Fracture - A Window Overlooking the Universe, Page 2

  Chapter Two - Visitors

  Fenton's mind raced. It couldn't be them, they'd only just told him they were coming. But then he realised: the call had been timed to reach him just before they did. It was a ploy to reinforce their reputation for efficiency, impressing on him he had no chance, they would always be one step ahead. They were trying to disorientate him. That's why they'd called him at this hour. He was furious. It was an affront to his rights and an insult to his intelligence.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Stay calm.

  Think it through.

  The operation was being stage-managed. They must have already been outside when he took the call, waiting for their cue. He grinned smugly. Central had sent morons who couldn't even ring a doorbell without permission. He could outsmart them. The relief was momentary. The men at his door were the Division's hands and they would mindlessly implement any instruction. Pressing a doorbell was no different from pulling a trigger.

  The bell rang a third time.

  What had he done? He'd been an activist at Gadder. But that was long ago and no one had even noticed. Or so he'd thought. Had they spent the last seven years weeding out the dissidents, working their way down to him?

  There was a fourth ring.

  No. People didn't just vanish for criticising the administration. They'd said they needed his assistance. With what? They weren't here for help with their history homework and if they were they'd have found someone who'd actually graduated. So were they just flattering him to catch him off guard? Why bother? If they wanted to arrest him surely they could just walk in?

  The doorbell rang once more. This time it was a long insistent screech rather than the previous brief bursts. They were getting impatient.

  Something was biting into his sweaty palms. He was gripping his wrist-strap so tightly it was hurting. Would they confiscate it? He'd have no communications without it and be cut off from Central's data. They'd be less likely to notice it if he was already wearing it when they came in. He quickly slipped it on and pushed in the earslugs.

  'Visual on.'

  A monster lunged out of the darkness. Fenton recoiled in horror as its spindly fingers reached out for him, its giant hand blotting out the light.

  The doorbell rang again. The image reappeared as the grotesque hand retreated.

  There were two of them, floating in the pool of light cast by the lamp above the door, framed by the blackness of the long, gloomy corridor, their swollen heads, bulging eyes and squat piggy noses hideously out of proportion to their thin insectile bodies.

  Text materialised over the picture:

  'IMAGE TRANSLATOR MALFUNCTION – REQUEST REPAIR?'

  He'd been terrified by a viewer fault. They were just men.

  'Bollocks!' hissed Fenton.

  'PLEASE CLARIFY LAST INSTRUCTION'

  'Repair negative. Open sound link.' He was horribly aware of his heartbeat. He heard a voice barely recognisable as his own stammer 'yes.'

  'Mr Fenton, Special Security.'

  The figure in the foreground spoke, the piercing blue eyes and cultured voice jarring with the distorted face. He was blonde, the man behind him dark, their hair short and neatly groomed. They wore immaculate blue suits with tastefully patterned ties and their shoes glistened. They weren't the thugs he was expecting but they were powerfully built.

  'Mr Fenton, will you open the door please.'

  'I want to see your ID.'

  Obligingly they both raised their right hands, displaying their rings.

  'EXECUTIVE OFFICERS OF THE SPECIAL SECURITY DIVISION - IDENTITIES CLASSIFIED'

  The figure smiled. 'My name is Brozmam and this is Mr Javer.'

  He made them wait.

  'Mr Fenton, are you going to let us in?'

  'Do you have authorisation?'

  'Which particular authorisation would that be, Mr Fenton?' He couldn't decide if the tone was derisive or whether Brozmam was genuinely puzzled.

  'Authorisation to come in anyway, if I refuse.'

  A brief silence. The delay seemed more for effect than any real consideration of Fenton's demand.

  'Mr Fenton, we're not here to arrest you, we simply desire your assistance in our investigation.' It was the voice of a friendly adult reassuring a worried child. 'If you don't intend to cooperate I'm afraid that under the conventions of Authority security we could, regretfully, negate certain of your rights.'

