Jenifa gave her a sharp look. ‘There’s no such thing.’
Chaing glanced into the rear-view mirror. Corilla was staring right at him. He didn’t say anything.
*
They made good time back to the PSR office.
‘Take her to an interview room,’ Chaing told Jenifa. ‘She’s not under arrest, but don’t let her leave.’
‘Got it, boss.’
‘Chat to her, make friends, and keep the tape recorder running. I want to know everything she says.’
He found Major Sorrell in the command room – a grand name for a windowless room consisting of five desks with telephones, and two further desks with radios to talk to the PSR’s mobile units. There was a bigger version of his office’s city map on the wall behind them. He was surprised to see there were only three communication staff inside. We’ll need everybody at their stations to deploy the assault squad.
The transport manager was just leaving the command room. She scowled at Chaing.
‘What happened?’ Sorrell asked. ‘The sheriff patrol cars are reporting gunshots fired.’
‘That was us,’ Chaing said. He explained what had happened – what he’d seen.
‘An animal?’ Sorrell asked. ‘What sort of animal?’
‘I don’t know. It was big.’
‘So we don’t know that the informant was being pursued by Fallers. You couldn’t confirm that?’
Chaing felt his shoulders tensing up again. ‘No, sir. But something was after her; that could not have been a coincidence. It wasn’t any kind of natural Bienvenido animal. It had . . . purpose.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to say breeder Faller, not here in the centre of the PSR office.
‘I see.’
‘I’d like to tell Director Yaki about the incident.’
‘So would I, captain.’ Sorrell gestured to one of the telephone operatives. ‘But we haven’t been able to get hold of her, yet. She seems to be between engagements.’
Chaing stared at him in astonishment. As director, Yaki was supposed to leave her itinerary with the command room so she could be contacted at any time, day or night. ‘What about the assault squad?’ he asked lamely.
‘Right now they are officially on standby, but I’ve authorized their vehicles to be released. Major Borlog is their commander tonight. She’s down in the armoury now.’
‘Good. Thank you, sir. Has Lurvri checked in?’
Sorrell checked with one of the communication staff, who gave a small shake of her head.
Chaing frowned. ‘But—’ He looked at the big city map. Deneriov’s flat on Veenar Avenue had a bright green pin stuck in it. ‘Deneriov’s residence is closer than Sedto Street; he should have been there a long time ago.’
Sorrell held up a clipboard, his index finger running down the entries. ‘He confirmed his arrival at the address thirty-seven minutes ago.’
‘And there’s been nothing since?’
‘No.’
‘Sir, that’s not right. Lurvri knows how urgent this is. All he had to do was see if Deneriov was at home. That’s five minutes maximum.’
‘He’s one of us. He knows to radio for backup if there’s any trouble.’
Chaing turned to the radio operator. ‘Have the sheriff patrols reported any disturbance on Veenar Avenue?’
She lifted up her earpiece. ‘No, sir.’
‘Something’s happened.’ All Chaing could see was that weird savage creature moving with eerie grace, big mouth opening to expose those evil fangs. ‘And we need to find out what.’
‘Very well,’ Sorrell said reluctantly. ‘I’ll order a sheriff patrol car to investigate.’
‘No, sir! They’re not equipped for this, and they’re certainly not prepared. I’ll go.’
*
He took the Cubar out again. This time he didn’t use the siren or lights, but still drove fast. The rain was a lot heavier now. Even the tuk-tuks were off the roads, although the city’s trams were still going, rattling down the centre of the major thoroughfares. The occasional car or truck passed, their headlights shimmering off the slick cobbles.
Chaing arrived at the address on Veenar Avenue eleven minutes after leaving the PSR office. He drew in behind a parked Cubar, and checked the number plate. It was the one Lurvri had signed out. The lights were off. Nobody was inside.
He pulled the radio microphone off its dashboard clip. ‘This is car 37-B. Has my partner checked in yet?’
‘Negative, car 37-B. No contact.’
