Brittanicus Rising; chapter 2

2

Appearances

06^th January Year Fourteen

The correspondent looked truly desperate as the wind and rain pummelled him. Will wondered if the cameraman was in any better a state as he watched the live report on the news.

“Over my shoulder you can see the stricken tanker. The Torino Valley was carrying over five hundred thousand barrels of crude oil when she lost power in this gale and ran aground here, at Willis Point on the Cornish coastline. The weather is hampering attempts by the navy to rescue the crew, and they say it will be impossible to lay a boom to contain the oil until the gale has blown itself out, or passed over. So the oil is just free to run out of the enormous gash in the tankers side. Environmental groups are saying that this spill could devastate local wildlife for decades. It’s the worst oil spill in British history, and right now there’s nothing the authorities can do about it.”

At just this moment Wills’ attention was broken by his Father calling to him.

“Will. Will, what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Well you should be it’s a beautiful spring day. You should be out riding your bike, or playing football or something. When I was your age I didn’t sit around doing nothing. I made my own bikes you know. From bits I got from scrap yards because my parents were too poor to buy me…”

“Look Dad it’s ok, I’m going out now anyway. I’m going to meet Zoë.”

“Oh yes, Zoë is it, ooooh.”

“Shut up Dad.”

With that Will ran up the stairs to his room. He shook the mouse on his desk, bringing the PC to life. He Pulled up the map of Britain and closed in on Cornwall. Seven impatient minutes passed, then he found it. While the Printer draft qualitied the pages he scrambled in a draw for his compass, then rushed downstairs.

“I’m going, bye.”

Rushing down the street he tried to think of where he could get privacy, and headed for the woods behind the Mencap home round the corner. Stretching out the pages and figuring out the right direction on the compass, he set his sight and reached out. As he stuffed the pages into his pocket he began to feel himself existing. He could feel the cells, the molecules, the atoms, the particles, the ripples. He pushed the feeling forward, thinking of the spot about a mile away and a thousand feet up, clutching desperately onto the compass. He could feel the ripples forming in the air, just where he was looking. He started to become aware of a cold wind around him that hadn’t been there a second before, and then he was in both places at once. A thousand feet up, falling, and crouched in the woods hidden from prying eyes. Then after a tiny sliver of a moment he was all there, falling fast, too fast.

He looked ahead again and further up into the sky, looked briefly at the compass, and as he noticed a motorway rushing towards him he was gone again. Flashing from place to place, sometimes ten or fifteen miles in a single pulse, thousands of feet above the ground. Always in the same direction, looking out for the towns that should pass beneath him, always falling faster and faster. He hadn’t realised that he would keep falling. Each pulse didn’t allow him to start again. He was always falling. Hadn’t Mr Fulford the physics teacher said something about this? Didn’t an object keep accelerating as it fell? How fast was it? He couldn’t remember. For the first time ever he wished he paid more attention at school.

Then there it was, he could see the television van with the reporter and cameraman. Out over the edge of the cliff was the raging grey and green sea, and the bleeding bulk of the oil tanker. A final short pulse and he was above it. As he fell he reached out with his hands for the tingling bubble rap feel of the ripples in reality. With enormous relief he began to slow. As he descended towards the ship he realised, however, that he had misjudged his speed. He stopped a little over twenty feet above the ship, floating in the air. He nodded to himself.

"Levitation... cool."

* * *

“Get the camera, get the camera. Don’t just stand there. Are you mental? We’ve got to get this. Go live. Go live. What is going on here?

Is that the studio? Is that the studio? This is Barrett Pips live from Willis point and your not going to believe this.”

* * *

Will was feeling, reaching out. What was oil meant to feel like? He had no idea. How was he going to tell what the oil would feel like when he felt it? Why had he come here? What did he think he was going to be able to do? The oil would be different from the water. The thought hit him like a 4 X 4. He didn’t need to know what oil felt like. Oil always floats on water. So just feel for something on the surface that’s different from what’s below.

