THE FOREVER GENE (THE SCIONS OF EARTH Book 1) (19 page)

He pushed his hair back from his forehead.  "When it became clear to me that there was a pattern to the glitches, I went back to the very first one.  I tried to find another way of resolving it.  I thought that perhaps our first solution was wrong and that it was the cause of the inconsistencies that followed.  But there is no other solution to the first one; I am sure of it.  So I tried the second one and came up with the same result.  And the third, and so on.  It is as if each glitch is designed to have only one solution.

"By following the blueprint, we are like rats in a maze.  At every juncture there is only one correct way to turn, so we have to turn that way.  We have to follow the path set for us."

"Well, perhaps we shouldn't continue to follow this path.  Can't we abandon the blueprint and find our own solution?"

"That is exactly what I have been thinking.  I saw the star drive in action on my visits to Emissary.  I understand how it works.  The challenge that faces us is to bridge the gap between our existing technology and the technology that is needed to support the star drive.  That is what the Faerie Folk's blueprint was supposed to achieve.  We have already assimilated a great deal of it, which has narrowed the gap significantly.  If their blueprint has become unreliable, then the only thing which makes sense is to abandon it and find another way to bridge the gap."

"Is that possible?"

He paused.  "Anything is possible.  But first we have to convince the delegations to agree to abandon the blueprint.  It is going to take more persuasive ability than you or I have to get through to the likes of Armitage and Chang.  And your government is not exactly well known for being receptive to new ideas either.

"No offence intended," he added as an afterthought.

"None taken," she replied.

"Harry will be easier to convince, but he has already warned me that the new British prime minister is unlikely to have the star drive high on his list of priorities.  The social upheaval caused by the Faerie Blood craze has stolen our thunder."

They were both silent for a few moments.

"Then there is the small matter of conceiving alternative systems which will achieve what the blueprint calls for.  We don't even know where to start because it is not clear how much of the blueprint is flawed."

"Start at the other end of the bridge," she said.

He looked at her and raised a quizzical eyebrow.  "Reverse engineering?  It is a good idea, but Emissary is gone.  We don't have a working star drive to start with."

"Yes, but you have the Faerie Folk's design.  Build one and install it on Earthworm.  Then use what you remember of Emissary's star drive to replicate the technology needed to make it work.  Others can continue extracting the usable technology from the Faerie Folk's blueprint.  Hopefully your work and theirs will meet in the middle.  It won't be necessary to abandon the blueprint, which should keep the generals at bay for a while, and it will give you time to make genuine progress."

He sat staring silently into the middle distance for so long she began to think he had fallen asleep.  Then he looked at her and she saw a glint in his eyes which hadn't been there for weeks.  "Us," he said, "It will give us time."

"What do you mean, us?"

"I mean you and me.  You are now on my team and I want you at every one of my sessions."

"I am no astrophysicist, Hans.  I will just get in your way."

"No, you will be there to keep us focussed and to stop the generals from interfering.  And when the time comes, you will get Northern Europe's backing as Earthworm's first pilot."

He leapt off his chair and began flipping on lights and booting-up various computer systems.  "The first thing I need to do is review my notes and drawings of Emissary's star drive.  Then I'll get the team in to start designing components.  I don't have a photographic memory, but fortunately I don't need one.  I am intelligent enough to fill in the blanks intuitively.  It will be more difficult to replicate systems I didn't get the chance to examine.  However my examinations were thorough, so hopefully there won't be many of those.  Call up the Faerie Folk's star drive specifications, will you? Use that terminal over there... where are you going?"

"Hans, I have been working for sixteen hours.  I am too tired for this now.  Everyone else on the base is fast asleep and I am going to join them."

She stopped at the hatchway and turned to tell him to get some sleep too, but he had already forgotten she was there.

CHAPTER TEN

Winston Parke put on his dressing gown and slippers.  Although it was almost summer, there was no respite yet from the cold weather and he hated shivering his way through breakfast.

Connie would have tea and Melba toast ready, and when he went downstairs, she would cook him an egg with bacon and sausages.  She did this for him every morning without fail and he wondered how she would cope from tomorrow, when a cook would be on duty at all times. He sincerely hoped that she wouldn't insist on continuing to make his breakfast.

It was strange to think that this was the last day in their home of thirty-three years.  They had moved into number 7 Honeydew Road, Clapham, two weeks after their wedding and had raised three children there.  The children had all grown up and left to make their own way in life, and the house now felt a little empty.  Connie really wanted to stay, he knew, although she kept saying that she was happy to move.

It was very British to live in the same house all one's life, he mused while shaving.  But when duty called, personal preferences had to be put aside and new challenges embraced.  That was very British too.  He tied his dressing gown closed and walked gingerly down the narrow wooden staircase, his knees creaking and popping almost as much as the stairs themselves.