Lurvri had been out of contact for almost an hour now. That was bad. Lurvri wasn’t a man who took risks. ‘Roger that. I’m at the address. Will contact you again in ten – one zero – minutes, no matter what.’
‘Confirm received, car 37-B. Contact in ten minutes.’
Chaing glared at the radio as he slapped the microphone back onto its clip. Confirm – my arse.
There were no pedestrians on Veenar Avenue. Chaing stood on the pavement, taking his time as he surveyed the area, hunting for any sign of that unnatural beast. A tram trundled down the middle of the street, a disconnected row of bright yellow windows, revealing empty seats inside. Sparks scattered from the overhead cable as its pantograph crossed a junction.
He waited until it was gone before walking up to the broad doorway of a grand old apartment block. Deneriov lived on the second floor. The big lobby was all polished marble and ornate pillars, brightly lit by electric bulbs wired into the original chandeliers. There was no one behind the concierge desk, which was unusual for a well-to-do block like this. He walked across the tiles towards the stairs, leaving wet footprints as he went.
Deneriov’s door was ajar. Chaing flattened himself against the wall at the side of it. No sound from within. He spun round, kicking the door open. Into the flat fast and low, identifying potential hostile locations, pistol held in front, moving smoothly from one threat point to another, just like he’d done in a hundred training exercises. Nobody there.
A low table had been overturned in the lounge. Struggle? He moved into Deneriov’s study. It had been ransacked, papers strewn everywhere.
He jogged back out to the Cubar and plucked the microphone from its clip. ‘This is car 37-B. There’s been a fight at the flat. The opposition was here tonight. There’s no sign of my partner. They must have taken him.’
‘Do you have confirmation of that, car 37-B?’
‘Oh, for Urac—’ he grunted, then took a breath and pressed the microphone button. ‘If he’s been taken, we don’t have much time. I am proceeding to the manor to verify. Request backup.’
‘Negative, car 37-B. Duty officer will come to your location to assess the scene.’
‘No time, control! I am proceeding to the manor. Request urgent backup!’
‘Car 37-B, you do not have authoriza—’
‘He’s one of us. I’m going. Back me up!’ Chaing switched the radio off, and pulled out from the kerb.
Anger made him a surprisingly calm driver. He was totally focused on getting there alive and quickly. Lurvri’s life depended on that, so no risky charging across junctions, no reckless speeding on the rain-slicked road. Just get there.
It took nearly thirty minutes, which was a good time. The Fallers wouldn’t have driven so fast, so he should have cut their lead down considerably. Lurvri could still be alive. They’ll want to know what we know. They’ll ask – hard. But they won’t kill him immediately.
The siren and lights had been turned off for the last couple of kilometres. He drew up a hundred metres short of the gates leading to Xander Manor and hurried out. The rain soaked him within a minute. He took his jacket off; the wet cloth was just too restrictive. Reaction times were going to be critical. Fallers were a lot faster than humans; he’d seen that for himself both times he’d actually encountered them.
Streetlights on this road were few and far between. As before, his eyes adapted quickly to the darkness. Going through the gateway was out of the question, so he slung his jacket over the top of t
he unkempt nettlethorn hedge and scrambled over, cursing as the big spikes scratched his arms and legs.
Pistol held ready, safety catch off, he scurried across the wide unmown lawn to the big house beyond. Slim lines of light showed him windows that weren’t entirely covered by curtains. Using them as a guide he worked out the shape of the house. There was one oddity, a light in some kind of annex. He crept towards it, and realized this was the stable block where the family’s coach and horses would’ve been kept pre-Transition.
Chaing slowed his approach, always alert for the thing from Frikal Alley lurking somewhere in the gloomy grounds. The front of the stables boasted three big double doors. Light was spilling out from the one closest to the main house, which wasn’t fully closed like the others. There was gravel under his boot soles now, but cushioned by moss and weeds so his feet were silent as he crept forwards.
His heart was hammering away fast in his chest. He could feel the adrenalin surge in his blood, chilling him, making it difficult to hold the pistol steady.
‘Get a grip,’ he whispered harshly, ashamed by how scared he was. I should have waited for backup.
