9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (24 page)

The tablets also contained something that caused further ripples of excitement among
the people, and the people are not a species readily given to excitement. A detailed
account of the first and, so far as can be ascertained, only journey of the craft.
The account is worthy of reading in its entirety, but a brief recount of the key points
will suffice here.

It is not known in what numbers the ancients existed, though it is surmised that they
must have extended into many hundreds of thousands, millions even, to necessitate
such a large craft for, as has already been implied, a much smaller craft would have
been just as capable of safely conveying a living cargo the vast distances involved.
However many they were, the vast majority of them made the journey, leaving a mere
handful of volunteers behind. Those volunteers faithfully recorded the journey on
the tablets from messages that their brethren sent back. What then became of those
who remained behind is not known.

But why would an entire race travel many light years across the galaxy, leaving their
home planet behind, at a time when the sun around which they orbited was much younger
and millions of years from causing devastation to the planet’s surface? The answer
is not so clear from the markings of the tablets, but they contain sufficient hints
and references that a satisfactory theory can be confidently propounded. The ancients
had enemies. Foes who hunted them and who the ancients were afraid might soon find
them. They set off in their enormous craft not to escape the effects of a dying sun
that would not occur for many more millennia, but to flee an imminent threat from
a deadly and feared enemy. No clue could be found in the tablets as to who, or what,
this enemy might be or where it might come from.

What is certain is that set off they did. Aiming at a promising solar system hundreds
of light years away, the craft left the planet, never to return.

Months later, it arrived in the target solar system.
This
one. It made for the planet that the ancients identified as most likely to support
them, the one with water and vegetation and oxygen.
This
one.

The craft plunged into and through the Earth’s atmosphere. It was only then that the
flaw in the craft’s design became apparent. So intent had the ancients been upon designing
a vehicle that would handle the rigours of interstellar travel, they failed to pay
sufficient attention to being able to manoeuvre it when it arrived at its destination.
Although the craft contained systems designed to slow it down on descent, the systems
lacked finesse. Without the ability to adequately control the descent, the craft crashed
into the Earth’s surface.

More accurately, it came down into one of the oceans, the North Atlantic, near what
is now eastern Mexico but what then was probably just ocean. The impact of such an
enormous body caused a vast tsunami that wiped out the dominant life form at the time
and that subsequently allowed the mammal to evolve from the mouse-like creature it
might otherwise have remained.

The bottom of the craft gouged out a crater in the shallow ocean bedrock. The bedrock,
in turn, ripped the bottom out of the craft. As water rose to fill the interior, the
ancients that had survived the crash used their last moments to submit messages back
to their home planet, reporting their fatal design error.

Over the millennia that ensued, the craft was most likely crushed further by continental
drift and submerged beneath rising seas. What is left must now lie beneath miles of
silt and sediment. The only evidence of the impact is the crater and the disappearance
from the fossil record of the life form that the crash rendered extinct.

* * * * *

Peter took a long slug of cola. “That’ll do for tonight. There’s more, but it will
have to wait.”

“No,” said Tom. “You said we could ask a couple of questions.”

Peter inclined his head.

“Are you saying,” said Tom, “that the dinosaurs were wiped out by a crash-landing
spaceship?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “The tablets on our home planet contained information that enabled
us to roughly date when the ancients’ craft set off. The geological evidence on Earth
corroborates the date. Around sixty-six million years ago.”

“Huh! Stupid us thinking it was a meteor when all along it was a flying saucer. I
want to. . . .” He tailed off as Peter nodded towards Ceri.

She was almost asleep. Her head jerked and her eyes opened wider.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “So tired. . . .”

“It’s okay,” said Tom. “Go to sleep. The rest can wait till tomorrow. I’m going to
have another beer.”

When he returned, Ceri had curled onto her side on the bench, eyes tightly closed,
breathing deeply. Peter, too, had lain down before the dying fire, his eyes shut.

“It’s snowing,” said Tom. “Heavily.”

Peter gave a soft grunt, but there was no further reply.

* * * * *

In South Ruislip, around six miles by road from Hillingdon Hospital, lies the airbase
RAF Northolt. Established three years before the RAF itself, the airbase was instrumental
in the Battle of Britain and has since been in the public eye for occasions such as
the repatriation of the body of the Princess of Wales after the fatal crash in Paris
and the return from exile of the train robber, Ronald Biggs, to be arrested the moment
he stepped down from the plane.

