Through Your Eyes Read online

  Almost messianic. A God complex, perhaps?

  Thoughts of a desperate old man looking up at his boss. Unfortunately, this boss was also the police and judicial service.

  "I only followed the orders I was given, Sir. I was instructed to get some food for the other workers, but the kitchens are now bare. I had to take some from the other supplies to feed the children. It was only some bread, we have no food we are starving. What are we to do?" said the old man.

  Silence.

  Nothing.

  Just echoes in this vast room, or a better description would be a palace. This atrium was the size of a football stadium with a vast ceiling made of reinforced glass. It could have been a former major London railway station, as the ceiling was probably about two hundred metres high. On the sides were tiny windows that looked out over the London skyline, but only those with access to the upper floors would have the privilege of looking through them. Other than that, there were no decorations or photos or paintings, just a plain homogeneous white colour extending along the entire wall. At twenty metre intervals were huge concrete pillars, and the marble floor shone and glittered under the spotlights that didn't appear to emanate from anywhere. At half way intervals on the pillars, about ten metres from the ground were carved stone faces, which at first glance looked like the traditional gargoyles you sometimes see on churches and cathedrals. Closer inspection, however, revealed they bore an uncanny resemblance to the illustrious leader of Harnfeld. It was like a place from Ancient Greece, perhaps the kind of place you could imagine mythological gods sitting together, discussing their plans for the universe. Unfortunately, the only person here was the man at the top of the stairs, and the only other individual he spoke to was himself.

  This man at the top of the vast room was not a god. He was just a man. He was sitting on a large red velvet chair, which could have been a throne. In fact, the sight of him sitting in this chair at the top of the staircase gave him the air of royalty.

  But this feeling was confined to him and him only, as nobody else felt the same way about his delusions of grandeur.

  From either side of this man, from within the shadows, two men walked down the steps.

  One was a small runt wearing a dark suit. The other man was huge, ugly, and scarred, with horrible teeth.

  And a hat.

  They descended down and stood on either side of the old man, staring at him. The old man was wearing a grey suit, but it was worn away beyond recognition. It was covered in tears and a dark paint of some kind. He was ancient and pale, thin and skeletal. Through the tears in the fabric were scores of deep indurated ulcers and boils, visible to the discerning eye.

  And then the voice at the top of the stairs started to speak. It was fierce and commanding, while at the same time, thin and reedy. It was definitely not of royal descent.

  More North London if you had to guess.

  "If I allowed you to eat my bread and you then told ten of your friends and they in turn told ten of theirs, what do you think would happen? Before long, everyone would think I was some kind of a soft touch. And then total anarchy. What would happen to order? Everyone would be eating at my table, but my table is not big enough. Before long, I would be out of business. So I have to nip this problem in the bud. I must restore order at all times."

  He ushered his colleagues with a nod, "Gentleman if you please."

  "Now let this be a lesson to anyone who thinks it is a good idea to disobey my laws. This is my city and you will follow my rules," he added.

  He was staring down at the old man with a sneer.

  The two gentlemen produced a device each that had the appearance of headgear that people used to wear to listen to music. They dangled them in front of the wild eyed man. He struggled a little bit knowing exactly what was coming. They unravelled them and attached the devices around the man's ears, the two lights sitting over his temples.

  "No, no please, no!" shouted the man.

  He was trying to break free of their grasp, but he was simply too weak.

  The man at the top of the stairs then produced a white controller and pressed a button on it. This activation was performed in the same way you would press a button to change your air conditioner controls, nonchalantly, calmly, as if it meant nothing to him.

  As if the man's life was worthless.

  The man at the bottom of the steps screamed as the red lights activated and two trickles of blood dripped down his face. He fell to the floor. Motionless.

  And then the screams stopped. The old man sat up immediately. He looked at the man at the top of the stairs. And just stared. The man at the top pressed some more buttons and the old man bowed.

  Obedience and instant compliance. The restoration of order.

  Like a dog.

  But this dog was getting no treats.

  "You are expected at sector 5e1, so go! You have work to do," said the man at the top.

  The man bowed and walked away with no words, no complaints. Nothing.

  When the old man was at the door, the guy at the top called out to the large, ugly man at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Smithwick, can you wait a second, I have a matter you need to look into, and believe me you will enjoy this one."

  Smithwick returned and slowly lumbered up the steps. He was slower than he used to be, but he was a young man in his late twenties when he started working for Stowe. Unfortunately, he was now a good twenty odd years older and all because of that bastard Berner. He had gone back to get him, but then to suffer the ignominy of failing to deal with the Professor was too much to take. At least he had managed to take care of that snake, Siris, but to then have no realistic way of returning to his own time was difficult.

  So he had just grown old waiting. He had taken on jobs in security and working for two bit thugs and gangsters. But the thing that had kept him going was the image of Berner. Everything was his fault and his face burned at the back of his mind.

  "Guess who's coming to dinner, Mr Smithwick? Your old friend, Mr Berner. It's a shame Mr Woakes couldn't be with us to welcome him, but then again you did kill him didn't you?" said Stowe.

