CHAPTER EIGHT | NEO BRITANNIA

  39 hours until Contact, 27 days until Convergence

  ‘The Deep does not fear. The Deep does not judge. It only knows.’

  – from ‘Divinations of the Monad’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  Beyond the southwestern edge of Neo Britannia’s fortified, corporate core, the Agricultural Sector was a post-Wall marvel of controlled-environment engineering. Covering five square miles stretching from Kew Gardens to the stacks of Richmond Park, the agrarian sprawl of vertical hydroponic farms, aeroponic chambers, and aquaculture houses had once seemed barely feasible in a world on the verge of total sterility. Then again, like most things, Koenig Corp had been swift in developing technologies following the Collapse, enabling humanity to resist the encroaching hysterectomising freeze upon the bones of that which had come before. Acquisition Agent Eliot Morris often thought it bitterly ironic. Such post-Wall breakthroughs would have done much to avert catastrophe—but, as ever, necessity was the mother of all invention.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you?’

  Standing on the barrier matting covering the entrance to one of Ag-Sec’s administrative outbuildings, Eliot turned to the approaching foreman. ‘Eliot Morris,’ he greeted firmly, seizing the man’s hand. ‘Acquisition. You have an insolvent here.’ He lifted the small hologram hovering about his access cuff, a name scintillating at its centre. ‘A Miss Sophie Sutton.’

  The foreman pulled back, frowning. ‘What does Koenig Corp want with her?’

  Eliot was not surprised by his reaction. Since the insolvent’s first contract transfer three weeks ago, production rates in all the Ag-Sec arcologies she had assigned had tripled, a telltale sign that something powerful was going on. It was doubtful the sector would maintain such numbers once the girl was snatched up for Koenig. ‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss that. Please direct me to Miss Sutton.’

  ‘She’s assisting with a rust outbreak right now. Can it wait?’

  Eliot offered his most polished executive smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Right,’ the foreman grumbled. ‘Follow me.’

  The anticipation was electric as Eliot followed the supervisor into the geoponic compound. To be a psionic of Koenig Corp was to be a huntsman of human game. He had already missed out on discovering Koenig’s current favourite—the hypercompetent now spearheading the entirety of Koenig Corp’s research division—and he would be damned if he let such an opportunity slip past him again. Even before the Collapse, such “high-concentrate” descendants were rare—a one-in-ten-million chance. If what he believed was true, Sophie Sutton would be the commission of a lifetime, a straight ticket to the premier floors of Koenig Tower.

  ‘I’d hate to think the girl was in trouble,’ the foreman said as he led Eliot through a decontamination chamber. ‘She works hard despite her lot.’

  Eliot did his best to hide his grimace as his pre-Wall Oxfords as pesticides leeched into his pre-Wall Oxfords. ‘As I said, I am unable to discuss it.’

  The next was an orangery of some kind, dense with rows of fruit trees positioned equidistant from one another in giant troughs. All around, Ag-Sec workers were quarrelling with sleek-suited shareholder reps. ‘You’re suggesting we decommission the entire orchard?’ one of them asked, clearly alarmed. ‘Why not just remove the infected stock and leave the healthy ones be?’

  ‘And risk contaminating the rest of Ag-Sec?’ a worker shot back. ‘With respect, I’m sure Interior bellies can survive a temporary dip in the pear market.’

  Surveying the chaos, Eliot reached out with his psychic abilities, searching for the immaterial signature of the descendant hidden among the grey-overalled insolvents toiling nearby. He didn’t have to look for long. Blazing the colour of mantis green, streaked with swirls of aqua and turquoise blue, Sophie Sutton shone with a potency so intense it almost cooked the eyes. Truthfully, Eliot found it remarkable that she had managed to stay undiscovered for so long.

  ‘Sutton,’ the foreman called. ‘A “Mr Morris” from Koenig Corp wants a word.’

  Instantly, the hum of conversation melted away, all eyes turning toward the outsider with a unified flicker of dread. His ego thoroughly massaged, Eliot dampened his psychometric affinities, dimming the greenish-blue phosphorescence that silhouetted the girl’s form. As the blinding glow faded to a more bearable shimmer, her physical features emerged. Eliot fought hard to suppress an audible squeak of delight.

  Raven-haired, dusky-skinned, Sophie Sutton was undeniably striking, her face broad at the cheekbones, tapering to a soft point at the chin. Her figure was of a good height, tempered by weeks of Ag-Sec transfers and Bureau rations—an appealing ratio of muscle and softness, by Koenig’s standards, at least. Her hazel eyes were bright and alert when she lifted her gaze to study him, long-fingered hands coming to rest upon rounded hips. If Eliot had been a poet, he would’ve compared them to the pre-Collapse ambers of autumn—honey-hued windows unto a mind already turning its gears.

