2184

by Martin Parish

“What is the ape to the man? A jest or a thing of shame. Then so also shall the man be to the superman: a jest or a thing of shame.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

Copyright 2010 by Martin Parish

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or past events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

In the middle of the street a tree had grown through a pothole in the tarmac. The tree's first leaves were red because it was springtime.

I paused for a moment to pull on my jacket, a threadbare buffer against the evening chill. I'd been down to Norwood that afternoon and I was impatient to get back. The shortest route I could take ran through the eastern end of London's rotting core – the City, the old financial district. I didn't want to cross idark.

There was always another option, though. Instead of trying to make it all the way I could stay south of the river for the night. I could stop by a friend's place, or I could camp out in any of the empty buildings that pockmarked south London. It was tempting. I was knackered after yesterday's overnight shift, my brain charred with fatigue like cinders soldering in my skull. But the small box I carried under one arm reminded me why I had to get home. It doesn't matter, I told myself, you won't regret it once you're there.

Around the corner I turned onto the sidewalk of a high street. A stream of customers and window-shoppers eddied around dingy shops selling food, fabrics, synfuel, gadgets, electrical repair. It was a young crowd, people in their teens, twenties, thirties, enjoying the last of the late afternoon. Above the shops the windows on the second and third stories were shut – at least the ones that were still intact; many of them were boarded up or smashed. Bicycles sped along the vacant lanes, their right to the road undisputed in the absence of cars; one cyclist trundled past us slowly, hauling a two-wheel trailer of scrap metal. A couple seated at a rusty table outside a corner coffee shop watched him with idle curiosity. The decomposing corpse of a pigeon lay in the gutter a yard away from their feet, a bed of trash for its bier, feathers fluttering gently.

Across the road I took a side street bordering a brick-and-plaster terrace, the inhabited houses marked apart from abandoned ones by the solar cells that studded the slate roofs, each cell emerald-green like a beetle's wing when it catches the sun. About a block and a half down the side street I suddenly realized I'd made a mistake. I began to retreat, but it was too late. She'd seen me.

“Mark! It's Mark." I'd been ambushed. I should have taken another route; instead, from force of habit, I'd followed the most familiar path. The voice belonged to a stoop-shouldered black woman made simian by age, her dark hair streaked with grey. Her dull watery eyes seemed out of focus. She'd just emerged from the front gate and stood holding the latch in one hand.

“He-llo, Audrey," I said as she approached me, shuffling like an old bag-lady gone lame.

"You mean to tell me you were going to walk right by and not stop to see us?" She shook her head and smiled.

"I'm in a hurry, can't stop now. I would, but I can't.”

"It's Saturday."

"I've got to get back.”

"I don't know you can get back to Islington tonight."

"Depends on how fast I walk,” I said.

"You must walk like you've got wings," she said. "I could never walk that far in a single afternoon. Not even when I was young I couldn't've done it."

"We all do what we have to."

"Now that's true. But there's something I want to ask," she added; "have you seen Abel today?" Abel was her son.

"No, I haven't.”

"I thought he was with you.”

“No, I haven't seen him,” I said. “I worked the overnight shift yesterday.”

“Then I don't know where he is now. As long as he's back by dark, I suppose.”

"It doesn't matter," I said. "There's no curfew south of the Thames. Not for two and a half years now.”

"That's true. But it's still risky staying out after dark. And I don't always know where he goes to anyway.”

"It doesn't really matter, it's not like it used to be,” I said, my tone taut with irritation. “I stay out after dark all the time. Even north of the river. But I don't like to do it unless I have to. Which is why I've got to go now, so- it's nice seeing you-”

"I don't see why you'd walk all that way unless you have to. Why don't you stay here for the night? We wouldn't mind. You could walk there in the morning."

I wavered for a moment then made up my mind. "No, that's all right, thank you. Listen-”

"But won't you stay just a minute though?" She glanced over her shoulder like a gossip sharing a guilty secret. "We've got some tea,” she whispered. “Real tea.” The words shocked me into paying attention.

"How'd you get it? No one has any," I said. She placed her finger on her lips.

"Abel got it. But don't say anything, just come inside and I'll show you. I can give you some to take back to Becky. She'll like it, won't she.”

“Yes.” Yes, Becky would. I'd bring some back to her; her surprise would be worth the delay. After all, it would only take a few minutes, I told myself. What difference would that make?

I followed her inside. The house was well-maintained but sunk in permanent twilight, since there were no electric lights and Audrey hung curtains across the windows. I liked Audrey and her son Abel was a friend of mine, but I also found her frustrating. She inflicted her generosity on you whether you wanted it or not. When she told me she had tea, though, she'd piqued my curiosity. It had been years since I'd tasted tea and Becky would love it. I remembered it as an exotic melange of subtle flavours, a relic of another age like tobacco cigarettes.

In the kitchen, Audrey opened a cupboard and retrieved a nondescript cardboard box. The inside of it wlined with wax paper and half-full of dark black loose leaf. "Here, smell that." The luxuriant fragrance of bergamot wafted from the open mouth of the box.

"Where'd you get it?"

"It wasn't me that got it, it was Abel," she said.

"But where did he get it then?" She beckoned to me and I drew closer until I could smell the faint scent of the synthetic lavender she used for perfume.

"He got it from the Mods," she said to me in a conspiratorial whisper and nodded significantly.

""Wonder why they had it. You'd think they'd say something like tea was inefficient. Did he steal it?"

"No, he knows one of them."

“He never told me about it," I said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, maybe he didn't tell you about it, but it's a fact."

"That's amazing. But how do you heat the water? I didn't know you had electricity.”

"No, I don't have solar panels or a generator or anything. But we buy synfuel, and I light a fire in the fireplace whenever I want to heat anything. I'll give you some to take back to Becky, and I'll make you a cup. It's really good, you've got to try it.”

"Listen, I've got to leave,” I said.

She shook her head. “That's how you young people are now. It'll only take five minutes. What difference can five minutes possibly make?”

“I don't know. I just-”

“It's like you said, the streets are safer now than they've been in years. If you are worried I don't see why you wouldn't stay for the night.”

I sighed inwardly. She was right. It would be pleasant to sit down for five minutes. “All right. But only five minutes. That's it.”

"Look at this, here I'm offering you something you can't even get any more and you haven't hardly said thank you.”

“All right then, thank you.”

She nodded. “That's better. I'll go and put the fire on. So where did you go today?”

“Down to Norwood.”

“What's that you've got? Is that for Becky?”

“Yes,” I said.

She shuffled out of the kitchen to the fireplace, and I heard her voice through the doorway: "You can take her some of this too, I'll put some in a bag for you. She'll like it. I was going to say - it's a really wonderful thing he got it, too. Abel's so clever I don't know how he does half the things he does. And I haven't had tea in forever, all we have is this God-awful crap -water. I don't know what they put in it."

“I know,” I said, watching sunlight filter through a curtain and draw patterns on the floor. I felt uneasy; impatience nagged me like a wasp. Part of me wanted to leave, immediately, without wasting any more time. Bravado aside, I'd never crossed the whole of Central London by night before. But I was too proud to plead fear as an excuse, and besides, I believed it was irrational. My confidence dismissed the risks as illusions and steeled me to forget them.

"So how's Becky?" she asked. From the echo it sounded as if her head were in the fireplace. I walked through the doorway. She'd lit the fire and it burnt a bright blue, casting complex shadows on the wall.

"Oh, she's doing well, thank you," I answered.

"Is she still sick?"

"No, she got over that. It was just a cold."

“You've both been together, what is it-”

“Two years now,” I said. “Two years in a month from now.”

"So it's almost your anniversary?”

“That's right. It is.”

“You should leave London, the two of you.”

“Why?” I asked.

"If I was your age I'd leave. It's getting worse here all the time."

"It's better here," I said. "I've talked to people who've been other places and it's better here. It's easier to get food, clothes, everything's cheaper-”

“I don't know about that,” Audrey sniffed.

“Besides I've got a good job. No point in losing it,” I added.

"That's how they keep us in our place," Audrey said in an undertone. "They give us cheap crap so we stay quiet. They pay you with their money so you can spend it on their crap, and all they're doing is giving us their leftovers, what they don't want. Look at how it is now with all the schools closed. Now we've got all these children that don't even know how to read, they don't even want to learn any more, they think reading's for old people. What happens if they arrest you? What do you think happens to you then?”

“They only come after you if you break the rules. As long as you don't break the rules you're fine.”

“I don't believe that, not for a second.”

"It's not really even us and them now," I said. “It's not like that.”

She shook her head. “I don't know what's wrong with you young people. No memory, that's what it is. I suppose you've forgotten all about the war by now.”

“No, I remember.” I'd been a child at the time. I remembered peering through the window at bodies like drab bundles in the road, my mother upstairs screaming get away from the door! I remembered the acrid tang of smoke, the fine soot that coated countertops like soft black snow, people talking in hushed voices about terrorists with nuclear weapons obliterating far-off New York and Shanghai. I remembered when the Internet and the mobile phone networks died – only temporarily, or so we thought, but they were never resurrected, and later they were forbidden.

But one image in particular had etched itself into my memory, an image more vivid than the rest. A girl my age choking, coughing up cherry-coloured clots that dribbled down her chin and stained her clothes. And I had watched her, paralysed to act, knowing she was tainted, that she exhaled an invisible enemy like vapour on her breath. Of all the innovations that emerged from the Species War, the bioweapons were the most successful. Some germs devastated crops to cause famine; the other group, the class C bioweapons, were crafted with uncanny precision to target humans themselves.

“I remember,” I repeated. “But it was a long time ago. It's not like it's still happening.”

Audrey breathed in sharply and cast me an accusing look. “I can't believe you'd say a thing like that. To me.”

I sighed. “All right. I'm sorry. Didn't mean it like that.”

"Now if someone had talked to me-" she stabbed her chest with her forefinger for emphasis - "like that and I was your age - But you young people now just do what you're told. Young people aren't what they used to be,” she sighed. I smiled and secretly pitied Abel. "It's like I've said before, Becky's too good for you, she really is. Here, I think it's almost ready."

"That quickly?"

"Well, I heated some up earr, so if you heat it up again it's faster the second time. Here, let me get you a cup."

"You know, this is really kind of you-" I said.

"Nonsense, I couldn't drink it all by myself." She poured the hot water over the tea and the soothing scent flooded my brain. "How do you like that."

"It's wonderful. Thanks again. I'd forgotten what that tastes like. I was worried it'd be like synthetic coffee or something.”

“Synthetic coffee!” She sniffed. “That's not coffee. That's acid and crap in hot water, that's what that is. Now with tea you have to let it sit for two or three minutes. You're always in too much of a hurry. I wonder what's kept Abel so late. He knows he should be back.”

"I don't see why,” I said.

She tutted with impatience. “Because it worries me when he's not back when he's supposed to be, that's why.”

"Oh, don't worry about him, he can manage himself."

"I'm sure he can." She sniffed again. I suspected this scene was re-enacted every other week. And yet in spite of her carping Audrey was so generous it was impossible to dislike her. So generous, in fact, it surprised me she'd survived.

I finally escaped Audrey about half an hour later and headed north towards Tower Bridge. I'd lost a little time, but I'd gained something else. I carried the box under my arm and in my pocket a plastic bag half full of tea. Becky would be surprised. I pictured the look on her face and laughed to myself. I could feel her in my arms already, the touch of her lips, her brown eyes, her hair.

As I approached the bridge I glanced upstream. Past the swarming rooftops a group of crystalline towers pierced the skyline, rising from what had once been Whitehall and Trafalgar Square. Their colour changed to match the light, and at that moment the sunset's dying glow suffused them with fire. Planted amidst the ruins of Westminster they were as incongruous as a skyscraper in a slum. A row of red lights glowered from the top tier of one building and fear prodded me to walk faster.

Across the bridge I plunged into the maze of roads around Fenchurch Hill. If I looked back I could see people dotting the Embankment on the south side of the Thames, but the north bank was desolate as a ruin. I walked even faster than before, keeping to the side streets and narrow alleys, and the echo of my footsteps followed me.

This was the graveyard of Central London; the broken remains of the former capital. The suburbs might still cling to life, but the city centre had been abandoned to decay. Steel skeletons of office complexes brooded over empty banks and warehouses – their customers dead, their furniture gone, their premises strangely lifeless. Broken windows watched me like empty eye sockets as I passed. Dried footprints marhe aisles behind barren storefronts. Some buildings had collapsed completely and spilled their guts into the road, piles of rubble wreathed in shattered glass.

Over the next few minutes the last dregs of daylight vanished, and the buildings faded to a forest of morose silhouettes. By the time I passed City Road the sky was completely dark. I'd crossed Central London many times by daylight before, but there were usually a trickle of other people walking the main streets at those hours. After nightfall it was completely different. I might have been the only creature alive in that decaying wilderness of brick and steel, I felt conspicuous like a hiker crossing a rifle range. With hindsight I wished I'd detoured farther East – walked down the Thames and taken another bridge. It would have set me back a few hours, but it might have been worth it; the breathless silence made my skin crawl. A rumour had it that there were orzillos loose in the City, and although I didn't really believe it I half-feared I'd see jade or ruby-coloured eyes studying me from the mouth of an abandoned shop.

Stop it, I told myself. Come on, how old are you? In under half an hour I'd reach the inhabited areas again. Close to Becky. And to home. Becky would scold me for staying out so late, but I could legitimately blame it on Audrey. She knew Audrey and Abel well; she'd understand.

Suddenly a shadow fled from my approach into the middle of the street. I froze, startled, my heart pounding. It was only a tabby cat; it stopped and sat dead still, watching me. I laughed unsteadily. My laughter echoed.

"Here, here, putty tat," I said. It licked a paw defiantly.

"Silly cat." And for no apparent reason it turned tail and fled again. It took me a moment before I realized why the cat ran away. Its sharp senses caught the vibrations my duller ears had missed.

In an instant I became aware of a sound that made my blood run cold: a gentle hiss of escaping air. A government patrol, like a bat soaring low over London in search of its prey. On instinct I cowered against the wall. No, wait, I thought. They can see in infra-red. Better go for the alley.

"Mongrel. Stop where you are." The loudspeaker reverberated in the emptiness and an uncanny thrill crept down my spine. "Put your hands up and kneel." I knelt on the ancient tarmac and the craft landed vertically a few yards away from me, in the same way a jump jet lands on a carrier but noiseless. It reminded me of a short-legged insect: a shadow a shade blacker than the night, with a seamless fuselage and an aerodynamic cockpit. Its colour changed to blend with the backdrop, and in the darkness it was almost invisible.

"But I'm not breaking curfew. It's not even ten," I mumbled. Had I violated some other rule? Shock clouded my mind like an icy fog. I couldn't believe it. And I'm already tired. I started to pray silently: an agnostic's prayers, the kind of mechanical prayers you utter when you know no help will come. Then a hatch door on the craft slid open and the co-pilot stepped out, more than six feet seven inches in his flight suit. He removed his helmet to reveal his blond hair and metallic eyes. I felt hatred stir within me.

He was human, and yet not human. I knew him by a half a dozen names: homo excellens, a Mod, a par, while to him I was homo sapiens, a subpar, a Mongrel. Where my cells carried 46 chromosomes his had 48; where my genetic code was written with a four-letter alphabet, his was written with six. He was superior to me from the moment of his birth. In every way that science could devise, he was more perfect than any mere Mongrel could ever be. And that was why I and my species had always hated him and all his species, in the same way an intelligent ape might hate a man who despises him.

Chapter 2

The concrete-block pen was probably built to hold five or ten people, but there were at least thirty of us compressed inside. They'd squashed us in like passengers on a five-thirty subway train. Occasionally the metal door opened to admit a new inmate, and every time the cell seemed so crowded I couldn't believe we had room for anyone else.

Above me several ventilator slats and a recess for the light punctured the ceiling. The echoing voices mingled into a dull roar; the sound smothered my thoughts like whispers drowned in static. A fetid stench of urine and filth tainted the air, like the scent that lingers in a public restroom. In the far corner a toilet protruded from the wall, but to use it you'd have to pull your trousers down while being elbowed on all sides - there wasn't any room.

I squeezed through the dense mass of human flesh to a corner of the cell. My fellow prisoners, I noticed, varied widely. A short, squat woman trying to quiet her shrieking baby. A couple of teenagers nearly on top of an old man crying softly to himself. A dark-haired punk chest-to-chest with a drunk mumbling out loud, faces close enough to kiss; a man and woman pressed against each other and holding hands. But their differences aside, in other respects they were alike. They all stank of sweat, their skin was clammy with it. Their faces were haggard with fear. The fear was contagious: it permeated the room, it gripped me by the throat.

At last I reached the corner of the cell. I could lean against the wall there, even if I couldn't sit down. I found myself face to face for a moment with a girl, a brunette. She was short, serious, and visibly pregnant, probably in the second trimester, her eyes glazed with exhaustion.

"Sorry, I think I stepped on your foot," I said. I talked into her ear to make myself heard.

"No, you didn't, it's all right." She slurred her words drunkenly, probably because she was tired, and spoke with the accent that uses f in place of th and skips the letter h in here and how. "There's room."

I wedged myself in against the wall. "How long have you been here?"

"A week," she said listlessly, speaking into my ear so that I could hear her, and her sour breath enveloped me.

"A week - here? in this cell?" I couldn't imagine how anyone could survive a week jammed into this concrete box.

"Nah, they started moving everyone in here this afternoon. I was in another cell until today. I wish they'd just hurry it up and get it over with. How long've you been here?"

"Since half an hour ago," I said. After I'd been arrested I'd been taken to the lockup. They didn't have to search me because they'd walked me through a scanner, and clothes make no difference to the machine's all-seeing electronic eye. They'd relieved me of my wallet, my keys, the box I'd carried and a drop of blood, presumably so they could sequence my DNA and cross-reference me with their databases. I worked at a government fuel plant so my genome and biometrics were already on file. A drop of blood, a strand of hair, a glob of spit would tell them more about me in five minutes than I knew myself. Finally, they'd shoved me in here. I still had no clear idea why I'd been arrested.

"Oh, so you just came. What'd they get you for?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. They picked me up crossing Central London. After dark.” I hadn't dared to ask why. We avoided unnecessary questions, it was one of the rules we all learned to stay alive. Always blend in. Do what you're told. Stay out of the way. If they don't tell you, don't ask.

“Didn't know they'd get you for that. Unless it's that 10-2 curfew, but that's only the West End, I fink.”

“I didn't know either. What'd they get you for?”

"I dunno. I fink it was my boyfriend; he must've narked on me." She said it simply, her voice colourless and flat, as if there were no point in being angry about a fact.

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, I know. The fucking bastard. He said he would if I kept on giving him trouble, but I didn't believe him. He didn't want me and the baby anymore, you see."

"But why didn't you leave him?" I asked.

"Well, I meant to, but this makes it a little more difficult now, doesn't it?" she said. "Besides which, I couldn't've gone back to me mum's place any more than I could've stayed with him, the old bitch."

"What could he've told them?"

"I dunno. Made something up, I expect. Not much I can do about it now." If she'd been imprisoned for a week, she might know more about what our captors would do with us. I knew very little about what befell people who were arrested. I'd heard stories, as we all had, but bullshit is cheap and rumours were too common to be credible. And secretly I'd never really wanted to know. Like everyone else, I usually reassured myself with the same complacent blindness. It may happen to them, but it will never happen to me.

"So what do they do with us?" I asked. “Any idea?”

"I dunno," she said. "They'll let you off pretty easy, I'd think. I mean, you just got caught staying out late. It's not like you had a mobile phone or an intercom or something." The mobile phone networks had all been shut down about the time of the war, but even if you had an intercom or a private radio they'd track you using the signal from your device and haul you in.

"Do you know what they're going to do with you?" I asked.

"I dunno. I think the same thing as everyone else."

"And what's that? I mean, I don't know what they do."

"I know what I've heard," she said.

"What's that?"

"You're a funny one. You don't know?"

"You hear all kinds of crap," I said. “I don't know.”

"I suppose they send us to a labour camp or maybe to a government lab. I hope it's a lab. I'd rather be in a lab."

"But they'll experiment on you."

"Well, I mean, you don't have to work and they feed you proper. And maybe they'll put me in a captive breeding program," she said, her face blank as if she were talking about a new job or a line of work. "I wouldn't mind that, I don't fink. I mean, if that's all they want you to do, then it's not so bad, now, is it?"

Was it? I imagined copulating in a cage under scientific scrutiny and for a moment I couldn't think of anything to say. "The government has - captive breeding programs?" I said at last.

"I don't know anything about it; maybe they do. I heard they did. 'Course, I heard it from my boyfriend, and he used to tell all kinds of stories. I dunno if it's true."

It sounded unlikely; they didn't need more of us. A few hours ago I wouldn't have believed it. But crushed against a concrete wall by a mass of human flesh, anything sed plausible. They could make us do what they wanted, couldn't they. We were in their power.

" 'Course," she said into my ear after a moment, "they fink Mongrels are just animals. That's what it is, you know." That was exactly it, I thought. That was what they thought of us. Hatred swelled in me like nausea. The stink of urine and sweat thickened in my nostrils until it was nearly overpowering. I slumped against the wall, feeling sick. Not now, not here, I told myself and struggled inwardly. You can't. There's nowhere to go.

"I was like that at first too," my neighbour said sympathetically. "It takes a while then you get used to it." I nodded. "Good thing is it's real easy to go to sleep, 'coz you've got the wall on one side and somebody's back on the other. What's your name again?"

"Mark. Mark Henshaw. What's yours?"

"Sophie." It took too much effort to make myself heard, and it must have been a strain for her also, because we both fell silent.

Our captors must have realized they'd over-packed the cell, because after that there were no new arrivals. I dozed and lost track of time. It might have been four or five hours before the crowd finally began to flow towards the door.

"Sophie." She was asleep, leaning against the wall. "We're leaving."

"About fucking time," she said groggily, still only half awake.

"And good luck." I took her hand. A look of surprise crossed her face, followed by a wan, pale smile.

"Good luck to you too."

Outside the cell dull fluorescent bulbs shed a dim glow on a sterile, white-walled corridor. A guard stood to our left with a cattle prod; we didn't wait to be ordered to turn right. At intervals we passed a cell door identical to the one we had just left, all of them apparently empty. I only caught fleeting glimpses, however; we moved at a pace between a walk and a run. No one wanted to be last in line. We didn't know if they might come behind us, and secretly we dreaded the unexpected - a blow to the ribcage, the shock of an electric prod. Twice the corridor intersected another, but at each junction steel doors barred the exits, so we followed the path picked for us, herded by one fear towards another like cattle goaded to the slaughter.

At last the man ahead of me stopped, so suddenly that Sophie stumbled into me. I felt her soft expansive belly against my back and glanced over my shoulder.

"Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," I said. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just trying to keep up." By peering over the heads in front of me I could see a platform outside the mouth of the corridor, and across it the cattle cars with their metal slats. Around me our mpatient fellow inmates elbowed us mercilessly - even though Sophie was pregnant. I suppose no one really cared. They all wanted to get over with it.

Two uniformed guards stood on either side of the exit, and between them a turnstile like a gate at a tube station barred the way, so that you could only exit when the guards gave you permission. One of them was white-skinned and Caucasian, the other with Chinese or Mongoloid features, but in all other respects they were more alike than any two Mongrels. The Chinese Mod scrutinized me for a moment, his eyes faintly luminous like a cat's. Judging by what I've learned in the years since, I was luckier than I knew; in that moment I narrowly eluded death.

"Go left. To the far train." I crossed the platform to the cattle car. A single fixture lit the interior; in its light I saw an empty pail nestled in each corner. A spigot for a water tap, like the kind in a rabbit-hutch, projected from one of the walls. I made my way through the car, still relatively uncrowded, to the far end. In spite of the uncertain fate that awaited me, I was so tired and irritable I felt relieved to be on board. If nothing else the car was more spacious than the cell.

A moustached, stubble-chinned Indian, so thin his skin seemed like it was stretched to fit his skull, leaned dozing against the wall. He was probably a couple years older than I at most. On his right stood a stolid-faced skinhead, wearing a tank top beneath a short-sleeved shirt, his muscular arms amply tattooed with a macabre collage of skulls, burning crosses, and other cheerful-looking artwork. I took my place between them.

"It's funny, right now everyone wants to stand up against the wall. But once the train starts moving, all the cold air'll rush in through these slats, and everyone'll want to be in the middle of the car," said a middle-aged woman leaning against the wall at right angles to us. She was memorably ugly, stocky with a solid square jaw and steel-blue raptor's eyes. Her bottle-blond hair contrasted awkwardly with her thick dark brows.

"So why aren't you over in the middle?" I asked her.

"I don't mind the cold air," she said. Her windbreaker would probably keep her warm anyway. “It'll be a lot bloody colder where we're going."

"How do you know where we're going?"

She furrowed her brows. "Just look at the kind of people they put on the other train car and the kind of people they put on this one. It's the work camp for us."

"Ah. I see. And the other train car goes to a lab."

"That's my guess." I''d meant to save a spot for Sophie but I didn't see her among the stream of prisoners flowing into our car. Perhaps Sophie had her wish after all, and the morning would find her safely caged like a squeaking lab rat waiting for the technician to come.

“I'm just glad I'm out of that cell,” I said. “I didn't know how much longer I was going to last in there.”

"Yeah. They should really have more cells. I was trying t see what they were keeping the others for but we were all going so fast I couldn't see.”

“What they were using the others for?”

“Yeah. You saw all those empty cells we passed, right? Well, they're keeping those for something,” she said. A new thought occurred to me and I shuddered. “What's your name?" the stocky lady asked.

"Mark. And yours?" I didn't extend my hand because I didn't want to reach past the skinhead.

"Shelley. What did they get you for?"

"Don't know. Think I broke curfew," I said.

"But they don't enforce that. Unless you're near their buildings or something.”

I shrugged. "I was trying to take a shortcut.”

"That's a long shortcut," she said wryly, "it'll lose you a couple years if you're lucky."

"Yeah, I know. Didn't know it was illegal."

“Technically they can pick you up if you're east of Whitechapel and west of Chelsea after dark. I've never heard of them enforcing that, not for the last five years anyway, but they can do it.”

“Technically.” I hadn't known that; as she said, one of those rules they rarely enforced. “Technically they can do anything they want.” The unanswered questions jabbed at me like splinters stuck in my mind. What was Becky thinking? How soon would they release me? “What'd they get you for?” I asked Shelley.

She hesitated a moment. "I suppose it doesn't make any difference who knows now. Terrorism. We were going to blow up a government fuel plant but they found all our supplies."

Organized resistance to homo excellens had ended with the war. The few ragtag bands that survived fought on alone, like sparks scattered by a dying fire and stamped out one by one. Lacking conventional weapons, they plotted sabotage, hit-and-run strikes or bomb attacks, efforts the Mods lumped together as “terrorism”. I assumed that Shelley and her group were just one more of these ill-organized holdouts struggling to deny reality.

Which just goes to show how wrong you can be.

"A group of you? They didn't shoot any of you?" I asked.

"I don't know what happened to the others,” Shelley said. “They might have. It was more than a month ago.”

"You've been here more than a month?"

"They've moved me to a different cell three times now. I think they only deport people once a month.”

“I didn't know that. I was just arrested last nightess I turned up just in time to catch the train,” I said for a joke.

The thug broke into the conversation. "How were you going to blow up one of their plants?"

"What was your name again?" Shelley asked him.

"Jason."

"Jason. It was a synthetic fuel plant, so they've got these large underground tanks," Shelley said. "We were going to put chemical bombs around the tanks. We had it rigged so we could set them off by remote control, then we could've blown the whole place sky-high."

Jason shook his head. "Then it turns out they're watching you the whole fucking time. What'd you want to do that for anyway?" He was right about that. Time and time again, the Mods squelched incipient rebellions with intimidating ease - probably because they were watching us anyway. They deployed cockroach-sized biorobots that scuttled through chinks and eavesdropped on conversations, surveillance monitors that tracked faces and biometrics; for all we knew, they monitored us by other means more subtle still.

Shelley scowled. "What do you mean what did we want to do that for? They get half their fuel for Greater London from that one plant. Blow it up and you cripple their flights.”

"For a week or so. Until they got it repaired," I said. "What do you do after that?"

"So you're saying we should just give up them and let them get away with whatever they want?" she said.

"No, I'm not saying that." Blowing up a fuel plant seemed unbelievably senseless, like taunting a crack commando team with a slingshot. I tried to explain. "I don't like the Mods more than anyone else. I'm not a Heavenward or something. It's been nice these last few years - I've had a Mongrel supervisor at the plant where I work, so I didn't have to deal directly with them. But I'm just saying, I mean, I work at a government fuel plant. I scrub off algae filters for the collectors. I can tell you right now, virtually everyone working in my plant by daylight is a Mongrel. You wouldn't kill that many Mods blowing up a fuel plant. You'd just kill lots of Mongrels.”

“Mongrels?” Shelley spat. “That's what they call us. That's the name they invented. We're the real humans. They're the new species. How can you let them brainwash you like that?”

“All right. Mirks if you like,” I said in an undertone. Mirk was an insulting acronym(Mutant Inbred Rich Kids) that dated back to the 21st century, when human genetic enhancement was in its infancy and still controversial. The Mods considered it a vicious slur – similar to the way our ancestors regarded the word nigger – and it was as much as your life was worth to call them Mirks within earshot. “But all I'm saying is this. If you'd blown up a fuel plant you'd have killed some Mongrels, humans, whatever. Some of us.”

"No, not if you blew it up at the right time you wouldn't.”

“So let's say you did,” I persisted. “I still don't see what you'd do after you blew up the plant. What difference does it make?”

She frowned. “You're talking as if we can decide what we want to do. But we don't have a choice. We have to fight. It's not just fighting for us, it's fighting for you and for everyone living and dead. Everyone who comes after us. It's fighting for our future. It's not about us, it's about the whole human race. And don't think you can get out of it and if you just do what they tell you and mind your own business you'll live. If we don't fight they're going to kill us just the same. Not just us here on this train, us humans."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"You know how they've been terraforming Mars – dumping artificial algae there and such, to change the atmosphere? Eventually they're just going to move their population there and get rid of us. But in the meantime they're working on a new disease.” Her voice sank to a murmur. "There's too many of us. How many people do you think there are in Greater London now?"

"No idea. Maybe a few million."

"The thing is they probably only need maybe a fifth of that. We do all the dirty work, so chances are they don't want to get rid of us, but they only need so many of us. And there's some jobs where they could replace us with biorobots or orzillos.” Orzillos were a species of biotech predator designed by the Mods; they sometimes used the nocturnal beasts as guard animals. “You remember that lethal flu outbreak a year ago in East London? It didn't work because too many people had immunity. It was a botched experiment. So they've moved on from that. What they want now is a disease that will sterilize us humans, that way there's not so many corpses, and it reduces the population. So that's why all the people going to the lab. And they're hoping they can get away with it without sparking off another war.”

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

"It's obvious. They've done it before. They're immune to most human diseases, their immune systems are more potent, and they use these artificial viruses to kill off infectious bacteria anyway. So they can slaughter us or sterilize with a disease and it won't touch them. The thing is they need us, but they're afraid of us as well. They know we outnumber them ten to one. That's why they keep food and fuel so cheap, that's why they keep us disunited. They know if we band together we can get rid of them like - like a horse shaking off flies. And that's what they're afraid of, is that we'll realize our own strength."

"Nah, I don't believe in any of that shit," Jason broke in, "we're just screwing around and they'll pay it back to us. They'll just kill more of us. It's useless."

"And look. You weren't even trying to give them any trouble and they arrested you anyway," Shelley retorted. “It doesn't matter whether you follow their rules or not. The real sin we've all committed is being born human. And they're not as united as they'd like us to think they are. They've got factions just like we do. They're united against us because they're afraid of us, but there's disagreements between them we could use to split them up. The thing is to find the right way to fight them.”

“Sooner or later they're going to put all of us in work camps,” Jason said; “the only reason we've still got cities is it's too much trouble to tear 'em all down. Once London's rotted away, they'll just build camps for us, you know, like work camps.”

“How do you know?” Shelley said. “Are you going to trust them?”

“They haven't killed us all yet,” Jason said.

“Look at how many they have killed. Look at how many people they've got in labs.”

“Only people they kill are the ones that try to fuck around with them.” Jason snorted. “That's why I don't try to fuck around with them. We all know the rules. Long as you stay in the rules you can do whatever you want.”

“Then what'd they get you for?” Shelley asked him.

“Wasn't anything I did. It was this other arsehole that did it. Me and one of my mates, we got in a fight with this stupid shit right in front of a monitor. I mean, he goes and pulls a knife on us. Worst place he could've picked. Got picked up by one of their aircars in five minutes. Just coz he didn't want to pay for what we sold him.”

“What happened to your friend?”

“They got him too. I dunno what happened to him after that. He's not on this train. Long's he's not going to the labs he's all right.”

I remembered Sophie in the holding cell. "I heard they have a captive breeding program in the government labs," I said.

Jason laughed. “A captive breeding program. Sounds nice. Probably got one bloke for every ten chicks or something. I could do with that.”

Shelley shook her head. "I don't know who told you that but that's crap. Absolute crap. If they wanted to breed more of us they'd use artificial insemination. But they won't, because they don't need more of us.”

"So you think a disease is really whey're working on,” I said.

"Yes.”

"Well then thank God we're not going to the lab," I said. I didn't want to be a guinea pig in an experiment; what looks like science to a researcher looks like sadism to the mice. As for her theory about the disease, it was meaningless, more third-hand regurgitated rumours I'd often heard gossip claiming the Mods would infect us, or irradiate us with neutron guns, or gas us from the air, that time was running out. Of course it was possible, but when it came to assembly line work, we Mongrels were cheaper than biorobots or nanomachines. You don't kill off your labour force, however truculent it may be. “Doesn't matter how bad the work camp is,” I added, “it's better than that.”

"Wait until you get there before you say that,” Shelley chided. “It'll probably be one of the landfills they have up north."

"So they have us dig it all up then?" I asked.

"Yeah, they have us dig up the landfills. They need more GIPTS." That was the acronym for gallium-indium-platinum-selenium-tantalum, five rare metals exhausted in the mines. They were invaluable because you need them make catalysts and certain electronics. The Mods recycled every last scrap of metal with scrupulous care, but GIPTS metals were still scarce as crude oil. Some Mongrels made a living scrounging for metals in unusual places - hunting for ancient catalytic converters, for example - and selling them to the Mods. The landfills were their other solution. "They need precious metals, trace metals, anything they can use. I knew someone who ended up in a work camp for two years, so they told me about it," she said. "What they do is they take the cap off the landfill, then they fence it in and they turn all the prisoners loose in there."

"How do they make sure you're working?"

"Oh, it's simple," she sighed; "if you don't find anything, you don't get fed. So from their point of view it's cheap. They only have to feed us if we get them what they want. And they get rid of us at the same time."

"And when do we get out?" I asked.

“They don't let you out,” Jason sneered. “They lock you in there till you rot."

"I didn't ask you," I said. "So do you know?" I asked, turning to Shelley again.

"How would I know? What do you think I am?" Shelley replied irritably.

"I was just asking," I said, nonplussed. "You said your friend was in a work camp."

"Yes, she was."

"So how long did they keep her in there?"

"I think it was two years or something like that, yes. But I wouldn't be in any hurry if I were you."

"I was wondering because - my girlfriend won't know what happened to me," I admitted, "and I want to get back." Jason guffawed and Shelley burst into a bitter laugh. It was an ugly sound.

"I wouldn't worry about your girlfriend," she said with a wry face like she was about to spit. "You'll be lucky enough to get back. If you get back and she's still waiting for you, it'll be a miracle."

I stiffened. I didn't believe it; I didn't want to believe it. "No, it's not like that. What did-"

"She's trying to tell you you ask too many fucking questions. She's trying to tell you to shut up," Jason interrupted.

My blood boiled. The hours in the holding cell, my increasing exhaustion, the series of numbing shocks had left me seething with a poisonous compound of rage and humiliation like venom congealing in my veins. "Listen, you bastard, I didn't ask-"

“Shut up.” He shoved me backwards into the dozing Indian. My left hand was already out in front of me; with a suddenness that took him off-guard, I pivoted and drove my right into his solar plexus. It was suicidal but I was too angry to care. Jason crumpled into the corner then clambered back to his feet, his lips half-parted like a wolf about to snarl. He'd beat me senseless if I were lucky.

The car degenerated into chaos. A spate of muffled curses exploded around me; several hands seized me by the arms and dragged me backwards. "Jesus Christ," one man said. “Hold 'im down.” I noticed the Indian staring at me, startled awake. All at once the light died and plunged us into darkness.

A low murmur swelled as everyone started talking all at once. Through the slats in the car I could see the platform lights receding steadily; a shudder shot threw the car and threw me off my feet into someone else. In the darkness I crawled back to what I thought was the wall. The train had finally begun to move.

Shelley was right about the cold air flowing through the slats, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had enough room to sit hunched-up with my knees to my chin. By that time I was so zonked that, in spite of the icy chill soaking through my back, I succumbed to sleep within minutes. Every now and again someone tripped over me or kicked me awake, and a series of interrupted dreams followed each other by turns. I don't remember what I dreamed about, except that in each dream I was miserably cold.

And when I finally awoke at first light, the reality was no better. The cold had seeped into my bones and a dull fire raged in my parched throat. I thought of the water-tap at the opposite end of the car, but I couldn't suppress my revulsion at sucking water from a shared spigot, like swapping spit with a few dozen strangers. It was probably encrusted in dried saliva by now. Perhaps I could wipe the spigot clean before I used it with - well, my jacket. I finally compromised on one of those childish resolutions we make in desperate moments: I decided I'd hold out until the sun rose between the third and fourth slats, and if we hadn't arrived by then, I'd give in and get a drink.

A reek redolent of an outdoor latrine crept along the floor. Dismayed, I noticed a puddle had flowed almost to my feet. At least I wasn't sitting in it. Some slob must have overturned one of the pails - or just not used them. I scrambled to my feet, my neck twisted and stiff from hours spent sleeping in a contorted position. I didn't see either Shelley or Jason, and I was grateful for that; they must have moved to the centre of the car. A thin, unkempt man stood in their place on the other side of the Indian. The bars of light through the slats of the car played across our faces, like light shining through a moving blind.

"Do you know where we are?" I asked the Indian.

He leaned towards me to reply. "No clue. I've never been outside London before. But the train's very slow." He spoke English fluently with a faint foreign accent.

"Ah." So it would take all day to get there, too. They'd loaded us on a slow train carrying freight because it didn't matter how long it took us to get to the camp. They simply didn't care.

It crossed my mind that back when humans used to rear cattle, this must have been how they felt en route to their doom. They didn't know where the train would carry them; they could only wait patiently. By the time they knew what awaited them it was too late. We might be bound for the same kind of end, I thought. We had no guarantee we were really headed to a work camp. If we were on our way to our deaths, we wouldn't know until the doors opened - and we'd spend our last moments struggling in vain. If the door opened and I saw them outside waiting to kill us, should I cling to my dignity and die upright and unafraid? Or fight back and make it difficult for them? I couldn't make up my mind. It wasn't a cheerful thought, but it was inspired by my surroundings. The world looks very different from the inside of a cattle car.

The hours slipped by slowly. The rattle of the train jarred on my nerves like metal grinding on pavement. I finally jostled my way through the car and drank from the spigot; as I'd surmised it was coated in dried spittle. I didn't gain much by my surrender, either, because quenching my thirst only made me realize how hungry I was.

At intervals, without any warning, the train slowed to a halt. Presumably the Mods were unloading cargo from the boxcars, but each time we stopped fear clutched at my gut. What if they were going to kill us? I'd ask myself. But the doors remained closed and just as I became convinced the car would jolt back into motion again. After a few of these false alarms I learned to disregard them; I tried to forget my surroundings and cocoon myself in my own thoughts. Becky. Abel. Islington. People I knew; the past.

All the things, in other words, I was rapidly leaving behind.

We didn't reach our destination until early evening. The creaking groans of the moving train ceased, and the car lurched to a stop. I felt myself breathe a little more easily.

"We're there," said the Indian.

"Where?"

"I don't know. I'm just saying.”

The car disgorged its human cargo onto the platform. It was a slow process. Someone tripped and caught their foot in the gap, eliciting a volley of foul names from the people behind them. Through the doorway the bright afternoon sun beamed on the lush verdure of the English countryside, a barbed wire fence and immaculate gravel-grey concrete.

Once outside I glanced around anxiously. Even though the platform was crowded, there were fewer of us than I'd thought, perhaps a couple hundred or so. In spite of the train's size, all cars except two were boxcars carrying freight; there was no engine car, since the train was controlled by remote. An aircar had landed a short distance away and three Mods had disembarked to watch us unload. In broad daylight we looked shabby and pathetic beside our captors. I saw a Chinese woman gesticulate towards one of them fearfully. The guards were stronger, more agile, and easily three or four times as intelligent as any of us, and though the night might have been long they unlike us didn't need to sleep. Only the lesser species must sleep six hours of every twenty-four - a quarter of our lives.

The guards shepherded us along a corridor between two chain-link fences. As primitive as it seemed, chain link and barbed wire were all they needed; there's no need for a state-of-the-art “living fence” to restrain cowed and unarmed prisoners. I craned my neck to get a look at what lay ahead and when I finally saw our destination I felt a tremendous sense of relief. A single glance was enough to reassure me they wanted us for work, not for slaughter.

At the end of the fenced corridor, a gate opened on a multicoloured landscape of compacted trash a few yards below ground level. It stretched out for a couple miles, enclosed by barbed wire on all sides. By contrast with the green of the countryside, it looked like an ugly sore on the landscape, as if all the rest of the world were living and only this was dead. Already other inmates were at work amidst the trash heaps, drab little figures like ants toiling through rubble. A noisy horde of crows foraged through the debris. One bird larger than the rest caught my eye, strutting about with a piece of trash nearly too big for him to carry, arrogant as a king on his throne - the undisputed master of his world. He at least couldn't think of any place he'd rather be.

As I watched the crow, I stuck my hand in my pocket and found a plastic bag half-full of a lumpy substance like dried leaves. For a moment I couldn't repress a grin. It was the one thing they hadn't taken from me when I'd been arrested, the most useless one of all – Audrey's tea.

Chapter 3

My initial relief at finding we'd live quickly soured into disgust. After only a few hours at the work camp I loathed it. Even the memory of it is like a shadow in the mind.

Crossing the work camp required constant caution – the landfill, like any other landscape, had its contours, its canyons, mountains and death-traps. Over time, prisoners digging for scrap had heaped unwanted trash in mounds like small hills, and the rain had carved out hollows and valleys through the muck. Several of these valleys fed water into boreholes, circular shafts that sank straight through the landfill. They were less than a meter wide, lined with plastic or PVC, and if I looked when the sun shone straight down them at midday I caught a glimpse of black still water in the depths.

No matter how far I was from the boreholes, I had to tread carefully; the sharp edges of tin can lids, scrap metal shards, hypodermic syringes or rusty nails could slice right through the sole of a shoe. Even the more innocuous objects - discarded plastics, rubber tires, dark mud, smashed electronics - formed a treacherous, uneven surface that quickly punished carelessness.

When I stood in the centre of the dump, I could see the fence encircling us in all directions. Beyond it, like a tantalizing reminder of our lost freedom, the trees grew close to the edge of the wire, and several solar-powered robotic sentinels waited vigilant beneath them. If you tried(as someone inevitably did) to scale the fence or dig your way beneath it, the patient automatons would pump you full of bullets. The delicious shade of the trees still seemed cruelly tempting; we had no shade in the landfill.

And without any shelter from the heat I was often thirsty. To get water I had to use a pump at one end of the camp. It was a long walk and I learned to take a bucket or jug(there were any number of both lying about the landfill) to carry water back with me for later. Judging by the bitter aftertaste, the water we drank was recycled from the boreholes, and poorly filtered to boot – subtly flavoured with trace chemicals, cleaners, or other nameless filth. I didn't notice any scent to the water at least, but my sense of scent had grown less perceptive. The smell of sun-soaked garbage accompanied me everywhere, it pursued me even into my dreams, it was so inescapable I finally forgot it altogether.

In one way at least, the work camp was completely different from all the concentration camps of history: other than the robots, there were no permanent guards. No one stood around to scream at us or hurry us up with a blow from a rifle-butt. We could do whatever we wanted except leave. If we fell sick, if we didn't want to work, that was our problem, it was up to us. But we worked just as hard without supervision, for life in the work camp obeyed one simple, compelling law. Those that didn't work, didn't eat.

Once a day a few Mods arrived in an aircar and opened the camp gate. The prisoners rushed to surround them like a pack of dogs converging on a kennel keeper with their food. When talking to each other the Mods used a language of their own, but they spoke English fluently to us, and they always behaved with careful dignity when Mongrels were watching, like aristocrats acting a part for the benefit of their serfs. After the Mods arrived I'd join the crowd, carrying a cardboard box I used to store whatever treasures I'd pried from the trash. Perhaps I'd found a broken computer monitor or flat-screen TV - that would have selenium or telluride; occasionally I unearthed intact mobile phones, Blackberries, an iPod - those contained tantalum and other useful metals. The Mods would scrutinize my finds dispassionately while I watched like a defendant waiting for a verdict. If they liked it, they took it and rewarded me with a food ration for each useful item I brought. If they didn't like it, they tossed it back down to me.

