Hurt World One and the Zombie Rats (15 page)

She waited until McRaven was settled at their
table of polished walnut before giving the Swiss Ambassador a
somewhat uneasy gaze. ‘Of course, I cannot speak for your
government. I can only hope they would not turn my technician into
a fugitive.’

‘At this stage there is no plan in that
regard. We agree that all energies should be focused on Mas’s
apprehension. Switzerland will certainly claim the right to lead
the investigation. And if Mas pursues your technician out of
Switzerland, that will be fortuitous for us. It will mean our home
assets are no longer exposed.’

‘I’ve very glad you feel that way.’

‘But my government would like to know where
your technician is going. He commandeered a train intended for
Zurich and absconded with it to the edge of France. Prior to that,
he had purchased a ticket to Paris on the regular service. So why
the interest in France? Do you have a safe house there?’

Renaissance shook her head. ‘Kaptu Z is
moving on his own free will. And to be honest, I think it is better
that way. Mas is our uninvited third ear, so the less communication
the better. Not that we won’t continue to stay active. Our
Operations Centre will remain open twenty four hours a day and I
will remain here personally for the duration.’ She picked up a cube
of blue vein cheese from amidst the antipasto. ‘You are welcome to
stay as well. We have rooms at your disposal.’

Ambassador Betz nodded. ‘I think I should
remain close in case there are any developments.’

‘I too should remain close to the decision
making process,’ said McRaven.

‘And without knowing what the protagonists
are up to, the insurance policy must remain adaptable,’ said
Chezel.

Renaissance looked around the table and
seemed pleased. ‘We will focus on retracing Mas’s footprints, both
short term and long term, uncovering leads for when Blast is
operational again. The twentieth floor of the San Francisco Tower
Hotel is on its way to being the world authority on Mas.’

‘But a long way from the woman herself,’ said
Pardos.

‘Closer than you might think. We’ve
established one thing at least. She reads our mail.’

10 The whisky runner

Kaptu Z gained entry through the ancient
sewers. The fossilized feces stained upon the walls bore no smells,
the bacteria within having long since died. Kaptu wondered if the
dirty bomb of 2038 had killed them too.

The Eiffel Tower was not scheduled to reopen
for another thirty years - the results of a crazed Nobel Peace
Prize winner who had wanted to remind the world of its injustice.
Or at least that was the official French Government version of
events. The case files would be classified for another eighty years
- in other words, the state’s secrets had greater longevity even
than radioactive fallout.

Currently, however, the Eiffel Tower’s radio
activity was at a level to cause severe illness, including a number
of cancers that were still considered incurable. Kaptu made sure
his bodysuit was properly fitted before he ventured out from the
sewers. He began to scale Paris’s most famous landmark, using the
iron steps of the framework, the bright lights of the bustling city
gradually emerging into view beyond the contaminated zone’s eerily
dark wasteland. Kaptu started picking out the places he had only
ever dreamed of visiting. The Louvre Museum, the Arc De Triomphe
and the Notre Dame Cathedral were all clearly visible and Kaptu was
thrilled by the thought of having two weeks to reside in their
midst. Being born in Asylum City usually meant a life sentence in
the world’s largest prison, but he had found a way out. He was
free. At least for the moment.

Passed the second level of the tower, he left
the stairs, straddling the balustrade and climbing out across the
framework. He swung the Cocoon 41 onto one of the outside struts
and fastened it in place with synthetic-steel bindings, leaving it
suspended more than a hundred metres above the ground. He recorded
the spot to memory but did not linger. There was a reason he had
put all his body monitoring alarms on mute and that this was a
place untrodden in fifty years: the bomb had been particularly
dirty.

