But if the man wasn’t still there, why did his footprints stop in the middle of the room? Where had he gone? He couldn’t have just evaporated. It occurred to Stanton that billions of people had done exactly that in the century from which he had come. Evaporated into thin air. But those billions had taken their world with them. They had left no footprints.
Where was the man who had left these?
Stanton’s body tensed, as if expecting some furious killer to leap from the darkness as he stared down at the line of marks in the dust.
And then he realized.
Heel – sole – heel – sole.
The footsteps weren’t leading from the door into the middle of the cellar.
They were leading from the middle of the cellar to the door.
The intruder hadn’t made them and then disappeared.
He had appeared and then made them.
40
IT WAS JUST after 7.30 in the morning on what the pre-Liberation calendar had referred to as Christmas Eve.
The year was One Hundred and Three.
Or 2024 in Old World Years.
The dawn was bitter cold. There was a thick mist on the road and the People’s Revolutionary Army road marshals were out in force waving their reflective paddles and their luminous batons.
The PRA was in the process of shifting the whereabouts of its South Eastern Mobile Missile Defence Shield and the frozen morning air of what had once been called Cambridgeshire was thunderous with the roar of diesel engines. The massive missile carriers lumbering across the county took up the majority of the width of the road and the marshals were nervous and aggressive. The tarmac was thick with ice and they didn’t want one of those bad boys skidding off into a ditch.
Stuck between two of the enormous transports, trying to weave a way through, was a Mercedes van which displayed the markings of the Department of Internal Security. Every paddle-wielding squaddie on the road jumped to attention and delivered a flurry of salutes as it passed by. Nobody dissed the Department of Internal Security. Failure to show sufficient respect to any Department of State, let alone the DIS, was considered a failure to show respect to the Party Secretary. And they put you in a camp for life for disrespecting the Party Secretary. If you were lucky.
Inside the van there were four female security officers and one manacled prisoner in the uniform of the Stornoway Gulag. Stornoway was the most notoriously brutal re-education facility in the British Precinct of the USSR. Its uniform was a thick coarse blue overall incongruously trimmed at the wrists and pockets with tartan.
The prisoner was female also, manacled at her hands and feet, her ID number tattooed on the dome of her shaven head. None of the guards spoke. Each of them seemed to be cowering in their respective corners of the van, as if they were trying to get as far away from the prisoner as possible.
Which they were.
Who knew what she could achieve? Even manacled as she was.
She’d throttled guards with her own chains in the past.
She’d killed three of her own babies. Some said she ate one.
She should be killed herself, of course. That was the opinion of the guards.
Shot through her bald tattooed head and dumped in a Hebridean peat bog.
But the Party didn’t kill people. Not at least until it had bent them to its will.
And KT503b678 was still a long way from bending.
Besides, even if they did shoot her through the head, she’d probably just get up again. That’s what people said about KT503b678. That she was immortal. Or perhaps a ghost already. The stories of her numerous escapes were legion. After her last she’d survived in the wild for months. She’d killed a road cop and fed off his body for two weeks. When they found her they had to first deal with a pack of wild dogs she’d tamed. The dogs were all found to have rabies. Maybe she had rabies too. It would explain her madness and her violence.
She had been slated for a full lobotomy after that. All the Stornoway guards had applied for seats to observe the process, but then there had come a surprise stay of mental execution.
The Party wanted her. Or at least some high-up Party guys did. The State Research and Education Facility had requested she be delivered to them for observation. It seemed that the comrade professors had decided to have a look at her.
Why was that, the Stornoway guards had asked themselves as they caged KT503b678 up for transportation. Maybe to find out what could make a person fight so hard. To find out how a conscious brain could continue to resist all the indoctrination and the torture. How it was that a person could survive as an individual against the entire might of the state.
Or maybe they were going to try and clone her. There’d been a lot of rumours about a new army of super-strong cancer-resistant storm-troopers going to occupy the American nuclear rubble. Maybe KT503b678 was the blueprint.
That would make sense.
You wouldn’t want to meet two of KT503b678. Let alone an army.
The Department of Internal Security van finally peeled away from the missile convoy it had got caught up in and headed off towards the State Research and Education Facility which prior to the Glorious Liberation had been known as Cambridge University.
There the four DIS guards gratefully passed their charge into the hands of the Comrade Master of College, who was waiting with his own Security Team.
‘Bind her securely,’ the Master instructed, ‘and take her to the inner cage.’
KT503b678’s limbs were already chained together and now her whole body was wound around with nylon cable lock-ties. She was then carried bodily through the ancient gateway. They carried her past the old porter’s lodge with its machinegun-toting occupant and across the concrete parade ground in the middle of which was a broken waterfall. A crumbling symbol of wasteful bourgeois decadence.
The security detail then made its way into the great stone building that had once been the college chapel. Now, stripped of its turrets, its leaded windows and all its decorative symbolism, it served as the Party meeting room for the Political Purification Committee.
The Comrade Master and three other comrade professors, all dressed in their Party overalls, followed the security team and their struggling prisoner into the hall. Inside, the ancient vaulted space had also been stripped of all previous decoration and was hung instead with red flags and images of the Party leaders.
Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht, the revered fallen heroes of the First Revolution.
Otto Strasser, the original Great Navigator and leader of the Second Revolution.
And his fourth-generation descendant Kurt Strasser, the current Great Navigator.
A large cage stood in the centre of the bare concrete floor.
KT503b678 was deposited into this and the cage securely locked. Then, working through the bars with wire clippers, the guards snipped off her cable ties thus allowing her some freedom of movement. Her limbs, however, remained chained.
The guards were dismissed, leaving KT503b678 alone with the Comrade Master and his colleagues.
‘Comrade KT503b678,’ the Master barked harshly, ‘as a girl you were a Model Communist Pioneer and later the highest-ranking graduate of the People’s Military Academy. You joined the elite Special Forces and served heroically in the battle for New York. Yet you threw all this away to become criminal vermin. Why?’
The prisoner did not reply, merely massaging the raw bloody sores where the manacles had torn at her wrists.
‘I know the answer,’ the Master went on. ‘I never ask a question to which I don’t know the answer. You betrayed the revolution for love. For Petty. Bourgeois. Trivial. Private. Love. Not for the love of the Great Navigator, which is your duty. But the love of one ordinary man. You knew full well that private love is proscribed and yet instead of purging yourself through work and self-denial you embraced this decadent emotion. What is more, you loved an enemy. An American soldier. A capitalist pig. That is why you were sent to a gulag and why when his brat emerged from your womb you were forced to drown it.’