  ‘You’ll have to come back later, sir. I’m busy.’

  As the surrounding workers of Ag-Sec flinched at the young woman’s brazenness, Eliot Morris could only grin. Powerful, beautiful, bold—everything Wilfred Koenig liked in his women, and then some. Eliot could practically taste the fizz from the premier floors already. ‘It is good to see an insolvent so invested in their assignment,’ he said once they were alone inside a nearby office. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed you were an employee.’

  Sophie said nothing as she moved behind the desk, settling into the high-backed swivel chair, leaving Eliot to take the stool clearly earmarked for guests. After her earlier display, he took the gesture for it was—the insolence of a debt-bound Fringee who thought she had nothing left to lose. ‘Do you like working here, Miss Sutton?’ he asked, determined to keep his tone level.

  ‘Sure. I just love slavin’ for the Man.’

  Eliot chuckled. ‘Well, you must be anxious to know why I am here—’

  ‘You’re here to buy me out for Koenig Corp, no?’

  ‘Hah. More or less. I believe the arcologies of Koenig Tower would benefit greatly from someone with your skills.’

  She frowned. ‘I’m a Fringee. I have no skills. Besides, Koenig already has more geers and lab-coats than the next three utility sectors combined.’

  Eliot took a moment to glance around the office. The room offered a decent level of privacy, but he ordered his access cuff to run a scanner jammer protocol, just in case. ‘The skills I speak of are not a question of education or training. As you say, Mr Koenig already has enough of both.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You like working here. More than any contract-bound insolvent should.’

  The young woman hesitated, his reasoning clearly striking a chord. ‘Still doesn’t tell me why some Koenig mutt has come sniffin’.’

  Eliot signalled up a hologram from his access cuff. ‘Seven days ago, Ag-Sec reported a fungal outbreak among its apple trees.’ He swiped through the report that hovered between them. ‘Four days later, three out of twenty orchards were decommissioned and scheduled for termination. That same day, you requested access to these defective units—’

  ‘I was asked to collect soil samples,’ Sophie said, sensing where his inquiry was heading. ‘To salvage what I could.’

  ‘Yesterday,’ Eliot continued, having never taken his eyes away from the shimmering gram, ‘those three units showed signs of recovery—enough for them to be recommissioned.’ He lowered his gaze to the insolvent sitting tight-lipped before him. ‘A miraculous turnaround. Wouldn’t you say, Miss Sutton?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘People will call anythin’ a miracle these days. Even simple botany.’

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  ‘So, you admit to your role in restoring these defective units?’

  ‘I spent the day prunin’ the ‘fected trees and soakin’ their roots in high-concentrate nitrogen fertiliser. Basic shit. Nothin’ more than what had been tried already.’

  ‘And yet,’ Eliot pressed, ‘it worked. You—a Fringee with no botanical training to speak of—succeeded where even Ag-Sec specialists failed.’

  ‘A hundred minds had been workin’ the problem for days,’ Sophie retorted. ‘Who’s to say it was anythin’ I did?’

  Eliot gestured for the hologram to begin cycling through numerous charts of statistical data. ‘Since your first contract transfer three weeks ago, several departments have reported a three hundred per cent increase in crop yield and plant health. Even you can’t brush that off as mere coincidence.’

  She snorted. ‘That’s your angle? That my bein’ here is makin’ the plants grow better?’

  Eliot smiled as he dismissed the hologram. Though his own genetic quirks had not gifted him the capacity to read minds, he could tell she was feigning ignorance. Over the years, Koenig’s acquisition efforts—like the silent but noticeable break of wind at a dinner party—had become well-known throughout the city, his agents ruthless in hunting down individuals whose higher-than-average concentrations of Progenitor DNA had triggered the emergence of... abilities. Through legend and rumour, these manifestations had come to be known as “descendants”, and—like every other conspiracy before them—their existence sparked much fear and denial. It came as no surprise to Eliot that the girl was working hard to refute him. ‘Koenig Corp is prepared to train you,’ he continued, deciding to throw out his lure rather than challenge her directly. ‘You have a natural affinity. We can help you in making it official.’

  ‘I owe over a million to the Bureau,’ Sophie reminded him. ‘You tellin’ me Koenig Corp would waive my debt?’

  ‘Waive? No. But your new contract would come with living conditions far better than anything you’ve experienced in the Bureau. That, I can promise.’

  ‘Not interested.’

  Eliot felt his stomach drop. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Unless it’s freedom you’re offerin’, not interested.’

