‘The outgrowth from Finsbury Circus has been bagged and recovered. The others you indicated appear to have self-destructed, but we have a crew collecting samples of hypha.’
‘And they are wearing full bio-suits?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘Yes, sir, as per your instructions,’ replied Sir Neville.
‘Good.’ The PM perused his antique file. After two days of shocks and revelations Wednesday had actually commenced on a much happier note with the discovery of large amounts of extremely valuable rare earths in the ash debris. Since then, however, it had quickly spiralled down to business-as-usual for this week: panic and occasionally chaos as one preposterous development took over from the last. It finally led to this – the discovery of the Malevolence.
‘It’s one step forwards and two steps back with this shit, isn’t it?’
‘Or the other way around, sir.’
‘I appreciate your optimism, sir Neville.’
Sir Neville Stonehatch fidgeted in his seat and kept eyeing the Majestic report. It was highly unusual for the Prime Minister to be so directly involved in security matters as he had been all through this week, but to actually hold the key secret himself – that was unprecedented. His security chief, whilst rigorously respecting the chain of command, did not seem to appreciate it.
But what of this “Malevolence” thing? Was this bad news or good? On the face of it, discovering an intelligent alien fungus hiding under London, one that had been actively spying on him, could only be considered as absolutely terrifying. And the name didn’t exactly inspire confidence! The report went into some considerable detail about how the Victorians had dealt with it, or thought they had. However, it was the new material, presumably added by the Gang of Four, that really knocked the PM for six. This beast, the report urged, should be quietly talked to, negotiated with, and ultimately – exploited. But exploited to what end!? And how, for that matter, does one negotiate with a fungus? He decided to reveal some of the information to Sir Neville:
‘At least we have a name for our first set of aliens. Apparently they’re called “the Sponsors”, they’re from our galaxy and they’ve been running our affairs in secret since the dawn of humanity.’
‘My God!’
‘Indeed. And the Gang of Four just wiped them all out! As a result we are now rather… exposed as a species.’
‘My God… exposed to what?’
‘The report does not specify, although it does suggest we… talk to this new player.’
‘The fungus?’ asked sir Neville, incredulously.
‘Hmm, it is allegedly a highly intelligent Sponsor parasite and, according to this, a lot more on our wavelength than the Sponsors ever were.’
‘Can this advice be trusted?’
The PM shrugged. ‘We’re not yet in a position to say, but I do believe we should attempt a communication with this entity.’
‘How?’ asked Sir Neville, ‘if it doesn’t make the first move I’m not sure what we can do.’
‘I’m sure a boffin will think of something.’ The PM rubbed his face. ‘In the meantime, has the Bermondsey investigation revealed anything?’
‘Ah, yes. In all the commotion I regret I forgot to mention it earlier. Apologies, Prime Minister.’
‘Understandable, so what have you got?’
‘We have an ID on the human male, sir: He’s called Russell Tebb and he runs an aerobics studio on Tooley Street.’
The PM held his head in his hands: ‘Oh dear.’
‘Sir?’
‘Human chancers! I would have preferred powerful aliens. At least then we could assume they actually knew what they were doing. Instead we have a bunch of activists or idealists who somehow acquired alien tech and then used it to destroy an alien race that may well have been our saviour as a species for all we know.’
‘But the spider and the cat–’
‘They manufactured them! Or modified pre-existing animals.’
‘Sir?’
‘Well I don’t know! Who knows what you can do with alien technology… I take it we have nothing on the woman?’
‘Not an identification, sir, but a name at least: Ceres. According to a Ms. Meg Rodriguez, who works at Tebb’s aerobics studio, the woman turned up on Tuesday morning, a stranger to Rodriguez, but she called the shots on everything.’
‘Ceres..? You say she first appeared yesterday, not Monday?’
‘Apparently not, sir.’
‘What does Ms. Rodriguez have to say about the animals?’
‘The cat, it seems, can understand English fluently. The spider was simply acknowledged as “Michael”. When pressed, it appeared she thought he was a man, well spoken, apparently. She was unable to give a physical description.’
‘Christ! They probably escaped from some Sponsor genetics lab or something..! Nothing else on the woman?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And this Russell Tebb: background?’