* * *

“I have no idea what he’s doing Jerry, he’s just floating there. This is incredible. I don’t know if he’s trying to help, or what his intentions are. He appears to be a teenage boy. He’s wearing a hooded top with some kind of logo on it... and cargo pants I think. We can’t see his face he has his back to us. With any luck there might be a camera on one of the helicopters operating here who can get some pictures. Wait. Look…the oil.”

Back in the studio work had come to a stop as the newsroom crowded round the monitors. The cameraman, who had to keep the shot on Jerry behind the desk, was heard to swear live on air. Nobody bothered to phone in and complain.

“Barrett…Barrett…what’s going on? Hello…Barrett?”

“Jerry…Jerry the oil. The oil is flowing back into the tanker. I can see globs of it being sucked off rocks and flying back towards the gash in the tankers side.”

* * *

Now Will held the oil in place and reaching out with his mind pushed the tattered edges of the hull back together. He was starting to get tired. He had to focus on the metal, binding back together. The molecules had once had a bond; if he could forge that again it would almost be over.

* * *

“Barrett, these are unbelievable pictures I think we can see the damage to the Torino Valley repairing itself.”

“It’s not repairing itself Jerry. It’s the boy. It’s the boy.”

Just one task left now. Will felt the entire ship. The vast steel body of the stricken beast. No, that was not the way. Steel can’t float. How do things fly? They have thrust, right. Something pushes them. He reached around the ship.

* * *

“Jerry. Can you see this?”

“Yes Barrett, yes. I see it.”

“The Torino Valley, an oil tanker that ways over a quarter of a million tons when loaded is now hovering about fifteen or twenty feet above the wave tops, and is moving slowly out to sea, away from the rocks.”

* * *

Will didn’t have a plan at this point. He didn’t know if he would, or could, push the ship to the edge of the storm front. He was just desperately trying to get it away from the rocks. Then, about three miles from the coast, he spotted the two massive sea tugs, waiting for a chance to rescue this ship. He lowered the vessel back into the sea and then himself onto the deck. Grabbing for a handhold as he nearly collapsed.

* * *

“Jerry I can’t make out the boy anymore in this weather. But before he got out of view I thought I saw the logo on his top. We can check the tapes later. I could be imagining this, but I thought I saw a Newcastle United crest.”

“A what?”

“Jerry. I think that maybe there is a superhero in the world... and I think he’s a Geordie.”

* * *

Ahab Milton Turned from the array of plasma screens, and pressed the intercom.

“Harper, come up here please and bring Mr. Whittle with you. I think we may have a complication.”

* * *

Will slumped through the front door and headed straight for the stairs.

“Will is that you?”

“Yes Dad.”

“Have you seen the news? Me and your Mam have just seen the most incredible thing.” From his voice it didn’t sound incredible. It sounded expected. It sounded like something exasperating that you were very fond of despite the hassle, like Christmas.

Michael Bishop stepped into the doorway and leaned up against the frame.

“What was it?” said Will. They’d seen him on television. Everyone would have. What would he do now? Why had he gone? Why hadn’t just stayed at home? Why did he have to try and be clever? What was going to happen to him now?

“A young lad cleaned up an oil spill and levitated a quarter of a million ton oil tanker out to sea.”

“You’re joking.” Will tried to sound amazed but his heart just wasn’t in it.

“No I’m not joking. Am I Marie?”

“No your not.” Came Marie Bishops’ voice from the living room, equally accepting and resigned.

“Couldn’t make out his face. It was raining and he had his back to the camera. I’ll tell you what, though. That young fella’ is going to have his backside on the front page of every newspaper in the world.”

“And every news programme.” Wills’ mother called.

“I’ll go and put News 24 on in my bedroom.” Will tried to dash up the stairs.

“Son.”

“Yes Dad.”

“For heavens sake cover your face next time, eh. Wear a mask or something.”

“Er…alright…Dad.”

As Wills’ Dad turned to go back into the living room, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Good job that, son.”

* * *

Newspaper headlines 07^th January Year Fourteen

‘MYSTERY BOY SAVES TANKER’

‘DISASTER AVERTED BY SUPER POWERED BOY’

‘MORE POWERFUL THAN A LOCOMOTIVE!’