  He was chuckling, his acne filled double chin bouncing up and down.

  "Thank, you, Sir. Are, you, certain, he, is, back?" grunted the big man.

  His usual traditional staccato delivery hadn’t changed much over the years.

  "Oh yes, dear boy, I have technology too you know. It's not just the good Professor who can monitor movements in this timeline of paradise. She wears a separtacle and they arrived here thinking I didn't know about them. I know exactly where they are and I think it is time you paid them a visit. Do you not think so?" said Stowe.

  "Locked, and, loaded, Sir," said the gruesome figure.

  He then let out a few disgusting grunts that sounded like he was about to throw up.

  That was his laugh.

  As Smithwick turned and left the atrium, Stowe gradually walked back across to his office at the top of the marble staircase. He had waited for this day for a very long time. To wreak his revenge on the dynamic duo, after all, they had practically ruined his life and carefully laid plans. Stowe was still here, nevertheless, still standing and ready for whatever they had for him. He pulled a bottle from his drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky, a forty year old Talisker.

  Swirling it around his glass, he decided it was time to do a little research.

  He switched his interface on and started to move the holographic screens in front of him. This was technology, he thought, and if only Berner could see what he, Christopher Jonathan Stowe, had invented, then he would have been impressed.

  And maybe that bitch might also have had to sit up and notice.

  As he stared at the images before him, he noticed something that was unusual. He could see where Berner and Abby were, they shone brightly on his temporal monitor, but there was something else that got him worried. There was someone else with them that he hadn't expected to be there. Was this individual an ally
, perhaps? However, this intruder shone brightly, more brilliantly than he had ever seen on this viewer. He waved a hand and a filter overlaid the image he was looking at. With a swift flick of the wrist, Stowe asked his vast computer to identify or at least extrapolate from known algorithms, who or what this other individual was, or was most likely to be.

  And the answer appeared in a single word that made his glass fall down on the marble floor and bounce down the staircase, to smash into a thousand pieces.

  It was flashing 'Berner.'

  Stowe stared at the screen and finally understood what had happened those twelve years ago. He thought about the past, the business of people disappearing, the images on the screens of a figure reaching out to Abby that had bugged him all these years. It was Berner or another version of the Professor he had managed to recruit, but to what end? What were they up to? Perhaps this was a Berner from a distant timeline, which also meant he had to have a device. Perhaps he had more than one and that was why he burned so brightly on the screens?

  But then he who burns brightest...

  Stowe smiled and said out loudly, "I'll take you both, you Berner bastards, two for the price of one!"

  24.

  We were on the ground outside the cellar bar. It was still dark outside and the foul stench of decay filled our nostrils with an odious aroma.

  Down here it was totally pitch black, the only light was on the horizon from the large Novertium complex. An occasional red searchlight darted around, looking for shadows amongst the gloom of this desolate world.

  There was a faint buzz of the small hovering units in the distance, but nothing nearby. Occasionally, the buzzing would stop suddenly, followed by the spitting sound of something being lasered or vapourised, the resulting smell of burnt plastic and barbecued meat was nauseating.

  We were together at least and the instructions given to us by the Professor were clear in our minds; to slowly get down to the pre-arranged coordinates and to get inside the dome. The Professor had the means of accessing it and he would be able to monitor both our locations as we moved. Once he had got in, his job was to deactivate the power core and if at all possible, to thwart the dampening field. Only he knew how to perform that part and he was keeping it to himself, presumably because he didn't want to put Abby at risk.

  To be fair, he probably thought I was too thick to do it.

  'Under no circumstance can we break off the plan. The future of the city, even humanity, lies with us.'

  Those were his grand and exact words.

  I thought of Spock, 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.' Good movie as I remembered.

  We hid behind an old hotdog stand as a red light screamed down the street, shining into the shop windows, searching and probing, maybe it was looking for us. Then we were off, running quickly to the end of the street; and that was the only time I did anything better than the Professor. He had stopped and was panting by an unlit street lamp at the end of the road. I ran straight past him without pausing for breath. He smiled. He knew what I was thinking.

  We crossed a few more roads, dodging, hiding and moving when we could, the constant sounds of the airships above us with their loudspeakers and slogans blared down at us.

  'Our future is your business,' 'Come on down to Novertium,' 'Come and see and you can live your dreams through new opportunities.'

  All these words and more, brainwashing anybody still left out there to visit this mysterious company.

  Before we knew it, we were in an open field. It was huge with lots of paths and it was difficult to see because of the lack of lighting. I could just about make out a snaking lake, and then, when I saw the Albert Memorial, I knew we were in the southern end of Hyde Park.

  We ran past another street and looked up at the awe inspiring view of the Royal Albert Hall. It was the one place that appeared to be untouched by Stowe.

  Apart from all the broken windows and graffiti of course.

  We headed south through what used to be South Kensington and ended up outside a large dilapidated building.

  A hospital.

  I looked at a broken sign outside.

