Sam and Stonecrop's wait for Dr Drake's reply took surprisingly all week, making them wonder whether the mysterious, reclusive scientist was ever going to respond at all. Personally, Sam was kind of hoping he wouldn't, still worried sick about her friend's existence coming out. In spite of Santon's reassurance that there was nothing to be afraid of, Stonecrop was still her only friend and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Finally, the day before their eviction notice was up, Drake's letter arrived.
Sam and Stonecrop soon realised that this Dr Drake character had big plans for them. In his letter, he was inviting them over to his private research compound in Hampshire for a meeting, where he promised to 'explain it all' in person. Also, there was a mention of Sam's new job as a courier to deliver a secret message to someone, the full details of which would be explained to her during that meeting. Enclosed with the letter were a couple of pre-booked train tickets to Newbury, plus a paid reservation at a boarding house in Newtown Common, where they would be lodging.
"This fellow definitely spares no expenses," muttered Stonecrop, wondering whether all this generosity was a good or a bad sign. Sam simply didn't know what to make of all this. Could Drake be lurking them into a false sense of security, to gain their trust, and then take them under his control? Maybe they were literally making a pact with the devil and didn't even realise? However, she did know something else: there was no future for either of them here anymore. She was jobless, practically penniless and soon-to-be homeless; and the city was no longer a safe place for Stonecrop either, who was now easily noticeable. The bottom line was simple: regardless whether they liked it or not, it was time to move on and hope for the best.
And so it was the very next day that the pair, all packed and ready, prepared to move out. Their little apartment had been swept clean and any junk or litter cleared out, courtesy of Sam, who didn't like leaving a mess behind, especially when she was walking out without paying the rent for the last six months. Anything they couldn't take with them, including her beloved courier bicycle, she had sold down at the local pawn shop, securing them enough money to travel decently.
It was midday when they exited the apartment block for the last time, heading towards the highway, to take the next bus to King's Cross Station, and catch their train to Newbury. Stonecrop turned to look at their old home sadly; although he was a rabbit living in a world where he didn't belong, this neighbourhood was still his childhood home - the only home he had ever known. The city had always been his home and now he was leaving it, probably for good, heading off into this uncertain future opened up to him and Sam, literally out of the blue.
"Cheer up, Stonecrop," said Sam, setting aside her backpack and kneeling down to hug her furry friend. For someone moving house, she was travelling light, carrying only her scanty wardrobe and her few worldly possessions, including the picture of her supposed brother, which she had taken from Johnson's apartment, along with the man's copy of Watership Down. "Wherever this takes us, at least we're together all the way."
Stonecrop happily nuzzled his adoptive mother, "Thank you, Sam. Thank you for always being there for me."
The bus ride to King's Cross, although uneventful, was extremely tense for the both of them. Sam would feel her heart jump in her mouth each time someone would turn to stare at Stonecrop in amazement, wondering how a rabbit could get so big, but luckily not disturbing them. It didn't get any better at the train station either, where they had to wade through an endless crowd of holidaymakers leaving town, on their way to the country. Every now and then, she'd give Stonecrop, whom she had on his lead, to keep up pretences, and who was feeling most irate about it, a stern glance, warning him not to open his mouth now or they'd both have it.
They finally managed to find some privacy on the train, the animal-friendly section being less crowded than the main passenger area of the car. Between periods when there were no other passengers within earshot, they were able to chat in low voices, enjoying some corned beef and coleslaw sandwiches (only coleslaw in Stonecrop's case) and ice-tea Sam had made them for the trip.
With Stonecrop snoozing on the seat beside her, his head resting on her lap like a house dog, Sam stared out the window, watching as they left the outskirts of London behind, heading out into the beautiful English countryside. Once again, she was back on the road, an aimless wanderer seeking her place in life – only this time, at least she was not alone. By some mysterious twist of fate, she now knew, hers and Stonecrop's mysterious backgrounds were somehow interconnected. And together, they'd find out how.
It was late afternoon when the bus from Newbury dropped them off at the town square of Newtown Common. Sam's first impression of this little country town, which was the old hometown of the late Major James McEwen and his family, was one of a peaceful, quiet place, free of the usual crowds and commotion of the city. Sam thought: Well, at least we'll have more freedom here than we ever had back in London.
