The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three

  ‘This man sounds more charming by the second.’ Heddings had aged in the course of the briefing. ‘I’ll speak to the boss, but I expect we’ll be organising a press conference for tomorrow morning. It’s best this comes from us than via a leaked source.’

  ‘It’s going to be chaos out there,’ Hask said softly.

  No one disagreed.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I don’t see why you’re insisting on showing this again.’ Mr Bright sipped his coffee. ‘We saw it two months ago.’ He kept his tone light and his gaze steady as the TV screen replayed the images.

  ‘Perhaps if we keep showing you,’ Mr Craven sneered, ‘then you’ll actually start to believe what you’re seeing instead of just ignoring it and hoping it will go away.’

  Mr Bright smiled. Mr Craven did not look well. It was no secret that the Dying had found him, and though Mr Bright always felt the loss of one of their number, he wondered if he’d grieve at all for Mr Craven. There had always been something decidedly unpleasant about him. Solomon had never liked him; said he was too similar in nature to him. He didn’t have his strength of course, but the cruelty for cruelty’s sake was definitely there. Still, the Dying was the Dying, and despite his exterior cool, Mr Craven would be feeling the fear. No wonder he was so absorbed by the people in the film.

  The fear, Mr Bright had discovered, was proving dangerous. In recent weeks he’d felt his grip starting to loosen slightly. There were far too many murmurs of dissent making their way back to him. The cohorts weren’t meeting regularly; it was becoming an ‘each to their own’ situation, and perhaps the only thing unifying them was the growing belief that Mr Bright was no longer up to the job. The loss of Mr Bellew had not helped. He had been a general back in the old days, and many had followed because he had encouraged them.

  Mr Bright had tried to keep a lid on the true story of Mr Bellew’s fall, but the rumours were rife and many were now staring at him with visions of coup in their eyes. He looked again at Mr Craven’s pale, thin cheeks. Thus far they’d avoided the promotion of a new fourth to the Inner Council, but when Mr Craven went, new members would be unavoidable, and the First Cohort was not currently over-flowing with friendly faces. He wondered how any of them had the arrogance to think they could do any better than he could.

  His delicate coffee cup still in his hand, Mr Bright let his gaze drift back up to the screen. There he was, Detective Inspector Cassius Jones, tumbling into the back of the car that had screeched to a halt at the end of the road by the building site. The door flew open and he was pulled inside. It was the same CCTV footage that the police had studied, but they wouldn’t have seen what Mr Bright was seeing and what had disturbed the others so much. The Brightness – the Glow – it poured across the screen from the driver’s seat, and when the door opened for Jones to get in, more gold streamed out.

  ‘We know it’s an emissary,’ Mr Bright said. ‘There were already rumours of one. I don’t see why you are so fixated on this as if it were some kind of surprise.’

  ‘Come, come.’ Mr Dublin smiled gently. ‘It’s not that simple, is it, Mr Bright? There has never been an emissary here before – they have been rumours only, the stuff of myths and legends.’ He sat down, careful not to crease his linen suit. ‘And I know as well as you do that most of those rumours were started in one or other of your offices to keep us all toeing the line. I always respected that.’

  He flicked a finger in the direction of the still image. ‘But this? This is not a creation of your mind. This really is an emissary. And if an emissary is here, then perhaps he isn’t far behind.’

  ‘I understand your concerns, Mr Dublin.’ Mr Bright maintained the twinkle in his eyes despite his exhaustion. Why did they think they needed to tell him what to do? He had always been the thinker; he was always ahead. He was the Architect.

  ‘Of course we need to find out what the emissary wants,’ he said. ‘Clearly they are not here to speak with us, or they would have come directly. Perhaps he is just curious to see how we have got along in all this time. Maybe he’s having a moment of boredom. The emissary may well leave without ever contacting us.’ He carefully put his saucer down on the desk. ‘I am, of course, doing all I can to locate them, but as you can imagine, that is not the easiest task.’

  ‘Why would they save Cassius Jones? Why would the emissary even know who he is?’ Mr Dublin’s voice was as soft and languid as ever, but Mr Bright was not fooled by it. He had the bit between his teeth, and he wasn’t going to let go simply because of some reassuring words.

  ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the elusive child?’ Mr Dublin finished.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mr Bright said. There was no point in denying the possibility.

  ‘And what did you do with the child, Mr Bright?’ Mr Dublin asked. ‘His existence used to be a matter of record, at least for the Inner Cohort. What made you decide to hide him away? Or did he die?’ Mr Dublin leaned forward. ‘I don’t wish to be challenging. I haven’t always agreed with you, but I have always respected our order. However, I cannot help but wonder at the wisdom of having the location and condition of the boy known only by you.’ He paused. ‘He may boost morale if you could perhaps show him, at least to us. Explain his importance.’

  ‘That isn’t possible at this moment in time.’ Mr Bright had known that this was coming. He could understand them resenting his secrets, but he had promised the First before he slept that he would do what was necessary, and that did not include sharing their plans with the cohorts. Plus, he was tired of the weight of their expectations. Currently the child was merely a rumour; to make him more than that at this stage could be foolish. If he unveiled his plans and they didn’t work, then the child would become another nail in his coffin.

  ‘I don’t care about the child,’ Mr Craven snapped. Mr Bright was sure there were flecks of blood in the spray of spit that flew out with the words. ‘You’re missing the point.’

  ‘And that is?’ Mr Dublin asked. Small lines pinched at his naturally smooth face. Mr Dublin was clearly no more fond of Mr Craven than Mr Bright was.

  ‘The emissary is here. If the emissary can get here, then why can’t we find the Walkways to get back? What is going wrong with the Experiment? If we can find the emissary, then maybe we can find a way home.’

  ‘This is home,’ Mr Bright said.

  ‘No.’ Mr Craven shook his head vehemently, ‘This was a mistake. We should never have fled.’

  ‘You were young. I think perhaps your memory of events is no longer clear.’

  ‘With all due respect’ – Mr Craven’s face fell somewhat short of a smile – ‘you and I are in very different positions. And I am not alone, as you know. The Dying is coming to all of us – even you, Mr Bright, one day. You won’t be so keen to stay here then.’ He let out a long breath and the stink made Mr Bright grimace.

  ‘I think mad Mr Solomon was right.’ The fight had gone from Mr Craven’s voice and now he spoke as if only to himself. ‘This whole place is dying. Mr DeVore says the Interventionists are barely projecting any more. The data stream is a jumble of darkness and infrequent nonsense images.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ Mr Dublin cut in before Mr Bright could. ‘We know that the Interventionists are having their own problems. They’ve been changing since they arrived – this could be another phase for them.’

  Mr Craven snorted. ‘The only difference between the Interventionists and us is that they want to be dying. If I have to die, I don’t want to do it here, not like this. Not so small.’

  ‘Please.’ Mr Bright raised his hands. ‘This is getting us nowhere. We’re all agreed we need to find the emissary; that must be our priority.’ He flashed a look at Mr Craven. ‘And just because the emissary has got here, it doesn’t mean she knows the way back.’

  The phone on the desk rang and Mr Bright stared at both Mr Dublin and Mr Craven for a second before answering. Whatever the call was, at least it had ended the difficult conversation.


  He listened to the excited speaker and then smiled. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there shortly.’ He put the receiver down and allowed for a moment’s dramatic pause.

  ‘Well, gentlemen.’ His eyes twinkled and golden Glow sparkled triumphantly at the edges. ‘It appears that the First has woken.’

  Chapter Eight

  They were in the pub by half-five, but night had fallen so heavily that by the time they were on their second drinks it could have been midnight. Each time the door pushed open to let red-faced and runny-nosed customers in or out a blast of icy air swirled around the tables, so dry it hinted at snow. It was a perfect nearly Christmas evening.

  Hask stared down at his vodka and tonic. He’d made a half-hearted effort at drinking, but his stomach wasn’t really in it. Beside him, Ramsey’s pint was barely touched.

  ‘This time tomorrow,’ the American policeman spoke quietly, ‘this place will be empty. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Probably. Worse than that, they’ll all be at home wondering about who they spoke to or slept with last night or last week.’