  'The Royal Marsden.'

  It really had burned down this time. Inside it was dark, apart from the little red lights flashing around the remaining giant building. Were the people inside working or searching for something? Were they all the eyes and ears of Stowe?

  We wandered further south past more smells and decay, and eventually saw the glow of the dome over the river. I remembered the song about the river that never flows, but the vision before me was going to a new extreme.

  We arrived at a riverbank near where the Albert Bridge used to be and settled outside the dome.

  The Professor removed the mobile laser from his backpack and got to work at a small section that appeared devoid of activity on the inside. Abby and I stood and watched the area nervously, occasionally darting out of the way of a searchlight. It seemed to be taking a heck of a long time, much longer than his video.

  The power of editing movies, I thought.

  Eventually, he was in. He indicated to us to activate our headgear and switch our red lights on. The sight of Abby with the fake mind control device shocked me again, but this was dwarfed by the sight of the people inside the dome, as we climbed in through the tiny aperture.

  A vast tube going up two hundred metres in the air, filled with thousands of people all bustling around, checking monitors, manning computer terminals and carrying clipboards. Others were manual labourers, digging, cutting and constructing Stowe’s infrastructure.

  The red lights; was this Stowe's idea of taking the piss? They reminded me of Borg drones on 'Star Trek,' maybe he had been inspired by their fictional species in this work collective? I thought of 'Doctor Who' episodes again. I was sure I had seen this kind of thing before, only done a little better on screen.

  Those thoughts disappeared when I saw some of them moving dead bodies. Some of the dead still had their headgear on. They were being thrown down long chutes to the outside, as if they were nothing. Presumably, this explained the piles of dead bodies we had seen previously, left in the streets like rubbish.

  I shivered with fear.

  They were his workers, oblivious to what they were doing. They were drones, in the same way a beehive would work. Some were workers, some were watching the other drones, making sure the jobs were being done correctly, but not realising they were drones themselves.

  Their eyes were fixed and glazed.

  The thousand yard stare.

  Where was the queen bee, I thought? The head honcho? Which part of this vast organisation had he hidden himself in, the coward?

  We started walking. The Professor had told us to keep our eyes forward and to not look at anyone or anything. Just to keep walking straight, because if we engaged in any form of contact, we might be caught by Stowe's mighty computer. No one looked at us. No one even noticed our presence. I suspected we could have done anything and they wouldn't have even raised an eyebrow.

  Abby tapped my elbow gently, pointing to a large atrium further down. It was outside the dome but I seemed to remember all that neon; it was Stowe's headquarters, where all operations were planned and took place. The Professor gave us a grunt and beckoned us over to the side of the vast dome, where we could see a giant computer terminal surrounded by six screens. He was accessing it somehow, but maintaining the appearance of a drone. Nobody seemed to care what he was doing. Abby and I stood by, pretending to work.

  "Here," whispered the Professor. "Here is where we have to go."

  He had accessed the schematics to not only the 'Thames,' but also how to get to Stowe at his headquarters. It looked like a new underground map, all colour coded but with little or no annotation. Fortunately, the good Professor had spent the last twelve years studying and spying on the goings on here, so he knew every nook and cranny of the vast coloured spaghetti maze staring back at us. He pointed to an entrance point maybe five hundred metres from our
current position, and I realised that was the way to the core. It was obvious that in order to pull this off, we would have to split up as one of us, presumably the Professor, would have to shut down the power core; Abby and I would have to find Stowe. What we would do then was anybody's guess.

  And suddenly, there was a huge commotion behind us.

  A drone had somehow lost his headpiece and his temples were bleeding heavily. He looked around dazed but was actually looking. He was looking right at us, but before he could say anything, a group of uniformed guards ran to him and dragged him out of the atrium. The man was murmuring something, but it was not possible to understand his words. We were safe for now, but didn't have the luxury of time, not here. We would have to get out into the open and try to get to this power core as quickly as possible. Perhaps him seeing us may have triggered an alert of some sort? What if Stowe was waiting for us and this was all a giant snare?

  Naturally, my thoughts drifted off to the image of Admiral Ackbar from 'Return of the Jedi,' and his thoughts on traps and the like.

  As we stepped out into the main dome, the huge chamber seemed to continue forever into the distance. The Professor hurried us on in a nervous manner, to try and keep up with him and move faster. He was pointing to a particular exit about three hundred metres away now; it was an unlit doorway with no signage, and if it was an exit point, it was tiny. As we walked, I noticed the purple neon tubes on the side of the massive structure - what was their function as it wasn't for lighting? Maybe they were part of the power core, its arteries and veins, or perhaps formed the dampener to prevent people like the Professor and I from coming and going as we pleased.

  And then I froze.

  Not physically. But my blood went cold.

  He was standing at the end of the chamber.

  A hat, a smile, a very ugly face.

  And teeth.

  He was staring at something, not at us, but something to the side. I put my head down and carried on walking behind the others. Our eyes and faces were partially disguised by the head gear, but it was possible he would still recognise us.