Boundary (Field Book 3) Read online

  At that moment Anna coughed, causing Dr. Chen to look away from Miles.

  “I’ll be fine,” she told their host, then turned to look at Miles, “I’ll be just fine.”

  Miles realised that the words were meant for him, not Dr. Chen. She was reassuring him.

  Miles could see peripherally that Dr. Chen had resumed watching him. He could delay no longer. With the case still pressed against his thigh, he didn’t turn away from Anna.

  “For the good of Mankind,” he heard himself say, then pressed the injector button.

  The thin needle plunged straight between the fibres of his clothing and into his flesh. He knew he couldn’t feel the actual dispersion, but he could all too easily imagine the cold, emotion-dulling drug beginning to spread through his veins.

  “Indeed. For the good of Mankind,” Dr. Chen nodded, then tapped at a metal band around his own wrist, “Ultimately, Mr. Benton, we’ll replace your silver antique with a medical wristband. Much more efficient.”

  “Why do you need a band?” Anna asked pointedly, “Are you an ego-morph too?”

  Dr. Chen frowned at her faint accusation, but appeared not to take offence.

  “Everyone aboard, including myself, uses metathene supplements to augment their intellectual balance. Before arriving here, I believe you yourself used Archive’s supplements Dr. Bergstrom…”

  Miles saw that Anna didn’t contradict the statement, but merely watched Dr. Chen as he continued.

  “… The bands are simply a more efficient method of delivery. Everyone here has one. Or soon will. Recent arrivals required the use of the next available bands, but you may rest assured that you will receive yours soon. Nothing but the best,” he smiled at both of them in turn, “Now, living space is at a premium here, but you are most welcome. Having saved your lives I feel your, ah, wellbeing is my responsibility.”

  There it was, thought Miles; the implication that every breath they now took was a debt to be repaid.

  “I have another matter to attend to,” Dr. Chen bowed his head slightly, “but I will return shortly. I’m looking forward to working with you both.”

  With one smooth motion, he turned and pushed away from the doorway, leaving the door itself wide open.

  For Miles, the subtext of Dr. Chen’s words and actions seemed to be growing clearer: in the vacuum of space, a prison did not need to lock its doors.

  Something else that was now apparent to Miles was that these types of thoughts were due to the metathene beginning to reassert its cold, emotionless suppression. Quite unexpectedly, he felt a tear forming in his eye. In zero gravity, it had nowhere to fall and it simply pooled where it formed; its surface tension causing it to stick to his face.

  “Here,” said Anna, holding out a small absorbent towel.

  “No…” Miles shook his head slightly as his eyes continued to fill, “I need to feel this. Soon I won’t be able to.”

  USV

  21st January 2014

  Framed behind the bars of a holding cell door, Bradley Pittman prowled slowly back and forth. Monica Walker watched him awkwardly trying to avoid her line of questioning.

  “Answer me,” she repeated.

  He quickly stepped closer to the door and took hold of the bars.

  “I don’t answer to you, bitch!” he spat in a low tone.

  “No, you don’t answer to anyone. The rules don’t apply to people like you, do they?” Monica replied calmly, enjoying the fact that the holding cell bars made his physical threat impotent, “I want you to give me the truth.”

  His eyes wandered around the grey walls that ran throughout the detention facility of the Underground Survival Village.

  “You know what I’m gonna give you?” he traced a square around the inside of the bars, his eyes alive with glee, “A pretty picture, to keep in your head.”

  He drew a breath and appeared to be recalling a fond memory, then he looked at her through the bars and smiled.

  “You know, I think the best part was the look of confusion on his face. The fact that anyone would dare shoot the great man himself. Aw Mon, there was so much blood!” he gave a short laugh, hand-miming arterial sprays from his stomach, “It just, didn’t, wanna, stop! Even after he hit the floor…”

  From Bradley’s body language, she could tell this had been a real event. But there were other cues that were missing from his colourful recount; a possible indicator that although the death itself was real, it may not actually have been her husband’s death he was describing.

  As Bradley took hold of the bars again, Monica did her best to calmly assess him during his continued bragging.

  “He didn’t die alone, Mon. No, your little Katie was there to see it all. She tried to help her ol’ dad, but…” he squeezed the bars, turning his knuckles white, “Her throat was so soft. She kinda kicked an’ struggled a while, but I watched her lights go out too.”

  She felt a fire ignite at the thought of her daughter dying at his hands, it took all of her resolve not to react to his obvious provocation.

  “You’re a lying coward,” she said as calmly as she could, “But if you have so much as touched a hair -”

  “Ooh, I touched more than that,” he cut across her.

  Monica stepped to within arm’s reach of Bradley, an action that stopped him speaking but also appeared to satisfy him.

  “Just try,” he smiled.

  “It’s only these bars that separate us,” Monica stared.

  “Yeah, well, these bars,” he tapped on the steel, “are here for my protection. Not yours.”

  Monica purposefully took a small step back and relaxed her fists; this was exactly the reaction he’d wanted to provoke. She wouldn’t rise to it. She drew a deep breath then returned an equally shallow smile.