He turned the corner into the dining-room and saw that Connie had made a special effort today.  There were flowers on the table and she had set out the fine china tea-set they had received as a wedding gift all those years ago.  She had even switched on the little electric fire to warm up the room for him.

He skirted a stack of half-full packing crates and sat down in his usual chair.  There would be no time to dawdle at breakfast today; the movers would be arriving in about an hour to finish the packing before taking their belongings to the new house.  The furniture would be staying, of course, as they wouldn't be needing it.

He poured a cup of tea and buttered a piece of toast, listening to Connie potter around in the kitchen.  He had offered to hire a char to help her many times, but she always refused.  At the new house she would have a whole army of servants and he couldn't help but be concerned about how she would react to them.

"What time will the car be here for you, dear?" she called from the kitchen.

"The usual time.  Are you sure you won't come with me this morning?  You really don't need to be here to supervise the movers, you know."

She bustled out of the kitchen with a hot plate of food clutched in a faded oven glove.  She placed it in front of him and pulled the salt cellar nearer so that he could reach it.  "No thank you, I have a few odds and sods I would like to pack myself.  I can't have those ham-fisted clods breaking our best china."  She went back into the kitchen to fetch her own breakfast, a grim ensemble of muesli, yoghurt and porridge.  She sat down and he poured her a cup of tea.

After breakfast he went back upstairs to get dressed.  He had been accustomed to help her clear the table, but there was no time for that these days.  The car arrived promptly at seven-thirty and Connie met him at the front door with his hat and coat.

"It looks like rain again, I'm afraid," she said.

He shrugged on the coat and kissed her on the cheek.  "It won't matter; I'll be too busy to notice.  Let me know when you're ready and I'll send the car for you.  There is going to be some sort of reception to welcome us this evening, I hope you don't mind."

"I'll have to get used to that sort of thing, I suppose."

He strode out of the door and down the garden path towards the waiting car.  A specialist protection officer met him at the gate and opened the back door for him.  It was a cold, overcast morning and he was thankful to settle into the warm interior.  The officer closed the door and hopped into the front passenger seat.  They set off northwards along Kings Avenue.

As they approached Vauxhall Bridge the traffic slowed to a standstill.  There seemed to be some commotion ahead and a number of police cars came past in the emergency lane.  He pressed the touchscreen set into the door beside him and the soundproof panel between him and the driver slid downwards.  "What's happening, Bill?"

"It's those anti-Faerie Blood nutters, er... protesters, sir.  Apparently they have blocked the bridge."

Winston activated the screen set into the back of the driver's seat and called up BBC News on his 'link.  The channel showed that the middle of the bridge had been barricaded with two large trucks.  The trucks had been turned side-on within both lanes of traffic and their tyres slashed.  According to the reporter on the scene, this was hampering the efforts of the police to clear the obstruction.  The situation was exacerbated by the human chain of protesters who had tied themselves together and spread across the road in front of the trucks.  Some of them held large placards denouncing Faerie Blood as unnatural, an abomination and the work of the devil.

The officer, forgetting that the soundproof screen was down, suggested to the driver that the protesters be thrown into the Thames.  "If they want to be mortal, let's help them along, eh?"

Winston didn't see the funny side of the man's comment.  The protesters had become a big problem within a very short period of time, disrupting roads, railways and sporting events to get their point of view across.  But it was a point of view most people didn't agree with and there had already been two or three violent clashes.  He fervently hoped there wouldn't be another one today.

No sooner had he formed the thought than it happened.  Some of the motorists, late for work, had got out of their cars and were remonstrating angrily with the protesters.  The latter did not respond and the scene did not appear to be volatile.  The police were slow to put a cordon in place; instead concentrating their efforts on removing the trucks.

Without warning one of the motorists lunged forward and snatched a placard from the hands of a protester.  He threw it on the ground, and then grabbed another.  The young man who was holding the second placard made the mistake of resisting and suddenly the mob of gathered motorists surged forward.  Some grabbed placards, while others began bludgeoning the protesters themselves.

There was an ugly few moments until the police managed to take control of the situation.  They pushed the motorists back with a baton charge and then cordoned off the protesters, some of whom were injured and bleeding.  For a moment it looked as though the motorists would fight back, but then police reinforcements arrived from the other side of the bridge and they backed down.

Their patience now exhausted, the police unceremoniously cut the bonds linking the protesters together and bundled them none too gently into police vans.  One or two of the more seriously injured were taken to an ambulance which had just arrived.  The motorists quickly scuttled back into their cars.

Winston was shocked by the sudden violence.  These were ordinary people who should have more self-control than they had just displayed.  It brought home to him again how strongly Faerie Blood had divided public opinion.  Most people had embraced it, and more and more were being inoculated every day.  But there were reactionary elements, primarily the organised religions, which were becoming more and more desperate to put the genie back into the bottle.  It was understandable; the very reason for their existence was under serious threat.  If people no longer feared death, they would no longer need the promises of salvation and afterlife that the churches peddled.