"Mongrel,” they'd call me. They spat it at us like an epithet, a racial slur or a curse. “Take your trash back. It doesn't have any GIPTS in it. No zinc.” Grumbling, I'd slink away and endure another hours of maddening hunger - unless I could catch one of the thieving squirrels that sometimes paid the dump a visit. And through this informal education, by going hungry whenever I failed, I learned to tell which items contained precious metals and what was worth looking for. Hunger is a fast teacher.

Could we have fought our captors? I don't think it ever occurred to us. There were easily over a couple hundred of us to only three of them, but they well armed, and even if they'd been weaponless, fighting an Mod was like picking a quarrel with a bear. They were strong enough to break your arm in two, quick-witted enough to dodge the fastest punch you could throw. They could think and move with an agility that left us feeling slow and feeble. They could see infrared light as another colour invisible to us. Their massive arms and broad chests, their excess height, their elongated skulls were only so many outward marks of innate superiority. It was difficult to know exactly how far inferior we Mongrels were to them, because of all the rumours you heard - they were conceived by IVF, they could think in five dimensions, their clothes were crafted from fabric a few dozen times stronger than steel, they used fusion power to make antimatter, they were terraforming Venus and Mars. I couldn't tell how much of this was true.

And yet, even if we'd been able to fight the guards I think we'd have refused. We'd grown up believing we were the inferior species, that Mongrels like us had natural masters. That was why they remained aloof from us, lived apart from us, segregated themselves from us – to impress on us the gulf between us and them. And the knowledge of our inferiority poisoned our minds, sapped our powers of resistance. In knowing they thought we were despicable, we began to see ourselves the same way. Treat any one of us like a dog for long enough, and we end up cringing like a cur. The human mind is more malleable than we imagine.

The Mods that visited the camp were usually the same two or three individuals. I couldn't tell whether they were male or female – both genders of homo excellens were so alike to my eyes it made no difference. They wore uniforms that changed colour to match the light that struck them, like a shadow flitting across a landscape. They seemed to regard their visits to the camp as a necessary chore, although they managed to find some fun in it nonetheless. If food rations were left undistributed they'd sometimes call out “Here, Mongrels, fetch!” and chuck them into the crowd. Then they'd laugh quietly as we scrambled for it and watch us with idle curiosity, like people feeding monkeys at the zoo.

There is one such scrimmage that stands out in my mind. It was in the afternoon. The Chinese lady I'd noticed on the first day stood at the back of the crowd, gnawing her food. Her attention was so absorbed that when the guard flung a piece of biscuit across the crowd, she remained motionless. Even before it landed a mad rush began, of course. Someone standing next to the Chinese woman gave her a shove to help her out of the way; she stumbled and fell beneath them, and the crowd of prisoners trampled her like a carcass in a trough. I saw it but could do nothing. Interfering with a crowd is like trying to stop a stampede. When the woman finally staggered to her feet she seemed dazed, her face daubed with mud and streaming blood from cuts in her skin. She must have fallen on scrap iron.

"You all right?" I asked her. She nodded, stupefied. The landfill surface was a few feet below ground level, and as I swivelled I saw one of the Mods watch with interest. Quickly I turned away.

In spite of their contempt for us, my worst problem was never the Mods; it was the other prisoners. Theft was a constant threat. I learned to gobble my food immediately, since storing it merely made you a target. I had to be especially careful whenever I found anything that had platinum in it, too, because the guards would give us two food rations for platinum, so if someone spotted me with a worn-out spark plug, for example, I'd have to watch my back. The first time I crossed the camp for water, I discovered when I returned that someone had stolen everything I'd found that day. After that I either hid what I found or kept it on me.

And theft was far from the worst. With no one to watch, there was nothing to prevent a rape or a murder except the few people still encumbered with a conscience. Without laws or police, you relied on your hands and your wits. The Mods neither noticed nor cared what happened; so long as the fence was intact, so long as they got what they wanted, it mattered little to them if we killed or raped each other. Perhaps they reasoned a little natural selection in the camp was a good thing: the surviving inmates would be the best for the job.

For my part, I had no intention of getting murdered for a handful of spark plugs or a broken TV; I liked to believe Mark Henshaw must be worth more than that. To protect myself I carried a weapon at all times. On my second day I found a rusting kitchen knife jammed in a crevice. I armed myself with a length of pipe I could use as a club as well.

As dire as it seemed, however, the threat of murder was only an intermittent menace. I spent most of my time scrabbling for trace metals, treasures embedded in the mud. At least there was never any shortage of tools. Our 21st century ancestors were careless people, and sooner or later they threw away everything they owned. Their most lasting legacies were their landfills, the rubbish that survived them when they themselves were forgotten. At first I used to find humour in the irony and imagine the Mods laughing in their sleeves: they had the new generation sift through their great-grandparents' trash. But that joke grew old fast. Each hour blurred into the next, and every day that passed was the same as the last. I searched for electronics, computer hardware, mobile phones, car parts, anything that might contain zinc, cadmium, GIPTS. The work called for keen eyes and infinite patience, both of which I lack. Often the useful items were scarred or bent beyond recognition, while plastics and shards of glass, on the other hand, were ubiquitous – and utterly useless.

At night I slept wherever I could. On my third day, I found a rotting front-door rug and kept it; it made a better bed than plastic bags. One man uncovered the decaying remains of an entire sofa – who knows how it turned up in a landfill, but its finder didn't waste time pondering its origins; he cleared it off and used it for a bed. The worst nuisance of all was the night-time breeze. Its icy chill stole the warmth from your skin so that by dawn you were freezing cold.

A few weeks after we first arrived I talked to Shelley again.

I'd spoken to her on several occasions after we reached the camp, bt we'd never talked at length as we had on the train. Like everyone else she was concerned chiefly about staying alive. A couple of times I guarded her junk for her while she went to get water, or lent her a hand retrieving some deeply-buried item. And when I saw her approaching me down a gentle slope that afternoon, I immediately assumed she'd come seeking my help. But I was in a sour mood, embittered by a morning of fruitless work. If she wanted my assistance, I decided, she'd have to pay for it this time. Nothing more for free.

"Mark?" she said, shading her eyes from the afternoon glare with her hand.

"Yes."

She'd grown thinner and her jacket was torn, her hair unkempt, her jeans blotched with crap-coloured stains. It only takes a week of living in a dump to make you look like a wild animal. The really terrible thing is that, when everyone is equally dirty, you forget just how filthy you are. "I was wondering if you could help me with something,” she said.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I've found these packs of batteries, dozens of them, only I can see them but I can't get to them. There's a mound of all this other crap on top of it and I can't get it off."

"What kind are they?"

She pursed her lips. "I think they're nickel cadmium. They take that, don't they?”

"They'll take the cadmium. I don't know they'll want the nickel but they'll definitely take it for the cadmium. I got food for something with cadmium just the other day.”

"Wonderful. So'll you help me then?”

"If I get half of them," I said.

"That's not fair. I found them. I'll give you a third."

I shrugged. "Nothing doing. Either half or nothing.”

“Fine,” she huffed.

“You can always get someone else to help you.” I had no qualms. She was just an acquaintance, and at least I was giving her my price up front. "But be careful who you ask. Some people will just take them all. So don't tell just anyone,” I warned her.

"What a lot of crap," she said. Her hoarse voice quavered with anger. “If we humans'd work together we wouldn't have any problems. Instead of that we're betraying each other. That's how they won, back in the war, you know, lots of people didn't fight, these superstitious religious people that thought the Mirks were God's anointed or the people of the Beast or whatever. You were only a kid back then, you wouldn't remember.”

I felt irritated. I hadn't been looking for her, I didn't like her and I didn't want to listen to her berate me about the human species and all the wonderful things we could do if we weren't so bloody stupid. “Listen,” I said caustically. �said ca��I don't give a shit about that. Any of that. So why don't you leave me alone.”

“Listen to you.”

“What were you going to do anyway, light off a chemical bomb under a plant and then they'll all magically die off all at once? The way you talk. You act like you know more than everyone else.”

“The chemical bomb?” She shook her head. “That's rubbish. That was only a story I told everyone on the train. I didn't know if I could trust all those people.”

“Ok then,” I said. “Whatever.”

“No, I mean it. Here. I'm glad you mentioned that. This is good. I haven't told anyone but I need to tell someone. In case I don't make it. I've been meaning to tell you, so I might as well tell you now. But it's incredibly important. It's more important than you or I or any of us here. So you've got to keep it between us.”

“Why me?” I shrugged, rolling over a bundle of rotten newspaper. Beneath it a horde of beetles, worms and other insects scurried for cover from the sun.

“Beggars can't be choosers.”

“Well, thanks. Not very tactful, but that was honest. But ok, really, why?”

“Because I don't trust most of the people here, that's why.”

“And you trust me,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. I do. I know people, I can tell.”

“All right, then.” I shrugged. “What do you want to tell me.”

She squatted close to me. She probably stank pretty badly at that point, but by then we all did, and the odour was so familiar I barely noticed it. She spoke in a low murmur like an insect's drone, nearly inaudible beneath the wind. “First you've got to promise me something. You can't tell anyone. No one. Not if I'm alive, not if I'm dead.”

“All right. I promise,” I said, wondering what she'd dreamed up that could merit such an elaborate preamble. Probably she was exaggerating her own importance – a bad habit common among us hapless humans. I wasn't about to hold my breath. Really I wished she'd just spit it out and leave me alone so I could get back to work.

“It wasn't a chemical bomb we were working on at all. We got arrested because we had the supplies to make a chemical bomb. But that's not what we were doing.”

“So what were you making?”

“Another kind of weapon. The same kind of weapon they've used on us. Three of us were scientists, back before the Mods shut down all the universities; the other was my husband, he used to work with nanocomputers.” It surprised me to imagine thistocky woman in stained jeans as a biologist or a professor – I couldn't reconstruct the image in my mind.

“So what were you going to do.”

“I'm getting to that. The Mirks have one more chromosome than we do – an artificial chromosome – which is why they can't interbreed with us. That's why they're a separate species.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Now most forms of life have only 4 bases or letters in their genetic codes, A, C, G, and T. In the early 21st century scientists discovered how to make artificial bases and incorporate those into DNA. That way they could write DNA that would code for proteins containing unnatural amino acids. The Mirks have 6 bases in their DNA, and their genome codes for lots of novel proteins that don't ordinarily exist in nature. That makes their biochemistry extraordinarily complex by our standards. You probably know some of the advantages they have already – they're more intelligent, they have better memory, they have greater strength and stamina, their metabolism is more efficient and all that. But there's a couple disadvantages as well.”

“Such as.”

“Well, for example, if your cells use unnatural amino acids, you have to include those in your diet. That's a minor disadvantage. A higher rate of metabolism also has drawbacks. That's a disadvantage they've managed to overcome. But the major disadvantage is that these modifications create a potential target. It's possible to design viruses that can only replicate in cells with certain proteins or pathways. That's been used for well over a century to treat cancer, and the Mirks used that knowledge during the war to design bioweapons to kill us. So if we could design a virus that can only replicate in cells with unnatural proteins that their cells produce and our cells lack – we'd be turning their own game back on them. We'd have a virus that would infect them and not us.”

“And that's what you've done then.”

“We think so, yes. We didn't want to spring the trap just yet, there were some other things we wanted to do, but the virus is about as perfect as it'll get. The real beauty of it is that it can elude the immune system for awhile, it carries a protein normal cells make to protect themselves from the immune reaction. And it's taken us forever because we had to do everything in secret. We started this before the war, because we saw if we didn't do anything they'd take over, we saw how things were going. When the war started we had to hide our equipment and lie low. We managed it and we kept on working in secret. It's been my life's work, really. Taken us nearly twenty years.”

“Twenty years.” I paused a moment, startled into silence. All those years I'd spent growing up, staying alive, thinking only of myself and the people I knew, assuming the Mods were inevitable. Probably there were other people like Shelley too, but she was the first of her kind I'd ever met. A breed I'd believed extinct. The bioweapons of the Species War massacred the most intelligent of us; somehow she and her associates escaped, a saving flaw granted them immunity. “I'm surprised they never caught you in all that ti” I said.

“They're not as omnipotent as everyone thinks they are. It's just common sense. They can't watch everyone all the time, can they?”

“But so all your work's wasted,” I said slowly.

“It's not wasted. That's the thing.”

“What?” I said. “I don't understand. They've arrested you. They know all about it.”

“They don't. They didn't catch us because of the project, they caught us because – we were stockpiling weapons, you know, to use after we'd unleashed the virus. We got this other fellow to help us, he wasn't careful enough and it turned into a total cock-up. Three of us were shot when they came for us, one of us – my husband - went underground, down the subway. I managed to hide all our stuff, and after that they got me. Picked me up in North London.”

“So now they know all about it. About what you were working on.”

“I don't think so. Like I said. I'm the only one they caught, I think. But the problem is that my husband doesn't know where I hid our work. Only I know that. And now I can't get back.”

“Didn't they use the mindscan on you?”

“Oh, they did. But I know a way to fool the mind-scanner. They didn't get anything from me.”

“You think so,” I said dubiously.

“I do. It's very difficult, but you can do it if you practice long enough. It's just basic psychology.” She glanced over her shoulder then back at me again. “Let's say I tell you not to think about a yellow lion. To imagine anything in the world except a yellow lion. What's the first thing you think of?”

“A yellow lion.”

She nodded. “The only way not to think about something is to concentrate on something else. Now the mindscan monitors the electrical impulses in your brain and decodes them. It's really accurate at reading anything that you think. But it can only read the things that you think. You've got to be so focused that no matter what questions they ask you, you keep on concentrating on the same thing, you know, hold a particular object or an image in your mind, then that's all the mindscan will see. You can't let your thoughts wander for even a single second. As soon as you do, they know. And you can't just think about something like a brick wall, because then they'll know you're trying to fool you, so they'll drug you.”

“So what did you do?”

“I thought about the chemical bomb, and about my husband. And that's believable, you see, because they'd expect me to be worried about him. So when the mind scan told them I was thinking about my husband, no matter what question they asked, they'd believe that. They'd assume I just didn't have any informatey trust the mindscan enough that if it doesn't get what they want, they don't bother with anything else.”

I was sceptical. I'd never heard of a reliable means to baffle the mindscan before. “How do you know you fooled them?”

“I don't know. There's no way to know for sure. But I think it worked, because they haven't shot me. They wouldn't've put me in a work camp if they'd guessed anything about Marengo now, would they? The thing you have to remember is that they're starting to get arrogant. They're starting to believe their own lies. They really see us as the inferior species. Even very intelligent people can be blinded that way. All sorts of dictators have done that in history.”

“We don't know what the Mirks think,” I interrupted.

“Of course not. But that's my best guess. And if I'm right, we've still got our perfect weapon hidden in a locked basement in North London.”

“You've got a virus stored? how do you have it stored?” I asked.

“On a computer. Got the blueprint for the virus stored on our computer, and we've got a GeneWrite.”

A GeneWrite was the workhorse of pre-Mod genetic engineering. In concept it was similar to an old paper printer. You would write the genetic code for your new lifeform on the computer, get all your As and Gs in the right place, probably use a program like DNAWare or LifeInvent. Once you were ready, with a word to the computer or a keystroke you could print the genome out as DNA, and the GeneWrite would automatically amplify the genome through PCR(polymerase chain reaction) and plug it into a cell(or a capsid if it were a virus). A GeneWrite could perform in a single step the same work that took the first biotech pioneers tens of thousands of hours. “All we've got to do,” Shelley added, “is print out our blueprint and we've got an airborne, waterborne virus that'll kill them and never touch us.”

“How long'll that be good for?” I asked. “They know everything about antivirals.”

“Yes. That's true. Once they've got samples of it they'll cook up a new antiviral. So it won't kill all of them, of course not. But they won't expect it, and they travel a lot, so the virus'll spread quickly. That's our advantage is that they're overconfident. Just look at how careless they are now. They think they've got us whipped. And it's that same overconfidence that helped them win the first time that'll be their undoing.”

I sat dead still, my head whirling with the unexpected flood of information. It was as if a whole new world had suddenly opened to my imagination. Was this merely another lie like the one Shelley devised on the train? Or had the Mods already divined the secret of her plan? It seemed difficult to believe they could blunder or fail, that they might be fallible like Mongrels. “hat happens after some of them die off?” I said. “They'll strike back with a vengeance. They'll want to wipe us out.”

“We can't predict for certain what'll happen. The problem is there's no really good way to communicate, without phones or the internet or any of what we used to have. It's so frustrating, it's like being in the dark. But here's the thing. The virus'll spread quickly, it's lethal and fast-acting. It'll kill most of them before they've got an antiviral and it'll cause chaos. People are disunited right now, because they think the Mirks are inevitable and so why fight them, I'm just going to get on with what I've got to do. Like what you said on the train. That's how most people are. But if people see the Mirks dying off like flies, that'll unite us. And once we've got control of their communication networks, their aircars, what have you, who knows what can happen?”

“They're smarter than we are,” I said. “They'll – I don't know what they'll do.”

“Well of course they're smarter. Bloody hell. They've got genetics on their side, and they take drugs to boost their brain power as well. But their being smarter isn't like the difference between a human and a chimpanzee, where the human can come up with a battle plan and the chimpanzee can't spell simple words. It's more like the difference between an adult and a child. It's big, but we can bridge it. We made them, they're just enhanced great-grandkids of wealthy humans. People forget that.”

“That's true.”

“The other thing that you have to remember is that we don't have to destroy all of them. If we can, that's even better. But even those that survive, they'll be so few in number we can overwhelm them. And the thing is that they don't expect this kind of attack, they think it's beyond our capacity. The advantage we have is surprise. They have absolute no idea this is coming, they'll have no chance to prepare. Until it hits them and they start dying, they won't know.”

“It's incredible.” The train of events she described seemed distant and surreal like history written in advance. Yet I believed her.

“So now there's two people that know – you and I. But keep it to yourself. There's very few people you can trust with something like that. The more people that know, the likelier it is someone'll find out. Especially here in the camp. If you tell people here, one of them'll go to the guards and say, I've got a secret I can tell you if you'll give me some food.”

“Yeah, some of them.”

“There's some other stuff you'll need to know, too, about how to print out the virus, but I can tell you how to do all that too. So long as whichever of us gets back does this.”

“All right,” I said uneasily. I wasn't completely sure what I would even do with a lethal virus: print it out and then do what? Where was it hidden? I lacked the terrorist mindset, the learned ability to recognize a target, exploit the chinks in a defence. “Where is this in North London anyway?”

“There's several things you need to know. First is the password to the computer. We didn't use any fancy DNA-key tech, we just ud a password. It's Marengo, same as what we used to call our project. Marengo.”

“Marengo,” I said. “Some kind of code word?”

“It was the name of a great battle in history. It started in defeat, ended in victory. That's why.”

“I see.”

“Then you need to know where it is. I'll give you the address but you've got to memorize it. There's a code you'll have to push to get in.” She murmured it in my ear, explained how to get there. It was in Holloway.

“All right. I know roughly where that is. I live in Islington.”

“That's not too far for you then. Once you're back in London, of course.”

“When do they release us?”

“That's just it. I don't know when they do. If they release us they probably won't let me out,” she said grimly. “I'm not like the rest of you here, you're all here for infractions. You're likelier to get out than I am. No, I think I'm stuck unless I can escape.”

“But wait,” I said. “So what do I do if it is me that gets back? I just go to this place in north London and – I don't even know how to use a GeneWrite.”

“We took notes on the computer about some of what we were doing. Just in case we had to pass it along like that. But you won't actually have to do anything yourself. Because, like I said, one of us escaped. There's my husband. The best thing you can do is find my husband and give him the address I just gave you. He'll know what to do from there. He went down the tube and the sewers in Central London.”

“How can I find him down the Underground?” I said. “That'll take me – I don't know. I don't even know where I'd start.”

“There's a friend of ours that lives in Holloway. He's one of the few people that wasn't one of us that we could trust. If my husband wasn't caught this fellow'll know where he is.”

“So let me guess, that's one more address I've got to memorize,” I said.

“Yes, that's right. I know it's a lot. But listen, you've got to. It's terribly important. If there's two of us that know, that doubles our chances. It's twenty years work. It's our last really good chance. If we lose this I don't know who else is going to fight the Mirks, and with what – guns? You remember what they thought of our guns.”

“True.”

“So I'll give you that address too. And if worst comes to worst,” she said soberly, “there's some instructions on the computer, some documents with all of our work. You'll have to figure it out from that. That's the best I can do. But here. Let me give you the address.” I listened again and tried to keep them separate in my head.

“All right,” I said. “I cn remember that. There's the two addresses, the code, and Marengo. Four things, I think I can do that.” I didn't really believe I'd have to remember it, because I didn't see any reason why Shelley would die before I did. But I remembered it.

She sighed and stood to her feet.“So, even if I don't get back Marengo will. I mean, I hope I will, but if not, Marengo's got twice as good a chance if there's two of us that know.”

“Fair enough.”

“And just remember one other thing. The most important thing of all. Don't tell anyone. There's more traitors on our side than theirs. So if you do get out instead of me-”

“Of course,” I said. “I'm not stupid. I know that, I can see that.”

“All right. Just wanted to make sure.” She paused a moment. “As long as we are stuck here, will you come and help me dig up those batteries? I'll give you half if you want. Sorry to bitch at you just now, but I get so angry when I see people clawing at each other's throats and letting the Mirks get away with everything. It makes me wonder what I wasted twenty years for.”

“I can understand that,” I said. I felt an unexpected benevolence towards her now that we were accomplices.

“I only need half anyway. There's enough they should last me all tomorrow and the day after,” she said. “I think what I'll do is trade 'em in a few at a time then I've got enough for a couple days.”

“I'd trade them all in soon as you can.”

“I'm keeping mine,” she said decisively.

She clearly didn't know what a deadly possession a pack of triple-A batteries can be.

Later that day, as I crossed the landfill to replenish my water supply, I heard the crunch of trash and a shrill altercation behind me where I'd left Shelley. Intrigued but wary, I detoured back in the direction of the sound, just in time to witness a strange scene: Shelley stumbling away from me, followed by Jason and one other man in close pursuit. She tripped and in an instant they had her. I knew why. It was the batteries. They'd seen her with the batteries.

"Let me go," she shouted, struggling blindly.

"Stop that!" I called out even as Jason smashed her in the face. She staggered backwards. The other man gave her a shove, and she stumbled forwards and fell face-first into the garbage. They rummaged hastily through her pockets then left her; and all this took no more time than it takes to write. I wanted to run but I had to place my feet carefully.

"Shelley?" I called out to her as I approached. She said nothing; the handle of a rusted skewer protruded from her back. I dropped to my knees by her side and turned her face up. Her breath came in sharp gasps like sobs.

“Shelley.” es met mine. We exchanged a mutually intelligible look; we needed no words. She knew and I knew. There was no medical treatment here, no hope of help. Marengo was mine now, an unwanted inheritance bequeathed to a reluctant heir. Mine whether I liked it or not.

“Remember,” she said breathlessly; “I told you.”

“Shelley,” I said again. She'd lost consciousness. Perhaps she was already gone; killed for the sake of a few dozen batteries that once, long ago, one of our ancestors had thrown out as rubbish. I stood up again. It crossed my mind to try to bury her, but I knew it wouldn't make any difference. Either way she'd gradually moulder away and disintegrate with the other contents of the landfill. She'd wanted to fight for her own species, I reflected, and yet it was her own species that killed her. It was strange how insignificant she looked now that she was dead.

Chapter 4

Near Angel the waters of a slow canal flow beneath a bridge, only a few blocks away from City Road. Although the area to the south is deserted, the district on the north bank is inhabited, and here the water meanders through the green shade of a small park. In spite of its location, the canal is so well hidden that the main streets might as well be miles away, and when I found it I felt I had discovered something hidden, something beautiful. We often liked to walk there, especially in late fall. It was in fall I walked with her then, in late afternoon, and wished that time would stop and our world last forever.

“Wait. Look.” I pointed to a jahwallah, begging with skinny little hands outstretched, his wrinkled skin sagging around his eyes. Jahwallahs were small biotech animals shaped like Dedo gargoyles – faces creased into an inscrutable smile, shy, secretive, meditative. They were the result of an experiment some years before; some people kept them as pets. A few strays also survived, and in London you'd occasionally catch a glimpse of one down an alleyway, a furtive figure crouching by a brick wall and watching ants crawling in the dust.

“Half a sec, I've got something, I'll throw him something,” Becky said. We tossed the creature a scrap of bread. He devoured it and begged us for more.

“No, we're all out now,” I scolded him. “Nothing else now.”

"We should get back."

“Go back already? But we just left ten minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes?” she said. “More like half an hour. Besides, it's cold.”

"Come on, it's not cold!" I said and laughed. "Here, you can wear my jacket." It hung down halfway to her knees and her arms were lost in the sleeves and we both laughed.

"Mark, Mark, you're so funny."

"Now that's a joke. Who's calling who funny?" I teased. All at once I grew seious as I looked into her eyes. "My God, you're so beautiful. Becky. I love you, Becky." I kissed her. I kissed her. And as my lips touched hers-

I awoke. It took me a moment to remember where I was, and as I recalled the events of the past four months my heart sank. The moon cast a silver glow on the unearthly landscape around me. I shivered. The dream was so vivid and so real it was disorienting to descend to reality again. My life in London, however difficult and threadbare it might have been, in hindsight seemed like paradise.

Becky, Becky Svoboda. Even the sound of her name was pleasant, like the strain of a favourite melody. In that instant I wanted more than anything else to see her again. I wished I could fly like one of the crows, soar across the barbed-wire crowned fence and the robotic sentinels with their lifeless eyes. How long had I been trapped here? By that time it might have been nearly a month. I'd lost track of the number of days. What if they never released us? I stifled that thought quickly and tried to forget it, because if that was true there was no hope. Living without hope is like breathing without air.

And now I had a more important task. I thought of Shelley dying in the mud. In an empty flat in North London waited a computer with information that could win equality back for humankind, like a bomb waiting for a signal to explode. It was a daunting responsibility. I didn't want it, it was too much for me, but I'd inherited it just the same. I knew I had to escape; but the fence posts stood bleak and ugly against the rising moon, and posed a question without an answer - how?

The following day, as I crossed the landfill to get water, I encountered the Indian I'd seen dozing on the train. He lay asleep against a mound of trash, although as I approached the crunch of my footsteps woke him. I recoiled in surprise at the sight of his face. I've said that aboard the train he seemed emaciated, but now he resembled a human skeleton, his bony limbs lost inside his tattered shirt and trousers. It was painful just to look at him.

"You all right?" I asked. He glanced at me, his eyes glazed, as if uncomprehending.

"Yes, I'm all right,” he replied mechanically.

"Nothing to eat?" I asked.

"I don't know. No. Yesterday, no.” Was he confused? delirious?

"Why? you couldn't find anything?"

He laughed. I found myself wondering that he could summon up enough energy to laugh. "Every time I find something - I found some cell phones - the others come and take them."

"Aren't you-" When I'd seen him, I'd meant to ask whether he was going to keep on scavenging, but it finally dawned on me he'd given up. If he found anything it would be taken from him, so why bother? He was waiting to die.

"Listen, I tell you what," I said, "I'll save you some food. We can team up. We'll split everything we find. That way your junk won't get stolen." In a flash I'd realized the Indian might be immensely useful. While he might not be much help in a fight, at least he could watch my back and I could depend on him not to steal from me.

He stared at me vacantly for a moment. "All right, why not."

"Ok, I'll be back. Just stay where you are so I know where to find you."

I returned later on that day with my ration. I'd found a cache of broken office equipment in the morning, so I had more food than usual. In spite of my promise, it was difficult to resist the temptation simply to eat it all and forget about the Indian. In the end, what I saved for him was probably less than half – not that he knew the difference. His eyes asked a question as I approached.

"You came back," he said.

"I said I would."

"I thought you were- I didn't think you were serious." I handed him four of the square bread-like cakes they make from farmed algae and sea asparagus. He wolfed them down without hardly bothering to chew. His once-neatly trimmed moustache was ragged and unkempt now like his beard and hair. As soon as he finished he shook my hand.

"Thank you." He was so apologetic I was embarrassed.

"No trouble," I said. "What's your name again?"

"Kamal Das. And yours?"

"Mark. Mark Henshaw."

"I just mean thank you because - I didn't think I was going to make it," he said, smiling ruefully; "I was just lying here watching the crows, you know, wondering when they were going to start on me."

"You don't have to thank me, it's no problem. Here, come on."

"Why, where are you going?" he asked.

"I always stay over at the far end. Out of sight, out of mind. And there's a robot right outside the fence, so they're less likely to try anything."

He shook his head."Sentinels wouldn't stop them if they did."

"Maybe not, but they're still less likely to steal all my crap if they think a robot's watching. It'll be better with two of us. I've got some stuff I've hid in a plastic garbage bag. We can trade that in this afternoon, then we need to find something else just in case this stuff is no good."

He looked around as if fearful someone were listening, then turned back to me and spoke low in a conspiratorial undertone. "That's if we have to stay here much longer.”

"Why, how long do they keep us here?" I'd asked several people the same question since we arrived, and every time I heard a different answer. Two years seemed about average.

"I don't know," he said; "I don't think they do. If they did they'd have to keep track of when they brought people here and they don't seem to. They'll probably just keep us here and keep on bringing more people until we've cleaned out the first layer of the landfill. After that they'll excavate some more and start us on the second. And so on.”

"Then how do you know they're going to let us out?"

"It doesn't matter whether they do or not." He leaned closer to me. "What would you say if I told you there might be a way to escape - a way that's so risky you could die doing it, but it just might actually work?"

My heart leaped, but I kept my face expressionless. He might have hatched some crazy plan like climbing the fence. "I'd say any risk is worth it to break out of this hellhole. But tell me what it is first. Here, sit down, but be careful." I sat down gingerly on a mound of garbage and dirt. "No, wait. You'd better get some rest, you can always tell me later."

"No. I want to tell you now in case I don't make it. You remember when it rained last week?"

"Of course I remember," I said, "it was bloody miserable. I had to make a poncho out of fucking garbage bags.”

"Yes, but just think about the rainwater. That's what I was thinking about, because after I gave up looking I spent a lot of time thinking. It took me a while but I realized something strange happened when it rained. This end of the landfill, where we are right now, is the lower end, right? You see how the ground outside the camp slopes this way. So the water should have all collected on this side, right around here where you are. But it didn't. It ran this way but it didn't collect," he said with heavy emphasis.

"And-"

"And ordinarily you'd think the water would take a long time to soak through the landfill, wouldn't you?"

"I'd think it would, yes.” I was beginning to see his point.

"Now - I happen to know just a little bit about landfills. How they were designed. It's something I know from years and years ago. Never thought I'd need to know it, but I never thought I'd be stuck in one. Some landfills used to have boreholes like shafts running down through the landfill all the way to the bottom," he said, speaking in a low voice, his eyes glittering feverishly. "Any water that soaks through the landfill collects in the borehole and once in a while people used to pump the boreholes So you'd think now there's no one there to pump it out, the water would all collect in the boreholes and overflow. But it hasn't."

"So you think it's escaping from one of the boreholes to the outside of the landfill somehow?" I asked.

He nodded. "A lot of it. The water's escaping from one of the boreholes by some kind of pipe or conduit. So if you figure out which borehole is closest and climb down – and if the pipe is big enough to crawl through – you could get out.”

"Why would there be a pipe from the borehole to the outside of the landfill?" I wondered aloud. "How do we know where it goes?"

"My guess is the Mods stuck a pipe through to drain the landfill. Beyond that I don't know. We could climb down there and find it's too small for us, we could find it's blocked, we could get stuck or fall climbing down. We might even climb down and not have any way to come back up. It's not a sure thing, it's just a chance, but it's the only way I can think of to get out that might work."

"Wouldn't somebody else have tried already?"

"I don't know. Maybe someone has. But the thing is boreholes don't run to the outside of the landfill and there's almost always water in them, so I don't think anyone would try."

"That's true," I said. "I know I wouldn't have. Which borehole is it?”

"I'm not completely sure. I've got a good idea where it is but I want to make certain first. Now you've done something for me, so - I wanted to tell you so you can use it if I don't make it.”

I forced myself to keep my face inscrutable, but inwardly I was elated. This was good beyond anything I'd imagined. Quickly I checked to see if anyone was listening. We were alone.

It was true, of course, that it was only a slim chance. It was entirely possible in plumbing the depths we'd find ourselves a slow death trapped underground; but a fleeting chance was better than nothing at all. "Don't be stupid, you'll make it," I said. "I've got a few things saved up. I can get enough food for both of us this afternoon, then we can start looking for this escape well of yours."

Kamal shook his head. "We want to look for it during the daytime, but once we've found it we have to try at night.”

“Why?”

“If anyone sees us they'll try to follow us. The Mods won't miss just one or two prisoners, but they'd notice five or ten.”

"Climbing down a well at night? We'll break our necks,” I objected.

"It'll be pitch-dark down there anyway. It's dark down there in the daytime. It doesn't matter what time you go,you won't be able to see a thing." That startled me so badly I nearly changed my mind. For some reason I initially imagined that when we climbed down the borehole, we'd have light to see by. Now that I realized what Kamal's plan actually entailed it was a sobering thought: we were going to climb a couple hundred feet down into pitch-black darkness and squeeze into a muddy pipe. I imagined all the accidents that could occur - falling down the well, becoming stuck, suffocating. His eyes met mine and he nodded. “Sure you want to try?"

I wavered for a moment. I was desperate, but was I really that desperate? I glanced around us at the barren landscape and the few scattered figures picking through the refuse. Beyond, outside the fence, the green fields and the blue sky were like another world, a world that had forgotten me. I thought of Becky again, and of Shelley. Remember. After a moment I turned back to Kamal. "I'll do it. If you'll do it, I will."

"Good. But don't tell anyone. No one else can know. If it's just two of us, they'll never even notice we're gone. As soon as people start trying to follow us it's all over."

"No, of course I won't tell anyone. But you'd better get some rest, you look knackered.” I didn't want him to die on me.

"I guess I'm pretty thin," he said, grinning. "I've always been thin, so I'm not much thinner than I was anyway. But seriously, I feel better already. I can help you look for more stuff if you want.”

"No, you don't. You just rest for right now."

"All right. But only for a few hours," he said. "We want to look at the boreholes once the sun's really high in the sky. So high it's almost straight overhead."

"Yes, yes, that's fine. But for now, just stay where you are and keep quiet."

"That's easy enough." He stretched out and in a few minutes he was asleep.

The midday sun bore down brutally on the landfill as we trudged our way through the garbage. Two women, their faces burnt brown by months outdoors, glanced at us then went back to their work.

"It's not as high up in the sky as I'd like," Kamal said.

"It's as high up in the sky as it'll get."

"I just don't know if we'll be able to see down there."

"Why do we have to? I thought we knew which one it was."

"We don't, unless - Ah. See right there." I followed the direction of his finger. The uneven ground sloped into a shallow bowl-shaped depression. The water had worn gullies to the centre of the hollow, where a PVC-rimmed aperture over a meter wide yawned like an open mouth. "This is the lowest point in the landfill. So you'd expect this would be a lake right now. But if I'm right-"

I dropped to my hands and knees to peer down the well. The sunlight barely illuminated its depths. "There's no water down there. There's a pit at the bottom and it's dry. And there's handholds on the sides to climb down."

"I thought it'd be dry," he replied.

"How did you know that anyway?"

He grinned. "It's just common sense. The Mods don't want the landfill to get soggy, because then we can't dig, so they're going to pump the water out. The water collects in the boreholes. But if it's not collecting-"

"It's escaping," I said.

"Exactly. So how soon do you want to try and do the same thing?"

I hesitated, my mouth gone dry. "Tonight."

A chill wind blew that evening, and a cloud bank looming on the horizon presaged an end to the welcome weather of the last few days. We'd stationed ourselves near the borehole so that we could get to it easily after dark. I picked idly through the trash, partly to provide for tomorrow in case our plan failed and partly just to quell my impatience. I couldn't wait for nightfall. I paused for a moment to scratch my itching scalp and deftly pinched another louse between my thumb and forefinger; a wriggling, greyish insect a tad smaller than a grain of rice. I crushed it in disgust.

"Filthy bloodsuckers," I said.

Kamal grinned. "Just try and forget it."

"I know," I said irritably. The most annoying thing about lice is that no matter how many you kill, they multiply faster than you can massacre them. They conceal themselves in the strangest places. They lay their eggs in your hair, in your pant seams; they become intimate with you against your will.

"It's crazy," Kamal remarked, "they have us dig up this junk. It was us Mongrels that put it all down here in the first place. Now we get to dig it up again." He seemed talkative in spite of his near brush with death.

"Just goes to show, at least the bastards have a sense of humour."

"You know, I don't know they're that different from us."

"Different, maybe not. Just better," I said, emptying out a garbage bag. "Didn't we create the Mods anyway?"

"That's what I've always heard. Supposedly it started with rich people that wanted perfect children. They'd go to clinics where they could pick one of multiple embryos, screen for diseases, decide what hair colour their kids could have, that kind of thing. They'd have their kids take special drugs to make them smarter in school. Eventually the science got good enough the clinics could offer genetic modifications. Only the rich could afford any of this, and their governments encouraged it, because they didn't want to fall behind other countries, you know. So over time the rich families kept improving. Each generation was better than the last. After the first generation they stopped marrying with ordinary Mongrels because they despised us. Compared to them we were ugly and stupid.”

"Because we were ugly and stupid. So that's why they tell us what to do and stick us in work camps if they feel like it," I said.

"W-e-ell, I've heard it didn't used to be like that. Back before the war you could do whatever you wanted, you could even go to other countries or drive your own car. But the war must've scared them pretty badly.”

"You've heard. Well, I don't know, I've heard all kinds of things. Maybe there's always been Mods and Mongrels."

He frowned, bemused. "Maybe. I don't know, I'm just saying. I don't know. I was a kid back when the war happened, so I don't know about before that."

"Yes, so was I.” I could remember when homo sapiens and homo excellens went to war; but the human memory is an unreliable historian. The things I remembered from my childhood weren't the headlines that scream at you from an Internet terminal. They were little things, memories preserved as if at random, a child choking up blood, a man cutting up a golden retriever's carcass for food, and another memory, the most terrible of all – but I suppressed that one like thrusting an unwelcome object underwater, back below the surface. I'd tried hard to forget it and I didn't mean it to haunt me now.

"The thing is I know things were better back then," Kamal said, raking through a pile of trash. "I know they were because my family came over here from India when I was two. So I know they used to let us travel."

"You've got family in London, then?"

He nodded. "Just my brother. My brother and my sister-in-law live in Hackney."

"Ah. What'd they get you for anyway?"

He hesitated a moment, then he grinned. "It's - you won't believe me if I tell you."

"Try me,&uot; I said.

"I was fixing a - I guess I should explain first I don't actually work for the Mods, I've got my own business. I'm a plumber, and a lady had called me out to look at her water supply because the water'd gone off in her building. As it turned out she wasn't the only one who had a problem, the water company had shut off the water to six whole blocks. So I cycle over to the water company office to ask them about it and they said, there's nothing we can do, the government wants it shut off, don't know why, you'll have to ask them. So finally I go down to Central London – you know, to that building they've got off the Strand - to complain about it and they accused me of sabotage."

"Sabotage?" I said.

"Well, I guess they'd got some sort of project going on. They'd shut the water down. It was just temporary. They were re-routing one of the water mains or something so they could have water for a new fuel plant."

"And they hadn't bothered to tell us," I said. "Of course not. Why bother telling those filthy Mongrels, that lot'll mess it all up anyway."

He nodded. "Exactly. So when I stopped by that building to complain about it they thought I was trying to mess up their project.”

"That's crazy.” It was often like that. I'd learned a great deal in the months since I'd been arrested, and I was beginning to notice there was no pattern to the arrests. They were completely inconsistent. Sometimes trivial offenders were arrested while flagrant violators went free.

How could we know what they were thinking? Perhaps it made sense if you thought about it differently. The Mods wanted the vast majority of their Mongrel workforce in the cities, but they also needed a set number of people to stock their work camps and their labs. Probably they sometimes found themselves short on criminals, and at times like those the labs and camps might begin to run out. They'd want to avoid rounding us up - that might provoke an unnecessary riot, and repressing riots is a waste of time and money – but you can always count on a few people to break some minor rule, just as I had done. At other times, when they had more criminals when they needed, they'd permit lesser offenders like us to escape and go unpunished. It was only speculation, but it made sense. Of course it seemed irrational to us, just as the squirrel who strays into a steel-jawed trap must wonder why he alone is singled out to die.

"I said you wouldn't believe me.” Kamal chuckled.

"No, I believe you. But it's still ridiculous."

"I know. But what am I going to do about it. I could complain to those robots outside the fence and see if they'll let me go.”

"Nice idea."

"So what did they get you for?" he asked.

I was out after dark in Central London.”

Kamal laughed. "At least I know - sorry to say this, I don't want to be rude, but that makes me feel better. At least I'm not the only one that's that-"

"Stupid," I suggested.

"Well, I wasn't going to say that."

"But you thought it." I chuckled. "Oh, come on. I didn't know they could nab me for that.”

"I mean, the West End is where they have their complex, their headquarters or whatever, so they want us to stay away from that at night. I thought everyone knew that.”

I'd talked to plenty of people who didn't know that, but certain knowledge was hard to come by. Without the Internet, phones, newspapers, books, all our ancient means of communication, information travelled by word of mouth, and we all know how reliable word of mouth is. “That must be everyone minus me. I knew they had a 10-2 curfew but that was it.”

“What'd you have to cross the City for?”

“I live in Islington – I work at a fuel plant they have over where Covent Garden used to be.” The Mods had no use for our monuments or our old buildings. They'd carved out space for themselves in London as ruthlessly as a butcher slicing up a corpse. “I'd been down to Norwood, there was a co-worker of mine told me he knew where I could find one of those old laptops, you know, like what they used to have.”

"So you thought you'd cross the whole of central London by night?" Kamal said.

"Well, I tried.”

Kamal shook his head in disbelief. "You're a daredevil. You're crazy. What did you want to go to Islington the same day for?”

"My girlfriend and I live in Islington, so – I don't know, I wanted to get home. It wasn't very smart. I guess you could say I took a bad shortcut."

"Mark - all I can say is, if you get back in one piece, that will have to be the longest shortcut you ever took."

“If we get back in one piece. I hope this borehole or whatever it is actually leads somewhere,” I said in an undertone for fear of being overheard.

“You know, at this point I don't much care if it doesn't. If you stay here much longer you'll get killed. Someone's getting desperate.”

“How do you know?”

He stopped raking through the trash. “You remember that Chinese lady who died the other day?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, I saw her body a couple days ago. I think she cut herself on something, because she was bleeding all over the place. Maybe she killed herself, I don't know.”

“No, I don't remember her.”

“You know something?” he said and his voice sank to a lower pitch. “The body's gone already. I noticed just now because we passed the same spot. It wasn't there.”

“Jesus Christ,” I exclaimed.

“Well, it's easier than digging for trash if you're hungry, isn't it? At least that's what someone thinks.”

I gazed for a moment at the barren landscape of trash. A brooding air hung over the landfill in the afternoon light. “No, you're right,” I said. “Better getting stuck in the pipe if that's what happens than getting killed up here.”

The sun sank below the horizon at last, but someone had a trash fire going - perhaps they'd found a lighter and used it to start a blaze. We waited until it subsided into darkness. The sullen-faced moon shed a ghostly glow on our surroundings, and the clouds on the horizon had coalesced into a storm front.

"Don't like those clouds," I said. "That's rain."

"I know."

"Here, I'll go first.”

"That's all right, I can go first," he replied.

"I'll go first if you don't mind," I said, "since we don't know what's down there." When you're in a tense situation it's always worse to be dependent on someone else, and I didn't want to be second going down; coming back up would be different.

“OK, if you like, you go first. There's just one thing. While you're climbing down you've got to be dead silent. Don't say a thing. Not until you're at the bottom and even then keep really quiet. Anything you say is going to echo."

"All right. And be careful. I don't want you to fall on me. Is there anyone-" I turned in a circle but saw no one. I waited a moment longer, dropped to my knees and approached the borehole. Beyond a few feet down, the shaft was pitch-black - I mean really pitch-black, so dark I might as well have been blind. I shuddered involuntarily as I felt for the first handhold. Carefully I placed my feet on it one at a time while clinging to the rim. What if the rungs were slippery or broken? I didn't even want to imagine.

"Shit," I said to myself under my breath. Cautiously I felt with my foot for the next rung. It was amazing to discover just how much I relied on my sight - now that I couldn't see my hands, the process of climbing that would ordinarily have been so simple became incredibly difficult.

As I went I started to learn the hang of it. I had to force myself to slow dn, to be careful, to test each rung with my foot before I placed my weight on it, to bridle my impatience and move with a maddening slowness. I tried not to think of what might lie below - stagnant water, a garbage pile, a blocked pipe. Above me I could see Kamal silhouetted against the fast-shrinking circle of sky.

As I climbed I began to tire and just when I was wondering whether I should stop for a rest, I felt with my foot for the next rung and found nothing, only empty space. Had one of the rungs broken? I reached up and after waving around for a few seconds hit Kamal's shoe.

