Tipping Points - First Draft (Exerpt)

As the inferno of spotlights beat down from the ceiling of the dark, grey room, Eugene Manning shifted uneasily in the hard chair that supported his short, squat body, and mopped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his suit jacket.  He hated to defile a good suit in such a way, but he was alone and deeply uncomfortable.  His journey to the prison had been a long one; he was tired, hot, and was growing increasingly frustrated by the delays he had faced since his arrival.
  A large, mirrored pane of one-way glass occupied the far wall of the interview room he had been sat in for the past hour, waiting. Eugene could see the toll the miles – and years – had taken on his once-youthful face, and could scarcely believe that the man staring back at him was the same man who had first been here all those years ago.  The hair had long gone, through a combination of genetics, stress, and the cold steel of the razor blade; his green eyes were framed by lines and fatigue while the permanent growth of stubble gave the overall impression of a husk, hollow and battered.
  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.  Pushing sixty, with almost forty years of service given to upholding the law under its various guises, he was supposed to be retired by now, living off his pension and tending to the garden of his state-paid country house.  Of course, the financial crash of five years prior had put paid to that, along with all of his investments, and now here he was scraping together a living like most of the rest of the world.  Not that it bothered him too much.  Born to and English father and a German mother, both of military mind and manner, the value of hard graft had never been lost on him; in truth he enjoyed it more.
  In spite of it all, Eugene – Gene to his friends – allowed himself a smile.  This day had been a long time coming, and he had been looking forward to it in his own way.  He was looking for answers to questions that had been plaguing his mind for the past fifteen years, questions he had lost sleep and relationships over.  The heatwave outside – the third in five years – may have blistered his skin, but his mind was as sharp as it ever had been.  The next few days were going to be interesting.  His reflection smiled back, although it was short-lived.
  Gene glanced at the clock on the wall; a quarter past two in the afternoon. Impatience began to overwhelm him and he drummed his short fingers on the cold surface of the metal table in front of him.  He could understand how the release of a prisoner, especially a long-serving one, could take time, but he thought that this would have been taken into account in his schedule.  Obviously not, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised.  All of those years spent filling out paperwork should have taught him a lesson or two about the power of the bureaucrat.
  Tapping his forearm with the index finger of his left hand, a display appeared in his vision; his mobile telephone.  Gene hated all this modern crap.  He remembered the comforting heft of holding a physical phone in his hand and putting it to his ear, a form of communication that had been alive and well for many decades before he was even born.  These days it was all biogenic implants, the phone wired directly into his body, activated with simple motions of his arms and fingers, and voice-controlled.  It had its benefits, especially in his line of work; there was no way anyone could access his information since his controlling movements were unique to himself, and having the audio fed directly into his ears through the smallest of ear pieces meant little chance of anyone listening in to his conversations. 
  He did, however, still miss the ability to simply turn the damned thing off.  Certainly, he could leave it idle or simply ignore its gentle chimes, but he was never without it.  Back before these implants were thought necessary, he used to leave his phone turned off, locked in a drawer, for days on end.
  The display screen wasn't imposing on his field of view, and could be cleared by holding his eyes closed for three seconds.  Right now it was showing him the time, the local weather – thirty-eight degrees in the shade – and a small envelope icon in the left-hand corner of his vision gently reminded him about his unread emails.  They would have to wait, probably for a few more days.
  Speaking soft commands, Gene hooked up to the 'net and scanned the latest headlines.  More about the heatwave, riots in London, flooding in America, and a rather xenophobic piece about the most recent wave of Australian immigrants.  Sadly, nothing out of the ordinary there.  Happily, however, Gene noted the lack of any media coverage about himself or what was about to happen, and with good reason.
  Prison releases were always a contentious issue in modern society; prison resources in the country were stretched to breaking point, and every day offenders were being granted an early release in order to make way for the next wave of criminals ready for an all-to-brief period of incarceration.  The right-wing and tabloid media were currently having a field-day about it, especially with the riots going on in the capital.  They saw it as a sign of the moral decline of the country, like it was a modern concept. 
  The fact was, the population of the whole country had grown to unsustainable levels and it follows that the population of the prisons would grow as well.  Without a major programme of building works – and barring a sudden, tectonic shift in social conscience – concessions were going to have to be made.  Of course, those considered 'dangerous' remained imprisoned for the full duration of their sentence, or longer, but inside the prisons major psychological and educational programmes were under way in order to better assess who was and wasn't fit for release.
  In some instances, prisoners have been deemed to have reformed and repented sufficiently and been released, but under a new identity in order to protect them from vengeful retribution.  Naturally, the media were kept at bay.  They had a reactionary tendency that tended to fan the flames of even the smallest embers of hatred and oppression.
  And so it was that Eugene Manning found himself arriving here, at Strangeways Prison, Manchester, just hours ago, cloaked by unmarked vehicles, dark windows and wi-fi suppressant signals.  As far as the Government stations tracking his mobile implant were concerned – and anyone else who cared to check - he was at home, enjoying a few well-earned days off with his daughters.  And as far as those daughters were concerned, he was working over in America for the next two months.
  Hearing footsteps approach from beyond the closed door, Gene waved his right hand sharply to the left and disconnected his mobile display.  The door opened briskly, allowing a sudden and welcome gust of cool, moist air to wash over him.  He wondered bitterly whether they had left the air-conditioning to this particular room switched off.  It only later occurred to him that they probably never had it installed in the first place, the comfort of offenders being of little concern to most prison institutions.
  The woman who entered was tall and serious, with a short crop of blonde hair pulled back tight so as to accentuate her angled features.  Gene thought that perhaps her eyes were too far apart to be considered pretty, but then what did he know about attraction at such an age, when the majority of the youthful folk baffled him greatly.  The uniform was certainly attractive in a sharp, military way, but maybe that was just him.
  “Agent Manning?” Her voice was clipped and deliberate, like she was suppressing a dialect.  “We're ready for you now in the Warden's office.”
  Gene muttered his thanks, grabbed his files from the table, and followed the woman out into the long corridor.  He began to grow ever thankful that he'd had to spend as little time in these kind of places as possible; they were so grey and depressing.  He guessed that was kind of the point, but it didn't make for a positive atmosphere for someone visiting.
  The woman's heels clicked loudly on the tiled floor, otherwise she was silent.  Most of the time he would have been thankful for this since he wasn't a man given to small-talk or even any talk with random strangers.  He found it difficult to connect with people he didn't know, as if engaging in conversation would somehow give something away about himself that he didn't want them to know.  But right now he figured that some idle chatter would probably ease the tension, then thought better of it.
  Regardless, their journey soon came to an end as she stopped at another grey door, identical to the one he had been sat behind for over an hour, and motioned silently for him to enter.  As soon as his hand was on the door, the woman had turned sharply and whisked herself away for some other errand.
  The door swung open and he saw before him two figures sat either side of a large, mahogany desk, uncluttered, but dominated by a large soft-screen computer built into the tabletop, like a technological table cloth.  The man facing him was silhouetted by the bright window behind, but Gene knew by position that he was the Warden, Darval Gethin, the man in charge.  He was similarly cropped and militaristic, just like the woman in the corridor, like the prison service was creating its own robots to service its growing population.  This robot, unlike the first, was smiling and his cheeks were ruddy with age and greed.  But Gethin wasn't why he was here and was of little concern to him.
  The other man didn't turn around to face him, which didn't surprise Gene in the slightest.  He could see even through the light the wispy, straggled hair, the long, thin fingers resting calmly on the table, the back arrow-straight, shoulders relaxed.  Gene found to his surprise that his heart was pounding in his ears and he had momentarily stopped breathing through the suspense.
  In that moment, it all came flooding back to him, a sudden flash of long-forgotten memory and emotion, back to that day, and the man who had made it happen.
  The day had been the 7th February 2044; the day the lights went out.