  'Which conventions?'

  'Mr Fenton, open the door.'

  The fake urbanity had vanished. Brozmam hadn't even raised his voice but the anger was unmistakable. Fenton had won round one, Brozmam had revealed himself.

  Brozmam stared defiantly at the camera, his blue eyes burning through Fenton's skull. A look of irritation played across his face as he realised he had lost control then it was impassive again. He raised his arm pointing the green crystal eye of his ring at the door. He was going to open it and there was nothing Fenton could do to stop him.

  'Open front door!' shouted Fenton. He'd won round two. He'd forced them to reveal their powers but denied them the satisfaction of using them. The ghost of an annoyed expression crossed Brozmam's face. He lowered his arm. Fenton shook his head. He shouldn't be playing games with these men, they were dangerous. He had to though. It was all he could do, the only resistance he could offer.

  Brozmam smiled at the camera. 'Thank you, Mr Fenton.' As before the tone was icily polite. The smile was probably meant to be disarming after the unpleasantness over the door. It was anything but, the magnified teeth gleaming like marble tombstones in a cavernous mausoleum. He walked forward, his distorted face widening and leering as he approached the camera. Momentarily it filled the whole screen, the piercing blue eyes staring mockingly down at Fenton, pinning him helplessly to the bed, a skewered insect clinically observed by a vastly superior intellect. Then the screen was plunged into darkness as Brozmam blotted out the light. There was a brief blur of colour before Javer too obscured the camera. Fenton was left facing a dark and empty corridor.

  It would take them seconds to cross the hallway. He spun round on the bed, facing the door clutching the thin sheet, his body wracked by fear and excitement, his mind filled with a confused mixture of anger, shame, fear and bewilderment. Were they going to kill him?

  The lights flared brilliantly. Instinctively his hands leapt to his face to cover his stinging eyes. He heard the sound of the door hissing open and rapid movement. He tore his hands away from his face, forcing himself to stare directly into the glare.

  They were right on top of him, black silhouettes looming over him, guns poised at point blank range.

  A moment of absolute terror.

  'Clear,' said Javer.

  Fenton blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting, blurry colour returning. He just had time to realise Javer had only been holding a compact security scanner before it disappeared into an inside pocket. Brozmam though was holding a gun and it was aimed straight at him. There was a dangerous pause then his hand dropped.

  'Normal illumination,' commanded Brozman. Instantly the lights dipped, so much for them not wanting to override his systems!

  He was shivering in shock.

  'Sorry if we alarmed you, Mr Fenton,' said Brozmam in a polite tone of utter insincerity, 'standard procedure I'm afraid.'

  Really? Or was it revenge for the door?

  Brozmam glanced round the room, his face conveying disapproval at the mess that was Fenton's living space, the mess that was his life. He probably wore that expression most of the time. Javer looked bored. Fenton guessed that too was habitual. They weren't much older than him, about thirty maybe.

  'Please get dressed, Mr Fenton.'

  'Mind if I have a shower first?'

  Brozmam's mouth began to open, clearly to say no but then he must have registered the state Fenton was in. He'd been so tied up with his book he hadn't washed for days. Brozmam gently nodded. 'Be quick.'

  Cautiously Fenton rose, hugging the sheet to his body.
br />   'And don't do anything stupid, Mr Fenton.' The gun arm rose a fraction.

  Fenton cautiously walked to the wardrobe hoping there were still some clothes in there. He grabbed what he could find. He turned to see Javer silently emerging from the bathroom, the scanner in his hand. He'd obviously checked it out. Before he knew it Javer had panned the instrument over the clothes he was clutching. They were taking no chances. Standard procedure or did they really think he was going to try something?

  He moved to the bathroom door. It obediently hissed open. They made no attempt to follow. The door shut behind him. Harsh white light snapped on.