He activated his 'link and called his principal private secretary.  "Morning, Adams.  Please ask Bishop Francis for an urgent meeting," he instructed.  Francis was his main liaison with the Church of England.  Perhaps there was something the bishop could do to defuse the escalating tension.

The emergency services managed to clear the trucks and eventually they were on their way across the bridge.  Bill turned right down Milbank Road, where thankfully there was less traffic, and soon they were driving past Westminster Abbey towards Whitehall.  As they neared Parliament Square, Winston glanced out of the window at the stately facade of St Margaret's Church.  His eyebrows shot up in horror.  The main wall had been defaced with graffiti which hadn't been there yesterday.  'God Go Home' was painted onto the stone in large crimson letters.  Things were deteriorating faster than he had thought.

The car skirted the Square and stopped at the gated entrance to Downing Street.  Bill tipped his cap to the guard who, after a brief glance into the back of the car, waved them through.

"Sorry about the delay, sir", said Bill as they pulled up outside Number 10.  It had begun raining lightly and Winston pulled his coat closed as he stepped out of the car and hurried through the open doorway.  Adams greeted him in the entrance hall.

"Good morning, Prime Minister," Adams said in his clipped way.  "I hear there was something of a hoo-ha on the bridge."

"It's more than that, I'm afraid.  These protests are bringing out the worst in people."

"Well, at least you won't have to contend with early morning traffic any longer, sir. Your private residence is now shipshape.  Would you like to go up and have a look around?"

"Not now, there are more important things to do.  I'll go up with Connie when she gets here later on."

They hurried down the carpeted hallway towards the main staircase.  "Did you manage to contact Francis?"

"I spoke to his secretary.  Apparently he shares your concerns.  He would prefer the meeting to be private, if at all possible, and he will be here at about twelve o'clock."

They reached the prime minister's office and Winston spent a few minutes assuring his staff that he was none the worse for wear.  Then he sagged into the chair in his private office, gratefully accepting a cup of tea.  Adams clattered off to re-arrange his day and Winston was left alone with his thoughts for a few minutes.

He hadn't expected to become prime minister and, even after four weeks, it seemed surreal.  The previous government had been in power for two decades and had been completely entrenched.  Its economic policies were sensible and had enabled the country to recover from the financial crises of the early part of the century.  Britain had enjoyed a lengthy period of economic prosperity and a series of likeable prime ministers had enhanced its popularity.

As leader of a weak opposition, he had resigned himself to his role and done his best to make a meaningful contribution.  It was relatively easy to criticise government policies, and to come up with alternatives which were unlikely to ever be tested in practice.  The pay was good and there were no security issues.

The demise of the government had been sudden, spectacular and completely unexpected.  When Ambassador Ba showed his little ampoule of serum to the world, the government had not been slow to see its potential impact.  People retiring in their sixties and then living on indefinitely would drain national health and pension fund resources.  Population growth would explode and eventually lead to critical shortages of housing, food and other necessities.

To meet the challenge, numerous laws and policies would have to be overhauled.  But it wasn't possible to undertake such a massive task in the short time it would take for the serum to hit the streets.  The government realised that banning the product wouldn't work, so it decided to adopt a tactic all too familiar to the British public; if you can't beat it, tax it.

New laws were rushed through Parliament introducing massive surcharges on both imports and sales of the serum.  The justification was that the government would need this extra money to provide social benefits to people who chose to live indefinitely.

This meant that, despite being dirt cheap to produce, the price of the serum paid by consumers was prohibitively high.  Unsurprisingly, the British public took no notice of the wider issues and became incensed as they watched daily Personet reports of millions being inoculated elsewhere in the world.

It took very little imagination for the opposition to come up with a new strategy; promise to abolish the new tax as soon as they were elected.  The first few by-elections which took place were a disaster for the government and it found itself between a rock and a hard place.  Backing down on the tax was not an option and it was forced into an early general election.  Despite an intensive advertising campaign designed to persuade the electorate of the dire consequences of abolishing the tax, the ruling party was voted out by a landslide.

Having promised to do so, the new government had no option but to abolish the tax.  The pharmaceutical companies in the country had been stockpiling supplies of Faerie Blood and the British people lost no time in catching up with the rest of world.  Official sources reported that almost five million people were being inoculated each week.

And now Winston was expected to clean up the mess.  There were no obvious solutions.  When he first took office he appointed a task team to assess and brainstorm the issue.  Made up of a number of his special advisers together with representatives of the Church, police services and various private institutions, it met every morning at eight.  This morning's meeting had been delayed because of the chaos on Vauxhall Bridge and it was almost nine-thirty when Adams called to say that everyone was ready.

His chief of staff fell in beside him as he hurried through the labyrinthine corridors towards the main conference room. Number 10 might look like a council house from the street, but inside it was more like an office block combined with a museum.  From the kitchen in the basement to the prime minister's suite on the third tier, it was staffed by hundreds of people.