The roads around the airbase lay deserted. If there had been any attempt at storming
the base by disaffected and infected protestors during the first days of the Millennium
Bug, no evidence remained.

A light snow had fallen overnight, dusting the roads and grass verges like icing sugar.
The air was crisp and clear under a pale winter sun.

Two cars pulled up to the base entrance and disgorged seven people. Out of the first
car stepped Troy Bishop, Diane Heidler and George Wallace. Out of the second, came
three of the men and one woman who had worked as groundcrew in Hong Kong and had travelled
to the U.K. from that island in the Airbus piloted by Bishop.

They had brought industrial-strength bolt cutters which made short work of the gates
and they quickly entered the base.

Bishop had not expected to find what he was seeking here and was prepared to travel
further afield to other bases, but he was in luck. Sitting on the apron on the edge
of the runway was a yellow RAF Sea King helicopter.

“Not my colour,” he remarked. “But it’ll do.”

“Search and Rescue,” said one of the groundcrew, a surly, thick-set man with inscrutable
oriental features. “Not normally based here. Must have been flown in during the crisis.”

Bishop paced while the groundcrew went to work on the chopper. Diane lowered the bag
she was carrying—it made a dull clunk—and sat on it. Wallace stood and watched the
groundcrew, saying nothing.

The surly man walked over to them after about thirty minutes, wiping his hands on
a rag.

“It’s almost dry,” he told Bishop. “We’ll have to pump the juice by hand. Engine needs
a bit of work. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“How long?” said Bishop.

“Three, four hours.”

“Make it three.”

The man shrugged and walked away. Bishop turned towards Diane.

“We should be away by noon. Eat, piss, do whatever you got to do, but make sure you’re
ready to go as soon as they’re done. Unless you’ve changed your mind about coming. . . .
?”

She stared at him for a moment, her face expressionless. If Bishop was the type to
feel uncomfortable under such regard, he would have started to squirm. But the only
emotion he felt was impatience.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I’m coming.”

Bishop nodded towards the helicopter. “Those things aren’t equipped with guns,” he
said. “So we’ll need what you’re sitting on.”

“You want me to check them over?” asked Wallace. “Give me something to do.”

Bishop shook his head. “I cleaned and oiled them last night.” He glanced again at
Diane. “You know how to use them, right?”

“The handgun, yep. The Uzi, nope.”

“It’s point and press, baby,” said Wallace with a grin. “Point and press.”

Diane’s lips drew tight. Bishop had a feeling that she didn’t much care for Wallace.
Or for him, for that matter. It made no difference to him, so long as she was committed
to their mission. But of that he was uncertain, too. He had almost turned her down,
but saw the sense in taking someone with him and he wasn’t exactly inundated with
offers.

“I’ll take the Uzi,” said Bishop. He pulled aside his jacket to reveal the worn grip
of the pistol poking from the waistband of his trousers. “It’ll nicely complement
this little darling.”

He turned back to Wallace. “If you want something to do, give them a hand pumping
the fuel.”

Wallace opened his mouth as if to protest. He probably wasn’t used to taking orders
from someone other than Milandra or one of the other Deputies, guessed Bishop. But
then Wallace seemed to reconsider.

“Yeah. Good idea, man. I’m getting cold just standing around.”

“Right,” said Bishop to Diane. “I’m getting a little chilly, too.” He nodded towards
the main building. “I’m heading inside. See if I can find some chow. You should think
about doing the same. You’ll need all the energy you can get before this is done.”

Diane leaned her head back, pointing her face to the sun. As the morning wore on,
the temperature was nudging above freezing and the dusting of snow had almost melted.
“I’m fine by here,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” Bishop turned and walked towards the airbase building.

* * * * *

Around one hundred and fifty miles north-west of RAF Northolt, the morning sun remained
hidden behind thick cloud. A foot of snow lay on the ground, showing no signs of melting.

Dusty bounded through it like a leaping dolphin, burying his face in it and sneezing.

“May as well hole up for the day,” said Tom, kicking at the snow. “Plenty of logs
for the fire, plenty of food, plenty to drink.”

“Nope,” said Peter, buttoning his coat. “We have to keep moving. I want to reach the
Lake District by nightfall.”

“I won’t get far in the Jag,” said Tom. “Not unless we can find some tyre chains.”

“Then we’ll all go in the Range Rover. Or. . . .”

“Or what?”

“I’ll go on alone.”

Ceri appeared in the pub doorway, tousle-haired and yawning.