‘SUPERGEORDIE?’

* * *

Transcript of a report from the ‘Ten O’clock News’ 08^th January Year Fourteen

From the newspaper headlines over the last few days you maybe forgiven for thinking the world had stopped spinning. But it hasn’t, and the miraculous appearance of the boy who saved the ‘Torino Valley’ has become simply the most amazing mystery. Who was he? Why did he suddenly appear and avert a natural disaster? And where is he now?

Let’s look at what we know. Well he’s obviously hugely powerful. Don’t forget that was a quarter of a million tons that he simply lifted and pushed three miles out to sea. He can fly, and many eyewitnesses claim that he just popped into existence above the tanker. So he may have the ability to teleport. On top of that he was able to repair the damage to the ships hull so thoroughly that experts who examined it afterwards couldn’t identify the area that had been damaged. And finally he was able to summon all of the crude oil spilled back to the ship, whilst separating it from any material with which it had come into contact.

Professor Nathan Burke of Persephone College Cambridge has said that he believes this must all mean just one thing. This boy has the ability to manipulate reality at the quantum level. When I asked him what that meant the boy would be able to do. He replied ‘anything he wants’. So maybe the most important questions we should be asking aren’t who, where, and why. But what will he do next, and how will it affect our world?

* * *

Creating a mask on his face hadn’t worked. Thinking things through, and creating a mask stuck to his face hadn’t worked either, because he still hadn’t been able to see properly. Then he had a better idea. With a few minutes of clicking and dragging he had morphed a photo of Tom Cruise into Toby Maguire, for looks, and chose an image slightly towards Toby Maguire to allow for age. He then morphed that photo into one of Russell Crowe, for authority, and chose one again just towards Toby Maguire. It still wasn’t quite right so he airbrushed the few lines and wrinkles, and morphed the result, choosing just a hint of Christian Bale for a stronger jaw line. He placed the picture on top of the drawers and gazed into the mirror.

His face began to tingle as he allowed the awareness of the molecules in his skin to wash over him. Then he took it deeper feeling his own flesh and bone. Then slowly, he began to move. Very carefully at first, unsure of what he could do without hurting himself, he added muscle mass and extended bone. He stretched and pulled and reduced, all with a steady, nervous, tenderness. When he was done he resembled the composite man in the photo in the way that a child can resemble a parent. But he thought he looked okay, and certainly nothing like his normal self.

He laid his favourite t-shirt on the bed next to a carrier bag full of soil he had taken from the back garden, and sat down to concentrate. A few minutes later Marie Bishop opened the door to tell him when dinner would be ready. She saw a fountain of soil, leaping from the bag and forming a t-shirt shaped mass on the bed. After getting over the shock of what she was watching, she realised that at some point she would have to wash the duvet cover currently covered in dirt. She was about to shout at Will when the soil turned into a copy of the black t-shirt also lying on the bed, even down to the faded colour around the shoulders. ‘Just like the coins’ she thought.

When he opened his eyes he found his mother standing at the door staring at the bed pulling faces. Either she was trying to puzzle out what she had seen or she was having a nervous breakdown.

“Mam?”

Slowly she wrenched her gaze away from the bed and stared at him.

“Mam… are you alright?”

Her gaze fell to the floor, and still she stood there silently. Then her eyes swivelled to the ceiling as an idea occurred to her.

“If I show you a picture and give you a sample of material, could you make me a dress?”

* * *

“What are you doing?” Said Tommy as he walked into the library.

Will quickly shut the outsize book he had been looking at.

“Nothing.”

“What book are you reading?”

“I’m not reading a book.”

“What book were you reading?”

Will looked ashamed, and held up a large hard backed book.

“It’s about symbols used in coats of arms.”

“You geek.”

“Well that makes two of us then.”

“What are you reading that for anyway?”

“Nothing, I just am. Anyway let’s go out, there’s only ten minutes before the end of lunch.”

