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  “Come closer,” said Peter.

  Tom scooted across the tarpaulin to where Peter sat cross-legged and took a similar pose facing him, a little to his left. Ceri took a last drag on her cigarette and flicked it to the side of the road. After a slight hesitation, she followed suit, sitting a little to Peter’s right.

  “It makes it easier if we hold hands,” said Peter, holding his out. Tom and Ceri each grasped one. “And you two.” Tom grasped Ceri’s hand, completing the triangle.

  “Right,” said Peter. “You need to relax your minds. And when you feel me trying to get in, don’t resist.”

  “Hold on one second,” said Ceri. She released her grips on their hands and hugged herself as though she was cold. “I really don’t like the sound of this.”

  “You’ll come to no harm,” said Peter. “But it’s entirely up to you, Ceri. If you’re not comfortable with this, I can show Tom on his own.”

  Tom grabbed Peter’s free hand with his own. “I’m fine with that,” he said.

  “No, wait!” said Ceri. She peered closely at Tom. “Do you trust him?”

  Tom regarded Peter for a moment. He gazed calmly back. Tom looked at Ceri. “Yes. I do. I have nothing to base this on except a gut instinct. But I believe that he means us no harm. Remember what happened in your house.”

  “Yes,” said Ceri slowly. “Forgive me, Peter. It’s just that I barely know you.”

  Peter shrugged. “It is okay to be cautious. There will come a time when caution will need to be cast to the wind, though it is not upon us yet. But we need to get moving. . . .”

  “Okay,” said Ceri and took hold of their hands again. “Let’s do it.”

  Peter looked down. Immediately Tom felt it and heard Ceri utter a small gasp. Then all his concentration focused inwards.

  A fluttering sensation inside his head, as though a butterfly was flapping its wings in there. Tom could have stopped it going any further, thrown up shutters that would have made the fluttering cease, but he didn’t. Images appeared, flickering like a badly tuned TV then growing stronger. So strong they were like a high-definition movie and his face was pressed to the screen. Then he passed through the screen and became immersed in the images. Experiencing them.

  A vast black ship rising from black sand, glinting redly in the light of a baleful sun. He was inside the ship, moving away from the dying star, speeding up as it passed beyond the gravitational field. An idea glinted at the edge of his consciousness. He grasped at it, snagged it fleetingly. The craft was riding a current that pulled it like a leaf in a storm-swollen stream. He felt entire solar systems pass in the blink of an eye. He sensed that time as he knew it had no meaning here. The ship crossed great gulfs of the galaxy in heartbeats.

  He moved deeper inside the ship. He stood on a balcony looking down onto row upon row of glass coffins that stretched away into the impossible horizons of this cavernous interior. Each coffin contained a figure submersed in fluid that pulsed to the rhythm of unseen pumps. Each figure had a sloping brow, a pronounced jaw and a coarse pelt that rippled like the fronds of sea anemones.

  The craft slowed, became almost pedestrian compared to what had gone before. He looked out once more. He saw another star, a white flaming ball of hydrogen that flared fiercely, making the first star appear old and tame in comparison. A planet filled his vision, swirling blue and green and grey as the ship headed towards it. Into it. Too quickly.

  Tom’s perspective shifted. He was on land of sorts, amongst the creatures. They sensed the coming like an approaching storm. Some fell with dread and sank to the floor of the swamp. Others fled, instinctively heading for high ground.

  Clouds covered the skies in a broiling orange mass. The wind rose, became a hurricane, a hundred hurricanes, tearing up forests, gouging canyons, raising gigantic waves.

  The clouds broke apart as the craft descended. As large as a continent, it landed on the ocean, in the ocean, creating a tidal wave that swept the circumference of the planet and opened fissures in the earth’s crust with the might of its passing.

  He was back inside the calm of the ship, looking out at the devastation; then his vision moved inwards and he saw a man smiling serenely at him. It was Peter. . . .