*

Relieved of the Cocoon 41, Kaptu made quick
work of the return journey off the tower and back through the sewer
system. He removed his bodysuit at the perimetre fence and placed
it in a led lined laundry bag. In its place he put on a grey shirt
and a pair of brown suede pants. He strolled then through the
streets of Paris for a time, happy to be in amongst people again.
Off the Rue De Charlie, there was an alley with a red door and an
illuminated sign that read “The Spanish Club”. The door opened to
narrow steps leading down into the basement. The stairs were old
and grimy but the music coming up them was irresistible Flamenco
guitar; the playing was not quite perfect enough to be a recording
and was all the more interesting for it. He headed down the stairs
into the bar and the first thing he did was confirm that the music
was indeed live. There were two guitarists upon a small corner
stage, their faces mostly hidden as they intently leaned over their
instruments. All that Kaptu could really make out was that one was
a woman with black hair tied in a ponytail and the other a man with
spiky ginger hair. Although the musicians barely acknowledged each
other, they were playing completely in unison. Kaptu turned his
attention to rest of the bar and saw that the audience scattered
amongst the dimly lit tables were absorbed in the performance. He
did not pay the audience too much heed, for it was enough that they
did not resemble police or fugitive poachers. He sat down at a
table that was near the stage and that kept his back away from the
door. The waiter came soon afterwards.

‘Something to drink?’ the man asked in a high
pitched voice.

‘It’s you who will be ordering from me,’
replied Kaptu. He revealed from under his arm a bottle of Johnny
Walker red label.

The waiter’s eyes widened upon it. ‘Is it
real?’ he queried with his voice barely holding together.

‘Bring some glasses and I’ll let you find
out.’

The waiter hurried away to the bar. Kaptu
watched him closely, wondering if he was on his way to summon the
police. A rich applause from the audience drew his attention back
to the stage. A flamenco dancer stepped up onto the stage in front
of the two guitarists. Her movements were precise and elegant, her
dress and long black hair flowing in unison. She danced with
tremendous energy and precision and the whole bar was enthralled.
The waiter returned to Kaptu’s table with three glasses and a tall,
grey haired woman accompanying him.

‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I’m the manager.
I’ve been told you’ve got something worth pouring.’

Kaptu put the whisky bottle on the table and
the manager inspected the label carefully with a jeweler’s loupe
magnifying glass. She looked Kaptu over with equal thoroughness.
‘You’re not from here, are you?’

Kaptu shrugged. ‘I’m here now.’

‘In Paris, having alcohol that predates the
world liquor ban can have one of two consequences: you can either
be rich or rich and dead. Just last week a barman a few blocks away
had his head removed from his shoulders over a case of Budweiser
beer.’

‘That is not surprising to me. Why would
people pay good money for something if they can kill for it
instead?’

The manager sat down at the table and opened
the bottle of Jack Daniels. She poured out three equal measures and
handed the bartender his first. ‘Take yours with you,’ she said
bluntly. Left alone with Kaptu, she said, ‘You’re from Asylum City,
aren’t you?’ She smiled, saluted him with the glass and drank.
‘Yes, that certainly is the real thing. I won’t ask you how you got
it, or how you got your freedom or where you’re going. Only a
handful of people have made it to Europe from Asylum City and
probably all of them have passed through here at one stage or
another. I take pride in it.’

‘I will say at least one thing is true,’ said
Kaptu. ‘I’m just passing through.’

‘There are empty rooms in the building if
you’d like to stay.’

‘I don’t know what value you place on old
liquor, but if the bottle covers the cost of a room, you’ve got a
deal.’

The manager smirked. ‘I would recommend Room
48. It has the best view of Paris.’

‘Including the Eiffel Tower?’

‘No, but there are other rooms facing that
way. I didn’t mention them because some people consider it bad luck
to face that way.’

‘It’ll suit me fine,’ said Kaptu.

The manager refilled her glass. ‘My name is
Hannah.’

‘My name is Z.’

‘We’ll let it be known you’re my Scottish
cousin. That will explain your extended visit here.’

‘But I don’t sound particularly
Scottish.’

‘None of my Scottish cousins ever have. And
people know better than to point that out.’

Kaptu returned his attention to the beautiful
flamenco dancer. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Natalie. You’d better behave yourself. She’s
a cousin from Scotland, too.’