On their way to the boarding house on the edge of town, they made a brief detour at the former Sutch and Martin Flight Club, where Johnson's plane had taken off on its final flight. The town itself hadn't changed all that much in the last four years, but the club had since been torn down and the premises converted into a trailer park by the local Council for summer campers. The only thing left was the battered wreck of Johnson's Cessna, which still lay in a corner close to the gate.
While Stonecrop took some time to run around, glad to be finally free of his captivity, Sam walked over to get a better look at the remains of the small plane. Although still recognisable as an aircraft, its engine, flight instruments and seats had been cannibalised from the wreck and recycled, or otherwise taken as souvenirs by curious spectators, leaving nothing but the stripped aluminium fuselage for the scrap yard. Graffiti, bearing messages from Johnson fans decorated the decaying battered fuselage. A most peculiar memorial for a dead man – or one lost in time, thought Sam.
While researching Johnson's strange story over the past week, she had read about how the plane had been found crashed and abandoned on the bottom of a lake the night Johnson had reappeared out of the blue, following his supposed death. Nobody had ever been able to explain where it had been during those nine days the world believed its four passengers to have perished in flight. Had this plane actually journeyed into the future and come back? Or was she just chasing someone's fantasy on paper?
The boarding house where they would be lodging was run by Mike McEwen, a retired Air Force Commander, whose son James, Sam remembered, had been on the Search and Rescue squadron that had gone in search of Johnson in 2012 and disappeared as well – according to Johnson's notes, Major McEwen had survived and joined up with his group of refugees in the future, but was eventually killed by that madman Robbins. When Johnson had returned with his five rabbit companions, his widow Josie had aided them on their mission to take down the Red Hand Brotherhood, and eventually joined them on their return to the future, hoping to find her husband again. It seemed the McEwens' old home had come into the ownership of the last surviving member of the family, who had converted it into a boarding house.
Old man Mike greeted them at the reception's desk in what had once been the parlour of the house, "Hallo Miss Fields, I've been expecting you. Dr Drake said you would be arriving today. He asked me to make a few extra special arrangements for you, to accommodate your gorgeous pet," he said, playfully ruffling Stonecrop between the ears, who pulled away indignantly. Although obviously the old man meant him no harm, Stonecrop still didn't like being patted by anyone other than Sam, much less being called a pet, but knew better than to break his silence in front of a stranger.
"Yes, thank you," said Sam shyly, shaking hands with Mike McEwen, wondering just how much Dr Drake was paying on their behalf, "I'm Sam Fields and this is Stonecrop." Stonecrop, still playing the docile, unknowing pet rabbit, couldn't resist and offered his paw to shake like a trained dog.
"Some smart animal you've got, Mrs Fields!" remarked McEwen, raising his eyebrows at the rabbit's peculiar intelligence, "Now I see why the mad scientist of our district was so determined to pay any extra expenses so that I may accommodate a rabbit guest in my boarding house. Then again, we don't get a pretty face like yours around here every day either, so I wouldn't mind anyway." Sam blushed in embarrassment, suppressing a giggle, while Stonecrop pulled a face behind the old man's back.
Elizabeth, Mike's wife, who ran the boarding house with her husband, showed them to their room upstairs. The place was more or less plain, but spacious, compared to their cramped East End flat. The room, which had once been young Jamie McEwen's bedroom, still had the same furniture from four years ago, including the spare pull-down bed once used by Kenny Shelton during his visits. Sam had read all about how the boy had gone in search of his father after the authorities had given up, and disappeared under the same mysterious circumstances - Johnson's notes concluded that they figured he had made it into the future and that they hoped to find him there upon their return.
That evening, with Stonecrop snoozing on the lawn out in the garden, Sam joined the McEwens for dinner. Mrs McEwen had cooked up a hearty dinner and Mike had brought out a pack of ice-cold cider from the icebox, as they sat down at the dinner table on the glass veranda, which had once housed Josie McEwen's veterinary infirmary, now long dismantled. During dessert, the conversation shifted to the Johnson story, which had caused so much pain and loss for the McEwen family.
"Dr Johnson's name had become a legend in these parts," said Mike, "Ever since his disappearance, our little town has had swarms of tourists come to visit his grave in the churchyard. Boosted the local economy, I tell you… I hate to say that this story brings little joy to my wife and I, after what happened to our son and grandson."
