Early Riser

The Museum

We passed through the iron gates and walked around the statue of Gwendolyn VII, which looked considerably larger up close – about the size of a coach – then crossed the soft unbroken expanse of white in front of the museum. Fodder led us to the side entrance and tugged at the bell-pull.

‘Who is it?’ came a crackly man’s voice from the intercom.

‘Llewelyn the not-last-as-it-turned-out,’ said Fodder, waving at the viewing lens above the door.

The lock clunked and Fodder looked around cautiously before pulling open the heavy steel door. We stepped inside and closed the outer door before ringing the bell to signal Pockets to open the inner. Once through the cork-lined doors and out of our coats and boots we padded up the corridor past glass cases, suits of armour, works of art and a stuffed sabre-tooth tiger that was, boasted the label, the fifth from extinction when it was hit by a bus near Boughrood.

We turned the corner to the central atrium. Sitting beneath the ornately painted dome and marble-inlaid foyer was a military-spec Airwitzer of considerable size and power. To one side of the weapon was a half-empty crate of military-spec thermalites, a couple of Golgothas and a desk with a red telephone and a clockwork barograph. But more pertinent to me was the figure sitting behind the cannon.

It was Hugo Foulnap. He was sitting in the triggerman’s position, and staring at me with the look of someone who had just been reminded of an old and hugely disliked acquaintance. He was fresh in my mind from less than a day before, but to him we’d crossed swords four weeks ago. Hibernation has a contracting effect upon time.

He put a finger to his lips as soon as Fodder wasn’t watching, and out of curiosity and a certain nervousness, I decided to play along.

‘This here is Danny Pockets,’ said Fodder, ‘not usually part of the crew but on loan from Sector Eighteen.’

We both nodded a greeting and embraced in an awkward manner. Fodder didn’t notice, or if he did, he made no sign of it.

Foulnap was pretty much the same as I’d seen him last, aside from a healed cut above his left eye that looked self-stitched, and longer hair, which he had tied back in a ponytail. He was dressed in a cumbersome Mk III shock-suit that looked – along with the Airwitzer – as though it should be displayed in the museum rather than defending it. I’d trained in the use of shock-suits and found them hot and restrictive. Most preferred to not wear one and just use the extra mobility to get out of trouble. Me, I’d prefer to not be in the trouble at all, shock-suit or no.

‘You take Pantry Defence very seriously,’ I said, nodding towards the vortex cannon. Anyone without suited protection was a trigger-pull away from resembling goulash.

‘Sector Fifteen had their pantry stolen five Winters ago,’ said Foulnap, ‘and with thirty mouths to feed and the Winter the harshest for a century, the residents were forced to do things they’d rather not.’

‘Winter Cutlets,’ said Fodder in a matter-of-fact way. ‘I’m going to figure out the duty roster. Why don’t you two get acquainted?’

He vanished through a low doorway in the direction of Rocks and Minerals. There was a pause, and a desk lamp was switched on.

‘I was wondering if we’d meet again,’ Foulnap said. ‘Have you told anyone about me?’

‘I’ve only just seen you.’

‘That’s true. What happened to Bouzouki Girl?’

‘I took her to HiberTech.’

‘To be dismantled and redeployed? I hope you’re pleased with yourself.’

‘Better that than your plan.’

‘Things are rarely how they appear,’ he said. ‘Because of you I lost a good friend and a respected mentor and colleague. You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me you’re not a threat.’

He hooked his thumb into the ring of the pulse grenade strapped to his chest, then moved to flip up the visor on the shock-suit. He’d be hurt on detonation – a few broken ribs, bloodshot eyes, probably – but this close in, I’d be dead or left so I could barely feed myself. Most times it was better to not survive non-lethal. There was talk of rolling out high-velocity projectile weapons as a more humane alternative to the Concussive Vortex Cannon, but legislators and the public had little stomach for them.

‘I knew you were somewhere in Sector Twelve,’ I said, ‘and I also knew Toccata knew it.’

He stared at me for a few seconds.

‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘Toccata asked me to tell her when I saw you but Aurora asked me to tell her if I saw you. The world of difference.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the world of difference.’

‘I could have taken that information to Aurora, but I didn’t. Enough to convince you I’m not working for HiberTech?’

He lowered his hand and I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘For the moment,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to trust you.’

‘Aurora thinks you’re with the Campaign for Real Sleep,’ I said.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Past events suggest I should just keep my lip firmly buttoned, and concentrate on surviving the Winter.’

‘Sounds like a winning strategy to me.’

Fodder reappeared from the office and pinned the Pantry Duty roster on the wall. I was doing alternate afternoons, starting tomorrow. I was going to have to remember to bring a book.

‘You two getting along?’ asked Fodder.

‘We have an understanding.’

‘Then you can share the operation of the Airwitzer.’

Foulnap dutifully demonstrated how the weapon worked. It was like a Bambi, only much bigger, and the trigger wasn’t instantaneous. He pointed towards a rack of Thumpers mounted on the wall.

‘And once all these avenues are exhausted,’ said Fodder, ‘we pull the pin on the Golgotha and take them and the building with us.’

He patted the large rugby-ball-shaped grenade that was gaffer-taped to the Airwitzer.

‘What do you think of the plan?’ asked Fodder.

‘What it lacks in finesse it makes up for in finality,’ I said, and they both nodded. Pantry theft was a serious deal.

‘Can I have a look around the museum?’ I asked. ‘To get an idea of layout?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Fodder. ‘The ceramics and glassware sections are particularly fine, there’s a Caravaggio on the second floor and three Turners – not to mention our Kyffin Williams collection. A few rare stamps, too, and the preserved trigger finger and hat brim of Ffion “Mad Dog” McJames.[53] We’ll continue on in half an hour.’

I thanked them both then walked along the empty corridors, looking in through open doors at the dusty exhibits, assisted by the dim glow of the emergency lighting. There were Neolithic remains, the hull of a dugout canoe found in a local lake, and several artefacts from the First Ottoman Campaign. There also seemed to be a goodly amount of junk relating to the World’s Fair which was held here in 1923, an entire wing devoted to Don Hector and HiberTech, and the finest collections of stamps in the region. I peered into the crystal case that held the world’s only 2d Lloyd-George Mauve with the Anglesey cancellation, but it didn’t look that impressive.

I walked up the ornate central staircase and paused on the landing, staring with a sense of disquiet at a glass case that contained a local murderer named Armstrong. He’d been freeze-dried over half a century before, placed on a chair for all to see, dressed in the clothes in which he’d been hanged. It was fortunate he’d been found guilty in the Summer. In the Winter he’d have been Frigicuted and his remains taken by animals – there would have been nothing left to exhibit except a few teeth perhaps, and kidney stones if he’d had any.

There was a barely audible thud, not much more than if someone jumps heavily onto the floor above. My training at the Academy kicked in without me really having to think. When you hear a thump you don’t pause, not even for a second. Non-lethal are always close-quarters weapons, and close-quarter fighting can develop at a frightening pace.