Eighty per cent of the formerly civilised world was wasteland. Homes throughout all nations had been left ransacked and dilapidated for generations. Entire cities slowly sank into the landscape rising around it. Spires reached skyward as though claiming last breath before inevitable submergence. Market towns and villages were reduced to enclosures for buddleia, vines and ivy. Thousands of years of civilisation were being reclaimed by nature in one century-long sigh.
Marshal Law had ruled the world-over the first years after the outbreak, and even though the office of power was grudgingly handed back to governments in those countries least affected, most in the western world had grown accustomed to their newly formed authority, reluctant to return power once the initial threat had passed. With each year they had grown more involved with civic interests, until all but few governments were militant, either openly or otherwise.
After a swift suspension of Habeas Corpus, the United Kingdom dwindled into a facade of government that veiled the might of the intelligence services. The military opposed their strength, and after a decade-long struggle two distinct powers emerged. The Ministry of Defence’s headquarters became the parliament alpha and joined a grudging coalition with the Ministry of Custody - the governing body that had formed out of the military, while Westminster became a theatre housing nothing more than pantomime jousts of wit - a change that few noticed. Before a generation had passed the Crown was absolved, and the United Republic of Britain, under the Union Chancellery and governed separately by the MoD and the MoC, followed in its wake.
Of the five cities that remained after the first six-year plague, Birmingham had risen to be England’s capital city. Home to the headquarters of the Ministry of Defence, the city had retained a police battalion that few others could afford. The ugly headquarter building, known mockingly as The Soufflé, rose from the old city like an apprentice’s unforgivable mistake; uneven and crumbling, it would have made architects of yore weep. The entire building had been cobbled together hastily, and built with the brick and stone of local structures. Every home, warehouse and factory in a radius of a mile had been dragged down to not only construct it, but to create a wide perimeter, an expanse that none could traverse the length without being garbed in a gown of copper-jacketed bullets. Rules had become lax in the intervening years; several small communities had even grown into a small shanty quarter, by the name Dead Zone, in the shadow of the government complex. Overspill of the bursting populace of Birmingham, the borough of Dead Zone, with its narrow roads and confusion of buildings, had become a district of brothels and dice-houses, and had rapidly gained for its citizens a reputation for debauchery and abandoned morality.
Only thirty years old, a vast proportion of The Soufflé was supported by an ever increasing network of scaffolding which protruded several metres from the cement and loose-flint surface, making it look as though the building had already collapsed out of embarrassment.
Laur Tranter sat staring across the office on the seventeenth floor. He was sick of looking at the tower of scaffolding and luminous netting outside the window, the glass of which had been appropriated from a nineteenth century factory. Mullioned and oval at its crest, it must have been beautiful in its original setting, he thought, though now it looked alien and malapropos.
It had been three years since his scandalously dishonourable discharge from imaging, one year since his release from Walsall Judicial Reform, and his subsequent ten months of heading the office of Topography and Statistics, though the lack of natural light made it feel like ten years.
He had been welcomed every morning by Birmingham’s industrial visage and had quickly grown weary of the flint walls and cherty gravel. In addition, the office faced the north expanse of Dead Zone, and received next to no direct sunlight. If you positioned yourself correctly, you could see through the lattice of scaffolding and see a corrugated steel roof that shone brightly come mid-afternoon, though other than that the office was in perpetual half-light.
It had been the motive behind slowly moving Kimberly closer to the window. For some reason he had been under the impression it was less depressing in the spot where she worked at the far end of the office, though when he had appropriated her desk for himself with the excuse that the glare from the window was setting off an old eye complaint, he had quickly realised that the scaffold-induced gloom was ubiquitous. She had initially thought the changeover had been an advancement of sorts, though he could tell by the look in her eyes that the constant panorama of iron, dust and masonry was bleeding her motivation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile, which was unfortunate as it had been uplifting; something he missed now that he thought about it. Maybe it was time to re-arrange the layout of the staff again.
He took a deep breath and stole another glance at the figures in front of him. He turned the page and winced at the scatter graph; under a quarter of a mile of reclamation in six months. How was he going to convey it in a favourable light to the pamphleteers who clamoured for answer their readers questions? How was he going to present it to Sanders?
Sally slid past him and laid a mug of coffee at his desk. He barely noticed it, though looked up and grunted a pleasantry before turning back to the thick document. ‘What a mess,’ he repeated under his breath, viewing the analyses of the hundreds of operations throughout the country. He skimmed the abstract of each, looking for those two important words, though each time being met by that singular noun beginning to give him chest pains: Void.
He stopped filing through the pages, his eyes catching the words Confirmed Advance. He turned back several pages to the beginning of the report marked with a grid reference. He opened a drawer and retrieved a pocket atlas, scouring the index to find the corresponding location. After an intolerable search, both with and without his glasses, he picked up the phone and dialled Kimberly. He watched her as she glanced at the telephone’s orange bulb pulse before turning back to the television screen in the high corner of the room. A report was following the proceedings of the Monclova Convention, the series of high profile military tribunals held in Mexico two years after the 48 Hour War with America had concluded. Taking the stand was General George Bishop, one of forty high-ranking officials accused of war crimes during the terrible weekend nine years previously.