  Alone again he dropped the clothes and let the sheet flutter to the ground. Gratefully he emptied his bladder. He felt exhausted. Adrenaline had cleared his mind but now his brain felt thick and foamy again. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared blankly back at him. His hair was untidy and too long, flopping over his eyes. His face was stippled with ragged stubble. It was not a reflection to inspire confidence, he looked like a hung-over student. Why this interest in him? Were they talking about him now? If he could just hear them he might learn something. Of course, he still had his wrist-strap! It hadn't registered on their scan as a weapon so they'd let him keep it. Idiots! Or had they already overridden it? Only one way to find out.

  'Strap, activate,' he breathed softly.

  A red projecting light glowed on the strap's centre. He stared into its beam. The word 'READY' overlaid his vision.

  'Monitor flat,' he whispered. An image materialised. The camera above the wall gave him a bird's eye view of the living room. Javer was slumped in the armchair, his long legs stretched out. He was toying with Fenton's Solve-It puzzle. His fingers worked nimbly. To Fenton's amazement he slotted the final panel into place. In all the years he'd owned it he'd never finished the wretched thing. He'd have thrown it out long ago if it hadn't been a present from her. Javer wrapped his hands behind his head and lolled back into his seat, relaxed. Brozmam was pacing up and down, arms crossed, the compact automatic in his hand. Neither of them was saying anything. Still, at least he'd got away with it: they hadn't realised he could spy on them, unless they didn't care.

  He pressed his face against the shavebox. It whirred. Seconds later his face was smooth and moisturised. He stepped into the shower cubicle. The lancing hot water and scented body-wash were invigorating. The cobwebs in his brain began to melt.

  The phone screamed again.

  'Acknowledge.'

  Fenton spun round, alarmed at Brozmam's voice. But there was no sign of him. The sound had come through his earslugs. The strap was still monitoring the main room. Brozmam had answered the phone.

  'Mr Brozmam,' despite the hiss of the shower he could still recognise the voice that had called him earlier, 'we have lost contact with Team-Leader Paize.'

  He was aiming the strap's beam back into his eye. Both Javer and Brozmam were standing gazing at the camera giving Fenton the disturbing impression they were staring straight at him.

  'A repeat incident?' queried Javer, suddenly animated.

  'Unknown,' replied the voice, 'Paize was reporting power loss and communication's interference. Possibly he has no power for non-essential systems, or interference has become too intense.'

  'Or, they're dead,' Javer's tone was casual, matter of fact.

  'That is a possibility.'

  'New orders?' Brozmam's voice betrayed his impatience.

  'The Investigation Zone has been declared a Security Hazard Area.' Brozmam drew in his breath. He seemed genuinely surprised.

  'Investigation Period?' demanded Javer.

  'Class one.'

  Brozmam looked apprehensive.

  'Do we have confirmation?' asked Javer.

  'Fenton checks out on both counts. Treat with extreme caution. You are cleared for violent restraint.'

  'Degree?'

  'Absolute.' Fenton went cold all over. They would kill him if he resisted.

  'Further queries?'

  'None,' Javer replied, disinterested.

  'Communication terminates. Renew contact on arrival at Investigation Zone.'

  'Acknowledged,' both men spoke in unison. They stood staring at the camera for a second then Brozmam turned to face Javer. His composure had been shaken.

  'Period class one.'

  Javer shrugged as if it was what he'd expected.

  Brozmam glanced over his shoulder to the bathroom door.

  'He's taking too long.'

  'Give him a few more minutes.'

  For a second Brozmam seemed unconvinced, then he nodded his assent with a quiet 'okay.'

