The Embers of Hope: A science-fiction thriller (Hibernation Series Book 2) Page 7

  Nathan opened the bag suspiciously but was helpless to resist the smell of warm ham and cheese. He grabbed the sandwich, pulled open the greaseproof paper and pushed half into his mouth. He chewed greedily, wiped his face and thanked his visitor.

  ‘May I?’ the priest asked, grabbing a hard metal chair from the corner of the room. Nathan nodded.

  ‘My name is Father Bendiksen but please, just call me Paul, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Nathan ate.

  At night, the drop-in centre was a dark and lonely place – ghosts of happier times and the weight of regret haunted its occupants – but by day it was transformed, quiet and peaceful. Its reluctant guests were mostly outside now, looking for ways to avoid the drudge of another day.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, for doing what –’

  ‘It’s God’s work,’ Paul said, gently interrupting him, ‘therefore thanks are not required. How are you feeling?’

  Nathan shrugged and continued chewing his breakfast. He studied the priest. He was young, forty-five maybe, and good-looking. Nathan suspected he would be popular amongst the clucking women of his parish. His hair was unkempt and curled down over his ears, longer than you might expect for a man of the cloth. His hazel eyes were trustworthy and kind and framed by thick lines that were etched deep into his skin.

  The priest looked at him, unblinking. ‘Colin, the night porter, likes you – told me you are one of the good guys. Is that true?’

  Nathan swallowed the rest of the sandwich and wiped his mouth. ‘Does it need to be?’

  ‘Not really.’ Paul broke a thin smile. ‘This is the part when I tell you we are all God’s children and that it doesn’t matter what you’ve done.’

  Nathan had been waiting for him to launch into priest-talk, words that were supposed to magically fix his broken life. It was a relief when he didn’t. Religion had never appealed – even when the bottom of the barrel seemed impossibly dark – but despair was fertile ground for the promises of a higher calling, Nathan understood that much.

  Movement caught his eye, two figures by the entrance, chatting easily with the day porter, who had his feet up on the desk. It wasn’t Colin; he had been on nights this week. He looked back at Paul and spoke a little quieter than before. ‘You said it doesn’t matter what I’ve done.’ He tightened his stare. ‘What do you think I’ve done?’

  ‘You talk in your sleep.’

  For the first time, Nathan noticed Paul’s smartly pressed robes and shiny white collar. Even with his long hair he looked old-fashioned, not boring, but of a different era for sure. ‘Are you a Catholic?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Multi-faith. You need to be these days. So much wrong with the world, needs more than one type of God to sort it out.’ He smiled as if he himself were torn by the idea and then innocently asked, ‘What’s in the bag that’s so important?’

  Nathan sharpened up. He pulled the bag closer. ‘What do you really want?’ he asked, the words leaving him with more aggression than he aimed for. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I want to help you,’ Paul said softly.

  Easy to trust, Nathan thought. Maybe too easy.

  He shifted position on the bed, readying himself for an exit. ‘How do you think you can you help me?’

  The men by the entrance caught Nathan’s attention again. His room was at the end of a long corridor, but even at this distance it was obvious the men were taking an interest in his direction. Paul turned back and Nathan saw panic in his eyes.

  ‘Listen to me,’ the priest said, a new urgency in his voice. ‘Those men are here for you.’

  ‘What the hell are you –’

  ‘They’re plain-clothed, but they’re Reds.’

  Nathan had heard rumours. Small teams taking people away in the night. ‘They’re here for me?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not you specifically. They’re after any stragglers, ones who don’t fit into their neat little boxes.’

  Nathan shrugged. He was tired of running, so tired.

  Paul grabbed his shoulders and shook him. ‘Nathan,’ he whispered, ‘you need to trust me.’

  An icy chill flushed through his system. Considering how long it had been since his body produced adrenalin, it did a good job of setting him buzzing now.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ he hissed, fully alert and out of his daze.

  ‘All in good time,’ Paul replied, ‘but please, you need to move. Now.’

  Paul raised a canister and Nathan felt a wet mist cover his face. He pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘What was that?’ he almost screamed. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘It’s camouflage, makes a new you, for a while anyway.’

  Nathan felt a warping sensation, as if his face were being pulled and stretched by a hundred tiny hands, massaging his skin. ‘But I thought you said they weren’t after me?’

  ‘They aren’t yet, but if you get scanned by these guys, you’ll make the list, and it’s one you’ll never hack your way out of.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Nathan hissed. ‘How do you know so much about me?’

  Paul didn’t answer. He grabbed Nathan’s shoulder and guided him to the back of the room, to an old, tarnished mirror. As his vision returned Nathan stared, transfixed by his reflection. Triangular shapes danced over his face like paper cut-outs, the shadows and contours of his features shifting constantly. He looked like some kind of animated Picasso. Slowly his features settled and he was – as Paul had described – someone new, someone he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t the first time he had marvelled at a reflected imposter, but this wasn’t the time to ponder. The men – the plain-clothed Reds, if Paul was to be believed – were talking to an old man who was arguing with them. Nathan knew they wouldn’t be distracted for long.

  He tore his gaze away and faced Paul. ‘Why should I trust you?’ he asked.