  ‘The test centres will be flooded. I guess it’ll at least give the government some real idea of the spread of Strain II through the population.’

  ‘You think?’ Hask leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his vast belly. ‘I’m not so sure. Most people don’t actually want to know. How many tests did you have before the bug came along? When it was just plain old less-complicated HIV?’

  Ramsey didn’t answer.

  ‘I never had one either.’ Hask smiled softly. ‘But if I said I’d always played safe, that would be a lie. I just hoped I was fine, and thought that those things tended to happen to other people. Poorer people.’ He sighed. ‘This man is trying to level the playing field.’

  Groups of people laughed and joked around them, filled with the optimism that comes with the approaching end to a year and the start of a fresh one. In some ways, Hask envied their ignorance – at least for this evening.

  ‘Sometimes I get the feeling that the world is on the brink. There’s a strange atmosphere everywhere, haven’t you noticed?’ Ramsey picked up his pint and took two long swallows from it.

  ‘This is London. There’s a different atmosphere every ten minutes, depending where you are,’ Hask said.

  ‘Not like this: it’s in the air. It’s as if I’m half-seeing something from the corner of my eye – something big that we’re all missing. But then it’s gone, and I’m not sure if I’m just going slightly mad.’ The American’s face was taut and his eyes dark.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Hask watched him carefully. ‘Maybe you need a couple of days off. You’ve been overloaded of late, and it’s about to get worse.’

  ‘It’s okay, doc.’ Ramsey laughed gently. ‘I’m not going crazy. It’s just a weird feeling of unease inside me – like I should know something, but I don’t. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the Cass Jones issue.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s definitely playing on my mind.’

  ‘I wonder where the hell he is.’

  ‘He’s nothing if not resourceful.’ Ramsey grinned. ‘Maybe he’s in the south of France sitting out on the deck of a boat somewhere.’

  ‘Not with his bank accounts all frozen.’ Hask sipped his vodka. He paused. ‘That always struck me as odd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cass isn’t stupid: surely if he were going to go on some murderous spree, he’d have put some money somewhere, in case of this situation? It’s not as if he’s anywhere near broke. Why didn’t he shift a hundred grand somewhere we couldn’t stop him getting to it.’

  ‘There’s a lot that I don’t understand.’ Ramsey leaned in, focused now. ‘Did you see all the info Perry Jordan had gathered for him? He definitely believes there was something suspicious about what happened to his brother’s kid, and looking at everything, I don’t blame him.’

  ‘But do you think he killed those two men? Bradley and Powell?’ It was the key question, the one the two men had avoided asking of each other since the case exploded. All the evidence pointed to Cass, that was indisputable, and maybe in the early days that had blinded them both to their gut instincts, but now that the dust was settling, Tim Hask knew what he believed: Cass Jones may have killed in the past, but he wasn’t a murderer. Cass Jones was an honest man, despite all his efforts to be otherwise. The question was, did DI Ramsey feel the same?

  ‘I don’t think I know,’ Ramsey said. ‘I know it looks like it, but for some reason my head just won’t accept it. After everything that happened with Bowman and his wife, it just seems wrong that he would do something like this.’

  ‘I agree.’ Hask was surprised by the relieved thumping in his chest. ‘Maybe we should take a quiet look into it. Revisit the evidence.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Adam Bradley was pulled in over the Man of Flies case. Perhaps we should take a look at that interview. What do you think?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  Hask smiled. They may not be able to do anything about the hysteria that would grab the country after the next day’s press conference, but they might be able to help out one friend.

  It was warm in the private room at the top of Senate House, but none of the three men who were standing by the hospital bed removed their overcoats. The nurse checked the machinery attached by fed wires to the old man before leaving and quietly closing the door.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. They stared at the figure bathed in the pale yellow light from above. No Glow came from the watery eyes that darted, panicking, around the room. His mouth moved madly as he tried to speak, and spit dribbled from his toothless gums and down the wrinkles in his ancient cheeks. He had looked old when he had been sleeping, but now that his face was twitching and awake, every year of his existence was engraved in the sagging skin of his neck and the hollows of his cheeks. His hair wisped like fragile clouds across the sky of his liver-spotted skull.

