Steeple

by Jon Wallace

Genres: Science Fiction; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi

Synopsis

Another high action SF dystopia perfect for fans of Richard Morgan and Alfred Bester alike. The follow-up to the acclaimed Barricade this another short, sharp and kinetic SF thriller Kenstibec is a Ficial - a genetically engineered artificial life form; tough, skilled, hard to kill. Or at least he was. He's lost the nanotech that constantly repaired him. Life just got real. Just like it is for the few remaining humans in this blighted world - the Reals; locked in a fight over a ruined world with the Ficials they created to make Utopia. And now Kenstibec must take a trip to the pinnicle of our failed civilisation. The Steeple is a one thousand storey tower that looms over the wreckage of London. It is worshipped, feared and haunted by attack droids and cannibals. And the location of a secret that just might save Kenstibec's life.The only way is up.

Release date: June 18, 2015

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 257

Sample

 

CROSSING

We hurried down the stairs, hearing the clock tower outside, ringing the alarm. We found the shop floor in chaos. The crowd flooded out of the theatre, colliding with those pouring into the palace.

‘The cab,’ I said. ‘We need to get to the cab.’

We struggled through the mob, broke out to the car park. Gunfire flashed in the camps. Scooters buzzed on Station Road, bristling with armed raiders, headed straight for us.

‘Jesus Christ!’ yelped Fatty, breaking into a sprint. I followed him down the Crayford Road, all the way to the Bear. I turned towards the car park, but a fresh horde blocked my way, waving an assortment of blunt instruments. We dived into the pub, throwing the brace across the doors.

We gasped for breath, watched by the surprised regulars, listening as the raiders passed. Fatty whispered to the proprietor.

‘Hey, pal. Is there a way out back?’

The soak didn’t have time to tell. A window shattered, two Thurrocks leaping through the breach. The tallest lunged at Fatty with a spear, his first jab missing. The shorter advanced on me, wielding a bronze shield and a red fire axe. I dived clear as he swung the weapon, watched it cleave our table in two.

Shorty roared and flashed the blade again. I skipped clear, but then he struck with his shield, slapping me to the floor and stepping over me. I was pinned, helpless, staring into the eyes of vengeance. It looked like a slaying was in store.

Then three darts slapped into his neck. He howled and turned on the regulars, who were peppering him with their best shots. He snarled, advanced, then noticed Fatty. The Treasurer had beaten his opponent unconscious.

Shorty wielded his axe, but Fatty saw the danger. He wrenched the spear from his vanquished foe’s grip, dropped it horizontal, and swung hard at Shorty’s ankle. Shorty cried out and stumbled. Fatty seized his chance, grasping the spear over one shoulder and hurling it into the prone man’s chest. Shorty spluttered blood, frowned, and dropped.

I picked up the shield and stepped out the shattered window, pursued by Fatty. There was a pitched battle on Crayford Way, but the car park was clear. We edged around the pub, found the cab untouched.

I popped the back door, selected a rifle, and handed Fatty a Beretta. He tucked it in his coat pocket and turned, hearing something on the street.

Thurrock scooters. They rasped in our direction, each rider clutching a young Crayfordian hostage. Fatty jumped at the first bike, more drunk than brave, clattering rider and captive to the ground. I stepped out before the second and held up the shield, reflecting his headlight. The rider clutched his brakes, skidded to a halt, and reached for a weapon in his belt. His hostage, a boy, stared at me. I skipped forward and swung the shield edge hard into the rider’s head, knocking him cold. The boy jumped free as the scooter clattered down, then looked mutely up at me.

Another engine. Headlights bearing down on us. I clutched the kid tight and jumped clear, sitting up in time to see Bridget calling to me from the car’s back seat. I lined up a shot, but Fatty batted my gun away.

‘What? They have Bridget. Let me take out the driver.’

‘You’d miss,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a skinful. Don’t trigger when trolleyed, that’s my guiding star.’

I shouldered the rifle, watched the car’s tail lights fade.

‘So what do we do? Let them take her? I thought you said she was one of us.’

Fatty scratched his beard.

‘Fair point. We pursue.’

We ran for the cab, until a thought struck me. I held a hand to Fatty’s chest and told him to stay put.

‘But I want to be in the car chase.’

‘Too bad. Get your people back to the palace. Organise the defence. You’re treasurer, after all.’

I pressed the shield into his hands and jumped in the cab. He appeared at the window, bad eye swivelling in its socket.

‘You can’t do it alone,’ he said. ‘You’re hammered. You’ll steer this fucker right into the river.’

‘Thanks for the pep talk.’