‘Regular Joe. Had a heavy cocaine dependency but has been off the drug for several months. The only slightly unusual detail was his decision last year to join a Brazilian shaman’s “church” and partake in the hallucinogenic drug, ayahuasca. Apparently he experienced “hell” and has been threatening legal action against the shaman ever since.’
‘Where is this shaman based?’
‘Brazil, sir, he’s left the UK. You think the shaman is relevant?’
‘Maybe. Track him down if you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The PM continued to flick through his report but could not summon up the willpower to actually read anything; his eyes just glazed over the text. He was burnt out for the day. Too many more days like this and he’d be heading for permanent burnout.
‘We’d better leave it there, Sir Neville, unless you have anything further to add?’
The head of MI6 rifled through his papers and with considerably more focus than the PM had managed. Sir Neville had seemed to be flagging yesterday but he’d clearly found some second wind since then.
‘There’s just the question of the Gang of Four,’ he replied, ‘we’ve staked out Tebb’s studio with new cameras on a different circuit; these are to be viewed continuously from a remote location should they return to Bermondsey tonight.’
‘That camera method has not paid dividends yet.’
‘We’re still analyzing the St. James’s Park footage, sir, so assuming it does, do you authorize the use of deadly force in their apprehension?’
The PM sighed and vigorously rubbed his face again; it felt and sounded like sandpaper: ‘No, I do not! We need answers from that lot, not a bunch of corpses for the Black Museum! In the event of contact instruct your operatives to talk to them – nothing more! Clear?’
‘Absolutely, sir! I concur. I suspect they’re not going to return there tonight, anyway.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘Ms. Rodriguez indicated that she’d been forced to cancel aerobics classes for the remainder of the week. She seems to be under the impression that Tebb and the others are about to take a road trip. Also, the CCTV is all showing green.’
‘For all of Greater London?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see, well keep your Bermondsey operation going, in case we’re being misdirected again, but, yes, it does sound like they’ve scarpered. By the way, what did the tramp have to say?’
‘Mrs. Collier is interviewing him now, sir.’
‘And “softly softly” as you put it?’
‘Absolutely, sir. I believe Mrs. Collier is deploying tea and biscuits this time.’
‘Ha! Make that alcohol and biscuits and we’ll be in business. Do you think this old drunk has a genuine sixth-sense or something?’
‘Quite possibly, sir! He could be a very valuable asset!’
‘Yeah, well you can update me on that one tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sir Neville began to collect up his papers: ‘That’s all I have for now, Prime Minister. I presume you wish to receive a briefing tomor
row morning, same time?’
‘Yes, be here, 9am.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sir Neville stood and grasped the Prime Minister’s outstretched hand.
‘Hang in there, Sir Neville, it can’t go on like this forever!’
‘I hope not, sir. It has been…’
‘It has, hasn’t it! Don’t worry, you’ll be back chasing jihadists by next week!’
‘One can but dream, sir,’ replied Sir Neville, with the slightest of smiles.
The PM watched him depart and then promptly headed for his drinks cabinet. I must touch base with Mrs. Prime Minister, he thought as he poured himself a large G&T. She was going to give him hell over his repeated no-shows! Ditto: the Chancellor.
‘Prime Minister.’
The PM abruptly wheeled around. The room was empty.
‘Prime Minister, can you hear me?’
The directionless voice seemed to hang in the air, like mist.
‘Who is this!?’
‘This is Alan Dosogne… of Global Finance Sponsorship… err, if you require a visual reference point just turn on any of your computer screens. You don’t need to be online.’
The PM hastily placed the untouched drink on his desk and marched around to his chair. He reached for a hidden alarm.
‘Please don’t, Prime Minister. If you alert your security I’ll simply vanish into the ether, and I think you are going to want to hear what I have to say.’
The PM hesitated. ‘What do you want, Dosogne?’
‘Please turn on your desktop monitor.’
The PM felt inclined to press the alarm regardless, but these were exceptional times; what information did Dosogne wish to impart? He reluctantly turned on his monitor. Alan Dosogne’s narrow pasty face filled his screen.
***