"Kamal," I whispered. "Stop. There's no more rungs."

"Try and hang down from the bottom." Was he crazy? It took me a second to understand what he meant.

Gripping the bottom rung with white-knuckled hands, I walked down the wall of the shaft, my back against the opposite wall, until I dangled from the bottom rung; but still there was nothing beneath my feet. What had happened? Would we have to turn back? How could I face the squalor of the camp after hoping all day for escape? I thought for a moment and seized on a crazy idea. I was so desperate I didn't even think about the consequences. I hesitated - it's difficult to force your body to ignore your natural instincts - then I took the plunge as I gasped and my heart leapt in my chest.

I let go of the rung and fell.

I'd half-feared the crushing impact of broken bones and a slow agony at the bottom, but I fell for only five feet at most. My feet struck thick uneven mud and I reeled into something hard and wet, waving my arms wildly.

"Mark? Mark?" Kamal whispered loudly.

"We're at the bottom," I said. "Here. I'll stand out of the way and you can drop down. It's only a couple feet." As I had, he let himself fall from the last rung and stumbled into me. We were both blind as cavefish. I turned to the wall and ran my hands across a solid surface.

"Kamal? What-"

"Think I've found it," he whispered; we both spoke softly, although truth be told the sound of our fall caused a louder echo than any our voices could. "There's a pipe. Here."

"Is it big enough?"

"Big enough for me. It might be big enough for you." I could tell from the sounds in the darkness that he was crawling into an aperture. Below knee height I could feel a gap - the mouth of the pipe. I fell on my stomach and jammed myself into it head-first. It was only a size too small to crawl on hands and knees, so I had to wriggle through it flat on my belly. The darkness was so absolute I couldn't tell whether I had my eyes open or shut; it made no difference. But the most annoying thing was the muck - a trickle of water and mud sloughed along the base of the pipe. Within minutes I was soaked. All at once I ran into a solid object. Kamal's shoe.

l?"

"I'm blocked. There's something stuck ahead of me - I think it's a rock. Here, back out of the pipe, I'm going to try and pull it out." I wriggled backwards out of the pipe and into the sump at the bottom of the borehole. After a few moments I heard Kamal sliding through the pipe and the sound of his heavy breathing.

"It was a rock. Here, I've got it," he said.

"There could be more."

"Maybe the whole thing's blocked up, I don't know. Here, I'll go back down there again and see if there's anything else. If not I'll tell you." I listened as he crawled back into the pipe and waited for what might have been several minutes before I heard him return.

"No, it's not blocked. But the pipe gets narrower. There's some kind of valve that shuts off the water flow, but they've left it open, thank God." I felt a tingle run down my spine. How narrow did it get? It was frustrating beyond belief to have a glimmer of hope, and then-

"Here, I'll go first this time," I said. I climbed into the pipe and struggled my way through the same section we'd traversed already, until I felt the pipe narrowing around me as if I'd crawled into a funnel. It was barely wide enough to fit my shoulders. Congealed slime crusted the walls of the pipe and grasped my clothes and hair. The tenacious muck tried to pull my trousers down my thighs, and I couldn't pull them back up because my hands were in front of me. I squeezed my way forward inch by inch, pushing and scrabbling with my feet, my legs, my hands, anything that could find any purchase on the slimy interior of the pipe. Occasionally I paused for a minute to rest, and in such moments I could hear Kamal's heavy breathing like an echo of my own. But at other times, despite my efforts, my hands and feet slipped uselessly, seconds stretching into minutes, unable to move. Sometimes I became afraid I was completely stuck, and I struggled in a mad frenzy like an animal in a tar pit until I could move again.

I have no idea how long we spent in the pipe. After a few minutes I lost all track of time and distance. I know it took us well over an hour, but it might easily have been two or three, and when I think back I'm often amazed that I came out sane and alive. I'd never before been so grateful as when, by tilting my head back just a notch, I glimpsed a tiny pinhole of colour I blinked.

"There's light ahead," I said hoarsely. The pinhole grew wider as I approached it and finally, after what seemed like eternity, I found myself peering out from the mouth of the pipe. Directly in front of us lay an empty concrete basin spanned by a metal bridge. I looked down to try to gauge the height of the drop: the pipe jutted out over the basin and the fall looked like at least 20 feet. Even if we landed unhurt, we wouldn't be able to get out.

I rotated over on my side. To the left of the pipe's mouth a railing projected from the edge - if I could get to it I could use it as a ladder to pull myself up. I reached out with both hands and grabbed the middle rung. From there it was simple enough. Hanging from the railing with both hands, I transferred my feet one by one from the interior of the pipe to the bottom rung of the railing and climbed onto the concrete parapet.

"Careful!" I called out softly. Kamal, too, had emerged; just as I did, he grasped the railing and climbed over to join me on the other side. We had no idea where we were, but for the moment we were free.

Chapter 5

"Thank God!" I savoured a deep, slow breath; the first clean air I'd breathed in nearly four months. "I didn't think I'd ever get out of that. And thank you, thank you again." I took his hand and shook it, I was so pleased. "I'd never have ever thought to try that."

Kamal grinned. "I owed you one anyway. I was about to give up."

"Which way do we go - Let's head for those woods over there," I said, combing some of the mud from my hair with my fingers. My jacket was daubed with slime like the ooze from a pit. A low rise hid the work camp from our view, and although we could only see a couple hundred yards in any one direction, we knew we were in the remote countryside. That might be a problem in itself.

In the years after the Mods took power, the rural population of England dwindled rapidly. Long before the war, farming and manufacturing had come to rely on chemicals produced by genetically altered algae; these algae were grown in cities, not on farms. Few jobs were left available for country dwellers. The necessities of life grew scarce, and everyone except a few stalwarts migrated to the urban areas. This was convenient for the Mod government, of course: the more concentrated we were, the easier to control our movements. They encouraged the exodus by keeping supplies of food, fabric and fuel cheap for city dwellers.

The war only accelerated the trend. Some of the rebels took refuge in the countryside, and to hunt them down government forces "erased" selected villages and towns, irradiating or infecting them to kill Mongrels and other animals. Between the migration and the ravages of the war, whole sections of the countryside had been abandoned for years. If we were in Wales or Cornwall, we might travel many miles before we reached human habitation.

"Do you know where we are?" I asked.

Kamal shook his head. "I know this way-" he said, pointing ahead, "is south, because I found the pole star the other night. But other than that I have no idea. All the people from the train said something different.”

"As long as we get far enough away from there tonight we'll be fine."

"There's no hurry," Kamal said; "they won't follow us, they don't even know we're gone. They don't keep track because people die in the work camp. Even if one of the other prisoners goes and tells them we're not there, they'll just assume we're dead.”

“They might not. They might try and hunt us down.”

“Then there's nothing we can do.f they want to find us they will.”

Unfortunately he was right about that. I knew the science of the Mods had made incredible strides simply by looking at their clothes, their aircars, or their weapons. They could fry electronics at a distance, irradiate entire towns, detect specific species of bacteria in a room using a hand-held device, design new materials, new mathematics, new species.

I thought of the biotech trees that grew like wildfire across south London, with leaves the colour of blood and trunks the colour of chalk. Properly tended they grew five feet a month until they reached thirty feet, and their wood was as solid as any oak. And biotech trees were only the least of what I'd seen, things that made me wonder whether the more far-fetched rumours might actually be true. Yes, Kamal was right; if the Mods wanted to track us they could. But why would they? Our unimportance guaranteed our safety: we weren't worth the trouble. They didn't know about Marengo. How could they?

"We'll stay in the woods for the night," I said. "It'll be better than stumbling around in the dark. Then we'll head south again tomorrow."

"OK."

"As long as we're out of sight of that sewage works. Look at this crap," I grumbled as we set off, still trying to brush some of the filth from my clothes.

"Can't help that now. Maybe we can clean off later on." We picked our way carefully through a moonlit tangle jumble of beech, bracken, oak and pine. The air tasted refreshing after the sour stench of the dump, and however tired I might be I was happy. A short distance brought us to a low stone wall; once, perhaps, it might have bordered a well-tended field. The wilderness had flowed back across abandoned farms and hedgerows, like islands swallowed by a rising sea.

"Let's stop here," I said. Kamal nodded.

A thick litter of dry and rotting leaves lined the ditch beyond the wall. I lay down on this soft surface and quickly fell asleep.

I woke up with the sunrise. The colour of the light filtering through the branches had changed overnight, and the sky had turned an ominous iron-grey that promised rain. Kamal slept a few feet farther down the ditch; the first thing I noticed was how filthy he was. Crawling through the pipe had left its mark. His clothes, his hair, his beard, were caked with dried mud and filth. I glanced at my own clothes and realized I was even worse. It would get ugly when we reached a town or a Mongrel settlement. Our appearance would be enough to deter a saint, let alone ordinary Mongrels.

"Kamal. Kamal." He brushed the leaves off his mud-smeared jacket.

"Sorry, I overslept."

"No, sun's just up."

"All right, let's go," he said. "We'll just have to keep on going south for now."

"Half a minute. How can we make sure we're going south. We ought to use a landmark or something." The woods were featureless. Without anything to guide us, we'd lose our course and wander in circles.

"We can-" He hesitated a moment then snapped his fingers. "I've got it. See that hill on the horizon? As long as that's on the right we're going the same direction as we were last night.”

"We'll keep on going until we find one of the A-roads, then we can try following that. Or we could follow the railroad tracks."

"Not such a good idea," he said, stretching his arms behind his back. "Now that's one way we could get them interested in us. Every time they see Mongrels near something they use they think it's sabotage.”

"They can't have surveillance along the whole railway line. I mean, the trains might have cameras or sensors or something. Besides they mostly just transport Mongrels and Mongrel goods – things we use – on the railways, and they don't care about that.” As Shelley had reminded me, they weren't omnipotent, they were beset by innumerable distractions. They couldn't watch everything all the time, could they?

"See, there you go again, always taking risks," Kamal said, shaking his head. "Just like walking across London after dark. They can't be watching, they won't catch me."

"OK, enough about that already, I know. We'll just go south for now until we find an A-road and follow that. There must be Mongrel settlements out here somewhere."

"There might be," Kamal agreed. "Some people leave London to go other places.”

"Must be tough."

"Well, you can't get food or clothes or synthetics or anything like that, so you've probably got to make everything yourself." I'd heard there were scattered settlements in some parts of the country, small villages that farmed algae and scraped out a meagre existence. By giving up the few amenities the rest of us enjoyed, they gained limited freedom.

I thought of Audrey's idea that Becky and I leave London and decided that if Becky was willing, I'd carry it out on my return. She'd probably refuse at first, although if I mustered the right arguments I could persuade her. But could I leave London? I remembered Shelley and Marengo. A killer virus that might change the balance. A chance to surprise them with their own weapons, with weapons they thought we were too ignorant to use. I'd leave London later, but I had to return there first.

"I've thought of leaving London myself," I said.

"So that brings us to the other question, which is where we do want to go.”

"We don't even know where we are."

"Yes, but eventually we're going to find one of the roads and we can follow the road signs. So once we do, do we want to stop wherever we can or go-where."

I frowned. "Back to London. At least, I'm going back to London."

"That might not be such a good idea. You can't get your old job back. And they've got our DNA and our biometrics on file now. They've got hidden monitors all over London.”

"We'll just have to be careful," I said.

"But why go all that way and run risks when we can go anywhere we want? Why not go somewhere where there aren't any of them? Do you see what I mean?"

"Isn't there anyone - your brother and sister-in-law, anyone who'd miss you if you didn't go back?" I asked.

"Not really. I keep a stray cat I found called Raja- Now he'll miss me for a couple days if he doesn't find anything to eat, but you know cats, if I don't come back he'll find someone else. And my sister-in-law will be happy if I don't come back, so - I kind of hate to disappoint her,” he chuckled. It wasn't entirely surprising he was single. Women in a certain age range seemed to be scarce at that time, although I didn't know whether it was because of the hardships of life under the Mods or for some more unpleasant reason.

"I don't care how risky it is or where you're going, I'm going back," I said. "My girlfriend lives in Islington."

"Oh-h-h, I see." He fell silent for a moment, then at last he sighed. "Well, it doesn't matter where I go, really. If you're going back to London then I suppose will too."

"But look. it's no use even talking about that right now. We don't even know how far we've got to go.”

"That's true."

Ahead of us a rotting log lay felled across our path. The trees were green with the fresh leaves of late spring, and I heard birds hidden in the boughs; a clump of ferns nestled in a velvet carpet of moss. To a Londoner like myself, too long accustomed to the drab monotony of ageing brickwork, glass, steel and sullen grey skies, the riot of colour was beautiful and bewildering. I felt even filthier by comparison as the daylight grew stronger. Kamal and I looked like a couple of sewer rats crawled out of a tunnel.

"God, we look bloody awful,” I exclaimed.

"Well, I-" Kamal glanced down at his jacket and shirt for a moment and broke into a grin. "We? Speak for yourself."

I laughed. "OK, maybe it's just me then. If you say so.”

We emerged from the woods into a meadow; across it trees grew in a dense line like a natural culvert.

"That's got to be water,” I said.

"I don't know, we'll see."

We crossed the clearing. Concealed in the shade ran a broad, shallow stream. I barely hesitated: I waded into the water, dropped to my knees and plunged my head below the surface. My clothes were so filthy and lice-infested I wanted to soak them too. Unfortunately it takes more than cold water to rid yourself of lice. They are the most obstinate vermin on earth. As long as there are humans there will be lice.

"Are we lucky or what,” I said. “First we've escaped and now this." After months of drinking filthy camp water, I no longer feared any bacteria the stream might carry. I stripped off my shirt and jacket and tore off the wretched remains of my trousers to soak them also. The dirt on my arms and face rubbed off in layers like a second skin.

"I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed and pray," Kamal said. "You see those clouds? That's rain by tonight."

"I know. But look over there." Across a field, a line of trees bordered a low stone wall. "That's got to be a road. I don't know which road, but it's a road and it goes somewhere."

"Better and better," Kamal replied. "Didn't think there'd be a road around for miles."

"All they really did was take a landfill and have us dig it up. There were roads here long before them. And maybe, if we're really lucky, there'll be some of the old road signs left, so we can tell where we are."

"Maybe we're in Cornwall. Someone on the train said we were going to Cornwall."

"If it's just something someone said," I demurred, "God knows, some people say nearly anything. Remember that lady on the train? telling us the Mods'll do this, the Mods'll do that. You'd think she'd met with them to talk it over or something." It was strange how quickly I could forget what she'd told me about Marengo, how illusory it seemed with London many miles away; a lurid story of a future hell, nothing more.

Beyond the stone wall a road led from north to south - clearly one that predated the Mods. They never used roads, but even if they had, they'd never have left anything valuable to them in such poor repair. Grass sprouted through the fissures in the asphalt, rain had worn potholes and craters at every few feet, and only a few segments remained intact. But despite its condition, it was our best hope.

We followed it for what might have been hours, my damp clothes clinging to me as I walked. During the entire time we found neither road signs nor intersections; we were as ignorant of our location if we'd landed in a jungle without a map. It must have been midday when an old church tower, one of the stone churches that dates back to the Middle Ages, appeared through the trees ahead.

"Look." Kamal pointed.

"It'll be deserted.”

"There could still be something to eat.”

"What, a nineteen-year old sandwich?" I said.

"Very funny. No, I mean - if it's one of those villages that got erased, you know, where they killed everybody, there might be some tinned food or something." We'd been walking all morning and I was so ravenous I could hardly think of anything else. I was concerned about Kamal too; he still reminded me of a walking skeleton clothed in skin and rags. I was surprised he'd been able to walk that far after struggling through the pipe. Besides, if nothing else the houses offered shelter from the coming downpour.

Adjacent to the village, an old petrol station displayed the petrol price from nineteen years ago. Five quid a litre! Clearly pre-war, I thought. No one had used the pound sterling since I was a kid. Beyond the repair shop a neat row of shuttered shops lined the high street, all of them wrapped in a picturesque stillness. It was difficult to believe anyone ever lived there. The town could have been a life-sized museum piece gradually crumbling into dust.

The petrol station had been swept clean - the glass smashed and the shelves barren. We started next on a house in a two-story brick row. The hinges on the gate had rusted thick. We had to climb over it instead of opening it; I paused for a moment when I saw a wasp alight on the rotting wood.

“Watch out. Sywasp,” I said. In a careless moment decades before the Species War, an abortive experiment had released aggressive biotech wasps engineered to carry a sting lethal to humans, their poison as toxic as a cobra's venom. The pests spread rapidly and occasionally claimed lives – their victims were usually children. For a moment I hesitated but then the wasp flew away.

A dense mat of creepers and ivy obscured the front windows and a few bold tendrils had colonized the living room ceiling. Thick dust like grey fur quilted the remains of the furniture; cobwebs clung to the stair rails and the empty corners. An ancient TV with a smashed screen(from force of habit I wondered whether it contained GIPTS) rested atop a table against the wall, and some fake flowers stood in a dry vase, resplendent in their eternal bloom.

"Here. Kitchen'll be that way," I said. We walked through the corridor under the staircase into an L-shaped kitchen. A microwave lay shattered on the linoleum floor. The tile counters, although covered in dust and scattered mouse dung, were otherwise undisturbed, and the wooden drawers were rotting. There were few marks of the erstwhile owners, although in one of the cupboards I came across some glasses and a china mug with a jaunty slogan - "BP - The Future of Energy". I wondered what BP was. Probably something to do with the Mods.

"It's infested with termites," I said. “I just hope it doesn't collapse or something.”

“Somebody's been here recently. Mongrels, I mean. Not Mods. The whole village was raided.”

“It can't have been that recently.”

“It might be.”

I flung open another cupboard drawer at the rear end of the kitchen, just beside the door leading into the living room. "Jackpot!" I shouted. The first shelf held a fire extinguisher and an empty bottle of bleach; the second shelf was well-stocked with tinned goods. I counted three tins of baked beans, two of rhubarb pie mix, a jar of Marmite and - most precious of all - three water bottles with the seal unbroken so that a decade and a half on, the water inside hadn't evaporated. The marmite wouldn't be edible, but the rest was fair game. "Whoever went through here missed this one," I said.

"That's odd," Kamal said. “Doesn't make any sense.” I handed him one of the cans.

"Who cares? Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Here, we'll have to find something to open it with. Maybe a screwdriver."

"There might be one back at the petrol station," Kamal said.

"All right then, back we go." We retraced our steps to the petrol station and garage, where the screwdrivers still hung in a tool rack. They might be rusted but they would work.

"Look, they've got a chisel." We returned to the empty house where the cans awaited us on the counter. I took the chisel and began driving holes around the lid, while Kamal did the same to another tin. It took me a few minutes. If you've ever tried to open a tin without a tin opener, you'll know it's clumsy work. I got it open at last, and we ate it straight from the can with our fingers like a couple of hobos. I have to say baked beans and rhubarb pie mix never tasted so good before.

"Thank God, I needed that," I said. "And you look a little too thin, you have me worried."

"Don't worry about me," Kamal said, amused; "I've been a lot farther. But yes, I was getting pret-ty hungry. And before we go I want to check some of the other houses. There might be something there too."

"Why not. They probably all do. It's like you said, if everyone in the village was killed they'd have left their food. People've probably raided it on their way through to other places - just like us - but it's remote, there can only be so many people that come through here. We can find more and take all we can carry. Here, we'll keep those water bottles and fill them up later. Come on."

Yet a quarter of an hour later, I had to conclude I was wrong. We ransacked the two neighbouring houses and a couple of the shops; everything edible had been eaten. At last we gave up in baffled frustration.

Kamal shook his head. "This isn't right. It doesn't make any sense. Why that one house? You'd think either most of them would've have food, or none of them at all."

"Why does it matter? Someone missed it. If we went through the whole town we could find some other things someone missed."

"If we're going to stay here all night I don't see why not. It's going to rain."

"We might not have to stay here all night," I said. "See that smoke?" As we left the chemist's, I'd noticed a thin column of smoke trickling into the sky and melting away on the breeze, rising from farther along down the road. "That's got to be a village or a house."

"It could just be a campfire."

"Who the hell would be camping out here? What for? No, it's got to be some kind of settlement. Besides, either way they'll have food."

"We can go see," Kamal conceded. "But it's just as likely we'll end up stuck in the rain and have to come back here."

"I'd still rather try. It's got to be only - what, an hour's walk, it doesn't look that far."

"All right," Kamal said reluctantly, "we'll do it. Might as well try our luck."

As we left the village by the high street, I observed something I hadn't noticed before, and an uncanny shiver ran down my spine. I said that the village was lifeless, and it did at least appear deserted; but it had an alert, watchful air, as if an unknown pair of eyes had seen us come and go yet said nothing. Unfortunately, I assumed the impression was only the work of my imagination, so I didn't mention it at the time. I only remembered it the following morning - when it was too late.

About a mile down the lane we found the origin of the smoke. It issued from a village, presumably like the one we'd just left but inhabited. It would be just in time. A drifting fog bank was closing in fast, and the first few scattered drops of rain had begun to fall.

"See, look at that. What did I tell you," I said.

"The only trouble with just wandering on in is, we look like a couple of scarecrows," Kamal said. “They're going to hang us out to feed their dogs or something.”

"Well, now you speak for yourself, why don't you.”

"Ok, ok, I know. First you said it and now I said it.”

“They must see some pretty shabby looking tramps anyway. I mean, anyone who's travelling out here has got to be either desperate or just released from that work camp- so maybe they're used to seeing people like us,” I said. “Maybe it w matter. And either way there's nothing we can do about it. Just got to chance it."

"Wait a minute." A figure approached us down the road. Under one arm he carried a gun, a rifle or a hunting-piece, and with the other restrained a wolvo – one of the biotech dogs that had largely displaced the old breeds, broad-shouldered and muscular, its fur red and grey like a fox, lion-jawed with bright yellow eyes.

It was illegal to own firearms. The gun by itself would give the Mods sufficient justification to crack his skull or whisk him off to the work camp. But out here in the middle of nowhere, if he kept quiet he could avoid attracting their attention. Besides, the wolvo waiting patiently for its master's signal would be a more deadly weapon still.

"Hell," I said irritably.

"Nothing we can do about it now. We'll just have to be as friendly as we can and not give him any reason to shoot," Kamal murmured. The stranger paused some feet away from us: a stocky, clean-shaven man swathed in a raincoat, the hood tied around his face.

"Good afternoon," I called out.

"Stay where you are." He came closer and the wolvo glowered at us as if he wanted to tear our throats out. They barked more seldom than most dogs, thanks to their superior intelligence, but they could easily kill most of the old dog breeds in a fight. "Put your hands up." We obeyed mechanically.

"Hey, this isn't very friendly," I said, trying to be disarming. "We've been on the road all day, we saw the smoke from that fire. We just wanted to ask if you know where we can stay for the night." Some vagabonds survived by preying on their own species, and the Mods seldom bothered to hunt down stray Mongrels unless they were a threat. So it was very likely the stranger was just distrustful, nothing more. It was also possible he meant to rob us, but if he did he'd be disappointed. We had nothing worth taking.

"Where're you headed?" he asked.

"South to London."

He frowned. "To London? That's a long way. And where did you come from?"

"From Moorends, north of Doncaster," I improvised. I had no idea where we were in England, and the town of Moorends came to mind for some ungodly reason.

"And what are you going to London for?"

"My friend's got relatives in south London, and we'd heard things were better there, so we're going to look for work."

"Where were you last night?" our interlocutor asked us.

"We slept a few miles north of here," I said. That part was true. The night before that was none of his business. If he were clever enough he'd put two and two together anyway. But he drew a completely different conclusion.

"That's a lie," he shouted. "You just came from the other village. You were there last night."

"We were nowhere near here," I said, baffled. He walked forwards. At first I thought he'd unleash the wolvo, but instead he circled around us.

"Start walking," he ordered peremptorily.

"Where?" I asked. I heard a click as he cocked the gun.

"Just start walking." A brown-brick two-story building adjoined the road running into the village. Parallel greenrows, the long plastic-covered trenches some farmers used to use to grow algae, crossed a nearby field. The wooden gate to the fence was already open. The stranger marched us through and the wolvo burst into a deep-throated bark.

"Shut up!" someone called out from across the street, disturbed by the wolvo's unholy racket. A kennel stood in one corner of the yard; in the other, a woodshed up against the fence. "Go on, get in there. Get in there!" the stranger shouted at us. Kamal stifled an exclamation.

"What the hell-" I began.

"Oh, just get in there, you filthy little gits." The door to the woodshed closed behind us and left us in the darkness. A padlock clicked shut in the latch. We were prisoners. "Be back for you in the morning," our unknown acquaintance gloated through the door. Judging by the sounds outside, he tethered the wolvo to a post - probably next to its kennel - and shut the gate in the fence as he left. Already I could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of our shelter. Any minute the storm would break.

"What the fuck? What the fuck did we just walk into?" I asked Kamal. It was so dark I could hardly see anything, although a little light crept in through the chinks and crannies in the woodshed.

"Wish I knew. I think we've been mistaken for somebody else."

"Who?"

"The deserted village we just left. He said we were there last night," Kamal said.

"So you think there was someone there last night and he thinks we were - whoever."

"I can't think of any other way to explain it. It's very strange. He didn't come out from the village and then see us - he came out looking for us. Or - not for us, because he couldn't have known anything about us."

"That's true," I said.

"And maybe he'll come back down here in the morning, open up the shed door and turn the wolvo loose on us."

I imagined the wolvo h its massive shoulders bounding into the shed and I shuddered. Wolvos like to go for your face, for your neck. They have an uncanny instinct. "If he wanted to do that why wouldn't he just do it right now?"

"I don't know. The whole thing is very strange. My guess is he wants to talk to his neighbors. And it's going to rain cats and dogs. Listen."

"That's the one good thing about all this," I said, "at least we've got shelter. Sorry, I was wrong. We should've stayed in the other village. My fault." Ironically, although we didn't know it then, we'd been saved by our own mistake.

"Don't worry about it. You know, I believe that - anything that happens happens for a reason, you know, it's fate. So if we didn't stay in the deserted village, there's a reason for it."

"Really. And what might that be," I said.

"Well, I don't know what it is myself. It's part of a - a higher purpose. There's a word for it in Urdu."

"Sorry, my Urdu's pretty limited," I said. Non-existent would have been more precise.

"All right. This isn't a good way to say it, but I think God can bring good out of anything that happens. When I die that's not terribly important, you know, by myself I'm not important. But it's what God brings out of that that matters. So if we didn't stay in the other village there's a reason, it was meant to happen that way. And if we die here there's a reason for that too.”

Now it's always been my experience that if there is indeed a God – a Providence, God, Fate, a Superior Being by whatever you name you prefer – they have a malicious sense of humour. So the only God I fully believed in at that time was the most capricious one of all, Chance. Words like faith and God and prayer were tasteless in my mouth like water, they meant nothing to me. I made it a rule, however, not to argue the subject, because all arguments about religion consist of questions without answers. If you don't know, why bother to disagree? And given where we were just then, Kamal's theory seemed so ridiculous I barely repressed a laugh.

“Don't tell me you're one of those Heavenward people. Those Ascension cults.” The Heavenward was one name for the various religious sects that proliferated like mushrooms before the war. They believed the Mods were imposed on us by God, not our own mistakes, and that it was incumbent on us to adore the divine mysteries of Providence, love our suffering and obey our new masters. The radical fringe of Heavenward, the Ascension groups, believed that it was a sin to fight or even question the Mods. They claimed that the Mods were described in the book of Revelation, the real beauty of the book of Revelation being that it's so obscure it could plausibly mean anything. I knew a little about the Heavenward because my mother had been part of a Heavenward church. Up until she disappeared.

“No, I'm not one of the Ascension cults,” Kamal said with distaste. “I mean, I am part of – there's a small church we have where I live and alk about that kind of thing. I guess you could call us Heavenward, but it's not like an Ascension cult.”

“That's good, I can't stand those people.”

“I agree with you on that.” Yes, he is one of those Heavenward people, I thought silently. Well, I'm not going to bother debating something like that. I remembered my mother reading to me from the book of Revelation with an air of quiet resolution, as if the answer to all the world's sorrows were woven into the soothing opiate of the words.

"Well, if you'll pray that God will knock down the walls of the woodshed, you know, give us a little fire from heaven or something, perhaps we can get moving."

"I think we're better off here for the night."

I put my eye to a chink in the wall. Through it I could see the field with the colourless greenrows. "I just don't like that idea you had about the wolvo. I wonder what time it is."

"Must be at least fifteen or sixteen hundred."

"Better try and sit down. Watch out - there could be tools all over the place, or something. Actually, maybe there are, that'd be a good thing." I waved my hands around in the darkness, trying to discover my surroundings. After brushing away several cobwebs I found a pile of logs at one end of the shed; I could lean against that. Atop it my hand discovered a small smooth object four or five inches long. Intrigued, I held it to the light that spilled through a chink.

"I think this is a pocketknife," I said. "I'm not going to unfold it until I can see what I'm doing, but that's what it looks like." A valuable find. I'd left the kitchen knife I'd used in the camp near the borehole.

"Wonderful." Kamal had to raise his voice to make himself heard. The rain intensified to a fast-paced drumbeat that drowned our words.

The rain fell in torrents all that afternoon and into the night; and the wind shrieked through the chinks like the cries of a lost soul. I tried - and occasionally managed - to sleep. In my waking moments my mind strayed restlessly. I was wretchedly hungry and thirsty again, and I didn't want to wait for the morning and our jailer. We'd obviously been mistaken for someone else, and without knowing what crimes our double had committed, we wouldn't know what the villagers would decide to do with us. As long as the rain kept up, we were better off inside, but once it abated we'd try to break out.

But with what? The door was padlocked. The shed was too sturdy for us to to smash through the walls. We might be able to use a piece of firewood as a battering ram, but the noise would alert our captor. The flowing water seeped beneath the walls and pooled across the dirt floor, and at last I stood up to stout of the mud.

Looking for another place to stand or sit, I felt my way along the edge of the woodpile and discovered a vertical beam in the wall on the side facing the field, a little like a doorpost. I pushed on it and it gave way - only very slightly, but enough to give me hope.

"Kamal." I shouted to be heard over the rainfall. "There's a door in the other side of the wall. Behind the woodpile."

"What? Here, hang on." He came over to my side of the shed and I repeated myself. "So you think we can break out of it then?"

"We'll just have to try. I'm not waiting for him to come back."

"Wait for sunrise. There's no point stumbling across that field in the dark."

"All right." The minutes passed with excruciating slowness. At least the rain slowed until it was only a slow steady patter on the roof.

"I don't want to wait any more," I told Kamal; "the longer we wait, the more likely it gets he'll come back."

"It might be light enough to see now. OK, let's do it."

"Just wait a minute, will you, I'll do it." I climbed onto the woodpile. It was only about half the height of the shed. I picked up a piece of firewood and, packing my weight behind it, I smashed it into the door. The upper plywood panel on the door sagged but didn't give way completely.

I threw myself into it again and again with increasing desperation. On the seventh blow the panel splintered and came free from the door frame, the nails protruding from the plywood. The dim light of dawn streamed in to illuminate the interior of our prison. I dropped the firewood and pushed on the panel to break it loose completely.

"Quick." It was still dark. I squeezed through the opening in the upper half of the door and out into the field. Behind us the wolvo barked the alarm in the yard. Rain had transformed the field into a quagmire. I slipped and fell into the muck and picked myself up again, Kamal running behind me.

"You OK, Mark?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.” Skirting the greenrows, we made for the copse of trees at the far end of the field. There were no signs of pursuit; but the trees gave scant shelter.

"At this rate it'll rain all day,” Kamal said. “You know how it goes, it'll stop for ten minutes then start again.”

"We'd better go back to that other village," I said.

"All right." I was miserably hungry and thirsty and I assumed Kamal was even worse off. We dashed through the trees and clambered over the crumbling stone wall into the road, half afraid we'd be followed; but we saw no one. Perhaps the wolvo had given up barking and the rain had disged the sound of wood splintering.

"Here, we're going to have to run," I said. "Otherwise we're going to get absolutely soaked." The asphalt was slick but not so slick as the muddy fields. I ran slowly to give Kamal a chance to keep up, and as it turned out afterwards it was a lucky thing I did, because it took us at least half an hour to return to the deserted village. By that time we were drenched and streaming with water.

"Look," I shouted out to Kamal as we approached the village through the trees, "it's smoke." The deserted village was no longer deserted. A translucent haze dampened by the rain hung about one of the chimneys.

"I don't like it," he shouted back.

"What are you talking about? It's a fire, somebody's got a fire going. Come on."

Chapter 6

I sprinted up the walk to the terrace, Kamal close on my heels. The house was very similar to the one we raided the day before. A stream of water showered from a leak in the roof, and I hurried through the mildewed hall into a carpeted living room with brown wallpaper, screened from outside view by a curtain of ivy where the window used to be; but there I stopped.

Three people stood around a blaze they'd built in the fireplace, using shutters and furniture for fuel. Their fire produced more smoke than heat and tainted the air with a chemical scent of burning paint. Two of them held a cut of meat each on a skewer over the flames; the juices dribbled into the fire and spat. The shape of the cuts was reminiscent of something I couldn't quite remember, as if you saw a familiar object in the wrong setting. I hadn't seen meat – real meat, not insects - in several years.

"Mind if we join you?" I said. They were even more ragged than we were, yet they seemed plump and well-fed. Two of them were men in their early twenties; their companion was a young woman, dark-haired with sunken, brooding eyes that receded into her angular face. Both of the two men were bearded, one of them with blood dribbling down his dark beard from the meat he'd been eating, and the other blond with wild, unkempt hair. Their patched coats, their matted beards and hair told of months spent on the run. The effect was alarming. I felt as if I'd disturbed a group of animals at a kill. If I'd met them under a bridge I'd have felt for my knife in my pocket. As it was, even in the dingy remains of a living room they seemed misplaced.

"What do you want?" the girl said.

"Just a place by the fire out of the rain, until it stops." They all eyed us coldly, and the dark-haired man whispered to the girl.

"You can stay," she said out loud. "But you're not getting any of our mquot;

"I didn't ask for any," I said, annoyed. Kamal and I took our places a short distance from the fire. A disquieting instinct warned me to keep at arm's reach. I rubbed my hands - several of my fingers had gone numb - and the shadows danced merrily in the flickering firelight like mad laughter.

"We've come from up north by Doncaster," Kamal said at length, using the same story I'd invented the afternoon before. "Any idea where around here we can find any food? if there's any towns near here?" His question caused the three strangers some consternation. The blond haired man watched us in silence. His gaze wandered over each of us in turn, as if he were sizing us up.

"There's a dump over by the railway tracks; the Mods have a dump there,” the girl said. “It's about a couple miles east by the railway station. There's all kinds of things there. And then if you poke around a bit you can find something." I'd never heard of the Mods keeping a dump anywhere before.

"We might do that," I said, "once the rain lets up." All of a sudden the blond haired man leaned towards the other man and whispered something again. It was insignificant and yet ill-omened as well.

"You said you came from Doncaster?" the girl asked.

"Well, actually it's Moorends, it's a town near Doncaster," Kamal explained, rubbing his hands.

"From Doncaster," she said dubiously. I didn't know where we were, so the story I'd contrived might be implausible – Doncaster is in the north of England. "How'd you get caught out in the rain?"

"Well, we've been walking, so we didn't know it was going to rain today, worse luck."

"And where are you going?"

"London." After that she didn't say anything else. She watched me listlessly for a moment, then turned and stared into the flames. I wondered whether they were on drugs, and if so, where they'd found them. The Mods had strangled the global drug trade many years ago; synthetic liquor was easy enough to get in the cities, because Mongrel-owned businesses manufactured it, but anything more potent than synthetic liquor was hard to find unless you made or grew it yourself.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Kamal growing increasingly restless, as if he had a bad fidget. At last he nudged me and cast a glance towards a door on the far side of the room. If this house was built on the same floor plan as the other, the door would lead into the kitchen. A finger of thick liquid had seeped into the carpet beneath the frame - water, I assumed. I didn't know why it was frightening; but I felt as if I had only moments left to act.

"Looks like I dropped my wallet outside," I said, and all three of the strangers watched me silently as I spoke. "We'll pop outside and have a look, we'll be back in a minute." I crossed the room, Kamal ahead of me. One of the two men made a sudden movement and the other shook his head. We walked into the hallway - where Kamal my amazement, turned left instead of right through a short passage. The floor plan was identical to the other house, because the passage led under the stairs into the kitchen - and then I understood what Kamal had astutely guessed. He gripped my shoulder.

The kitchen was dimly lit by a window at the farther end. The naked body of an old man lay atop the kitchen counter, the arm hanging limply down towards the floor - the body had been crudely gouged with a kitchen knife, hunks of flesh torn away from the leg-bones by an unskilled hand. A stream of blood had trickled down the counter, and the floor was gaudy with blood like the floor of an abattoir. It had pooled and flowed towards the far doorway leading into the living room. The blood must be the liquid we'd seen creeping beneath the door. I stood still for a moment, listening to the drumbeat of the rain.

"That meat - over the fire -" Kamal whispered; and now I understood.

"Let's go," I murmured. I turned around in time to see the two hollow-eyed men appear in the kitchen doorway, grim-faced, the dark-haired one in the lead wielding a rusting ax and the other behind him with an iron poker.

"Trying to steal our meat?" the dark-haired one said quietly. As if I wanted to steal human flesh! They advanced on me inexorably. The sole line of retreat led into the living room, and the girl might still be there. Even if we did try that way, they could cut off our escape. I drew the knife from my pocket and unfolded it as I stepped backwards. But what good is a knife against an axe?

"You fucking swine," I taunted them bitterly as they approached. The dark-haired man laughed. In a few minutes they'd carve us up too; in a few minutes our blood would mingle with the old man's across the kitchen floor. I struggled to think clearly. I remembered the other house, the one we'd raided. In the kitchen cupboard at the back of the kitchen, by the refrigerator, we'd found the tinned food, an empty bottle of bleach, and - a fire extinguisher. A fire extinguisher.

In a flash I passed the knife to Kamal and raced for the back of the kitchen, taking care to leap across the sticky bloodstains. If Kamal could hold them off for even just a minute - I threw the cupboard door open and grabbed the extinguisher. Would it work? I had no idea what the lifespan is on a fire extinguisher. It was ancient, maybe a couple decades old. The handle had bubbled with rust. I heard a blow from the axe land on the counter, a explosive sound followed by shards of counter tile scattering like shrapnel. Kamal stumbled. Swiftly I turned and, with a violent effort, depressed the handle.

A seething jet punched the dark-haired man in the face. Blinded, he staggered backwards, dropping the axe as his hands flew to his eyes. I turned the jet to the blond-haired man. It was one of those dry-chemical extinguishers that leave a pale-yellow corrosive residue, and he reeled away from us, swearing. I turned the jet back to the dark-haired man.

"Quick, quick," Kamal called out. I dropped the extinguisher to follow him through the living room door. The fire burned unattended; there was no sign of the girl with the strange eyes. Following his lead I raced after him out into the high street of that godforsaken little town, the shops and houses still as picturesque as before, the gutters and streets flded. We couldn't go along the road towards the other village. We didn't want to go back towards the work camp. Which way could we go?

"Kamal. Take the next right," I bellowed hoarsely. One of the roads - the sign on the corner read Victoria Street - led out of town and east, probably towards the railroad tracks. We'd agreed to avoid the railroad tracks the day before, but I was numb with horror and I barely paused to think. I could easily outrun Kamal, so I slowed down to let him keep up. Occasionally I glanced back over my shoulder; the road back to the village was empty.

We paused to catch our breath a mile or so away from the village. The road crossed a ditch by way of a stone and brick bridge. Beneath it, a muddy torrent churned its way into the field beyond. A sign pointed the way to a railway station. It was one of the few road signs I'd seen; the others must have been uprooted for scrap.

We climbed down the short slope and took refuge under the bridge; it was just tall enough that we could stand. Across the stream we had a companion. The body of a man, half rotted away so that the skull was nearly clean of flesh, lay grinning at us. It did happen occasionally that you'd come across bodies in dark or quiet places, in the same way as when you cross a woodland you sometimes find the skeleton of a forest animal and don't think anything of it. I'd encountered skeletons or corpses in alleys in the deserted parts of Central London before. But it was uncanny to find these remains here after what we'd just left behind.

"That explains it," Kamal said after a moment. In spite of the steady rain, it was quiet enough in the shelter of the bridge that I could hear him clearly. "Those people must have killed the old man the same night we broke out from the camp. So then when we got to the village the man with the gun thought we were the-the- We look pretty tatty, we must look like them. So it was an easy mistake to make.”

"The bastards," I repeated hollowly.

"Thought I was going to end up as cold cuts there for a minute," Kamal joked, although I could tell from the look in his eyes that he felt the same sense of frozen horror. Perhaps he, too, hoped that cracking a joke would dispel the jarring image - the corpse mauled with a kitchen knife. I shut my eyes and opened them again.

"They'd have eaten me first, I've got more on me," I said.

"It's funny, for a moment when you gave me the knife I didn't know what you were doing. I was like, what's going on? I thought maybe you were going to run for it and leave me there." Kamal laughed.

"No, I'd never have done anything like that," I said, shaking my head. “I may not be much, but I'm honest.”

"I know, I know. But I was worried for a sec, I just couldn't figure out what you were thinking until you did it. Thank God you thought of that fire extinguisher."

"Thank God it worked.”

"Now you've saved my bacon twice; that's two you and one me. I owe you one."

"Didn't know you were keeping score," I said. My mind fled elsewhere. The water ran down from my hair across my face and into my eyes; I tried to brush it away with my hands but it was no good. I thought of the Mods again and hated them. They were the children of humans, determined to devour their parents. By genetically enhancing the progeny of the wealthy, we had accelerated evolution, and evolution is merciless to the losers. The Species War was natural selection in action – the stronger species mastering the weaker to secure its resources and its future.

And now that they had won - The Mods used us when they needed us, they paid us to do their manual labour and their dirty work, they deprived us of telephones, computers, central electricity to keep us from conspiring, they gave us cheap supplies to keep us quiet, and all the while they despised us. Sometimes they expected us to follow their rules without even telling us what they were; at other times they shouted at us through loudspeakers like riot police ordering around an unruly crowd. It often seemed they even encouraged us to prey on each other. It was our business, wasn't it, so long as we only murdered or robbed each other. The lesser race will do that, they might think to themselves. It's how the inferior race are, they're only Mongrels...

"Fuck, fuck, fuck them," I said out loud, my voice shaking because I was shivering.

Kamal glanced at me in surprise. "Keep your hair on, will you? Don't go crackers on me or anything."

"I won't." Think of what you've got to do. Think of what's waiting for you. Hang on to things like that. You know what's important; don't get distracted. Externally I might appear no different from any other member of the lesser species, but it was the deadly knowledge I took with me that set me apart, a courier carrying a message from a woman now dead. We had the power to devastate the Mods with their favourite weapon. If we could make it back.

"Just look on the bright side, it could always be worse," Kamal said. True, but not very reassuring.

"Don't say that," I said. "Let's just say we've been lucky so far and leave it."

"Fair enough.” He glanced at the foaming stream of mud and water. “We can take some water from this stream here – it's dirty but it's all rainwater - and then maybe we'd better move.”

"Hadn't we better wait until it stops raining?"

"We can always go to the train station," Kamal said; "it'll be empty."

"I thought you thought those were all under surveillance."

He shrugged. "I don't see what ele can do though. If we go south along the road we're going back into that other village. If we go north we're going back where we came from. We could cut across country, but we might not find anyplace soon, it's all deserted." He stopped there, and I knew why he stopped. If we went a couple more days without food eventually we'd end up like the skeleton lying across from us in the culvert. There was no point in saying it. "Besides they said the Mods keep some kind of dump near the railroad tracks.”

"That's crap," I said. "The Mirks don't dump anything. They recycle it, or they burn it, or if they don't want something they leave it out for us to pick through it. But they don't dump things. They're not Mongrels.”

"We can always see."

"I think we're better off trying to catch one of the trains south. They go slowly, and if we can hitch-"

"But those must be under surveillance," Kamal said. "We might as well walk back to the work camp and ask if they'll let us in.”

"How do you know they're under surveillance? Isn't that just what you've heard? They only ever use them to transport Mongrels and supplies for Mongrels, the stuff we use. None of that really needs protecting."

"Maybe it's only what I've heard," he replied, "but the other thing is how many trains do they run on this line. They can't come very often."

"I seem to remember when we were in the work camp they ran a train down every day. Usually just before nightfall; so if they did it'd come by here after dark."

"So not only are we going to get recaptured, we're going to wait a day or two to do it," Kamal said and shook his head.

"I say we chance it," I said. "Better that than starving, or getting eaten or shot. God only knows what else goes on out here."

"All right," Kamal said, "fair enough. If a train comes by tonight we'll take our chances."

The serried ranks of trees grew close to the tracks. We approached the vacant train station warily, torn between our desire for refuge and our fear of recapture. Decay was evident everywhere; the sign indicating the name of the station had been ripped out, the ticket counters broken, and the water gushed through several holes in the roof. The station clock was eternally frozen at 4:16 PM. A couple of rotting wooden benches in the lobby offered the best chance of comfort – if nothing else they were dry. We sat there shivering and sneezing and watching the rain. As I'd surmised, there was no sign of a dump in the vicinity.