“What?” she said. “What’s this about you going on alone, Peter?”

Peter spread his hands. “Look,” he said. “I’ve told you that they’re coming after
me. If you stick with me, you’re bound to be in danger. If we separate. . . .” He
shrugged. He knew that he spoke the truth, but dreaded them following his advice.
After years of being alone following Megan’s death, Peter had discovered that he preferred
not to be.

“There you go with the ‘they’re coming after me’ routine,” said Tom. “Who exactly
are ‘they’?”

“I need to finish my story. Then you’ll understand.” Peter knew that he was making
it very difficult for them to refuse accompanying him, but did not chide himself for
being sneaky. He had sat long into the night playing cards during long voyages in
the merchant navy and had never bemoaned his luck with what he had been dealt, merely
doing his best with the hand in front of him. He felt that he was doing the same now.

“I think we should stick together,” said Ceri. “We’ve only just found each other.”
She glanced at Tom, and Peter thought he could read desperation in her eyes.

Tom sighed. “Yes, I guess so,” he said. He looked at Peter. “You’re not giving us
much choice. I
need
to hear the rest of what you’ve got to say, even if it is utter bollocks.”

“I can only tell you what has happened,” said Peter. “I cannot make you believe it.
Okay, let’s get on with it.”

They transferred Tom’s suitcase, Dusty’s basket and the remaining provisions from
the Jaguar to the Range Rover. They added as many tins, bottles and packets of food
and drink from the pub that they could fit in. Peter also packed the paraffin lamps
into an empty crisp box that he squeezed onto the back floor of the vehicle beneath
Dusty’s basket.

After a hurried breakfast, they left
The Barrel and Bell
, Tom giving the light-blue Jaguar a last regretful look as Peter drove off.

The Range Rover easily handled the snow; Peter didn’t even need to switch to four-wheel
drive.

He headed north.

Chapter Nineteen

M
ilandra had fully recovered from the rigours of the Commune. She had even resorted
to taking a few hours’ sleep and had awoken refreshed and ready to face the next challenge.

The hours of mental inactivity while she completed her recovery had given her time
for introspection. A certain notion had grown more insistent of late, nagging at her
to allow it in so that she could examine it. Once it had gained a foothold, it would
never go away, not unless, having prodded, weighed and given it full consideration,
she dismissed it as something for which she was not ready.

She had not yet subjected the notion to a thorough examination. In truth, she was
afraid to in case the outcome was not outright rejection. She suspected that, in fact,
it might be the opposite: full-on embrace.

She probed, looking for Grant. She found him in the downstairs lobby.

Would you come see me when you have a minute?
she sent.

A few minutes later, Grant entered the suite.

“You’re feeling better, then,” he said as he came and sat next to her. “Well enough
to
send
for me as opposed to sending for me.”

She smiled. “Fighting fit.”

Grant looked at her closely, his eyes narrowing. “You’re looking well. Not tired.
But there’s something different. You’re looking a little. . . .” He drew in a sharp
breath. “A little older.”

“Am I?” She was suddenly aware of how quickly her heart was beating. Racing almost.

“What’s going on? Have you decided to. . . . ?”

She shook her head. “Not fully, though I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking
about it. Not properly, mind. Just skirting around the edges.”

“Why now, when we’re so close?”

Milandra glanced down at her hands in her lap. Her fingers clasped and released, fidgeting.
“I am over the Commune.” She spoke slowly, uncertain of exactly what to say. “But
I’m still tired. Dog tired. In here.” She pointed to her head. “And in here, where
it really counts.” She brought her hand down and laid it on her chest. “How long have
I been Keeper?”

Grant didn’t hesitate. “Two thousand, six hundred and forty-two years.”

“That’s three times longer than my predecessor. And I was the Chosen for almost a
millennium. I took that station seriously, too. Unlike the present incumbent.”

“We were fortunate when you were named Chosen. You have great strength, Milandra.”

“Maybe once. It’s nearly all used up.” She leaned towards Grant and grabbed his hand.
“Much of my strength has come from you, my good friend.” She squeezed his hand then
released it.

“That’s not true, but nice of you to say so. When will you decide for sure?”

“Not yet. Not until the Great Coming. And if that succeeds, my mantle will pass anyway.
It’s a burden I’ll be glad to shed.”

“The incoming Keeper will take precedence?”