I swept the cab onto the main road and stamped on the accelerator, hurtling through a confusion of tracer and torchlit struggles. I tore out the burning gate and onto the causeway. Wind and snow thrashed the Landy, wipers slapping a furious beat on the windshield. My fingers trembled on the wheel.

I followed the raider’s tyre tracks, until the road turned up to the old motorway, and bridge pylons arose from the gloom. I stopped the cab just short of the tollbooths, cut the engine, scanned the approaches with my binoculars.

The bridge looked clear, but there were too many wrecks to be sure. Remembering the convoy’s fate, I decided to cross on foot. I tucked the cab under a flyover and struck out in the snow, a sweating, trembling sack of meat.

I jogged two-thirds of the bridge span without incident, stopping under the far pylon. There was an artificial light up ahead. Shadows, moving in headlights. I stopped to think.

Big mistake. The exercise had cleared my head, and my wounded ankle now made itself heard. I clutched at the pain and cursed drunken decisions. Leaving the cab had been dumb. I wouldn’t get far on this foot. I contemplated going back for the Landy, but giving up now would have been all too Real.

Instead I rested the rifle on a wreck, lined the quivering sight on the tallest figure. The first shot missed, as did a second and third. The Thurrocks killed their headlights.

I was about to move closer when I heard a familiar, hollow spitting sound. My damaged brain took a moment to place it. Ah, yes: that would be a 51mm mortar round.

The bridge deck erupted in a hot, white flash, lighting up the river once more. I was slapped against something hard, and lay dazed for a moment, thinking I’d had about enough of this bridge.

Then I began to roll. I wasn’t the only one. Car wrecks and debris were sliding in my direction. It took a few seconds to realise: the bridge was collapsing. I guessed I should have watched what I wished for.

Cables snapped around me with great, plucked strums, lashing the deck. The road began to unzip and fall away. The far pylon bowed, making a low, popping sound, and tumbled in my direction. Looked like I’d get that swim after all.

I jumped for the river. Diving into the Old Thames would have killed nano-less me, but the swollen river ran high enough to survive. I plunged deep, then struggled for the surface, lungs thumping, breaking the waves with a gasp of fetid Thames air. I swam to the shore, peering over my shoulder to see the bridge folding up.

I hauled into the mud on the north bank, and lay gasping like the catch of the day. Above me I heard a car engine on the ramp, spluttering and refusing to start. There were excited, raised voices, speaking various languages. A couple of scooter engines revved impatiently.

I plunged through the silt, desperate to head them off, but the troubled engine rattled into life, and I heard the car move clear. I struggled harder, but the mud was too thick and my limbs exhausted. It took ten minutes just to drag clear of the mire.

I hobbled onto the main road, thinking the whole enterprise something of a wasted effort, when I noticed the Thurrock car. It had only travelled a hundred metres before breaking down again. The headlights were on, bonnet lifted, five Reals bickering over a steaming engine. There was movement in the back seat. One figure was Bridget. The other was a small, black terrier. That old Ficial part of me reordered my priorities.

The dog saw me coming, watching with expectant brown eyes. The Thurrocks didn’t notice me until I was on them.

I put my hands to the raised bonnet and slammed it hard on the fingers gathered beneath.

Three of the Reals screamed, hands pulped. The dog howled, joining the chorus. A female Thurrock backed away, fumbling with her weapon. I pulled a fingerless Real to me as she fired, his body absorbing both bullets, then ripped the pistol from his belt and returned fire. I missed, but it was enough to deter. She jumped on her scooter and made off at speed. I dropped the dead Real, stood there with chattering teeth and uncontrollable shivers. Two Thurrocks were still alive, wailing over their mangled digits. I lifted the lid and let them drop clear, inspecting the engine that had got them maimed.

‘Ken?’ Bridget stepped from the back seat. ‘What happened to you? You look like a jellied eel.’

I guess that was her way of thanking me. I nodded at the engine.

‘This can be repaired.’

I tweaked the engine, staggered to the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine rumbled into life. I listened to it for a moment, decided it should get us home. The dog jumped on my lap, pressed its paws to my chest and licked my face. My new best friend.

‘Well,’ said Bridget, rubbing her hands together and eyeing the dog. ‘The night’s not a total washout. At least we’ve got something to eat.’

I heard scooter engines, closing. The Thurrocks had regrouped.

‘Time to go,’ I said, roaring into reverse, leaving Bridget standing in the road. I turned and sped off, the girl watching, stunned. I thought it too hot to go back for her, but the dog had other ideas. It wanted to be where the action was. It bounced off my lap and out the open passenger window. I pulled the handbrake, swung the car, and went to retrieve it.