"Bloody good thing they built this out of coete, or it'd all have come down by now. Anything that's made of wood the termites eat up," I said. Even though I was soaked I was itching like mad. The lice had adhered to me all this time. "Crappy little bloodsuckers, you'd think this'd be enough to drown them."

"What? lice?" Kamal said. He frowned in disgust. "No, cold water doesn't work. You just about have to light your clothes on fire."

"If I find a match, believe me, I might."

"I know. They eat you up alive.”

"They're God's creatures too, aren't they?" I said drily, remembering Kamal's bilge about Fate the night before. "Didn't God give them to us for a reason? don't they 'serve a higher purpose'?" I added, using my fingers to insert the quotation marks.

"Good question," Kamal said. “If I get a chance I'll ask someday."

"If you ever do, save me a place in line, I've got a few questions too." I scratched under my armpit and inadvertently discovered a brand-new tear in my jacket. Another week at this rate and it would be the size of a golf-ball. However durable the jacket had been before, without any patching it would fall to pieces.

"It'd be nice if we could figure out where we are," Kamal said abstractedly. "Think about how the fellow in the village talked. Not the cannibals, they could be from anywhere, they're probably from the work camp."

"Well, we know where we're not. We're not in Scotland, because the fellow in the village spoke English. And we know we're not in Wales because he didn't sound like a cow. And he didn't sound like a Scouser or a yam-yam or-"

"No, no," Kamal interrupted; "let's narrow it down a bit more than that. We don't want to know where we're not. We're not in Mexamerica or Australia either. I mean, that's good but it doesn't help us."

"If I had to say - I'd say he sounded like a Brummie," I said. "But that doesn't mean anything. He might not be from here, so there's really no way to know. And as long as we're going to try and hitch a ride on the train it doesn't really matter. We'll find out where we are once the train gets to – wherever.”

"We don't want to stay with it all the way there. We want to get off it before it stops, you know, in case it gets unloaded.”

"Well, then, it's pretty simple," I said. "We can stay with it until we come to a city or town then hop off before it gets to the terminal."

"Then wander round and beg for food," Kamal said. "That'll be fun."

"Not much else we can do. Shelter won't be a problem, there's always deserted houses in the towns, just think of London." I pictured the future awaiting us: an unknown city with no food, no money and no place to go. And now we'd beg to live - if the Mods didn't pluck us from the train like rats from a cargo hold. Or if they weren't watching us right now. “Maybe if we're really lucky the train goes right through to London."

"If we're unbelievably lucky," Kamal said in disbelief. "Maybe. Maybe anything'll happen. You really want to get to London, don't you?"

"Well, my girlfriend must have absolutely no idea what's happened to me. I don't know what she'll think."

What would she think? You could always visit one of the buildings off the Strand(as Kamal had done to complain about the water) to inquire about a missing relative or friend. The Mods wouldn't ask why you wanted to know - they treated everything relating to Mongrels as public information; and in answer to your question they'd quickly retrieve the record and tell you that yes, Mark Henshaw was arrested for violating the Lesser Species law. Make too much fuss about it and they'd help you back out; threaten them and they'd give you the privilege of joining your friend or relative. While they seemed to feel obliged to treat us with a modicum of fairness, they could only put up with so much of us, just as you and I sometimes feed wildlife and at other times release our cats to kill them or hunt them ourselves.

But although Becky could find out what had happened to me, I suspected she'd be too frightened to ask questions. She'd simply assume the obvious: that I'd been deported. It had happened to too many others. We all knew someone who had disappeared and only returned years afterwards, and Becky would think the same fate had befallen me.

"What's she look like, this girlfriend of yours?" Kamal asked. I hesitated. It's difficult to describe someone, because your mental picture of them is indelibly coloured by your impressions, but there are no words sufficient to convey your impressions. You could say someone is hook-nosed, or slender, or dark-haired, or tall; and yet it doesn't do them justice. It's not a picture, it's only a caption, because the person you know is more than all this.

"She's brown-haired, she's got brown eyes, she's oh - probably about this tall, and she's absolutely gorgeous. I used to have a picture of her in my wallet but they took my wallet when they arrested me. I've known her for five years but we've been together for a year and a half now."

"Ah." He nodded. "So that's why you're in such a hurry. But you know," he said with a sly grin, "maybe you shouldn't be in such a hurry, because if you just go straight there with that beard she's not even going to know who you are. She's going to look at you and say, 'Get away from me, you nasty creep, do I know you?'" he said, affecting a posh accent.

"Well, yes, I know that, I wasn't just going to go straight back over to her place, I do have some self-respect."

"Now that's the thing about cats," Kamal said. "If Raja is still there when I get back - which like I said I don't know - he won't care either way. People always have expectations. Cats don't care. My brother - if I turn up like this, well, we'll see."

"Nice brother."

"Actually, no, I shouldn't say that," Kamal said. "He kept me alive back when I was just a kid. It's just people get older, and things change. Like I said, I don't know. We'll see."

"Why, what happened back when you were a kid?" I asked.

"He kept me alive after our parents died. My dad died when a mob looted his shop - they killed him when he tried to stop someone breaking a window, and my mum died after that during the war, got hit by a Mongrel sniper. My brother kept me alive. So it doesn't matter what's happened since, I wouldn't be around if it wasn't for him."

His story wasn't unusual. In a way it was the story of everyone who'd grown up during the war. We lived through the kind of events you witness only once in a lifetime, we were each of us torn loose by the tidal wave that washed over our world; as a result we all had our own unusual story to tell. We were survivors. You met people who remembered looting stores for medications to save a sick relative, hiding in a cramped loft for a week, setting traps for pigeons and stray pets to find meat for a hungry child. Our lives were exceptional by 23rd century standards, but we never knew it: the lives of our acquaintances were all exceptional as well. So in my mind's eye I could imagine it clearly. Two children hiding by night in abandoned buildings, the elder one masking his fear with counterfeit courage, knowing his younger brother depended on him. And even as their species lost, they won their own private victory.

"I'm sure he won't give you any trouble," I said. "I mean I don't know him, but I'd be surprised if he's like you say. So I wouldn't worry about it. The really great thing is we've only been gone - what is it now, four months?”

"Too long. Everything I have'll have been stolen. I'll be surprised as anything if my bike is still there. It was a good one.”

"What do you want to bet?"

He laughed. "What do you mean what do I want to bet? I don't have any money, what am I going to do, bet you my shoes? Come on. I've got to have something I can walk in tomorrow."

"I don't want your shoes! I meant you can pay me when you get back."

"When we get back I think I'll keep my money and get a new bike. If I can find one.”

“And there's one other reason I've got to get back,” I said. For a moment I paused, remembering Shelley's warning: The most important thing of all. Don't tell anyone. There are more traitors on our side than theirs. I knew Kamal was a Heavenward, but I was tired, I wanted advice, and his easygoing affability persuaded me he was a moderate, not one of the die-hard fanatics. “You remember the lady on the train? the one who wanted to plant a chemical bomb?”

“A little. Yes.”

“She died after a few weeks in the camp. Someone killed her for some batteries.”

“Makes sense. I didn't think she'd last too long anyway. Too outspoken.”

“Well,” I said, “point is, she told me something before she died. On the train she said she and this group of people were going to plant a bomb, right? That wasn't true. She just said that on the train because she didn't know who was listening. She told me her group had actually designed a virus. A bioweapon to use against the Mods.”

Kamal eyed me curiously, his face unusually alert. “I didn't think that was possible. They've got better immune systems than us.”

“She said she'd found a way. They'd kept the code for it – the DNA code – stored on a computer. It's hidden in North London, together with a GeneWrite, you know, one of those DNA writers.”

“That's unbelievable.” For a moment he stared at the floor. “A bioterror attack against them? That's a suicide mission. So she wanted you to go back and – and print out this virus and try and – I don't know, put it in the water or something?”

“No, I don't have to do it. She said her husband is still in London, he's in hiding, so all I have to do is find him and tell him where Shelley hid what's left of their project. Then he can do the rest.”

“I'd make sure you can find your girlfriend first.”

I paused a moment, struck by a new thought. Becky and I would have to leave London. In a hurry. We might not be able to leave. Would she be willing? would she believe me if I explained Marengo? We would have to loose the torrent, then run for our lives. Before it drowned us too. “There'll be time to do that once-”

Kamal's face creased into an ugly frown. “You know what's going to happen when the Mods start falling sick with a virus? They'll analyse the virus, they'll find out it's a new strain, they'll realize it's terrorism. Any of them that survive'll take revenge. It'll be a bloodbath. A total absolute bloodbath. Just like the war.” I hadn't imagined it like that before, although obviously he was right.

“Well, yes, but it's the only way we can get rid of them, now, isn't it,” I said. “I mean, something like a chemical bomb isn't going to do it.”

“It's a high price to pay. You remember the war? You want to see that happen all over again? You think the survivors are going to care whether or not they're free?”

“It might not be like that,” I argued, borrowing Shelley's logic to defend myself. “If most othem die there won't be enough of them left to keep control and we can get what we want. Equal rights. That's it. We don't want to destroy them.”

“That's insane. It'll be war to the death. You really think they'll talk to us after we kill that many of them?”

“They'll have to.”

“I don't believe it.” He shook his head. “Besides killing them like that is murder. It's terrorism. It's the same as lighting off a car bomb in a street full of Mongrels.” A typical Heavenward reaction.

“So what are you saying?” I asked. “You'd rather they keep on shipping us off to labs and work camps whenever they feel like it, and if we're good and we follow all the rules we get food until they're sick of us? What are we, their cattle?”

“No...but you think equality is worth a war to the death? I mean, we can all be free once we're all dead but that won't do us any good.”

“It's not a war to the death. We don't have to get rid of them completely. That's not the plan. But they're not going to give us equal rights except at gunpoint. They've proven that over and over again. You think they have the right to stick humans in labs? to treat us like shit? Are you saying that doesn't mean anything to you? Look at what they've done to the two of us.” His unexpected objections angered me. I'd never wanted to fight the Mods myself, but I didn't understand how anyone could defend them. Probably it stemmed from his religious convictions. I suddenly felt glad I wasn't encumbered with any similar illusions.

“And just think about this,” I added. “They've used bioweapons on us during the war. For all you know they're planning a genocide right now.”

Kamal frowned at the floor, wavering. At last he looked at me again. He seemed to have made some kind of decision. “It's not something I want to see happen myself. But I see what you're saying, there's really no other way to stop them, is there, they're not just going to listen to us and give us respect, they're going to try to wipe us out. It's Mongrels versus Mods, isn't it, can't be any other way.”

“Not as long as they keep on treating us like crap.”

“But you'll need help,” he said. “To find this friend of hers. You won't want to do it alone.”

“I don't know I'll need help but it'd be welcome. Like I said, I don't actually have to do anything myself, just find whatever's left of her group.”

“Then I'll help you.”

“Why? You don't have to,” I said, perplexed.

“I don't see why not. I owe you one,” Kamal said with a grin. “Besides, I don't think you realize just what's going to happen after you use this - bioweapon. All hell will break loose. London will turn into a war zone. I'm not going to be able to keep my plumbing business, I'll have to forget about it. So I'd like to know exactly when and where this bioweapon's being released, because that way an stay clear of what happens next.”

“I see.”

“And like I said. I'd make sure you can find your girlfriend first, and that she knows what's going on, and that she's ready to leave. Otherwise there's an even chance you won't see her again. Because if we use bioweapons on them – they'll use bioweapons on us. As soon as you use this you're going to have to get as far away from London as you can.”

“Of course, of course,” I said uneasily. I'd only once stopped to think about what would happen after the Marengo plot, and now that Kamal described what it would entail the vision was disturbing. Was it really a suicide mission? Would everyone involved be killed? I tried to postpone all the unanswered questions, defer them till later and hope that the answers would be obvious when the time came. “And the other thing is this. Now that I've told you that, don't pass it along. Don't tell anyone, I don't care who.”

“Of course. That goes without saying.” He nodded. “With something like that.”

And I trusted him.

The rain persisted until the afternoon. We talked of anything except food to keep our minds off our hunger, and during all that time the only life we saw was a rat, slick with iridescent filth, that poked its head out from a hole in the wainscoting. By that time, I was so hungry I wondered whether I could kill it. I thought of the knife in my pocket. The rat, however, crept back into the ruins of the train station, as disappointed as us to discover there was nothing to eat. Meanwhile water from outside seeped under the doors to join water from the roof, and a stream eddied around the broken ticket counters that would never see a passenger again. At odd intervals I wondered whether we'd end up like the man beneath the bridge, skeletons in a station, dead men waiting for a train. I quickly stifled such thoughts. Pessimism poisons your mind, it robs you of the will to survive. If you don't keep a sense of humour you go crazy.

Towards dusk the rain ceased and on the horizon, a rift of sky opened through the clouds, a portent of better weather to come. We stole out onto the platform to look around. The trees grew so close we couldn't see far in any one direction, except down the track, where we had an unimpaired view to a curve a mile away.

"We'll have to watch out for it," Kamal sighed. “It could come any time.”

"We can take turns sleeping."

"If it doesn't come tonight I say we just go south along the tracks. After all we can always try and board it anywhere."

"They speed up between stations," I said.

"Yeah, but they're still pretty slow. I just hope there's no monitors or anything."

"You know what, at this point," I said grimly, "if they'll catch us at least they'll feed us.quot;

"Oh-h-h-h, I wouldn't say that. They might feed us now, but what about once we're back at the camp?" I watched for awhile then took my turn to nap on the rotting wooden bench. There wasn't any good way to make yourself comfortable on it if you were tall like me; for Kamal it was probably all right. One end of the bench had fallen off, so to lie down on it I had to keep my knees bent. Between the awkward position and my gnawing hunger I found it difficult to sleep. When I finally lapsed into unconsciousness, it seemed like only a moment before I heard Kamal's voice:

"Here, quick. It's coming." I rushed out after him onto the platform. Fortunately the wind had died down, and in the stillness the clatter of the train was clearly audible. Like most such vehicles, it was remotely controlled, its power train invisible - nor were there any lights. It had only been four or so months ago, I realized, that I'd boarded just such a train - perhaps even the same car - bound north for the work camp.

We crouched behind a row of concrete bollards as the train slowed to a walking pace. Most of the cars were boxcars bearing freight; there were only two cattle cars on the train.

"Wait until it passes," I said. As if guided by a perverse intelligence, the train suddenly gathered speed. I grabbed onto the handholds beside the front door and leapt while Kamal did the same at the rear. We were on board and inside. This wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was entirely possible the doors could be shut by remote, and if so the train's electronic driver could imprison us without warning. And yet I felt optimistic.

"Didn't think I'd be back on one of these things again so soon," I said. An antiseptic smell lingered in the air; the car must have been pressure-washed with alcohol. Presumably the Mods, with their customary fastidiousness, hosed it out after each cargo load of Mongrels - or they had one of us hose it out. Make one of the animals clean it out after the others, they might say. Was that what they thought of us? What else could they think of us? What did it mean to be more intelligent? What did the world look like to them, I wondered – not for the first time. It was a useless effort, like a blind man trying to imagine the meaning of the word colour. They saw the same reality I knew through a different lens, the world they inhabited was one I would never understand. A pile of burlap sacks lay in one corner; I took a couple of them and tossed one to Kamal.

"Here, we'd better get some sleep," I said.

"We want to wake up before we get all the way there."

"It'll take all night. There's no use waiting up."

"All right," he said. I watched the silhouettes outside journey past in steady motion. I could only hope that our luck would hold, that the dawn would find us closer to London and still free.

Chapter 7

I woke with a jolt. As it crawled over a switch, the car shook violently then gathered speed. The world outside was dark but at least the doors remained open. Whatever else had happened, we weren't yet prisoners. Kamal stood leaning through the front doorway of the cattle car to look at the lie of the land ahead.

"Where are we? any idea?" I asked. He drew his head back inside the car.

"We're coming up on Reading.”

"How do you know?"

"I saw a sign," he said.

"Hello? So when were you going to wake me up?" But he had his head back out through the doorway again. I leapt to my feet and joined him.

"Let's hop off up there," Kamal said, pointing ahead past a large still body of water.

"Why not wait until Reading?"

"Depends on how badly you miss the landfill." Secretly, I'd have liked stay aboard the train on the off chance it would travel through to London, but the risks involved were too great. So I kept my ideas to myself.

The name Reading carried unpleasant associations. Hearsay had it that Reading was home to a major lab, a centre for primate research. It was possible these were only rumours, of course, and while there was nothing necessarily wrong with a town home to a lab, the idea was still frightening; as if knowing that only a few blocks and a bunker wall separated me from humans in cages reminded me of my own inferiority, my own powerlessness. But there was no point allowing my imagination to intimidate me with morbid fears. This was a temporary stop.

"Let's get off the other side of the train," I said.

"Not yet, not yet." A tremor constricted my muscles. "Wait ten more seconds," Kamal said. The train's pace slackened to the speed of a man jogging. It would go no slower. I gritted my teeth, braced myself and jumped. The earth moved beneath me and the impact nearly twisted my ankle, but I staggered and caught my balance, and Kamal followed a minute later. The train cars rattled onwards and left us behind.

"Here, come on." Reading, like London, lacked working street lamps, so only the bright red light of a tower built by the Mods marked its position. We set out across the field, keeping parallel to the tracks. The grass and undergrowth were sopping wet, and the slippery mire sucked at our shoes with sounds like soft kisses, trying to tear them from us. My shoes and ragged trouser-ends were soon caked in dirt as they hadn't been since the work camp.

"I thought you said it was close," I said.

"I saw a sign. I wanted to get off before we reached the town."

"Especially if it's Reading," I added. Kamal looked at me as if seeking in my face an explanation for my cryptc remark.

"Have you been to Reading before?"

"No," I replied, "I don't know it at all. I've just never heard anything good about it. But my guess is that red light is where they have their buildings. So so as long as we keep away from there we're safe. They might have a curfew. I don't know what the rules are in Reading.”

"That's right. They might do.”

"There's no point getting caught twice for the same thing. Better stay right here." But the leaves dripped on us and the chill wind blew through our tattered clothes. After only a few minutes I lost patience.

"Never mind. There's no sense standing here," I said. "We can always stop on the edge of town, in one of the houses or something." We stumbled through thick foliage into a lane on the edge of the suburb, and stopped in an empty house with a missing front door. The entire place had been stripped right down to the carpet, and some enterprising individual had even taken the toilet, because in the bathroom yawned an open pipe.

"Somebody's torn the whole damn place up," I grumbled. “They even took the loo. Can you imagine.”

"I wonder what they wanted that for." Kamal said.

"I don't know. Some people."

But at least we weren't violating the curfew(if there was one), and that was the important thing. Through the window I glimpsed a shadow a shade blacker than the sky flitting across a cloud. An aircar coming in to Reading. The Mods did not sleep.

We strayed outside again as soon as the grey outlines of houses, trees and fences became visible. The streets were deserted except for a few furtive figures, people hurrying on some illicit business, like nocturnal creatures scurrying home before dawn.

I noticed that as in London, some districts appeared to be empty and others inhabited, and cars were conspicuous by their absence; pedestrians and cyclists competed for the lanes. A tall cylindrical skyscraper, constructed from dark glass and an unknown material like congealed frosting, towered above central Reading. Perched atop it a solitary red light winked at the sky. Like most of their buildings, it was probably guarded by a robot patrol and a “living fence” of biotech vines crafted to secrete lethal neurotoxins in their leaves. It was easy enough to climb over a living fence if you felt so inclined, but four hours after the attempt would find you taking leave of this world.

"So where do you want to go then?" Kamal asked. "Downtown?" I felt a little nettled that he'd ask me that. As if I were supposed to know where we could go.

"That's where we're going, but there's no hurry.”

"You're right about Reading,” Kamal said. “I wouldn't want to live here. It must feel like you're bng watched all the time."

"I didn't say it was like that," I quibbled, my hunger setting my nerves on edge. “We're probably all being watched all the time. How do I know.”

“That'd take an awful lot-”

“Come on,” I snapped, “I don't care whether we are or not. I don't know.”

We meandered east at first then south. We avoided the main streets, wandering in the general direction of the city centre. As we turned a corner, we found ourselves passing a slender middle-aged woman, her brown hair threaded with grey. After a moment's hesitation I mustered the nerve to approach her.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said, repeating the time-honoured formula, "could you spare any change?" I felt something wither within me as I said it. I thought I'd lost all my self-respect, but there's always something left that can be crushed. She cast us the kind of glance a cockroach might elicit and stepped off the pavement to give us a wide berth.

Kamal glanced back at her and chuckled. "Did you see the way she looked at us? Did you see that? As if we were - I don't know-"

"Shit scraped off the pavement," I said. "I know."

"See, there, you said it, I wasn't going to say it," he said. He seemed to find it funny, and after a moment I did too.

"Silly bitch." It gave me a perverse satisfaction to despise the woman the same way she despised us. Across the street, a pair of children watching the water rushing in the gutter - perhaps they were drowning a bug for fun or something, the way children sometimes do – turned to stare at us. I heard their excited jabber as we passed and knew we'd caught their attention. I had no idea what I looked like, although I probably resembled Kamal, with his three-month beard, his torn muddy clothes and his tangled lice-nest hair. When you're alone or when everyone around you is equally filthy, you forget your own degradation; but come back to even a quasi-civilized state, and the contrast is obvious. My heart sank. Wasn't there something else we could do? anything else, besides wandering around begging like a couple of street-corner bums?

A delicious scent wafted from farther down the street. At the next corner, a hole-in-the-wall shop exuded an appetizing aroma of synthetic coffee and warm bread. I salivated helplessly. It was maddening.

"Let's try that shop. You want to ask them this time?" I asked.

"What, you think they'll like me better?" Judging by the electric bulb burning above the oven, the shop had electric power; they must have their own solar panels. A short-haired redhead leant against the counter facing out onto the street, and as we approached her brows contracted into a frown.

"What do you want?" Not even a trace of politeness. Manners are reserved for people whose appearance merits them.

&uot;Excuse us please miss, we were wondering if you had any food - anything you were going to throw away or anything. We've walked ten miles to Reading and we're starving," Kamal said. I felt pathetic. Nothing like telling it out loud to remind yourself just how wretched you really are.

"No, we don't have anything here," she said slowly. "But we do have a dumpster we use for compost in the alley round back, you can go fish through that if you like."

"All right, thank you miss," Kamal said. I heard her laughing and talking to someone else behind the counter as we walked away. I felt certain she'd made some less than complimentary remark.

"What do you mean thank you miss? She just told us to go pick through the dumpster."

Kamal shrugged helplessly. "I didn't know what else to say."

"You know something, Kamal? Why are people such a lot of stupid bastards? Why?" I asked. Hunger, like fatigue, either magnifies your outrage or suppresses it completely. When you're starving or tired you become completely inconsistent. One minute you ignore an obvious insult and the next you lose your temper because you stubbed your toe. Most of all I was angry at myself, at the sheer useless weakness of the body that collapses when you need it most.

"I don't know. I don't know.”

"Where is this fucking dumpster anyway?" The alleyway squeezed between a brick wall on one side and the buildings abutting the main street on the other. A blue dumpster was parked a quarter of the way along it with a thick trail of yellow grease dribbling down the nearer side. Pride warred with hunger for a moment, but only a moment. Hunger was more urgent and it won an easy victory. Hadn't we spent months in the dump fishing through garbage? This was no different.

I climbed in and stood atop the mound of trash. Few people used garbage bags any more. Plastic was too valuable to be cast aside, and dumpsters were typically used only for compost. A fragrant mound of decomposing odds and ends filled it halfway to the brim.

"Here, half a sec," Kamal said.

"No, just wait, I'll tell you if I find anything." I stooped to grab a couple of potatoes, each sprouting buds. Potatoes that have begun to sprout always look like mutants or some sort of alien crop, but I was so hungry I didn't really care. I passed one of them to Kamal and jammed the other into my mouth. I'd eaten a potato raw before, but only when I was in a hurry. They have a crisp consistency like a flavourless apple.

I was past the point where eating, instead of appeasing my insatiable stomach, merely teased it, whetted my appetite. I crouched again, still chewing the potato, to root through the trash with my hands and found a half of a loaf made from brown algae flour or sea asparagus - it was difficult to tell which. The broken end was floured with black powder. I seized it eagerly.

"Look, I found-”

"You look hungry, mate." I stood up, still holding the loaf in one hand, to find a stranger watching us with quiet amusement. He was a lean-jawed man about Kamal's height, with sallow skin and slicked-back hair. His small restless eyes reminded me of a ferret's eyes; they watched everything and revealed nothing. His thin lips were compressed into a narrow line. I paused. On the one hand I felt ashamed to be caught rooting through the garbage like a pig; on the other, I was tempted to tell him to sod off. It was none of his business.

"Looking for food?" he asked.

"And who are you," I said.

He smiled, but it was his lips that smiled only and his eyes remained unchanged. "I'm only asking because I thought I'd help you out. I need a couple people to do a job for me."

"A job?" Kamal asked.

"A job. It's a dirty job, but you look like you wouldn't be too proud to make some easy money. That's how come I asked. You'll get 50 nationals just for a day's work, and I can give you two right now to start with. In advance."

I glanced at Kamal, but his eyes remained fixed on the stranger. "What sort of a job?" he asked. 50 nationals - Special Drawing Rights was the technical name, but nobody ever bothered to call them SDRs - was a good deal for a day's work.

"I've got a tankful of waste chemicals I've got to get down the river to London, and I want to get someone to load it all on board for me. Thing is - it's all got to be put in drums and moved over to a barge. I've got it in a siding over by the station. And like I said, as long as you've got it all done by the end of the day it's 50 nationals.”

Probably he bought waste solvent from the Mods in Reading and shipped it down to London. But it didn't make any sense. Ordinarily anything so cumbersome as liquid waste would be moved by train, especially if it was already in a tank car.

All Mongrel businesses were subject to regulation, but in practice close supervision applied only to what the Mods called Class A businesses, Mongrel firms that manufactured certain types of technology(like solar panels) or retained over a set number of employees. Without cars, intercity transport all had to go by rail through the Mods; they owned all the track and rolling stock, and to have your goods transported by rail you paid what they called a redirect fee. It was conceivable Scott was avoiding the redirect fee by floating supplies down to London instead; but I still couldn't understand why he'd want two random strangers like us. Perhaps he thought we'd be cheap labour. I glanced at Kamal and he nodded. "Sure. We'll do it," I said. "If you've got two nationals for us now."

"Yes I do." I climbed down from the dumpster and approached him. I noticed he kept his distance from us as he dug with his hand in his jacket pocket. All at once he changed his mind. "Actually, better yet, why don't you come round the corner with me and I can buy you breakfast, take you over there and get you started's the same thing as giving you the money.”

"Sure,” I said. “Why not. What's your name again?"

"Scott." We followed him back to the hole-in-the-wall shop. The redhead turned to Scott with the exemplary politeness she'd lacked speaking to us a few minutes before.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, could I have two brown gravy sandwiches for my pals here. And a cup of coffee for me, thank you." I tore at the food as we followed our new acquaintance north towards the river.

A footpath follows the south side of the Thames where it courses into Reading. This footpath had once been well-paved, but it was now cracked and buckled, and the trees in whose leafy shade it lies had overgrown it entirely. To our right a wilderness – perhaps a former park or a field – extended to the water's edge; as we drew farther East and closer to central Reading, the wilderness gave way to the brick buildings of the town, and we passed a sturdy stone bridge leading over the river. At intervals boats tied to a quay or a mooring-post floated by the bank. A few other pedestrians made their way up or downstream along the path.

"That's Cavendish Road," said our companion. "We'll come back here in a minute." He rebuffed any questions we asked him with monosyllables, so I knew little about him beyond what he'd told us before. It occurred to me that, if he were headed to London, we could trade part of our fifty nationals for passage down the river - and reach London in under 48 hours. The Mods seldom interfered with river traffic and we'd be relatively safe. I decided to keep this new plan to myself and suggest it later, at the end of the day.

"Now there's where I've got the barge," Scott said. At some distance downstream, the river diverges around an island. Near the island a barge and towboat had been moored to a small concrete quay. "This is where I need you to move the drums, see?"

"And where do we get them from?" I asked.

"That's what I'll show you." We retraced our steps towards the bridge, then crossed a roundabout – without any cars you could walk straight across - into a Richfield Avenue. Richfield Avenue in turn led past a row of rusting warehouses into a Cow Lane. We left the lane for a dirt path and followed Scott to a railway siding teeming with cars, some disused and others that had seen recent service. The skyscraper in central Reading was closer to us than before; it was disquieting to realize it was under a couple miles away, easily within sight range for an Mod.

"It's this one right here," Scott said, rapping his knuckles on the black iron tank car.

"And it's full?" I asked.

"No, only about half."

"So you just want it put in drums and then taken over to the barge? that's it?" I asked.

"Exactly."

"And the drums? Where are those?"

"See that flatbed car down there with all the drums?" he replied. "You can take those. They've got all this other crap in them so you'll have to empty them out, but you can dump whatever's in them in the field if you want." The same wilderness we'd passed when walking along the Thames adjoined the tracks on the northern side.

"Do you want the drums cleaned out?"

"Nah, nah, it don't make any difference. It's got all this other crap mixed into it anyway. What's important is not to fill the barrels too full, because once they're full they're what, 450, 500 pounds, right? so don't fill them all the way because then you can't get them over to the barge, do you follow me?"

"Yes."

"So as long as you get it all in the barge by six that's fine. But it's all got to be in there by six tonight. I can't pay you anything if it's not done by six, yeah?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that's fine."

"I'll meet you over at the barge at six o'clock," he said.

"And if we need anything before that? where can we find you?" I asked.

He frowned. "There's no reason why you'd need to find me until then. I'm not going to be in any one place anyway.”

Kamal shook his head as we watched the retreating figure headed back down the dirt path. "It doesn't make any sense to move it from a tank car to a barge. Least of all like this."

"Maybe he doesn't want to pay the fee. It's probably not even his and he's not allowed to take it. Who knows. If he's paying us fifty nationals I don't care why he wants it moved," I said. Breakfast had rejuvenated my flagging optimism. "Here's the thing. If he's headed downstream to London why can't we trade in part of what he wants to pay us and go along for the ride? We'll be back in London, journey over, problem solved."

"That sounds like a plan.”

"Why don't we empty all the drums out first, then we can just line them up and fill them - figure out how full we want them to be - and move them last of all."

"That works for me." The plastic drums were heavy with a brown liquid that stank like moulding food. We lugged them one by one from the tank car to the edge of the trees, where we turned them on their side to discharge the waste; the liquid left an ugly stain where it soaked into the grass. A squirrel watched us with an inquiring eye and a hopeful look.

"Just thought of something. I hope this isn't breaking some regulaion," I said as we carried back the first of the empty drums. "What if we get hauled in for this?"

"I doubt it, it's not chemical waste," Kamal said. "If they wanted to keep us away from their trains they'd have swooped in on us by now. They can see us from that tower.”

“That's true.”

“And it looks like it's just rotting algae or something. Come to think of it, wish I'd saved half that sandwich."

"I don't mind being hungry for a few hours, I'm just glad it's turned out like this," I said. "We could be back in London by tomorrow night. Can you believe it. And only a week ago you were in that work camp and just about to give up."

"Life is strange," Kamal said. "I don't know. We'll see."

"Bloody hell. Are you jinxing us?"

"No, I hope not. I just - I don't like to tempt fate, you know what I mean?"

"Like it makes any difference," I said. “I'm just glad we we stowed away on the train. We were trying to go south, and we probably needed to go East. We could've wandered around out there forever." We picked up another of the drums from the flatbed car and struggled with it back into the field.

"How many of these do you think we need?"

"I don't know. Depends on how much is in the tank car," Kamal said.

"Then we'd better hurry. We'll look pretty stupid if we get done late. It'd be a shame to do all that work and not get paid anything."

"Now that would piss me off.”

"I didn't know you could get pissed off, you don't seem to get angry about very much," I remarked. "Those bastards at the work camp were trying to starve you. Now if that was me, I'd have broken somebody's skull."

"Well, it's no good getting angry when you're a skinny fellow like me. If I get angry it doesn't do any good, I'll just get my teeth smashed in. So maybe that's why I've got a sense of perspective about all this kind of thing. I try to think - if I die, so what, the planet keeps on turning. It's not what happens to me that matters, it's do I live up to a standard that I want to keep, you know? Have I - how do I say it-"

"Do you keep a moral code, you mean," I said. "I try to live by a moral standard, if that's what you mean. I can see that makes sense."

"It's a little like that." We staggered with another one of the drums back over to the field and dumped the liquid into the grass. "I'm not explaining it really well. It's a philosof-” He stammered the word out several times to get it right.

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

“Ok, so you know what I mean. It's a perspective, it's like this. You can't always choose what happens to you or where you are in the world. The only thing you can always choose is what you think about what happens. And for me it was once I realized that I'm not important - that what happens to me doesn't matter - that I realized what is important."

"Really. And what brought on that revelation.”

"No, it wasn't like that. It's not like like I woke up one day and said, this is what's important. It was more a gradual thing."

I shook my head. Religious doctrine was a foreign language in my ears. I knew the words meant something to its adherents, but to me they were unintelligible. "I knew you were part of Heavenward,” I said.

He smiled, perplexed. "You make it sound like we're all part of a huge group and we sign our names in blood on a scroll. It's not like that. I mean, there's different churches, even different religions that are Heavenward. We're not part of a group, we don't – There are things we have in common, but-”

"Yeah, you think the Mods are part of some divine plan. Well, in that case I don't know I want to meet your God.”

"No, it's not like that either."

“Yes it is. I used to know someone who was one of your real hard-liners. One of the Ascension cults.”

“Oh, those people. I don't think like that, I'm not one of these people that thinks the Mods are in Revelation. What Heavenward means to me is - I think that everything that happens is fate, it's destiny. We're just soldiers on a battlefield, we can only see our individual part of it, the hill we have to take. We don't know the plan for the whole army and we don't need to. We just carry out our own individual part.”

“So how does that relate to the Mods.”

“Well, think about it like this. Just imagine you could know everything that's going on with every molecule in the universe, everywhere at every instant. All events would be predictable.”

Hadn't scientists found that the behaviour of individual particles and atoms is unpredictable, I wondered? And didn't that disprove his theory? But physics wasn't my strong suit, so instead of arguing I resorted to sarcasm.

“Good to know,” I said. “Wish I'd known that before, it'd save me a lot of time.”

“So to God, destiny, Infinite Intelligence, call it whatever you want – the universe is predictable. Everything that happens is part of a plan.”

“Ok,” I said. But my sarcasm was lost on him.

“And to me that's destiny. We're here for a reason, just like the Mods are here for a reason. I may not know what that reason is, but I'm just the private in the army, it's not my business. You know, like it says, 'God forgive them, they know not what they do.' That's why I don't see the Mods as something we have to fight – but if we need to, if we're going to, I'm willing to do that as well.”

Kamal's ideas were beginning to irritate me; it was embarrassing like listening to a bad joke. I didn't understand how he could attribute the absurd accidents of life to a deliberate plan. For my part I could see only that the world was ruled by Chance; that life and evolution were senseless and cruel; and that dignifying the cruelty of chance by ascribing it to God was taking refuge in fantasy, like Santa Claus for adults. “All I know is, if your God dreamt up a plan that includes famines, plague and wars, I don't want to meet them. But I suppose He or She or It probably thinks plagues, famines and wars are good things for the Earth, right,” I said.

“No, I don't mean that.”

“Well, all right. Whatever. As long as your God will get us back to London by tomorrow morning I'll call it fair enough.”

“I hope so too,” Kamal nodded. We emptied the drums one by one in succession until we had fifteen of them lined up by the tank car. Inwardly I reminded myself to avoid any mention of Heavenward or Kamal's ideas in future if possible.

"I think that's enough," I said. "Don't want to empty all these others and find out we don't need them." We took one of the empty drums and positioned it next to the car, uncoiled the hose and connected it. The sickly-sweet chemical smell of solvent - the most pleasant scent of any toxic chemical - perfumed the air. A thin haze like heat waves crept from the lid of the drum. I closed the valve once the shadow of the water level reached halfway. Behind us we heard a blast of air from a passing train, hidden from our view by a line of boxcars on one of the sidings.

"Let's see how heavy that is. Actually, you know what, let's take that one over to the barge first - that way we know if that's too heavy or how full we should fill the others."

"Good idea," Kamal said. "Here, got to lift it over these tracks." He tilted the drum back and crouched to hold it low to the ground while I stooped to lift the other end. We crossed the tracks and the dirt path leading back to Cow Lane. At that point I dropped my end and Kamal rolled the drum with just one rim on the ground. I followed behind to lift it again if need be.

We kept to the centre of the road, and though a couple of passer-by cast us curious glances, no one seemed terribly interested. They'd seen stranger things before. Years of life under the Mods had altered our expectations; we Mongrels had the mentality of a population under siege. We lived near labs and forgot them, we saw h torn down for scrap and wondered whether we could find anything for ourselves. Humans get used to anything, eventually, and over time we'd learned to do what we had to in order to survive.

The rim of the drum emitted a grinding noise like steel wheels on a sidewalk; the barge lay just ahead, floating in the tranquil waters of the river.

"This'll be the fun part," I said. Should I step in carrying one end of the barrel? Should we drop it in? I backed down the concrete slab and stepped into the barge unsteadily; as I did so the liquid in the drum flowed to my end of the barrel. I staggered backwards and dropped it.

"You ok?" Kamal asked anxiously.

"Yeah, I'm fine.”

"Sorry about that."

I shook my head, breathing hard. "We'll just drop the next one in," I said; "it'll be easier. Look at the sun." I didn't have a watch, but at a guess it'd been half an hour since we'd emptied the drums in the siding. Would we have enough time?

"Have to hurry," Kamal said.

"We'll fill the next one a little fuller than that one, and I'll roll it this time since you did the last one. You know what we'd better do is fill up all the drums first, that way we know how much time we have."

Solvent, like gasoline, has an unpleasant aftereffect; the vapour leaves you with a headache worse than any hangover. I started to fill the drums 3/4 of the way full to try to save time. My heart sank as I saw the number of drums around us in the siding grow and realized that - at half an hour a barrel – the full load would easily take us the remainder of the day.

"We're not doing this right," I said; "there's got to be a way to load it quicker."

"We can both roll one each over there and then load them in once we've got them all over there." At last the stream from the tank car into one of the drums slowed to a trickle then ceased.

"I think that's it. All right, let's go." I seized one of the drums and tilted it back on its rim. We'd have to hurry. We'd frittered away the morning, I thought, seething with frustration; we could have emptied the drums twice as fast if we'd been clever about it.

"So what are you trying to tell me then?" she said as she turned to look over her shoulder. She was filing her nails over the sink, an occupation she took very seriously, and it was a dangerous time to talk to her. I should have known better.

"I'm not trying to tell you anything," I said.

"Are you trying to tell me you don't love me any more?"

"No, of course not. Of course I love you."

"Well then why do you say things like that? You really think it's funny to talk to me that way, don't you," she said frigidly, her tone a sure portent of the wrath to come. She had a way of signifying her disapproval that any fool could interpret a mile away; but like an idiot I usually blundered in just the same.

"I was joking."

"You call that a joke?" she said angrily.

"Well, I didn't think-"

"You didn't think. Is that your excuse? You're just too fucking stupid to know what you're talking about, is that it? No, quite frankly I don't think so," she said. "I think you meant it."

"Oh, darling," I said, exaggerating my shock to try to placate her. All in vain. I laughed to myself as I thought of all the things I'd had to do to make it up to her; and in the end I couldn't even remember what I'd said that had caused the quarrel.

Strange to remember a fight at a time like this. Yet even the memory of a fight was pleasant now that it was past. I loved her when she was angry at me, when she loved me, whatever she did or said, I loved even the thought of her and the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she brushed her hair.

How long had it been? At least four and a half months, maybe more. Marengo could wait, hadn't it waited already? Kamal was right, I would find Becky first and the rest would follow afterwards. If Scott Peters could take us down the river to London - and if we could be there by tomorrow night – and in only another 48 hours I could see her again, could hold her in my arms-

I deposited another of the drums on the concrete and stretched. Kamal came up behind me, looking as thin as ever.

"How many more are there?"

"I don't know," I said, "I didn't count."

"I wonder if someone'll steal them if we leave them here."

"I doubt it. Besides, if they do it's not like he'll know," I speculated; "what's he going to do, count how many drums we have and figure out how many gallons? I don't think so."

"Wait, I need some water," Kamal said. He knelt to scoop up water from the Thames in his cupped hands, and the water soaked his matted beard and ran down onto his shirt. "All right, let's go."

I turned to leave the quay then stopped. A shadow without an owner fled across the path, like the shadow of a ghost. It could only be an aircar. Their aircars were nearly invisible; they changed colour in keeping with the light. My stomach turned to jelly.

“Oh, hell,” I whispered. I fought the temptation to run. After a moment the shadow darted away northwards and I heaved a sigh of relief.

"That gave me the jitters," I said to Kamal.

"Don't worry about it. It's like I said, we don't mean anything to them." But even that false alarm reminded me how closely the threat of recapture hounded us, how deceptive was the dangerous illusion of safety. Our freedom was only a privilege afforded our insignificance; an indulgence they could revoke on a whim.

The hours crept past as we moved one drum after another. Originally I'd meant to stop for a break at about midday; instead we kept on working for fear we'd be late. At last the lengthening shadows announced the coming of evening, but we'd outpaced the sun. All the drums we'd filled earlier in the day stood ready to load. I slapped Kamal on the back.

"Good work. We're there."

"Almost," he replied, "we've still got to load them all in."

"We'll get it done in time," I said.

"Sure thing.”

"Couple different ways we can do this. We can just chuck them in there - but I think it's better if I take the other end and step into the barge with it. And if you lower the end you're holding - the liquid won't all run down to my end like it did the last time."

"All right," he nodded. He tilted one of the drums on its side and crouched to hold the end as closed to the ground as possible; I lifted the other end and stepped backwards. The water level in the river had fallen slightly.

"All right, now drop it," Kamal said, and I let the drum slip through my hands to the floor. The barge swayed with the impact as I climbed out.

"Next one." We repeated the same steps over and over again; sometimes our luck held, and everything went well; another time Kamal's grip slipped and I had to jump back fast to dodge a smashed foot. At last only three drums remained on the quay, but the sun was low in the sky. I stopped for a moment to crack my knuckles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure approaching us.

"How are we doing then?" Scott said as he walked onto the quay. "Just about done?"

"Just about," I said as I climbed out of the barge. "We've only got three more to load."

"You're late then," he said; "it's eighteen-ten right now." Not bad, I thought to myself. I didn't have a watch.

"Only by a few minutes. Here, Kamal, pick up that end." Scott watched us load the last two drums.

"Think we're all done," I said. Scott cast a cursory glance at the boat and nodded.

"Yeah, that looks about right," he said, although he'd hardly had time to check them. "Is one of them leaking?" Solvent like chemical perfume suffused the air around the barge, and I too had wondered at one point if there might be a leak, but the cargo box was still dry.

"Not so far as I know," I replied. Scott unwrapped one of the two mooring cables and threw it into the barge, then followed suit with the other. "You're going down the river tonight?" I asked. "It'll be dark soon.”

"No, not all the way, no." I felt queasy; he hadn't mentioned the money he owed us, except to remind us that we were late.

"So what about the fifty nationals?" Kamal asked.

Scott shook his head and walked off the quay towards the towboat. "Sorry, can't pay you anything. I said by eighteen hundred, I came over here at eighteen o five and you've held me up another ten minutes. It's six twenty now." My surprise quickly crystallized into rage.

"No," I said, advancing on him, "we've been working at this all day. Sorry about your fifteen minutes, but you can knock off a few nationals if you want.”

"No, can't pay you anything," he replied.

"Then you're not leaving," Kamal said, echoing my own thoughts. Scott stood to his full height; he was four inches shorter than I and I began to laugh, but in a fluid motion he drew a small handgun from his jacket coat pocket and the laughter died in my throat. He shook his head wearily.

"Just sod off, will you, and don't waste any more of my time, you've held me up fif-teen fucking minutes already."

"That's a pretty toy," I said; "if they-" I jerked my thumb towards central Reading - "know anything about that you'll be on your way west quicker than you can blink."

"So who's going to tell them? Not you. You got out from the lab. Couple of dirty lab rats. You go to them and it's back to your cage," he jeered. I finally realized he'd never meant to pay us anything; he wanted the job done for free. Of course! He'd seen us rooting through the trash; like everyone else, he thought there was a lab in Reading and assumed we'd escaped or been released; and if we gave him any trouble, well, no one would miss us. His implacable eyes assured me he wouldn't hesitate.

"Come on," Kamal said quietly; "it's no good."

"Well, fuck you too then," I spat and turned on my heel. Together Kamal and I walked towards the stone bridge. We'd have to go that way and find a place to stay for the night.

&qot;You were right," I said sourly to Kamal.

"Just to save fifty nationals. And he didn't even have to make it fifty," Kamal said, shaking his head; "I'd have done it for twenty-five." As I glanced over my shoulder I saw the barge pull out into the river, headed downstream. Scott would probably try to make it as far east as he could before dusk. My empty stomach reproached me bitterly for having been so naïve.

