another manifestation of my paranoia?
We drove on in silence for a while. Cresting the snow-covered moorland, we passed the glittering obelisk of the Onward Station. It never failed to provoke a feeling of awe in me—and I saw the Station every working day. Quite apart from what it represented, it was perhaps aesthetically the most beautiful object I had ever seen.
I wondered if it was the sight of it that prompted Lucy to say, “Daddy, the girls at school have been making fun of me.”
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “Why’s that?”
“It’s because I’m not implanted. They say I’ll die.”
I shook my head, wondering how to respond. “They’re just being silly,” I said.
“But if I have an accident,” she began.
“Don’t worry,” I said, marvelling at the fact that she was only eight years old, and yet had worked out the consequences of not being implanted. “You won’t have an accident.”
Then she asked, “Why aren’t I implanted?”
It was the first time she had ever mentioned the fact, and it was a while before I replied. “Because mum doesn’t want you to be,” I said.
“But why doesn’t she?”
“I think you’d better ask her that yourself,” I said, and left it at that. I changed the subject. “How about a meal at the Fleece when we get back? Would you like that?”
“Mmm,” she said, without her usual enthusiasm for the idea, and fell silent.
We were a couple of miles from home when the onboard mobile rang. I cursed.
“Dan Chester here,” I said, hoping the collection would be nearby.
“Dan.” It was Masters, the Controller at the Station. “I’ve just had a call from someone over in Bradley. This is most irregular. They’ve reported a death.”
I slowed down, the better to concentrate. “I don’t understand. Was the subject implanted?”
“Apparently so.”
“Then why didn’t it register with you?”
“Exactly what I was wondering. That’s why I want you to investigate. I’m sending a team from the Station straight away, but I thought that as you’re in the area...”
I sighed. “Okay. Where is it?”
Masters relayed the address.
“Right. I’ll be in touch when I’ve found out what’s going on.” I cut the connection.
Bradley was only a mile or two out of my way. I could be there in ten minutes, sort out the problem in the same time, and be at the Fleece with a pint within the half hour.
I glanced back at Lucy. She was asleep, her head nodding with the motion of the Rover.
The Grange, Bradley Lower Road, turned out to be a Georgian house tucked away in a dense copse a mile down a treacherous, rutted track. The Range Rover negotiated the potholes with ease, rocking back and forth like a fairground ride.
Only when the foursquare manse came into view, surrounded by denuded elm and sycamore, did I remember hearing that the Grange had been bought at a knockdown price a few years ago by some kind of New Age eco-community.
A great painted rainbow decorated the facade of the building, together with a collection of smiley faces, peace symbols and anarchist logos.
A motley group of men and women in their thirties had gathered on the steps of the front door, evidently awaiting my arrival. They wore dungarees and oversized cardigans and sweaters; many of them sported dreadlocks.
Lucy was still sleeping. I locked the Rover and hurried over to the waiting group, a briefcase containing release forms and death certificates tucked under my arm.
A stout woman with a positive comet’s tail of blonde dreads greeted me. I was pleased to see that she was implanted—as were, so far as a brief glance could tell me, most of the other men and women standing behind her. Some radical groups I’d heard of were opposed to the intervention of the Kéthani, and openly hostile to their representatives.
“Dan Chester,” I said. “I’m the ferryman from the Station.”
“Dan, I’m Marsha,” the woman said. “Welcome to New Haven. I’ll show
We drove on in silence for a while. Cresting the snow-covered moorland, we passed the glittering obelisk of the Onward Station. It never failed to provoke a feeling of awe in me—and I saw the Station every working day. Quite apart from what it represented, it was perhaps aesthetically the most beautiful object I had ever seen.
I wondered if it was the sight of it that prompted Lucy to say, “Daddy, the girls at school have been making fun of me.”
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “Why’s that?”
“It’s because I’m not implanted. They say I’ll die.”
I shook my head, wondering how to respond. “They’re just being silly,” I said.
“But if I have an accident,” she began.
“Don’t worry,” I said, marvelling at the fact that she was only eight years old, and yet had worked out the consequences of not being implanted. “You won’t have an accident.”
Then she asked, “Why aren’t I implanted?”
It was the first time she had ever mentioned the fact, and it was a while before I replied. “Because mum doesn’t want you to be,” I said.
“But why doesn’t she?”
“I think you’d better ask her that yourself,” I said, and left it at that. I changed the subject. “How about a meal at the Fleece when we get back? Would you like that?”
“Mmm,” she said, without her usual enthusiasm for the idea, and fell silent.
We were a couple of miles from home when the onboard mobile rang. I cursed.
“Dan Chester here,” I said, hoping the collection would be nearby.
“Dan.” It was Masters, the Controller at the Station. “I’ve just had a call from someone over in Bradley. This is most irregular. They’ve reported a death.”
I slowed down, the better to concentrate. “I don’t understand. Was the subject implanted?”
“Apparently so.”
“Then why didn’t it register with you?”
“Exactly what I was wondering. That’s why I want you to investigate. I’m sending a team from the Station straight away, but I thought that as you’re in the area...”
I sighed. “Okay. Where is it?”
Masters relayed the address.
“Right. I’ll be in touch when I’ve found out what’s going on.” I cut the connection.
Bradley was only a mile or two out of my way. I could be there in ten minutes, sort out the problem in the same time, and be at the Fleece with a pint within the half hour.
I glanced back at Lucy. She was asleep, her head nodding with the motion of the Rover.
The Grange, Bradley Lower Road, turned out to be a Georgian house tucked away in a dense copse a mile down a treacherous, rutted track. The Range Rover negotiated the potholes with ease, rocking back and forth like a fairground ride.
Only when the foursquare manse came into view, surrounded by denuded elm and sycamore, did I remember hearing that the Grange had been bought at a knockdown price a few years ago by some kind of New Age eco-community.
A great painted rainbow decorated the facade of the building, together with a collection of smiley faces, peace symbols and anarchist logos.
A motley group of men and women in their thirties had gathered on the steps of the front door, evidently awaiting my arrival. They wore dungarees and oversized cardigans and sweaters; many of them sported dreadlocks.
Lucy was still sleeping. I locked the Rover and hurried over to the waiting group, a briefcase containing release forms and death certificates tucked under my arm.
A stout woman with a positive comet’s tail of blonde dreads greeted me. I was pleased to see that she was implanted—as were, so far as a brief glance could tell me, most of the other men and women standing behind her. Some radical groups I’d heard of were opposed to the intervention of the Kéthani, and openly hostile to their representatives.
“Dan Chester,” I said. “I’m the ferryman from the Station.”
“Dan, I’m Marsha,” the woman said. “Welcome to New Haven. I’ll show
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