* * *

19^th March Year Fourteen

The man opened his eyes, and looked up at the world. Slowly he go to his feet. He scanned the horizon, and decided the way he had to go. He took a final glance back at the crater he had made when he hit the ground, and then set his face for the task ahead. He spread his wings and took to the air.

* * *

The Crowd stirred as the old man walked steadily to the podium. They had come from all over the country to hear him speak, to lend their support, to follow his last crusade. In the cold of a March morning in Washington they waited, over two hundred thousand of them, in silence. With flowing white hair, he laid his hands solemnly on the edges of the podium and looked out over the multitude as if it were a gathering of close friends. The anticipation of the crowd rose as he smiled and nodded. When he was sure that they could take no more, he spoke.

“My fellow Americans. My friends, it fills my heart with joy to see you all here. We’ve all come along way, haven’t we? When I started I was a young boy working on my family’s farm in Mississippi. Like many of you I loved that hard, simple life, of honest toil, and I genuinely thought that I knew the path my life would take. But the good Lord knows better.”

The crowd murmured their consent. One or two people called out, “Amen”. The old man cleared his throat and let the cadences of his deep southern voice rise.

“I remember it as if it was yesterday, and I will remember it all the days of my life. I was sitting on that old Ford tractor. Ploughing one of my Daddy’s good bottom fields. It was a fine cold spring day, just like today. You know the clear, frosty kind that makes you feel glad to be alive. That makes you feel hungry in your soul. And he came to me. Like an updraft of life itself, like a gathering storm of promise that was about burst upon me, the Lord came to me. He showed me a vision of what my life could be. A vision of service, and dedication. A vision of joy unbound. And I knew then that that simple life I longed to lead would be a waste. It would be a sin. I knew then that I had to follow wherever he would lead, no matter where. And boy, did he lead me. Yes sir, he has given me a rich, full life. He has given me happiness, unending torrents of joy. And now, as I approach my end, he has brought me hear…to be with you my dear friends. Oh Lord I cannot thank you enough. You gave your only son for my sins. You give me your love everlasting. You have given me a life of joy… and all you have ever asked of me is that I love you with all my heart. Grace like a boundless ocean is the love of God almighty. And now we are here, and ready to do your bidding.

My friends, our forefathers came to this land to build a life where they were free to worship God, in the way they wanted to. Free from persecution, and outside influence. And I say it time we took back that birthright. We have come here, to the seat of government, to show the men and women who run our great nation exactly how they have wandered away from the path of God, and exactly how they can return to it. They have only to listen for his voice and obey it. They have only to follow his great will and our nation will be a temple unto him. A shining beacon to the whole world of how a nation should be. Of how people should live, how they should comport themselves.”

* * *

“Everything is exactly on schedule sir. ‘Diamond Man’ is in position and awaiting your final command.”

* * *

The old man was in full flow now. His face flushed, his body shook with the passion and vigour of a much younger man.

“…this country is riddled with sin. We must cast it out. We must find it, and isolate it, and cut it like a cancer. But listen to the politicians and they will tell you that we must be reasonable. The Bible doesn’t talk of reason. The Bible talks of faith. But that is a foreign concept to them. That is because most of them are sinners themselves. They consort with atheists, and intellectuals, and Jews, and Muslims, and abortionists and homosexuals. They are mired in sin and that is why they cannot see it.”

Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, and raged.

* * *

Abraham Milton put the microphone to his lips.

“Now Samael. Show them the truth of my word.”

* * *

“They think that they can ponder, and intellectualise and solve the worlds’ problems. But only God can solve the worlds’ problems. We can see that, why can’t they? Because they are the problem. They are the unbelievers, and the sinners. Well in Gods’ mighty name we will cast them out. As Christ drove the moneylenders from the temple, we will drive them. Oh my God give us strength to…”

The old man stopped dead, gazing into the sky. The crowd began to glance around, and gasps flew up as first one person saw what the preacher had seen, and then another. A young man, with translucent skin and great dazzling white wings drifted above the crowd, heading for the stage.

Clothed in a white tunic and sandals he carried a great crystal sword in his right hand. It bled orange flame along the blade. When he spoke it sounded like thunder singing opera.

