Déjà Vu: A Technothriller Hocking, Ian (online e book reader .TXT) 📖

you think will happen when the police find out I’ve disappeared?”

“A high state of alert for all police officers, particularly the local traffic division. Records indicate that the local constabulary has one helicopter. If it locates you, the probability of reaching Heathrow is almost zero. You must find a motorway immediately to leave the area before roadblocks are set, then transfer to minor roads to avoid detection. As the roadblock containment circle becomes larger, the number of roadblocks required to make it increases hugely.”

“OK, I agree. Computer, I need to get to a motorway fast.”

Nothing happened. He clicked his tongue.

“Computer, show me the fastest route to the nearest motorway.”

The route map changed. He could be on the A1 in just under twenty minutes. It was a labelled a ‘main route’, not a motorway, but it was fast. The first motorway was the M18, an hour and a half to the south. He would pass through settlements called Walshford, Fairburn and Darrington. Names he would never remember. He could reach as far as Leicester without stopping for fuel.

He gunned the throttle, then let the engine idle. He released the brake. He rode slowly to the T-junction. The route map indicated that he should head in the same direction as the running policeman. That was fine. They would be inside, or down an alley.

He reached the junction and looked left. The two police officers were standing not ten feet away. They had their backs to him. Between them, being berated vigorously by one, was a little girl called Janine. Her eyes dropped down briefly and touched upon David’s. Her expression did not change. David nodded his thanks.

He controlled his breathing. He turned in the road and raced away, retracing himself along Main Street. The police did not glance around.

“Bike, change colour.”

The motorcycle rode through one pool of white streetlight with a silver finish. By the next, it was midnight blue.

The Magical Mystery Tour

The blackness rushed up and engulfed her. Her stomach rose. An older, wiser part of her brain began to cringe. She accelerated. She was falling too fast. She heard Hannah say, “A friend of mine was paralysed by one of those,” but he wasn’t with her. It was a memory. Dust filled her nostrils. Smoke. She was still falling. Her bladder tingled in anticipation that the equipment had not worked, that she was going to hit the ground

(spin, measure, snip) fast enough to break into pieces, mirror fragments.

She saw a circle of light below her. The universe was moving but she was not. She began to (spin) slow. The decelerator squealed and the harness bit into her pelvis. Gravity reached from the darkness and clawed her down.

Garrel said, “You took your time.”

She opened her eyes. She could (measure) see her feet centimetres from the ground. She pinched the decelerator. It sprang open and the (snip) rope was released.

She landed without grace, but upright. A quick pat confirmed that her gun was still in place.

“I was examining the shaft,” she said half-heartedly.

Garrel began to creep away. His steps were slow and high to avoid the debris. “Your light. It has three levels of brightness. It will go through them in the order when you tap your helmet. Understood?”

Saskia tapped three times. The beam became very bright and localised. The spot stained her vision. She looked around.

This had once been part of a corridor. It was a long, grey chamber, almost completely choked with remains. She saw corners of furniture, computer equipment, filing cabinets and paper. Mostly paper. As she moved forward, the shadows they cast moved backward. The air was stale.

“What happened down here?”

“Fire. Proctor tried to clear everyone out. The ventilation is poor. Don’t be surprised if we suffocate.”

“Understood. May I use my recorder now?”

He turned his light in her direction. She moved her head to protect her night vision. “Your what?”

“It is simply a recording device. It takes pictures.”

“Go on, then. Just be careful where you step. Don’t touch anything unless I say so. There’s a good chance it might cave-in again.”

“May we see the lab?”

Garrel stopped again. Saskia could not see his face. “Of course. We’d already be inside if I hadn’t stopped to answer your questions.”

“A good point. In future, perhaps you could try walking and talking at the same time.”

She heard an intake of breath as his formulated a reply, but it was followed by silence. Saskia smiled.

Immediately before them was a ragged empty rectangle that had once held a door. Garrel stepped through and Saskia followed. Puddles splashed under their feet. The room was even darker than the corridor. It was so black that she had no sense of its true dimensions. The torches didn’t help because the dust and smoky remains made the light scatter like headlights in fog. Garrel stepped aside and she saw a great, smashed tank. The sharp edges sparkled.

“What was in there?”

“That,” Garrel replied, at length, “was a liquid storage device. A prototype.”

“What did it store?”

He laughed. “A whole world. A world in a fish tank.”

“I do not understand.”

He turned towards the right. “Proctor’s old office was in there. That was where the first bomb went off.”

She took a picture. The recorder charged and clicked. There was no visible flash. It used an infra-red bulb. “It must have been a very localised explosion,” she mused. Something crunched under her foot. She glanced down and saw the glassy eye of a flattened rat. She stepped back. She bumped into an overturned chair. Her heart seemed to grow large and hot in her chest.

Garrel continued obliviously, “It was big enough to kill.”

“I see,” she said automatically. Not the rat, the bomb.

Garrel shone his light in her direction. The glare blinded her. “You know, we have a saying in England: ‘The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.’ Shimoda’s body was in that room along with the bomb. He still is. Pieces of him, anyway.”

Saskia tried to ensure that her light pointed at Garrel’s face. She