"Poor James was a good man, and a wonderful husband and father," said Mrs McEwen, holding back a sob, "His death, and that of our dear grandson Jamie's, was such a devastating blow for his wife Josie, poor girl…"
"What happened to her?" asked Sam, although she already knew everything from Johnson's notes.
"Our daughter-in-law, grief-stricken, ran off shortly after James and Jamie disappeared," explained Mike, "Over the years, I've hired many private detectives to try and find her, but all in vain. Seemingly vanished off the face of the Earth. We built this boarding house to preserve their memories, to give us a sense of closure…" Sam was dying to tell Mike about Johnson's secret notes of the future, where the McEwens had apparently gone, but, remembering how Santon had emphasized the importance of secrecy, decided against it. For crying out loud, they probably wouldn't believe me anyway…or would they?
"So do you think this weird tale about Johnson is actually real?" she asked Mike, who, as she expected, shook his head.
"About him time-travelling into the future?" he scoffed, "Utter nonsense, girl. Such rubbish belongs in those sci-fi B-movies that immature teenagers crave for these days. My generation certainly had more sense that to believe such a ridiculous story…"
"It was such a mystery though," Elizabeth put in, "All these years, they've been whispered rumours that Dr Johnson didn't die that night Red Hand's safe house was destroyed. They say he escaped and returned to that future world he had discovered, never to be seen again. They say Dr Drake is the only one who knows the truth and had been hiding it from the public all these years…"
"I've got my interview with Dr Drake tomorrow morning," said Sam, changing the subject, before the old woman could get upset over her son and grandson again, "I'm supposed to meet him at his research centre…"
"I don't expect you'll have much trouble finding it," said Mike, "His research centre is no other than the old Buxton Hall, which was once the safe house of that bloody terrorist faction that operated in our district years ago. I've been hearing some weird stories about that place down at the local pub, by labourers hired by the good Doctor; things about strange experimentations with animal genetics and such… Oh well, at least the pay is good, or so I've been told…"
Sam frowned at the mention of 'animal experimentations' going on at Drake's lab. Maybe the scientist was luring them into a trap, so that he could use Stonecrop as a test subject to further his work? But, despite her worrying thoughts, she also knew there wasn't exactly any chance of turning back anymore either. They were both in for the ride, so they might as well see it through, whatever that turned out to be…
And so it was the following morning that the pair of them found themselves making their way to Drake's compound on the outskirts of Overton. Sam cycled along on Jamie McEwen's old bicycle which Mike had lent her, while Stonecrop followed on foot close behind, enjoying his new freedom. Out here in the open country, where there was minimum traffic, he was free to move around outside, with no fear of being discovered. But would it stay that way much longer?
It didn't take them long to find Buxton Hall, the former estate of the late Joseph Buxton, aka Sergei Petrograd, whose family home had served as his faction's headquarters here in England, during Red Hand's reign of terror in the early post-World War III period. Although all the mine fields, armouries, and the missile silo once kept on the property had long since been removed, the place still looked extremely foreboding to Sam. Still surrounded by the now disused electrified fence, lined with its rusting barbed wire, the Hall itself was now fitted with barred, bullet-proof windows and armoured doors, resembling a regular fortress, a safe place where someone could do anything he pleased without fear of discovery. The only question was what was going on behind those walls of concealment?
A security guard sat in a wooden cubicle by the gate. Sam handed him Drake's letter and her driver's licence, as a proof of identity, as instructed by the scientist. The guard took his time to inspect the letter, as well as compare Sam's face with her licence photo, as if trying to sniff out a ruse, before passing her a visitor's card and letting them in. Waiting on the weatherworn porch, which still had Red Hand's sinister crest engraved in the stone fringe, all cracked and chipped, was Santon, who greeted them much more warmly than he had done on their first meeting back in London.
"I'm glad to see you decided to accept Dr Drake's invitation, Ms Fields," he said, showing them into the domed hallway inside, which had been converted into a vending-machine cafeteria for Drake's staff, "In spite of your uncertainty, you still made the right choice. That leaves me more reassured that you're the right person for the job."
"What kind of job, Mr Santon?" asked Sam, getting suspicious, "Dr Drake says in his letter he needs me to deliver an urgent message to someone, but he wouldn't say to whom or where. And what about Stonecrop…?"