Kimberly looked as though she might ignore the phone, he thought. She reluctantly put her pencil down and picked up the receiver before jabbing the ‘talk’ stub and answering, ‘Hello?’
‘Jesus, Kimberly… Do you always leave the phone ringing so long?’
‘Oh, Mr. Tranter,’ she looked across the office and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I… I was just watching the news.’
‘Never mind ‘sorry’. Where in East Anglia does ‘Fifty-Two’ correspond to?’
‘Fifty-Two? What’re the next three digits?’
‘Eight. Nine. Three.’
‘Fifty-Two is the… Norfolk County of Walsingham?’
‘Walsingham, right…’ He flipped through the pocket atlas to find it. ‘Walsingham. Got it. Christ.’
‘Something wrong, sir?’
He blew a long breath and gave her the rest of the reference number. ‘I need to know exactly where it is, ok?’
‘It won’t take a minute, sir.’
He replaced the handset and marked the page before continuing to scour the document for Confirmed Advance.
Void.
Void.
Void.
Negative Progress.
‘Negative progress!’ He lay the report down and pinched the bridge of his nose. The papers would have his boss on a spit if they found out his office had ordered a withdrawal. He scoured the page for the name of the lead officer, unwilling to let an agent who called a retreat to continue at the post.
‘Captain David Peterson!’ Tranter said, tapping the page. ‘By tomorrow you’re going to be scraping pigeon shit off Nelson’s Column with your fingernails, you bastard.’
‘Sir?’ Kimberly said, holding a scrap of paper toward him. ‘The
location of the reference?’
He ignored the note and thrust the atlas at her. ‘Show me.’
She joined him behind his desk and flipped through the book before perusing a page for a moment. ‘Here.’ She laid it before him and placed a long fingernail on a railway station in the village of Walsingham.
He swore under his breath and took back the document, scrawling ‘Void’ where Confirmed Advance had been. ‘The bastards have included an old railway line. Anyone can get down railway lines. That kind of trick might have worked fifteen years ago but the media are savvy to it now. It’s not reclaimed land!’
Several heads turned in his direction as he ran his fingers through his greying hair. Kimberly had stiffened beside him and he shooed her away, saying, ‘Get a message to Reece. Tell him to get his men in order. Remind him that I worked in the field longer than the list of his affairs and child-prostitutes. Remind him I know all the dodges, and we won’t stand for any of them!’
‘Yes, Mr. Tranter.’ Kimberly clasped the atlas to her chest as though protecting herself from his outburst. She turned and retreated to her desk, and Tranter sighed violently, remembering the pressure that agents in the field were under. It had been bad in his day, and although the Crenatin Four situation had been addressed it was still unimaginably bad. Not a month passed without several reports of suicide.
‘Kimberly?’ He said in a calmer tone. ‘Don’t mention the affairs.’
She looked at him darkly. ‘Shall I mention the child-prostitutes?’
His telephone rang, severing his trail of thought. He looked at Kimberly reproachfully over the rim of his glasses. The orange bulb upon the handset glowed in step with the shrill tone; he plucked the receiver, pressed ‘talk’ and leaned back in his chair.
‘Tranter.’
‘It’s Burkett.’ It was Director General Stranghan’s personal assistant. He hadn’t spoken to the condescending arse for years, not since after Captain Stumm’s death. He swallowed spontaneously at the memory.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Get down to Analysis.’ The abruptness was replaced by a dial-tone, and Tranter hesitated as the receiver clicked back into its rest. Analysis, he thought. Why on earth would they want him in Analysis?
He unlocked the drawer and placed the thick wedge of papers within, before standing and making his way from the office.
The fluorescent lights cast a sickly sheen on the walls, and as Tranter ducked into the stairwell he was glad to escape them. Daylight struggled to penetrate the thick crosshatched glass, and pitched the stairs into a hazy, unearthly light. At least it was natural. He ignored greetings as he descended several flights, though stopped briefly to sign an expense form before stepping into another grim corridor. Here he slowed his pace as he tried to remember how to get to Analysis as he hadn’t been there in years. He double-backed, made his way across a bridge, and then wound his way down a serpentine staircase to the third floor.
He stepped through an unmarked door into a small room. A policeman was behind a desk upon which sat nothing but a telephone. He noted briefly that the phone had two bulbs, blue and green, rather than the customary orange, and wondered for a moment what they signified.
He fished about in his jacket pocket for his identification, and handed it to the policeman, who studied it closely before passing it back and making a phone call.
‘Mr. Burkett? Mr. Tranter has arrived. Yes, sir.’ He replaced the phone. ‘Mr. Burkett will be here shortly, sir.’
‘Any idea what this is about?’