“I shall insist on it. The Chosen may also be out of a job. Hmm. . . .” She straightened
as a thought occurred to her. “I wonder if Simone has realised that yet. That girl
keeps her true feelings carefully hidden. Keep an eye on her, Grant.”

* * * * *

Tom sat in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover. Ceri sat in the back with
Dusty.

Peter drove back to the main road. The Range Rover’s weight and the thick tread of
its tyres gained it purchase in the snow, even on inclines, and they made slow but
steady progress.

“We’ll stick to the A roads for now,” Peter said. “They’re as likely to be as clear
of obstructions as the motorways. Perhaps more so. Maybe we can pick up the M6 north
of Birmingham.”

“Whatever,” said Tom. “I want to hear the rest of your story.”

“Me too,” said Ceri from the back.

“Okay,” said Peter. “I’d got as far as the ancients’ craft crashing into the ocean,
right?”

Tom grunted.

“Well then, I’ll continue. . . .”

* * * * *

The people of the planet with the dying sun determined to build their own craft, following
the blueprint left behind by the ancients, but on a much smaller scale for which there
were more than ample reserves of the ore. The craft would be manned by fifty people
and would be large enough to hold one thousand drones.

And what of drones? The distant people had long been masters of genetics and had developed
the ability to create simple life forms, manipulating DNA to produce whatever characteristics
they required. Science on Earth has progressed admirably but has barely scooped the
surface of the fathomless well of knowledge possessed by the people. Comparing human
advancement in this area would be like comparing a flea’s ability to fly with a hawk’s.

The people had already created simple drones to carry out manual labour for them:
mining minerals on the planet’s inhospitable surface, for example. Now they created
more, imbuing them with strong survival instincts, and the ability and urge to reproduce.
The drones were created broadly in the image of the people, but with sloping foreheads,
hunched bodies covered in hair—for protection, until they learned how to clothe themselves—and
with only the most basic organ to serve as a brain.

Fifty millennia ago, the craft took off, carrying the hopes of the people with it.
The journey was successful and the craft landed safely on Earth on the continent now
known as Africa, in the region now covered by sand and known as the Sahara Desert.
It was not a desert then, though. Much wetter, it was covered by grassland and shrubs.
It became a desert much later following dramatic climate changes. The craft must still
be there, buried beneath shifting sands.

The drones were sent out to begin to colonise the planet and the fifty people who
had journeyed with the drones sent back messages from the craft. Messages of joy,
of how fertile and virgin and ripe the land was, of how perfect a new home it would
make for the people. And the sun; they waxed lyrical about the sun. How bright and
yellow and life-giving . . . They urged the construction of a new craft, one big enough
to hold the entire population, and for them to follow without delay.

But the people prevaricated. While they rejoiced that a safe haven had been found
to which they could flee when they needed to, many felt that the need had not yet
arisen. Some were afraid of change; some were afraid of having to start over again
in an alien landscape. Self-interest overruled the common good.

Then, within less than a year, the messages from Earth stopped. Whether the craft’s
systems had ceased functioning or whether some calamity had befallen the fifty, nobody
knows. Their last message had contained no hint that they were facing some threat
or menace. If they did die, their experiences and memories were never absorbed into
the collective—the distances were too great for them to pass. The naysayers used the
ceasing of the messages as an excuse to delay further, arguing that the haven may
not be so safe after all.

Over forty millennia passed. It took an increased awareness of how much their sun
had expanded, how red it had become, and a sharp increase in the devastating solar
activity for a sense of urgency to re-establish itself in the people’s consciousness.
Yet still the people were divided and a consensus could not be reached for leaving
en masse. Instead, a compromise was agreed. Another craft would be constructed, one
large enough to hold ten thousand people: around one eighth of the total population.
We are not talking about a large civilisation.

Around five thousand years ago, the new craft landed on Earth. Although the braking
systems were effective, the ability to steer a large craft within a planet’s gravity
was rudimentary and the craft landed in the ocean, not on dry land. But it landed
safely, creating a small wave that only affected the first few miles of coastland
on the nearby land. The ocean was the North Atlantic and the nearest land turned out
to be the British Isles.

From the reports of the topography of the planet transmitted by the first craft, the
possibility of landing on water had been anticipated. The craft’s interior fittings
had been moulded to be waterproof if immersed in water and fitted with simple buoyancy
aids. They could be used as very basic boats, though with little means of propulsion
or directional aids. The ten thousand people ripped out these fittings and took to
the seas. A message was first sent back to the home planet that the craft would have
to be abandoned and it was left to its own devices. Presumably it sank to the bottom
of the ocean for it was never seen again.

