Alex Scarrow - The Eternal War

‘Experimentals?’

Rupert smiled coolly. ‘Yes. Eugenics.’

‘You’re mixing eugenics with my men!’

‘Don’t panic, Colonel. These aren’t like the old varieties. Far more reliable.’

Wainwright stood up, leaning over his desk towards the young man. ‘We had a promise from High Command! A cast-iron promise! No more military-purpose eugenics. No more of those … those monsters !’

‘Tsk, tsk. They’re not monsters , Colonel. They’re just tools for a specific job. Just tools from our tool box.’

‘A tool , lad, doesn’t turn on its owner. A tool doesn’t rip to shreds the enemy, then turn on its handler and rip him to shreds … and then, when there’s nothing left to kill, rip itself to shreds.’

‘Oh, please, you’re referring to that Preston incident, aren’t you? That happened nearly twenty years ago. We have much more reliable behaviour inhibitors in our eugenics now.’

‘The men won’t tolerate this,’ said Wainwright. ‘My men won’t fight alongside them!’

‘Tolerate, did you say?’ Rupert stared at the Southern colonel coolly. Then eventually his face softened.

‘Well now, strictly speaking, Wainwright, they won’t be alongside them anyway … your chaps will be in the first wave ashore. Creating a bridgehead for the attack. Then — ’ he smiled — ‘we’ll ship our monsters , as you call them, over and let them loose on the enemy.’

‘This is insane! I … I’m … I shall protest this through — ’

‘Well now, here’s the thing. You can protest all you like, Colonel. And you can do it from your cell in Camp Elizabeth.’

‘What did you say?’ The mere mention of the military internment camp silenced Wainwright — a long pause in which his mind raced to determine what this Rupert might know about him.

‘That’s right. I’m actually here to relieve you of duty … and I suspect you’ll face a relatively prompt court martial.’

‘Why? What’s the charge?’

The young man cocked an eyebrow. ‘I think you know why, or would you like me to clarify that for you?’

Wainwright nodded. ‘I think you better had!’

‘Well now, you see, I have a file on you. Jolly fat one, actually. It’s been open for a couple of years now. Too many rumours floating around that you’ve gone soft on the enemy. We know you’ve had an unauthorized meeting with officers on the other side on several separate occasions. We know that several years ago you ordered the release of Northern prisoners of war to return — ’

‘They were deserters! They weren’t fit to fight anyone. They just wanted to return home!’

‘Even this morning … a little bird told me you received a visit from across the river. I’m afraid this really won’t do. With the build-up for the offensive we really can’t afford to have a front-line commander who’s in the habit of taking tea with the enemy.’

Wainwright stared at him. ‘You are relieving me of my command?’

‘With immediate effect, I’m afraid.’ The young officer offered him an insincere shrug of sympathy. ‘Now, there’s two ways we can do this. I can summon a squad of my chaps to drag you out, kicking and screaming. Not very dignified. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your boys seeing you leaving like that. Or we can do this like proper gentlemen. You’ll assign a temporary regimental commander to cover, you can gather whatever personal effects you want … and we shall leave together.’ He smiled. ‘It would be far better for you and your men that way, I think.’

Wainwright glanced at the open door. He could see the hallway outside, the pooling of light from an overhead bulb and the shadow of a soldier standing to attention.

His or mine?

The young man stretched a white-gloved hand across the desk towards him. ‘I shall need your side-arm, Colonel, if you don’t mind?’

Wainwright unzipped the holster, feeling the firm grip of the revolver in his hand. ‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come without a fuss … but, listen to me, you can’t send in eugenics alongside my men. It’ll be a massacre!’

‘We need proper regiments on the front line now, Wainwright, men prepared to fight. Not traitors like you, or cowards … or these semi-literate peasants that you call soldiers . There will be British troops in the vanguard once we have a toehold. But your peasant militia will be the ones going in first — ’

The gun was suddenly in his hand and the room already booming with the fading echo of a single shot fired before he had a conscious thought of what he’d just done. Through the cloud of dissipating blue-grey smoke he saw the young man staring back at him. A third eye in the middle of his forehead, puckered and red and spilling a small dark trickle of almost black blood down his surprised young face.

His mouth flapped open with a gurgle. ‘You … you …’ was all he managed to say before his eyes rolled upwards, showing just the whites, and he toppled over on to the floor. One booted foot began to drum, post mortem, against the leg of his desk.

Wainwright aimed the gun at the doorway as the shadow outside jerked and moved. A head suddenly appeared round the door, that of his ginger-haired adjutant. He stared goggle-eyed at the gun, then at the still-twitching young man.

‘You … just … shot … a British officer?’

‘Yes, Lawrence, I do seem to have done that.’ Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. ‘How many men did he bring?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Canteen, sir.’

‘Arrest them.’

‘Arrest them?’

‘You heard me. Confiscate their weapons, strip them of any radio equipment and lock them up in the stores bunker. Then … then — ’ he balled his fists, tapping them against his desk insistently, urging his racing mind to focus properly — ‘then I want you to double the guards on our command bunkers and gun emplacements. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out.’

‘Sir.’ The lieutenant turned to go.

‘And, Lawrence?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Pull all the cables in the radio room linking us to the communications hub.’

‘All of them?’

‘Every last one!’

He was sure the British were going to miss their officer soon enough and word would find its way back that there was trouble brewing … but the longer he had for that news to travel the better.

The young lieutenant looked pale. ‘What’s going to happen to us, sir?’

‘Nothing good, I’m afraid. I must talk to the men.’

‘Shall I have them assembled?’

‘No … no, not yet. I need to go and see someone first.’ He looked up at Lawrence. ‘Not a word to anyone about this yet, do you understand?’

He nodded.

‘And lock this room up. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’

‘Where are you going, sir?’

‘To meet the enemy.’

2001, Dead City

‘God’s teeth! ’Tis a freak show,’ whispered Lincoln.

Sal found herself nodding. She estimated there were about a hundred and fifty of them in the abandoned Albion Theatre. Rows of stained and faded burgundy velvet seats, sprouting tufts of stuffing through ripped seams, faced a stage made of damp and rotting wooden boards beneath a partially collapsed roof. Moisture dripped from above with a steady tap-tap-tapping and the waning afternoon light cast slanted rose-tinted rays down into the gloom of the auditorium.

Samuel, it appeared, was one of the leaders of this odd assortment of unnatural creations, along with two others: a leadership committee of sorts. One of them was even thinner than the type she thought of as salamander-like. Impossibly thin, she wondered where the creature managed to store its internal organs. Its arms and legs were stick-like, bulging unpleasantly at the joints. Its head, instead of being loaf-shaped like many of the other types, was tall and tapered like a traffic cone. Samuel had told them every eugenic’s shape was designed specifically for a purpose. Sal could only imagine this one was designed to slither through pipes, or at least wriggle through some very tight places. It looked like a flesh-coloured cigar with limbs.