I caught up with it, just as the scooters broke into view. I pushed open my door, grabbed the hound by the scruff of the neck, then kicked the car’s tail into the nearest rider. I tossed the hound in the back seat and burned back the way I’d come.

I dabbed the brakes as I passed Bridget. She ran, just managing to dive inside the back door before I picked up the pace again.

We sped clear, until the scooters broke off their pursuit.

Bridget glared at me in the rear-view for a minute, then sprang forward and punched me in the back of the head.

‘Watch it!’ I said.

‘You were going to leave me there! There’s me thinking you were coming to the rescue, and all the time you’re after that bloody pooch. I guess I know where I stand in the order of things!’

I couldn’t argue with that.

I scratched the dog behind his ears, and wondered what I’d call him.

 

I crouch in my cell, examining the flex Bree gave me, when my heart suddenly slows and my vision blurs. I slump against the wall, every nano in my bloodstream sitting up and begging to an ultrasonic prompt.

– Kenstibec.

Control. I did not expect to hear from it so soon.

– Signal is being tested due to recent interference with other models. No directive element to this contact. However, you should take the opportunity to report.

– Accommodation and liaison satisfactory. Optimal mission identified: construction of new city tower development.

Control is quiet for a moment. I wonder if it has cut the signal.

– Connection intact, Kenstibec. You have questions. Proceed.

– There was another construction model at Diorama. My handler told me yesterday.

– Correct. Power Five, triumph model. Buried alive during flood prevention work in Docklands area. Attempts by other models to recover it failed.

– I see.

– There is something else?

– Yes. Miss Bree asked me to visit the city, to gain inspiration for the new development.

– You were not stimulated?

– Yes. No. The city is poorly sited. There are interesting buildings and many excellent parks, but there is no real centre. The streets are laid to a medieval plan. Tall buildings are raised at random. Spaces are overwhelmed by elevated statues and monuments. Most of all, it is incapable of housing its populace.

– We are aware, Kenstibec. That is why your project is so important. Your new creation can fix the problems of the old city, because it will be built to an optimised scheme.

– I do not know that I will have the opportunity to fix anything, Control. I am still locked up.

– Consultation will follow, Kenstibec. Skill will always prevail over prejudice. Remember that Canterbury Cathedral was built by a Frenchman. Regardless, Diorama cannot neglect your abilities when the prize is so great.

– What should I do until then?

– Exactly what you are doing. Wait. Continue your other designs. Your time will come.

I think of Brixton’s cool, peaceful tunnels.

Then the connection breaks, and I am alone again. For a moment at least.

 

FERRY

I headed for the Tilbury ferry. With the bridge down it was the only route across the river. Bridget sat in the back, composing a song about her kidnapping experience. She didn’t have her harp, so she clapped her hands and sang instead, making a sound I tapped my finger to. Her fragile frame produced quite a voice, and the beat seemed to sync with the seams in the road. I felt a little light-headed listening to her, but she didn’t start any fires.

The dog sat on the front seat and panted. I looked into his brown eyes, at his pink tongue, thought how his mind was nothing but curiosity and sensation. If only mine could be that way.

We joined the Ferry Road, cutting through foot-deep water, until I made out a sign in the gloomy snow, scrawled on a ruined wall:

 

Ferri vis way! Lowe lowe cost!

We passed stacks of rusted shipping containers, crossed a roundabout, and came to a halt. The water ahead was too deep to continue. The old grain terminal squatted before us, half submerged, the husk of a cargo ship still moored alongside.

I told Bridget to get out and look around.

‘What? No way, you do it.’

‘Look, I need to be able to pull out fast if there’s trouble.’

‘And leave me swinging again? Pull the other one.’

‘Look, it’s perfectly safe.’

‘How do you know? Been here before, have you?’

‘No. Fatty has.’

‘Oh come on, Ken. Phil says a lot. Doesn’t mean I’d bet my boots on him. I trust him about as far as—’

She stopped, noticing something.

Lanterns. They appeared among the containers on our left, blowing sparks.

A voice called out of the darkness.

‘You looking to cross?’

I stepped out of the car, the dog following. Bridget remained in her seat. I counted the torches, quickly discounting a forced passage. They were too many, and besides, I was tired. I called back.

‘That’s right. I can’t see a ferry, though.’

Movement. On the terminal roof, and in the ruins to our right: they were drawing a ring around us. The voice again:

‘What’s your cargo?’

‘Two passengers. The car too, if the ferry can take it.’

‘We can take it. What have you got to trade?’

The crunch point. I looked down at the dog. He showed me his tongue.

‘I’ve got food,’ I said. ‘Dog.’

Excited chatter. Always talk to a Real’s stomach before you try its brain.