  ‘I... I don’t—’

  ‘I may be a Fringee, but I’m no fool. Kurch my debt to Koenig, and I’ll become nothin’ more than property. A corpo slave.’

  Eliot felt the corners of his mouth twitch. ‘You’re already a slave, girl.’

  ‘True, but at least with the Bureau, I keep my rights as a citizen—rights that Koenig Corp would be all too buzzed to steef.’

  ‘You’d rather spend your days drinking slurps and pissing in buckets?’

  ‘I’d rather take my chances... mutt.’

  Eliot couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Miss Sutton—’

  ‘You guys work on commission, right?’ Sophie said, rising from the swivel chair with blithe assurance as she headed for the door. ‘You know my terms. Feel free to hit me up again when you have somethin’ half-decent to offer.’

  Eliot said nothing as he watched her leave, effectively stunned by the sheer audacity. His frustration deepened when the door swung open, revealing the cluster of Ag-Sec workers craning to listen at the entryway—and the smug look of relief on the foreman’s face.

  ‘Allow me to escort you back to your transport, sir. It’s the least we can do.’

  * * *

  ‘Jesus,’ Uainin muttered.

  Laithan chuckled as he followed her out of the autonomous taxi. Before them hung the faded image of an arm-cradled child, half obscured by years of acid rain and urban residue, molasses-thick. ‘First time at an orphanchise?’ he asked, tapping his Met ID against the autocab’s reader, charging it to HQ.

  Uainin didn’t answer, just kept staring at the building in front of them. Once a bank—a mausoleum to the pre-crypto world—it looked wretchedly hunched beneath a tower of jury-rigged residential blocks, rusted balconies and prefab capsules jutting from the brutalist bolt-ons looming overhead. Buttressed with polycrete, a tired stone fa?ade clung desperately to its original Renaissance-style grandeur: fluted columns patched with carbon steel, carved flourishes softened by rain-rot and grime, and that old corner entrance, now sealed behind a plasteel security gate. Above, the insignia of the Neo-Gnostics pulsed with the glow-glum of hololight, hemmed in on all sides by a tangle of scaffolds, braces, and intake vents—textbook Fringee infrastructure, never demolished but absorbed, layer by layer by layer.

  ‘A re-imaginin’ of second-cench Ophite Diagrams,’ Laithan explained, peering up at the seven-pointed crest of interlocking circles after a swig from his flask. ‘They were a sect that revered the serpent of Eden as a deliverer of wisdom.’

  Uainin’s glare could’ve melted steel. ‘Let’s just get this over with.’

  The Sutton Institute for Foundling Children opened its doors quickly at the sight of the two strangers.

  ‘Sir—madam—how may I be of service?’

  Laithan stared down at the squat, waspish-looking priest. ‘You tell me, sunshine.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Uainin said, presenting her ID. ‘Aubin Donati, is it? May we come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ The priest opened the door a little wider. ‘Just... wait until we’re in my office—we haven’t told the children yet.’

  Uainin frowned. ‘You know why we’re here?’

  ‘Yes. Laurits, he... he left a note.’

  Laithan mirrored Uainin’s look of disbelief. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call it in?’

  ‘Please,’ Donati repeated, gesturing stiffly. ‘My office.’

  Stepping inside, Uainin almost felt her neck twinge from the whiplash. Gone was the rust, the grime, the sallow claw of hololight, replaced by the softness of pre-Wall filament, strung in cosy, cluttered loops, the flicker too perfect to be real. The walls were panelled in mismatched wooden boards, worn but lovingly polished, hung with framed posters of extinct wildlife, cloudless blue skies, long-dead cityscapes. A full-sized globe turned slowly in the corner, and a bookshelf to the left held rows upon rows of bound books—paper, real paper—their spines frayed from regular use.

  Uainin wrinkled her nose. Everything smelled of cookies and ozone.

  ‘What kind’ve Nam Vet fuckery is this?’ Laithan asked, pausing beside a display case filled with analogue artefacts: a cassette player, a rusted bicycle bell, a sad, deflated football—European style.

  ‘Knowledge over ignorance,’ Donati intoned. ‘Redemption through pain.’

  ‘Right, so... soul-reave them to sacricide?’

  ‘Laithan,’ Uainin grumbled beneath an eye roll.

  ‘Laithan?’ the priest repeated. ‘Laithan Shah?’

  Uainin winced, the name too loud. Laboured politeness shifted to something akin to reverence, but—worse than that—was the look that Laithan gave her.

  ‘You and your big mouth,’ he muttered. Not anger. Something quieter. Heavier.

