Sam had told them that at first he’d worked in a very hot place where the humans were of Sal’s colour, mostly darker. There he’d worked on maintaining field harvesters, stripping them, cleaning the engines alongside human workers who lived only marginally better lives than the genics did. It had been one of them who had taught him how to read.
Then again, without warning, he’d been packaged like freight and shipped to another country, and another. Eventually learning from the scraps of books and pamphlets he picked up and squirrelled away the names of all these strange places: New Rhodesia, Great Albany, British Central District, Cape Georgia. Finally ending up in a place called
Sam said he could read most things. Only occasionally did he find language too difficult for him to understand. But his one big regret was that he couldn’t write more than a child’s untidy scrawl. His hands, designed to hold spanners and wrenches, lacked the dexterity to manage something as straightforward as a pencil.
If he could have written things, he’d said he would have liked to have written ‘singsong stories’. Sal had no idea what those were. Perhaps he meant poems.
On that note he’d said he needed his rest and was fast asleep within seconds. She wondered if that was a deliberately designed ability, to be able to flick a switch inside and be instantly unconscious. Or whether it was a lifetime’s habit, learning to get rest when it was available.
‘Abraham?’ she whispered in the dark.
There was no reply.
‘Lincoln?’ she tried again. Nothing.
She was going to ask him what he thought of an idea she had. To see if they could slip out of the cellar unheard, escape the city and try to intercept these soldiers the genics were certain were coming their way. Perhaps, seeing them free and unharmed, the soldiers might let the creatures go, be redeployed to do something more useful elsewhere. Or, if not, then perhaps she and Lincoln might be able to send them off in the wrong direction on a wild-goose chase. Give these things a chance to escape and find a new home somewhere else. But the deep voice of a genic grunted irritably out of the darkness.
‘Shut up … resting now.’
So much for that idea, then.
CHAPTER 54
2001, outside Dead City
Liam watched the night sky. He was looking at the very same stars as Sal. In front of them was the outline of the dark city suburbs.
McManus prodded the dying fire with a stick. ‘We shall wait till first light, Liam. Then we’ll send in the hounds.’
Another delay of hours. Liam did his best to contain the frustration behind gritted teeth.
‘They should find those runaways easily enough … and your sister and friend too.’
Liam glanced across the trampled field, lit by several campfires. The ‘hounds’ that McManus referred to were those large baboon-headed dogs. He could see them clustered around one of the fires, eating rations of food out of a trough. He could see flashes of long teeth as they periodically raised their heads and chewed hungrily on what appeared to be dry nuggets of protein biscuit.
‘They look pretty ferocious, so they do. Are you sure my sister’s going to be safe from them?’
‘Indeed. Those hunter-seekers won’t harm them. They’ve been instructed.’
‘How’ll they know who it is they’re not to hurt, though?’
‘White Bear has had them all get a taste of the tracks left by the genics. They know the smell of your sister and have orders to follow the scent, locate them and then report in.’
Liam looked at him sceptically. ‘
McManus grinned. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. One of the hunter-seekers looked up from his feeding trough. ‘Yes, that’s right, you over there! Pack-Alpha … come here!’
The creature obediently got up off its haunches and trotted across the camp towards them.
Liam shared a look with Bob. ‘I’ve never seen a dog so well trained.’
‘Well, firstly, remember these things
The hunter-seeker came to a halt in front of them — waist high, almost as big as a Great Dane.
‘You may sit, Pack-Alpha.’
‘Thanks, guv,’ it grunted, slim hindquarters settling down on the dusty ground.
‘This civilian is Mr Liam O’Connor. And the big chap is Mr Bob O’Connor. It’s their sister and friend who’ve been taken by the runaways. Now, for their peace of mind, would you please tell them what your orders are.’
It turned intelligent baboon-eyes on to Liam, a pink tongue protruded from its long furry muzzle and moistened its thin dark leathery lips. ‘Follow smell-trail. Find humans.’
‘And what will you do when you find them?’
It cocked its head and Liam could have sworn the thing rolled its eyes as if that was the most stupid question a person could ask. ‘Call home.’
McManus pointed to a leather strap round the creature’s neck. Beneath its jaw was a small brass box with a simple toggle switch on it. ‘They flip that switch and it turns on a short-range radio beacon, which we can then follow in. It also opens the microphone so they can tell us exactly what they’re seeing. They make excellent reconnaissance units.’
He turned back to the genic, squatted down to inspect an ident number on its collar. ‘Ahh, you’re Pack- Alpha-Two. Sorry, didn’t recognize you there … George, isn’t it?’
Liam choked a surprised laugh. ‘
‘Ahh, yes. We let them pick their own informal names. They like to do it. Makes them feel a part of the regiment. Doesn’t it, ol’ chap?’
The creature nodded. ‘Good name, George. Just like King.’
‘That’s right, just like our King George.’ McManus patted the top of his small round head. ‘George is one of our best. Did some really rather excellent work rooting out the bad chaps from the mountains in Afghanistan, didn’t you?’
‘Bad men. I kill.’
‘You did jolly well, George. Very well indeed.’
George turned his baboon-head to look back at his pack and the trough, a worried frown rolling along the protruding brow above his eyes. ‘Go eat now, guv?’
‘Ah, yes … better get off before those greedy beggars in your squad finish all the chow. Dismissed.’
The hunter-seeker turned and trotted back across the makeshift camp.
Liam shook his head at the bizarre conversation he’d just witnessed.
‘Yes … they’re a very helpful eugenic product,’ said McManus. ‘Far more efficient at tracking than any human can be, better even than, dare I say, our Indian chap, White Bear.’
‘Why did you not use those hunter creatures earlier, then?’ asked Bob.
‘When we were following the trail from the farmhouse?’
Bob nodded.
‘Tracking’s not just following a scent or footprints. It’s thinking, assessing how you personally would attempt to hide your trail. It’s like playing chess … predicting an opponent’s move. George and his chums can’t do anything sophisticated like that. They’re jolly good, though, at following a scent. Tracking and following a scent … two very different things.’
‘The names …’ said Liam. ‘Why do they pick names like that? Human names?’
McManus shrugged. ‘Eugenics … that’s the odd thing — they
High up in the sky the regimental carrier slowly manoeuvred in a wide turning arc, a searchlight periodically