Reals leaked onto the street, torches bringing a campfire glow to the shore. A woman, about the same age as Bridget, stepped forward. She had a point two-two pressed to her shoulder. She ran her eyes over me.

‘What’s going on here? Looks like you’ve been for a swim in a latrine.’

I shrugged.

‘Close enough. Car trouble. Had to get out and push.’

A lie. It came too easily.

‘Will you let us cross?’

Her crew edged closer, eyes fixed on the hound at my feet. I wondered why they didn’t just cut me down and take the dog. I was in no condition to give them trouble.

The leader peered into the back seat.

‘Who’s your passenger?’

‘Just a mate,’ I said, using Fatty’s standard response. I knocked on the window and indicated Bridget should step out. She tripped out the back door, eyes wide.

The leader peered at Bridget’s spots, then nodded, satisfied. She smiled, introduced herself as Marsh.

‘We’ll take you across. The dog in exchange.’

‘You get it once we’ve all four wheels on the southern shore. Agreed?’

Marsh nodded, shouted orders to her people. They shouldered arms in good order and waded into the water, picking thick black ropes out of the soup. They heaved in unison, hauling the ferry from a concealed mooring among the crates. The vessel edged into view. It was an old passenger type, gutted to allow vehicular access. The crew splashed and grunted in the torchlight, bringing the stern around to the shore. Four men climbed the ropes to the deck, throwing planks down to the mud: a makeshift boarding ramp.

I climbed into the car, aligned the wheels and gunned up to the ferry. One plank dropped away, but we made it.

Marsh ran up the remaining timber, giving orders to cast off. The crew took stations, some heading below, others dipping long poles to port and starboard. The vessel inched forward, punting clear of concealed flood obstacles.

Marsh bellowed another order as we hit the open river. Oars emerged from the lower deck and dipped in the water. Somebody struck a beat on a tin pan, and the crew began rowing, propelling us with surprising speed.

It was a slick operation. Marsh had her Reals well trained. I left the cab, aiming to speak to her, but the swell affected my belly and I bent over the railing instead, heaving into the river.

Vomiting: another delightful feature of Real life.

‘Sorry about earlier.’

Marsh crouched by the dog, scratching his head. I wiped the mess from my nose.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘The precautions. We used to offer a friendlier reception, but we have to be extra careful nowadays. We’ve had some . . . interesting visitors recently. I’d rather sink the ship than tangle with Ficials again.’

I blinked.

‘Ficials? You had one come through here?’

She sighed, looked out over the river.

‘About a month after Brixton brewed up. It was a military type I think. Green eyes. Never seen one up close before. Can’t say I’m keen to repeat the experience.’

‘It didn’t cull you?’

Marsh narrowed her eyes.

‘No. Told me to look out for one of theirs. Gave me a name, can’t remember it now, one of their weird ones. Anyway, it wanted this other Ficial pretty bad. Can you imagine that? They’re fighting each other now. Like there’s still something to win.’

So a soldier model was after me. Who had sent it? Only a year before I’d dropped Control into the Thames, killing the coalesced mind that once governed every Ficial on the planet. Revenge would appeal to a soldier model, but I still couldn’t see it acting without orders.

Whatever the case, he wanted me bad: it took a lot for a soldier to resist a culling opportunity, let alone ask Reals for favours.

‘Feeling all right, Ken?’

Bridget appeared next to Marsh, hands in pockets, spots flushed. I didn’t answer her. I wasn’t feeling anything.

The dog barked at Marsh. She laughed, brushing it on the nose and making a face.

‘I know this dog,’ she said.

‘You what?’ said Bridget.

‘It belongs to a Thurrock named Kowalski. He uses this ferry occasionally. I wasn’t sure before but really, how many dogs are there around these days? How did you come into possession of it?’

Bridget and I looked at each other.

‘Won it in a bet,’ said Bridget.

‘Really?’ said Marsh. She smiled, hands still buried in the dog’s fur. ‘That surprises me. Kowalski loves this dog. I don’t believe I have ever seen him without it. I seem to remember him threatening to shoot my crew for looking at it the wrong way.’

There was a simple motivation for any bizarre human behaviour. I thought it would explain things.

‘He was drunk,’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ said Bridget. ‘Always off his head, old Kowalski. Kodrinkski we call him.’

‘Well, he won’t be pleased to hear you’ve sold him for food.’ Marsh gazed into the dog’s eyes. ‘It will be a great pity to eat him. But meat is meat.’

The boat creaked, oars redeploying as we approached the shore. We turned, navigating rooftops, satellite dishes, and the other sunken ruins of what was once Gravesend.

We followed Marsh to the stern, which was coming about in the shallows. The oars drew in, crewmen jum. . .