  Fenton dropped his arm ordering the shower to switch to the drying cycle. Paize must have been the man who had spoken to him minutes before. And now he was dead. A repeat incident. They were investigating murder. The killer was still at large. He was being escorted right into the danger zone. Why? But what about the power loss and the interference. Maybe it was something less melodramatic, some kind of accident. That would fit. But why would the SSD be involved? The normal emergency services would have been sent in. Unless it was somewhere classified. How did he fit in? Surely he couldn't be a suspect. But what if the SSD had made a mistake and caused a cataclysm? They'd never admit it. They'd cover it up. How? By calling it sabotage and pinning it on some scapegoat. Someone nobody would miss. Someone with no relatives. Someone who'd antagonised or lost touch with virtually all their friends. Someone with established subversive political credentials. Somebody like him. He fitted the bill. They'd said he checked out on both counts. He'd been with the Earthpeople at Gadder and spent time since with the outsiders. Perfect casting for an anarchist: a classic frame-up.

  He froze, shocked by the inevitable logic. He had to get away. He had to escape before they could incriminate him. How? They'd shoot him if he tried. But if they were going to frame him wouldn't they have to kill him to keep his mouth shut? So why hadn't they done it? They obviously wanted him alive at the moment so his best chance was to cooperate with them. But there was one thing he could do. He could call someone and let them know when he was being taken. That would make things harder for them. He smiled in triumph: he had his strap. Who should he ring? Alizen. He dismissed the idea instantly. Phil was his best bet.

  The unit had finished its cycle. He was dry.

  He raised the strap to his mouth. 'Call Phil Wyler!' he hissed.

  'COMMUNICATION PRIVILEGES SUSPENDED,' mocked the strap's soulless electronic voice.

  He swore. He had a legal right to a phone call. He'd have to ask them for it. He was furious. He quickly dressed. There was a discarded pair of shoes lying on the floor, he slipped them on. He roughly brushed his long hair into a semblance of order.

  He was ready. He hesitated for a moment, trying to capture an air of confidence and dignity. It didn't work. He was too aware of his rapid pulse. His throat felt dry, his stomach hollow. He stifled a yawn. Nervously he triggered the door.

  It didn't open. He reached out for the switch again but suddenly the door started to move. Of course, they'd reprogrammed it so it would only open with their approval, when they were ready.

  Brozmam was standing directly in front of him, the muzzle of his gun trained squarely on his chest. Instinctively Fenton's hands shot out grasping the doorframe. He froze, locked in position like a cornered animal.

  'The gun is just a precaution, Mr Fenton,' said Brozmam, lowering it as he spoke. 'It's time to go.'

  'I'm allowed a phone call.' He hoped it sounded like a bold assertion of his rights rather than a desperate plea.

  'I'm afraid there's no time for such niceties, Mr Fenton,' said Brozmam. 'Central has your former guardian down as your emergency contact. They'll advise him you're assisting us.'

  Great. Culris. If anyone would willingly accept him as some kind of subversive anarchist saboteur it was him. No. That wasn't fair. Culris had always done his best for him. But he couldn't see him arguing with the SSD, like Alizen he had far t
oo much respect for the Central Authority.

  He nodded in defeat. There was no point arguing, he had the gun.

  'Come on,' Javer beckoned from the door, holding the jacket Fenton had left hanging in the hall. He must have been through the pockets. Warily Fenton started towards him, Brozmam slipping behind his exposed back. There was a sharp cracking noise. The gun had gone off! He froze, waiting for the inevitable stab of pain.

  It didn't come.

  He'd just trodden on a tablet. He'd been reading Poley's Origins of the Great Collapse on it, now it was orange shards. Embarrassed, he walked to Javer, taking the jacket and pulling it on.

  The doorway to the hall opened. Javer stepped through, Fenton following him. He paused for a moment in the doorway, glancing back at the untidy room he'd lived in for the past eight months. It had been an austere self-imposed prison, a place where there was nothing to do but work. He'd looked forward to the day when his book was finished and he could finally leave. Suddenly it was home and safety and he was leaving it, probably for the last time.

  He turned and followed Javer through the hall and out the front door. Seconds later it shut behind Brozmam, the clang resounding down the long, bleak passageway with a forbidding finality.