“Josiah Richards, you have preached a doctrine of fear and hatred and you have done this in Gods’ name. You have twisted his words and his intent to further your own evil prejudice. I am Samael, angel of the Lord your God, and I am here to deliver his judgement, swift and certain.”

* * *

Abraham Milton watched on the screen. He saw what Samael saw, looked through his eyes. He spoke quietly into the mic.

"This man is a sinner who has defiled my name Samael. Kill him. Send him into my presence."

* * *

The angel landed on the stage near the old man.

"I hear the voice of God. His judgement has been given to me." he cried.

With a stroke of his sword the old man fell dead. There was terrified silence as the white haired head bobbled across the stage and balanced momentarily on the edge. It rested there for a moment as the crowd froze, watching with wide eyes. Then, it tipped forward and fell to the ground. The crowd, as one, turned and fled screaming.

* * *

20^th March Year Fourteen

Marie Bishop stood in the newsagent looking at the headlines, trying to decide which paper to buy.

‘THE END OF THE WORLD?’ Said one.

‘THE SECOND COMING?’ Another.

‘WHAT HAPPENS NOW?’ Yet another.

‘WHO’S NEXT FOR THE CHOP?’ Another still.

The day had dawned with nobody certain of anything, and like the rest of the world, the newspapers had nothing to offer but questions. She bought a chocolate bar, not a newspaper, and left.

Brittanicus rising; Chapter 1

Strangers Among Us

William Bishop had always seen things in a slightly different way from the rest of the world. To him everything shimmered and rippled and fizzed in a way he couldn’t explain to those who couldn’t see it. Which was everybody else. By the age of five he had been fitted for twenty-two different pairs of glasses. None of the prescriptions helped. In fact every single one made his eyesight worse and none made any difference to the snap crackle and pop of the reality he saw. In the end his parents gave up trying to correct the problem, as they saw it, and simply let little William be. After all the unusual vision wasn’t having any detrimental effects on his development, so they saw little point in subjecting him to years of medical tests. They decided to watch his health closely in case any symptoms became apparent at a later date, and left it at that.

So William went to school and had all the experiences small boys have. He learned, he ran, he played, he made friends, and occasionally he lost them. At the age of six William had a falling out with his best friend at the time, Tommy. It lasted for only one day, and in years to come William would never be able to remember what it was about or how it escalated. What he would remember was that by lunchtime that day he found himself stood with his back to the wall, around the corner from the main playground, out of sight of the staff. Around him in a semi-circle were eight other boys, shouting, pointing, poking. Slightly behind the crowd was Tommy, watching. The self appointed ringleader, Mark, did most of the shouting with Dean, a tall quiet boy with a propensity for physical outbursts, doing most of the poking. William tried to get away, again and again, but was always blocked, pushed back.

At some point he lost his temper. He struck Mark twice in the face and Dean once in a triple combination of punches that would have made any boxer proud. The result of this was that all eight boys now began to punch and kick William with a savagery that only exists in the pack mentality that small boys can sometimes attain.

As William slowly crouched down into a ball to protect himself, he looked up at Mark who shimmered and rippled and fizzed just like everything else in Williams’ world. Then for the first time, and certainly not the last, he did something amazing. He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the shimmering air in front of Mark. He pulled the ripples towards him and then pushed them back as hard as he could.

Mark flew through the air for a good twenty feet before landing on the thankfully damp grass. The kicking and punching stopped, and after a surreal pause, during which the crowd of boys exchanged puzzled glances, they fled. Some silent, some crying, some screaming, all of them telling anyone they could find how William had thrown Mark. The staff and the rest of the school assumed that the boys were exaggerating and that William had pushed, or picked up and flung Mark in a fit of rage whilst being picked on by a gang, typical primary schoolyard stuff. They quickly forgot about the event, but the eight boys never did.

Eventually the school came to understand that there was something strange about William Bishop, but since so very few of them had actually witnessed the event, this was expressed as the usual social exclusion that is applied to some children during their school years. The eight never picked on William again, indeed nobody did, but then very few children made friends with him either, except Tommy, who was his best friend again the next day.