  Armed with the knowledge that—on top of everything—he was playing host to the son of Mujahid Shah, Donati swept them obligingly into his office. Inside, there was no clutter, no warmth—only the quiet weight of daily ritual. Down a narrow corridor, the faint sounds of children’s voices drifted through a half-open doorway. Judging by the cool flicker of holographic neon, they were midway through their state-mandated Edju-Tech stream. Still, now and then, a burst of laughter broke through—sharp, warbling, and far from innocent.

  Laithan smirked.

  Ah, the unearned audacity of the “yout”.

  Brother Donati beckoned them to sit on the chairs arranged before his desk. ‘I want you to know,’ he began, closing the door behind them, ‘our interpretation of the Gospels has never encouraged ascension through self-termination.’

  ‘Given the OD currently cloggin’ our freezer, I’m gonna have to say “bullshit”.’

  ‘Laithan,’ Uainin urged once more.

  ‘What happened to your father was a monstrous tragedy,’ Donati continued. ‘You have my sympathies, child.’

  Whatever Laithan had been clinging to... died that very moment.

  ‘Where were you between the hours of ten and two?’

  The question left Donati choking—a fish on dry land. ‘Detective—Laurits was—’

  ‘What my colleague is trying to say,’ Uainin aided, ‘is that we have reason to believe another individual was present at the time of his death.’

  Laithan reeled. ‘Uainin—’

  She prompted with her eyes, her access slate haloed with holos; Laithan glanced down. She’d pulled the security gate’s bio-logs—usually a warrant job. Aubin Donati hadn’t left the building in almost a month.

  ‘What makes you suspect someone else was with him?’ the priest asked.

  Uainin clicked her slate back into standby. ‘We suspect his’—she scrambled for a way to soften the blow—'ascension... was recorded.’

  Moisture filmed Donati’s eyes.

  ‘You mentioned he left a note,’ Laithan said, already growing bored.

  Donati surrendered it without a word. Laithan gave it a once-over before passing it to Uainin: the usual crap—I’m sorry, look after the kids, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing they didn’t already know. Nothing on the unknowns who’d been with him at the end.

  Uainin pocketed it with similar dissatisfaction. ‘You said that your interpretation discourages suicide. What do you think changed his mind?’

  ‘Laurits was... very sick,’ the priest said. ‘Terminal. But... his faith was strong—stronger than most of us. I... I don’t know why. In all honesty, I’m as stumped as you are. I just... I never thought he’d abandon the children. Not so... willingly, at least.’

  That last part caught Laithan’s attention. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Detective. This place—the children—they were everything to him. He’d’ve done anything to protect them.’

  ‘Even... self-terminate, perhaps?’

  The tears in Donati’s eyes hardened, the question ringing deep. ‘Yes. Perhaps.’

  Uainin checked her slate. ‘Census shows there’s also a... Merrilyn Campion serving as custodian here? Is she available for questioning?’

  ‘She left early to deliver the news to one of our former dependents.’

  ‘I see. And their name, please?’

  ‘Sophia Sutton.’

  Uainin’s cheeks hollowed as Laithan let out a short laugh. ‘The racer?’ he asked. ‘The one who was Bureaued for one and a half mil?’

  ‘Yes,’ Donati said, his tone clipped, as if biting back the rest.

  Laithan gave a slow shake of his head, a smirk creeping in like rot. ‘Well, shit.’

  Uainin cut him a look—What is it?

  He gestured a silent wait. ‘So, you didn’t notice anythin’ out-of-cazh yesterday? Anythin’ that made you suspect?’

  ‘No,’ Donati said. ‘Laurits insisted on attending his medical appointment alone.’ He smiled, bittersweet. ‘But that was typical of Laurits.’

  ‘He was receiving treatment?’ Uainin asked.

  ‘Palliative care,’ Donati said. ‘Relief for the pain and such. It... wasn’t a solution, but it helped.’

  ‘How long was he gone?’ Laithan asked.

  ‘Couple of hours,’ Donati shrugged. ‘He was back by late afternoon—for dinner, and to tuck the children in, as usual. It wasn’t until Merrilyn and I woke for first vigil that we realised he was gone.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to call it in?’

  ‘You may not believe as we do, Detective—but you know exactly why we didn’t.’

  Laithan scoffed. ‘“The Deep only knows”?’

  ‘And may Her light purify,’ Donati intoned.

  Laithan stood, a taut, near-violent motion—his jaw chewing on the unsaid, as if it were something sharp.

  ‘Fuckin’ Gnostics.’

  ‘Well, that was rude,’ Uainin snipped when they regrouped outside the institute five minutes later.

  ‘Spare me,’ Laithan growled, draining his hip flask dry.

  ‘You wanna at least clue me on what you’ve pieced?’

  ‘Corpos,’ Laithan spat. ‘He killed himself for fuckin’ corpos.’

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