  “Good afternoon Gene,” said the man behind the chair, without turning around.  “Its good to see you again...”



Andalyn Leigh had been awake for at least half an hour before the wake-up call came from Mission Control.  As usual it was accompanied by a song the morning shift deemed entertaining enough to engage their early-morning senses.  Today they had chosen... well, Andalyn didn't really know what they had chosen; the song sounded old and poorly-recorded, and she heard reference to the third planet. She was unsurprised to hear Rick's voice softly reading out the morning's new bulletins and telling the crew about the local weather in their various home-towns.  In Seattle, apparently, it was raining, which was no shock.
  Her long, curled blonde hair floated around her in her sleeping pod, and she closed her eyes peacefully.  She could hear Dom and Eve rattling around the mid-compartment, the comforting whir of the treadmill echoing throughout the Service Module.  Their morning routines were like clockwork and she had learned through experience that she could allow herself an extra fifteen minutes of rest in order to fit in with them, and still get working on time.
  Feeling an almost imperceptible push in the small of her back, Andalyn also knew that Nikos was currently firing the thrusters in order to maintain their orbit.  Time had been that the ISS required only an occasional thrust to keep it in place, but the thing had been up here for too many years now and it seemed like every passing day revealed new maintenance issues.  It was no surprise that the station was being decommissioned, and she secretly enjoyed the engineering tasks she was required to undertake daily – it reminded her of tinkering with car engines with her brothers back home, only on a much larger and more intense scale.
  In those brief moments of tranquillity, her mind wandered here and there through her dreams; the sound of rain rattling the windows of her apartment, and the smell when she opened her windows following the storm; the touch of the books in the library; the loving embrace of Marcus...
  Andalyn opened her eyes and jolted back to reality.  Marcus.  The name was tinged with sorrow, regret and love, and still filled her soul with that villainous mixture of rage and joy.  She had tried hard to stop her mind from wandering to those memories of when they were together, but she was now days away from returning to Earth, and her mind was open to treason.
  Swatting away a rogue sock that had come free from her foot during the night, she forced herself towards the door and opened herself to the chaos of morning, immediately dispelling all wandering thoughts as she crash-landed to reality with the sudden appearance of Eve in front of her.
  Eve was French and cheerful, and whilst most mornings Andalyn was buoyed by her presence, the haze of sleep had yet to lift fully and she stumbled back with a start.
  “Good morning,” Eve smiled, thrusting a bag of coffee towards her.  “I thought you might need this after the night you had.”
  Andalyn closed her eyes and sipped thoughtfully through the straw.  “Was I talking in my sleep again?”
  Eve nodded her head this way and that.  “Somewhat,” she said, “although for once I couldn't hear what you were saying; given past experience, this is perhaps a blessing.”
  Andalyn cracked a smile and pushed against the deck with her feet, launching herself towards the bathroom.  She needed to brush her teeth, and take a leak, before she could feel fully human today.  She was surprised that Eve had said she was talking in her sleep again – usually this was accompanied by strange, nonsensical dreams, but she couldn't remember a single dream from the past night, and they were usually so vivid.
  As the world settled down into routine, and after she had grabbed a morning bite from the food trays in the FGB, she floated slowly down towards the US Lab to carry out one final morning ritual before she hooked into the net and carried out her morning tasks.  The observation window way down towards the far end of the station was by far her favourite place on the whole tin can.  Even after all the hours and months she had racked up on the ISS – this was her second time on the station in as many years – she still retained that child-like sense of glee she felt every time she looked down upon the sparkling jewel below them.  The Earth was simultaneously imposing and fragile from up here.  She could hold whole countries in her hand but could feel its force pushing back as she watched it spin slowly round.
  Squeezing her earlobe gently, she hooked into the main communication feed and listened to Nikos and Houston go through the morning check-list as she clutched at the grab-rail beneath the window and pulled herself up close.  It was still dark as they passed over the Atlantic Ocean towards the European and African continents, and she could see the faint lights of the super-massive ocean liners criss-crossing the sea to carry to continuing surplus of goods and waste from port to port.
  It filled her heart with overwhelming sadness that within the next – Andalyn checked the clock - thirty-seven hours she would never see this sight again, nor would anyone else in her lifetime.  With the continuing problems down on the good Earth, people cared little for spacemen and women in this day and age. 
  She had grown up in an age of such hope and optimism for space exploration; plans to return to the Moon, and then onto Mars. Devouring stories of the men who landed on the Moon, almost a hundred years ago now, and fuelled by a family grounded in science, Andalyn knew she would one day live among the stars.  But she never thought in a million years that the ISS would become the final, decaying frontier of mankind, and now even that was about to be allowed to slip into a degrading orbit and fall like so much junk into the Pacific.  No doubt it would make a spectacular light show for the occupying protesters of the Island, and the irony of such a wonderful sight would not be lost on them, but after that the people would return to their own, narrow lives and would forget.
  There was support for the space program, certainly, back on Earth. The Washington Post recently ran a piece about the pleas of the scientific community for continued manned exploration, but the money and political will simply wasn't there, neither was the desire of the masses.  People wanted jobs and wealth, two things in short supply right now, and health and happiness.  The last thing on anyone's mind – other than those with a vested interest, and the dreamers, like her – was the expensive and frivolous Moon shot she had dreamed of as a child.  From now on robots, probes and simple telescopes would do all the hard work while the world sat in their armchairs and laughed about celebrity culture and fumed about the greed of the corporates.
  Europe loomed into view.  There was talk some years ago about the European Space Agency linking up with the Indian Space Research Organisation, but nothing had materialised and she doubted it ever would.  The troubles of America were shared with the rest of the world.
  Idly, she reached for her camera. There was something special about the endless twinkle of lights breaking through the morning darkness.  The sun was on the rise to her right and the corona of light cast a glorious frame around the curve of the Earth.  Like so many hundreds of other astronauts before her, she began taking pictures.  If there was one good thing about the technological revolution of gadgets – The Age of Stuff, as she liked to call it – it was the evolutionary leaps in digital cameras.  She could zoom in on the smallest land mass and capture the image in such high-definition that computer memory growth had struggled for a time to keep up.
  Framing up a shot of the Iberian Peninsula, a faint flash of light briefly obscured her view, and Andalyn suddenly became aware that something was very wrong with the picture.  She zoomed out a little and refocussed but the image remained the same.  One-by-one, the small lights flooding the land began to flicker and die.  This couldn't be right, it had to be a problem with the polarisation filters on the viewport.
  Keeping her eyes fixed on the camera screen, she interrupted Nikos' reports to call down to Houston.
  “Houston, this is Andalyn, do you read any problems with the Observation Window, over?”
  Rick hesitated and there was a few seconds of silence as he checked his bank of monitors.
  “Uh, that's a negative, Andalyn,” came the puzzled reply.  “Everything is ay-okay, over.”
  Andalyn frowned and squinted once more onto the viewer.  “Copy that, Houston,” she said, slowly.  “But I think something is terribly wrong...”
  Flicking the zoom button back towards her, the Iberian Peninsula and its fading lights shrunk into darkness.  It wasn't just Spain and Portugal; lights all across the European continent, on into the British Isles and the Scandanavian Peninsula, and far into the depths of Russia, were fast going out.  She could see in the bottom of her vision that North Africa was suffering a similar fate, but on a smaller scale.  This was like a mass-extinction event of man-made light.
  Within seconds, the whole continent was swathed in an impenetrable darkness.  Andalyn slowly lowered the camera, and there it was with her own eyes.  She had seen entire cities plagued by black-outs disappear into the night, more times than she could remember, but entire continents...?
  All protocol abandoned her.  “Shit, Rick, find out what the fuck is happening down there.  Half the planet has just plunged into darkness.”
  Instinct took over.  There was nothing she could do up here but wait and find out what the hell was going on.  Her heart pounded in her ears and she had to shake her head to keep focus.  Raising the camera up to the window once more, Andalyn frantically snatched at the shutter release.