"All that, Mrs Fields, will be explained to you shortly by the good Doctor himself," replied Santon patiently, who, Sam noticed, was carrying a bundle of sealed folios, each bearing the Yard's crest and marked SECRET. What could they be? Stolen government secrets?
"I ought to remind you that you're henceforth under oath of absolute secrecy," Santon went on, "Anything you see or hear within this compound is strictly classified and thus doesn't, under any circumstances, go beyond that door. Is that understood?" Sam and Stonecrop meekly nodded, the former beginning to feel a bit like how Edward Snowden must have felt throughout his career in the American Secret Service, being entrusted with dirty, secret information, which he would later make public, at the expense of his own life. She sincerely hoped that, by coming here, she and Stonecrop weren't heading in the same direction.
Santon led them into the mansion-turned-research facility. Although the building had been incinerated the night Black Inferno was launched, along with its former terrorist occupants, it had since been renovated and restored, the interior converted into a research centre with labs and workshops, where Drake and his staff conducted their private research. A small part of the mansion was still reserved for home use, serving as living quarters for Drake and his family, whose entire lives it seemed centred solely on their work.
Santon paused at a security door, operated by a card-touchpad lock with the words 'CENTRAL LAB – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' written in red letters on the steel frame. He run an access card he carried across the pad and the door electrically slid open. He ushered them inside.
They stepped into a state-of-the-art laboratory. No doubt this was the heart and soul of the facility, where only Drake and his key personnel entered. Judging by all the extraordinary equipment that filled this majestic room of science, most of which Sam couldn't make heads or tails of, it was clear that the scientist had big money to spare for his research – unbeknownst to her, funded from his terrorist father Sergei's inheritance.
Fitted with airtight, biohazard insulation on every door and a massive air-filtration system for purging toxic gasses, this part of the house had high security, including bullet-proof windows with mirrored blinds and padded, sound-proofed walls, keeping Drake's work safe from any prying ears, as well as eyes, on the outside. The presence of Santon here also meant that Drake must have powerful connections to keep the secrets of his work from ever getting out – secrets that she was about to learn.
Santon led her into a massive office, adjacent to the lab. Surveying the room, from the familiar marble fireplace Sam figured this was the very same room Johnson had described in his notes, the one where Red Hand's inner circle once held their conferences, the place where they had met their demise that fateful night. Seated at a massive glass desk, working with an electron microscope and a computer running a genetics simulation of some kind was the legendary Dr Cole Drake himself.
"Doctor, your visitors have arrived!"
Sam's first impression of the mysterious scientist, the supposed keeper to the most incredible secret the world had ever seen, was mixed. At first glance, Drake looked nothing more or less than the typical eccentric, work-obsessed scientist. Middle-aged, unusually tall and blond for a Brit because of his Russian ancestry, his expression resembled that of a person who had more contact with his private little world of science than reality, or so Sam thought. Hearing Santon's voice, the man looked up from his work and saw Sam and Stonecrop. He stood up to greet them.
"Hallo, you must be Sam Fields," he said pleasantly, removing his safety gloves to shake hands, "I'm Dr Cole Drake, head of the lagomorphia research program and President of the League of the New World. Please make yourselves at home. We have a lot to talk about." Sam and Stonecrop complied, looking at each other. What could this 'lagomorphia research program' or this 'League of the New World' be?
"I've been told you have been following the clues in some secret journal my old colleague left behind, looking for answers concerning your friend Stonecrop here," Drake continued, causing Sam to recoil slightly but then relaxed, seeing that Drake was smiling, apparently not angry with them for prying into his secret work, "I must say, I'm most impressed by your efforts to crack the mystery of Alan Johnson, the first man to meet the lagomorphia sapiens that will someday inherit the Earth."
"Lagomorphia sapiens?" asked Stonecrop, raising an eyebrow, "What's that?"
"Humanoid rabbits," replied Drake, translating from Latin, "Your kind, dear boy!"
Stonecrop was stunned, "Are you saying that there really are others like me? Is Johnson's story actually true?" His lifelong wish of meeting his own kind seemed about to come true, now more than ever. Drake nodded with a smile. Sam, who couldn't withhold her own curiosity any longer, turned to the scientist.
"Dr Drake, please, what's going on here? All these strange things we've been hearing; Johnson travelling into the future, finding a world of intelligent rabbits and coming back… Are you saying Stonecrop is one of those rabbits Johnson brought back with him from the future? But how is that even possible…?" Drake patiently raised his hand to quieten his visitors down.
