Revelation

4 Findhorn's Dream

Findhorn recalled his death in great detail. Mainly, he thought what a stupid way to go.

They'd had a boozy lunch at El Greco's, Hazel, Bruce and he. The spada had been first class (sauce-free, grilled to perfection). They'd discussed the Matsumo contract, and had agreed it was amazingly lucrative. Over coffee and ouzo they'd wondered — out of his hearing — about the attractions of Kontos, alias 'Bonkos', the ugly Greek proprietor with the red Ferrari and the endless string of what Bruce enviously described as 'luscious bints'.

Outside the restaurant, Hazel had shouted something to Findhorn as he'd stepped onto the busy street, his head spinning with wine. He'd had only a fraction of a second to follow Hazel's shocked gaze before the Leyland truck hit him, smashing his skull onto the hard London street, a massive wheel crushing his chest an instant later.

The heart monitor sent out its microwave signal and by the time the ambulance had reached the casualty entrance at St John's, the vultures were already awaiting the formal pronouncement of death. The casualty doctor shook his head over Findhorn's smashed chest and the corpse was quickly transferred to the team with no more than a hurried signature. In their grey, sealed van, along the Mall, the body was strapped to a table. A variety of scalpels and a small saw were used to remove Findhorn's head. As they turned up Haymarket, the blood vessels attached to the body were ligatured to stem the flow of blood. At a red light, while tourists and office girls crossed in front of them, Findhorn's carotid arteries were being connected to tubes and the blood in his head was replaced by a cold, cold liquid. Around Piccadilly and up Regent Street, his head was wrapped in foil and immersed, upside down, in a vat of liquid nitrogen, causing a surge of freezing fog to flood the van temporarily before escaping through a vent into the busy street. The metal lid of the vat secured, warm air was pumped into the van and the team took off their masks, goggles and bloody gloves, and relaxed. Somebody opened a Thermos flask; a cigarette was lit; and, over the headless cadaver, the chat turned to the forthcoming match. The van headed swiftly towards the Ml, its destination a large, anonymous country house tucked away in the Buckinghamshire countryside.

All this Findhorn saw as if from above, from a camera in the roof of the van.

There was a tunnel, and all that ever had been or would be was imbedded in its walls, and he was moving along the tunnel towards a tiny light marking its end, and the light grew until he found himself in a brilliant white room and he woke up, unable to move. The cold was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was an intense pain. Something was throbbing gently in the background, like the flow of blood through his ears. The room had no walls or ceiling; it was egg-shaped, white. There was no discernible lighting but it was bright like an operating theatre. A door slid open and a nurse, twentyish, came silently in and bent over him. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

'I made it,' he said, but the voice came out as a whisper.

'Just.' Her voice was surprisingly rough.

'How long was I dead?'

'A very long time. Very long.'

'I have a body?'

She smiled. It was a strange, mechanical smile, the lips almost curling into a semicircle. 'Of course. Cloning is an ancient art. You are now thirty, perfect in physiology, and will remain so for all time. And your intellect has been boosted. By the standards of your century, you are a superman.'

'Has anyone I know survived?'

'No. Brain preservation was very uncommon in your day. It makes you a very rare specimen. We have plans for you.'

'Plans?' Findhorn felt a twinge of anxiety.

Again the strange smile. Close up, there was something not quite right about her eyes; their shape was odd. 'Did you think you would spend eternity in Paradise?'

'This cold. Can't you get rid of it? Why can't I move?'

'As I said, we have plans for you. The cold is part of it.'

A vague sense of dread began to surge through Findhorn. This wasn't the way he'd anticipated his resuscitation, not the world he'd expected to find. A thought suddenly struck him. 'You're not real, are you? A hologram?'

'Hologram,' she repeated. There was a tiny hesitation. 'Hologram. Yes, I have it, a device from your century.' Findhorn thought he detected a hint of amusement, almost mockery. 'No, Mister Findhorn, I am not a hologram.'

'But you don't exist.' A fresh horror. 'Neither do I. You're feeding impulses into my brain. None of this is real.'

'What did you expect? Space-hungry, resource-greedy people who never die? No, machines supplanted organic life a very long time ago. However we still find a living brain very useful when we can find one.'

Findhorn suddenly envisaged a computer somewhere, eternally feeding dreams into brains stored in some vast, automated warehouse. Simple economics. Much easier to tickle brain cells than re-create living, space-hungry, resource-greedy people who never die.

The throbbing was louder. It was like the engine of a ship. The cold was in his bones. It was causing him terrible pain. 'Look, this isn't what I expected. I don't want an eternity of this.' He took a painful breath and reached a decision. 'It was a mistake. Please switch me off. Let me die.'

The lips curled into a perfect semicircle. The eyes followed the shape of the mouth. She leaned over him and for the first time Findhorn saw something long, thin and metallic in her hand. 'I'm so sorry. You don't have that option.'

