Читать книгу Terror Firma - Matthew Thomas, Matthew Thomas - Страница 16

The hospital ward was packed with the sort of hi-tech equipment which could have made the most hardened gadget-freak go weak at the knees – that’s if the strangely lifeless air and epilepsy-inducing lighting didn’t get to him first. However, overcrowding was not likely to become a problem in the near future; this ward contained just one very special patient, but then this was one very special hospital.

Like many of its more conventional counterparts it was of a multi-storey construction, but that’s where the similarity ended. While the traditional direction to build a hospital was upwards, this one delved into the bowels of the earth like an overly zealous intern given his first taste of surgery and a very sharp laser scalpel.

Three levels up from the current floor, and nearly twenty years back in time, the bright boys who ministered to the Shadow Government had discovered a general cure for every form of cancer under the sun. Their discovery hadn’t made the evening news.

Market forces precluded its release – which was to say there were still way too many tax-funded research dollars sloshing around the Cancer Cure Industry for the pharmaceutical conglomerates to let this particular cat out of the bag just yet. On the surface, capitalism might have relied on competition to drive its stuttering heart – not so the cosy tight-lipped gaggle of cartels which gerrymandered this shady world. As long as everyone kept quiet, all could prosper. You scratch my back, I’ll watch yours.

Like so many other groundbreaking discoveries, the wonder drugs had been locked away in the deepest, darkest vaults; along with the common-cold remedies, everlasting light-bulbs and high-calorie foodstuffs which could have solved the world hunger crisis before you could say ‘Do ya want fries with that?’ There were now so many prototype water-driven engines on the 42^nd floor they were fast running out of space to store them. That fossilized dinosaur steam engine was going to have to be moved.

These miracles of modern technology were not for general consumption,¹ they had been created for the benefit of the all-powerful ruling elite – first by benefiting them directly, and then by benefiting their bank accounts. The Illuminanti had paid for the R&D, why shouldn’t they have sole usage until comprehensive strategies for full exploitation could be formed? When your timescale ran to centuries a few decades here or there made no difference. This was an organization which could afford to take the longest view. The Committee had a duty to see the profits and power of its descendants maximized – it was only fair after all.

Some of the real money-spinners, wisely held back by their forefathers, were only now being hatched into profitable schemes. A bio-technology bonanza was in the offing and for once it would have nothing to do with overexposure to pesticides. As soon as the public could be manoeuvred into accepting animal transplantation as a matter of course, and not a cause for Luddite revulsion, the real profits would start rolling in. A fresh killing was patiently waiting to be made, and this beast had blood-shot rolled-back eyes.

Years before, those woolly-minded do-gooders voted into power had allowed themselves to be bullied by a superstitious, small-minded public into banning the sale of human organs – something about it being ‘immoral’. Hypocrites and killjoys, the lot of them, the Committee had concluded. Well, that distant setback was about to be avenged.

Pig hearts had one big advantage over human ones, pulled from the dwindling supply of public-spirited accident victims. Cute little porkers reared in labs could have their vital organs ripped out to be legally sold at $12,000 a pop – so much better for the balance sheet than printing more of those fiddly donor cards. It was a loophole which would allow the drug firms their final slice of the lucrative Transplant Organ Pie.¹

Even the other 99.9% of the valiant animal could be put to profitable use. Slap it in a pitta bread, drench it in chilli sauce and no one would ever be the wiser – a sustainable income stream from waste products. This was what the Project’s Para-Accountants and Ninja-Management Consultants liked to call a ‘win-win’ situation. Which was a rather better situation than the secret hospital’s only current patient was presently in.

This particular invalid wasn’t lucky enough to be a member of the Committee of 300 – he was an expendable minion, but one with a crucial tale to tell. If he could tell it all.

All told, Captain Freemantle had seen better days. And judging by the look of intense frustration splashed across his weathered features, so too had the lumbering figure towering above him.

Nearby a nervous surgeon eyed Becker with considerable disdain, as only a member of his profession could hope to get away with and live to tell the tale.

‘You know that this dosage will probably kill him? This much babble-juice will not sit happily will the medication we’ve used to stabilize his condition.’

The Dark Man fixed the surgeon with a stare that had brought slack-jawed presidents to their knees, and reduced more than one pope to a blubbering wreck.

‘This is a matter of planetary security. Have you heard what went on in England? Daily the Opposition ups the stakes – we might not have much time left. He’s only a grunt, he knew the risks when he took his oath, just like you and me. Do your duty, so that he can do his.’

With a heavy sigh the surgeon uncapped a syringe and flicked its large-bore needle. He had watched the news reports from across the pond – there could have been few humans who hadn’t. As to the significance of what he’d seen he was currently reserving judgement; better stick to what he knew. With practised ease he found a vein and administered the dose.

Freemantle went rigid from head to toe. For a moment Becker thought rigor mortis must have set in with exceptional speed, but then, with a convulsion that nearly shook their subterranean bunker, the captain’s eyes snapped open and the words flooded forth.

His rantings wouldn’t have made sense to an outsider. Fortunately Becker was about as much of an insider as you could get without actually becoming inside out. He had also come prepared. Holding a small dictaphone as close to Freemantle as his rabid saliva-flecked monologue would allow, Becker recorded every word for posterity and for the next chapter of his voluminous memoirs.

When the tirade had run its course the surgeon looked bemused. ‘Machu Picchu. That’s the Inca capital in the Andes, isn’t it?

But when he turned to question Becker further he was faced only by a furiously swinging door.

¹ These days it isn’t only angst-ridden poets in fluffy white shirts who die of TB. With the help of virulent new strains resistant to those tried and tested (i.e. cheap, out-of-patent) drugs, almost anyone can receive the benefits of the ultimate creative muse. All over the globe this old favourite was making a comeback as the most efficient regulator of the urban poor, not to mention a most efficient filler of drug corporations’ bank accounts. Potent new strains require potent new cures, which in turn require potent research grants and tax incentives.

¹ Not to be confused with the Donor Kebab. As in: ‘I wish I could donate my stomach to science. Pass me a fresh bucket please.’