"Ms Fields, I understand you've withheld your impatience for answers long enough. If I can have your and Stonecrop's full attention, and no interruptions, I will explain it all," he said, "Now, you already know the untold story of Alan Johnson through his notes; so I am going to fill you in on my part in this whole deal…"
Santon cleared his throat, interrupting the scientist, "Doctor, are you sure you don't want to reconsider before you proceed? You've read the girl's file I dug up for you, about her…" But Dr Drake held up his hand to stop him before he could say anything more. By now, Sam was beginning to feel real uneasy; this copper digging up something he didn't like about her, whatever that was, didn't sound like a good sign at all. Dr Drake, on the other hand, didn't seem the least concerned about it.
"Charles, I consider myself a fair judge of people – something to be expected I guess when you've been living under the haunting cloud of a scumbag like my late father. And frankly, I believe these two deserve to know the truth, more than anybody else." He turned back to Sam and Stonecrop, crossing his hands.
"We are part of a secret organisation called the League of the New World – an organisation, whose purpose is to protect the secrets of Dr Johnson's discovery and of the future. It includes myself, Charles, my wife and son, and a dozen graduate students of mine, all of whom I personally handpicked for their brilliance and trustworthiness, to run this lab. This is no private enterprise and there is no profit in it - only colossal expenses and effort all the way. Nonetheless, based on the information Alan entrusted to me before he left, we know that our work will someday influence the course of mankind, ultimately putting man and animal on an entirely new path of coexistence…"
As Drake spoke, Sam's mind kept flashing back to everything she had been reading in Johnson's notes; Drake's words matched the man's story completely. Impossible as it might be, it was all beginning to make perfect sense; Stonecrop's inexplicable origin, Dr Johnson's curious disappearance, everything.
"Your friend, Stonecrop, as you've probably guessed, was born in this very lab," Drake continued, "He isn't one of Dr Johnson's original group; he's a hybrid, genetically engineered out of some DNA samples extracted from Johnson's rabbits, which accidentally ended up in my possession…"
February 11th 2013, Buxton Hall
It had been a month since the destruction of the Red Hand Brotherhood and Alan Johnson's second disappearance into oblivion. Their old safe house, now abandoned and in ruins, was placed under military jurisdiction, with specialist clean-up crews clearing out what was left of the terrorists' deadly arsenal, while police investigators collected any useful evidence to help them track down the rest of the faction's collaborators, which were being systematically rounded up and taken into custody.
Inspector Santon, the primary investigator on the case, watched as Bomb Squad personnel hauled more and more of the dirty junk out of the ruins: unexploded landmines, weapons, nuclear missile components, enough for a madman like Sergei Petrograd to start his own dirty little war, had been found stockpiled all around the property. Even after the incineration caused by the launch of Black Inferno, the place remained extremely dangerous, prompting the authorities to declare it off-limits, until they had stripped it clean. But that wasn't the reason why Santon was here to supervise.
He glanced at a collection of semi-burnt documents, computer drives, and other data media, which had escaped destruction by being sealed in safes and other fire-proof containers around the house, strewn out on a table, waiting to be shipped away to the crime lab for further analysis. His superiors would have one hell of a time making heads or tails out of all these breadcrumbs, to track down their prime suspect: Sven Shertok, Red Hand's key collaborator, who had been unmasked by Johnson, but managed to flee before he could be brought to justice, and was currently still at large somewhere out there.
Suddenly, something among the junk interesting caught the Inspector's eye: a sealed briefcase which had been found in a safe down in the mansion's torture chamber, where Red Hand's kidnapped victims were interrogated and killed. At first glance, there seemed nothing special about it; but Santon's gut instinct told him there was something more to it.
Gesturing at the armed Marshal guarding the artefacts for permission, he got to work, picking the lock on the case. In a few minutes, the latch clicked open. There weren't any documents inside. Instead, Santon found a small icebox containing several sealed vials of blood. Although its coolant supply had since evaporated while in storage, it hadn't been in the safe too long, so the samples hadn't completely spoiled for lack of refrigeration yet. There were no labels of any kind on the vials, puzzling Santon. This was a most unusual find in a place like this. What would terrorists want with unmarked blood samples? Could it be…?