  “You may be the one who’s free to take a walk around your glorified hole in the ground,” said Monica, looking around her small cell, “but it’s still just a cage. You’re just as trapped as me.”

  Bradley laughed and walked away from her.

  “You just keep tellin’ yourself that,” he banged his fist twice on the outer door, “Reckon I might just have me a stroll round that beautiful lake of yours.”

  The detention facility outer door opened and he left without another word. She heard the door lock and, beyond the bars, the little red light on the security camera re-illuminated. Evidently, he hadn’t wanted their conversation on record.

  So it begins again, she found herself thinking, the endless deception upon deception, the grey morality, the justifications. She had left all this behind and yet here she was again.

  The truth was that there had been little choice in the matter. When the tsunamis striking the British Isles had overwhelmed the Dover coast, the first casualty had been her own, parallel, underground survival facility. The failure of a surface entrance had flooded the Warren, forcing her people to escape into the USV via a tunnel she’d prepared over a decade earlier.

  Their descent into the dark interior of the USV had lasted only minutes before they’d spotted the approach of the Peace Keepers. The events that had followed, had placed her in this cell.

  She was drawn out of her thoughts by a muted sound.

  Through the letterbox-sized air vent in the cell wall she heard the sound of rotor blades starting up, building in pitch to an incessant whine.

  With a low howl of feedback, the speakers beyond the holding cell became active.

  “Geraldine Mercer,” came a synthetic sounding voice.

  On hearing the name, Monica dashed the single stride to stand on the hard bed, then angled her ear towards the air vent. Geraldine had been her most trusted companion during the construction of the Warren; she had even falsified her own death in order to be by Monica’s side.

  “The charges are as follows. Wilful damage to the USV sealed habitat.”

  Monica realised too late what was happening.

  “Disabling of a Peace Keeper.”

  The last time this had happened,
there had been only one charge and the consequences had been immediate.

  “Assisting a known enemy with intent to inspire sedition.”

  “Hey!” Monica bellowed at the air vent in an attempt to get someone’s attention. Outside, the whine of the rotor blades increased in pitch again.

  “In accordance with habitat law, these acts are punishable by death. Does the accused have any response?”

  Monica stopped all movement, straining her ears for any response that Geraldine might offer, but the only sound reaching her was the phasing, droning noise of rotors.

  “No!” Monica screamed towards the air vent, “Stop! Wait!”

  “Execute sentence.”

  “No! Stop!” she yelled and hammered her fist against the wall.

  She heard the rotor noise swell slightly, followed by a thick, buzzing sound. Monica was still screaming for them to stop as the rotor noises abruptly dropped in frequency and fell silent.

  Her knees gave way and she collapsed down onto the unyielding bed.

  Almost as an act of self-comfort she found herself massaging at a white band of skin on her ring finger. Although her tiny amount of jewellery had been confiscated when they’d imprisoned her here, the memory of Douglas’ proposal was indelible. But, like the engagement ring, he too was gone.

  A new sense of loss now reinforced the first. She had once loaned the same ring to Geraldine to persuade her that everything would be alright once they’d left Archive. The pale flesh on her finger now confronted Monica with the cold fact that Geraldine’s death was on her hands.

  The detention facility’s outer door opened and Bradley Pittman returned. He calmly crossed the small room and stood in front of the cell door again.

  “Well, you know what? That was a real nice stroll,” he produced a hollow smile, “I feel so much better for that. Where were we?”

  Monica had no words.

  She simply sat on the bed, nursing her sudden grief and wondering what event could have created the sadistic animal staring at her through the bars.

  VALENTINE’S DAY

  14th February 1952

  William Pittman knew the evening had been a disaster and it seemed to be showing no signs of improving. The rain continued to beat at the whole car and a permanent waterfall appeared to be occupying the windshield. He turned on the wipers but it made no real difference; he could only see tiny slices of the surrounding streets before the view was drowned once again by the unending torrent.

  His father, Edgar Pittman, had loaned him the ‘42 Lincoln so that he could drive his date to the dance. If things had turned out differently it would have made a great impression. Not that he needed to make a good first impression, the family name was well known. It was this fact that was making tonight’s rejection harder for him to deal with.

  She hadn’t even come out of the house to explain. She’d sent her mother to relay the news that she was feeling under the weather and wouldn’t be joining him. Shortly afterwards he was very much under the weather too when the heavens had opened.

  The music coming from the radio was doing little to brighten his spirits either. The meandering heartbreak lyrics wallowed in the idea that knowing what the future held would be world-ending.

  “Yeah, well, come what may,” he grumbled, “I ain’t doin’ this again.”

  He reached out his right hand and flicked off the radio, leaving him in the company of the beating rain.

  The watery patch of red light in the upper right corner of the windshield changed to green and slowly he drove the car across the intersection. He’d gone no further than a few hundred yards when he was flagged down by a police officer waving a lantern. William stopped and wound the window down a few inches.

  Shoulders hunched up to his neck against the rain, the officer walked around to the window and spoke through the gap.

  “Hey buddy,” he sniffled, “bad accident on Clayton, road’s closed. You’re gonna want to take Maple, then pick it up again when you clear Memorial Drive.”

