Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“Origen,” came the reply, rich and thick.

“Origen,” said Aldred. “Thank you.”

The strange man boarded the gharry and stared stiffly ahead. As the gharry drove off Aldred caught another glimpse of the gharrywallah’s bright, flawless grin. The rumbling of wheels soon fell away and the songs of katydids rushed in to fill the silence.

THE HEADLONG PLUNGE into the water crushes the bonnet and the inflating air cushion almost smothers Landon. Water gushes from the open windows and quickly floods the floor. Landon tugs madly at the handle but the door jams. He doesn’t realise he is yelling.

Which dumbass would open the windows at a time like this?

Beside him John deflates the air cushions with a pocket knife and stays in place while the rising water eddies around him. He is looking through the windshield as if waiting for the change of lights. Landon unbuckles himself and tries unsuccessfully to dive through the open window against the surge of water. John’s arm lashes out and hauls him in.

“Trap a foot and the panic will drown you,” he says. “Just sit tight and wait it out.”

Landon gawks wide-eyed at him.

“Stay calm,” he squeezes Landon’s shoulder as the water creeps above their midriffs. “And follow the direction of the air bubbles on your way out.”

Their noses go under. At John’s count Landon takes a deep breath and holds it. Water fills up the interior and the doors, aided by their own weight, now swing open with surprising ease. But the water is pitch black and the initial relief of having fled the car diminishes. Landon doesn’t know if he is swimming up or down.

In nothing short of an epiphany, John’s advice about the bubbles surface like a dialogue from a dream. He blows and feels the bubbles run between his fingers and over his head. Furiously he kicks, until at last he breaks the surface and sees the city lights shimmering on the black waters around him. The underside of the Benjamin Sheares Bridge looms high, its colossal, branchlike columns reaching over the channel like great trees of stone. Farther on, the illuminated ring of an observation wheel beckons like a beacon.

A rumble of distant thunder, and rain begins to fall: thinly at first, then quickly escalating into a torrential downpour. Landon swims under the viaduct to flee the murderous pelting. He passes the islet footings and realises that the bank isn’t quite as near as he thinks.

An onset of cramps locks up his calf muscles and panic engulfs him. He thrashes and his head starts going under. A large arm sweeps in over his jaw. A hand lifts his chin and he feels himself being dragged through water. In no time his heels scrape against rock. John wraps an arm around his chest and helps him over the granite boulders of the rip-rap. “Can you walk?”

Landon hobbles across the craggy surface, nodding. “Nothing broken.”

They stumble first upon a patch of lawn, then onto a jogging track of interlocked pavers, dimly lit under streetlamps spaced far apart. They pass through concrete columns clad in creepers and enter a dark, inhospitable space just beyond a row of shrubbery.

It turns out to be a disused segment of a Formula One roadway that leads to the pit building. Construction trash and partly dismantled scaffolding lie strewn across the ground. Generator sets sit cold and dormant. Shambolic, skeletal structures haunt the gloomy setting like the silhouettes of dystopian wreckage. The viaduct, flanked by smaller descending slipways, looms as the lofty ceiling of a sunken cathedral. Against the faint rush of rain multitudes of hidden toads begin their throaty songs. Somewhere in the heights a bat screeches.

Not a soul in sight. Nothing moves.

Landon sees John tapping on his omnicron. Holographic touch-responsive dials and lines dance across its chromium surface.

“What are you doing?”

“Hailing a cab.”

Landon scowls, perplexed. He suspects actual taxis are not involved in this.

John pulls out his pistol, checks for the round in its chamber and proceeds to haul Landon across the roadway by his collar. They haven’t got far when the snap of a twig upsets the stillness. The crush of footfalls drifts into audible range. John halts. Whoever was approaching certainly has little need for stealth.

A woman forms out of the screen of rain and glides into the shelter of the viaduct. Like a stage diva she passes between the columns of creepers, tapping a pistol against her thigh to the leisurely cadence of her strides. The shadows recede to reveal Hannah’s hard, impressive visage. John raises his weapon at her and still she advances.

“Don’t!” Landon yells.

John aligns the sights right between Hannah’s eyes. She now steps onto the roadway and stops a few yards from them, all the while looking at John and never once venturing a glance at Landon.

“Quite a duel, wasn’t it?” says Hannah, her wet hair pulled neatly behind her head. “Never had time for a formal introduction. What’d they call you?”

“John.”

Landon slides in between them, lifting his arms. “Don’t raise your gun, Hannah. He’ll shoot you. We can talk things out, I’ll get him to lower his gun and—”

“Nice stunt with the Neut.” Hannah addresses John and cuts Landon out. “Never thought you’d fool me with an old trick. Seems we’ll have to do it again.”

John’s voice is hard. “Putting me down won’t help anything.”

“It would,” she says. “Gives you the jitters knowing you’d have to die again, for real this time.”

John’s trigger finger twitches. “Try it.”

“Don’t!” Landon screams.

John takes a step back and shoves Landon protectively behind him. “As one entrusted with the Serum, you can serve a nobler purpose.”

“Like giving it up to serve your interests?” Hannah’s unblinking eyes track the barrel of John’s pistol. “Either way the Chronie’s going down; whether by your hands or mine.”

“We offer them life as we know it,” says John. “We offer the option of a Transfusion. That is the difference between our Sides. We don’t kill Chronies. We rehabilitate them.”

“Hear yourself, John.” Hannah’s eyes soften into what appears to be sympathy. “No Chronomorph ever survived a Transfusion. You take him back and he’s as good as dead.”

“We’re wasting time.” Landon watches as John conspicuously tightens his grip around his weapon.

“I’ve got a four-eighty-seven on him.” She waves her gun at Landon without looking at him. “I can guarantee his life if he comes with us.”

“It’s a dud. Whoever got you that Directive is going to kill him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Believe me, I do.”

“You’re a good man, John,” she says. “You don’t have to die for a pack of lies.”

“To a count of three. Back off the track or I’ll shoot.”

The threat tickles her to a wry little smile. “I’ll just have to bite the bullet.”

“One.”

She doesn’t move. Somewhere above them the bat screeches. The rain lightens to a mizzle, and the choir of toads sings louder.

“Two.”

“Don’t do this, John!” Landon implores. “Listen to me!”

“Three.”

“Stop!” Landon’s voice reverberates off the underside of the viaduct above them.

John looks sideways, and Landon sees the realisation of the empty holster on his ankle register on John’s face. “It is not a water pistol, Landon.”

“I know.”

“Why are you pointing it at my head?”

Landon fights his quivering arm. “I’m sorry, John. Can’t let you do this. Drop it.”

John grudgingly lowers his pistol.

“Drop it and kick it to me.”