It had perhaps been typical that Josep Arrondo, Minister of the European Parliament, was in the shower at the precise moment the power went out in the hotel, proving his long-held belief that if anything bad could happen, it would happen while you were in the shower.  The sun had yet to rise in Madrid so he found himself fumbling around the unfamiliar shower room for a towel before he felt some comfort in his predicament.  Luckily, his clothes had been laid out to hand, so he was dressed by the time his political advisor Katrina Lawes had come to his aid.
  Not that anyone had any idea what was going on.  The power was completely cut in the hotel, and a cursory glance out of the window showed that it was not just this building much much of the visible city that was affected.  Even his phone signal and net connection had been lost, as a small flashing icon in the corner of his vision alerted him to.
  Hesitantly, the minister snapped his left-hand thumb and forefinger together and disengaged his mobile entirely.  Every politician knew the power of information, even a lowly junior minister like Josep, so it was disconcerting to suddenly be cast adrift.  Even Katrina seemed clueless, a situation he was unused to.
  Shrugging her shoulders and idly tidying up his towel rail like she was his mother, her pointed features were highlighted by the sun beginning its morning rise outside of the window.  “At the moment, I know as little as you do,” she explained.  “I can't use my phone, the net, the televisions are out, all we have is word of mouth and what we can deduce ourselves by sight. Have you cut your hair this morning?”
  The non-sequitur took him by surprise, although it perhaps should not have done, for it was classic Katrina to veer from conversation to conversation within a single sentence.
  “No, I was going to but I had only just got in the shower when the black-out happened,” he explained.  “Have we heard anything from the President, or any of the other leaders?”
  “Ha! Hardly.”  Katrina's views on the various heads of state gathered within this very hotel – albeit some floors up in the more suitably lavish apartments – were well known within his office.  They were in Madrid attending the European Summit, something Katrina described as the annual festival of getting talking, and eating, and getting very little done.  “I doubt half of them will have been able to lift themselves from the bed yet.  The other half will probably be stuck on the crapper waiting for someone to come and turn the lights on and wipe their butts for them.  You really should cut your hair, its looking scruffy.”
  “Perhaps we could just leave my hair for the time being,” he said, walking over to the window, running his fingers idly through his dark hair and wondering if perhaps she was correct after all.  “Do we know how long this outage is going to last?”
  Katrina was in the bathroom now, seemingly tidying away his toothbrush and toiletries.  “I told you,” she called through, “we know nothing other than that we can deduce with our own brains.  It could be minutes, hours, maybe even days.  Hey, maybe its the apocalypse and we're the last two people on Earth and have to repopulate the species...”
  “What?”
  “Relax, I joke, I joke, you're not my type...”
  Josep had found it difficult to get to grips with Katrina's Italian sense of humour on occasion, but she was an outstanding political advisor and strategist and he had her to thank for even getting as far as he had.  She was a brilliant woman and were it not for her poor looks and overly free-spirit he would consider her a worthy mistress.  His wife would never approve.
  “Listen,” she said, adopting her usual serious tone for business matters.  “We should get downstairs to the lobby and see what we can find out.  If there's things happening it'll be down there, or at least in the restaurant – its a little early for the bar.  There's also been a protest group camped outside for the past three days and there's likely to be some good publicity in this if we play it right and be seen to be getting things done.”
  You could almost get breathless just listening to Katrina when she was in full-flow; her words were like a river after torrential rain, bursting forth from that brilliant mind.  And she had a point.  They might be in the dark right now, but there's no reason they shouldn't use the situation to their advantage. If they themselves were cut off from the rest of the world, then so were his many opponents.  Its was likely that many of them didn't even yet realise what had happened as they lay in their beds nursing the effects of the open bar the night before.  Josep didn't drink alcohol and had little time for patting the backs of his colleagues or feeding their egos.  Any gain in politics was a positive gain.
  The lobby was a frenzy of activity.  The hotel manager was politely reassuring some of the regular guests that the issue was not the responsibility nor failing of the establishment, and that a quick glance out of the door would show that the problem was more wide-spread.  His words seemed to have little effect and his face flushed with frustration.  Behind the desk three attractive blonde women were desperately fending off the attentions of further complainants who simply wanted to know when they could expect their mobile and net connectivity to resume. 
  Josep could fully understand the political or business worlds being at a loss without such trinkets, but he could never get his head around just why the people had become so hooked on information.  Everyone wanted to know everything about everything and everyone and they wanted to know it immediately.  These days they had that information before their very eyes with just a wave of their hand, literally, yet it just didn't seem enough.
  Although the sun was obscured from view by the buildings opposite, the daylight was now beginning to pour into the lobby and Josep began to feel a little more at ease.  Through the doors he could see the light sparkle off the moisture that had collected on the protester's tents during the night, whilst they themselves were huddled around camping stoves and fire sticks.  It occurred to him that of all the many people gathered in this small area, they were the ones who were best-prepared for the current crisis.  They had come here to voice their opposition to plans to extend the oil-drilling contracts in the Arctic, and he had much sympathy for their cause, whilst admitting to himself that he didn't have their strength of character to stand up for their beliefs, nor the political muscle to do anything about it.
  Nonetheless, they had become a media sensation during their time here, both good and bad. Some condemned them and they disruption they were causing to the local traffic and populous, whilst others believed they were right to protest and that the drilling being proposed would be the final straw for the planet.  Some were even evoking the image of Gaia, the Godess of the Earth, and suggesting that this would tip her over the edge and into a vengeful rage that would cost the human population dearly.  Whatever the spin, most were however agreed on one thing; that their presence here was futile and would make no difference.  Money did all of the talking in this day and age; the days of well organised protests forcing policy and even regime changes were long, long gone.  But still, there they were, freezing cold, yet undeniably happy, and completely unperturbed by the panic unfolding around them.
  Katrina had wandered off to speak to one of the attendants milling around nearby; Josep called her back towards him.
  “We still don't know what's caused the black-out,” she said as she walked, “but the natives seem to think this is something deeper than the usual power-surge.  They think its gone on too long for something so simple and is too widespread, so...” Katrina shrugged her shoulders.  She was enjoying the challenge; how to gain information without having access to any of the usual channels.  She was thriving.
  “See what else you can find out,” Josep turned to the camp, “but first, see if anyone down here has a digital camera we can borrow.  Here, take my wallet, pay them whatever cash is in here.” Katrina looked puzzled.  “If we're going to be the first on the scene, the heroic minister getting hands-on with the locals in order to help out, we're going to need photographic evidence.”
  Katrina nodded silently and moved back into the gathering crowd.  “Oh, and find Artem,” he called after her.
  Artem Pacheco, just a boy really, was the eager young intern assigned to his office.  He'd only really brought him to Madrid from Barcelona because he wanted to duck out to watch the football.  Many ministers would have been dismissive, even angered, by such a request, but Josep himself had been young not so many years ago, and he figured either way it would probably be good experience for him, whether he ended up working in politics or not.  He hadn't seen the boy since last night, but he expressly remembered informing him that he wished to get started early today and to come by his room.  No doubt he had slept in, probably lacking an alarm with the power off.  It didn't matter, but now he needed someone to take photos while Katrina was buzzing around trying to mine information.
  As if by some cue, the young boy pushed his way through the milling crowd, his blonde curls tousled and wild.  He was short, even for his age, but skinny, and he fought his way through the masses with ease.  “I'm sorry Minister, my alarm failed me.” He appeared distressed and was clearly still waking up.  “What's happening?”
  Katrina also came flying back through the crowd now, holding a hefty looking camera with a long lens.  “Here,” she thrust the camera into Artem's hand and immediately disappeared back, “still no news, still trying.”