The policeman looked at him with a raised brow and Tranter nodded, suitably admonished, before turning and inspecting the drab photos of countryside that lined the walls. Minutes passed in silence before Burkett entered the room and shook Tranter’s hand. ‘Long time, Tranter. If you’ll follow me?’
They exited through the doorway from which Burkett had appeared, and marched down another ghoulishly lit corridor before entering a large workshop. The cold was the first thing to strike Tranter, and he buttoned his jacket as they stepped amongst the banks of machinery and hanging wires. The last time he had been in Analysis was a few months after its renovation; it had been orderly then, with fewer generators and less clutter.
There was a slab in the centre of the workshop that had been presented by the Prime Minister at the buildings official completion, though it was now lost under the piles of cables they now negotiated, like colonials traversing tropical undergrowth.
A blast of steam and a klaxon signalled they had entered the workshop proper, and Burkett drew back clear rubber drapes and gestured Tranter to enter.
Tranter ducked through into the workspace, his feet kicking up a swirl of vaporous nitrogen. Surrounding him was an array of pumps and bundled power-cords, and of course, the Dark Lens to which it was coupled.
Its black surface shone in the bright strip-lights like a dilated pupil, its lens-protecting domes appearing dark blue and brown, and Tranter couldn’t help himself from laying his hand on the smooth surface, feeling the machine’s innards pulsate softly.
Burkett walked beyond the machine and gestured Tranter to follow. They passed through another rubber drape, to where sat a woman in her late thirties. She wore the sunken-eyed expression of one who lives before a monitor and comprehends the inner workings of everything. Tranter disliked her instantly, considering her the sort to take apart radios for enjoyment before writing a report on it to express orgasm.
‘Tranter, this is Sally Toubec.’
One of her monitors showed a small news window, the same channel that was airing in his office. The report of the trials had been replaced by a run-down of the parliamentary candidates being considered for the berth of President of the proposed, and publicly abhorred, European Nation.
Tranter offered his hand, and asked if there had been any progress in the trial. Sally nodded tersely in greeting, but ignored his hand and his question, before turning back to her monitor. She tapped the keyboard three times and the screen switched from black to blue.
‘You’re familiar with the mutations of S18K4, Mr. Tranter?’ She asked, her voice deflated. She sounded as though she were sick of explaining this to people.
‘To a degree. Up to five years ago, yes.’
‘Five years? I suppose that will do.’ She sighed. ‘The D.L. you just had your hands all over came back from a circuit of the Cornish peninsular recently. One of the undergraduate teams was going through the code last week when they came across something peculiar. They sent it up here, we had a look at it, you were called, and now you’re here.’
She stood and offered him the screen. He lowered his glasses and stooped. The screen was nothing but a mass of random digits and unmarked tables.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I had to read field statistics, it’s changed a lot since…’
‘What you’re looking at here,’ Toubec said, snatching back her seat as though she had offered someone without a license to drive her car, ‘is a sample of four-hundred and six locations. These locations are where the D.L. stopped when it sensed, or thought it sensed, an anomaly. These anomalies happen all the time and we have to cross-reference them with other D.L. reports continuously. This one here, for example, has been flagged on four separate occasions, but when you get down into what was actually picked up you can see it’s the code of something that died naturally, probably a rabbit or something similar. Over the four separate instances you can see its emitting the elements you would expect from decomposition.’ She pointed at various number groups. ‘Increase in soil carbon. Phosphorus, potassium, calcium, etc. The pH of the cadaver decomposition island increases the soil nitrogen with each subsequent visit. Just a rotting carcass, nothing exciting.’
Tranter looked at the string of numbers, and wondered how he had ever known how to read it. When he’d been an undergraduate working in analysis, there were always labels to point you in the right direction. These days, however, it seemed as though peop
le understood the code as well as any form of script.
‘If you look at this line,’ Sally clicked to a separate page and highlighted a passage, ‘that’s when things start to come alive.’
‘What do you mean? Without code. Just tell me what you’ve found.’
She looked up at him and fixed him with her gaze. ‘Someone’s making new strains of S18K4.’
‘What?’ Tranter straightened and turned to Burkett. ‘What the hell does she mean?’
Burkett took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket, placing one on the tip of his lips.
‘Not in here, Mr. Burkett.’ Sally said, unable to muster urgency in her voice. ‘You’ll blow the place to kingdom come.’
Burkett hesitated a moment, then lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, and gave Tranter a sheet of paper with two separate grid-references typed on it. ‘You know where these are?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ He said, hardly looking at them.
‘You should do. They were in the report I sent you yesterday. This was one of the few places to show any sign of advance.’
‘You mean in East Anglia? Where was it?’ He clicked his fingers frantically. ‘Walsingham?’
‘No. Beyond the Wessex Border. In Devon. Twenty miles or so north-west of a town called Barnstaple. Village on the coast. Ring any bells?’
Tranter looked down at the grid-reference again. It couldn’t be. And yet, there it was.
Mortehoe.
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