I laughed as I turned it over in my mind. "Fifty. I guess that's all we're worth now. I'd've hoped I'd be worth a hundred, but you have to take what you can get. At least we got breakfast out of it. Other than that we've worked all day for free.”

"We can't go back to London for a while now," Kamal said; "we're going to have to stay here, even if it's just for a couple days."

"Yes," I said, still deeply disappointed; "I know."

Chapter 8

We spent the night in an abandoned building and rose before dawn. We tried scavenging through another dumpster in a back alley, but someone else had already picked it clean.

"You know what, to hell with it," I said. "We'd better find a place to stay for starters, and then we can get cleaned up, we'll have more luck that way, I think."

In the cities of those days, there were always a surfeit of abandoned homes and buildings; there's plenty of room in a city when half its population has died. Finding a place to stay wasn't difficult - depending on what you were prepared to accept. At the simplest you could take possession of any abandoned building, get keys cut for the doors(locksmiths were in constant demand), and make your own improvements. The Mods operated the water mains, and they subcontracted in turn with Mongrel firms who operated the actual plumbing, so you could contact the water company to get the water installed or switched on. Of course there were risks to simply taking what you found, because you could end up with a house on the verge of collapse or some other ugly problem.

Usually the most desirable homes or buildings in London already had owners; you could rent these out if you had cash. Other unowned homes or buildings were maintained by the tenants, who formed a tenants' association(TA) to upkeep the building and screen new residents. Becky and I were part of a TA in London. But TAs also had drawbacks, since like everything else they had no real legal existence. The only court of appeal was the Mods, and it was best to avoid seeking their arbitration; superior intelligence often has disturbing ideas about fairness and justice.

If you didn't care for what you could find or buy, there was always one other option. Some people stuck up their own lean-tos, improvised hovels built from corrugated metal, cardboard and other scraps. There were entire neighbourhoods in London that swarmed with these strange creations like human-sized chicken coops, shantytowns in the making.

Kamal and I, however, we had no choice; without time and money we'd have to settle for what we could find. We walked south and east across Reading, stong to look at anything promising. After a half an hour or so we picked a place in a two-story brick-and-plaster terrace off a narrow side street. It looked like it would fit the bill: it was sturdy and there were neighbours, but not too many of them.

"This'll work. What's the address again?" I asked.

"Oh, I'll get it in a minute. Here, look at the kitchen." But I froze in surprise. Through a doorway I saw a complete stranger watching me.

He was bearded and grim, a frown etched into his brows; his dense hair and beard were tangled and matted with dirt; he was gaunt like a scarecrow, and a lunatic intensity shone in his eyes. The stranger had a hunted look like an animal on the run. He reminded me of the cannibals in the deserted village. I opened my mouth to speak - and so did he.

"Shit. Kamal?" My reflection said the same thing. It was a mirror left hanging on the bathroom wall when everything else in the flat had been plundered.

"Mark?"

I laughed. "Sorry, never mind. Nearly scared myself to death."

We begged a couple of passer-by for money and this time we got lucky; after half an hour we had eight nationals. Not a fortune but enough to buy us soap, a razor, a pair of scissors, some food, some synthetic kerosene. Kerosene is the most ghastly way to kill lice because not only does it hurt like hell, but you run the risk of lighting yourself on fire and dying together with your tormentors. The only thing to be said for it is that it's cheap and it works.

We stole a bucket from an empty yard and used it to bring water from a fountain on the square. Once I'd cleaned up a little and rid myself of my beard and shaggy hair I felt a little more civilized again, and while we still looked ragged as scarecrows it was a start. When you are filthy and dirty your self-respect suffers, just as when you're despised you come to see yourself the same way. But finding work still wouldn't be easy; our clothes were in rags and we knew no one.

"Didn't you say you were a plumber?" I asked Kamal.

"Yes, but I don't have any tools with me, I can't just-"

"All right, I know, I know." After I went to refill the bucket I realized I'd save time if our new neighbours would loan us some water. But would they be home? I didn't even know what day of the week it was. I knocked on the door of the house one down from our own. A dog responded from within with a deep-throated bark.

"Yes?" the owner said with a frown as he opened the door. He was a meaty, thick-necked man in his early thirties wearing a sweater darned and patched at the elbows; he had pale blue eyes like a fish's eyes in a coarse fleshy face. He reminded me of a boar. Behind him a mixed-breed mutt scuffled at the wainscoting.

"My friend and I just moved in next door and we don't have the water switched on yet, so I was wondering if we could borrow some of yours. I can pay you back later if you like." I didn't know how much they charged for water in Reading, but I didn't want to presume generosity where there might not be any.

"Okay," he said and looked me up and down dubiously. "So how much water do you need then?"

"Just a bucketful," I replied.

"Oh. That.” He snorted. "That's no problem, I thought when you said you were gonna pay you meant more than that. No, you don't have to pay us back for something like that, no. What'd you say your name was?"

"Mark Henshaw."

"Tom Ferguson." He extended his hand; he had a brutal grip.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Here, why don't you come on in then. The wife and kids are out right now, so it's just me. Stop it, Butcher." By Butcher he meant his dog. "Kitchen's right through there, you can fill it up in there. Where'd you say you came here from?"

"From London. Actually just got here this morning," I said. It wasn't a lie, just an omission. We had come from London, via a work camp, of course, but there was no point in telling him that. My experience the day before had taught me caution.

"You walked a long way?"

"Yes." I positioned the bucket under the faucet and turned it on. Their home was well-maintained; I inferred Tom had done all the repair. In the parlour a wonky table cobbled together from mismatched boards stood opposite a fireplace, and a curtain hung across the window.

"So what'd you come here from London for?" he said, watching me fill the bucket.

I hesitated, trying to contrive a story on the spot. "It's tough finding work in London right now. I heard it was easier out here.”

"Well, I guess it depends on what you do. It seems like we always need more locksmiths. And doctors. Course there's no hospitals for us Mongrels any more, at least not here-" (there weren't any in London, either) "-but there's plenty of work for a good doctor, it's good pay if they do house calls."

"No, nothing like that, I'm afraid."

"Why, what'd you do in London?" he asked.

"Electrical repair. I used to work at a government fuel plant in London, actually, working for the Mods, but I got my clearance revoked, so they won't hire me anymore," I said. That seemed believable enough.

"Now electrical repair, you coul do pretty well with that. Everybody that's got their own generator or their own solar or whatever, and the water people, they're always needing that for their plant. I have trouble sometimes," he said with a chuckle, "we got our own solar unit here and I don't know much of anything about electronics, don't want to set the place on fire, so maybe you could lend me a hand, you know, when you got time."

"We haven't really looked around yet, we only just got here."

"Ah. Well if you haven't found anything yet - I tell you what, the place where I work, the manager's looking for a couple of blokes to work the night shift. It's real easy, simple stuff. You could take that up while you look for something else."

I shut the faucet off. "The night shift? Is there a curfew?"

"Well, I dunno. If you poke round their buildings downtown at night you'll get arrested, but why would anybody do that? Other than that you're fine.”

"How does the plant run at night?"

"We've got solar panels, so we store up the energy they get during the day and then we run the place at night on backup. You know, on supercapacitors.”

I flipped off the faucet. "What kind of company is it?"

"Well, it's not that big, I dunno, I wouldn't say it's a really big company or anything, but it's a contractor for the Mods. We assemble solar cells for their gadgets." In some industries, the Mods subcontracted for parts with Mongrel firms. While many of their more advanced materials were made using nanobots or biomolecular computing, those techniques were expensive enough that a Mongrel company could save them money. In other industries, the Mods ran all parts of the supply chain themselves and hired Mongrels to do the dirty work, especially at their fuel plants, which were so critical they had to oversee them.

"It sounds fine. Where is it?" I asked.

"It's up north of the station," he said. "I work there on the dayshift, I do some of the assembly work, you see, but if you want to come along with me tomorrow morning you can meet the manager and see if it'll work out, and I can put in a good word for you later on."

"That's great, I think we'll do that if you don't mind," I said. If it really was simple entry-level work they wouldn't mind if we looked shabby, and later on we could look for work elsewhere if we needed to. "That's really kind of you."

"Of course. We help our neighbours out here when we can. I leave real early, though, just a bit after sunup, so just make sure you're up by then."

"Yes, we'll be over first thing in the morning."

"Well, you don't have to do that," he said; "I'll stop by your place on my way out. You come over here that early you'll set the dog off and wake everybody else upnt>

"He doesn't look that ferocious," I said. “How'd he lose his ear?”

"Lost it in a fight with a wolvo. He killed the wolvo though. Good boy.”

“He killed a wolvo?” I said, amazed.

“Yeah. Isn't that something. He's a fighter. He's tough. You wouldn't guess it just looking at 'im but once he's got his teeth in, bloody hell.”

"How long have you had him?" I asked.

"About five years. He was a stray when we found him."

"I can't believe he killed a wolvo."

"I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen him do it," he said as the dog examined a grease spot on the floor. “Look at him. What a dummy. Come on, Butcher.”

"Kamal."

"Yeah," he said, his voice drifting down from the second floor. He came to the head of the stairs. "Just checking to make sure everything'll hold up, you never know with these old buildings. So what is it."

"Got some good news. Just talked to our neighbour, I told him we'd moved out here from London looking for work, and he says the manager where he works is looking for a couple people for the night shift - I guess they have night shifts there or something, and it's really simple work." He came down the stairs. His clothes were still tattered like my own, but he'd shorn off his shaggy beard and his moustache was once again carefully trimmed.

"That is good. Where is it?" he asked.

"It's over near where we were yesterday."

"Oh, all right, that's not too far," he said.

"He said we can come over with him tomorrow and he'll introduce us to his manager, you know, put a good word in for us," I explained.

"I guess we'll have to scavenge again today, unless we want to starve," Kamal said, shaking his head. "Wonder when they pay us. Probably once a week.”

"I know, I know," I said. Hunger harassed me constantly, distracting like the pain from a rotting tooth. It was always on the back of my mind and if I ever stopped to concentrate on it I felt queasy and weak. "But at least it's a start. You know, all we really need to do is work there until the first time we get paid then we can leave."

"You think?" Kamal frowned.

"Of course. All we want to do is get back to London, as long as we've got some money in our pockets we can buy a change of clothes, you know, everything else we need, and get back on the M4 to London."

“Ok, that makes sense.”

"Why, what'd you think we were going to do, give them six years notice?" I asked.

"No, that makes sense, I just wasn't thinking for a moment," Kamal replied.

“I mean, we've got to go back,” I said. “There's this other thing – what I told you about before.” Marengo came to me unexpected and unwanted, but now that it was mine I could no longer turn it down; my life belonged to the human race, not to me. The others who held it were dead or scattered, and if I died who would know?

“Right. No, no, I know,” he said, descending the stairs. “But don't talk about that. You never know.”

“That's true.” We knew they monitored us, although how extensive or how universal their surveillance might be was unknown. The worst danger was probably our fellow Mongrels. The less often we spoke of Marengo the better.

We set out early the next morning together with our new neighbour. "You all ready then?" he said after the sharp rat-tat at the door announced his arrival. He was dressed in shirt and jeans under overalls. He frowned at my jeans for a moment, probably noticing I wore the same tattered clothes as yesterday. An unpleasant gleam of suspicion dawned in his eyes.

"Yes, let's go," I replied. Tom scrutinized Kamal for a moment then me again; but whatever he guessed, he kept it to himself. "This is Kamal Das, and Kamal this is Tom Ferguson."

"Pleased to meet you," Kamal said with a sunny smile that revealed the white flash of his teeth.

"Good to meet you too."

"This is really kind of you," I said as we set off down the narrow two-lane street. Across the way I saw a couple of clotheslines hung out across front porches and heard the occasional sounds of the residents awakening to the early morning - the slam of a door, a metal ladle scraping a pot. "We only just got here yesterday, and we'd been in the road just a couple days ago when it rained, so everything we had got soaked," I said, hoping this would explain our appearance.

"No trouble at all. It's not like I'm doing you a favour, if you know anything about electrical repair like you said you do, trust me, you'll be the most popular man on our street in a week," he said. "And there's one other thing I wanted to warn you. The manager at our place - she's a real nice lady once you get to ow her, but she's a bit of a bitch at first, until you get used to her, really. So don't mind how she is now.”

"So how long've you lived here in Reading?" Kamal asked.

"Lived here all my life. I came here with my family when I was a kid, 'cause we were from Milton Keynes, back before the government-" he nodded in the direction of the tower in central Reading - "blew it off the map. It's funny how much it's changed here though. Back about ten years ago it used to be pretty awful, I mean, you had to be willing to do just about anything, but things are getting better. The price of food's gone down, there's more people here than there were ten years ago, and some of us we get together for dogfights and bet on the dogs, play cards, that kind of thing.”

"That sounds good," I said.

"And we've got a sense of community now too, it's not like we're a small town or anything, but you know all your neighbours and as long as we all stick together we're all right." Given the hostile reception we'd met with the day before I knew that, however true this might be for Tom, it was an inaccurate depiction of Reading. "I think you'll like it here."

"But that tower downtown," Kamal said; "it's like they're watching you, isn't it."

"Not really, I mean, you get used to that. Of course, if you ever think about them experimenting on people in there and everything, it gives you the creeps, but those are criminals, you know? And they treat 'em really well, they give them exercise and food and all that, it's not like they're cruel to them. It's actually really nice in there, at least from what I hear. You know, it's funny, I was just talking to the wife about this the other day. The way I see it, if you break the rules and that's where you end up, that's your look-out, now isn't it. The way I see it is, the Mods are here to protect us, you know, keep us safe. They're smarter than us, so it's only fair they're on top, now, isn't it? And things aren't really that bad now. As long as we don't make trouble we're fine. So that's what I say any time I hear any of this crap about how things used to be or whatever. And that's what I tell my kids, you know, just do what they tell you, they know what's best." I didn't want to quarrel with our new neighbour, so I changed the subject.

"No, it sounds nice. I'd heard things were better in Reading and some of the other towns than in London," I lied. (I'd never heard any such thing about Reading.)

"I don't know much about what goes on in London now, I haven't heard. Is it really all that bad?" Tom asked with a frown.

"No, I mean, I wouldn't say it's bad. More expensive, and you can't get any real cigs for at least five years now. Well, at least I can't."

"It's the same here," Tom said, shaking his head. "Not that I smoke, but you know."

"I smoke some of these packed-black-algae cigarettes every now and again but I can't say I'm keen on them. And it's - when we came out here we took the place next to yours because it was empty, but in Lndon half the houses are co-ops now - at least the ones that aren't falling apart - and they all want letters of reference."

"It's expensive, is it? How much does synfuel cost?" Tom asked.

"Half a national a litre."

"Yeah, that's not cheap. But it's not too bad," Tom said, nodding critically.

"And then they're really strict about enforcing the rules, like the curfew and the ban on electronic communications," I added. "I knew someone who got arrested for breaking the curfew just four months ago."

"Oh, see, they're not that strict out here. Long as you stay out of the way and do what they tell you, you're all right. So you just packed up and came out here by the M4 then?"

"Yes, that's right," I said.

"That must be difficult to just pack up and leave like that," Tom remarked. "I don't know how you do that. I couldn't just pack up and go someplace else like that, you know, leave everyone you know behind." In my own mind I labelled Tom Ferguson. I misjudged him, naturally; you should never make the mistake of underestimating someone's intelligence; but as in his case, it's often a very easy mistake to make. In my mind I imagined him in the work camp, and how quickly he would either die or be forced to change, and a smile crossed my face - perhaps I'd changed a little myself. He frowned.

"What's that?" he said.

"I was just thinking, it wasn't as difficult leaving as getting here, actually. The M4 was bloody awful in the rain."

The plant where Tom worked was north of the railroad. To my relief, neither the siding nor Cow Lane were visible from the plant(I was starting to wonder whether they'd seen us trundling barrels the day before). The security guard knew Tom well, and Tom explained we wanted to talk to the manager about a job. A chain-link fence enclosed three steel sheds, each surmounted by a series of thin solar panels; the panels, less than a centimetre thick, shimmered the colour of green emerald in the sun. They relied on artificial photosynthesis and were efficient enough to supply power even on cloudy days. The whine of an electric grinder mingled with an orchestra of lesser noises, and a few people crossed the yard between the sheds, two of them carrying a bundle of steel rods. A middle-aged woman stood leaning against a door writing on an electronic pad. She wore glasses and a sceptical frown, grown permanent from long years of overuse, that had etched deep lines around her mouth. Her short dark hair was a shade of red(and I assumed it was dyed that colour, because the roots were the colour of her rain jacket).

"Good morning Karen," Tom called out.

"Good morning, you're here early," she replied.

"Just five or ten miutes. I brought a couple friends. They're looking for a job."

"Oh, for the night shift, you mean," she said, looking up from her pad. She studied both of us and her face darkened. "Friends of yours?"

"Yes, my neighbours. They just moved in from London last week, and they're looking for work."

"What are their names?" she asked Tom.

"This is Mark Henshaw, and the other is Kamal Das," Tom said, mispronouncing Kamal in a way I used to think was impossible.

"So you're from London, are you?" she said.

"Yes, that's right. I can do some electrical repair, and I used to work at the Tottenham Court fuel plant in West London," I said.

"Who was the owner?"

"It was government,” I said.

"How long did you work there?"

"Three and a half years now."

"And your friend here, Mr. -"

"Mr. Das," Kamal broke in.

"Where'd you used to work in London?"

"I ran my own business," Kamal replied. "I was a plumber. But I used to work at a synthetic chemicals farm in East London, so I've done assembly work before."

"And why'd you leave London then?" our interlocutor continued.

"It's getting more expensive there all the time," I replied. “I'd heard from a friend of mine that things were better here in Reading, so we thought we'd come here." I hoped my story sounded plausible. Without telephone or electronic communications, it was virtually impossible to do background checks; there was a common substitute that many employers would request, and I anticipated her next question.

"Do you have any letters of reference?"

"No, I'm afraid we don't. We got caught in a downpour on the way down the M4, the water got into my case and all our stuff got soaked, unfortunately." It was a plausible if flimsy excuse, and her eyes bored into me. “But I've got experience doing assembly work, and so does Kamal from about four years ago doing the same thing," I added, "so that's why I thought we'd be just perfect for your company."

"I can vouch for them if you need a reference," Tom broke in.

"We'll do a trial period if you want,” I added.

& typically do a trial period anyway," she said. "But it's not just my decision. What you'll need to do is come and talk to the night-shift manager, Sam, and he'll decide if he wants to take you on. Come back here at five thirty and I'll let him know to be expecting you. You do know it's night work and six nights a week, yeah?"

"Yes, Tom told us all about it."

"All right, and the other thing is that if Sam does take you, the first night's work is unpaid, because we've got to train you and make sure that you're up to par with everyone else before we can start paying you. It's all assembly line work, so you've got to be able to move quickly without making any mistakes. You can do that, yeah?"

"Yes."

"All right. Then like I said, come back at five thirty and ask for Mr. Crosby and he'll be waiting for you. And you quit hanging about and get to work now," she said with a good-natured frown to Tom, who grinned in reply.

"Thought you said I was early. All right, Mark, Kamal, see you tonight." We returned by the main gate and left by the same route we had come, and I waited until we were beyond the fence before I started bitching.

"Isn't that wonderful," I said to Kamal irritably and in an undertone. "Now we get a night of unpaid work. And that's if we're lucky and this fellow's in a good mood. We're going to have to scrounge around for food until then. Perhaps we'd better look for something else."

"The good side of it," Kamal said, "is that at least - if we were trained for free, they can hardly complain if we leave a week from now."

"Why, who'd they have complained to? What difference would it make?"

"I'd hate to get our neighbour in trouble. I mean, here he's giving us a good reference."

I shrugged. "Kamal, Kamal. That's not our problem." My words echoed as we passed beneath the railway line, and above I heard the rattle of an approaching train. "I'm sure he'll figure it out, it's not as if they'll hold it against him. Besides, I'd be surprised if they take his word for too much anyway. He's not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. No, I don't think we'll get that. We'd better look for something else.”

But Kamal disagreed. “I don't think they'll turn us down. I mean, everyone needs people nowadays, it's not like there's as many of us as there used to be.”

In spite of my misgivings, we returned in the evening. Sam hardly asked any questions at all; instead he had us fill out a form and began explaining the plant policies as if we'd already been hired. He was a young, heavyset man with a short beard and thick dark brows; he wore overalls and latex gloves befouled with brown dust. "So here's how it works. You start at eighteen thirty each night and you leave at five thirty in the morning, but I'd get here early just to be safe, a lot of our people do.ou take a break at twenty-one hundred hours, another at midnight and then a last break at two." I'd misconstrued Karen's suspicious demeanour; perhaps – as Tom had warned us - she treated everyone like that. We had the job, assuming we could retain our employer's confidence.

I don't want to describe in too much detail what the company did - I'm less than an expert myself - but it's best I give you a general idea. The assembly line I worked on manufactured artphoto panels. Artificial photosynthesis duplicates the process plants use to store energy from the sun, only where plants manufacture sugars, an artphoto panel produces fuel or electricity instead. Nanoparticles are arranged like crystals in a lattice, all embedded in woven plastic fabric so that the solar panel can bend or fit on nearly any surface, from a uniform to a building roof; the whole thing absorbs nearly 100% of light of every colour - even infrared - except green, which it reflects and which gives the panels their beautiful colour Even a poor-quality artphoto panel is three or four times more efficient than the solar panels our ancestors installed, back in the years when they still used crude oil instead of biotech algae to make gasoline.

At night the plant, staffed with a skeleton crew, performed just the last steps of the process. Sam assigned Kamal to the end of the line nearest the door, while I followed him to the far end of warehouse, past shadowy figures - their hands and equipment brightly lit - standing still and working feverishly. Above us the roof of the metal shed soared like a steel cathedral into the darkness, and a draft of cold air wafted along the floor; it stank sweetly of solvent.

"Ben. Stop the press a minute, dammit." Ben was a stoop-shouldered, snow-haired old man with owlish blue eyes behind his glasses, thin pale lips and a freckled face that wore an anxious look like a worried rabbit.

"Ben, this is Mark, he's our new hire."

"Pleased to meet you," Ben said. His voice was quiet and surprisingly strong, as if nature had mismatched it with its owner. Only a nervous tremor betrayed his age.

"Ben's been here about as long as we have, so he knows all the ropes," Sam said. "Ben, show him what he's got to do, have him do it for a while then let me know how he does. And don't give him more than an hour - he doesn't need more than an hour. If it takes him any longer than that, come get me."

"Will you mark me down my production goal for one hour?" Ben asked.

"Course not. I'll only mark down for ten minutes. You can get the same done with him watching as you can without," Sam said, "you're fast enough. You know better'n to ask that."

"So this is your first night?" Ben asked, his gaze following Sam's retreating figure with resentment.

"Yes, just started."

"All right, well, come on," Ben said. "We've got ten minutes then. This'll be your workspace - it's mine right now but they're going to have me do something else. First thing you've got to know around here is it's all about the nums. They say they want you to do 300 cells an hour. If you do more than that, wonderful. If you do less than that, you're done.”

A thick, semicircular concrete slab with embedded instruments formed Ben's workbench. A thin wooden board screened it from view; to this, Ben had tacked a picture of several people - two children and a woman – that I assumed were his relatives. A light hung by a cable from a metal rafter some ten or twenty feet above. On either side of the workspace rested a plastic bin, one of them half-full with panel segments tacked together like artificial skin; the other was three-quarters full of loose cells. Ben picked one of them up. The light caught it and it shone green like a jewel.

"All right. Now this is what we do," Ben said. "You see those cells in the box on your right, like this one? The first thing I do is take it and put it in this press. You use these knobs to move the press. You see how there's these dark green lines on the cell?" I did; dark green lines bisected it like the lines on graphing paper. "And two of them come to the surface on this side. So you want to take it, slot it in the holder here - that'll keep it in the right place - then you push the press up to it and once it's in contact, you press this button."

A bright light like a spark lit the workspace. "Now that's drilled two small holes in the cell. Now you flip it on its end and you drill those same two holes in all four sides. Then you take another cell and do the same thing with it, which I already have." He picked up another cell with the miniature holes drilled in its sides. "Now take these plastic rods here. Now you insert a black lead and a white lead and you use that to connect two of the cells, see?" All the time he was talking his thin, nimble fingers kept on moving, like the restless antennae of an insect. They moved of their own accord as if they had a life of their own.

"Does it matter which way you put them?" I asked. Ben shook his head.

"There's only one thing you've got to keep in mind, which is: they've all got to be on the same side. So if I link ten cells together in a row like this," he said, stooping to pick up one of the finished panels from the box on the left, "you see how the white rods are always on one side and the black on another? Do anything else and they'll mark down your production. Keep on doing all that just like I showed you until you've got a square of ten cells by ten cells all linked up together - that's a hundred cells. Next you put that under the caulk press over here, see? and that glues them all together. You want to put the glue on both sides.”

His explanation was confusing, but his fingers demonstrated what I ought to do, so I followed his fingers and ignored the words. Once I did that I understood.

"So you've got to do three hundred cells - three of those squares an hour?"

"I'd do three-fifty if I were you, otherwise some other arsehole'll come along and tell Sam he can do three-fifty, and you'll be out on your bum. Yes; you'd better do three-fifty. I do four and you hear how he talks to me," Ben said with an angry little flash in his eyes.

"Where do I get more cells when I run out?"

"Take that box over there at the end of the line," Ben said, pointing to a box adjacent to another workbench. "Don't worry about the box of finished panels, the next fellow along the line'll take it when 'e's done with his own work."

"And the tubes?"

"You can get those from Sam. Now if anything and I mean anything breaks tell Sam first thing. That's first thing. That way he'll mark down your production. Otherwise he'll think you're doing a few hundred an hour."

"All right, that makes sense."

"So do you want to have a go at it then?" He looked at me with anxious eyes.

The work was simple and I got the hang of it quickly. Of course the most dangerous time at any new job is once you think you have it down; at that point your overconfidence blinds you and you make mistakes. Sam stopped by a couple of times, apparently for no other reason than to stare over my shoulder. I tried to keep count of the cells I stitched together and realized I was falling behind; I tried to move faster but my inexperience hindered me. I was relieved when the wall clock read 9:30 and the annoying whine of the drill press ground to a halt.

The employees contributed to a coffee fund, and at break I crossed the plant to queue for some synthetic coffee from the pot. From there I headed outside to enjoy a few minutes of fresh air. Kamal had the same idea, because I found him leaning against the wall of a shed.

"Kamal?"

"Is that Mark? So what do you think?"

"It's better than digging through a landfill," I said. "It's easy enough. And if we're lucky it's only for a week." I heard another train passing.

"It'll do for now," Kamal said. "So what do they have you doing?"

"Gluing the cells together."

"Ah. They've got me running a cutter. I wonder what they put in this stuff," Kamal said, staring down at the coffee; "it tastes like it's got metal in it." Synthetic coffee was usually manufactured by Mongrels; there was a plant in London responsible for most of the stuff, and if you knew how you could make your own.

"Who cares, as long as it's got what counts," I said. "I wouldn't care if they put stale piss in its it had enough caffeine."

Kamal shook his head. "Now that you mention it, it does taste a little like-"

"How the hell would you know what stale piss tastes like?"

Kamal laughed. "I got real thirsty back at the work camp. No, I'm just kidding. I've no idea." I heard footsteps approaching us and discerned Ben's slouching figure.

"So you like the fresh air then too?" Ben asked. "Most of these people just go back and stand at their benches. I don't see why take a break if you're just going to stand at your bench."

"Kamal, this is Ben, he works on another part of the line," I said. "And Ben, this is Kamal, he's a friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you," Ben said. "You new here too?"

"Yes, I just started," Kamal replied.

"So how long've you worked here?" I asked Ben.

"Too long," Ben said. "That's what I say whenever anybody asks. Too long. But then, I've been around a while. You see that tower there in central Reading? I can remember back when there used to be a town hall where that is now."

"So if I'm taking your place what are they having you do now?" I asked.

"They're going to have me work with the drill press. They had to fire the fellow they used to have on the drill press, you know."

"Why, what'd he do?"

"He lost two of his fingers in the big drill press. How the idiot got his fingers stuck in the drill press I've no idea. I wouldn't have thought anyone would stick their fingers in the drill press," Ben said ruefully. "But he can't work here any more. That's how you'll know if they're firing someone, by the way; you'll see they're hiring more people to work on the other end of the line. So if you ever see that then watch out."

"Do they fire people often?"

"No, not really, no," Ben said indifferently; "only people who deserve it. You do your three-fifty an hour and they'll pay you on time. And they can't fire me," he said, his voice sinking to an insidious whisper, "because I know something about them that no one else does." He tapped the side of his head as if it were the receptacle for some secret information. Kamal and I exchanged a glance. The old man was crazy.

"And what is it that you know that no one else does," I asked.

"Some other time," he said with a crafty look; "we've only got a minute left."

"We do?" I said in surprise. I didn't have a watch and I couldn't see the wall clock from outside.

Ben nodded. "It takes too long to queue for coffee on your break. You're best off if you get here early and take some coffee. Then you can drink it later on when it gets cold."

The night wore on, lethargic like the last hour of a lecture. It's amazing how time can move both quickly and slowly at the same time. It moves quickly, because you feel yourself slipping farther behind your production goal every moment, like a runner trying to catch up with a train; and yet it moves slowly, because it seems you've been repeating the same motions forever. When Kamal and I returned home in the morning I slept on the carpet(no one had torn that up, thankfully enough) in what remained of my jacket, grateful and frustrated at the same time. I always seemed to have a splitting headache after a night's work. Perhaps the plant used some toxic chemical; there weren't any laws governing exposure to hazardous substances for Mongrels, and the Mods wouldn't have cared much about a complaint like that anyway.

Other than Tom, Kamal and I spoke to few of our co-workers and kept to ourselves. I didn't want to share information that could compromise us, so I dodged any questions with evasive answers. The exception was Ben, who was only too glad to find a willing listener for his complaints and his reminiscences about the past. You hardly had to say anything to encourage him to talk, you could guide him with the occasional question like a rudder steering a boat while he filled your ear full of conspiracy theories.

At every break Kamal and I would head outside to snatch some fresh air, and when we found that Ben followed us we tried changing places - circling to the other side of the plant, for instance - but Ben would still find us nonetheless. "Here comes that crazy old sod again," I'd mutter to Kamal, and Kamal would shake his head with a grin, and Ben would - with hardly a word of greeting - launch into some terrible new tale about Sam, or Karen, or people I didn't know. He was very articulate, but he grew distracted and his stories became confused. One of the worst cruelties of old age is that now that you've learned from life and have more to say than ever before, no one wants to listen to you. This was Ben's predicament.

If I'd been more charitable or less impatient, though, I might have found Ben interesting. His skills as a storyteller might be limited, but at least he had stories to tell. The photo he'd kept over the bench was a group photo of his daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter together; he'd had another daughter, he explained, but she'd died of the flu - in the last of the pre-war epidemics. His son-in-law and daughter either could not or would not support him, and so (although he didn't say it) he'd have to work until he died or starve. He also had innumerable theories about the Mods.

"They're designing a new race of dwarf humans," he told us during the half-hour break. "That's hat they're doing in the labs, you know." He glanced at me as if prompting me to ask the obvious question.

"Why?"

"Oh, it's simple enough, really. There's not too much we're good for. We're cheap labour, but we're too troublesome. What they want is a labour force that's like us - that's just intelligent enough to be useful, but not intelligent enough to use a gun. Like a cross between human and monkey, really." I didn't ask him how he knew. Asking Ben how he knew something only elicited a blank look and an irrelevant reply. "It's what they've been wanting since they took over."

"You mean the war?"

"No. No, I mean before the war," he said, shaking his head. "I mean long before. They didn't just take over after the war, you know. They go quite a long ways back - decades and decades back. It's all our own fault. We were so stupid. We thought we could improve ourselves." He laughed through his teeth without smiling; if I didn't know better I'd have thought he was hissing. "We didn't know when we did that that we were speeding up evolution, you know, creating a new species. But it was all predicted, even before it happened. I know, because I used to work for the government back then, and I followed current events and that kind of thing. I used to be very well read, you know.”

"Really," I said. I was a little intrigued, but I'd heard too many versions of the past to be especially interested in another. It did surprise me to imagine this ailing, bony old man, squabbling with his boss over his production goal, as a government bureaucrat. Time alters us as much as it does our circumstances.

"Yes, really. There was a writer in the 19th century named Nietzsche. Ever heard of him?"

"Vaguely," I said, and glanced at Kamal; he nodded in sympathy. God only knew who Nietzsche was.

"He wrote a book that predicted all this. 'What is the ape to the man? A jest or a thing of shame. Then what shall the man be to the Superman? A jest or a thing of shame.' There's your Superman over there," Ben said, nodding towards central Reading and the star-strewn sky. "And Superman really does think of us as a kind of little ape. Even if we created him."

"And how did that happen," I asked, realizing he was expecting me to say something.

"It started with two things, with synthetic biology and reprogenetics," Ben said with a knowing glance in my direction. "Now these days whenever they want to do something they design cells or animals that can do it. But nobody did that until back about a hundred and eighty years or so ago. It wasn't until scientists started to think of life as technology, as something you can manipulate. That's synthetic biology. And as genetic science kept on improving there was eventually the temptation to improve humans. That's the reprogenetics part.

"It was natural, of course. There's so many things about humans you can improve. We have to sleep, we get afraid and we can't think straight, we're weak, we don't live very long, we're not as bright we like to think. We're only really smart when there's a lot of us together. So it's natural we'd want to improve ourselves. At first we had cognition enhancers, drugs you could take to boost your brain power. But that was only good for so much. Ultimately tinkering with the human genome had more potential, although it was terribly unpopular. Terribly unpopular. So the scientists sold the idea of genetic enhancement by saying they were going to cure hereditary disease. By 2060 hereditary diseases like Tay-Sachs were history.”

"I'd heard about that part," I broke in. "What I never understood was how the Mods came about from that."

"I'm getting to that," Ben replied hastily. He was enjoying himself. He relished the opportunity to tell a long story. "So- what was I saying. Curing hereditary disease led to other things. If you can legally alter an embryo to forestall disease, why can't you alter an embryo to lower the risk of obesity, or increase intelligence, or increase stamina? And why shouldn't parents be able to choose for their own children? It's their children, they want to give them the best future possible. So before long some clinics started selling modifications. I think China was where it started. Anyhow, a few fertility clinics would offer this revolutionary new service - reprogenetic counseling. It was like this. We'll screen your baby to fix any genetic diseases and by the way, which of the following modifications do you want? Of course everyone wanted children that were six foot four, and could run the marathon, and were daring and confident, and had a sky-high IQ. But only rich people could afford to go to the clinics, so most children weren't modified, only a few. Probably less than 1% of the population in China and Mexamerica.

"After that modification really got controversial. The governments encouraged it because they didn't want to fall behind. If you're China you don't want Mexamerica to have all these kids with IQs higher than yours, you've got to keep up. But people were jealous. Every parent likes to think their brat is better than every other little brat. So what happens if I know my little Suzie's inferior because I couldn't afford to have her improved? Well, I get mad about it, that's what. So there was lots of tension. Some politicians argued that people had the right to decide their children's traits, what they used to call the Right to Decide movement, after all, it's their kids. Other politicians said the technology should be available to everyone. And the churches argued it was all immoral no matter who did it. Some countries did try to shut the clinics down, but even that didn't work, because the clinics just moved and kept on doing the same thing. There were loads of these clinics in the Philippine Islands, I think, it was a popular thing for rich people to go there for reprogenetic counselling, baby tourism they used to call it. So no matter which countries shut down the clinics, over time rich families kept improving. And you can imagine the kids – they were brought up knowing they were better than everyone else. They saw themselves as aristocracy. They started to work together, to marry each other, to despise everyone else. Within a couple generations society split up into two castes, the Mods and the Mongrels. The Mongrels outnumbered the Mods, but the Mods had the top positions in industry and government, they had money on their side, they were more intelligent. And they were more confident. That was robably their biggest advantage of all.

"After that it became a matter of time. I know not everyone agrees about this, but if you ask me, I think the Mods wanted to rule us for our own good at first. I think most of them still do. But it's not easy to be kind to people when they're so much stupider than you are. Besides, it's very difficult to make people see what's good for them. It doesn't matter what you've got planned, everybody disagrees about it. You want to build an antimatter plant? People moan it'll give their kids cancer. You want to build a solar power plant instead? Well, you can't do that, you'll have to use cadmium and it's a toxic metal. You decide to do nothing? Everyone whinges about how there's not enough power.

"So the Mods clamped down, starting in China and Mexamerica, because those were the places where they were concentrated. They passed laws and regulations that discriminated against Mongrels. Which - that caused some riots by itself. But it was the epidemics that really got people mad. There was a lethal flu pandemic about a year before the Species War. The thing everyone noticed was that altered people didn't get sick. It wasn't until a Mongrel scientist - one of the last, the Mods took over all the sciences pretty quick - found the virus that caused the epidemic had a watermark."

"Watermark?" I asked, interested in spite of myself.

"A hidden sequence in the DNA. Like a signature to say who made it. Some clever bastard was too clever for his own good, he was proud of his work, put his signature on there. We still had the internet back then, so the word went round in - minutes. You can imagine what that kind of news caused. It was absolute bedlam. The Mirks were out to kill the Mongrels. Dr. So-and-so had the proof. It was abso-lute panic. The biggest problem the Mods had was that they only controlled the rich countries, and one country was so terrified of the new bioweapons and nanoweapons they did a pre-emptive attack. There was nuclear terrorism. You know, when they blew up Shanghai and New York, because those were the Mod capitals at that time.”

"I didn't realize the war started with an epidemic," I said. "I thought it was the RPL." The Racial Purity Laws, sometimes known as the New York Decrees, had finally declared genetically enhanced humans to be a master race "separate, distinct from and superior to" all others, and legalized specific forms of discrimination.

"I'm not saying the RPL didn't have anything to do with it," Ben said. "I'm just saying it was these epidemics that set it off. And the war – well, you were around when that happened, I'm sure, you remember that. They won. And now eventually they'll wipe us all out. Sooner or later they'll get tired of us."

"How do you know?"

"The more time passes the more different they feel they are, the more they can forget they used to be us. It's easier than you might think. Just think about the slave trade, you know, hundreds of years back. Slave owners knew slaves were humans, but they tried to forget that, they thought of them as slaves first, humans second. After all, te slaves seemed so ignorant and they usually had different colour skin. Now if slave owners could deliberately convince themselves their slaves were a lesser race, how long do you think it'll take the Mods – since they really are another species – to blot out any memory of ever having anything to do with us? We're a disgrace to them. They can't believe they're really related to anything as filthy and stupid as a human. That's why they call us Mongrels. That's why you'll never hear them use the word human. They don't want to remind themselves how much like them we are.

“Sometimes you hear all this rot about people fighting back when it comes. It's rubbish and it's not going to happen. Anybody that really tries it ends up dead. It's just like before the Mods took over, we had governments called dictatorships that ordered everyone around and told everyone what to do. Did people revolt against the dictatorships when they did something stupid? Half the time they couldn't. And this government is more powerful than any dictatorship in history, because they're actually superior to the people they rule. So when they do decide to kill us all off there won't be a thing we can do about it. I'm an old man so it doesn't matter for me anyway; but every time I think of my grand-daughter I'm worried half to death about it. I suppose I didn't have any right bringing her mum into the world, but I didn't know how things were going to turn out. Besides which, I was a young man then, it wasn't any good to talk to me. If you'd told me where I'd be now, I'd never've believed it. Working for these arseholes. You know they're going to up my production goal? I'm doing a time and a half what the fellow before me did and they want to up it. Can you believe it?"

I quickly lost interest; I knew I'd hear more about the production goal later, at least if we were unlucky enough to have Ben for a companion on last break. Instead, I let my mind wander like one of Ben's stories. I thought of the computer in the North London flat, a weapon so unexpected the Mods would never even see the blow coming until it fell. They thought they'd cowed us, that we were at their mercy, divided and dispirited and fighting over whatever scraps they threw us. Their superiority had lulled them into a false sense of security, the dictator who believes the legend of his own invincibility. Didn't we believe it ourselves? Hadn't Ben just said it – what we all felt – that if they wanted to they'd sweep us away? And within less than a week I would be back in London. My muscles constricted with tension as I pictured the impending life-or-death struggle.

Of course I could unleash Marengo to do its lethal work, and that would be the only part I would need to play, like kicking a stone loose to start an avalanche – the destruction out of all proportion to the act that caused it. I would set history in motion, like the Serbian assassin that began a world war with a single bullet from his gun, and yet remain in the background, the messenger behind the terrorist who pulled the trigger. But the bloodbath that would follow was almost beyond my imagination to comprehend. I looked at the tower looming over central Reading and I was afraid.

Chapter 9

I didn't see Tom again for a couple days. Our hours intersected with his; but on Wednesday I saw him as we passed the chain-link fence on the way in to our shift. We were early, so we had a few minutes. He seemed glad to see us, even if his pronunciation of Kamal resembled the name of an animal also known as the "ship of the desert".

"So how are you both then?"

"Tired," Kamal said. "But other than that, better than ever."

"I hear you're old Ben's latest victims," Tom said.

"Yes, he's got a lot to say," I said, shaking my head.

“That'd be one way to put it. Don't mind anything he says, he's long gone."

"Oh, I wasn't planning on it," I replied. "I do my job, I leave him to do his."

"That's the right way to look at it. The way some of these people talk, you wonder why they don't just find work somewhere else. Listen, I've got to go but I wanted to ask if you'd like to come over for dinner Sunday night, since that's the first night you've got off. You can meet the wife and kids. And we might have a couple other friends coming over."

Secretly I was annoyed. I paused, searching for an excuse. Unfortunately, my hesitation afforded Kamal all the opportunity he needed.

"We'd be delighted," Kamal replied while I listened in dismay.

"Wonderful," Tom said. I waited until we were alone again to vent my frustration.

"What do you mean we'd be bloody well delighted? That's the first night we can leave."

Kamal shrugged. I found the way he shrugged infuriating. "We'll need the Sunday anyway. So it's no use worrying about it. We can leave on Monday morning."

"So instead of getting back to London we'll be spending the evening listening to him talk."

"And eating," Kamal pointed out. "I can't remember the last time I had enough to eat." That was true; I couldn't either. "Besides which, I don't see why you're in such a hurry. If London isn't there on Tuesday it probably wasn't there on Monday either."

"But I feel like we're taking advantage of him, you know, coming over for dinner like we're his new neighbours then the next day we disappear."

Kamal grinned. "I thought you said that was his problem.”

“All right. All right. Whatever.”

The week passed slowly. We worked, slept, and used various expedients to find food - everything from foraging through trash(usually just after dawn, to avoid being seen) to borrowing money from an obliging co-worker, all with varying success. It was far too dangerous for two recent escapees to approach any of the Mods, but we tried nearly everything else. I remember one morning when, after leaving the plant, I saw a wolvo slurping a messy green-brown meal from a bowl down an empty alley. My hunger inspired what I can only describe as my most idiotic idea ever - I thought I'd try to distract him and steal his food. I edged my way towards him, but as I approached he shrewdly guessed what I had in mind. He looked up from his bowl, his yellow eyes shining with suspicion.

“It's all right. Good boy, good boy,” I said, my heart pounding. The wolvo barked a warning. At any moment he would spring. I backed into the wall.

If left to my own devices I'd have paid for my stupidity with my life; fortunately, however, we weren't alone. The wolvo's owner appeared at a back screen door. “Stop that, Wolf. What the hell-” he said.

“What do you mean?” I snapped - to disguise my embarrassment. “Your wolvo nearly attacked me.”

The man looked me up and down and sniggered. “Bloody likely when you're trying to steal his food. I've got a good mind to let him have you. Save me money.”

“I was not-” I said, reddening.

The man burst into a roar of laughter. “All right, then, mate. Here. Go buy yourself some food. Fetch!” he jeered as he cast a crumpled-up note down on the ground, and I – as ashamed as I am to remember now – stooped to retrieve it and set off, the man still laughing at his own joke. At the end of the alley, I unfolded it. It was a five-national note.

“Guess what?” I told Kamal upon my return. “I've got five nationals.”

“How?”

“I found it,” I said, too embarrassed to explain the rest of the story.

“You found it?”

“Yeah, I did. Isn't that amazing. I'm not kidding,” I said, elaborating to lend my lie the appearance of authenticity. “In the dirt in an alley. I saw what looked like a scrap of paper and – lo and behold.”

“Well. Isn't that something.” He didn't know it, but it certainly was.

We weren't always that lucky, however, and there were a few nights when I worked with an empty belly. At such times the work seemed especially difficult. The thing I found most annoying was the three-fifty requirement. That meant seven hundred cells every two hours. When I fell behind, I'd often try to add up the number I'd assembled in my head, all the while fitting more of them together. If I did fall short of the goal, however, Sam didn't say anything, sot least I was living up to his expectations - the only standard worth worrying about.