* * *

17^th October, Year Minus One

The slight, Quick, nimble bald man rushed into the library with the skip of someone who wants to run but thinks that it is inappropriate to do so. His left hand gripped his grey lab coat tight around his middle, while he waved a sheaf of paper with his right.

“Sir. Sir. It worked. It worked.”

“Of course it worked Harper, that was never in doubt. The question to be asked is, to what extent?”

The room was a large, late Victorian private library, with a grandiose bay window that looked out across the sea. The walls were lined with two stories of bookshelves, and a balcony that ran all of the way around, with two spiral iron staircases at diagonal corners. The only part of the walls not lined with book cases was the portion above the fireplace which was filled by a monumental portrait of a distinguished looking man in a tweed suit carrying a shotgun and a dead pheasant. In front of the fireplace, in which no fire was burning, were two high-backed red leather chairs. A mans’ hand was visible on the arm of the left hand chair as Harper looked from the doorway, although his face was obscured by the chairs wing.

“Thirty seven points sir. The stem cell implant, the Ritalin, the combination drugs, all of it. It worked. Your IQ now registers at two hundred and twenty nine sir.”

“It’s a beginning Harper. It’s a beginning….”

* * *

12^th May Year Ten

William stood in front of the museum display case reading the caption. A farmer had found a trove of gold Roman coins in a field. They had been worth over £150,000. He looked intently at the examples on display. When Michael Bishop came to find his son fifteen minutes later he found him sitting not far from the case with his eyes closed.

“Son? Are you alright?”

“Yes Dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just thinking Dad. What were you looking at?”

“There are some Roman swords and armour in the next room, even some gladiator stuff. Do you want to come see?”

With that William followed his dad into the next room. Later in the gift shop William bought replicas of three different kinds of coins along with a book. He hid the coins so his parents wouldn’t know he’d bought them.

Six months later the local paper carried a story about a ten-year-old boy who had found a treasure trove of over four hundred Roman gold coins in his back garden. The trove had been bought by a university collection for a little over a quarter of a million pounds. Archaeologists came to investigate the sight. Marie Bishop was not best pleased, as the garden was where she went for a cigarette after dinner and now it was just a criss-cross of trenches and mounds of earth. It was later reported that there were no other artefacts to be found. After two months she was happy just to finally get her garden back. On the positive side the Bishops had a particularly good summer holiday the following year.

* * *

21^st July Year Ten

Harper scrambled along the gangway to the tall man who was standing perfectly still, looking down on the steady activity of the room below. He was lean with a narrow face and small beard. Abraham Milton wore a simple blue shirt open at the collar, jeans, and brown suede shoes. He noticed the approach of his supplicant but gave no sign of it.

“Sir…er…aha…we didn’t know you were coming for an inspection today.”

“How is he Harper?”

“He’s doing very well sir.”

“How are his growth patterns?”

“Exactly as expected sir, well within the parameters for a normal ten year old boy.”

“Have there been any problems with the Neuro-input since the system upgrade?”

“No sir, the system is functioning very well. We’ve managed to widen his experiences whilst still maintaining all of the required programming elements and life experiences.”

“Excellent, pass my congratulations to Mr. Daykin and his team will you? It’s really very good work…”

“Yes I will sir.”

“One other thing… have you checked the stem cell cultures recently?”

“Yes sir. I have.”

Milton turned slowly toward him.

“And?”

“ Well I’m afraid…” began Harper.

“Really? What of?”

Harper licked his lips and the left side of his mouth twitched.

“Well…er…it would appear that lines seventy two to seventy eight were taken from the embryo at a stage that was…er…too late for our requirements. They will still be effective for any therapeutic cloning needs we may have, but they will be useless for the body transfer.”

George Harper braced himself for what he was sure was coming.

“Very good Harper… thankyou.” Milton turned back to gaze out over the vast chamber.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, by the way. It wasn’t your fault.”

He paused as if considering something important.

“You’re a good man Harper. Do you know that?” Harper shook his head not really knowing how to answer.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Not at all sir.”