  “Aw come on!” he blurted, “Sorry, not you officer. Bad day.”

  The officer wiped his palm pointlessly over his rain-soaked eyebrows and glanced at the expensive car that William was driving.

  “Bad day, huh?” he looked at him blankly, “Happy Valentine’s. Make a right.”

  He closed up his ineffective collar against the rain and turned away, shaking his head. William wound up his window and then, taking care to use his indicators in front of the officer, drove past him and turned right onto Maple.

  If anything, conditions were slightly worse as the street lights were out. Behind a curtain of rainwater, the road only appeared to exist between the car’s headlights. His rear-view mirror reflected only the darkness behind him.

  Since Memorial Drive had taken over most of the heavy traffic, Maple had become an underused minor road; in the darkness, he couldn’t see much traffic at all. As far as he could tell there was only a single pair of red taillights on the waterlogged road ahead.

  In a way, he persuaded himself, the failed date may be a fortunate thing. The problem, as always, was that he could never truly tell if people were interested in him or in his family’s general wealth. Maybe the girl was just playing hard to get, he thought, maybe she was interested and this was some sort of ploy. He suddenly snapped out of his musings as he realised that the taillights ahead of him had become drastically further apart. Despite trying to keep a steady speed, he’d actually caught up with the vehicle. He eased off the gas pedal and his approach slowed.

  As he stared out at the watery, smeared taillights in front of him, he saw a bright flash of yellow light explode from one of the rear tyres as it blew out. The car ahead suddenly slewed into a watery spin and the headlights shone straight through his windshield, turning his view a dazzling opaque white. He slammed his foot down on the brake pedal and the wheels locked, sending him aquaplaning into an uncontrolled skid over the slippery surface. The bright headlights swept away and in the sudden darkness he couldn’t see a thing until the taillights came into view again, this time a lot closer. He hauled at the steering wheel and tried to turn away from the impending impact, but with no grip on the road, the tyres continued to carry him forwards. A sudden vibration shook the car as it left the road and ploughed through grass and dirt, then everything rocked to an abrupt halt.

  The other car had stopped too; its headlights pointing in his direction. With the exception of the mutually illuminated vehicles, the rest of the road was still in darkness.

  After swearing a silent vow to wear the seatbelt in future, he pushed open the door and walked the short distance to the other car. Within a few steps, the rain had converted his tailored suit into clingy, wet pieces of cloth.

  “Miss?” he called to the woman in the other car, “Miss? You OK?”

  Still gripping her steering wheel, she appeared to come to her senses.

  “What hap-” she began, “What happened?”

  With a click, her door opened a little but then she stopped. Evidently her seatbelt was doing its job. After a few seconds of indistinct cursing, she pushed the door fully open and started to get out.

  “Miss! I really wouldn’t get -”

  Before he could finish, the woman was soaked from head to toe.

  “It just -” she began, then her eyelids fluttered closed and she fell forwards in a dead faint.

  He reacted quickly enough to catch her and, as she was so slight of frame, he found it no effort to sweep her up into his arms. However, he found it a more awkward task to hold her while opening the rear door of her car. The door handle eventually cooperated and he carefully lowered her onto the back seat, leaving only her legs exposed to the driving rain.

  On impulse, he took off his jacket and stretched it between the top of the open door and the car’s roof, creating a protective canopy. Ducking his head into the car, he stood very still and watched her; she was still breathing but the sudden cold was probably doing her no good.

 
“Miss?” he cautiously tapped at her knee, “Excuse me, Miss?”

  She slowly stirred and raised her head from the seat. He breathed a sigh of relief and she screamed at the top of her voice. In shock, he stood bolt upright and cracked the back of his head on the doorframe. Clutching at the pain, he stumbled backward, lost his balance and collapsed into an awkward sitting position on the wet concrete.

  “Son of a -” he rubbed at his head.

  When he looked back, the woman was sitting upright, her legs withdrawn into the car. She was staring up at the improvised jacket canopy that had collapsed over the rear door as he’d fallen.

  “You fainted,” he attempted to explain, “So I, that is, you were…”

  “Oh my,” she looked at him then frantically beckoned to him, “I’m so sorry! Get in, you’re getting soaked!”

  William hauled himself up and, being careful not to bump his head again, sat down on the edge of the seat.

  “It’s freezing!” she said, shuffling over to the other side of the seat to make room for him, “Do you mind if we close the door?”

  He pulled his jacket from the door and was about to wring out the water, but realised it was completely pointless. He tossed the jacket onto the road and closed the door. There was a moment of quiet between the pair of them as the rain continued to hammer at the roof.

  “Sorry about your jacket,” she said, then after a second or two added, “and your head.”

  He rubbed at his head but found himself laughing at the situation, which in turn caused her to do the same.

  “That right there,” he pointed across the road to where his car stood, “was one close call!”

  “Can’t believe I walked away from that,” she shook her head.

  “Me neither,” he rubbed the back of his head.

  “I was just driving along, minding my own business and doing my best to stay on the road in this awful weather, when suddenly -”