  The morning sun was struggling to break through the chill, and Josep pulled his jacket closed as he stepped out towards the protest camp.  He had already had some dealings with the spokesman of the protesters, some days before when he first arrived and tried to engage with them, and sought him out now.  He was a thin, tall man with long hair, and round-rimmed glasses perched onto a large, hooked nose.  His clothes were unwashed and had the faint whiff of marijuana, not that Josep could talk.
  Right now, the man was sipping strong coffee from a paper cup; given his build, food didn't seem top of his list of priorities.  He looked in his early thirties, but his skin was wrinkled and leathered, probably through too much sun.  The English just couldn't handle the sun out here in Spain.  How were they going to cope with the temperatures they were expected to face in the coming century, he wondered wryly.
  Artem was already taking photos of the scene.  “Excuse me,” he said, offering his hand.  “I wonder if I could be of some assistance.”


  The weight of expectation bearing down on the shoulders of Gene Manning had become excruciating.  From the moment he had entered this room, all parties had expected him to say, well, something.  Thus far he had remained stonily silent, other than for offering a cursory greeting to the Warden.  It was a curious sensation.
  The three men were sat now in plush, cushioned armchairs in the corner of the dark office.  The Warden had lit himself a large cigar, gleefully disregarding and flouting all workplace smoking regulations, and was puffing at it thoughtfully.  Gene reasoned he was probably waiting to see what transpired.
  The other man sat calm and quiet, his sharp blue eyes piercing, smiling benignly through his think lips.  He was thinner than he used to be, in spite of media reports of prison food being akin to that of a top quality hotel, and his fingers were long and fragile. He was Alexander Calderon, and Gene had known him a long time.  Well, not really so much known personally – they had shared very few moments together in person – but his personality profile and background had become engrained in Gene's mind in the years leading up to his arrest, and the months before and during the trial too. 
  There was, of course, also the matter of the phone calls.  While Alexander had been on the run, a fugitive of Gene's law, the men had shared telephone conversations on some one-hundred and twenty seven occasions.  Gene had counted them all.  Despite the media portrayal of the two men as enemies, sworn adversaries locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse.  The net-film they had made telling the so-called 'true story' of the chase had made it seem breathlessly dramatic when in fact it had been meticulous and almost tedious.  The film ended with a climactic encounter atop the roof of some distantly outlandish foreign location; in reality, it had ended in an office, as dark and as miserable as this one, and was over in seconds.
  Through it all, however, the two men had built up what one could only reasonably describe as a 'relationship'.  Gene knew Alexander inside out, front to back, and Alexander likewise knew Gene.
  In the weeks immediately following the European Black-Out of 2062, the cause of the incident was almost completely unknown, although the theories were wild and many.  One of the most widely discussed theories was that super-charged solar particles had created an electromagnetic disturbance in the atmosphere, which overloaded the distribution networks and caused a cascading failure of multiple power stations.  Others thought that it was as mundane as a power surge as the power generators struggled to keep up with the power demands of modern-day technologies.  The authorities were putting out the line that it was, at present, 'unknown' and that they weren't ruling anything out at this time, and that was pretty much the truth.
  Behind the scenes, of course, terrorism had been one of the immediately obvious suspicions, but proving it beyond all reasonable doubt, and then gathering the evidence to identify suspects, was far from easy.  Gene had been brought into  the investigation pretty early on, when his presence was, unusually, requested personally by the head of the Serious Crimes Unit, as the Agency had previously been known.  Immediately he was tasked with assessing the possibility of terrorist actions, but it took the best part of a year just to identify their main suspect.  They had wasted months previously looking into all the usual avenues of terrorism – the Middle East, China, the North African Alliance – no one could have believed that it had all been the work of one man.  The full details of just how he had caused such a major failure of the power grids was still unknown, but they had got enough to get their man.
  Gene realised that reflection was extending the silence, which was now becoming unpalatable. He could tell from the man's vacant stare that the Warden had now switched on his net feed and was catching up on some news or emails or whatever, while he waited for the tension to break.  He had to say something.
  “Alexander, I must say you look well,” he managed to mutter.
  Alexander's expression changed not one bit, the smile stayed in place.  “Well enough,” he said, “for a man who has rotted among the murderers, paedophiles and rapists of this forsaken place for fifteen years.  And how are you, Gene? You have less hair than last we met.”
  Gene ran his hands across his shaved head instinctively.  “Well its not really by choice, you know.”
  “My family have always been blessed with a good head of hair.  They say that baldness is a sign of manliness, and looking at the two of us here now, myself gaunt and grey, I would have to say that is true.”
  “Cut the crap, Xander,” Gene spat.  The outburst seemed to rouse Gethin from his viewing as he sat up attentively and tried to at least make it look like he was paying attention.  “You can't just come out after all these years and start talking shit about our respective hairlines.  I'm here for a reason, and so are you, so maybe we should get down to business.”
  Darval Gethin reluctantly cut his net feed and reached forward to a pad occupying the table in the middle of the men.  Alexander continued to smile, but now turned his attentions to the Warden.
  “Early release,” Gethin said, “is not a privilege to take lightly, especially for a man of your deeds.”  Alexander nodded silently.  “You're only being released because we've got no more room, and it seems the Prime Minister would rather see the likes of you out on the street, albeit in a controlled environment, than the more serious offenders you referred to earlier.”
  “I would hardly consider an act of terrorism that caused the loss of almost two-hundred lives less serious than any of those,” said Gene.  Gethin and Alexander stared, before moving swiftly on.  It was pointless to argue, Gene knew, since he had been over this conversation on numerous occasions over the years as this release began to look more and more likely.
  “Regardless,” Gethin continued, “that is the decision of the Prime Minister, and we must all carry out her wishes without question, of course.  Even so, Alexander, you know that you cannot just be let out into society without a number of caveats, so let's go over them one more time, for the purpose of clarity.”
  Gene nodded, while Alexander continued his passive smile.  Gene was sure that the man hadn't blinked since he'd arrived, he could understand how so many people were unnerved by his presence and wondered how on Earth he'd survived the dangers of prison.
  Gethin went on.  “The first provision is that you first be released into the care of a senior Agent for the period of three months following your release - that's Agent Manning in this case – and that during this time you will be sequestered at a location known only to Agent Manning, yourself, and the Prime Minister.  Also, during this period, you will be forbidden from using telephone or net communications of any kind, and you will not be allowed outside without the supervision of Agent Manning nor the permission of the Prime Minister.”
  It was of little surprise that the Prime Minister had taken such a personal interest in this case, not least because of the media attacks over the justice system as was.  But with otherwise good people engaged in looting and violence on the streets of London, whilst all over the rest of the country daily protests reigned over the streets once jammed with traffic, she could hardly afford to let this get out into the public.  Whilst the immediate anger over the deaths caused in the Black-Out was in the past, the incident remained simmering, unspoken, under the surface of much of what was happening around them today.  It would be political suicide for this to become public knowledge.
  “Second,” Gethin continued, “you will be required to undergo minor re-constructive surgery of your facial features, and will be issued with a new identity, along with the full identification provisions; I.D. Card, credit history, but no internal or external flight allowances, for obvious reasons.  You will also be implanted with a tracking microchip for the period following your release until your death, whenever that may be.”
  “What if I plan to live forever?” Alexander's smile turned playful, and even Gene allowed himself a small chuckle at this question.  The Warden was suitably unimpressed, taking off his glasses and sitting back into his chair.
  “I do hope that the two of you are taking this seriously, gentlemen.  The ramifications of what we are doing here today are obvious.  Alexander, while you have expressed and proven yourself full of deep regret about the loss of life occurring as a result of your actions you remain a man responsible for the loss of many innocent lives, indirect as they may be.”