Using his influence, Santon was able to take charge of the briefcase without creating much of a fuss. Its strange contents he put into the hands of Dr Drake, who, after a brief analysis, confirmed the blood samples indeed belonged to the humanoid rabbits from the future, which Shertok had extracted from the lagomorphs the night he had held them prisoner at the safe house, hoping to make a profit to further his terrorist activities. Red Hand had left behind their own little souvenir from the future for them to find.
With Santon recruited as his closest trustee, his liaison with the eyes and ears of the law so to speak, and with the building blocks of the future world at hand, as well as his father's money to finance the project, Drake began work in earnest, dedicating his life to fulfil his ultimate dream. The League of the New World was set up, consisting of carefully selected recruits, to be trained as scientists in Drake's revolutionary undertaking. Buxton Hall was restored, to serve as their lab, where the lagomorphia research program would be carried out in absolute secret in the years leading up to the Apocalypse they knew was coming.
Within a few months, Drake and his staff had successfully extracted and synthesized a full DNA strand of lagomorphia sapien into a living embryo, which was in turn inserted into the womb of a European cottontail doe - the 21st century ancestor of the humanoid rabbits, aside from humans – for in-vitro contraception. Although the surrogate mother died giving birth to an oversized kitten, the hybrid was born normal and healthy, displaying all the characteristics of Johnson's rabbit friends. On that day, Stonecrop – who was initially going to be named El-ahrairah –, the first of a yet-to-be species of rabbit was born in the 21st century. Having successfully duplicated the futuristic species, Drake figured he would be fulfilling his destiny much sooner than in the original timeline. Unfortunately, fate couldn't be cheated that easily.
Unbeknownst to Drake, his League weren't the only people who knew about the future, and were determined to seize the prize for themselves. Shortly after the birth of Stonecrop, the laboratory was infiltrated and robbed by a band of mercenaries hired by some outside party, out to steal the research. Everything, including the infant Stonecrop and all of Drake's material, were stolen. Although the thieves were killed in the ensuing car chase before they could deliver the stolen material to their unknown employer, with all of the research presumably lost, both sides were back at square one.
With no more original genetic samples or data to work with, Drake had resorted to starting over, attempting to recreate the genetic strand artificially from scratch. Over the next few years, he laboured with fierce determination, but making minimum progress. Nature's power of evolution was a bitch to master by science and artificial means. It seemed unlikely that he would ever be fulfilling his dream anymore - until Santon had brought him the news of Sam and Stonecrop. The original prototype of his project wasn't lost after all…
"…And this is how it's been for the past four years. My staff and I have been working restlessly, running thousands and thousands of gene splicing simulations, trying to recreate the original genome of lagomorphia sapien. We've recently managed to make some progress with the introduction of some new genetic simulators that my son, our computer engineer, has been developing for the military. My wife, our linguist and sociologist on the team, has also been expending the Lapine language, giving it a full grammatical structure and a richer vocabulary… But otherwise, we weren't getting anywhere – until you came along."
"The attempted theft of the research was the work of Sven Shertok, we think," explained Santon, "Ever since he has been on the run from the law, he's been a thorn in our side, out to get us… And it gets worse." He opened one of the files he had brought along and passed it to Sam. She and Stonecrop looked at the picture of an unfamiliar stern-faced, dark-haired man with a square jaw in a military uniform.
Stonecrop scoffed, "Who is this?"
"Ex-Colonel Harry Crowley," explained Santon, "Another high-profile criminal. We have been tracking him for several years now without much success. He's a former member of British Intelligence, who's decided it's more profitable switching to the other side. He was a key collaborator with the Chinese during the Shardik scandal of 2010, but fled into hiding before he could be apprehended. Since then, he has been making an astounding career of professional crime: Industrial espionage, theft and disposal of millions in gold from treasury shipments, hijacking of weapons for terrorist groups, accessory to political and military assassinations, you name it. His record rivals that of Osama Bin Laden himself."
"I don't understand," said Sam, feeling confused. She had read all about this Sven Shertok character and everything he had done to Johnson's group, but this other man, Harry Crowley, was a total mystery to her, "What does he have to do with anything?"