11 Space licence

Mas was pumping her arms, trying to get more
speed into her legs. She leapt onto a brick wall, her finger tips
just catching the top and with clenched teeth she frantically
wriggled and fought to pull herself up. She was heaving for air,
her body shuddering with the strain. She managed to hook a leg on
the wall and paused a moment to rest before continuing the battle.
She got her whole body at last on top of the wall and then lowered
herself down the other side with some degree of gentleness. Her
arms, drained of strength, gave out and she landed unceremoniously
on her back in a pile of cold mud. She spat some grit out of her
mouth and lay there exhausted.

The school director moved up to her, putting
hands on hips. ‘Are you alright?’

Mas nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘Come on, that’s enough for today.’ The
director extended a hand. ‘Let me help you up.’ The man was in his
sixties but in good shape and easily pulled Mas to her feet. ‘We’d
better get back. The class will be waiting for us.’

They walked in silence across the obstacle
course and passed the swimming pool of cold dark water and into the
tin sheds that constituted the Boudreaux Astronaut Training
Academy’s learning centre. Through the doorway of the seminar room
the director and Mas separated. Mas went to one of the vacant
plastic seats at the back of the room. The director went to the
front of the classroom. A much younger version of him was hanging
on the wall in a large portrait between two French flags,
resplendently attired in the blue blazer of the International Space
Union. He looked over the class of twenty muddy, exhausted
candidates and ran his fingers through his thick silver hair. ‘Our
colonies on Mars, the Moon and the Saturn and Jupiter Space
Stations are not as far away as you might fear. You are dirty and
tired at the moment but the start of your journey is underway.
We’ll begin afresh again tomorrow. Pick up your homework pack at
the foyer. Tonight you will be calculating entry trajectories for a
Venetian landing. Classes begin 8am sharp.’ With that he turned and
marched out the room. A sigh of relief marked his departure and
tender muscles were rubbed as the pain from the obstacle course was
at last acknowledged.

‘Holy crap,’ said the young woman beside Mas,
massaging her shoulder painfully. ‘I don’t know what planet he’s
been living on if he thinks we’ll be starting fresh tomorrow. The
vindictive bastard. And ignore that little feel-good speech he
makes at the end. He does that every time. Let me tell you of a
little calculation I’ve made myself. It would take eight hundred
years to ride a bicycle to Venus. That is the pace I am travelling
at on my inter-planetary journey.’ She paused for a breath. ‘And
this is your first day?’

‘That’s right,’ said Mas. ‘How long have you
been here?’

‘Two months.’ The young woman gestured to the
students just starting to pull themselves off their chairs. ‘Some
of them have been here two years. As a collective I’d say we have
about as much chance of reaching Mars as Mars has of reaching
us.’

Mas smirked. ‘Why are you here if you feel
that way?’

‘Most of us have rich parents. They’d rather
be able to say their children are astronaut trainees with Pierre
Prian than unemployed no-hopers.’ She blew a kiss at the wall
portrait. ‘Dear old Pierre has forged a whole second career on such
sensibilities.’ She gripped her back and groaned as she stood up.
‘Some of us like to go for a drink after class. You’re welcome to
join us.’

‘Sure. I’ve got something to take care of
first.’

‘If it’s homework, you don’t have to worry
about that. Pierre never remembers it. That’s a part of beginning
afresh again.’

Mas stood up too – surprisingly straight and
easy. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘I’m Hillary, by the way.’

Mas replied, ‘Hi, I’m Norah Lee.’ She left
the classroom in pursuit of Prian. He had left the sheds through a
backdoor and was walking slowly with hands in pockets across the
training centre’s muddy compound, looking very much like he did not
have anywhere in particular to go. All the same, he was not in any
mood to stop as Mas called out to him. ‘Mr Prian, I would like to
try your obstacle course one more time,’ Mas said.

‘It will still be there tomorrow,’ Prian
replied without looking back. The pilotless helicopter that he used
each day to commute to and from his hilltop chateau was emerging
from in the distance as it did every day at this time. ‘Go home and
rest,’ he added.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Mas. ‘In
fact, although I have signed up for one month tuition, I’d rather
graduate today.’

Prian stopped in his tracks and looked back
at her. ‘I like your spirit, young lady, but it takes more than
willpower to get through an obstacle course.’