  Alexander's smile faded now and he hung his head slightly, his face tightening, while his eyes remained fixed on Gethin.  One thing Gene knew of Alexander was that he had never intended for any loss of life in doing what he did – he remembered well the sobs of grief during those many telephone conversations. He had wanted to make a political statement, the deaths had come as an indirect consequence of the short time without power; car crashes as traffic signals failed, the failure of building systems such as heating controls and lifts, that kind of thing.  The prosecution in the trial had had trouble attributing many of the fatalities suffered that day to the event itself – one man in particular had died after tripping onto a broken pane of glass, the same pane he himself had smashed in order to break into the local electronics store.  Some considered it a simple irony, and in the end the lawyers acting for the various states had to compromise at a figure they considered hundreds too low.
  “Sorry,” Alexander muttered. “Just caught up in the moment.” His gaze flickered now between the door and the window.
  “Well don't,” Gene chastised.  “This isn't going to be a cake-walk for either of us, Xander.  I'm not going to be supervising you only to give you an easy ride, you know.  I'll be making sure that memory that haunts you every day remains as vivid as ever, and rightly so.  I'll also be trying to keep you out of trouble and harm, but that's not to protect you, its to protect this State and the lives of the people who live within it.  Its a living nightmare out there right now.  There's  famine, poverty, disease, war, crime, and that's just in England.  Three months out there, spending them cooped up with me and my usual sunny disposition, you may just end up wishing you were back in prison.”
  Gethin tried to move things forward.  “Of course, we have a duty of care to ensure that your life remain as pain-free as possible.  You'll be prescribed medication for your various conditions, and you'll be permitted a regulated dose of drugs to negate the effects of withdrawal.”
  “Drugs?” This was a new one by Gene and hadn't been included in the previous briefings.  Sure, Alexander was a classic hippy in his prime, but surely prison had hardly been the place to secure such things.
  “Let's not be naïve, Agent Manning, we all know what goes on in prisons” said Gethin.  “Much of it is tolerated purely to keep the peace.  Prison is no room for someone of Mister Calderon's manner, he had to find room to fit in.  We soon found that the more difficult inmates came to trust Alexander's dealings.  We figured we'd rather have someone of a meticulous nature controlling the deals than a psychopathic murderer.  Unfortunately, we were unable to wean him off of his own habit, so I'd get used to the smell of cannabis for a while if I were you.”
  “Its pretty much legal now anyway, I gather,” Alexander offered.
  “Pretty much legal isn't quite the same as legal, Xander,” said Gene.  “The average officer out on the street might turn a blind eye to personal usage, and even the odd small-scale plantation here and there, but while you're in my care the law remains solid.  You can have your drugs, but I'll be your dealer from now on, so don't get any ideas about tripping out to classical music, or whatever it is the kids are doing...”
  Gene suddenly became very aware of sounding old and decided to keep his counsel on the matter for now.  He took a long, deep breath and squeezed his hands together a few times.
  Gethin broke the brief silence.  “Now then, gentlemen, I believe we have covered the main stipulations.  Agent Manning, I believe you have a full detail of the provisions already, but I've sent them to your inbox just in case.”  He stood up, putting his glasses back onto his round head.  “I guess that concludes things here.  There's a car waiting for you down in the parking area, Agent Manning your own hire car will be returned to its depot.  Otherwise, I wish you both luck and I hope never to hear from either of you again, in the nicest possible way.”
  With that, he smiled, shook their hands, and withdrew himself from the room.  From that moment on, Alexander Calderon – terrorist and eternal optimist - was in the care of Agent Eugene Manning.  Gene had been looking forward to spending this time attempting to get to grips with what the man had done, and how.  But right now, with the tall, thin man standing quietly, that strange smile returned to his face, he felt nothing more than that it was going to be a long three months.


It was with a sense of continued irritation that, a whole hour after helping to free the young Italian boy from the lift of her apartment, which had become stuck at the time of the black-out, he was still following her around, gushing grateful platitudes in his native tongue.  Aurelia Stevens – English, short and feeling somewhat out of place in the great urban sprawl of Turin – didn't like children much, and gratitude made her feel comfortable at the best of times. Why couldn't people just accept a kind act for the simple thing it was, rather than making a big deal out of it?  But this kid was pushing the limit.
  She was sat sipping at a large hazelnut latte, jostled by the crowd of locals who had come to this one coffee shop that had been prepared for such an event, the proprietor’s once-hated wind turbine spinning gleefully around on the roof.  Whilst the usual morning delivery of newspapers had yet to arrive – held up, no doubt, by the traffic chaos slowly building on the edge of the town, or perhaps not printed at all – she had managed the forethought of grabbing herself her favourite book on the way out of her freezing apartment.
  So here she was, hot coffee in her hand, sat underneath the warmth of a gas-fired outside patio heater, and the words of George Orwell delighting her soul.  Were it not for the buzz of panic surrounding the small square on the edge of the town, this would be an almost perfect morning for her.  Perhaps she would have visited the library, or gone to lunch in that nice pizzeria with her good friends Celia and Luciana, or just sit and read all day long and let the world pass her gently by.
  She would do none of these things today, however, and the main reason for that was the young boy sat across the table from her.  After helping the boy, who revealed his name to be Santos but offered little else, Aurelia had been unable to shake him.  He had so far been unable to locate his parents – she wondered what a young boy was doing in an apartment block alone so early in the morning – and she wasn't going to leave him alone in this situation, but she did wish that he would take the hint and leave her in peace for a few moments.  Instead, he just sat there, his blue eyes wide, jabbering softly in Italian that she barely understood, gazing around idly at the scenes unfolding in the square.  Was she even supposed to be listening, let alone understand him?  It was as  if he was talking to the universe in general, so she left him to it and got back to reading her book.
  Perhaps he was just as unnerved by the situation as she was, though.  He wasn't trapped in the lift for too many minutes, since Aurelia had heard his cries for help from her living room across the hall, but he must have been affected by it.  Besides that, he was clearly separated from his parents, scary enough for any child, so maybe she was being harsh.  Or maybe he really was just an irritating kid who didn't know when to stop talking, which might explain why his parents were in no hurry to find him!  Harsh, but probably fair.
  This brought her to thinking about her own parents, back home in England.  Her father, the great historian, retired now and enjoying his retirement among the hills and mountains, whilst mother clucked quietly and got on with the cooking.  Aurelia's mother rarely stopped cooking, and like a shark might die were it to stop swimming, her mother would probably die were she to go a day without baking a pie.  She missed them, of course, but she was in her early forties now and she was enjoying her life out here in Italy, however much they urged her to return.
  Aurelia had spent most of her career working in the banking industry in London, accumulating wealth and material goods like she were hoarding for the apocalypse.  She remained unmarried and maintained a healthy distance from children.  About seven years ago her father had suffered a heart attack, and this had given her a new perspective on things.  She decided there in the hospital that she would take that step she'd been wanting to since she left school.  She quit her job, enrolled in University studying history – after so many years of resisting the knowledge her father attempted to pass on to her – and once that was over went onto a Masters and now was a year into her PhD, specialising in Roman history.  It was actually a conversation with her father about her ancestors that had brought her to Turin; realising her family had Italian blood gave her a fresh emphasis to study her lineage, and if she could somehow combine that into her Doctorate, then all the better.  The University had been sceptical, of course, but being self-funded gave her a certain advantage.
  Two months into her time here, she had already made good friends, albeit ones younger and prettier than her, although she was struggling somewhat with the language.  Living in her little financial bubble for so many years, a bubble exclusively devoted to the universal language of English, she hadn't quite realised just how much culture she'd missed out on, and was now lapping up all she could find.  Some days she would study, some she would delve into the town's archives searching for clues about her ancestry, others she would just walk around the town, attempt to talk to the locals or buy something from the supermarket.  She knew she could be working a lot harder, but she'd spent many years draining herself to meet arbitrary deadlines and she wasn't about to pass up the chance to immerse herself in culture.
  So why was she so determined to avoid interacting with the boy she had just come to the aid of?  Good question, she told herself, and with a sigh she put down her book.