"Crowley now works as a hired gun, employed by terrorists, paramilitaries and professional gangs, for big, dirty assignments. He's got powerful international connections to stir up things real bad for us," explained Santon, going through the reports in the file, "Recently, the Bureau has been getting some hazy reports from foreign Intelligence that Crowley is now under the employment of Shertok. Then, last week, NATO officials discretely informed us that Black Inferno has been revived and now sits armed in lunar orbit. We believe this is all part of some joint collaboration between Shertok and Crowley, to reopen the gateway into the future."
"If the future is penetrated, the consequences could be catastrophic," said Dr Drake, "A world deprived of law and armed forces is a too great a temptation for a militarist like Shertok. He would have all the territory he wants to establish his envisioned militia empire, which his former boss failed to establish four years ago. The entire future world would be overrun by mercenaries, who'd invade and conquer the entire planet, with nobody and nothing to stand in their way. They'd be no resistance, no stopping them."
"Then why don't you bloody well stop them?" retorted Stonecrop, "Can't you use your own connections to have them arrested or assassinated…?"
"We could try, but not without risking exposing the secret of the future," explained Santon patiently. This rabbit had apparently been watching too many Steven Seagal movies, "If word leaks out, there are a great many more greedy opportunists out there who'd stop at nothing to take advantage of our work. Simply put, we'd be no better off, if not worse. No, preserving utmost secrecy is just as crucial as dealing with this menace."
"Our only hope lies with the protector of the new world himself: my old colleague, Alan Johnson," said Dr Drake, getting to the bottom line, "If he is to be forewarned of this coming threat in good time, a messenger will have to be sent up ahead when the gateway opens, to warn him. That, Miss Fields, is where you come in."
"Excuse me?"
"Your new job assignment, Ms Fields is to deliver my message of warning to Alan Johnson…in the future!" Sam looked like she'd swallowed a lemon.
True to Drake and Santon's wisdom, a similar meeting was already taking place elsewhere. In a dingy basement pub in the coastal university town of Aberdeen up in Scotland, two men sat facing each other at their table, deep in conversation. Their booth was situated in a secluded, shadowy corner of the pub, away from any unseen, prying eyes of Bureau Marshals or the police. The meeting spot was down by the docks and warehouses of the port, where only sailors or dock workers went, well away from the crowded, respectful neighbourhood of the town's university. With a couple of thugs seated at nearby tables, keeping watch for unwelcome company, like bodyguards, and with the bartender bribed to keep the closed sign on the door, the briefing commenced in privacy.
One of the men had placed an old-fashioned tape recorder on the table, as they listened to the recording via earphones. His face was but a dark silhouette, obscured by the shadows; only his hands were visible, resting in a folded manner on the table: the left had a ring on the index finger with a familiar engraving of a red hand held in a stop gesture; the right one was a lifeless prosthetic, made of false plastic skin, attacked to the stump at wrist level.
There was nobody else within earshot to hear the voice on the tape, but if there had been, he might have recognised the voice of the late Russell Robbins talking about his legendary escapades in the future. This tape, which had, by a complete stroke of luck, also made its way back to the 21st century like the DNA samples, and since thought lost, had ultimately ended up in the hands of a new owner – one bent on making the most out of this little legacy left behind by his long-missing comrade from the old days.
His associate, a man whose face and name were high on the wanted person list in several countries, listened carefully to Robbins' words, noting down names, places, and other key information, in preparation for his new mission. Harry Crowley, ex-Colonel in the British MI5, and now a high-profile mercenary and wanted criminal, was meeting with his new employer, for the briefing on his latest big job.
As they heard Robbins' voice cut off at the end of the recording, Crowley set his earphones aside and looked back at his one-handed employer, whom he dared not name openly in public, "So that's the last known entry?"
"The last one, as far as we can tell," explained the one-handed man, "The fate of Robbins beyond that point remains unknown. Your mission is to make contact with him upon your arrival – he's to be your key informant on the inside, so to speak."
"What if he's dead by now?" asked Crowley, "From the sound of it, the chances of anyone survival in such a hostile place for so long are drastically slim…"
"If that fails, then you're to make contact with your second-best informer: Robbins's associate mentioned on the tape, General Woundwort," explained the one handed-man patiently, "If Robbins is still working for him, I imagine he might also be a useful ally to you. I leave it up to you to decide whether a beneficial alliance can be arranged between you, or if he must be taken out of the picture altogether."
"What about Johnson's party? What do I do about them, should I encounter them?" His employer didn't reply; instead, he fixed him with a silent, unbending gaze, implying the answer was obvious, "I see."