“Have you ever wondered why I have you monitor this work and report to me but have never put you in charge of any project?” He paused again, waiting for an answer but not turning to see his underling shaking his head.

“No? Well let me tell you. You’re meticulous, precise, and loyal. These are traits I value dearly my friend, but you are not determined. I do not believe you have it in you to be ruthless. Yet to be successful that is sometimes exactly what is required. The men and women I choose as leaders all desire success; they are driven, and ruthless. And that is also why I need you.

A man driven by the need for success will soften his failures and embellish his triumphs and so will be an unreliable reporter of events. Whilst a man obsessed with precision and accuracy will slow the pace of success trying desperately to perfect every step of a process. Perfection is unobtainable, what we need is the best that is possible. You my friend would be a failure as a project leader, but are my most valuable lieutenant in your current role. Be assured. Go back to your monitoring, be my eyes and ears… and when you have a moment send Dr. Kelvin up to see me. I’ll be in the library.”

He paused one last time, looking out over the activity of the room. A large grey concrete bunker, filled with work areas, some contained in sealed glass compartments within the larger room, where researchers and experimenters shuffled endlessly between stations. All of them dedicating their time to ensure the success of project ‘Diamond Man’. In the centre of the room, in a single large Perspex tank, lay the boy. His head entirely covered in a metal helmet from which many thousands of cables ran through a seal in the top of the casket and down through the floor to another room where a monstrous supercomputer fed several teraflops of information per second directly into the boys brain.

This was the central chamber, where only the most loyal were allowed to work. The rest of the complex didn’t even know of its existence, and worked away at their subsidiary projects without ever knowing the real final result of their labours. In one room hundreds perfected the ability to manipulate diamond crystals at the molecular level. In another growth tanks housed the world’s first cloned organs. In another, scientists continually failed to draw upon the vast potential of zero point energy, in another philosophers and artists argued unendingly about the best possible way of structuring and running an organisation, and so on. At the top of the iceberg of this organisation, of which the bunkers under his house were only the tip, was Abraham Milton.

With that thought he allowed himself a small smile, then turned and left without another word.

George Harper remained, motionless, on the gantry. Relief washed slowly over him.

* * *

Milton looked out of the Bay window in his library, watching the endless rolling of the sea. He heard the man enter behind him but gave no sign. In the distance grey clouds faded almost to black and then seemed to bleed themselves over the sea.

“You asked me to come and see you sir.” said the man.

James Kelvin stood just inside the door, waiting. The ambitious scientist had worked for Milton, at the highest levels of clearance for fifteen years. An excellent doctor and expert in the field of fertility, he had been recruited especially for the project. He had worked his way swiftly to the top and had taken control of the team for ‘Diamond Man’ within only two years of joining. He revelled in his success and status.

“Kelvin, how are you?”

“Very well sir.” He looked at Milton standing by the old display cabinet next to the window in his soft, dreary clothes, the epitome of the friendly businessman, and wondered how he would finally unseat the old man and take control of the whole organisation. It would certainly be a challenge, but then he loved a challenge. He smiled a warm inviting smile as Milton turned toward him.

“Do you know what this is?” Milton Took a small brass key from his pocket and opened the display case on the table next to him.

“A pistol sir?”

“You have a very dry sense of humour James. That’s why I’ve always liked you. This is a forty-five calibre Webley revolver. It was made in Enfield in nineteen thirteen and belonged to my Grandfather.” Milton turned the weapon over in his hands.

“Let me tell you a story about my Grandfather. He was an Army surgeon during the First World War. As such it was his duty to save the lives of wounded soldiers. As a doctor it was also his sworn duty to ‘do no harm’ as Hippocrates put it. You will, of course, be very familiar with the Hippocratic Oath.

During the spring offensive of nineteen eighteen German Storm troopers overran many miles of the front lines. A small group of four, of these Storm troopers came upon my Grandfather and the last few orderlies of a field hospital as they operated on a young British Lieutenant. The young officer had been terribly wounded by shrapnel. It was the opinion of the other doctors that he would die very shortly and that my Grandfather was wasting his time. The rest of the hospital had been evacuated, but he had remained behind with those brave orderlies to try and save this young lieutenants’ life.