  ‘What other choice do you have?’

  ‘I could stay here and just… I could…’ His voice faded as though someone had reduced the volume. He didn’t have the energy to think, let alone talk.

  Paul glanced at the bag clutched in his hand and Nathan stepped back, a realisation coursing through him. He didn’t know this man, this priest who somehow knew his name and had just sprayed burning god knows what in his face.

  ‘Listen,’ Paul said, ‘meet me at –’

  Nathan pushed him hard in the chest, sending him crashing into a small steel table next to his bunk. A glass jug and plate smashed to the floor.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ Nathan hissed.

  Paul clambered up, mouth agape. ‘Look, even if you don’t trust me,’ he gasped, ‘For heaven’s sake, run!’

  Chapter 18

  In the last week of a Hibernation cycle, homes across the planet emerged from their own paused state, their own form of suspension. Power, water and maintenance – all controlled by an array of bots, droids and technology – gradually returned to the business of supporting human life. It was as close to zero impact as anyone could hope for. Pascale often thought about their home, frozen in time like an old fairy tale, waiting for the two of them to return and breathe life into the stale air. She dumped her bags on the kitchen table and did her usual tour of the rooms, noticing a few windows were already open.

  ‘Alex?’ she called, surprised he was back so soon. Their Hibernation cycles were the same, but at different locations. The last three times she had beaten him home by a few hours.

  No reply.

  She checked the fridge; just the basics, a post-Hibernation package, but welcome nonetheless. She switched the kettle to boil and looked around, studying the details. Yesterday might be a year ago, but the house appeared exactly as she had left it.

  She scanned through news updates and made tea for them both, enjoying the morning light as it flooded down from the loft across exposed floorboards. Before Hibernation they could never have afforded such a beautiful and spacious place. It was only possible because of subsidies and Hibernation grants. For them – and oth
ers like them who had signed up early – life was pretty good.

  She walked through the kitchen and down the hall. Work didn’t start for a few days. There were friends to catch up with, plans to make. Conversations started a year ago that felt as fresh and warm as the tea in her hand.

  Pascale entered her boyfriend’s den. The room looked like a shop and museum rolled into one. Industrial shelves stacked with drives, lenses and cameras. It was a mess. Alex protested that it was organised and well used, and she didn’t mind. He was seated at an antique desk, one he had been so pleased to find.

  ‘I was calling you,’ she said. Her French accent had faded over the years but it was still noticeable. ‘I’ve made you tea.’

  Alex stood and embraced her. They always hugged, even if they had been apart only a few hours, but he seemed to cling to her for longer than usual. His breath was quick and she could feel a nervous energy below his skin. Their clothing crackled as he peeled away. He thanked her for the tea but his eyes were saying other things, secret things. She closed the door and waited.

  This was a planned routine, one they hadn’t needed until now. Alex tapped his keyboard for a while. Pascale made conversation, innocent words about friends she was looking forward to seeing and plans they would make.

  Eventually, he gave her the signal, his thumb and forefinger in a circle.

  All okay.

  Pascale felt her shoulders drop and a wave of relief wash over her. Alex’s den was now a secure room. They could talk freely.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘They pulled me out of Hibernation early,’ he said, ‘asked me all sorts of questions.’

  ‘What did they want?’ Pascale’s voice was raised. ‘Do they know about us?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He paused and sighed. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly?’ Pascale could feel a mixture of fear and annoyance building. Her fuse was short, she knew she needed to work on that, so raised her head and attempted a reset. ‘Alex, just tell me happened. What did they ask you?’

  ‘They wanted to know about awareness, wanted to know if I could remember things during Hibernation.’

  ‘And could you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, some things,’ he admitted. ‘Paul says they’ve upped the persuasion –’

  ‘When did you see Paul?’

  ‘He followed me when I left the Hiber-centre.’

  ‘What did he want?’ Pascale asked, and when he didn’t reply she tried again, softer this time. ‘Just tell me.’

  He flashed an awkward smile that faded quickly. ‘Paul said we’re in trouble, that it won’t be long before the program he’s using to keep us hidden won’t work anymore.’

  Pascale felt her breath quicken. She had known this day was coming, known they couldn’t get away with it forever. Alex placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘The important thing is that we know.’

  Pascale frowned and stared back at him. ‘I’m not sure what I know anymore,’ she said. ‘How do we know if things have been altered? If they’ve taken memories from us?’ The thought created a heavy lump in her gut.

  ‘I don’t think it works like that,’ Alex replied. ‘I don’t think they delete things, they just tweak the way you think.’ He began to pace the room. ‘And anyway, we’ve protected ourselves.’

  ‘Until now,’ she shouted, ‘if Paul’s defence program doesn’t work anymore.’ Pascale was trembling. ‘It’s horrible, just horrible.’ She stared at him. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing for now,’ Alex replied. ‘Paul wants to meet in a few weeks. Until then he said we carry on as normal.’

  Time passed until the silence became too heavy to bear. Pascale broke it. ‘Do you really think it works like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ Alex replied.