He handed Crowley a stack of personal files from the Bureau civilian database, similar to Santon's, each containing all known information on the people he was likely to encounter on his mission: Alan and Lucy Johnson, Derek Shaw, James and Josie McEwen, everybody who was likely to stand in Crowley's way. He also passed him Robbins' tape, which contained all the inside information on the future.
"Anything else you need?"
Despite the apparent craziness of his mission of journeying into the future where a bunch of presumed-dead individuals had supposedly living with humanoid rabbits, Crowley wasn't a man who questioned his employer's instructions; he only dealt with facts. He considered for a moment, "I'll need a party of a minimum of one hundred trained, reliable men, plus all the necessary equipment."
"Already taken care of," replied the one-handed man, passing another file to Crowley. This was a copy of a recently intercepted MoD order, concerning the opening of the Red Glasshouse - the country's new high security, off-shore military prison, built on the Isle of Wight.
After the notorious Shardik scandal in 2010, followed by the Red Hand scandal of 2013, the British Armed Forces had undergone a thorough security overhaul by the EU, coming up with dozens and dozens of secret enemy collaborators and spies, mostly militarist sympathizers-turned traitors in favour of the global militia dictatorship the Chinese had intended. Crowley, of all people, knew all about them, having being a key figure in the Shardik scandal himself, before things had inexplicably gone south, putting an end to his former career.
All those accused of collaborating with the enemy were charged with high treason and sentenced to prison, many for life. But with crime generally soaring around the country in recent years, all British prisons, military and civilian alike, had become overcrowded, violent hellholes of riots and violence, close to collapse and utterly unstable. Finally, the House of Lords had yielded to the demands of the Police Commissioners and had pushed for enough capital to finance the construction of the Red Glasshouse – the new home for the most violent, most racist and most dangerous of these traitorous scumbags now rotting behind bars.
Among those to be transferred to the new prison were many of Crowley's former associates from the Shardik conspiracy, as well as most of the surviving collaborators of the Red Hand Brotherhood, now serving their sentences for accessory to terrorism, high treason and war crimes, among other high-profile military convicts. In other words, the perfect recruits for the perfect mission, whose purpose literally focused on their dark cause for which they had lost their freedom, and to which, Crowley knew, still remained true of heart. An entire army of thugs literally waiting to be recalled to duty.
"The transport is in nine days, by air, departing from Lossiemouth Base. All preselected convicts are being assembled there as we speak. Once you hear the signal, you'll have a 90-minute window to divert and get to the future – the same window will be open exactly 12 months later for your return. I've made special arrangements so that your equipment also makes its way onto that flight. I trust you'll have little trouble securing your own passage?" Crowley smiled; the sloppy security of the British Armed Forces was literally child's play for the likes of him. All he needed was a mole, either willing or persuaded, on the inside to get him onboard that plane at the right time, plus some little delicate handiwork to cover his tracks. Money and intimidation were always one step ahead of the law in these troubled times.
The briefing concluded, the two partners stood and shook hands, "Are you sure you won't be coming too?" His one-handed employer shook his head, "Only once you've finished…eliminating all opposition, so the new National Socialist Global Dominion can start – the grand rebirth of civilisation!" He shook Crowley's hand, "Good luck, my friend!"
Flanked by his bodyguards, Crowley turned to leave, ready for to get started on his new mission. The one-handed man sat back down to finish his drink. He raised his tankard of ale to propose a toast to no-one in particular, "To the glorious new future – and to the sweet fruits of revenge!" He glanced down at his prosthetic limb, the memory of how he had lost the real thing to Alan Johnson, along with everything else… But now, after bleeding from the throat for four years, he was ready to strike back and reclaim what should have rightfully been his from the start. If all went well, within another year, the bitter fruits of failure he had been forced to endure for so long wouldn't even be a memory.
Author's note: My apologies for the delay in updating, but my schedule has been erratic. In the original draft, I also had Jamie in this chapter, who had made it back from the future with Kenny and the others and was now living with his grandfather. If I had gone ahead with that draft, Stonecrop would have met a colony of his own kind living on Drake's estate (Hickory and the others), and the story would have gone in an entirely different direction from here on. To understand the Shardik scandal better, I suggest you go back and re-read the first chapter. ENJOY AND PLEASE REVIEW!