  Tom gasped as the vision winked out. He looked up at Peter who was regarding him calmly. He glanced at Ceri. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide. He could feel her shaking.

  “What was that?” he managed. His throat felt dry and he let go of the others’ hands so he could reach for a bottle of water.

  “Are you all right?” Peter asked. “Are you okay to drive?”

  Tom swallowed half a bottle of water in four large gulps. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Peter looked at Ceri who was wiping weakly at her mouth as though she had dribbled. “Ceri? You okay?”

  She nodded and took the bottle of water from Tom.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Tom.

  “We have to get moving,” said Peter, rising to his feet.

  Tom didn’t move. “What was that?” he repeated deliberately.

  “Absorb what I showed you. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “But—”

  “Later, Tom. One step at a time.” Peter began to collect together their things and pack them into the Range Rover.

  Tom watched him for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he rose to his feet and helped. After a few moments, Ceri stood shakily and walked to the Jaguar.

  When they had packed everything away, Tom called to Dusty. He appeared panting from the trees, pine needles sticking to his black coat. He shook himself to dislodge them.

  “Good boy,” said Tom, bending to pick out a few needles that had refused to budge. “Into the car with you then.”

  The dog bounded to the Jaguar and Tom let him into the back seat where he settled down in his basket. Ceri was already installed in the passenger seat, seat belt on, gazing out of the window over the scrubland.

  Peter called over. “We’ll stop to refuel at the next bunch of cars we pass. You and Ceri discuss what I said. About whether you really want to be accompanying me. You may be placing yourselves in danger.”

  Before Tom could say anything, he turned and climbed into the Range Rover. Tom got back behind the wheel of the Jag and they set off once more.

  * * * * *

  It took Milandra a full day to recover sufficiently from the rigours of the Commune to take an interest in her surroundings. The calling of the inhabitants of Great Britain hadn’t been too difficult; they were, after all, within very close reach. It was the remainder of the Commune that had completely drained her.

  Satisfied that she had called every British survivor—apart from two—she had spread in every direction simultaneously, crossing oceans and continents until the combined psyche covered the world like an invisible mist. It honed in upon the survivors, probing, smashing down feebly-erected barriers, installing a subliminal message that the recipients would be virtually powerless to ignore. The message was simple:

  Do not seek out others. Remain here. Burn bodies. Do not seek out others.

  Simple it may have been, but delivering the message worldwide exhausted her to such an extent that anything more complex would have been beyond her ability without greater numbers to boost the combined psyche.

  With the last of her mental strength, Milandra reined it back in and released the others. She slumped down in the plastic chair, making it lurch to one side. She might have fallen if Grant, Lavinia and Wallace hadn’t rushed to her side and supported her. She retained sufficient cognisance to note that the Chosen remained seated.

  It was left to Grant to thank everyone for their efforts and to bring the assembly to a close. He invited everybody to attend a great feast that had been prepared and was waiting back in the main concourse of the airport.

  He helped Milandra back to their vehicle and drove her back to the hotel. When she was settled into an armchair, he placed a platter of food on her lap.

  “Ea
t,” he said.

  Milandra needed no second invitation. She filled her mouth with food and laid her head back against the chair, closing her eyes as she chewed.

  When she opened them, Grant was watching her intently. She could sense concern flowing off him. Weakly, she flapped a hand at him.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Go and join the feast.”

  “It went well.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Now go.”

  “If you’re sure. But first. . . .”

  He walked out and returned carrying another platter piled high with food that he placed on a table by her side. He went out again and returned with two large bottles of cola. These, too, he deposited on the table. Finally, he placed a candle on a saucer and a box of matches on the remaining space on the table top. It would soon be dark.

  “Thank you,” she managed around the fresh mouthful she had just crammed in.

  Grant left and did not return with the other Deputies until some hours later. By then, Milandra had eaten her way through both platters and drunk most of the cola.

  “How are you feeling?” Grant asked.