'What did he say?'

'He's coming round.'

'I'll tell the captain.'

Findhorn opened his eyes. The first-aid room was warm; the cold Findhorn felt came from within. He was immobile under layers of blankets. A gentle, steady throb was coming up from the ship's engine below. Leroy, dreadlocks hanging down over his brow, was leaning over him, concern showing in his eyes. The nightmare of immortality fading, he managed to whisper: 'Leroy, you're beautiful.'

The first mate's anxiety gave way to a wide grin. 'You should see my sister.'

Hansen's bearded face appeared round the door. 'Thought you were a goner.'

'What happened?'

Leroy moved aside to make room for the captain in the tiny room. 'How 'bout some nice hot soup?'

'It could kill him,' said Hansen. 'Upset his circulation and flood his brain stem with iced blood. Make it lukewarm.'

When the first officer had gone, Hansen turned to Findhorn. 'We got it.'

Findhorn nodded, almost too weak to speak.

'It was inside a block of ice. They spotted it coming out with Watson. They got you on board first, then went back for it. Took half an hour to find amongst the floes.'

'And?'

'It's in the ship's safe. The admiral seems to think it's his property. I respectfully disagree. If it hit the water it's salvage.'

Hansen pulled out a pipe and began to stuff the bowl with black, tarry tobacco. 'It cost us. The berg split clean in two. Watson, Dawson and you came out of its centre like you'd been shot out of a cannon. Three men on Watson's team never got out, four drowned in the water. Seven dead.'

Findhorn remembered. 'My God.'

'Aye. And another three died on the berg before we got there, but our American guests are being remarkably tight-lipped about that. The Leith police will sort them out.' The captain was managing to speak while lighting his pipe; he was clearly well practised in the art. 'You owe your life to Leroy. Watson, yon Admiral and you were the only ones in reach and you were all sinking down. Leroy goes for you first, but the fur gear weighs a ton in the water. Then he gets the admiral. By the time Arkin and he gets him out, Watson is gone.'

Findhorn sank back into his dreams.

The smell of frying fish drifted into the first-aid room. From below, the throbbing was stronger, more rapid. Bleak Arctic light streamed in through a porthole. The ship was rolling up and down the big waves, and each time it reached a crest Findhorn saw icebergs scattered over the sea like ships in an armada. So Hansen had probably cut west to clear the pack ice and turned south just past Jan Mayen island. But there was still drift ice; they had probably not yet reached seventy north.

Findhorn wriggled an arm from under the blankets and peeled them off one by one. He sat up; it was possibly the most difficult thing he had ever done. His wrist watch, on the table next to him, was still working and it said 7.15. That would be p.m., frying fish being an evening meal even for this cosmopolitan crew; he'd been unconscious for eighteen hours. His bladder was threatening to burst.

Ten minutes later, bladder relieved, dressed in an over-large Aran jumper, jeans and sneakers, he presented himself at the entrance to the mess room, steadying himself against the roll of the ship.

'You raving eejit,' Hansen welcomed him. 'What are you doing up?'

'I'm after Leroy's red pea soup.'

Leroy vanished. While Findhorn was being helped into a chair he caught the eyes of the Dubliner. 'What happened to Roscoe?'

The Irishman's tone became evasive. 'There was a bit of an accident, like.'

'What exactly?'

'A sort of a fire.'

'What sort of a fire?'

'I was inside the berg when it happened.' The Irishman changed the subject. 'Ten men for a briefcase, sir. Was it worth it?'

So much for secret instructions, Findhorn thought. He was conscious of a dozen faces — Chinese, Korean, English, Norwegian, Indian and indeterminate — waiting for his answer.

Leroy stepped over the threshold. He placed crusty bread and a bowl of red soup in front of Findhorn. 'I'll know when I've opened it.'

'You won't be opening anything.' The admiral, in a light blue shirt and navy trousers, had followed Leroy in to the mess. 'The briefcase happens to be the property of the United States Government.'

'I'm fine, thanks,' said Findhorn. 'What business did you people have tunnelling in there? You were way off base.'

A blond crewman said, 'Greenland is the sovereign territory of Denmark. I expect my government may have a claim.'

Leroy clapped his hands in delight. 'Except that the berg had drifted into international waters by the time we got it. Hey, ah reckon it's finders keepers.'

Hansen was looking out of a porthole. His hair, like his beard, was nearly white, with dark streaks. Over his shoulder he said, 'Lawyers could get rich on this one.'

The admiral was in no mood for banter. 'I keep telling you people. The briefcase is American property. On behalf of the United States Government, Captain Hansen, I require that you hand it over to me now. Or take the unpleasant consequences.'

Hansen scraped at the barrel of his empty pipe. It gurgled when he blew through it. He turned and approached the admiral to within two feet. He said, 'Admiral Dawson, sir. With all due respect, awa' and bile yer heid.'