The Germans had rushed into the tent, trench guns ready, expecting to find dozens of armed soldiers, but they only found that small desperate group sweating over a blood soaked operating table. Seeing that these mad Tommies were in no position to resist, the Germans told them to finish the operation. They were in no hurry to go any further that day, regular infantry would be following up shortly and they would take the orderlies my and Grandfather prisoner.

When the Germans lowered their guard and began to pass around cigarettes amongst themselves my Grandfather pulled his pistol out from under his operating gown and shot them all dead. Two of them headshots I believe. Then he continued cutting metal fragments out of his patient. Don’t get the wrong impression, he believed in his oath, but he believed he had a higher duty. He genuinely thought that if the Germans won the war Europe would be plunged into a new dark age of barbarism and rhetoric. He thought they were a people only interested in power, while he knew that what was important for the whole human race was progress.

Now looking back objectively I don’t think you can really justify an attitude like that. No one nation has the monopoly on barbarism, and the Germans he fought were nothing like the Nazis that were to follow… but he believed it. There was no way he was going to let those Germans take him and his men prisoner. He was going to kill every German he came across, and he didn’t give a damn if that was against his oath.

The point I’m trying to make James, is that if you believe in something, truly believe, you’ve got to go all the way. There can’t be any half measures. You know what we’re trying to do here. We are trying to save the world from itself. We cannot allow humanity to sink into the pit. Everything we do must command our deepest attention, our maximum effort, our complete dedication.

Incidentally, the young lieutenant survived, stayed in the army after the war, lived to the ripe old age of 45. He was killed just after capturing a battery of German guns in Normandy in 1944. Saved the lives of thousands of Allied soldiers…” Milton turned back to the window. The mid-summer sky was almost entirely black now.

“Our actions have consequences James.

Ten years ago you failed to follow my instructions, for drawing stem cells from an embryo, exactly. I had hoped that your failure would have no effect on their eventual usefulness. I must tell you now my hopes have not been fulfilled.”

Abraham Milton turned, raised the pistol and fired. Kelvin wavered for a few moments on his feet, blood trickling from the whole in the middle of his forehead, then collapsed. Milton tenderly broke open the pistol and removed the spent cartridge. Then he cleaned the weapon and reloaded the empty chamber before replacing it in velvet lining of the display. He locked it, and then crossed the room to his desk. He pressed a switch on an old wooden intercom.

“Mr. Whittle I require the specialist house staff for a clean up in the library.”

* * *

12^th May Year Eleven

Tommy, Zoë, and William sat on the half demolished wall, and looked out over what was left of the factory. They had been sneaking in all through the summer and autumn, finding odds and ends to mess about with despite constant warnings not to go near the place. Now there was practically nothing left, not even the roof. By the end of the next day it would all be rubble waiting for the lorries to come and cart it away.

“Where are we going to play now?” said Zoë.

“We’re too old for this, I’m twelve in January.” Tommy always tried to remind the others that he was the oldest, and should therefore be in charge.

“We should be doing something else.”

“Like what?” Zoë came back as if she were making an accusation.

“I don’t know, just something else. Something less like little kids.”

“You don’t even know what you want to do. Will…Will.”

William was lost however, his attention fixed on a large seagull circling a hundred feet overhead. As he watched something fell away from the bird and fell towards them, directly towards them. A large glob of faeces, racing its way to where they were sitting, was going to hit one of them. He couldn’t quite tell yet, which of them.

“It’s crapped on us.” Said William.

“What?” Zoë couldn’t understand what he was talking about, although she soon would William thought, because the mass of avian turd was about to hit her in the head.

William stood, keeping the seagull fixed in his gaze. There was a quick burning fizzing sound (Zzzzzzzt), and the droppings disappeared just five or six inches above Zoë. As Will watched the bird staggered in flight, and fell for a few seconds before recovering and flying on. If it had been able to think, it would have been puzzled by the irony of being crapped on by another bird at just the moment it had chosen to evacuate on the humans below.