  ‘You said they alter you, just enough so you do as you’re told?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s exactly like that. It’s clever. It’s subtle, like they wrap up what you really think and then just suggest you don’t look at it anymore.’

  ‘But how do we know they haven’t altered us?’ Pascale asked.

  Alex nodded. ‘Because of the way that doctor questioned me, you know, the one I told you about?’ He moved closer. ‘He was scared, Pascale, and that means they don’t know what we think, or what we know.’ He paused and then added, ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Next time though,’ Pascale whispered, knowing that in just one year they would be back in this position again. ‘Next time they will.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to come to that.’

  ‘I know.’ Pascale fought back tears. Alex stroked away a curl of her long brown hair. He smiled again, exposing two deep dimples that pinched into his freckled cheeks. She loved him, but that was hurting now. They were in trouble. Serious trouble.

  ‘You know we can’t go back in again,’ Alex said.

  Pascale nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘I’m fucking glad,’ she said, suddenly. They couldn’t hibernate again, and that was a good thing. It was evil, she never wanted to go back, hadn’t for years – but what that meant, what it really meant, was tugging the fear up from her gut.

  She thought of Paul Bendiksen. He was the one who had helped them hide from the search routines, the one who had shown them the truth. She thought of the billions of people across the UK continuing their day in blissful ignorance, unaware of layer upon layer of knowledge, trapped, hidden and contained. Paul had only managed to buy them some time, shown them the truth and then taught them how to hide it. But their luck had run out. Eventually, it always does.

  Alex took her hand and gripped it tightly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be okay.’

  In that moment Pascale knew – with a certainty that could never be manipulated or concealed – that it wouldn’t matter how many times he told her that. Soon they would be leaving the safe zone, and that meant she would worry for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 19

  David Jameson had been taking calls all morning and he was tired. Soon he would be back in his office, the Jameson Group headquarters – a huge slab of a building that towered over San Francisco – and that would help with his mood. His office was tastefully decorated with beautiful, hand-picked pieces of art, all carefully positioned with consideration for natural light and composition.

  For now though, this long limousine was his office.

  Next to him was his new assistant. Dressed in an out-dated trouser suit she was best described as plain, middle-aged and unattractive. In other words, she was perfect.

  David Jameson required three things from an assistant and three things only. Dedication, knowledge and integrity. The recruitment company – one of the best in San Francisco – had initially made the mistake of presuming that a sixty-nine-year-old millionaire would require a young attractive female at his side. After the third attempt, they had stopped sending them.

  The new one, Jane – even her name was boring – was working out just fine. Jane’s three months probationary period was nearly up, and even though he had pushed her hard, she hadn’t faltered. She’d come close in one meeting – when he had reduced a grown man to tears – but managed to retain her composure. He had asked her afterwards if she was okay. She had nodded, blinking rapidly to fight back tears, and then resumed whatever task he had assigned her. He liked her. She was a keeper.

  Jane ran through the rest of his appointments. ‘Tomorrow you have a luncheon with Senator Barnes.’

  Jameson frowned, stretched and looked out over the city. The limo was three hundred feet up, and from this viewpoint he could see the Hibernation centres that scarred the once-beautiful district. They looked like swollen white bricks. He shook his head.

  ‘Do you want me to cancel it?’ his assistant asked.

  ‘No, Jane, it’s fine.’

  David Jameson closed his eyes. In a life that seemed to belong to someone else, he had been the Secretary General of the reformed United Na
tions. He had commanded the world, ruled it, some would say. He had preferred to think of himself as a guardian, but that was a long time ago and he was a different man now, a wiser man. Back then he had considered his legacy secure, had gone on to forge a successful career in politics and charity work, following in the footsteps of the various UN top brass, presidents and prime ministers before him. It had brought fame, respect and wealth, but his legacy – Hibernation, the most important advancement in human history – was a lie. He planned to expose that lie, even if it cost him his reputation. Hell, even if it cost him his life.

  A call bobbed in the corner of his retinal implant, an unknown caller. He almost dismissed it but felt something in his gut, something that told him to answer.

  ‘Who is this?’ he said.

  Silence on the line.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Jameson,’ a voice replied. It was robotic, disguised by synthesis. ‘You need to listen to me very carefully.’

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked again, sitting upright. ‘How did you get this number?’

  His secretary leant forward, an expression of concern spreading over her dull, powdery face. The robotic voice continued, ‘You are in danger. They are planning to kill you.’

  Jameson felt an icy chill run up his back. His skin dotted with gooseflesh. ‘Who?’ he said in a voice that sounded distant and thin, knowing exactly who they were.

  ‘I work for them, but I no longer trust them.’ There was a pause. ‘I want out and I want to help you. We need to meet.’

  ‘Why would I do that? Why would I risk meeting you?’ Jameson scoffed.

  ‘Because they are going to do it soon,’ the voice said. ‘They are planning to kill you within the week.’ There was a long pause, and then, ‘Before you release the first part of your memoir.’

  How do they know about my plans? How the hell do they know?

  ‘Goddammit,’ he shouted.

  ‘You need to trust me,’ the voice said, ‘I’m on your side.’

  Jameson pinched his eyes shut and tried to think. It needed to be somewhere neutral, somewhere public.