At last Saturday arrived and with it, pay day. Our employer paid cash; the Mods had all but obliterated the banking system. While there were small Mongrel-operated banks the larger cities, they were shackled by government restrictions on communications, and they focused on loans to customers with collateral. So Sam and one of the other managers took the cash from a safe and counted it out. It wouldn't have done you any good to rob them. The company dealt with the Mods and could report you easily if you were unwise enough to provoke them. Greedily I watched Sam sorting the bills until it came my turn, and when I left I fingered the bills in my pocket as if to remind myself that they were really there - a physical barrier in front of starvation.

On my way out that morning, something - perhaps some lingering feeling of guilt - prompted me to stop a moment and talk to Ben as he left his workspace.

"Ben?" I said. He shot me an anxious glance. "Just wanted to say thanks again."

"What for?"

"For all your help."

"You mean showing you - Well of course," he said, surprised. "That's my job. See, that's like what I was just saying the other day-" I excused myself by claiming that the plumbing at our place needed fixing. The last I saw of him he was walking away down one of the alleys, a lonely, garrulous old man with a few years left to live. What with his arcane knowledge and his outdated ideas, he was like some sort of fossil preserved through the accidents of nature, testifying by its existence to the shape of things past and years forgotten. I wondered how he avoided being mugged on his way home. Probably he detoured through Central Reading, since crime was uncommon beneath the Mods' watchful eye. If his luck held, he'd die at his workspace; if he were unlucky, his vision or his hands would fail him and he'd be fired; he would linger on for a few days, an old man rooting through other people's trash, until his body became another corpse in an alley. Either way, it didn't seem likely anyone would care. I felt deeply grateful for Becky.

"Kamal," I said, "we are incredibly lucky."

He nodded sagely. "I hope so.”

We spent the rest of the day spending our cash, keeping a reserve against the unexpected. By the end of it, I felt like a different man: I had a change of clothes, food, a travel case and some other necessaries - and a quarter of our week's pay still in my pocket. We'd finally shed our fugitive appearance for a civilized veneer, and the reflection that confronted me in the mirror was a different one to the face from the week before.

"Looking sharp," I said; Kamal with his neatly trimmed moustache and well-combed hair had changed beyond recognition.

"By the time we get there we're going to look like crap again, that's the trouble," he said. "But at least we'll start out all right."

"We'll justk to the M4 until we reach London. I wasn't planning on any cross-country detours."

"That's good, because if you're planning any detours I'm not taking them."

"Everything else I've planned worked out all right,” I said. “Look at the thing with the train, and there you didn't want to take it. We'd still be wandering around the countryside, or maybe we'd have ended up as food, I don't know. I guess we nearly did.”

We knocked on Tom's door at about five thirty and of course the dog started his ungodly racket. Tom came to the door and welcomed us in.

"Mark, Kamal-" he still didn't have it right - "this is Abbey." His wife was buxom and brown-eyed with short brown hair. She was stocky but not fat – fat people were rare in our world. Her dull eyes and upturned nose gave her a docile, bovine appearance, so that she was perfectly suited to her husband. She wore a sweater and jeans and seemed distracted, probably because of the two children I could hear quarrelling in the other room.

"Nice to meet you.” She gave me a limp handshake. "I'll be back in a sec."

"Here, follow me," Tom said, Butcher trailing us. The crude wooden table in the parlour had been laid out for six, and an appetizing aroma spread through the room from the kitchen. Immediately it became difficult to think of anything else. The reusable plastic plates and utensils(the most common kind of silverware, since the Mods inevitably took anything with silver or aluminium) were of different patterns, as if someone had mixed up several sets. "I invited a couple of the other fellows," Tom explained, "but they couldn't come, so it'll just be us."

"Tom, we've put the power on, so we've got a couple hours of power, I think, and then we've got to turn it back off," Abbey called out. She separated her two children, one of them a snub-nosed little boy with flaxen hair and blue eyes, the other a freckled little girl with a brown ponytail. The girl was the older of the two.

"I know, I know. Don't worry about it," Tom replied to Abbey. "I'll fix it up. Katrina? Drew? This is Mr. Kamal and this is Mr. Mark. What do you say when you meet somebody? Come on then!"

"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Kamal," little Katrina said with her hands behind her back, aping her father's pronunciation.

"No, no, you haven't seen him before! Say it's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you," she said, looking at Tom rather than at Kamehl, who beamed a sunny smile. At this little Drew inserted himself into the conversation, frowning.

"What's wrong with his ears?" he said, looking at Kamal.

Kamal laughed. "I don't know, what is wrong with my ears?" But Tom and Abbey were less amused.

"No, that's very rude, we don't say that. I'm sorry," Abbey apologized to Kamal, "we've been trying to teach him good manners and - he's very good most of the time, it's just he has days, you know." Drew turned away to his sister; having made this penetrating remark, he lost interest. Kamal proved himself an able diplomat.

"Actually, it's probably a good thing he's outspoken. Sometimes the most intelligent children are the most difficult to teach - because they've got their own ideas."

"That's very perceptive of you," said Abbey, pleased. Like most parents, they were irrationally proud of their own children. "That's very interesting, I'd never have thought of it like that. Here, please go ahead and sit down. Tom told me you'd just moved here from London."

"Yes, that's right."

"What's it- Oh, no, don't do that. Excuse me a sec." Clever little Drew was feeding something to Butcher that broke Butcher's dietary restrictions - and Abbey was off again.

The meal was good if frequently interrupted; Katrina and Drew were supposed to sit still, but they kept on committing new sins - sitting with their elbows on the table, kicking each other, picking the bits of sea asparagus out of the soup. But I enjoyed the interruptions; children's shenanigans are easier to tolerate when they're someone else's problem. Besides, it was pleasant to sit at a table with a clean cloth and friendly faces, listen to local gossip, hear all about Abbey and Tom's kids; I felt human again.

And at the dinner table, with well-laden plates shining in the kindly glow of an electric light, it was easy to forget the Mods; easy to forget that our world, the complex and intricate world of humans, was melting away like ice castles in sunshine. The Mods seemed like a distant abstraction, and we could pretend once more that they were only the background to our lives, could forget we were their animals. Of course they made all the rules, but no matter who's in charge you have to follow rules devised by others; whether the people in government are human or not, the end effect is the same.

"Would you like some more of that soup?" Abbey asked me. It was a red-algae and sea asparagus soup. Virtually all food at that time was made from algae or sea asparagus, which are easy to farm - you don't need land, just light, water, and equipment, and most farming took place in cities like London and Reading. Biotech had devised hundreds of strains of algae with flavours from sweet to sour, so you could invent some fairly creative concoctions by mixing different flavours. If you wanted meat, really the only thing you could get was insects; and these, especially flour made from roasted crickets, had become popular in recent years, since they were easy to raise en masse.

"If you don't mind, thank you, it's just too good. My compliments to the chef," I said.

"Well, Tom told me you both looked as if a decent meal wouldn't hurt you," she confessed, "and I didn't really believe him until I saw you."

I paused for a moment, chagrined. Were we really that thin? "I eat all the time, I just - I don't know how it is," I said with a laugh.

"What we thought, " she said with a deliberate, studied vagueness, glancing at the children, "was that you were from - you know, downtown."

I sat dead still. The room suddenly seemed very faraway. Katrina was talking to the dog and Drew was picking through his food; Tom stirred his soup as if he hadn't heard. Kamal and I exchanged a wary glance. Danger. Be careful.

"No, not if you mean-”

"It's all right," Tom said without looking up. "That doesn't bother us. I'd already guessed. Hardly anyone ever gets out of - of there, so I have to say I'm impressed if that's what you did. And now that you're all moved in and everything no one'll ever know. It's not like we'd ever tell anyone."

"Well, thank you," Kamal said; "it's kind of you."

"No, nonsense!" Abbey burst out. "I'm just glad we've been able to help you out - at least I hope we have. The way I see it is, if all we Mongrels don't stick together, I don't know who is going to look out for us. We're all in this together.”

"Lot of people don't see things that way," I said.

"Oh, I know-Drew! stop that." Abbey said.

"Butcher likes sea asparagus," an unchastened Drew explained. Butcher, to the contrary, appeared perplexed at Drew's attempts to force-feed him the softened vegetable, but being a dog he suffered in silence. Dogs are a patient race.

"No Butcher does not like sea asparagus. Butcher eats cricket flour, that's different. Now stop it and eat what's on your plate."

"Here, if he won't have his sea asparagus he can always save it for me," I said.

Tom laughed. "Now that's what I call seizing your chance. We have so much trouble getting him to eat everything sometimes though I just don't know. When I was a kid I used to eat everything I could get my hands on. Course we were all starving back then, so maybe that was why.”

“Never look a gift horse outh, that's what I say.” With the uncomfortable moment past, I actually felt more at ease. There was no need to keep up a pretence; the awkward secret had been shared and was no longer our own. And if our neighbours were curious enough to know how we'd been arrested, they were also tactful enough not to ask.

Dinner came to an end when we ran out of electricity. The lights began to dim and Tom shook his head. "Looks like we're running out of juice."

"I'll bet you could get a lot more out of that than you have," I said. "It's a solar powered supercap, isn't it? You should be able to get at least six hours' mileage on full power."

"Yeah, it's solar. I got some artphoto panels from the plant, they'll let you have the ones from the recycle bin if you ever want any, but I don't know too much about it. Like I said, if you could come and take a look at it sometime-"

For a moment I hesitated. The following evening would find us far away. Should we tell them our plans? Could we tell them our plans? But force of habit silenced the impulse. It becomes second nature to be mistrustful, to camouflage truth with white lies. "Of course," I said. "And thank you very much again."

"Our pleasure," Tom said. "Don't mention it." In assuming he was stupid, I'd misjudged him. He guessed we'd escaped the government, and rather than trying to take advantage of it he'd helped us. As I left I saw my neighbours with a new-found respect. Better an honest friend than an intelligent one if you have a choice.

"All right," I said, "let's go." We weren't exactly sure where the M4 was but we knew we'd reach it eventually by going due south. If we needed we could ask for directions. We wanted to skirt central Reading as widely as possible, and with that in mind we changed direction several times, although a couple of the bridges over the Kennet had been demolished - the roads ran to the bank but no farther – and I began to think we'd have to cross in the shadow of the government tower. We retraced our steps, made several wrong turns and at last blundered our way into a narrow residential street lined with brick terraced houses. Next to us an short alley ran to a dead end, a courtyard hemmed in beneath small windows like squinting eyes.

"Stop a minute," I said. "This is no good. We should just follow the river south. I think there's a road that runs south out of Reading that follows the river. I saw it one time on a map."

"Hold on a sec," Kamal said. I followed his gaze to see a woman crawling on the pavement at the farther end of the alley. She retched and the sound echoed dully between the brick walls. She was vomiting, not for the first time, either, because a thin strawberry-coloured stream flowed around one of her hands into a gutter. Her long hair hid her face but I guessed she was on the verge of death. "Hold on," Kamal said. He started down the alley.

In an instant I was a child again, watching the little girl hacking up blood and knowing the invisible enemy on her breath could creep into my lungs. I panicked. I seemed to hear Shelley's words - "they're working on a disease...."

"Stop that!" I said in a loud whisper. I didn't want the woman to hear me. It's embarrassing to tell someone you'll leave them to die.

"What?" Kamal said, surprised. He turned away from me again. I distinctly heard her retching and the splatter of fluid on the pavement and in my fear I grabbed Kamal by the collar.

"No! We're leaving. Now."

"But look-”

"Come on."

He came reluctantly, and yet he didn't struggle. "But why-why-"

"What do you think?" I asked angrily. "How do you know why she's down there coughing up blood? You want to get us killed?"

"Well, I-She could-"

"If she dies there's nothing you can do to help her. You want to die with her?" I shot back. It was only when I saw the look in Kamal's eyes that I realized how frightened I appeared.

"But we can't leave her there," he said. His words left me unmoved. My fear was stronger and clothed itself with persuasive excuses. The secret we carried was worth more than any single individual, I told myself. Dying in vain accomplished nothing; good intentions couldn't redeem a futile act.

"That's exactly what we're doing. We're going to get the hell out of this shit-city and we're going to get on the road as quick as we can," I said, "if I have to drag you the rest of the way. Why do you think she crawled down that alley? She's looking for a place to die. If you want to be kind to her you'd put a bullet through her head. I don't have a gun." The only kind thing to do, I thought. Why hadn't she been euthanized? Had she escaped? Had she been released, a failed experiment searching for a quiet corner to collapse? What kind of conscienceless monster would infect someone then leave them to die?

Unless, of course, they'd released her as a carrier – if they'd set her free deliberately...A single word ran through my mind:

Genocide.

"I don't know," Kamal said quietly, shaking his head, as we walked down the street again. "I don't want to leave someone to die like that. It's not right." He didn't understand how close we'd just stood to disaster.

“I know. There's nothing else we can do,” I said, not wanting to utter my fear out loud. “If I could help her I would. But it's not us, it's them." We lapsed into an awkward silence. I remembered with surprise how distant and abstract the Mods seemed the previous night. And for the first time I began to believe all the insidious whispers I'd heard about a new bioweapon in the making. I'd never seen a stray victim from a lab before. Were they really planning to slaughter us and shrink our numbers? If so, how much time did we have for Marengo? Could we make it back to London in time, or would their blow land before ours?

After all, two can play at the same game. When it came to crafting bioweapons, the Mods were more than a match for us. Our sole advantages were surprise and time. And over the last two weeks chance had held us up repeatedly. Marengo might be as potent as Shelley claimed, but it would make no difference if-

If we were too late.

Chapter 10

We took the Reading Relief Road south past a jumble of factories and warehouses - some in operation, others abandoned - to where it meets the M4, and we followed the on ramp from the roundabout onto the M4 itself. Ahead the barren freeway led like a narrow strip of tarmac desert out to the horizon. At intervals lampposts on the meridian had been left to lie where they fell. Others were missing altogether.

Our pace that slackened as the hours passed. The sky turned an iron-grey that reminded me of the downpour a week and a half before. I didn't want to get caught in the rain a second time. Kamal seemed taciturn, probably owing to the incident in the morning. I didn't mention it again; I assumed he'd broach the subject sooner or later – as, eventually, he did.

"I just don't see why - I just can't think of anything we've got to do in London that's more important," he said. "Of course we might have died. Or we might not. But that's not important."

"What are you talking about, there's nothing more important waiting for us in London? You remember what I told you? at the train station? This isn't just us.”

"I mean," Kamal said slowly, "that's how I could end up. I've had to do a lot of things to stay alive. But I've never left someone else to die unless there was absolutely nothing else I could do. I've never done it.”

“I don't think you understand. That girl, she was sick with something. She might have been from the lab or she might not. I don't know. But if she was she could've been a carrier. She might have been released to infect everyone else. Do you see what that means? They're planning something. We don't have forever to get back, we have to get back now, as soon as we can. Unless we just want to let them win, then good-bye to the human race.”

“I don't think that girl was infected with a new disease. I don't believe it. It's just all the same old gossip,” Kamal said. “She probably had TB.” Now that doctors were scarce among us Mongrels, ancient diseases like TB had returned and raged unchecked again. It was just plausible that the girl we'd seen had TB and nothing more.

But I remembered the way she crouched in the gutter and I didn't believe it.

“How do you know that?” I said.

“I don't. That's absolutely true.”

“Besides, the longer we leave it the more likely Marengo'll be discovered. Shelley's husband can't hide forever.”

“I know.”

I saw that Marengo meant nothing to Kamal. I couldn't understand why. Did he know something I didn't?

"And you can look at it a different way if you want,” I said, trying to use another argument to convince him. “What if it was you, if you were sick like that? the first thing you'd go do is go look for a place to die. You wouldn't want to get anyone else sick. So all she's doing is what she had to do. Same for us. We're just doing what we had to do. The really terrible thing is that they did that. They let her go and let her wander around like that."

"Unless she escaped."

"Not like that she didn't. Not in that kind of state. It's them. They're evil," I said.

"They're not evil," Kamal said.

"Yes, they are," I said. "They have no soul. Only intelligence. Intelligence without conscience." And at the time I said it I was convinced. "Could you treat anyone like that? Just ask yourself."

"It's only because they think we're animals," Kamal replied, and I seemed to hear in his words the echo of Sophie in the holding cell, or of Becky-

"How could they think that? They can see we're conscious, we're intelligent, they can just look at everything we built. No, I don't believe that. Not for one second, I don't believe that. They don't have any conscience. It's something wrong with them, like some gene they don't have. They got improved but they lost something.”

"I just feel like-" He hesitated a moment. "I don't want to blame them. Perhaps there's a reason for it that we don't know anything about."

"Then I don't want to know what it is.”

"And that's the other thing," he added slowly. "I feel as if-Everything I've done since we escaped was wrong. It's not right. I've sinned."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked him. Myonscience had always been of the more practical kind. "Don't tell me you're going to go ask them to stick you back in there. Jesus Christ, what, you feel guilty because you stowed away on one of their trains?"

"Well, just think about the camp. I escaped - but not those two hundred other people. Was I any better than them? I should've told someone else about it and stayed behind. And now I've left someone behind to die. I don't think I was ever meant to leave Reading."

"Meant by who?"

"By God," he said soberly. It took me a moment, it was difficult for me to believe it, but I saw he was serious. He actually meant it.

"Kamal. Listen. This is bullshit. Next thing you'll tell me it was unfair we got away from those cannibals because God meant us to be eaten. Maybe we ought to have slit our throats for them because they were hungry and God says to feed the hungry. I don't know."

He couldn't help himself. He laughed. "No, I wasn't going to say that."

"Now stop worrying. Wait until you're in London then you can go confess all your sins to someone, I don't know, and maybe you can save your cat to make up for it. But I refuse to let you screw us over. Remember you said you still owe me one."

"Yes, I know."

It worried me to hear him talk like this. I've always found that guilt has a way of attracting disaster; as if Fate takes pleasure in dealing out the punishment we secretly think we deserve. "If I didn't know you better by now I'd think you were crazy."

"You're right. I know. I just think-"

"Believe me, I know. But I don't want to hear you say or even think anything like that again, it'll screw everything up. If it makes you feel any better, just remember I made you go." North across the fields, I saw a spark like a bright star rise into the sky and pierce the clouds. One of their rockets, on its way to another world. They'd already conquered ours, after all.

“That's another thing I want to ask. What I told you at the train station. You'll still go through with it? you'll help me if I need help?”

I watched him closely as he answered. He spoke slowly as if he were choosing his words. “Yes. Of course.”

He might not be one of the hard-liners, but he was a Heavenward noness. I promised not to let myself forget.

Towards mid-afternoon, the wind grew more violent, and on it I heard in advance the rage of the storm. It would break by nightfall.

The day was nearly spent. The delay we'd incurred might have been unavoidable, but now we'd have to suffer the consequences. Really we had only two options. We could take refuge in one of the abandoned buildings strewn across the countryside and wait out the storm. Either that or crouch beneath an exit ramp on the freeway, battered by the wind.

"Maybe we'd better turn around," Kamal said; "it'll start soon."

"No, look at that up ahead," I said, pointing to an overpass a half a mile in the distance. "We'll take that road. There'll be a building or a farmhouse around here somewhere. I can't believe it'd start to rain again. Just a week and a half later. I can't believe this. Just this morning I'm saying we have to get back now, so of course it's going to rain. You'd think the fucking weather was on their side.”

“It's the end of spring.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Bloody hell.”

“Nothing we can do.”

We cut across country to leave the highway. The once well-tended fields were overgrown with a forest of thick brush and saplings, plants strangling each other for their share of light and water like a war in slow motion. Like homo excellens and homo sapiens, I thought. The two species of humans; the old and the new. Sooner or later, one of them must win. Until recently the outcome had been a foregone conclusion. But now we had a weapon that could compete with theirs – if we could ever get a chance to use it. I seethed with impatience.

"We could stop there," Kamal said, looking back towards an overpass on the M4. But I spotted a wooden sign, painted with letters in glaring white, hidden amidst the trees to the right of the road.

"See that? There's a town about a half a mile from here."

"Ah. I see."

"Here, come on, we've got to go quick."

"It's going to be any minute now."

"I can't believe it," I grumbled. “Raining again.” The boughs waved and creaked, the leaves shuddering in the wind with a sound like the sea. I noticed a gap - a path that led away from the road - or it might have been a path, it was so narrow it was difficult to tell.

"You there's a house along there or something?" Kamal said.

"Yes. No. Maybe. Only other thing to do is go back to those ruins. That underpass won't give us any shelter, and forget the trees," I said. I crossed the road to the grassy dirt path. It had clearly been designed with pedestrians, not vehicles, in mind; that meant it was less than 15 years old. It led for a couple hundred yards or so into the woods, where a large shack built out of corrugated metal and wood squatted amidst the greenery, invisible from the road. Everything about it gave an impression of order. The narrow front porch was clean, a bicycle chained to the railing; green artphoto panels lined the roof, and a careful hand had pruned the borders of the path. I heard frenzied chirping as if thousands or even millions of insects were competing for airtime in an enclosed space nearby.

"Do you hear crickets?" I asked Kamal.

"Cricket farming." I knocked at the screen door.

"Hello?" It was a bull-necked middle-aged man; he wore a black zippered raincoat over a checkered shirt, and a short sparse grey beard and moustache encircled a mouth full of crooked teeth. His head was partly concealed beneath a bucket hat. His unfriendly expression evinced a sullen mistrust.

"Sorry to trouble you," I said, "we were wondering if you'd know anywhere around here we can stay until the rain lets up." He studied us carefully. I guessed from the way he kept his hand in his raincoat pocket that he was armed. Fortunately, we looked very different now than we had a few days before; more like travellers and less like hoboes, and Kamal's urbane air lent us an outward credibility as authentic as a passport.

"What's your names?" he asked.

"I'm Mark Henshaw, this is Kamal Das."

"Going to London?"

"Yes, from Reading," I answered. Evidently we passed muster, because the stranger opened the door wider.

"You can stay here, if you like. Shouldn't rain long. Name's Steve, by the way."

"Well thank you. But I bet it rains all night," I said as I stepped inside. An electric element lit the dirt-floor living room, furnished with a home-made couch. To the right of us a open doorway revealed the bedroom; presumably the kitchen was in the back, so there were three rooms in all. A window with wooden shutters instead of glass opened on a dense mass of foliage like a temperate jungle.

"Here, come in here and sit down and - I think we've still got some power stored up - I'll have Maggie make us all some coffee if you want some." He'd made a table out of a cross-section of a stump.

"Yes, thank you," I said.

Our host shook his head. "Nah, don't mention it; we never have any visitors here anyway, so we hardly ever get any news out here. Maybe you can tell me what's going on in London these days." He tromped through the living room to the kitchen and a door swung on screaming hinges. "Mags!" he called out the back.

"I'm just coming, Dad." Maggie spoke with a strong lisp on her s and th, as if she had a ball of cotton wool in her mouth, but other than that the voice that floated through the kitchen was a pleasant one, the kind you mentally associate with a pretty girl in her early twenties. When we saw its owner I was surprised, because the face didn't match the voice at all.

The girl's face was twisted; at least that's the only word I can find to describe it. Her right ear had sunken into her skull so that it was only half visible beneath her long brown hair; she had only one nostril, so that her nose pointed at an angle; her lips were shorter on one side of her face than on the other; her right eye was misshapen, so that her brown eyes looked in different directions. It was as if her skull had developed on one side only. I assumed she'd inherited some birth defect her father had been unable to have corrected - doctors were in short supply and charged high prices, for Mongrels anyway. I smiled to be polite as her good eye wandered in my direction. Her blue jeans and patched-up blue shirt covered a slender frame.

"So how are the crickets then?" he asked her.

"The crickets are fine, Dad." Again the same lisp; you could see that one half of her lip and jaw gave her trouble shaping her words.

"Good," the father replied. "It'll be just pissing down by nightfall, so I wouldna want anything to happen."

"Crickets?" I asked. "I thought I heard crickets when I was coming down the drive."

"Well, sure. I would'na been surprised if you did. I've got a half a million of 'em."

"Ok." So he farmed crickets then. The genetically enhanced version were hardier than the old species; they couldn't jump and were fairly easy to keep. They were a popular substitute for meat, usually ground into flour. You'd never know you were eating cricket; the nutty flavour left an aftertaste like parmesan cheese.

"You think we've got enough electricity left?" Maggie asked.

"Sure, sure. Now go on and make us all some coffee, will you. These fellows are on their way to London and didn't want to get caught in the rain. I don't know why you left Reading this morning," he said, turning to me again.

"Didn't think it was going to get like this," I explained.

"What, with the sky that colour?" he said, incredulous.

"We were in a hurry," I said.

"So what are you going to London for then?" I hesitated. It was so awkward to contrive another clumsy lie. Perhaps I could say we'd been to Reading to see a relative, or a friend, or- But Kamal filled in for me.

"See, we're both from London, actually. We were arrested for breaking the Central London curfew, got shipped off to one of their work camps. We're headed back now. We've been in Reading for a week and a half." I watched the cricket farmer surreptitiously and kept my face blank; inwardly I was horrified. There was no way to know whether Steve would use that information. But he didn't seem impressed.

"They took you in for breaking a curfew?"

"That's right," Kamal said. Not entirely true, but at least he hadn't tried to give the fellow our life story.

The cricket farmer shook his head. "That's one of the good things about living out here. Don't have to put up with any of that rubbish. The only time I see any of them is when I see one of their aircars, and that's more than often enough for me, I'll tell you. But for living someplace like Reading - every time I go there I see that building of theirs and I wonder how anybody lives there, what with the government standing over you like that. And then not only do you have to put up with all that, but if they feel like it they can sign you away for breaking their class D laws, and the New York laws, and whatever else they got now! I say, the farther you are from anything to do with them the better."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It didn't seem like we had anything to fear for now. "Can't be easy living where you are," I said.

"Don't make very much difference when you're set up like I am. I got power, I store up rainwater and filter it, we've got our own food, and I go over to Reading couple times a month for anything I need. Don't need much. Got everything I need, really. I wouldn't move if you paid me. There's only one problem with living out here. No women. But shit, what am I saying.” He chuckled. “That's a good thing, now isn't it." A fast patter ran across the roof like countless little footsteps. "Listen to it." He stepped across the room and closed the shutters.

"It's coming down fast."

"If you want, you could go out on the porch and watch it come down. Jesus!” he burst out suddenly. “Maggie, you stupid slowcoach, what're you doing in there?"

"Sorry, dad," came the lisping voice from the kitchen. "It's almost all ready now."

"It's about time. What took you so long?" She came round the corner bearing a metal pot on a battered tray with a couple of cups, looking resolutely at the floor. "And you'd better work on that lisp of yours, I swear, it's getting worse lately."

"Yes, Dad," she said and a flush crept across her cheek. If he derided her in front of strangers, how did he speak to her when they were alone? Perhaps he beat her. Her eager-to-please manner reminded me of the abject way a dog adores an abusive master.

"All right, let's come on outside, then," the cricket farmer said. "Or actually, why don't you take this out, I want to check something first."

Outside a curtain of rainfall fell just beyond the porch, and the trees swayed and sank, buffeted by the wind. I forced myself to relax and tried to forget the future. If the Mods really were planning genocide, for the moment there was nothing I could do about it.

"Hot coffee," I said, "this is more like it."

"Hear how he talks to her?" Kamal said. "Like she's his drudge."

"That's probably about what she is," I said. "But it's not my business. Listen, I want to have a word before he comes out here. Why'd you tell him where we were from? You want him to turn us in or something?"

Kamal shrugged. "It'd be difficult, he'd have to go to Reading. And I thought you were going to come up with some awful story - we walked all the way to Reading to see your aunt who's got rheumatic fever or something. I'd rather tell him where we're from then tell him something he's not going to believe."

I reflected for a moment. "Fair enough for now. But be more careful."

"Well-" Kamal was about to say something when the porch door swung open again and the cricket farmer emerged.

"All right, just wanted to make sure I'd tied something else down outside. The silly girl left the tarp off." He stooped to pour himself some coffee. I noticed a faint whiff of alcohol - probably synthetic liquor - on his breath.

"Thanks, by the way," I said, "this is really good."

"Don't mention it." The cricket farmer sipped the coffee with a sigh. "I swear, that girl. She doesn't have to talk with a lisp like that, you know. She's just downright lazy. The thing that worries me is - I don't know what'll happen to her when I'm gone."

"Could move to Reading."

"Don't know why she'd be any better off there than here," the farmer said. "It'd probably be even worse. It's a terrible thing for a man to have to say about his own daughter, but my God, she's ugly as sin. It's not as if anybody'll want her with a face like that. And she's so bloody lazy I don't know how she'll keep herself up otherwise."

"Has she always been like that?" I asked.

The farmer nodded. "Ever since she was a little girl. Genetic defect, not much I could do about it. From her mother, more'n likely. But it's a hard thing on a man to have to pay twice for marrying a bitch like her mother. First I paid when she was alive and I pay again now that she's dead." He chuckled. "Not that you want to hear about my problems. So tell me, what's the news in London? I haven't heard anything from there for - forever."

"I haven't been in London in a while myself," I said. "I've been – busy.”

"Yeah, that's right. So this work camp, how long were you stuck there?"

"A year," I improvised. There was no sense telling him we'd escaped, so I thought it better to pretend we'd been released after 'doing our time'. "Too long if you ask me."

"And what'd they have you do?"

"What they do is, they take the cap off one of the old landfills, then they fence it in and they turn you in to dig it up looking for metals," I explained. "It's not really digging, most of it's sifting through trash."

"I can tell by your hands," the cricket farmer remarked. "They're all cut up." I glanced down at my hands and realized that he was right.

"Isn't that funny," I said. "I never even noticed."

"But if they've got people digging through trash for metals," he speculated, "they must be out."

"I don't know about that. I think they've got cheap expendable labour and they always need more metal, so of course they're going to."

"They used to - back after they banned all the cars, there were parts on the engines that were worth something, so some people used to make a living tearing out the old engines and lugging them in for scrap," he said.

"Well, didn't they used to have....I don't know, parts that had platinum in them," I said.

"Only if they're older than I am," he said with a snigger.

"You don't really see too many cars in London any more," Kamal said. "At least, not when I was there. People tore them all up for parts once they couldn't use them. There's a few still rusting here and there.”

"It's a shame," the farmer said. “Look at those fancy aircars they've got, you'd think they'd let us keep our old junkers. But so tell me then - they just keep you in their landfill a year then they turn you loose?"

"Exactly," I said. "We came back to Reading. Hopefully we'll be back on the road as soon as this lets up.”

"What do you want to go back to London for?" Steve asked critically. "You've got people you know there or something?"

"Yes, that's right."

"If I was you I wouldn't bother," he said dismissively. "Everyone you knew probably all thinks you're dead by now. You go back there and you have to live like you're just another animal, so they can feed you and round you up whenever they want. So what are you going to go back there for? I say any one place you go is as good as another, as long as there aren't any of the Mods."

"There's nowhere you can go like that,” I said. “So what would you do?”

"Exactly what I've done," he said smugly. "The countryside's all strewn with houses just crumbling to pieces. Find one close to a town or whatever, fix it up and get yourself all set up. You can grow enough to feed yourself and sell some for anything you do need. That's what I did years ago, and I haven't looked back ever since. I don't have to bow and scrape and obey orders, 'cause there's no one out here to give me orders. There's a village a half a mile from here, and there's places you could take just right down the road."

"Don't you ever have any trouble with burglars, or-" Kamal asked.

"I'm not saying we don't. But we all travel armed out here, 'cause there's none of them here to make us to follow their piffling little rules. That's the trouble with most people, they're most of them such sheep. That's why people still live in the cities. It's because it's all they know and they're scared to try anything else."

"It's lucky for you that they do, though, isn't it," I said. "If everyone lived like you do, the Mods'd come and round people up out here any time they needed workers for their plants. So the only reason you can live like you do is because most other people don't."

He nodded reflectively. "That's true enough. That's smart thinking. So you might say it's my good luck that most people don't know any better."

"Besides which," I added, "you're not really any safer here, you just think you are. If they want you they'll find you."

"Well, sure. But I'm not going to go put my head in the lion's mouth. And at least out here we've got a fighting chance."

I laughed. I imagined him with his gun, holed up in his shack, hoping to hold them off. "You've got a fighting chance against them? Have you ever seen them fight?"

"Well, you would say that now, wouldn't you," the farmer remarked, "you've been penned up in one of their work camps for a year now. But there was a time when we fought and killed some of theirs. They lost a lot retaking London. People forget that nowadays. The last battle for London.”

And in a flash his words brought to mind a memory I didn't want, a memory I had tried for so long to forget. It came to mind now like some submerged monster breaking the stillness of a night-time sea.

“What are you doing down here?” she said. My mother was a thin woman with an aquiline profile and keen eyes. She had a nervous habit of chewing on her nails. Her long dark hair was tied back that morning and she carried my little sister in the crook of one arm.

“I came downstairs.”

“I told you to stay upstairs. You disobeyed me.”

“But I want to come.” I said. I knew in some nebulous way that she had just made one of those decisions that alters the course of a lifetime. I knew that, even then.

“I already told you you can't come, we'll be back in a minute.”

“But I – I -” I faltered.

“Now go back upstairs. Go on. I've already said goodbye.” I trailed back up the stairs as I heard the front door slam. The sound reverberated through the house as if it had closed forever.

The hours slipped by, one after the other, and a persistent silence lingered in the house. I heard a distant battery of our missiles firing with a hiss like a rocket tearing through a sleeve. All our guided missiles were useless, the Mods had found ways to counter them: electronic weapons that fried circuits at a distance. We kept on trying, because they were what we had, like Aztec warriors charging Spanish horsemen and knowing even as they do their wooden clubs are useless. I wandered through the rooms and my imagination conjured up phantom Mod soldiers hiding in the closets, watching me with cold metallic eyes.

Then morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon into evening; and finally I realized she wasn't coming back.

At some point I became desperate. I opened the door; our car was gone, I knew she'd taken it. I ran down the pavement, crying as I ran. The main streets were a wild melee like the delirium of a nightmare, swarming with pedestrians and cars, people stepping across the bodies left lying on the pavement, a city in motion, a capital in flight. A fire tinted the skyline a dull orange. I ran without knowing where I was going or why, until at last hope died and I returned to the hideous silence and the aching pain, like acid chewing through my heart.

She lied. She couldn't've lied. What happened to her. She can't be dead. Maybe she'd only meant to be gone a few minutes. Perhaps she lay dead in the streets, cut down by one of their weapons, a “cloaked” and invisible aircar strafing disorganized Mongrels with the methodical precision of a crop duster spraying fields. Or perhaps she'd left never meaning to come back, the way my father left her when I was too young to remember. And as children will, I invented reasons why. Perhaps it was because I was so slow getting ready; perhaps it was because I was stubborn, because I talked back. If I'd behaved better, done the right things, said what I was supposed to...The next morning my uncle stopped by; he'd heard firing in our neighbourhood and he wanted to make sure his sister was all right. He found only an empty building and a gibbering little kid.

For the rest of the world, the words the last battle for London embody the fire that raged through the West End, St. Paul's Cathedral crumbling, the mob butchered on the South Bank. The same words mean something entirely different for me.

To this day I don't know what happened to my mother and sister. Did she leave intending to return in a few minutes, and something unknown prevented her? Or were two children too many to care for in a time when the world was falling apart? Yet how cruel, how strange that would be. I don't believe it; I don't want to believe it. Perhaps I'm taking refuge in a delusion, but I believe she was killed while driving, only another casualty of the last battle for London but the one most important to me. In my mind's eye I hear the weapons tear through the roof of the car like bullets through paper, I see the windshield of the car turn milk-white as it fractures, the car skidding across the street into a shop front, the dismal knell of my sister's wail and my mother's bloodied face in the ruins. I see it and I know that it happened, because as terrible as it is, as long as I believe it I can ignore the alternative.

I paused a moment and suppressed the memory as I had so many times before, thrust it into the background of my consciousness. It wasn't worth recalling. In life you have to take what you can use and discard the rest.

"A lot of people died. Both Mongrels and Mods,” Kamal said.

“True,” the farmer said with a nod.

“I've seen them take thin metal and tear it,” I added. “Like you'd tear cardboard. And those uniforms they wear are stronger than steel - they make them out of, I don't know, nanomaterials.”

“For sure,” the farmer said. “Now if we really wanted to beat them we'd have to get them at their own game. The thing with the viruses."

I was startled. It was almost as if he'd guessed my thoughts. “Maybe someone's done that, how do you know?” I said. Kamal looked a question at me. He didn't have to do that; I wasn't about to describe Marengo in detail.

"What, do you know someone who's working on that?" the cricket farmer asked me.

"I talked to someone in the camp who was working on something like that," I said.

"Explains why they were in the camp, now, don't it,” he said. “Thing is, we don't have the technology, we don't have all these super labs we used to. Thing to do woulda been to've killed these genetically enhanced children, soon as there were any.”

“They probably had a pretty rough time anyway,” Kamal said.

"But that's not the same thing. Nobody should've ever improved human DNA. I don't know which clever-clogs little arsehole had the idea, but I hope they're burning in hell.” He sipped his coffee.

Kamal frowned darkly as he gazed out into the pouring rain. "Maybe they thought life'd be better for everyone." It was difficult to understand what our ancestors had been thinking back in those comfortable years of the twenty-first century.

"There's always some that have and some that don't have," the farmer nodded, "and as for them that don't have, that's us."

“I don't know,” Kamal said, “I've been a lot worse off.”

“So've I,” the farmer retorted, “and a lot better off, too.”

In addition to his synthetic coffee stash, the farmer kept some liquor in a bunch of old plastic jugs. I assumed it was synthetic, but it might have been the kind they make from a species of brown algae, liquor so strong it hits you like a club over the back of the head. You only drink brown algae liquor - syngin(to use the popular pun) - if you want to get drunk fast. He invited us to join him for a glass and I turned him down; if he'd brewed it himself it might give new meaning to “choosing your poison”. He frowned at the jug as he unscrewed the cap.

"What's the matter, too good to drink with me?"

"No," I said irritably. "That's not it. Thing is if the rain lets up we could even be back on the road tonight."

"I'd wait. I think they're building something south of the M4, so they blocked off the road," Steve said.

"Why would they block off the road, nobody uses it," Kamal asked. If we were walking down the M4 into a trap we wanted to know.

"I saw a couple of their aircars landing on the M4 just yesterday. I've no idea what for, don't ask me. They don't come and tell me what they're doing.”

"Maybe they were landing for – for something else," I speculated. The news seemed ill-omened. Yesterday we'd been walking along the M4. Why would they have landed yesterday?

"Maybe. But they're building something south of the M4, so you'll have to be careful." He poured some of the synthetic liquor out into his cuand drank it back at a gulp. Maggie had been out of sight for over an hour, and I began to suspect our host's motives. Had we told him too much? Well, if he wanted to give us any trouble I was armed as well; there were two of us and I could take him easily, unless he had a gun.

"Where's Maggie?" I asked.

"My daughter?" He frowned hard as if wondering why I'd ask. "Why, what do you care for?"

"Just curious, she seemed awfully quiet," I said.

"She's always been that way. Always," he muttered. "But yes, she'll be in the cricket shed cleaning out the brooders."

"She looks after the crickets then?" Kamal asked.

"Some of the time, she does," he replied sourly. "But I have to keep after her or I end up doing everything myself."

"I'm surprised she does that. You know how some women are about live insects," I said.

"Not when she's been around them as long as she has, no. They're just as ugly as she is, that's why she don't mind 'em. She's used to 'em. You ever seen a cricket shed before?"

"No, I haven't," I answered.

"Perhaps you'd like to come and take a look at 'em then."

"Certainly," I said. Algae farming was very common in London and I knew how it worked, but cricket farms were fewer in number.

"Come on and follow me then." Kamal and I followed him through the back door, where a grass-grown path led to a pair of long low sheds, the water sluicing off them into a ditch lined with stones.

"The far one we keep for the algae, this one's for the crickets," he shouted as he fumbled with the keys. "Why'd she do tha-at? She's locked herself in. Silly girl." Finally he opened the door and we followed him inside. The air was stuffy with a dull smell like rotting sawdust, and a fluorescent element illuminated the interior with a dull glow. Metal racks tacked to the walls ran the length of the shed. Atop the racks were stacked large white plastic containers, and from these emanated a noise so loud it was audible over the rain.

"It's loud in here," I said.

"They're noisy little bastards, aren't they. It's only the adults that talk, but you'd think it was all of them."

"How many do you have in here?"

"Half a million," he said. The shed was warmer than the outside. Heating would suck too much electricity; maybe he'd insulated the lls. It must have taken him plenty of time, effort and probably help to build all this. “Maggie!" the cricket farmer called out. She was crouching next to one of the white plastic tubs, what I gather they call brooders. Inside the tub swarmed hundreds of frantic dark shapes, a restless seething mass of life, crawling over cardboard and plastic fixtures while Maggie removed a tray of damp sand from the base of the tub. It took me a moment to distinguish the individual crickets. One of them climbed onto Maggie's wrist, his antennae flexing, studying his world through the million facets of his compound eyes.

"Yes, Dad?" she said, and when she saw us the same stealthy flush crept across her misshapen cheek.

"You keep on with what you're doing, I'm showing these fellows around."

"Course," she said and brushed the stray cricket back.

"Now you see that tray she's got there," the farmer explained, "that's what they lay eggs in, is moist sand. We take those trays out once they lay eggs and put that in a warm box so they hatch. They only live 8 weeks or so, then you've got to get rid of them, it's a cycle."

"How many crickets in each box?" I asked.

"Thousand or so. They live on those plastic holders you see in there, and we clean the box when we take out each batch before we put in the next."

"And how do you know, I mean-How do you keep track of which box is hatching, and which box is at what stage in the cycle, and that kind of thing?" I asked.

"We keep 'em all stacked in a certain order, so we move 'em along these metal racks depending on where they are in the cycle. That way we know exactly what's going on with each box." At least it was easier than rearing beef cattle must once have been. No one raised cows anymore; the Mods considered our old carnivore habits inefficient, and in their place we turned to these other expedients - by a decision they took for us.

"Now if you kept a cat," Kamal said, "it'd catch any that escaped and you'd never have to feed it."

The farmer smiled. "Maggie keeps a jahwallah. That's something like a cat. Don't she, Mags?" Maggie glanced up and nodded.

"And you feed the crickets off brown algae?" I said.

"I do. Matter of fact, I can show you that too." I followed him, although I'd lost interest; already my attention strayed elsewhere. Nonetheless, I listened to everything and complimented him on his ingenuity since, as he told us proudly, "it was all my own design. I'm not saying I didn't have any help, mind you, but it was all my idea." On returning to the house he drank some more and the synthetic liquor quickly took effect, because he grew taciturn and finally told us he was going to "get some kip.”

"Don't have much in the way of furniture," he said; "but there's a couple of chairs. Bench out on the porch iwant."

"I've slept on worse," I said; "that'll do fine. But I don't want to sleep just yet. I think we'll be out on the porch."

"Suit yourself." He sat down on the couch and just as quickly nodded off into a gentle sleep. It was my guess he'd been drinking all day.

"Half a sec,” I told Kamal. “I'm going to go out back and see if his daughter needs help with anything," I said in an undertone.

"All right. I'll be out front." I opened the back door - slowly so the hinges wouldn't scream - and dashed through the rain to the cricket shed. Maggie was cleaning out one of the cricket brooders and glanced at me in surprise, then her eyes eluded mine again.

"Maggie?" I said. "Just wanted to find out if you needed help with anything, since we're here I thought I'd ask."

"No, I'm all right, thank you.”

"Are you sure? I hate to leave you out here working by yourself."

She hesitated. "Well - I'm almost done with this for right now, but if you want you can help me out in a minute. If you like." She seemed nervous, naturally enough. We were alone and she didn't have any idea who I was.

"Sure." Her fingers were thin and well-formed, unlike her face, although her hands were rough and - her father to the contrary - she probably did most of the work. Typically when we think of physical defects we assume mental defects accompany them, but she seemed sensible enough. She was definitely shy but if I'd had her face I'd have been shy too. Chance, the capricious god, had dealt her a bad hand; her genome had cursed her before her birth. As she was, so she would remain. No one would ever kiss those twisted lips; no one would ever tell her she was beautiful; no one would ever find in her anything besides an object of contempt.

"All right. I'm afraid I don't know your name-"

"Mark. Mark Henshaw."

"OK. What we've got to do is take that - you see that tub right there?” she lisped. “Those're crickets we've already roasted; now we've got to grind them up. You can do that if you want and that way I'll clean out these."

"All right then." The standard is that 1000 crickets will make enough flour to cook dinner for five. As I opened the tub there were easily more than five thousand crickets inside; roasted, dull-coloured and all very dead. "So I just pour them in here and then turn this crank?"

"Yes, but if that filter clogs you've got to clean it out." When you grind up crickets, a large part of their bodies are in fact the exoskeleton, the hard outer shell, and the crank emitted an irritating sound as it turned, like sand caught in gears. I paused a moment to clean out the grate she called a filter.

"About ten years."

"And where'd you used to live before that?"

"In London."

"In West London?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And you like it better out here?"

"I don't really know. I was just a kid,” she lisped. “Don't remember very much, except there was hardly ever any food." She was younger than I was - if she'd been growing up around the time of the Species War, that would make sense.

"It did used to be like that, yes. Of course I think it used to be like that pretty much everywhere. It's better now." I started grinding again. "And how is it out here? is it safe?"

"About as safe as anywhere else, I think. We haven't had much trouble."

"And do you go into Reading often?" I asked, turning the grinder again.