Without warning tiny colourful stars were sparkling across his vision, yet strangely not interfering with what he saw. The breath caught in his mouth as he remembered exactly when he’d seen this phenomenon before. And – as before – the stars swarmed into a picture of her: the Warrior Angel. Exactly the same picture his five-year-old self had seen.
‘Where are you?’ a voice asked. It was a silent voice, speaking into his head.
Chaing spun round, his pistol trying to cover the whole world. There was nobody there, of course.
‘Crudding Uracus!’ he cursed under his ragged breath. It’s the pressure, it must be. Lurvri’s life is on the line here. He took a moment to quell his anger and fear. The phantom image of the Warrior Angel faded, and he walked unhesitatingly towards the stable.
There were no voices, no sign of movement in the fan of pale light that shone out across the mossy gravel. Chaing swivelled round the opening, presenting the smallest profile as he’d been trained – and his heart thudded, shock locking his muscles. The stable was a big open space, with a stone slab floor and empty wooden stalls at the back, illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from a flex. And right in the middle was a Faller egg. He’d never seen one before; all the countryside sweeps he’d taken part in as a regimental conscript had been uneventful, and the times he’d encountered nests as a PSR officer, there had never been eggs involved.
Now he stood facing one, and it was exactly as the descriptions and photographs depicted it: a sphere three metres in diameter with a hard crinkled skin the colour of charcoal. It was eggsuming Comrade Deneriov.
Rule one in the Faller Institute manual was never ever touch the shell of a Faller egg. It responded to the slightest physical contact at a molecular level; skin stuck and adhered in an unbreakable bond. From that moment on, you had to be cut free. If your friends were quick enough, then you only lost a finger, or hand, or in the worst case an entire limb. For as soon as the adhesion process was triggered, the shell became permeable around the contact point, and began to drag the entire body inside.
Deneriov’s naked body was too far gone for any rescue. He was being eggsumed sideways, so an arm, leg, and half of his torso were already inside. His head, too, was sinking below the shell, leaving just one eye and the corner of his mouth left outside as the shell slowly drew in more and more, a millimetre at a time. There was no expression on his remaining features, and his free limbs were hanging limply.
The parts of his body inside the egg were being broken down by the alien cells that made up the yolk. Once he was completely inside, those same cells that were consuming him would come together in a perfect replica of the lifeform they’d ensnared. But the only thing it shared with its original victim was form; its thoughts were pure Faller. And those thoughts were bent towards one thing – conquering whatever planet they had come to and making it their own.
Chaing didn’t know how long he stared at the terrible scene. It was too late even to perform a mercy slaying. The yolk cells were already infiltrating Deneriov’s brain, penetrating individual neurons. His memories were being extracted, drained away. He wasn’t Deneriov any more. To shoot what was left of him would be to alert the nest.
There’s only one egg, so where’s Lurvri?
He slipped out of the barn and headed for the house. The front door was too obvious, so he tried one of the ground floor’s sash windows. It opened a few centimetres, and he strained harder, forcing it upwards. Eventually it was wide enough for him to squeeze through.
The room inside was very dark, with a door outlined by thin cracks of light coming from the hallway beyond. He could see the shape of furniture – big chairs and sofas, a low table – and guessed at a lounge.
He paused by the door, but there was only silence. Pistol held ready, he turned the handle gingerly and opened it a fraction to peer out. The hallway was dilapidated, with faded wallpaper mouldering away, and dirt crowning every surface. The carpet was now a strip of furry grey grime, filling the air with a musty smell – and something more. He sniffed, not quite recognizing the scent.
Chaing pushed open the lounge door and walked slowly along the hall, pistol held rigidly out in front. One of the doors five metres ahead was open, with odd muffled sounds coming from within. He reached the door frame and knelt down to press his eye to the gap between the hinges. The instant lasted an eternity.
He knew the naked, dismembered corpse lying on the long dining table was Lurvri, because the vile beast from Frikal Alley chewing on his head hadn’t yet bitten off every distinguishing feature. Caden was also in the room, along with another four Fallers, all of them feasting on chunks of limb.