  Her sudden gaze seemed to distract him from his jabbering, and for a moment he looked anxious, as if he was afraid of what she was about to say.  But the moment was fleeting, and quickly he grinned widely, stuffed a handful of blueberry muffin into his wide mouth and said something loudly in Italian.
  Okay, so Aurelia had been here two months now, she'd surely picked up at least the basics.  He had said something about television, she could swear, in context she could guess he was asking why a small mass of locals were gathered around a small television, run off an oil generator, watching the blank, blocky silence of a lost signal. 
  Aurelia frowned, for the first time concerned.  Like most people, she had assumed that this was a local problem, but if the Italian television networks weren't transmitting, then this was clearly a lot wider than she had anticipated.  Clumsily, slowly, she tried to ask Santo where the nearest digital hub was.
  His reply was swift and garbled, but she thought she could snatch the word Genoa from his words.  Genoa was over a hundred miles from here, she knew, so how could a power cut spread that far?  Probably it was just a power surge of some sort, she remembered reading about one in North America many years ago that killed all power across a massive region.  This must be similar to that, she thought, but it didn't stop her filling with concern and she became suddenly very aware that she was alone in a foreign country.  Now she knew how Santos must have felt.
  She told Santos to let everyone know who he was, that he was separated from his parents, and where her apartment was should his parents show up looking for him.  This took some time, but eventually they found a common grounds of communication involving a mixture of Italian and English words, and many hand gestures.  Until this day, she had thought she was actually getting quite good at Italian, but she now realised that ordering a coffee and trying to actually communicate were two different things entirely.  Despite the irony, she made a mental note to download some translation software to her mobile implant next time she got online, whenever that might be.
  The boy set out among the crowd, explaining his predicament to complete strangers, and Aurelia couldn't help but admire the kid's confidence, let alone his vocabulary.  Some of the locals cast curious and untrusting glances in the direction of the strange-looking English woman sitting there with the forced smile and nervous demeanour.  Leaving a ten Euro note on the table, secured under her empty coffee mug, she grabbed her handbag and purse and gestured for the boy to come with her.  He hurried along happily, as if she was someone he had known all his life.  If the locals were deeply suspicious of her, this boy showed none of their fears.
  As they walked back to her apartment, Aurelia began to note the scale of what was going on here.  While today, a Sunday, the streets would otherwise be quiet and calm, now they were bustling with people, caught up in brisk conversation, laughing, joking, some crying with concern, probably over loved ones.  Either way, the blackout was seeming to take people away from their televisions and mobiles and computers, and was bringing them together, down on the street.  It reminded her of re-enacted scenes she had watched of the market streets of Rome, back in the time of the Empire; it was lively and exciting and dangerous all at the same time.  Turin was normally such a quiet city, except in the evenings or on days of important football matches, but today there was an energy to the place.  Sometimes, a little escape from the technological trappings of modern life was a good thing, and Aurelia began to smile at the possibilities that a day without power could hold.
  She began to tick off in her head all the things that she would be unable to do without electricity.  Connecting to the outside world was the obvious point, as her television and net connections were pointless right now.  Even if she could somehow still connect, as those men had outside the cafe with the television set, she would likely find the same thing; nothing, like the aftermath of a nuclear apocalypse.  The food in her fridge would have to be eaten pretty quickly, and it pleased her to remember the tub of ice cream currently sitting in her freezer, by now beginning its slow melt to slush.  That would have to be a priority when she got back.
  Then there was the transport to think of.  Her car, electric powered, would only be useful as long as its charge lasted, whilst similarly petrol-powered vehicles would only last until their tanks ran out of fuel, after which time the electrically-operated fuel pumps would also be useless.  The trams, buses, trains and even the planes would all be useless, so there was no going home to check on Mum and Dad any time soon.
  Of course, as they walked briskly in the morning cold and Aurelia buttoned up her red jacket to the elements, the downside began to hit home.  No heating.  Certainly, the day would warm, but what of the vulnerable, how would they cope in harsh winter temperatures, and who would look after them?  Shops would soon run out of supplies, police would struggle to keep order, and pretty soon they could have an out-of-control situation on their hands as people rushed to stockpile supplies.  Probably it would turn violent in some areas.  There were people in hospitals, and modern buildings were so reliant on power that there were probably some in situations more desperate than simply being stuck in a lift.  Even on a quiet Sunday in the town, they had already seen traffic descend into chaos without proper signals.  Society was veiled in a thin web and as soon as it started to unravel even slightly, damage could easily be done.  She wondered how far-reaching the problem really was and how much of that damage was already occurring.
  They passed the small church near her building.  Inside, the early morning service was in full flow, candles lighting the doorway, and she could hear joyful singing from inside.  Of course, there were some elements of society that required little power to keep going.  Whilst she and much of the world worshipped at the altar of technology, religion relied merely on a higher power, and for them it was something that could not be disrupted or turned off.  Part of her envied them, despite her more liberal leanings.
  Back at her building, she led Santos up the stairs, noting his nervous glances towards the lift that was still stuck, doors prised open, opposite the stairwell.  Suddenly the boy cried out and went running towards her door, and she quickly realised that there were two figures standing outside her apartment.  Word got around pretty quickly in this town, so these two were obviously the lost parents.  They embraced as Aurelia swallowed a nervousness at what might happen next.  It seemed that their joy was the over-riding emotion.
  “Thank you, thank you,” the father cried in good English.  “You have been so kind to rescue our boy, we cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”
  Her face flushed.  “I didn't really rescue him,” she said awkwardly.  The last thing she needed was a hero complex.  “It was just a jammed door, he was fine.”
  The mother was kissing Santos eagerly on the cheeks, and Aurelia noted the same look of discomfort and humiliation that any child got during such public displays of affection.  “Nonsense,” she cried, hugging the boy tightly.  “You saved our boy, please, let us come inside with you so that we can reward you properly.”
  “No, please, it was no trouble, honestly...”  Aurelia was just happy that she was going to see the back of him, frankly.  Right now all she wanted to do was go back to bed and wait this thing out in the safety of her duvet.
  The father looked stern, and affronted by her modesty.  “Please,” he said.  “We must insist.”
  Aurelia sighed inwardly and made towards the door.  “Tell me,” she said to Santos.  “Do you like chocolate ice-cream?”


It had been a busy morning.  The lights had been out for approaching six hours now, and there was no sign of that changing any time soon.  The protesters, like himself, had quickly seen a way to turn the situation to their advantage, and of their smooth-talking kind had managed to convince the hotel owners to give up their stock of towels and blankets for distribution to the city's elderly and vulnerable people.  It was perfect, and Josep had jumped right on board, Artem shadowing his every move, camera in hand.
  Moving such a large quantity of materials across such a large city with no power proved troublesome, naturally, but the advantage of having a camp of people living off their own means, was an inspirational sense of ingenuity and innovation.  They were used to having to find ways to make the most of life without electrical power – or running water, Josep had noted in a few instances – and they had quickly employed a small fleet of barrows and strong men.
  Naturally, Josep had ensured he was at the forefront of this at all times.  It was a noble effort, and however much or little he had actually done, he had been careful to give the appearance of power and support at all times.  Back in the hotel room, sat idly picking at a cold salad lunch, the photos were a master class of clever angles and timing, giving Josep the appearance of having assisted far more than he probably had. All they had to do now was sit and wait out the black-out and, as soon as the power returned, get these photos and a quick press release sent out to all the major news networks.  Once things were back up and running they would be scrambling for this kind of thing.  Artem deserved a little something for this good work, if only he knew where the boy had got to now.
  The light was pouring in through his hotel window, but he was finding peace hard to come by.  The major heads of state had quickly woken up to the news of the outage, and were currently locked away in various meeting rooms attempting to come up with a solution, whilst all around them cabinet members and junior ministers jostled for position.  Josep had done his bit for the morning, and was unwilling to get caught up in their loud buzzing.  It was highly unlikely the Spanish President would even think of him, let alone find something for him to do, so he may as well make the most of the down-time.
