phone and tapped
in another number.
‘Jock ... Yes, Nightingale ... I know I
always mean trouble, but this is only a fraction of the favour you owe me
... "Who knows who" this
time. Rack that gin soaked brain of
yours. “Dr. Colin Harold”.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Are you sure? ...
That's right, antique in every objectionable sense of the word.’ She gasped in amazement. ‘Hecuba?
That's World Security's number two code.
If he's had access to that I'm not surprised he could vanish off the
face of the Earth ... No Jock, that
doesn't make me just the person to go and look for him. He must have a totally new identity by now
... Business? Not so good.
Communication problems ... What new communications base on the moon?
... No, of course I didn't ... Four years ago ... Well, seems we're quits now. I'll have to see that the right applicants
apply for some of the posts there ... What do you mean? Only one?
It's not possible for just one person to crew a moon base. I'll believe that when it's announced, you
old soak ... Cheers.’ She replaced the receiver just as the
housekeeper came back with a large mug of coffee.
‘Didn't leave a note or anything with my
money,’ Agatha said. ‘So he couldn't
have gone for good.’
‘Oh, he's gone for good. Neither of us will see Ben again.’
The pink flush left Agatha's pitted
cheeks. ‘But ... Goodness knows what
will happen to that child.’
‘It's worse than you think. Ben has inherited a clinical condition that
could affect his mind without competent treatment.’
‘Well he certainly won't get it from that
quack.’
‘And without knowing his whereabouts, there's
no guarantee a community therapy unit will find him in time.’
‘Oh dear,’ sniffled Agatha. ‘I knew I should have done something a long
while ago.’
‘If it'll make you feel any better, we could
search the house for clues. I've no
doubt an estate broker will walk in any minute and take possession.’
‘Yes, there’s a lot of Sally's stuff lying
around.’
That was what Nightingale had in mind of
course. It was her only hope of finding
the missing transmitter key.
‘I don't know what we should do with it
though?’ worried the housekeeper.
‘I'll hold onto anything of value, just in
case we eventually do find her son.’
Although Agatha was already reasonably
familiar with the contents of most cupboards and drawers, Nightingale noticed
her badly suppressed glee as she riffled through them as though they were a
diamond merchant's lucky dip.
‘Little Ben's,’ she would say, putting an
article of clothing or toy onto a neat pile, then, ‘That's Sally's,’ as she
found some diaphanous item to put into another beside it. Agatha's grandparents had no doubt told her
about the 21st century. Perhaps she was
entitled to empathise with her late employer's decadent tastes.
The frills and jewellery her late assistant
had hoarded over the years puzzled Nightingale.
Some of the fabrics were made from ancient petroleum based synthetics
which shimmered against her black coat.
By the time Sally's wardrobe lay strewn over
the bed, Nightingale was craving her black zipped body suit made of fabric so
dense it could block out infra red. She
wondered if Group Indigo had been nursing some closet 20th century female. Sally hadn’t displayed much tendency towards
feminine exhibitionism when working. The
condition was probably related to her disastrous tastes in men. She could hardly blame her for that, as one
epidemic had made sure there were now so few of them.
Nightingale examined each piece of lace and
embroidery with a forensic investigator's eye.
There was no sign of the missing transmitter key amongst the trinkets
and exotic fabrics.
Agatha packed everything of Ben's into a
case. Nothing belonging to Dr. Harold
interested Nightingale, though she did pick up several items in the hope of
collecting traces of hair and skin for DNA mapping or a genuine clairvoyant.
She left Agatha to sort through the rest and
wandered out of the back door.
A flurry of frogs dived into their pond and a
diamond-eyed cat gazed from the roof of a small shed. Someone must have had a licence for it
because there was a defiance in its manner not seen in feral cats liable to be
shot as vermin.
The garden contained an inordinate amount of
early lavender which, combined with the orange blossom, could have purged the
emanations of a sewage recycling plant from the air.
Nightingale suspiciously eyed the odd pot of
datura. She recalled that the shrub had
been banned because everything about it, from scent to foliage, was toxic. They could have been forgiven mass poisoning
for the beauty of their starched handkerchief flowers. The sunflowers were as impertinent as the
cat, and tall enough to return her two metre high gaze.
Dr. Harold's garden was as decadent as his
house. The blooms were like candles that
refused to be extinguished by the coming of electricity. It contained no hybrid orchids, miniature
Wollemi pines, or giant jasmine.
Everything here had been grown from genetically unaltered seeds and
cuttings with no help from plant plugs and their own self-contained ecosystems.
Nightingale wondered if she had spent too
long in her basement of bizarre gadgets.
She strode down some irregular steps crowded with stonecrop and briefly
toured the orchard. After kicking the ashes
of the bonfire and watching the bees swarm in the apple trees she had a short
conversation with Mr Humphreys about his honey.