No thought. No plan. Only pure rage.
Chaing burst into the room, shooting wildly. Two bullets caught the beast, punching it across the dining room. Blue blood squirted out of its gaping wounds. Then he swung the gun round, firing at Caden. A bullet caught his neck, blowing off a big chunk of flesh, sending blue blood splattering everywhere. The other Fallers roared in fury, jumping aside. Chaing tracked them, going for the nearest, his finger relentlessly pumping the trigger.
Then something slammed into his back with agonizing force, sending him flying. He thudded into a chair and tumbled to the floor. For a terrible second, he thought he’d been shot. But when he twisted his head round he saw a huge humanoid shape lumbering forwards from where it had been hidden behind the door. Blue-grey skin was stretched over impossibly bulging muscles. Its profile was the only remotely human thing about it. The head was clearly related to the beast, and it had six fat pincer claws on the end of each arm.
Chaing rolled desperately, trying to bring his pistol round. A foot stomped down on his wrist. Something snapped, and he screamed. He couldn’t feel his fingers behind the hot pain.
‘Mine,’ the hulking humanoid creature grunted. It reached down, pincers flexing wide. The tips resembled horns.
Chaing wailed helplessly.
An explosion blew out half a wall, plunging the room into darkness as debris shattered the lights. Then the dreadful scene was lit by an electric-blue glare, as if every air molecule was fluorescing.
The Warrior Angel strode out of legend and in through the smouldering hole, surrounded by her own violet aurora. And she was just like she’d appeared in his vision. Silky Titian hair hanging down over her shoulders. Her sweet twenty-year-old face heavily freckled, wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty tilt. Long dark-brown leather coat flowing like a captured liquid.
Great Giu. She is real.
She raised her arm as if it was a weapon, and the air in front of her warped, emitting a dull whoomp. A purple-white flash smothered the room. And the giant Faller disintegrated, great globes of gore splatting outwards.
The Warrior Angel’s splendorous blaze lashed out again. Then again. Again. Faller bodies ruptured violently, flinging steaming gobbets wide
to coat the whole room in slick carrion.
Chaing was curled up in a foetal ball, trembling in shock. Finally, the awesome flares ended.
‘Chaing?’
He tensed even tighter.
‘Chaing, it’s over. They’re dead. The Fallers are dead. You’re safe now.’
The words made no sense. I can never be safe, not in this world, not any more.
‘Would you like a sedative? It’ll help you cope.’
He risked looking up. The whole room glistened blue. Blood and tattered gore coated every surface. His shirt and trousers were saturated in warm, viscous Faller blood, as was his hair, his face. He held up dripping hands, staring at them numbly, then threw up.
‘Easy there,’ the Warrior Angel said. ‘I know it’s a shock, but you’ll be okay.’
‘What are you?’ he managed to snivel.
‘You know what I am, Chaing, you’re the PSR, you know all about me.’
‘Why did you haunt me? I was a child.’
‘Haunt you? Don’t flatter yourself, captain. I never even knew you existed before this week. As far as I know, tonight’s the first time you linked to the general band.’
‘Linked? I don’t understand.’
‘Okay, let’s get blunt here. You have a Commonwealth Advancer heritage, Chaing. You’re an Eliter.’
‘No. No, I can’t be!’
‘Not fully, no. Genetic drift means your macrocellular clusters aren’t integrated properly with your neural structure. But they’re still there, in your head. Panic or fear put your brain into overload for a moment there, and your clusters went active – briefly.’ She smiled, and it was enchanting. ‘Lucky for you, huh? It allowed me to pinpoint your exact location.’
‘You knew? You knew about the nest?’
‘I knew there was one around here. Local Eliters have been monitoring their encrypted communication for a while. I’ve been in Opole for a few days, helping to track them down.’
‘Why?’
‘To protect the Liberty programme. There’s a factory in town producing vernier rocket engines for the Silver Sword. I couldn’t risk the nest damaging it.’