"Me? No, not me. Dad does." What would she do when her father died? It would be unsafe for a single woman on her own to live here. She might be better off in the village, or in Reading itself.

“Do a lot of people live close by?”

“A few. There's a few other families that live down the road from us, then over in the village. We visit sometimes.”

"It must get boring every now and then," I said.

"No," she said slowly, "no, not really. There's nearly always something that needs doing."

"Perhaps it's better that way," I said. "I prefer boring. The last four or five months haven't exactly been boring, come to think of it." I laughed.

“Why, what happened?"

"I was deported."

"What for?"

"I crossed Central London after dark."

"They arrest you for that?" she said.

"Apparently yes. They're always worried - since the war - so they have all these restrictions. Everyone says they don't enforce it anymore, but-" I shrugged - "they caught me."

"So they sent you to a work camp?" she said. The ugliness of her deformity gave her a child-like appearance.

"Yes. It's a landfill, they have you dig through it looking for old scrap metal, anything valuable. At least it's made me an expert on used electronics. So you could say I learned something. But I'll be glad as anything to get back. Soon as this rain lets up. I just can't believe it'd start raining today, just as we're leaving.”

She didn't say anything else, but grew flustered, as if something I said upset her. She returned the tub she'd been cleaning to one of the racks and took another from the shelf, but she stumbled and it fell to the floor.

"Oh, my God." she said in an undertone. She dropped to her knees and clamped the lid back on. It was too late; a couple hundred crickets had escaped and were crawling around on the level dirt. “Oh hell. Oh my God.”

"Don't worry, it's not too many of them. Here, I'll help you catch them." I left the grinder, surprised by her exaggerated alarm. Most of the crickets, bewildered by the light, remained where they'd fallen; a few more enterprising spirits set out in search of broader horizons. I scooped up these bold explorers in my hands one by one. Fortunately most of them were still stunned and easy to catch. It seemed cruel to dash their hopes. There was one in particular that waited until I almost had my hands on him – then raced away again.

“Little git,” I said with a chuckle as Maggie burst out laughing at my antics. “He's trying to spite me.”

“Troublemaker, is he?”

"Stubborn little beggar. I don't blame him, if I was him I'd try and get away too," I said as I caught another befuddled wanderer near the base of the rack. As I returned him to the box my hand brushed against Maggie's; her misshapen face flushed.

"Good thing your jahwallah's not in here. He'd've eaten them all by now.”

"Yes, he'd like it. Thanks awfully, I don't know how I'd have caught them all by myself.”

"No, thank you," I said. "I'm just glad I have a roof over my head. Back in the camp when it rained we had to use the old garbage bags. I have to say this is an improvement. So if it takes chasing crickets, I don't mind at all.”

"I just can't believe I dropped it. Must be getting clumsy in my old age or something,” she lisped.

“Old age, whatever. You're must be nearly my age, maybe three or four years younger. At least if you were a kid when the war started.”

“Why, how old do you think I am then?”

“Oh, I'd say nineteen, twenty...”

“Good guess. Twenty-three,” she said.

“Ah, you see, you're older than yo look.”

She smiled her misshapen smile. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Here, I think that's the last one,” I said as I dropped another cricket into the box. She clamped it shut. “Any more of them that need grinding up or anything else you need help with?”

“No, not really. There is one thing you could do for me though. Have you seen my jahwallah anywhere?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“I haven't been able to find him all afternoon. He's probably just hiding somewhere from the rain, but if you see him could you tell me?”

“I could just bring him to you.”

She shook her head. “I don't think he'll let you. He doesn't like strangers, and he's got teeth. He'll chew you up.”

“I think I can handle a five-pound omnivore.”

She laughed. “How brave of you.”

“Oh, I know. But if I see him I'll tell you.”

I was in two minds about Maggie, I thought as I recrossed the dripping yard to the house and crept in through the back. She was undeniably ugly; but there was something I liked about her on impulse and without any obvious reason. Our instincts are sometimes better judges than logic or common sense; there are times when we knew immediately that we liked or mistrusted a new acquaintance, and however irrational that first impression seemed its wisdom became obvious later on. Perhaps the same genetic influences that shape our personality reveal themselves by outward signs our senses can perceive, just as a dog knows his pack by their scent. Or perhaps the face over time comes to wear the habits of its owner's mind.

Come on, I told myself. What do you care. You'll never see her again. The sooner you're on the road the better.

I rejoined Kamal on the porch. I heard a noise in the house; I must have awakened the cricket farmer as I crossed the living room.

"All done?” he asked.

“Yeah. There wasn't really that much to do.”

"Actually, you know, I wanted to say, sorry about this morning. You're right, there was nothing we could do.”

"Forget it. Just forget about it. There's a bench out here, isn't there,” I said.

“Yes, it's over that side.”

“All right. I'm going to sleep out here. Don't want to overtax our friend's hospitality. He's absolutely tanked.”

“He must've been working on it since before we came.”

“Looks like he's got some kind of blanket on this,” I said, rearranging it to make myself as comfortable as possible.

It was always easy to fall asleep in those days; sleep comes easier to the young than it does to the old, and it only took me a few minutes. I awoke some hours to find the rain had stopped. I glanced at Kamal – also asleep on the bench – then at the moonlit walk leading to the road and yawned. For a moment I thought my eyes duped me. A shadow bent double like a hunchbacked little child sprinted across the walk. Towards us.

“What the hell...”

Now wide awake, I stood up. The shadow climbed the rails at the far end of the porch, watching me with a pair of glowing green eyes. I was about to wake up Kamal when I finally understood.

I laughed softly. “For a minute there I really was scared of a five pound omnivore.” I could see the creature better as it emerged into the moonlight. It huddled on all four hands, chin against knees, its hairless leathery skin crinkled like tinfoil. Its unblinking green eyes peered out of a head it kept on one side, like a curious goblin trying to understand its master's behaviour, its pointed elf's ears jutting out in both directions. The thin-lipped brown mouth shaped a wise inscrutable smile. It was immediately reminiscent of a gargoyle crouching on a cathedral facade. Jahwallahs were bizarre enough the first time you saw one but largely harmless – unless you were an insect.

“Hello, there, little fellow, where've you been?” The only answer was the rasp of the creature's breathing. “Suppose you will try and claw me to death if I pick you up. I'd better go tell Maggie.” The front door, however, was locked. “I'll go round back,” I murmured, “and if that's locked too then forget it. You'll be all right if it's stopped raining.” I picked my way around the side of the shack, avoiding the dripping foliage wherever possible and treading carefully.

The back door was also fastened, however, and I nearly decided to leave the jahwallah to his own devices when I heard a murmur from the shed, masked by the sound of the crickets. Curious, I listened for a moment. The murmur gradually resolved itself into audible words.

“Who told you you'd talk to me like that? Who told you? Who?”

“I'm only saying I already put it away.” Maggie's voice.

“So now you're going to try and deny it.” The words subsided for a moment, then: “Look at you. That mother of yours. Filthy slut. You're not my daughter. Don't believe it.”

I didn't wait to hear any more. I stole across the grass to the shed and unhooked the latch.

Maggie stood with her back to the wall, the cricket farmer berating her with his hands on her shoulders. As I entered, he stopped mid sentence and stared at me, his face pale with guilty surprise like a man caught shoplifting. The look lasted only an instant before his features hardened into outrage.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

I hesitated. I reminded myself I was a stranger and that, however tempted I felt to intervene, I had no business meddling in their private quarrel. “Maggie, I came to tell you. Your jahwallah's out front.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“What are you waiting for?” the cricket farmer demanded. “He told you. Didn't you hear him?” Maggie slipped away from the wall past her father and followed me towards the front of the shack.

“Maggie? are you ok?” I whispered.

Her one good eye avoided my gaze. “Yeah, I'm fine.” I tried to imagine the life she must lead with her father gnawing on her day after day, like a dog chewing at an old bone, and I was suddenly surprised the cricket farmer hadn't been poisoned.

“If he treats you like crap,” I said, “why don't you leave?” It was a stupid question and I knew that as soon as I'd asked it. But Maggie shook her head.

“Please. It's not like that, you don't understand.” No; I didn't understand. “It's – I'm sorry. I really can't explain. Weren't you going to show me-”

“He's round on the porch.”

"You silly thing," Maggie chided him. “Come on, Jitters.” The jahwallah uttered a deep-throated grumble and climbed down. From behind he looked almost exactly like an agile little goblin. He paused for a moment, staring at the mud, and Maggie picked him up, carrying him in the crook of her arm. “You could've been inside all warm and instead you're out here. Thanks for finding him.”

“Aren't they strange. I can never get over the way they look.”

“They're very clean animals, they don't like dirt. And their skin's all frizzy.”

“Is it?” I said. “I didn't know that.”

“Here, if you just pet him on the head he won't mind.” I ran my fingertips across the creature's forehead. The skin felt like velvet.

“It does. Isn't that amazing,” I said.

“They are. Listen. There's one other thing I wanted to tell you. You're walking back to London, isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“When you go in the morning, be careful. The government's got something they're working on south of the M4, they've got construction going on and they've been clearing land, so they might have the M4 blocked off.”

“Yes, Steve was telling us.”

“Oh, he did?” she said. “I didn't know.”

“That's all right. Thanks for telling me.”

“Will you be leaving early?”

“As early as we can, now the rain's stopped. Maybe in another few hours.”

“Well, if I don't see you again – good luck,” she lisped. I looked at her, surprised, and our eyes met. Abruptly she blushed crimson and turned away. “I've got to get back. Thanks again.” I watched her retreating figure stepping gingerly across the puddles, slender and frail with the jahwallah staring goggle-eyed over her shoulder.

Chapter 11

The morning air tasted clean and pure after the rain. Kamal and I left early in the grey light of dawn. We wanted to stay parallel to the M4 by following the back roads at a safe distance to the north; the farther we kept from the Mods the better. Above us a fresh breeze scattered the shredded clouds. I was half-crazed with impatience and I walked as quickly as I could - so quickly Kamal had to remind me to slow down.

"We can't get there all at once.”

"The closer we are by tonight the better." It was at least 20 or 25 miles to London and we'd have to spend another night on the road - wherever we were by the time night fell - but no more than one night, I promised myself, not if I could help it.

“What's the hurry? London'll still be there tomorrow if it was there today. Same for what you were telling me about. This bioweapon.”

“I don't like what we saw yesterday morning – in Reading. They've got something planned. I don't know what. God, I wish I knew.” I felt a deadly urgency like a chess player racing the clock. We were spending the only advantage we possessed – the time.

We'd been walking for a couple hours when we realized we were no longer alone: another footfall had joined ours. I looked over my shoulder to see a thin, bearded man wearing a cap and a tattered coat some thirty yards behind us.

It was too improbable that we'd simply blunder into someone going the same direction as ourselves – such a bizarre coincidence it wasn't even worth considering. Besides, since the last intersection was more than a mile back, he could only have entered the road by climbing over one of the hedgerows. I shifted the case I'd bought in Reading to carry our supplies to my left hand and found the knife in my pocket with my right. "See him?" I said to Kamal.

"Yes. You're right." It'd be better to confront him. The longer we left him to follow us the greater the chance he might hatch some other plan.

"I've got the knife so I'll go for him first. You take left and I take right," I said, and came to a halt. "What can we do for you, friend?" I called out.

The stranger came closer. He had little red-rimmed eyes like a pig's eyes; his large head sunk into his shoulders like a turtle's protruding from its shell. He held his hands out, palms-up, as evidence of his good intentions.

"Hold up a minute. Just saw you passing and I was hoping you might have some food. Been travelling for a few days, now I'm outta money 'n luck.”

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To London."

"Why didn't you take the M4?"

"I could ask the same thing about you," he said with a chuckle. "But since you're so friendly and all, I'll tell you. My name's Brian, by the way. Going down to London from Birmingham to meet up with a cousin, he's started a business. I hitched a ride on a train to Twyford, went south to the M4, saw a roadblock the Mods stuck up; so I went back and circled around, and I got caught out in the rain yesterday."

His threadbare story struck me as unconvincing. But I'd been hungry and hunted only too recently myself, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. There were a few people who escaped the Mods through careful planning or good luck and had to live however they could. The only guarantee of their safety was the indifference of our masters. It was too much trouble to hunt down a stray Mongrel unless they were a particular risk, if, say, they had a record as a terrorist. It's like hunting down a monkey that's escaped from a lab; you wouldn't bother unless he had a contagious disease. So it was plausible that Brian was wanted for an infraction – a crime too minor for the Mods to waste time on him, but serious enough he didn't dare go near Reading or London.

"We've got some cricket flour bread we can share, if you want some of that. And you can walk with us, but you're walking in front," I said.

He shrugged. "That's all one to me whether I walk in front or behind. If we're going the same way." Kamal doled out some of the cricket flour bread; the stranger devoured it as we set off again, Kamal and I keeping behind him.

"You're not being very friendly," the stranger said after a minute. "I feel like I'm a goddamn prisoner or something."

"Then what did you follow us for?" I asked. "You were behind one of those hedgerows and you climbed over to follow us for five minutes."

"Like I said, I was hoping you had some food. You looked like you were better off than I was," Brian replied. "And now here you know where I came from and where I'm going and I still don't know a thing about you. Puts me at a disadvantage, now, doesn't it?"

"That's just fine by me," I said. "I didn't ask you to join us anyway."

"I take it you're going to London?" Brian asked, undeterred by my hostility.

"Yes."

"Where'd you come from then?"

"Look," I said. "I don't mind helping you out but I don't know you from Adam. If you're going the same way we are and you want to come along, you're going to mind your own fucking business."

Brian fell silent for a moment. "Listen," he said, turning to me at last with a smile, "there's no need to talk like that, I'm just trying to be friendly."

I saw his smile change and in an instant I had my knife out, just before he did. He struck like a cobra and missed. I feinted and as he dodged I caught him by the wrist with my left hand, Kamal seizing him from behind. I pried the knife from his fingers and stepped on it. Together we forced him into the hedgerow at the side of the road.

"One move, shitface, and I cut your throat," I said. I wasn't angry; I just wanted to intimidate him. At first his face reddened with rage, but gradually his anger melted into a smile.

"So now you're gonna try and rob me? I'm telling you, I don't have anything. I only drew my knife because you did," he said. "You can kill me if you want, I'm telling you, I don't have anything."

"See what else he's got on him." But the knife that lay in the road must have been his only weapon. "I just can't believe you'd try to take on two of us. Must feel like getting killed."

"Oh, now come on," he wheedled. But I didn't buy it. We were decently dressed, we were carrying what looked like luggage(it didn't contain very much, but he couldn't have known that), and he was desperate – possibly mentally deficient.

"Better take him with us," Kamal said. I didn't want to leave him to wander and hatch some other plan, but I didn't want to kill him, either. There was only one option, as little as I liked it. I stooped a moment to retrieve his knife from the road. It was better than mine - it was a clasp-knife. I pocketed it for future use.

"OK, come on. Stay in front of us and keep walking. Do anything else and it's the last thing you do," I said.

"This isn't very friendly at all-" he whined.

"And one other thing. Cut out that bullshit."

After that, Brian hardly tried to talk; a couple times he made some apparently pointless remark, but when I left him unanswered we relapsed into silence. His presence was a damper to conversation. I was tempted to ask him about the unusual activity the cricket farmer observed – the aircar landing on the M4 – but I didn't know whether I could trust whatever he told me.

Farther down the road I saw anersection, surrounded on all sides by the encroaching woods and a few ancient trees taller than their neighbours. In their shade a chain-link fence extended across the road. Its presence there was not only unexpected but inexplicable. It didn't bear any of the hallmarks of the Mods - there were no living fences, no robot patrols, no aircar traffic nor any of the usual signs of their handiwork. It must be a Mongrel fence, but who would want to block off an area of wilderness and why? We stopped a moment.

"Why's it fenced off?" Kamal said. "I don't understand."

"There's a village down the road from here," Brian said; "they've been fencing off some of the land to claim it these last few months." He'd said he was from Birmingham, so it was unclear how he'd know the recent local history, but I let it pass.

"So you think it's theirs?" I asked.

"Yes, I think so," he said.

Kamal shook his head. "I don't like it. We'd better turn around and go back and we can try another way back to the M4." My impatience reasserted itself. I felt as if every minute counted. If we took another route, it might easily take us an extra day to reach London. I couldn't bear the thought of another day squandered tramping around the countryside.

"We could spend forever wandering around here if we try that," I said. "We'd have to go all the way back to Twyford or Reading. No, that doesn't make any sense. If it's just the local farmers we'll climb over the fence. If they don't like it, they shouldn't have fenced off the road. It's not their road."

"I've already been over it myself," Brian lied glibly. Again, this remark contradicted what he'd told us earlier; since his story agreed with what I wanted to do, however, I didn't protest. And he paid a heavy price for his harmless lie as it turned out, because without knowing it he ensured his own death.

"All right," Kamal said.

"Wait a minute," I said. In which order should we climb over? Whether Brian went first or last, he was a problem - in climbing over the fence we'd offer him a target. It would be better if he went ahead of us. "Brian, you're first," I said. He scaled the fence, planting his feet in the holes in the chain link, and Kamal and I started up just after him, so that we all reached the other side at about the same time.

A cluster of abandoned buildings around the intersection adjoined some vacant lots, as if houses had been razed to make room. We trudged on in silence. At first the birds bickering in the trees kept us company, although as we walked they fell silent. It took me a minute before I noticed, and once I did I found the stillness unnerving. I watched Brian closely.

"Mind if I stop a minute?" Brian asked. "Got to tie my shoelace. I wouldn't ask but since you've got me marching ahead of you like a prisoner and everything thought I would."

"Yes, that's fine." He would be a difficult problem around nightfall. I hoped to reach an town by that time, then we could leave him to his own devices. My gaze wandered to the low stone walls on either side of the road. They were like a relic of another age, the age of humans.

"Every man for himself, mate," Brian murmured softly. He leapt to his feet and I fumbled for my knife; but he ignored me and raced off down the road like a sprinter chasing a gold.

"What the hell-" I said. But he never answered my question, because he tripped over a rock and fell face-first. "Brian?" I called out. He didn't stir.

“He's dead,” Kamal said. Dead with no sound of a gunshot and no sign of a weapon. I turned to Kamal, but his attention was elsewhere and his face a waxen colour I'd never seen in him before.

"It was them," he murmured, and as I swivelled my blood turned to ice.

He(or was it she?) stood in the middle of the road watching us. He didn't seem angry, or perturbed, or even curious; his face gave no sign of any emotion, it was inscrutable, and the metallic blue-grey eyes examined us indifferently. He was over six and a half feet tall in his chameleon-coloured uniform. The fence must delineate some barrier, some project they were working on; they would punish us. In an instant my hopes and dreams scattered like so many butterflies, supplanted by a bitter weariness like despair. It was only one mistake after another - breaking the curfew, climbing over the fence.

And they'd been watching us the entire time.

"Mongrel,” he said and nodded. “Put your hands up and kneel." He enunciated all his words with a crisp clear precision, in a way that no native English-speaker ever would. His skull was elongated because of his larger brain case and eyes. The shape of their heads gave them an intellectual appearance, while the chest was broad and powerful. Some of them had Chinese or Mongoloid features, while others were Caucasian; this one had darker skin and his human ancestors had probably been Indian.

I already knew there was no escape. If we could run, he could run twice as fast; if we were strong, he was strong enough to crush my neck with his bare hands. And although I couldn't see any weapon on him, behind us Brian lay dead on the ancient tarmac. He didn't suffer the same diseases we did, I thought as I knelt and raised my hands in the air, homo sapiens kneeling before his own descendants. He didn't need to sleep, he lived twice as long as I, he could remember things that I'd have have forgotten long ago; his mind was as agile as mine was limited. The emotion of fear that so often crippled my thinking was almost unknown to him. In every way I could imagine he was immeasurably superior - both human, and yet not so. And I hated him, hated him the way I hated all of them: because I was inferior, because I was only a Mongrel, because he inherited eternal superiority over me the day he was born.

And the secret I carried, that was known to me only – if they wanted they could open up my brain with their mindscan machine like a search engine probing a computer database. I didn't believe what Shelley had told me about eluding the machine. Perhaps that might be possible for someone with exceptional willpower, but those words didn't describe me. Marengo was finished. Shelley's twenty years of work had been spent in vain. They would destroy it and ship us to a work camp or a lab, perhaps use us as guinea pigs or as carriers, the cat's-paw for a carefully planned attack. As I knelt there like a votary before his god I hoped he'd shoot us now and spare us the rest.

Hadn't I seen it before? Death can be quick and merciful or painful and prolonged, but it is always pitiless. It functions according to its own inevitable logic: the ravages of disease, the accidents of nature, the deliberate work of man. But surely it would be better to die now than to return to what awaited us. To have to go back after all we'd endured to come so far was too much for me. All I had to do was stand up and he would shoot. In his weapon I'd find both absolution and peace.

"Why did you cross the fence?" he asked. He spoke with the calm self-possession of one accustomed to command.

"We didn't know it was yours, sir," Kamal said in a level, even tone. At least Kamal had kept his head. I was glad he'd spoken and not I, for if I'd spoken at that instant I don't know what I'd have said.

"Whose did you think it was?"

"We thought it was a Mongrel fence, sir. We thought it belonged to a local farmer," Kamal replied. "We didn't see any signs, and the village near here is fencing in all their property. Besides, we couldn't go down the M4, so how else would we get to London?”

He hesitated and I shifted to one knee. A moment more and I would stand to my feet. But my coward flesh dreaded the brutal reality of pain, together with death the one reality with the power to dissolve all illusions.

"Stand up and turn around." We turned our backs to him, and my skin tingled in anticipation of the blow. Would he strike or shoot us from behind? Was he going to march us to a waiting aircar?

"Start walking." Neither of us dared to turn our heads; we walked in front of him for more than five minutes, the silence almost unbearable with tension like the pause while a firing squad takes aim at their target. About a hundred meters ahead around a bend stood another chain-link fence. Their aircar must be parked near the wire.

"Climb over," I heard him say, and by the sound of his voice I knew he was some twenty meters or so behind us. I obeyed, placing my feet in the holes and scrambling over as quickly as I could to the other side. Finally I turned and faced him, waiting for instructions, hardly daring to breathe. For a moment his keen eyes met mine and we exchanged a look more eloquent than any words. His expression was different from any I'd seen on an Mod's face before; it answered a question I'd left unasked, like the solution to a future riddle. I remembered that look later.

"You're free to go,” he said. “The M4 is open. Remember, you can get there however you like, but don't recross the fence. For any reason. If you see any other Mongrels, tell them the same thing. It'll be gone by tomorrow.”

"Thank you, sir," Kamal said. I was too dazed to say a word. I felt like a man with a noose around his neck suddenly granted a last-minute reprieve.

We had violated the law. Our captor ought to have arrested us. He could easily have killed us. Instead he'd set us free, in the same way a man might pity a couple of raccoons he finds rooting in the garbage and let them go. We were only Mongrels.

"Of course," Kamal said after a minute, "if he'd known what we know he wouldn't've let us go. But that proves it. They don't know as much as we think they do." I heard the reassuring chatter of the birds in the hedgerows; the countryside at peace.

"That scared the shit out of me. I thought we were finished. If I'd been by myself I'd have - I don't know. But you - you kept your head."

"I just told him what we were thinking," he said. "I mean, I don't think we broke a really serious rule.”

"But when they arrested me the first time I wasn't breaking a serious rule.”

“The thing is, we didn't get arrested because of what we did, we got arrested because they were short on people in their work camps. That's got to be it. There's no other possible explanation. So in the four or five months since then they've arrested more people, they've got more people in their work camps, now they're willing to let us go. That part actually makes sense.”

“But I don't understand it, I don't understand any of it. They've easily killed over half the Mongrel population on the planet. I don't see why they'd let two stray Mongrels go."

"The thing is it's not like that," Kamal said. "Well - I don't want to talk as if I know anything about them. I don't, I just know what I see. And I don't want you to think oh, he's just saying this because he's Heavenward or whatever. I think to say they're evil is too simple. You know, you might look at us Mongrels and say, we're evil. But we Mongrels aren't any one thing. And neither are they. They don't all think the same thing or want the same thing. They're all individuals.”

"That's true," I said reluctantly. Somehow I always thought of their regime as a juggernaut, a fusion of countless agents serving the same guiding will and crushing mere mortals beneath the wheels.

"And it's the same way with people. You know, if you look at someone you could say they're good or they're evil, but it's too simple. We do evil some of the time, and good at other times. So the question is are we good people who do evil things, or evil people who do good things? Or does that make any difference? And that's the same question about them." All this moralizing was too deep for me and I didn't really want to know.

"Afraid you lost me there.”

"I'm thinking too hard anyway," Kamal conceded with an grin that betrayed his own sense of relief. "I do that. I can't help it. That's why my sister-in-law has me, and you know what, I don't blame her.”

“Well, they just shot themselves in the foot now, didn't they,” I said, the shock dissipating like fog and leaving clarity in its wake. I was free, the road ahead lay empty, and London was growing closer with every passing minute. We'd be within sight of it by dusk.

And they'd lost their chance to stop us. With a bioweapon of our own, we could slaughter the Mods as they planned to slaughter us. We could create a new world, a world born in blood, one where homo sapiens would no longer need to grovel before homo excellens like a prisoner begging a judge for mercy. Now the tables would turn, the horse cast off the rider, the servant become the master, the ape claim parity with the man. For a moment I felt dizzy with power. The final decision was less than thirty miles away, growing closer with every step.

“That was their chance,” I said. “They had us, they let us go. They think they've got us under their thumb. They won't have any idea what's coming until it hits them.”

“Doesn't seem like it, no. They're very confident.”

“Very confident.” Almost unnaturally confident. Why? I thought again of the girl dying in Reading. If they'd already launched a pre-emptive strike against us, they wouldn't care about two stray Mongrels. The disease they'd crafted would spread like wildfire. Perhaps the Mod had released us because he knew how unimportant we were, he knew what was about to happen...

“Kamal. Jesus Christ, Kamal. We've got to get back.”

“Why? What's the hurry?”

“You remember that girl in Reading?”

“Yes.”

“How do we know they haven't released their own bioweapon? Remember what Ben told us? How do we know?”

“I don't see why that'd happen just now,” Kamal said. “I mean, it's possible.”

I had to get back. Because as important as Marengo might be to the human race, I had something more important still.

The uncertain light through the Venetian blind illuminated her where she lay next to me, still sleeping. Of all states sleep is the one closest to death, and for a moment a strange terrible thought ssed my mind that perhaps she was dead, she seemed so still; but her chest rose and fell rhythmically and reassured me. I remembered how we'd made love the night before and a pleasant thrill ran through my nerves, as if the world had shifted beneath me and I'd floated off it into the air. She was so lovely I leant and softly kissed her cheek. She stirred lazily.

"Sorry, darling, I didn't mean to wake you up," I said, and kissed her neck.

"That's all right, I'd been meaning to get up anyway." She was always a late riser when she could help it.

"Listen, darling, I've been thinking.”

"Oh, don't do that, it's such a waste of time," she said listlessly and closed her eyes.

"It's about what we were talking about last night. I mean, I don't mind walking down there but it seems like – well, maybe we'd be better off just moving altogether.”

She shook her head. "No. This is a really good TA. You can't move because you've got your job and it pays well, and I've got my job, I don't want to move, it'd be too far. I mean, what could I do? Get a job working for them? I don't want to work for them, they're so strange, they always look at you as if you're some sort of dog that - I don't know, that has to be treated kindly and punished when you don't heel. And their eyes just give me the creeps, it's as if they're looking straight through you."

"You get used to it," I said. "But I know, you're right. I was just - I don't know.”

"Besides, it's all right. As long as you're careful and you don't do anything silly it's all right."

"You know me - I'm the soul of caution.”

"I'm sure you are. Now be quiet, I want to get some more sleep."

"I thought you said you were going to get up," I said. "Just look at the light. It's going to be a beautiful day, we could go anywhere, we could-"

"Later. Later." She turned her head back to the pillow and I kissed her again. The memory of her face rekindled the same rush of pleasure. I felt as if we were linked by an intangible bond, as if our minds could communicate even though we were miles apart. And I knew there was something wrong. I couldn't identify what precisely I feared, but a vague sense of unease haunted me, a compound of a dozen different impressions – the girl in Reading, Kamal's strange ideas, Shelley's death, the enigmatic expression in the Mod's eyes. I felt that I wanted to see Becky before I found Shelley's husband – just to make certain that she was there and safe. A seed of doubt had planted itself in my mind, like a solitary weed that infiltrates and finally overruns a garden, and until I uprooted it I'd have no peace.

Chapter 12

From the back roads we ventured onto the M4 and the last stretch of the road to London. I pushed the pace as hard as I could. We stopped only to eat and drink from the water bottles we'd carried from Reading, and to detour off the M4 for water.

We saw a handful of other travellers – cyclists or people on foot, journeying either to Slough or to London. Maidenhead had been "erased" during the war, and Windsor Castle and Eton had been looted and destroyed, so that Slough was the only major town en route. Nearing London we encountered ever more activity, as if the city's dwindling pulse still made itself felt on the concrete artery that once helped sustain its life. At intervals, we passed a few remaining blue highway signs that told us the distance to Watford and Heathrow, reminders of how close our destination lay. Galvanized, I hurried down the windswept M4 until Kamal finally asked me if I was trying to leave him behind.

"We're nearly there," he reminded me. "It's no good walking like that. We can't get to Islington or Hackney by tonight. We're going to have to stop somewhere."

"Yeah, but somewhere in London."

"Probably near London Heathrow. We can make it that far easily.”

"Does anyone live out by London Heathrow anymore?" I asked.

"Actually, a lot of people do. And a lot of the hotels are still standing.”

"All looted."

"We aren't looking for a room and suite," he said.

It wasn't until late afternoon, where the M4 snakes past an abandoned golf course now overgrown with trees and weeds, that I espied the blue sign that announced the M25 exit. Only a quarter of an hour more, and we saw the concrete "rat's nest" where the M4 and the M25 meet dead ahead. One of the exit ramps had crumbled into a jumble of concrete blocks, like the ruin of a child's Lego-set building. Kamal looked at me, his eyes shining with quiet exultation.

“Look. What do you know,” he said with a grin. “We're there. That's London.”

I couldn't bring myself to share his enthusiasm. The future hung heavy on me like a cloud.

“Yes, we're there,” I said. “Almost.”

It was easy to find shelter; there were only too many untenanted buildings in a metropolitan area like London, a city built to house twelve million and now home to three or four at most. We left the freeway near the Heathrow Crowne Plaza Hotel. The hotel had lain unused for well over a decade; both sides bombed Heathrow into oblivion during the war, and only the cratered rubble of the hangar buildings remained – a lasting monument to indifference.

“Look, Mark, four star hotel, no room service. Why don't you go down to the front desk and complain,” Kamal needled.

“Probably have to pay extra for that. We're staying free,” I said. “I'll take free over room service any time.”

We made ourselves as comfortable as we could to spend the night. There were still a few odds and ends of furniture, a couch, sun-bleached plastic lawn chairs. I reclined in one of them, improvising a pillow from a moth-eaten old cushion, and for a few hours took refuge in sleep.

A stiff breeze through the window chilled me awake. I shook Kamal by the shoulders. He rubbed his eyes.

"Come on, let's go! It's morning, just look outside."

"Hold on just one minute here," he said, shaking his head. "What time is it anyway, 3 AM?”

“How would I know. I don't have a watch.”

“Feels like it's 3 AM. I want to get shaved and cleaned up.”

"I already did. If you'd been up you'd be ready by now. Besides, there's only so much you can do, there's no water."

He laughed. "All right. Whatever. I guess you want to get there before the sun's up. So this lady in the camp," he said as he climbed to his feet. “She said this friend of hers lived in Holloway, right?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“So that's where we want to go, isn't it.”

“Y-es.”

“You say that as if you're not sure,” Kamal said ironically.

“No, no, of course I'm sure. That's what she said, was Holloway.” I knew I ought to go to Holloway immediately, because it was always possible I'd be noticed by surveillance and rearrested. It was vital the secret of Marengo's hiding place reached Shelley's husband first. But I wanted to see Becky. I dreaded the violent convulsions that would follow a bioterror strike - the aircars strafing the streets, the biorobots and commando detachments, and worst of all the bioweapons. The bodies of the infected left lying out like garbage, the sick and ill left to die untended. I could feel the shock of the cataclysm in my body like the brutal crash of a giant wave when it breaks. I needed to make sure Becky was safe – of all the problems in my mind that one was most important.

So I tried to make a compromise – and hoped I could get away with it.

Kamal and I had to walk almost as far that day as we'd walked the day before. We took a circuitous route through West London, deliberately skirting the Westminster-to-Fleet Street region where the Mods' buildings were located, and stopping only to buy water or food. I was anxious above all not to spend another night on the road. Kamal, however, didn't seem to care how soon we arrived.

"We'll get there when we get there," he said. "Will you look at that? They're selling synthetic coffee for .3 nationals a pound. You want some?"

"Are you telling me you want to stop to buy coffee?”

"I'll need some when I get back. My sister-in-law's going to tell me what an idiot I am the next time I see her," he said; "it'll make up for her having to see me again." He didn't seem to realize what was about to happen, I thought irritably; he wanted to dawdle and buy coffee? Why didn't he understand?

“We're not back yet,” I reminded him in an undertone. “We could get picked up on surveillance.”

“I think if they really cared about us they'd have caught us by now,” Kamal said.

“I believe you,” I said. “But I'd hate it if you got proved wrong.”

“The fact is, it doesn't matter how fast we walk, as long as we get there today it's the same thing.”

We found our way using the few maps that still adhered to the disused bus stops - so faded you could hardly read them. I soon realized that if the Mods had designed and released a new disease – as I'd feared after we left Reading – it hadn't yet struck London. Surely the girl dying in Reading had only been a failed experiment. Pedestrians and cyclists thronged the streets, coffee shops sold cheap delicacies made from flavoured algae paste, stores sold clothing, food and synfuel, and there were signs of new construction in several districts – a warehouse(probably to grow algae under glass), machine shops, fuel plants, some of it even construction begun after my arrest. Clearly long-delayed prosperity had returned to some areas of West London, and in spite of the abandoned buildings that pockmarked the streets you could pretend life was going on as it always had, as it always would.

In another few weeks or even days this superficial calm would melt into chaos. I believed now that the Mods were planning genocide; and our only chance to prevent it was a pre-emptive first-strike. Somewhere in North London lay the weapon that might offer us our last chance. Did I really have the sheer unadulterated nerve to grab the lever of history? to pull the trigger that would take all those lives? Could Becky and I go into hiding before the war broke out?

And the nearer I came to my destination the more intense my doubts became. Perhaps I was only beginning to grasp for the first time what Marengo really entailed. I decided to postpone the unanswered questions until afterwards. All I really had to do was find Shelley's husband, like passing a baton in a relay race. It wasn't mine to keep; I was only an emissary with a lethal message, a weapon that other hands would wield. I could tell her husband what I knew then see Becky again.

It's really very simple, I told myself. Just remember that.

We reached Holloway Road in late afternoon, marching at a rate that would have done credit to a legionary. To the south of us, the crystalline government buildings towered over Central London, dwarfing the few remaining skyscrapers and office complexes in the City to the East. Holloway was a populous district, and we passed a steady stream of people returning home from work at the fuel plants in West London; four or five months before, I would have been one of them.

We turned off the main street down a quiet side lane fronting on a rotting brick terrace. Judging by the markings on some of the fences, it was a TA with joint upkeep. I picked out the building we wanted by the number, daubed on the front gate in white paint, and knocked on the door since there was no bell. A thin middle-aged man with crew-cut brown hair and thin pale lips answered.

“I'm Mark Henshaw. I'm looking for Bob. Shelley's husband,” I said.

“Who's Shelley?” he asked, holding the door ajar with a freckled hand.

“You're Martin, right?”

“What do you want?”

“Have you heard of Marengo?” I mumbled.

He hesitated a moment; his mouth opened then shut again. “I can't – who are you?”

“I knew Shelley in the work camp. She told me everything.”

“Ah.” He nodded and cast a wary glance along the street. “Come inside. Watch out though.” I saw what he meant when my glance met a pair of hungry yellow eyes through a doorway. It's only a wolvo, I told myself and restrained a shudder.

“Don't worry, she's worse than she looks. Here. Come through here.” Kamal and I followed him into an unfurnished room like an empty shell. The wolvo trailed us and lay down in the doorway, a faithful if frightening guardian. Martin cut straight to the chase without wasting time on any pleasantries; I noticed his hands were shaking and I caught a whiff of an unusual scent in the stagnant air. “Where's Shelley?”

“She's dead.”

He paused a moment and licked his lips nervously. “How? What happened?”

“Another one of the inmates killed her for some batteries – for food, really.”

“That's a shame. I guess I didn't think I'd see her again but that's a shame.”

Yes. It is.”

“So she told you all about Marengo though?”

“Yes. She did. Where she'd stored it and -”

He interrupted me, stammering. “There's one thing I want to make sure you understand right now. I don't know anything about Marengo except the name. I don't want to know anything other than that. I'm not part of what Shelley and Bob were doing and I don't want to be,” he said, choosing his words with careful emphasis. “I don't want to know anything other than that. Not about you, not about how you got back here, not about Marengo or what it means. So if you came here looking for any help from me, you'd better look elsewhere.”

I studied his clear blue eyes and freckled white face, long and tapered like an eggshell, and inwardly I wrote him off. In the event of a mishap he'd be as reliable as a tin pickaxe. I wondered how Shelley got along with him, but I suppose friends are seldom completely alike.“Shelley said you'd know where to find Bob. Her husband.”

“Now that's something I can tell you,” he said, relieved. He removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. “I can tell you where he is if that's what you want. He's been hiding down the Tube.”

“Isn't that dangerous?” Kamal said with a frown. “I mean, they could follow him down there.” They could see in infrared, and concrete walls were no obstacle to their sophisticated instruments. If the Mods went down the subway after him, they could track him as easily as a fugitive fleeing across wet cement.

“It was the best he could do, he didn't have too many choices. There's some other people live down there, you know, and they don't bother to round them up too often. And the Mods don't like to flush them out, because some of the tube stations are still booby-trapped from back during the war, so it's risky. One thing about the Mods is they don't like taking casualties. But if he'd stays aboveground, on the other hand, he'd get seen by surveillance sooner or later. I was thinking once enough time's gone by we could try and get him on the road out of London, but he didn't want to leave. They may've found him now, though,” Martin added, “because the last few times I took him food he didn't take it.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I take him food once a week, and paper and a pen, then I leave it for him at the Finsbury Park tube station, down the Seven Sisters entrance. If he needs anything he'll write it on the paper so I see it when I come back.”

“And they never noticed you going back and forth to the Tube station for four months?” Kamal asked.

“Well, the thing is they can't watch everybody all the time.” Just what Shelley had believed – evidently what she told Martin as well. “They're distracted right now, they're doing a lot of different things, I mean, they're trying to launch a colony on Mars, and they've got all kinds of things going on. So they can't watch all of us. As long as you don't do anything incredibly stupid...That's why Bob had to go underground. Only trouble is I don't know what's happened to him. What you can do though is this. Head down the Finsbury Park station – they call it Finsbury Park because there used to be a park near there, I think, but it's-”

“I know where it is.”

“You do. Good. So you'll head down the Finsbury Park station - I can loan you a torch – and call out Marengo. No one else'd call that out.”

“I can do that,” I said slowly, although I was less than thrilled with the idea of exploring the long-abandoned Underground.

“Here, I'll be back in a sec,” Martin said, shuffling through the doorway – the wolvo stood aside with the ready obedience common to its breed – and returning a minute later with a torch, one of the small rechargeable models. “Just take this and - What's that noise?” he added with a frown. I listened but heard only a gentle scratching like a metal instrument tapping on pasteboard. “Where's that coming from, I didn't hear that when I left.” As abruptly as it began, the sound receded into silence.

“An insect. Nothing.”

Martin cupped his hand to his ear and listened studiously for a moment in silence. Finally he gave up. “Suppose I'm just nervous, really. Ever since they were arrested. Never mind.”

“There's one other thing I wanted to ask. Is there anyone else that knew about Marengo that you know of? Besides Bob? I got the impression from Shelley they were scattered and she didn't know where everyone was.”

“No, it's not like that,” he said. “Two of them were killed and they got Shelley. Only Bob escaped. Almost as if he knew it was coming.”

“And they didn't arrest you, obviously.”

Martin shrugged. “I was surprised they never took me in to run me through the mindscan, but I wasn't about to offer them anything. That's why, like I said, I don't really want to know anything about what she was working on. I'd rather not know. It's safer.”

“That's fine, I understand.”

“Now there's one other thing I should tell you. When you get to the Seven Sisters entrance – it's probably better if you go down just before dark. You don't want to draw any attention or anything. What you could do -” Suddenly his lips contorted into a grimace like an African tribal mask. “Kill it, kill it!” A cockroach skittered across the floor with a steady motion like a battery-powered toy car. The cockroach had a shiny metallic sheen to it, as if it were made of burnished copper plate.

On reflex I stamped on it and ground it beneath my heel. It didn't squash; instead, it struggled and cracked like the shell of a nut breaking.

“My God, my God,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I don't believe it. I'm finished. I don't believe it.”

“What – It's a cockroach.”

“You think that was a cockroach?” He held his head in his hands. “No, it's a biorobot. Part biological, part electronic. It'll only take a thing like that a split second to send an entire recorded conversation. It was headed for the door; it wanted to get a clearer transmission.”

Puzzled, I lifted my foot from the remains of the roach. Its shattered exoskeleton revealed a clump of thin silver wires like electronic intestines. I turned pale as I realized how narrowly we'd avoided disaster. “Did it already transmit?”

“If it'd already made a transmission it wouldn't have bothered to head for the door. So I think we're still safe. If not I'll find out in five minutes.”

“Hell.”

“Now see here's the thing. There's three possibilities. Either they had that thing trailing me and that's why they never arrested me, or they had it trailing you, or it hooked onto us by chance. They have spies like that that just monitor random people, that's probably all it is - Either way there's – No, no,” he stammered. “This is no good. You're both leaving. Right now.”

“All right then,” I said, nettled by his peremptory tone. “I've got the idea. We'll leave in just a minute.”

“No. Right now.” The wolvo started to its feet, expectant like a bouncer keeping tabs on an unruly guest.

“Fine,” I said, edging my way towards the wolvo with Kamal following me. “Just call off your mutt here.”

“Come on, Vixen,” Martin called out, and the wolvo slunk out of the doorway. I waited until we were outside to put my impression into words. Vivid words, I admit, but apt enough.

“Fucking coward.”

Kamal shrugged as we retraced our steps towards the high street. “I can see why he'd push us out the door. He's finished. We just screwed him over.”

“How?”

“When that biorobot stops transmitting, they'll know he destroyed it. They might want to know how and why.”

“That's true. Didn't think about that,” I said, my anger waning as I thought through Martin's unenviable predicament. “I wonder why they didn't arrest him in the first place if they were monitoring him.”

“They probably hoped he'd be a magnet for anyone else that was left out of the group. Like a decoy to lure any of the others into a trap.”

“At least we know where to find Shelley's husband,” I mused out loud. “If he's still there.”

We followed the Seven Sisters road and reached the side entrance to the Finsbury Park station by late afternoon. A man walking on the other side of the street cast us a curious glance as we made our way inside. The Underground trains hadn't run for more than fifteen years.

The interior was permanently twilit; a long passage led into the station towards a T-junction where an old ticket gate barred the way – the gates had all been left open. It had been many years since any passengers walked these silent passageways, but the old ghosts seemed to linger in the darkness, as if the station preserved a memory of another age. Beyond the ticket gate we turned right at the T to where stairs descended to the platforms and into absolute darkness, as black as empty space. The tunnels exhaled a gentle breath of air, as if a slow breeze wafted through the caverns of the Underground. I shone the flashlight around the first flight of stairs, the old signs ghostly in the pale beam of the torch. “Piccadilly Line. Victoria Line. Way out.”

“Nothing for it,” I said. “Guess we'd better head down to the platforms.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know. We'll try all of them if we have to.” I felt my way down with the pool of torchlight for a guide. I tried to tread softly but the patient stillness magnified my footsteps like splashes down a well. At last we reached the foot of the stairs. I felt reluctant to go any further. The torchlight beam played across a debris-strewn floor: a shoe, an empty suitcase, a plastic bag, mementos of forgotten lives. It struck me that to take refuge in this eternal night a fugitive must be completely desperate – so desperate they cared little about themselves.

“So where do we go from here?” Kamal said in hushed tones like a patron in a library.

“I really don't know. Martin could've told us more than this if he'd wanted to, the stupid bastard.”

“If he's down the tube station – if this is where he is – he should be right around here. Maybe even listening to us.”

“I feel like an absolute idiot doing this,” I whispered. “Here goes. Marengo!” I called out, and the sound echoed in the concrete cave. “Marengo!” I called it out again and waited.

It was a minute before I heard an answer approaching us from one of the other platforms.

Footsteps. Soft, flabby footsteps like naked feet. Heavy panting, like a lumbering dog on the run.