  ‘Wha — Wha— I don’t—’ The words finally came like wet farts from his mouth, before they were overwhelmed by his keening. Tears ran from his eyes into the snot leaking from his nose. None of the three men wiped his face.

  ‘Where is his Glow?’ Mr Dublin finally muttered. The old man’s eyes flicked towards him, still pleading for an answer to a question he couldn’t articulate. He looked lost, confused – as if he didn’t even know who he was any more. Mr Dublin’s mouth twitched in disgust. ‘Why does he have no Glow?’ he repeated.

  ‘Is this what we have come to?’ Mr Craven trembled. ‘The First is a drooling, gibbering idiot?’

  In response, the old man began to cry quietly, parts of words lost in the snotty mess of his face.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty,’ Mr Bright said. ‘He’s only just awakened. He make take time to recover.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Mr Bright.’ Mr Craven spat the words out. His hands were trembling as he pointed a finger at the silver-haired man. ‘You promised us – you said the First would wake and all would be restored to its former glory. We would be restored to our former glory.’ He looked down at the figure in the bed. ‘And this is what you deliver us.’

  ‘The First with no Glow.’ Mr Dublin spoke softly. ‘How can that be? What does this mean for the rest of us?’

  ‘It means we’re all dying,’ Mr Craven snapped. ‘Not just me and the others, but you too one day. This whole crumbling kingdom: we’re decaying, and there lies your proof. The glorious First – our leader, the shining one. What would the rest say if they saw him now? We should finish him off. Give him some of his dignity back.’

  ‘I think perhaps,’ Mr Bright retained his calm, ‘it’s best we keep the news of his awakening to ourselves for now. Give us time to evaluate the situation.’

  ‘Give you time to come up with a way to explain yourself, you mean.’

  ‘I don’t need to explain myself, Mr Craven,’ Mr Bright said. ‘Don’t forget who I am.’

  ‘We’ll ke
ep it quiet for now,’ Mr Dublin cut in, ‘but not for long. And I must warn you, Mr Bright’ – he carefully moved his fine blond hair out of his eyes – ‘that between this and the Dying, many of our number are going to want to find a way home. Rightly or wrongly, they will blame you for the decay around us.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern,’ Mr Bright said. ‘Now I think I’d like a few minutes alone with the First.’

  He saw the look that flashed between the two men before they turned towards the door. There was an alliance forming there – Mr Dublin didn’t like Mr Craven, that was clear, but that wouldn’t stop them discussing this, and plotting how the cohorts should move forward. It was exactly as Mr Bright had expected. There was danger there, for sure, but he wasn’t prepared to show his full hand yet – not until he was absolutely certain that all had gone according to plan. And anyway, Mr Dublin would be a fool to ally with Mr Craven; the latter would hedge his bets. The two would want to approach things differently, and they’d realise that soon enough. They could cause him problems, that was certain, but they would never work together, not like he and Solomon and the First had done, and alone they could never take him on.

  When the door had clicked shut he pulled his gloves off and laid them on the side-table before taking a tissue from the box and carefully wiping the old man’s face. The crying got worse as he touched him. Mr Bright let his hand rest for a moment on the hot, dry forehead.

  ‘Try not to be afraid,’ he said, giving the thing in the bed a kind smile. ‘I will look after you – I will put you somewhere safe.’

  Fresh tears sprang into the old eyes, and Mr Bright’s heart squeezed slightly with pity and more than a little guilt. If only the other realised the burdens he’d had to bear for them – for all of them. He wasn’t a monster, but he’d done monstrous things on their behalf.

  He squeezed the old man’s hand and felt it weakly pull away. He wondered if he should get the nurse to sedate the creature in the bed, but decided against it. A return to an unconscious state might have disastrous consequences. He would wait and see for now. He stepped back and smiled. It had been a long wait, but he was quietly confident that the plan they’d formed when the First had started ailing was all coming together. His heart thumped in anticipation, an excitement he hadn’t felt in many long years. It was like a return to his youth, to before, when they had all been so bold.