Nightingale had turned to go back to the
house when someone called to her.
‘So they've gone then, have they?’
A short, youngish woman was leaning against
an apple tree, a pipe clenched in her yellow teeth. She wore a much muddied and washed duffle
coat and knee-length boots two sizes too large.
‘Got a note this morning with me pay. Mean, surly beggar that man was. Wanted me to nail back anything overgrowing
the paths and kept a cat because he didn't like birds shitting on the solar
panels of his car. Did the neighbourhood
a favour in shooting his bolt he did.’
Nightingale was fazed for a moment, so the
woman announced, ‘Gardener I am. Bertha
Mooney's the name. Admit it; you don't
often come across a handle like that nowadays.’
The Senior Controller joined her under the
tree. ‘Bit like Agatha.’
‘Reckon that's why he took us on. To him it must have sounded biblical, that
and us both being the most broke around here.
Old Albert reckoned he was more broke than we were, but Aggie and me
both had children so got more employment credits. Never forgiven us, Albert ain't. Reckons a womb ain't no reason why anyone should
get job preference - not that Aggie's still got hers. Sour old critter he is.’
‘I don't suppose you know where ..?’
‘Where Harold's gone?’ Bertha sucked her pipe into life. ‘Not a clue.
I wouldn't wish him on diseased camels.
Dracula's got a better bedside manner.
Claimed he could cure my wart, he did.
Bloody agony I went through with those injections. So’s I eventually cut the thing off
meself. Didn't half bleed too.’ Bertha could tell that her pipe intrigued
Nightingale. ‘Not much of this stuff
around now, eh?’
‘I thought the trade was banned?’
‘Grow me own, don't I. Grow anything if you know how. Weeds can cure anything - or kill you.’
Nightingale was aware that her purplish
complexion had come under scrutiny.
‘It's not curable. Was on the
wrong end of an experiment to screen out ultraviolet.’
‘Bet you can screen out light on any
wavelength now.’
‘I'm vitamin D dependent.’
‘Pity they patched up the ozone layer. Might have come in useful.’
‘If we had pursued that line of research,
everyone could have ended up this colour.’
‘Well, don't suppose someone your height gets
that many remarks made about them. Not
that it would have bothered little Ben.
Wits like drawn cutlasses, that lad.
Could cut any adult down to size and read their entrails. Pity he won't be about any more.’
‘How perceptive was he?’
‘Never met sharper. Blade of grass out of place. Cat chasing the frogs. Tendrils growing in the wrong direction. They all got sorted out. Tartar for order he was.’
‘Pity I never knew him. Sounds like the sort of assistant I need.’
‘He'll survive I suppose. I know Harold's a tyrant, but Ben'll be a
match for him before long.’
‘If he's still got a brain to cope,’ the
Senior Controller said under her breath.
Bertha clenched the pipe in her teeth and
hummed. ‘If you do find Ben, you will
let old Bertha Mooney know?’
Nightingale hesitated. ‘Why not?
Might take a long while, though.’
‘I just want to see the lad once more,
however long it takes. I'll always be
around.’
Nightingale gave a half nod and muttered to
herself, ‘Oh, so will I. So will I.’
CHAPTER
8
Forty
years of tinkering to correct climatic imbalance was at last bearing
fruit. The still declining population
was not large enough to repollute the environment so Weather Control had
inherited some interesting toys to play with.
It was decided to keep the world at a warmer
temperature and control the weather patterns.
The larger equatorial regions and deserts were reforested by introducing
inland seas to produce cloud cover. With
little left of the ice caps,
The Northern Hemisphere had suffered the most
from the antibiotic resistant plagues and the centre of world power had
shifted. The descendants of once
starving nations could now dictate where and when the next monsoon, or light
shower, would fall. Where there had once
been encroaching desert, fresh water seas produced rich alluvial mud for their
robot farmers.
Repeated inundations and meltwater began to
interfere with the saline balance of the North Atlantic Drift and the
* * *
On many
plants, at the crucial junction of a sap-supplying limb, there often appears a
blister. No creature worth the name of
parasite misses the opportunity to fasten into the nourishment supplied by
growths that are too large to notice their presence. Especially large growths like world
bureaucracy, top heavy with facts about everything from ants’ kneecaps to the
ice terraces of Europa.
Four decades had passed since Nightingale
asked her last favour of the gin melancholy Jock. As the power of World Government grew, her
occasional mole was replaced by the professional sifter - an intellectual
anteater with a mental proboscis capable of reaching into everyone else’s
secrets.
After forty years of dealing with her, no
bureaucracy dare retire Nightingale, even World Government’s. This intimidating, purplish-brown steeple had
evolved into a formidable tower of clandestine alien knowledge
After so long perfecting her espionage
resources, the Senior Controller now needed more than moles or anteaters. She replaced them with parasites.