The majority of the ten thousand made landfall on the coasts of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset
and South Wales. Some were swept into the Bay of Biscay and ended up in France. Some
landed in southern Ireland. Around three hundred and fifty were lost and their psyches
absorbed into the collective.

It quickly became apparent that during the intervening forty-five thousand years the
drones had been busy. A sentient, bipedal species had already evolved on Earth when
the first craft landed in Africa. That species had been completely eradicated by the
drones, partly through interbreeding, mainly by conquest. The drones’ instincts for
survival and propagation had been firmly instilled at their creation. Those instincts
had developed and branched into other areas, for now violence and a talent for destruction
lay at the core of the drones’ being.

As pre-arranged, the surviving people made for the spot where the majority had gathered.
This is the area now known as Salisbury Plain. With the loss of the craft, the people
had no way to communicate with their home planet. The distances were too vast and
their numbers too few to be able to communicate through Commune. But they still had
sufficient numbers to hold dominion over the drones. And the drones’ brains, though
greatly developed from the basic organ they had been created with, were still sufficiently
primitive to permit coercion. Then, at least, though that would not be the case for
much longer. The people held a Commune and called the drones of the British Isles
to them.

The drones, a ragtag collection of warring tribes, came. The people used them to build
a beacon that would transmit to the home planet and guide the remainder of the people
to their new home.

That done, the people dispersed and waited for news to come that the bulk of their
people was following. They knew it would not happen immediately—a new craft large
enough to transport seventy thousand people would have to be constructed—but none
of them anticipated that it would take another five thousand years before they received
word.

During that time, the drones developed further, the rate of development increasing
dramatically in the last three hundred years. The people’s ability to influence the
drones had been all but lost as the drones’ brains grew bigger and more complex, and
the drones’ numbers increased and kept increasing, swelling until they crowded the
surface of the planet like ants on a discarded apple.

While the drones multiplied, the people’s numbers diminished. Less than half of the
original party of ten thousand remained. The people watched what was happening in
the world, dismayed at the violence and casual destruction of rainforests, but powerless
to intervene. However, they laid plans for the day that they received the message
from their home planet. Though they despaired about whether there would be anything
left worthy of calling their homeland, they never gave up hope. And, at last, around
three weeks ago, the message came.

The people swung into action.

* * * * *

Peter stopped talking and, for a few moments, there was silence. Tom broke it.

“These drones . . . They’re us, humans, right?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“And you’re one of the ‘people’, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you came here five thousand years ago. You’re thousands of years old.” Tom’s voice
was flat, without inflection.

“That’s right,” said Peter. “I know it’s difficult to believe. . . .”

“I believe you,” said Ceri from the back seat.

Tom turned round to look at her.

“How on earth can you believe him?” Tom realised that his voice was a little strident,
but he could do nothing for now to moderate it. Dusty was looking at him, ears cocked.
“He’s obviously crazy.”

“Then how do you explain what happened at my house?” said Ceri. “Dusty howling, that
sense of something inside our heads, taking over our minds. Peter grabbed us and the
sensation went away. He saved us from whatever it was.”

“I can’t explain that,” Tom admitted. “But that doesn’t prove he’s from another planet
or that he’s ancient. How can that be possible?”

Ceri shrugged. “I don’t know, but I still think he’s telling the truth.”

Tom made a dismissive noise, a ‘pfft’ sound, and faced the front again. He was just
about to open his mouth to say something else when a movement the other side of the
road caught his attention. Peter had obviously seen it, too. He was already slowing
down.

Peter brought the Range Rover to a halt and got out. Tom and Ceri followed.

“Stay, Dusty,” Tom called to the dog, who seemed happy to oblige.

On the other side of the carriageway, a man was walking, stumbling, through the snow.
Blood poured from a large gash in his forehead, turning his face into a red mask and
staining the front of his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a coat. He seemed unaware of the
three people approaching him until they were right up to him. He stopped and stared
at them blankly. He was shivering.

“Hey,” said Tom. “Where are you going?”

“Hnggh,” said the man and Tom wondered for a moment whether he had broken his jaw
or bitten off his tongue. Then: “London.”

“London?” said Tom. “That’s a long way to walk. Especially in this weather.” Tom glanced
down at the man’s feet. They were shod in navy blue plimsolls that were already sodden.
His feet must be frozen
, Tom thought.