  Grabbing his jacket, he stood up quickly and made for the door, hoping to get back out onto the streets and go for a bit of a wander.  As he opened the door, his passage was blocked by Katrina, looking flustered and flushed.  Before he could say anything, she pushed him back into the room, and slammed the door shut behind her.
  “Stay,” she said, between gasps for breath.  “You really need to stay here.”
  “Did you run all the way up the stairs?”  They may not have been the most important people in the hotel, but they were still on the tenth floor.  The woman was insane.
  “Doesn't matter,” she said, forcing her way towards the ice box Josep had had delivered and pulling out a fresh bottle of water.  “I've just been down in the foyer talking to James Mackay.”
  Josep was struggling to keep up.  “Who the name of hell is James Mackay?”
  Katrina paused to finish the entire bottle of water, before throwing the empty bottle on the chair in the far corner.  “James Mackay,” she explained, finally gaining some composure, “is the junior aide of the English minister for justice, Mara Frost.  I met him when I was at University in England.  We used to go hiking up mountains together, and drinking.  He was studying Law at the time, but apparently stumbled his way into politics through family connections.”
  Josep nodded sagely.  “Ah, of course,” he said.  “That clears it up completely.”
  Katrina raised a single brow and tapped her foot.  She was clearly in no mood for sarcasm, but continued regardless.  “I bumped into him in the foyer, and we got to talking about what was happening.  Mrs Frost is currently holed up with the English Prime Minister, but it seems that your stunts this morning have caught her eye and she is eager to meet the 'young Spanish minister who helped the troublesome protesters'.” She opened another bottle.  “Her words, not mine.”
Josep's head span slightly.  He was a tiny cog in a very big wheel; his presence here was purely a matter of political obligation, he wasn't actually expected to do anything, let alone meet and discuss anything with anyone of any importance.  He was struggling to come to terms with just what it was such a powerful minister would want to discuss with someone so far down the food chain.
  “What does she want?” Katrina surely had the answers, it was so often the case.  “Why does she wish to see me, and when?”
  Katrina shook her head.  “Not sure when, quite likely soon, the English delegation have apparently managed to make contact with their ministers back home.  As for her purposes, James seemed to think that she was simply genuinely impressed with the speed and vigour with which you set about lending your assistance.”
  Josep frowned.  “If they have made contact with England, then that means the problem is merely local, surely?  So why aren't we receiving any more information?”
  “Its definitely not local,” Katrina said.  “There are pockets out there with sufficient levels of self-generated power – wind turbines, generators, and the like – to operate small-scale, local systems.  But it seems the entire power distribution infrastructure is down, across scales that don't yet seem possible or probable.  Whatever power is being generated can only be used at source, otherwise its going nowhere.  The heads of state are now starting to make use of such systems, but its taken them much time, and much has been lost in the process of committee and discussion.  You didn't wait for such processes to begin operating, you operated on instinct.  Ministers more senior and supposedly politically savvy than yourself dithered, whilst you sprung into action.  Mrs Frost was just impressed by that.”
  Josep slumped down into the window chair.  He knew that Katrina was probably right, but the idea of such a meeting made him nervous.  He was a confident man, and had held court with the President himself on numerous occasions, as well as a good number of other notable senior-ranking politicians within and without his country.  Never before had he felt such unease.  Maybe it was the situation he had found himself in, but the feeling was beginning to eat away at his stomach.
  “I still don't get it,” he said.
  Katrina shook her head and perched herself on the edge of the bed, the sunlight playing on her smile.  “Most likely all she will want to do is negotiate an appearance in your photos of this morning.  So many down there were so slow to react, and they all know that the minute the media networks get back up and running the first thing they're going to want to ensure is that their faces are plastered all over the net and the television, uttering assurances that they, personally, had brought the situation to a conclusion and would lead the inquiry into ensuring the people remain safe.  A quick bit of processing even on the basic soft-screens in this room could ensure that Mrs Frost was there, side-by-side with you, helping to make things happen and protect the vulnerable.”
  It was all absurd, but she was probably right, Josep reflected.  After all, his first thought had been to ensure his political purposes were served, but at least he had had the honesty to go out there and get his hands dirty, rather than creating a forgery after the event.  Then, perhaps, that was why he was still a junior minister.  Hard work took time, and politics waited for no one.
  Quickly, he realised how little he knew about Mara Frost.  She was a high-profile minister, for sure, and had already enjoyed a long and successful political career, surviving the odd scandal, and riding the roller-coaster of success and failure like a professional.  There were times when she was far from the public eye, but one suspected that she was always there, in the background, biding her time.  He remembered hearing one of the French ministers refer to her as Le Raptor, after the dinosaur, for she was cunning and deadly.
  He knew only the headlines, though, and they rarely amounted to a convincing profile.  A politician's public appearance and the reality were often disparate entities, one well crafted by year's of negotiated appearance, the other almost a mythical creature.  On the one hand a politician could be pictured cuddling a cute, soft animal, whilst the reality might be that after the photo was taken he or she had picked up a knife and fork and tucked in.  Perhaps that was extreme (and in one particularly messy instance Josep knew of, one hundred percent true) but the principle remained the same.  Whatever he had learned about Mara Frost in the past, he would need to unlearn after their impending meeting.
  Regardless, it would be remiss of him not to prepare.  “Katrina, could you get together some briefing notes and see if you can negotiate the correct path this meeting will take.”
  The woman shook her head.  “No need,” she said, motioning towards the door.  There stood a young man, barely into his twenties, wearing a suit that seemed far more grand and lavish than the man himself.  He looked like a kid playing dress-up, and he had let himself in quietly.  “Minister Arrondo, I'd like you to meet James Mackay.”
  The young man gushed somewhat and surged forward, his arm outstretched a little too eagerly.  Slowly, and carefully, Josep stood and shook it firmly.  As he spoke, he revealed himself to be of Scottish origin, an accent Josep was fond of from previous political visits to the area.
  “Pleasure to meet you, Minister,” he said, beaming brightly.  “Forgive the intrusion, but I hope you appreciate that time is of the essence in such instances.”
  Josep nodded and pursed his lips.  Considering who the first political minister on the scene was this morning, it was pretty hollow talk from the young man.  He let it slide, however.
  “I've just come from the meeting room on the third floor,” Mackay continued.  “Minister Frost is ready to meet you now, if it would be convenient.”
  In spite of his words, Josep knew that any refusal of the invitation would be lethal to his own political career.  He had no choice but to go and see what Le Raptor wanted of him, for good or ill.  Katrina did her best to assume a reassuring expression, but he remained unconvinced.  James Mackay led the way.

Andalyn Leigh dreamed of the Moon.  Her boots and lower legs grew with dust, the rest of her space suit shone bright in the sunlight.  Her visor was down, the world tinged with gold, and she could see herself in the mirrored visor of her faceless companion.  He had his arms spread wide and his head turned up towards the heavens.  Above them both, a small white craft floated silently by, trailing vapour like an aeroplane.  The sky turned briefly blue, then faded back to black.  She followed the craft as it drifted towards the horizon, her shadow running out in front of her as she turned her back on the sun.  It was impossibly bright.
  She felt – and heard – movement behind her, and she turned back to see the stranger begin walking off towards the opposite horizon, at considerable speed.  Was it their spacecraft that had flown past them, or were they running from it?  Or was he running from her?  Only one way to find out.
  Arcing gracefully into the air, Andalyn bounced her way in the same direction as the astronaut.  His spacesuit was unlike hers, it was darker and less advanced.  It had last been seen on the lunar landers of the twentieth century, she was sure.  He kicked up dark grey dust behind him.
  The voices in her ear were hurried and incomprehensible, unbroken by the usual radio static of space communications.  It was a man's voice, and a woman's, and a child's, all at once.  She recognised no words, no any sound.