  “A little stronger. What I could really do with is sunlight, but more food will have to do.”

  Grant turned to Lavinia and Simone. “Fetch more food, will you? I’m going back out. I have an idea. Wallace, come with me.”

  They were gone for a couple of hours. When they returned, they struggled in carrying a large box and six car batteries. Grant opened the box and extracted a full body solar lamp, while Wallace fiddled with the batteries.

  After a couple of false starts, the room was bathed in a blue-tinged light. Grant stood the lamp next to the armchair, directing the light onto Milandra. He blew out the candle.

  “The batteries will only last a couple of hours,” he said. “And obviously it’s not as good as the real thing. But it should give you a boost.”

  Milandra lay back and allowed the warmth from the light to wash over her, feeling her cells soaking it up.

  “Mmm,” she murmured. “It’s wonderful.”

  By the time the batteries gave out, it was almost dawn and Milandra felt a lot stronger. By morning and after munching her way through yet more food, she was beginning to feel like her old self. She struggled up out of the armchair for the first time since settling into it and used the bathroom. The bodies of Milandra and her kind were far more efficient than the human body, extracting every speck of nutrient from food, able to utilise many more minerals than humans can, so producing very little waste. Nevertheless, the sheer volume of food that Milandra had consumed over the last eighteen hours meant a large volume of waste products by her standards and it had become a case of make room or burst.

  Grant was waiting for her when she returned to her chair.

  “Visitor asking for you,” he said. “You up to it?”

  “A visitor?”

  “Troy Bishop.”

  “I had a hunch he’d show up here sooner or later. Show him in. Oh, and better get the Deputies in here, too. This is about Ronstadt.”

  Wallace and Lavinia came in and drew up chairs. Simone soon followed, looking bored. Grant came close behind, accompanied by a man. He was tanned and slim and muscular, but the overall effect was spoiled by his expression that suggested it was permanently sardonic.

  He strode into the room and stopped in front of Milandra.

  “I’m Bishop,” he said. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

  “Millennia,” said Milandra. “Please. Sit down.”

  Grant had pulled up three more chairs. He and Simone took two of them. Bishop took the last one so that they formed a rough circle.

  “What’s this about?” said Milandra, though she knew full well why Bishop had come.

  “The Commune,” said Bishop. “We have a rogue. I saw him. He protected two drones.”

  “Yes,” said Milandra. “I expect everyone saw him. And your point?”

  Bishop grinned. “You already knew about him, didn’t you? And you’ve already decided he has to go. What’s his name?”

  “Peter Ronstadt,” said Grant. “Yes, we’ve already discussed him. And you’re right, we’ve decided it’s too risky to allow him to live. But how does this concern you?”

  I want to do it Bishop sent.

  “No!” said Milandra. “Speak, please. I’m still too weak from the Commune.”

  Bishop’s grin grew wider. “It really takes it out of you, does it? My, the burden of leadership.”

  “Why do you want to do it?” asked Grant.

  “Well, let me first commend you on making that decision, though it was a non-brainer if you ask me. He’s a traitor.”

  A growl of assent came from Wallace.

  “So why you?” said Grant.

  “For a start, I didn’t see a queue forming of people offering their services. Second, I’ve served in the military—”

  “As have many of our number,” interjected Milandra. She could barely remember Bishop, had not known him well before and had not seen him for many long years, years that had wrought changes in them all, but felt a strong dislike for the man seated before her.

  “Very true,” said Bishop. “But I have special forces training. I’ve been involved in many ‘In, kill and out’ missions, acting solo and as part of small hit squads. I can fly—planes and choppers—and I can handle modern firearms.” He shrugged. “Also, I’d enjoy taking down a traitor.”

  “And that,” said Milandra, “is precisely what makes you unsuited for this task. The reason there’s no queue outside that door is that most decent people would find no pleasure in killing one of our own. A necessary evil, at best. You enjoyed watching humans die, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely. And I make no apology either. They’re drones, don’t forget.” His eyes narrowed and his smile faded a little. “Can I sense an unhealthy degree of sympathy towards our fellow planet-dwellers?”