Newly installed in their blister, Hazlewood
and Nichols scanned the equipment left in immaculate condition by their
predecessor, Arachne. They had been
waiting years for this chance. Arachne
had been honest, diligent, and steady, showing no inclination to illicitly use
the secrets gleaned in that blister on the junction of World Government
communications.
Hazlewood and Nichols were not so
scrupulous. Unlike in appearance, the
women had the reflexes of hyperactive ferrets.
Trustworthiness may not have been stamped at the top of their CVs, but
they were able to solve computer crosswords without an encyclopaedia.
Hazlewood was a large, square-faced
woman. Her hair was tufted, like a badly
knotted carpet, and her eyebrows unsure which way to grow. She was obliged to occasionally push them up
to prevent them being tangled with her ridiculously long eyelashes.
Nichols was sharper featured. She moved with a cutting motion as though
demanding the air part before her. Her
tone could skewer any opposition.
Hazlewood’s pocked complexion could well have proved it.
Their natural habitat was below ground and
they had no time for social interaction.
In dowdy overalls, they could have been taken
for subterranean maintenance as they worked to reinforce the walls of their
blister with enough security traps to keep out free-lance sewer rats. Arachne had used hundreds of security access
codes at the heart of the complex and they had to break every one before
picking up a spanner.
By the time the pair returned to their
control, Hazlewood had suspicions. ‘Do
you think Nightingale arranged everything just to confuse us?’
Nichols was too busy retuning the satellite
dish to bother with such imponderables.
‘I doubt it. Check our access to
World Security files.’
Hazlewood tapped out several different codes
and watched her monitor. ‘We have got
access.’
‘Good.’
‘What next?’
‘We need to go for a walk.’
‘A walk?’
‘To check the dish.’
They ascended in their secret lift to one of
‘I could get used to this,’ coughed
Nichols.
Floods had submerged
Nichols briefly held her scanner up to check
the satellite dish. ‘No problem there.’
Hazlewood gazed at the sky as though she
could see the signal being transmitted to them.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Not sure.
Having come this far, we cannot take chances.’
‘Do you really think Nightingale is
monitoring us?’
‘It would not surprise me. She might have held onto a few moles.’
‘What does she think we are liable to get up
to?’
‘We are her eyes and ears. She is bound to be wary.’
‘This planet has not evolved much over the
last few years, has it?’
Nichols shrugged. ‘Regressed if anything. I will never get used to this clean-minded
indifference to everything.’
‘We are so isolated down there we do not need
to.’
The two women sauntered past the remains of a
major accident that had happened earlier that week.
Hazlewood peered into the cavernous depths
where the neighbouring landscaped dome had collapsed onto an office block. The building had been renovated after the
floods and thought sound enough to store old records salvaged from the water.
‘Looks as though someone's moles went
berserk.’
‘Probably molecular reversion.’
‘Molecular reversion?’
‘Rust.’
Casualties were still being brought out of
the underground complex. The manner in
which the corroded buttresses were being hauled away suggested that there were
no plans to rebuild it. Another victory
for The Natural Living Campaign. That
small, dedicated band had spent decades arguing that, as traffic and industry
were no longer pollution threats, there was no need to bury either and court
such disasters. Pushing workers and
commuters underground so hills could drop on them was no way to restore the
population.
Those living on the equator had the right
idea. Now climate controlled, more
temperate and with unlimited solar power, they let their machines do the work
while they went on airbeam ship cruises through the rainforests to watch
wildlife. The only fun anyone seemed to
have in the Northern Hemisphere was gratifying weird dietary cravings and
watching the sentimental soaps regional governments made to reassure the
population that they would never need to think for themselves again.
Nichols and Hazlewood dawdled on, comfortable
in the knowledge that their complex was effectively reinforced.
‘Does anyone realise that Nightingale is
actually able to operate the other transmission portal at her HQ?’ asked
Hazlewood when they were out of earshot of the rescue workers.
‘No,’ Nichols said. ‘Not even her chief assistant.’
‘Good.
Then the only other person who knew was Perry.’
‘And he died fifteen years ago.’
‘Nightingale has the uncanny knack of
outliving everyone. I wonder how she manages it?’
‘Grim determination, a good medic, and no
rust.’
‘When does she want us to set up the next
contact with Lictan?’
‘As soon as we have settled in.’
‘Are you sure that she is the only one who
knows about us?’
Nichols had her suspicions about Nightingale,
but she was predictable. ‘She has no
reason to trust assistants.’
‘Those agents were killed over forty years
ago?’
‘And it has taken her much of that time to
make up lost ground. If Jeff Devlin
planted that explosive for World Security, she is unlikely to trust anyone
close to her again.’
‘I still do not understand why they did it?’
‘Might have been to warn off the wicked
aliens. Why bother to negotiate when you
can blow them up.’