“Get out,” I shouted. Kamal turned, tripped over the first step and recovered himself. I shone the torch on the stairs to light the way as Kamal and I dashed back up, energized by fear, the small case I'd carried from Reading swinging in my hand. At each step I expected an invisible hand to clutch my feet and drag me back into the blackness. From the stairs we sprinted down the tunnel towards the Seven Sisters exit. There was no doubt about it now:flabby footsteps had gained on us. The ticket gates puzzled our enemy, because the sound halted for a moment then the loping patter resumed.

“Stop,” I called out to Kamal, catching my breath as we reached the safety of daylight. Our pursuer halted also. I shone the torch down the passage to reveal a face like a leering mask. A pair of ruby-coloured eyes shone back at me like cat's eyes.

The creature waited in the passage because it was nocturnal. The black rubbery skin melted into the shadows as it retreated, walking on all four long arms with sabre-sharp claws protruding from its twelve fingers. Its gorilla chest and wiry limbs were reminiscent of an ape, but no ape has a long protruding jaw bristling with serrated teeth. It was a stray orzillo, a genetically engineered predator, either escaped or deliberately set free by the Mods to clean up any Mongrels hiding down in the Underground. Probably it lived in the station and came up to prowl at night.

“Well,” I said slowly as the beast backed out of the light, “I think I know what happened to Shelley's husband.” An orzillo could easily outrun a human. In my mind's eye I saw a vivid image of a man crouching in the darkness, the flabby footsteps approaching him, waiting a second too many to run, his last scream echoing down the deserted Tube.

“Almost happened to us,” Kamal said.

An unpleasant idea occurred to me. “You don't think what Martin told us was just crap? Do you think he told us that just to get rid of us? You know, send us down there and-”

“Don't let's get paranoid,” Kamal said. “I don't think he knew either. I mean, I didn't know any of those were down in the Tube or the sewers and I live in London.”

“He must not have been down there very long then. I'd heard there were orzillos loose in the subway or something but I never believed it. That explains a few things. In my neighbourhood, anyway. Homeless people vanishing, cats disappearing, stuff like that.”

“That's terrible” Kamal said, deeply shocked. “That's absolutely terrible.”

“What, the cats?” I laughed. I'd been badly frightened but it was over and we were alive. “So it's more terrible about the cats than Shelley's husband?”

“Well, that's terrible too. I'm just saying, you know, you think of something like that chasing down a cat and that's really awful, you know, like-”

“Yeah, it is. Listen,” I said, recovering my self-possession. “I live over in Islington. We might as well go by my place for tonight, then tomorrow morning we can do the rest of this with Marengo.”

“Is that the-”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I couldn't figure out what you and Martin were talking about at first when you said Marengo.”

“You thought I was just calling that out for tll of it.”

“You know, I wasn't sure.” We walked northwards from the station along Upper Street. The calm of the upper world seemed superficial by contrast with the creatures of the Underground. I wondered how many of the passer-by knew about the orzillo living in the station – or if there were more than one. Perhaps the whole Tube was infested; perhaps the Mods meant to deny us the Underground in the event of another war.

But conjecture aside, we had a more immediate problem. In an instant all my plans had collapsed. Up until then, I'd assumed I could find Shelley's husband and leave the execution of the plot to him – or whatever members of the terror cell remained. But now the attack would be mine to carry out from first to last. I would have to figure out how to activate and use the virus myself. Formerly I was only a messenger drafted by chance; now I would have to change roles. How could I carry out a terrorist attack? what would it entail?

“See, here's the trouble,” I said slowly. “I'll have to figure out how to print this thing and use it myself. Shelley's husband is dead, Martin's probably finished and even if he's not he's useless. But I don't know how I'm going to do this. I don't even know what I'll have to do.”

“We can figure it out. I'll help you.”

His remark seemed incongruous and I turned to him, baffled. “You know what? Kamal. I don't understand. Why you want to help. I mean, you could just mosey off and forget all about this. Shelley didn't tell you, she told me.”

“It's very simple.” He shrugged. “I owe you one. And I don't really have anything else I've got to do. So why not? And I mean, once you do this, London's going to be completely different. Who knows what'll happen?”

“Yes, but you're a Heavenward, you're neutral-”

Kamal grimaced. “No, no, it's not like that. See, you don't understand. You keep on talking about Heavenward as if there's some sort of huge cult. Of course I believe God meant there to be an Mod elite. But it's not the Mods or Mongrels that're important. We're just part of the plan.”

The plan? I said to myself. What plan? Whose? “But what does that actually mean? I don't understand.”

“Whether we win or they win is the same thing. It's not them or us that's important. It's individuals.”

“But, see, that's just it. If you really don't care either way, if you're happy with things the way they are, why would you even bother to-”

“Because I want to help you, so I will. It has nothing to do with us or them. And if we keep on talking about it like this we'll get recorded by one of these hidden monitors and we'll have some friends come to join us,” he added in an undertone. “So keep it down. We're back in London now.”

I didn't understand. For a moment I wondered whether hehad an ulterior motive but I dismissed that idea. It would have to be a powerful ulterior motive that would induce him to run these kinds of risks. If the Mods arrested us they would condemn both of us to the same fate. I gave up puzzling over the riddle of Kamal's acquiescence in Marengo; it was welcome enough, I wanted his help, and there's no point looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Unless it's also a Trojan horse.

Stop it, I told myself, you're turning paranoid. After tomorrow I might have a struggle to survive. It was essential I keep clear-headed and focus on the present, as single-minded as a martial artist fighting a bout. There was no need to suspect Kamal, any more than to suspect Martin. Or Shelley.

And so selfish is the human psyche that – truth be told – I felt a little pleased we hadn't found Shelley's husband. Now I'd have a chance to see Becky. To explain Marengo and what was about to happen. To resolve all my nagging fears. And of course she wouldn't be expecting me. She would have no idea I was coming.

Then she would be all the more surprised to see me, I thought, and my heart leapt as I imagined the look that would cross her face. I hadn't seen her in more than four months. If nothing else those four months had taught me just how much she meant to me.

I stepped off the pavement to cross and Kamal followed suit; a bell tinkling announced a cyclist turning the corner. I knew all these streets like the back of my hand. It wouldn't be far now.

We left the main road and turned down a familiar lane: the same brick houses, the poorly-mended fences, the grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt. I didn't notice how shabby or poorly-tended it looked. It was different to me simply because it was hers, as if she had altered and made it more beautiful simply by being there.

“Here we go, it's this one over on the right.”

“It's a TA?” he said, using the common abbreviation for tenant's association.

“Yeah, unfortunately.” I leapt up the stairs two at a time and hesitated before I knocked, like delaying a pleasure so you can savour it in advance. I imagined the look on her face when she saw me; the things she'd say; but I didn't want to say anything just then, only to kiss her. I paused a moment and at last I knocked twice and waited.

There was no answer.

Surprised, I tried the door handle and it turned. It was unlocked. I opened the door, feeling disoriented like a child lost in a strange house. The bedsit was empty. Everything that could be removed had been stripped, down to the Venetian blinds we'd stolen from a disused flat. Had I knocked at the wrong door? Had I made some mistake? No, the address was right. It was our flat; but Becky wasn't there. For a moment I was dazed with disappointment.

“What the hell?” I said. “I don't understand.”

“The neighbours might know.”

I brushed past Kamal back down the stairs and crossed over to the place on the first story. A couple I knew with a young child lived there. I beat frantically on the door. There was no one at home. I'd have to – what could I do?

"My God, it's Mark. You scared me. I thought someone was trying to break in. You don't have to knock so hard as all that. What's the matter?" She was in her late twenties, her short hair brown carelessly arranged. She still had the fresh plumpness of a young girl, a look that most people mistake for beauty but quickly fades into a flabby middle age.

"Do you know where Becky is?" I asked, breathing hard as if I'd just run a race. She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, she's been gone a month and a half now. I thought you'd've known."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I think it was some place in South London, I don't know where, really. It was quite a long time ago.”

"South London?” I asked, incredulous. “She moved to south London?” Kamal had caught up with me by that time and waited politely at a short distance.

"That general area, yeah. She didn't have all that much to move anyway, and another fellow helped her move her stuff. He had a bicycle and one of those little trailers, you know, so I guess he could make it over there and back quicker than I could. She gave away some other stuff that was too big for them, I think."

"Why-" I started to stammer something stupid, but then I realized it was no use. "And you don't know which street or anything?”

"I wish I knew anything else, but that's it, really. But listen, I haven't seen you in forever. Becky wasn't sure what'd happened to you, and I thought-”

"Thank you," I said, and turned away. I didn't want to hear anything else, I didn't want to tell her how I'd been. It was rude, but I was too unnerved to sham a politeness I didn't feel.

“So what's happened?” Kamal asked me as I approached him. “Is she ok?”

“She's moved. Down to south London,” I said. “I don't really know where.”

“Then that's all right. I thought maybe for a minute something'd happened to her. But that's different. You can find her after tomorrow.” After Marengo, in other words. As if a bioterror attack were just another item on a checklist. I didn't understand him at all.

“Here,” I said, “let's go back upstairs. We can camp out for the night.”

“You ok?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just surprised. I thought she'd still be here for some reason.”

pan> “Something must've come up, you know, we were gone four and a half months anyhow. That's all it is.” He was right; she hadn't vanished, there was no real reason for me to be alarmed. But an innate instinct, like the sense that awakens an animal to danger, warned me her disappearance concealed an unpleasant secret. Why had she moved to south London? She liked where we were, she'd told me that several times before. Then what impelled her to move after I vanished?

I felt horribly uneasy now. I knew there was something wrong.

What did Becky think had happened to me – or what had happened to her? I already half-guessed what had happened; I felt that with an effort I could decipher the riddle but I recoiled from the attempt, like a child afraid to open the door to the night-time and its fears. Moreover, the dilemma that confronted me now was impossible.

Could I carry out Shelley's plan before I'd found Becky? before I knew for certain what transpired in those four and a half months while I was away? Knowing that as soon as the outbreak began, the Mods would retaliate and London degenerate into a living hell?

I remembered Shelley dying in the mud of the landfill. Marengo. The battle that began in defeat and ended in victory, human history summed up in a word, a phrase, a hope. I saw Becky's face in my mind's eye, I remembered the touch of her hand, her eyes, her voice.

And I wished I didn't have to choose.

“Listen,” I said. “Kamal. I still don't have a clue how I'm going to do this tomorrow.”

“We'll figure it out,” he said. “Better off not talking about it though. You never know.” He nodded at me and pointed to the walls.

I turned away. “Yeah, I know. I know.” The same sun that smiled on us in the morning seemed to mock me now as I shut the door.

Chapter 13

We spent the night in the empty bedsit. I slept little; I was wracked with doubt. Several times I stood by the window and watched the ghostly phosphorescence that lingered around the Mods' buildings, their activity continuing unabated during the night, a tiny blue tongue of fire jetting into the sky near where Charing Cross used to be. I tried to imagine the world riven by another brutal war. My heart was no longer in it. My hatred of them had faded to distaste, like a keen edge worn blunt by a sanding block. I wondered whether I had any right to commit an act of cold-blooded terrorism. An act that might lose me everything I cared about. Marengo was less an opportunity than a burden now.

But at that point I stopped myself. I was thinking about it the wrong way. The real question was whether I had any right not to use Marengo. Had Shelley really wanted to spend twenty years working to fight the Mods? Responsibility comes unbidden. I'd been entrusted with the knowledge, it was my duty to use it, like a soldier carrying out orders against his will.

Remember how they called you Mongrel, I reminded myself. They spat it at you like a curse. They despise us, they're planning to get rid of us. It's only a matter of time until they turn to genocide. I mulled it over in my mind and I gradually realized I had no choice. This was our last chance. The Mods had supplanted us, evolution was on their side. Either we struck them a single, devastating blow, or homo sapiens would gradually recede into the background of history, like the Neanderthals before us. Evolution destroys what it creates.

Unless you fight back.

“All right, I'm ready, let's go,” Kamal yawned. I was brittle with tension like stage fright; I could tell Kamal felt ill at ease.

“Let's do it.” I closed the door of the empty flat and we headed north along the main street.

“How far is it?”

“Not too far. It's in Holloway, near where we were yesterday. You don't think we're being followed, do you?”

“You mean because of that biorobot yesterday?

“Exactly.”

“No, I don't think so. If they are following us,” he said, nodding as if he were talking about the weather, “then they are.”

We retraced yesterday's route north past Finsbury Park before we reached the cross-street Shelley had named. We turned right into a maze of little-used side lanes, searching for the building she'd described. She'd seemed to think it would be obvious, but I didn't realize why until I saw it.

At the end of a brick terrace, the second and third stories of a house had crumbled over a first floor crouching beneath them, partially supporting their weight. Scattered bricks lay strewn about the building. There was no front gate and the steps led straight to the door, secured with a padlock and keypad. I paused a moment.

“You've got the code?”

“Is there anyone coming?” I said.

“No.” I dialled the code I'd memorized months before and the padlock fell open. Inside, the first floor ceiling had collapsed in places, and the staircase and living room door were half-buried by piles of bricks, plaster and beams. Above us rifts in the ruins revealed the blue of the early morning sky.

“Are you sure this is it?” Kamal asked, dubious.

“Yes. Look down there.” Past the remains of the stairs another flight descended to a basement or lower level.

“I'm amazed they didn't use a DNA key or something.”

“Well, the thing is this,” I speculated, talking to keep my mind off the job ahead. “They didn't want anyone to just wander in here, but they didn't want to draw attention to it, either. If you saw a ruined building with a DNA key lock, you'd think, what's going on?”

“True.” We paused for a second at the entrance to the basement. Another padlock, but this one needed a letter code. Marengo.

“Good thing we got that torch,” Kamal said.

“Maybe the lights work.” I flicked the switch and a soft incandescence spread through the room.

“How-”

“They've got an artphoto panel somewhere on the property. It's pretty well set-up.” Their equipment appeared deceptively ordinary. The basement was small and narrow; next to a disused water heater stood a table, and atop it two items, both connected to a cord snaking down the wall. A computer and keypad – thin and lightweight, probably weighing only five pounds at most; and a GeneWrite, a tall grey “tower” with a translucent case and a complex interior. From it protruded a short arm with a ring at the end to hold a test tube, the receptacle for the products of the machine. On the floor at the foot of the table rested a box, probably containing whatever supplies were needed for the GeneWrite.

“I have no idea how to use one of these things,” I admitted. I approached it carefully, intimidated like a man approaching a snake-charmer's box. Here within this machine lay the power to unleash wars, topple empires, alter history. In the presence of that power I dwindled away into insignificance. I was only the feeble agent of an idea greater than myself.

“Me neither. But I thought you said she'd got some files on the computer – maybe there'll be a ReadMe or something, or something that makes it obvious what you've got to do.”

“We'll just have to figure it out, I suppose,” I said, feeling jittery and nervous. The doorway at my back made me uneasy – if anyone had followed us we'd have no warning until they entered. Nonetheless, I pressed the button on the side of the computer and waited while it slowly signed on. “Searching...no terminal found. No network.” The computer not only printed the words but spoke them, and I jumped.

“No. No sound,” I said, irritated. “Sound off. Volume 0.”

“OK.” The voice subsided into silence.

“You don't want voice-operate?” Kamal asked me.

“No, I don't.” The files were all stored under a directory named Marengo – whatever Shelley's faults, inconsistency wasn't among them. “Imagine naming the folder the same thing as the fucking password,” I said. “Can you believe it. They used that name Marengo far too often, I'm surprised no one else knew it. Oh, well. They probably figured if someone found their computer the game was up anyway. All right... Here we go.” I removed my hand from the mouse for a moment and noticed that my fingers were shaking.

“It's 100 pages long,” Kamal grumbled.

“Brevity wasn't their strong point. And they spent twenty years on this.” The first few paragraphs quickly waded into the slough of jargon that characterizes old journal articles, phrases like, “The mechanism of action of the protein kinase in regulating this pathway is incompletely understood...detailed kinetic analysis revealed that the pair is limited by facile synthesis...the proteolytic processing of transmembrane substrates.” The words began to blur together and I started scrolling, page after page, hoping to find an intelligible paragraph buried amidst all the gibberish.

“Ah. This is more like it. Suggested methods of use.”

“We'll have to go back through and read the whole thing,” Kamal said.

“Let me read this first, it's actually in English. Hold on.” I read the following lines out loud.

“Waterborne transmission is preferable as the primary means of introduction, in order to increase the infection rate amongst the target homo excellens population. The water supply, however, is concentrated in the water recycling plants at Westminster and is difficult to access, nor will upstream introduction serve, since the filters used by the water recycling plants remove pathogens from the supply.”

“Good point,” I remarked sarcastically. “So what's plan B.” I kept reading:

“Should introduction into the water supply prove infeasible, the surest method will be for a volunteer to act as a carrier. Since homo sapiens is invulnerable to the pathogen, a volunteer may ingest the virus and remain contagious for 72 hours, without suffering any ill effects besides fever and the other normal consequences of an immune reaction.”

I paused for a moment. It was already clear. Shelley omitted to tell me one thing:

Her plan was a suicide mission. Whoever carried it out would die.

Once the virus began to spread the origin of the disease would be obvious. I would mark myself for destruction. Even if I did escape death, in the chaos that followed the outbreak I would never find Becky again.

And that thought rekindled all my doubts and fanned them to fever pitch. I grew restless. I played fingers across the keys, my heart pounding.

“Kamal. You see that? What it says.”

“Yes, I see it.” He nodded. Outwardly he seemed unmoved. I didn't understand why.

“I didn't know if I read that right for a minute. Believe me, I didn't know or I'd have told you.”

“Let me read some more, hold on a sec.”

For whom were we doing this? I asked myself. For Humankind? What was Humankind? The nebulous abstraction embodied by the word dwindled away into a handful of individuals. The cannibals. Jason. Scott Peters. The farmer near Reading. Ben. Martin. Criminals, swindlers, cowards, fools. I would sacrifice everything I wanted to benefit them?

In a flash I remembered the face of the Mod who had caught Kamal and I crossing the fence. The look in his eyes had been as human as if he'd been one of us.

It was pity. The pity of the future looking at the past, of a man looking at an animal. The man's mind is larger than the animal's, but in some way they are akin, the battle they face is one and the same: the struggle to survive for a few days, years, decades in the face of an indifferent universe. In a million years there will be no sign that humankind ever walked the earth; evolution destroys what it creates. With or without the Mods our extinction was inevitable. And the Mods might destroy us and our history, but they would perish in their turn. Whether Mod or Mongrel or animal, time grants the same end to us all. Eventually we are all forgotten.

Then why would I attack the Mods for – what? I said to myself angrily. The Mods were the future, our own creations, we Mongrels were the past. Why would I fight the future – at the expense of everything I cared about? What was I, a saint? I recalled Kamal's arguments about the Mods; the ideas of the Heavenward seemed unexpectedly alluring now.

But then my sense of duty reasserted itself. This was a responsibility. A duty to my own kind, to all of us that were to come, to our entire history. They were going to wipe us out. Slaughter us.

I wavered, blinded by a fever of indecision, perfectly balanced between two choices like a pin standing on a fulcrum and ready to fall either way. I thought of Shelley dying in the camp. I thought of the brutal war that would follow a bioterror attack. How could I possibly make a choice like that? Who appointed me arbiter to decide?

If I'd had someone like Shelley standing beside me, someone who could have marshalled the right arguments, spurred me like a jockey flogging a horse across the finish, I might have gone through with it. But I suddenly realized that Kamal was no longer reading the file. He was watching me. And without knowing why, I shuddered.

“Kamal,” I said softly. “What is it?”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “You don't really want to do this. You know what's going to happen if you do. You'll never see Becky again. You'll be lucky if you're even alive in three weeks. And what'll you do that for To start a war. A war even worse than the last one. Think Armageddon, think the Species War times two.”

I paused a moment. “I don't know. I've got to think.”

The hint of a smile played around his lips as the tempter spoke, his voice calm as if his lines had been rehearsed in advance. “Then put the mouse down for a minute and let's talk. There's no point doing this if we don't know what we're doing. We've got time.”

“I know you didn't want to see this happen, you told me that in the beginning. So why did you come?”

“It's not about me,” Kamal countered. “If you say you still want to carry out this attack, you can. It's your decision. But I don't believe you want to do it.”

I remembered Shelley's words. The most important thing of all. Don't tell anyone. There are more traitors on our side than on theirs. “It's my responsibility. It's not for me, it's for us, for all of us. For the human race.”

“All of us who? The average person doesn't care who's in charge, they don't care about things like freedom or the future. Most people just want peace so they can live and make love and have something to pass on to their children. And the Mods may not think like we do, but they're conscious humans that don't deserve to die either.”

“Then they should give us equal rights.”

“So you'll start a war. How many hundreds of millions will that kill? What, you think we'll have equal rights once we're dead?” He shook his head. It was the first time I'd ever seen him angry. “Don't fool yourself into thinking there's some kind of compromise, half of them die then we all sit down and talk. If they get hit with a bioterror attack it'll be war to the death. They won't feel safe as long as any of us are alive. And if we win, we'll need to get rid of every single last Mod on earth.”

“So we're supposed to let them just slaughter us?” I said defensively, as if I were arguing on Shelley's behalf. “They're going to wipe us out.”

“So what? It's not as if the human race was going to last forever anyway. The Mods are superior to us, they should be in charge,” he said. “And if you launch a bioterror attack they'll certainly try to wipe us out. So it doesn't make any difference.” I listened with half an ear to the stairs behind me and the front door; we'd shut it, hadn't we?

“So we should just roll over and let them do whatever they want,” I said. “They put us in work camps, they put us in labs, they shoot us if we break their fucking rules, and we're going to let them just do that.” Ironically, arguing with Kamal made me more certain than before. By dissecting my assumptions he forced me to reconsider them.n>

He shook his head. “Of course they shouldn't treat us like that. But a war won't stop that. It'll just devastate what's left.”

“But this is our last chance,” I mumbled. “If we throw this away – what's left? Humans will go extinct. We'll be replaced.”

“Humans have been on the planet for what – a couple hundred thousand years. Everything goes extinct sooner or later. We've had our fun, we've even created our own replacement. So the first question is this. How much hell is it worth to buy us another few centuries? do we need another few centuries? And the other question – the question for you, for Mark Henshaw – is which is worth more to you? Becky, or so-called freedom for a few exhausted survivors?” He nodded. “And I think you already know the answer.”

I hesitated, wavering in an instant from one choice to another. The future or the present; the here and now or posterity. “But what else would we do with the files?”

“Everyone who worked on them is dead. All you have to do is delete the files and it'll be as if they never existed.”

And in an instant I knew. I couldn't imagine the world without the Mods. I'd never really believed it.

They'd already won. It was my own future that mattered most to me.

Reluctantly, as if prompted by an irresistible force, I turned back to the computer and picked up the mouse. I deleted the files containing the DNA code. I deleted the notes on the design of the virus. I secure-deleted them to prevent future retrieval.

In a few seconds I sent Shelley's twenty years of work down the drain. And even as I did it I wondered at the things my hands did, as if they were puppets no longer under my control.

Kamal watched me in silence. Only once the task was finished did he speak again. “I didn't think you'd want to carry out a terror attack,” he said. “But I came along just to make sure you didn't. I realized that was why God let me escape from the work camp. To stop you.”

I was staggered. So he intended to foil Shelley's plan all along. The real enemy had been beside me the entire time.

“Why?”

His dark brows creased into a frown. “I don't remember Shelley in the camp, so I don't know what you saw. All I remember is the look in her eyes on the train. She was insane. It's not my place to judge, but I think out of all the people in that work camp,” he said slowly, “if anyone deserved to be there it was her.”

“Jesus Christ. I wondered why you wanted to help me out even after you told me – I should've known. And here you kept on talking about these Ascension cults like you hated them. This church of yours is one of them, isn't it.”

He smiled. His expression was inscrutable. “We don't call it that. But I suppose some people do.”

I ascended the stairs with Kamal following me. Marengo was as dead now as if it had never existed. I felt dazed by the enormity of what I'd done: like throwing a rock through a window and watching an entire building collapse under the impact. We'd surrendered the future of our own species.

And yet the sedate by-lanes and high street remained outwardly unaltered as if nothing had happened.

“Just out of passing curiosity here,” I asked Kamal. “What would you have done if I'd still been hellbent on doing this?”

“No, don't worry, I wouldn't have turned you in,” he said. We both spoke in undertones for fear we'd be overheard. “I'd never have done anything like that. But I'd have found a way to stop you. God would have given me a way. One way or another. Same if we'd met Shelley's husband.”

“Kamal,” I said again. I shook my head. How could Shelley have known when she confided in me that I would destroy her work? that her worst mistake was the one right before her death? “I just don't believe it. You kept quiet about that all that time and you were planning to try to stop me.”

“I didn't think I'd have to stop you.” Kamal interrupted me. “You didn't really want to unleash something like that. In the name of what. Revenge? There's nothing as useless as revenge.”

“For something so useless it's very satisfying.”

“Maybe. But it's not a good reason to start Armageddon. It wasn't you that wanted to do it, it was Shelley, she persuaded you. People like Shelley are what created the Mods to begin with. People who wanted control. You're not one of those. All you really wanted to do was to get back to this girlfriend of yours and leave London. You told me about her then you told me about Marengo – you remember that day in the train station – and I could see which one you cared about. So I thought, He's making a mistake.”

“So you decided to help me out.”

“It's like I said,” he added. “I owed you one.”

“What a way to pay me back.” In terms of what we believed Kamal and I were polar opposites; his cult doctrines seemed so absurd they didn't need refuting. But even a zealot can sometimes turn out to be a decent human being in spite of their ideas. And Kamal's motives were disinterested, however irrational they might be. “I don't know, it's strange to think that we destroyed it,” I said. “Just like that.”

“The less said about it, the better.” It would be only too ironic to be arrested for Marengo now. I wavered between disappointment and relief. Disappointment, because for a few short weeks I'd begun to believe we could actually rid ourselves of the Mods; relief, because I'd been spared the cataclysm I knew would follow the attack. And I could be certain I'd see Becky again. That alone was enough to outweigh my disappointment.

“Yes. You're right,” I said. “Less said, the better.”

“So, I suppose I'll walk over to Hackney,” Kamal said with a sigh. “Go scare my sister-in-law. See if I can find my cat and my bike. And I suppose you're going to – You don't really know where she went, right?”

“No, I don't,” I said flatly. “There's a couple friends of ours I can ask that might know. Other than that I don't have any idea.” Without any directories, searching for a single individual across all of South London was like looking for a drop lost in the ocean. I had to hope that she was safe and unharmed, that someone knew where she was. At least I knew who I'd ask first. Audrey might know; or perhaps Abel. Abel would be at work at this hour, but Audrey would be at home. I could ask her, and if she didn't know – I'd have to think of something else.

Kamal and I parted company near Angel, where the City Road intersects with Upper Street – he to go east and I south.

"It's been what, four and a half months since we left,” I said.

"For me, four or five. But yes, something like that."

“I can't believe it.”

"But listen," he said with an impish grin, "it's been fun.”

“Like hell it has.”

“Come see me sometime. And make sure you bring this beautiful girlfriend of yours with you. I want to meet her."

"I'll come," I said. "I'll bring Becky if she'll walk that far."

Kamal raised his eyebrows and his brown eyes lit with amusement. "What does she think is far? Tell her you walked halfway across England and see what she says. No, even better. Tell her you walked halfway across England because you had to see her again. She'll like that."

"You bet." He gave me his address and I – lacking a pen - committed it to memory. The last I saw of him he was a retreating figure making his way down the City Road, just half a mile from the place where I'd been arrested months before.

From Angel I walked south across Central London. By daylight it seemed safe and demure, and I saw a number of other pedestrians and cyclists, mostly people headed to the Mod buildings off the Strand. I crossed the Thames via Tower Bridge and traced a circuitous route towards the Elephant and Castle district. The same queasy fear that harassed me the night before hounded me again. What had happened to her?

I felt that if I thought for long enough I could guess the answer – but that it wasn't one I wanted to hear. And now I had to know. Because I'd given up the future of humankind for my own future. For her.

And she was everything I had left.

I knocked twice after I arrived at Audrey's doorstep and waited, my shirt clinging to the sweat on my chest. Her jaw dropped half an inch as she ushered me inside. “It's Mark? Mark! Where on earth have you been?”

“I went on a little jaunt with some friends out to the West Country,” I said. “They didn't really want me to come back, so I had to stay a while.”

“I don't understand. I- Here, come inside. Some friends? What do you mean?” She seemed visibly embarrassed, as if I were an unwelcome visitor.

“I mean I was arrested,” I said quietly as she closed the door behind me. “I got deported to a work camp. I escaped after about four months and it's taken me all this time to get back.”

“You escaped. You escaped? I can't – well.” She frowned at the curtains, thinking through all the ramifications. “And so of course you come here. Next thing you know they'll come here and raid my house. Are they looking for you?”

“No,” I said. “Course not. I don't think I'm important enough to be worth chasing down.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, I'm back, aren't I?” I shrugged.

“That's really incredible,” she said. She didn't ask me to sit down; my unexpected arrival startled her out of her usual politeness. But I couldn't wait for her to recover. My impatience prodded me past the point of no return.

“Something I want to ask you,” I said. “Have you seen Becky.”

“Becky?” Her eyes met mine for an instant then darted away, evasive like prey scurrying for cover. I had no reason to mistrust her, but that movement made me suspicious. She knows something. Why wouldn't she tell me? “Yes, Becky.”

“What is it? What happened to her?” I watched her, my anxiety mounting like a thermometer rising in the heat. In a second I made another decision: I wouldn't leave until Audrey told me what she knew. Whatever that was.

“Nothing's happened to her, she's fine.”

“Then where is she?”

Audrey hesitated visibly. “You know, I don't – What are you asking me for?” aid defensively.

Now I felt certain. “Because you know.”

She furrowed her brows. “You've been gone four and a half months, I don't know what you expect when you come back. I don't know why you think everything's going to be just the same when you do come back. Do you think the world freezes until you're here again?”

If you get back and she's still waiting for you, it'll be a miracle. I felt dizzy, the room seemed to sway around me. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Who – where is she?”

“I just can't believe you'd come and ask me in that accusatory kind of tone,” she said stiffly. “As if I did anything. It's not my fault.”

“Where is she?” I asked. “I'm not accusing you of anything. I don't understand.”

“She's with Abel now,” Audrey said, as if admitting it against her will. “He moved out. Like I said, it's not my fault. I didn't have anything to do with it. Abel didn't really either. It was her that started it. It was all on her side. You can't expect the poor girl to wait for you forever, you were gone four and a half months after all. If you really loved her all that much you should've been more careful, then you wouldn't've been arrested.”

I stood motionless, the pressure buzzing in my ears.

“And now you come back and ask me-”

“Shut up,” I spat at her. “Just shut up.”

“There's no point being rude. It's not my fault. I always said she was too good for you anyway.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said stupidly, “I don't believe it. I don't believe it. You don't understand. You have no idea what I just did. This morning. What I just threw away.”

“I'm sorry,” Audrey said huffily. “But you shouldn't swear. It's not my fault.”

No, it wasn't her fault. In my folly, I'd introduced Abel and Becky a year before. She told me at the time that she liked Abel, she couldn't understand how he put up with his “bitchy old mum”, she thought he was sweet. And she must have thought I'd never come back. So why would she wait? Life is short.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“I'm not telling you where to find them,” Audrey said. “Not in the state you're in right now t. You need to go and calm down and then you'll see things the right way, instead of trying to blame everything on other people. No one asked you to go and cross Central London after dark. I tried to stop you, don't tell me I didn't. I told you you shouldn't. And now you blame me. Of course, that's always how it is, isn't it.” I was no longer listening.

Becky, I said to myself. I was only gone four or five months. Don't tell me I wasn't even worth that. Now that I saw what had happened, now that I imagined it in my mind's eye, my pain made a coward of me. I didn't dare to confront her just yet, didn't want to hear her explain what she'd been thinking.

“Listen. I – I'm leaving.”

“What? Where? Now don't you bother them, they don't need-” But I didn't wait to hear more. I edged past her to the door. I ran without any idea where I was running or why, heedless like the little kid racing into the street, searching for a family that was already dead.

The world had grown older but nothing else had changed.

After a while my pace slackened to a walk. I chose streets at random; I didn't know where I wanted to go. My head swam and my skin tingled as if I had a high fever. My thoughts lurched drunkenly from one idea to the next, and at first only searing pain wove like a burning thread through all of them. I argued with her, reasoned with her, talked to her in my mind.

Becky. I don't understand, Becky. It was only four months. Wasn't I worth even that, Becky?

No; you weren't. You're worth crap, you stupid fool. There was no point in trying to con myself, I might as well admit it.

I'd just fled from my duty like a soldier deserting his platoon; well, this was the reward I deserved. I'd rather have remained imprisoned in the work camp or been murdered by the cannibals than return to this. How many times had I escaped death, and why? Even as I'd lain dreaming of her in the camp, she'd lain in another man's arms.

At that thought I clutched the knife in my pocket. If I'd seen Abel in that moment I'd have ripped his guts out.

So much for love, I told myself; so much for intuition and fate and a kind and caring God and all the stupid fantasies we create to cocoon ourselves from the bleak cruelty of chance. Each new realization led to another crescendo of pain. Here I thought I knew what I cared about, and it vanished when I tried to grasp it, like a mirage that lures a traveller into an empty desert.

What was she thinking? I asked myself. I could imagine her turning it over in her mind. No use waiting for a fellow who's been shipped off to a work camp, she'd tell herself. He's not coming back. She was always very practical. I should've known she would do this. But I didn't love her in spite of who she was, I loved her as she was. I'd never expected her to do anything for me. Except perhaps to wait; yes, I expected that. God only knows why.

And the worst thing of all was that I wanted more than anything else in the world just then to hear her voice, touch her lips, to kiss her. But I knew with an inexplicable certainty I'd never hold her in my arms again.

From Elephant and Castle to the Thames is a long walk, and as I walked my anger gradually cooled into sadness, like volcanic lava solidifying into rock.

I don't really blame them, I thought bitterly. I wasn't worth very much anyway. But Becky. I just can't believe it. I can't believe it.

I would find the two of them, Abel and Becky, however I had to do it, and then – I didn't know what would happen. Perhaps at the sight of them together I'd lose my temper and hurt them in a way I'd regret; or perhaps I'd make some awkward remarks and creep away ashamed. I couldn't tell. I'd go find them later. I wasn't up to it just then.

Would I have deleted the Marengo file if I'd known that Becky had moved on? Possibly; I don't know. We're less careful with our own lives when we have nothing left to lose. Either way I'd made a devil's bargain. In retrospect Kamal's arguments seemed hollow like political speeches – magnificent, reassuring and empty.

I walked along the south bank for about a quarter mile before I sank onto a bench, my mind clouded with shock; some birds squabbled on the cracked and filthy sidewalk. A single thought crystallized out of the incoherent tangle in my brain. In deleting the code for the virus, I might have done the right thing or I might not, but the reason why I'd done it no longer existed. I'd betrayed the entire human race for the sake of a girl who no longer wanted me. For nothing. That was the simple fact, and I would have to live with it for the rest of my life. I stared at the inexorable current flowing out to sea. Regret haunted me even then – as it has ever since.

Chapter 14

And that was how, in the spring of 2184, I tried to barter one hope for another and forfeited both. Along the way I ensured victory for the new kind of humans and an end for the old. I could try to justify myself; I could invent arguments in my own defence; I could tell you I only confirmed the inevitable, that I wanted to avoid useless bloodshed; but all these are merely excuses. There's no point trying to colour the facts. The past is final as a judgement - twist it however you like, it doesn't change.

A couple days later I visited Becky and Abel. I wanted to see her again, even though I knew it would destroy the few illusions I had left; perhaps I perversely welcomed the pain, like a penitent eager for the punishment that will cleanse him of his crime. At first Becky squinted at me, embarrassed and afraid like a girl meeting an unpleasant ex. Afraid! The irony stung me like a whip. I couldn't help recalling how often I'd longed to see her again.

“Becky. It's me, Mark.” Against my will my face melted into a smile. I couldn't help it, she was just as I'd remembered her, that freckled skin and haughty mouth I loved to kiss

“Oh my God, it is Mark. It's good to see you. We didn't know what'd happened to you. But of course, should've thought you'd come back,” she said, assuming a superficially friendly tone, and at that point I knew - she'd moved on. If she adopted a pretence, hid behind insincerity, how could I puncture her counterfeit politeness? ask her the questions that really mattered? A conversation like a river has a current of its own, and she was determined to divert it away from anything that might make her uncomfortable. I wanted to take her in my arms and implore her Becky, why didn't you? Couldn't we?

Of course I did nothing like that – nor could I, not with Abel standing there watching me. Instead I told Becky and Abel about the work camp and my escape(omitting Marengo) and the three of us laughed and joked about mutual acquaintances, awkward like a couple after a breakup. She wanted to know where I was staying because “Abel and I can help you out if you need anything,” and those words embittered me more than anything else. Abel and I, I said to myself, and after I left I walked down the street, tears blurring my vision. It wasn't their fault; they were happy together. I had no right to intrude. Until that morning they'd thought I was dead; now I was only an unwanted spectre from the past.

After that morning, I spent several weeks battling a state of chronic indecision. I stayed with a friend and did some odd-jobs work to stay afloat. I kept clear of Central London and anyplace I thought I might run into a government patrol. I didn't know what I wanted to do; like a pilot flying blind through a fog, the future opaque in every direction.

I wanted to leave London more than anything else. It was a dying city slowly crumbling into ruin, and for me a place tainted by memory and by loss. Moreover, I wanted to get as far away from the cities dominated by the Mods as I could. It was too galling to think that I'd have to bow and grovel to the same Mods that owed me everything. They'd never know I'd saved them from a brutal war; my only reward would be their ingratitude. To them I would always remain a Mongrel, a lesser human.

As much as I wanted to leave London, however, I faced a single insurmountable problem: I really had no idea where to go. I turned from one alternative to another like a broken compass wandering between different poles, remaining undecided for days at a time. Perhaps I couldn't yet bring myself to believe what had happened. Perhaps I still secretly hoped that if I refused to believe it, if I refused to accept it, the stubborn reality would dissolve and leave everything as it was before, like daylight after a dream.

Three weeks later I walked over to Hackney in the late afternoon. I got there roundabout three.

I had the address and I knew roughly where I was headed, but I wasn't sure about the specific streets. Perhaps I'd passed the right road; perhaps it was off of Well Street? Across the lane a fellow with dark hair and coffee-coloured skin carried a synthetic leather bag full of tools. His attention was fixed on the second-floor window of a terrace.

"Hi there," I called out. "Can you tell me - I'm looking for a street."

"Which street?" he said as he spun around.

"Never mind. Think I found it," I said. It was Kamal.

"How're you doing?" he said. A wicked grin suffused his brown eyes. He was in an enthusiastic mood. "I was wondering. What's happened? Where's that beautiful girlfriend of yours?"

“Hoping you wouldn't ask that. Bit of a surprise, really," I said. "She left before I got back. Moved in with a friend of mine. A former friend.”

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding? You were only gone - what, four and a half months?"

"I know," I said. "But - there it is. I mean, I could go kill the bastard, but you know – there's no point. Some things just aren't worth it. There's some things you just have to let go.”

"Sorry to hear that," he said.

"No, don't worry about it," I replied. “I'm over it now.” It wasn't true, but I wanted it to be true, which isn't always the same thing.

“Well, if she won't wait that long, you're better off without her,” Kamal jibed.

“Yeah, I know. Maybe it's a good thing. Like deleting what I was going to do. You remember.” I didn't mention Marengo and neither did he; he knew what I meant.

"I just can't believe you ran my feet off racing all the way back here just so you could find out she'd -”

"Like I said," I added, "I think it's a good thing."

"And the really crazy thing is - You want to know how much I know? You know I came back and Raja was still here?"

"He was?" I said, a little surprised.

"Yes. Believe it or not. I don't know how he survived, but I came back and the next day he was scratching at the door. Somebody fed him.”

"Just goes to show," I remarked. "You can always tell about people. With cats you never know."

"I think cats are more intelligent than we give them credit for. But there's another thing. Remember I told you about my bike? Believe it or not, that was still here too."

I laughed, struck by the peculiar irony. Everything he'd expected to lose still awaited him when he returned; I, on the other hand, lost everything I'd expected to find. "See, so much for all that pessimism. I wish I'd bet you money on that. I could collect right now."

"Let's pretend you did. I've been lucky lately, I got - oh, I'll tell you about it. Here, come on, I'll buy you a coffee, there's a place round the corner that makes this - I don't know, it's some kind of synthetic coffee but they put something else in it, it's really good. It's this other additive, I don't know what it's called."

"Weren't you going somewhere?" I asked.

"Someone who can wait," he said with an indifferent shrug. "They're in no hurry. It's a long story. But so did you find another job? I'm guessing you don't work at their fuel plant. I mean, I don't know, they've probably got your biometrics on file.”

"No, I don't," I said. "I've found work. But I really want to leave London, that's the thing. I just can't stand grovelling in front of these Mods after I – I mean, I did more for the stupid gits than anyone else. And they're never even going to know.”

He nodded. “I know. That's the strange thing about it, isn't it. That's how things always are. You help people and they kick you in the teeth. But you can't control that, you can only do so much.”

“I suppose.”

“So where do you think you'll go?”

"Don't know. Haven't made up my mind.”

“You could go – you remember that fellow with the cricket farm? He said there was a village down the road and they always need more people. You could go back there.”

I was startled. His words reacted with some slumbering instinct in my mind to create an entirely new idea, the way two chemicals, colourless by themselves, burst into vivid fire when combined. I thought of Maggie blushing in the dark, her crazy pet clinging to her shoulder. But it was a strange idea and at first glance it repelled me. “That's a thought,” I said. “I'll think about it.”

“It's a shame you want to leave, though,” he said. “I was thinking I could get you to join us.”

“Us? You mean your church cult.”

“Yes. A little like that.” He grinned and I laughed.

“You can forget that,” I said. “Don't think you've got a convert just because of what happened a few weeks ago. I don't understand your religion. I mean, there's two possibilities. Either your God is imaginary or they're an absolute bastard. But I don't see any point praying to them either way.”

Kamal seemed puzzled. “I suppose you could look at it like that.” He had persuaded me to take the most significant decision of my life, and yet his motives remained as obscure and unintelligible to me as the Mods themselves. I could think what I liked about his God or his faith, but at the moment of decision they'd won: my scepticism, indifferent to the outcome, had bowed to his determined faith, and yet my scepticism remained unconvinced. We spoke different languages, we each had our own answers; neither of us would ever understand.

“Yes,” I said; “that's how I look at it.”

“Fair enough. But it's just a thought,” he added. “Come on. Let's get some coffee.”

Two weeks later, for want of any better options, I left London and moved to a village near the outskirts of Reading. I fled the past and yet I carried it with me even as I sought to escape. I went there undecided, beset by a tangle of conflicting hopes and fears, still uncertain how long I would stay or what I hoped I'd find.

The cricket farmer, naturally, was surprised to see me again. I explained I'd found London worse off than I'd left it, that rumour had it a government-orchestrated genocide was imminent; and the cricket farmer nodded sagely. “I could've told you there wasn't any point in going back. It's their city now, it's not ours. It's not as if there's anything left for us there.” He was kind enough to lend me a hand when I needed it, however, and offered me any amount of advice on farming crickets and biotech algae: valuable advice, when he wasn't drunk.

And Maggie Anderson – well, Maggie I grew to know even better still. So well, in fact, that when five years later I left the village near Reading to go West, she came with me as my wife.

From Reading we travelled towards the mighty Severn, crossing it by the abandoned motor way bridge. The villages and towns of south Wales were few and seldom visited by the Mods in those days, surviving outposts of Mongrel independence in what was once Great Britain; the countryside wears an idle beauty like summer daydreams. We've lived here ever since, comfortably remote, at a safe distance from the cities that have been several times wracked by viral epidemics(there are those who believe the epidemics were planned, although only the Mods truly know). The years have passed steadily, one following another into the past like mileposts through the window of a train, the people I know vanishing with them.

Often when I am alone the old riddle taunts me, the great unsolved question in my mind. What if I had done my part? Could Marengo really have delayed evolution and won equality for us? Am I the Judas who sold his own species?

I see that we are slowly fading into extinction, but that doesn't trouble me in itself; all species become extinct, homo sapiens too must perish in its turn. For my part I'm content with the end of our history. But I can't escape the occasional pang of regret, the ephemeral wish that things might have been otherwise. If I hadn't stopped to listen to Audrey that night - if I hadn't shared Shelley's plan with Kamal - if I hadn't listened to him -

At times I blame myself for my failure and wish I could go back. I imagine the world as it was in the age of humans, when like a god in our innocence we wrought offspring that renounced us. I harbour hatred like poison and resent the Mods for all the things they inherited from us, the ungrateful heirs of our crumbling civilization.

And yet at other es I see them differently.

When I watch their space flights soaring through the clouds, the useless hatred dissipates like red mist and awe takes its place. For a moment I feel proud of the Mods as if they were my own children. Surely it's natural that they take their turn and push us aside. Age yields to youth, the child buries the parent, even the universe itself must die. It's better that we accept the end, knowing at least that in our final years we created something greater than ourselves. Jealousy and hatred are both futile alike: in spite of their superiority, the children of humans will someday share our fate. They, like us, are only prisoners of time.