  “There’s no sympathy here,” said Grant. “Though you won’t find much gloating either.”

  “I think he’s perfect for the job.” This came from Simone and Bishop beamed at her.

  “Why, thank you, Chosen,” he said. “You’re spot on. I am perfect.”

  “I agree,” said Wallace.

  “Me, too,” said Lavinia. She turned towards Milandra. “You can find others to do it. You only need ask and most wouldn’t refuse. But why send someone whose heart isn’t in it when we have a willing volunteer sitting right here?”

  That was quite a speech for Lavinia and it took Milandra a moment to gather her thoughts. She glanced at Grant who merely shrugged.

  “It seems you have the backing of my Deputies,” she said. “I disagree with them, but I won’t try to overturn the majority.” She sat forward so she could fix Bishop with her most piercing glare. “But hear me now, Troy. Don’t take too much pleasure from this. If you find him, make it quick. Make it painless. We are not savages.”

  Bishop raised one eyebrow, making his expression even more sardonic. “If I find him? Were you not able to pinpoint his position during the Commune, Milandra?”

  “Of course. He was in Cardiff in South Wales but had already reached Bristol when we found him. From there, he intends heading south, to Plymouth. He’s going to commandeer a boat and sail to France.”

  From the corner of her eye, Milandra was aware that Grant was watching her and she wondered if he knew that she was lying. But she quickly dismissed the thought. Even in her weakened state, no-one could probe her without her knowledge. And there was only one who might have shared, without her knowing, what had passed between her and Ronstadt during the Commune—she glanced quickly at Simone, but the Chosen was staring off into space having apparently made her only contribution to the discussion and lost interest.

  Bishop nodded. “Okay. I’ll need someone to direct me to the nearest RAF base. And can I take someone with me on the mission?”

  “Yes,” said Milandra. “No more than one. Do you have someone in mind
?”

  “Not yet.”

  Wallace stood. “I’ll go with him.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Milandra. “This is one task for which the Deputies are not eligible.”

  “Agreed,” said Grant and she shot him a glance of gratitude.

  Wallace’s shoulders slumped in dejection.

  “Though any of you may assist him in finding the airbase,” she added.

  Bishop stood and gave a mock bow. “Thank you, Milandra. I’m going to hunt me some traitor!”

  She couldn’t help it. She felt her face crinkle as though she had bitten into a lemon.

  Bishop only grinned all the more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They soon picked up a main road and headed east along it before turning north once more. They travelled through rolling countryside—farming country—making for the English border.

  They didn’t speak for the first few miles. Ceri sat staring out of the passenger window as though lost in her own thoughts. Tom did not like to interrupt; he had enough thoughts of his own to keep him occupied: dark, swirling thoughts.

  They passed a large signpost and it was Ceri who broke the silence.

  “We’re heading towards Hay-on-Wye,” she said. “They hold a big literary festival there. Always wanted to go.”

  “I’ve been,” said Tom. “To the town, not the festival. Never seen so many second-hand book shops.” He shrugged. “I do occasionally, but I’m not really one for reading books.”

  He sensed Ceri consider him for a moment. “A teacher who doesn’t read books?”

  Tom felt his colour rise. “I teach four- and five-year-olds. Don’t need to read books to do that.” He heard the defensive tone in his voice and disliked himself a little bit more. “But never mind books. We need to talk about what happened back there.”

  “I guess we do.” She gave a deep sigh. “Did you see a big black spaceship?”

  “Yep.”

  “A huge sun. Red and . . . er. . . .”

  “Dying?”

  “Yes. Dying.”

  “I was on the ship,” said Tom. “Looking out. It was travelling fast. Impossibly fast.”

  “Did you see the people? Hairy people in glass caskets?”