‘Not a very subtle way of managing the
planet's affairs. Even Nightingale has a
lighter touch than that.’
‘World Security were scared. If they found out what she was doing now,
they would be terrified.’
After touring a couple of reconstructed
churches, Nichols and Hazlewood returned to their subterranean complex. This time they entered through the tunnels
where the apparatus tapping the communication lines of World Government was
installed.
The planet was no longer bombarded by signals
from satellites because plenty of radio bands were available: they were easily
intercepted, so allocated mainly to astronomers. Digital connections fanned out from their
meridian to the network that linked World Security control points about the
globe. Flame, flood and impact proof,
the engineers had not taken into account Nightingale.
The discovery of aliens so many decades ago
had concentrated authority's mind wonderfully.
They still didn’t trust Group Indigo, but there was no one else with the
expertise to deal with it. Nightingale
should have told the agency that renovated old radio telescopes to scan the
stars that they were looking in the wrong place, only then she would have been
scrutinised even more closely.
Nichols and Hazlewood made a cursory
inspection of the communication junctions before returning to their control
room.
‘What is bothering you?’ Hazlewood eventually
asked.
‘I don't know.’ Nichols began collating information on
uniformed security movements. ‘There is
something fishy about World Security.’
‘That is what Nightingale has been saying for
over forty years. They might sabotage
her again.’
‘Well, we had better make sure they never
find out that she is doing something worth blowing her up for.’
Hazlewood went to her monitor and started to
flash up information on “Occurrences - Inexplicable or Unexplained.”
‘What are you doing?’ asked Nichols.
‘I thought I might dig out a file to keep
that chief assistant of hers happy.’
‘Nothing short of abolishing the monthly
"Happy Morning" would cheer him up.’
‘He cannot be that miserable?’
‘He is not miserable. He is virtuous. He would make the hedgehogs at Group Indigo's
HQ carry phosphorescent passes to give beetles without flash torches a chance,’
said Nichols.
‘It is surprising that Nightingale does not
have the grounds patrolled by tigers.’
‘Given her achievements in biochemistry, I am
not too sure I would trust the hedgehogs.’
Hazlewood remembered something. ‘Nightingale said Sendall was ill. Sudden losses of co-ordination.’
‘You mean he keeps falling over? Not very often. Nightingale's secretary is medically
trained. He maintains a close watch on
him.’
‘Nightingale has a secretary?’
‘You know, the pink pudding with vanilla
perfume who doubles up as Sendall's assistant.’
Hazlewood laughed. ‘That is her secretary? I thought he was Group Indigo's hairdresser.’
‘Comes from a line of jugglers or
whatever. I know there was some
connection with circuses.’
‘Circuses?’
‘You know, before the human dignity
legislation was passed. Nightingale
probably picked him up in a job lot.’
‘What a pair.
The more we can keep Sendall occupied, the less chance of him
discovering us, and I certainly would not fancy being upwind of his assistant.’
Nichols sighed. ‘Oh find something to keep them happy then.’
Hazlewood pushed her heavy eyebrows back into
position before settling down to concentrate.
‘I wish you would stop doing that.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘It just annoys me.’
Nichols left Hazlewood to search for a
credible UFO sighting and turned on the surveillance monitor to watch mere mortals
go about their mundane lives. It was
always boring up there. With everything
safely homogenised, there wasn't any scope for adventurers and eccentrics. Nightingale was an aberration.
Most people lived in their self-contained
bungalow units with their own private parks where they could operate a work
terminal without having to set foot over a neighbour's threshold. In their ample free time, they were able to
wander from cafe to play to exhibition over the rolling green domes that
covered the capital. They seldom had to
risk being inside one when the collapse sirens sounded or the flood barrier
holding back the
Nichols switched to the moon monitor. World Government's base there had been fully
operational for over thirty years and was still top secret.
Few people wanted to go to the moon any
more. After the decompression disaster
on the old moon base, it wasn’t surprising.
Why travel all the way there to see Neil Armstrong's footprint when a
virtual reality unit could rerun the highlights of the landing with you as the
astronaut? No wonder people could be
fooled into believing there was nothing left to achieve: all diseases and
genetic aberrations cured, free energy forever more and criminal behaviour
eradicated.
The plagues had necessitated rapid advances
in medicine and technology. As a
consequence, a small population had inherited some very sophisticated
engineering without the creative imagination to use it. All people really wanted was someone to blame
when things went wrong. A scapegoat for
all their ills was worth giving up a few freedoms for. World Government had no choice but to take up
the reins cast aside by a population unwilling to believe that they had brought
so many disasters on themselves.
When Nichols began to see authority’s point
of view, she knew she should have stayed at home. But World Government was growing into a
double-headed beast. She needed to dig a
little deeper into their restricted files.
They went deeper than Nightingale realised.