  The spacecraft – the very same she had just seen – rose above the horizon now.  It was orbiting the Moon incredibly fast.  The contrail was larger now and again the sky turned blue, thin clouds peppered the sky. The astronaut had gone now, and in front of her was a large structure, pointing up towards the stars she could no longer see.  She was back in Seattle, and in front of her stood the space needle.  Her dreams were not without a sense of humour.  The spacecraft continued overhead, rising further up into the sky now, rising up like a rocket, hurtling towards the bright sun.
  An explosion of light, the spacecraft again disappeared, and the sky turned to darkness, the stars shining down.  The sun was too bright, she shouldn't be able to see any stars.  In front of her vision, tiny flickers of light rained down onto the Moon's grey, dusty surface, like a meteor shower in miniature.
  The figure in front of her had stopped, waiting for her.  It gestured urgently, and she started running once more, leaping and bounding like a child at play.  With every hop she laughed and cheered, as the figure continued onwards towards the horizon.  The sun quickly wheeled over her head and behind her, and she could see now a bright rim of light appearing in front of her, rising up from behind the Moon.  The Earth rose quickly, shining like a jewel, and the stars all seemed to fade.  Faster, she ran, and further away it got.
  Up ahead, a large crater began to present itself.  The figure had reached the edge and was crouched carefully at its rim.  It looked like it was tying its shoelaces, and suddenly the spacesuit was gone, and so was hers.  She was running in t-shirt and shorts, in vivid primary colours, and bare feet.  The figure was now a young girl, her hair in tight pigtails.  Andalyn ran as fast as she could, deftly avoiding the rocks and cracks in the Moon's surface, and hurtled towards the girl.  It was her sister, Veronica.
  Without breaking stride, she planted her hands firmly on her sister's back, pushed, and leapt delightfully into the air, arcing up and up.  She laughed and giggled and screamed with joy.  Onwards she went, up into the stars.  The sun and Earth wheeled overhead, racing towards each horizon, disappearing briefly, before rising again in front of her.  The spacecraft followed them across the sky, and as she reached the apex of her leap she reached her hand upwards and lightly touched the small antenna sticking out from its underside, sending it hurtling off into deep space forever.
  Downwards she fell now, clutched in the embrace of the Moon's light gravity.  Her sister had disappeared, and she was back in her spacesuit, falling slowly and gracefully to the opposite side of the dark, deep crater.  She landed gently, continued to her sprint.
  The voices continued in her ear, louder now as she neared the light now appearing again on the horizon.  This time it was neither the Earth, nor the Sun, nor the stars, but flickering and flashing like a beacon ahead of her.  It was calling her, she had to keep going.  She ducked down her head, her lungs bursting, her ears pounding with voice after soundless voice.  She screamed, silently, and tripped as her boot caught on a rock.  Tumbling over and over, head over heels, she awoke...


The traffic through Manchester had been maddening.  It had taken them more than two hours just to get from the prison car park to the old A34, running past the Airport.  Much of that time had been spent negotiating their way through the various road closures imposed as a result of the continued protests, which soured Gene Manning's mood no end.  They had encamped themselves within the Piccadilly area of the city centre for some seven weeks now, marching daily towards and around the City Hall, past the Universities, on around the new industrial heartland in the East of the city, and back towards the train station and their camp.
  The whole thing took about five hours each and every day, and had the combined result of bringing the city grinding to a halt.  Of course the local authorities had done their best to attempt to renegotiate the traffic in various directions, but this only had the effect of funnelling the vehicles into various bottle-necks.  Accidents were inevitable, and one such incident had brought the roads around the Eastlands area to a stand still.  It was infuriating, and frustrating.
  Of course, the heat didn't help, nor did the company.  As much as Gene had been looking forward to taking Alexander into his custody, he had immediately begun to wonder if he had made a huge mistake in accepting the assignment.  Alexander made him edgy and nervous, something the man hadn't even managed to achieve when he was pursuing him across Europe.  Gene didn't get nervous, and it troubled him that Alexander did, which made him more nervous, so the overall effect was a vicious cycle.
  The better part of those two hours had been spent in utter silence.  Alexander had seemed contented enough just to roll down the window and breath the free air, such as it was; it may have been air laced with, hydrocarbons, petrochemicals and various particulate matter, Gene mused, but it was free air nonetheless.  How refreshing, in a way, it must have been to take joy in removing the mouth filter and just breathing what was out there.
  That had been over a week ago now, though, and in hindsight perhaps it hadn't been the best of ideas.  In their small safe house out in the Derbyshire Peaks, Alexander had been bed-ridden for some four or five days now, spending much of the time drowsy from the anti-toxin medication.  It had given Gene some welcome relief, certainly, and time to think, but he was far from happy at being locked up in this house in the middle of nowhere.  Until Alexander's system had been cleared of toxins, the medics were unable to undertake the surgery to alter the man's appearance enough for them to at least go out in public.
  Gene was stood staring out of the window.  The sun was continuing to pummel the country, and much of western Europe, with heat, although the temperatures had relented slightly and were now down into the low thirties for the first time in weeks.  He idly remembered the summers of his youth, and couldn't help but think that surely every summer day when he was young had been like this.  But his elder relatives had told him otherwise, and now he just wished for some rain to cool them all down.
  The heather on the hill tops had turned brown, and in fact large swathes of the peat bogs were bare.  A small landslide had brought an old mountaineering cairn tumbling down onto the hill side.  At least their air was pure out here, in spite of the noise and mess from the mining seams a few miles down the road.  When he was younger, Gene had enjoyed these hills, spending many days wandering their unspoiled tops and taking in the country air.  He longed to get out there now.
  From up the stairs, he began to hear movement.  The house was old and mostly falling apart, a small cloud of dust illuminated in the sunlight beaming down through the open windows.  An air conditioning unit buzzed quietly in the corner of the living area, with one upstairs pointed towards the bedrooms.  Due to the sensitive nature of their being here, they couldn't open any of the security windows, and Alexander's room was locked while he was inside.
  The footsteps grew loud and heavy, and Gene heard a toilet flush.  Reluctantly, he walked the stairs and unlocked the room.  Alexander was groggy and dishevelled, and he barely spoke until they were having some late breakfast of soy sausages and eggs.
  “How long have I been out this time?” he asked quietly.  His voice was scratchy and hoarse.
  Gene checked his watch.  “About fifteen hours now,” he said, pouring himself a third cup of coffee of the morning.  “I wouldn't worry, its just the medication, probably means its working.  I did warn you when you shoved your head out of the car window; you simply don't go out in the city these days without a filtration mask.”
  Alexander shook his head slowly.  “That's because people are idiots,” he said, sharply.  “Its not like they weren't warned...”
  Gene pointed his fork accusingly.  “Listen here,” he interrupted.  “Whatever you may say about what you did, it doesn't mean average folk out there on the street should be made to suffer.  Much of it isn't the fault of the individual.”
  “Oh really?” Alexander was momentarily riled, but quickly caught his tongue, hanging his head in a rare show of humility.  “Never mind.”
  Gene nodded and finished his breakfast.  This synthetic shit was pretty much tasteless, just laced with artificial sweeteners and chemicals.  They were told it was better for them than the animal alternative, but Gene remained unconvinced to this day.  He could see the point behind it, of course – the planet was filling up fast – they were getting on for an overall population of eleven billion, and there was barely the room for the extensive livestock farming that produced the meat he remembered.  It was still available, just at naturally inflated prices.  For a time Gene had had the pleasure, until the money began to run out, and he learned to be more frugal in his eating habits.  The synthetic foods have him all the protein, fats and nutrients he needed to survive, but the joy had disappeared from eating, that much was certain.
  The stupid thing was that he could still sit here and light up a cigarette at will.  Of all the things that had been banned and regulated over the years, tobacco and now even marijuana was more relaxed than ever.  It was easier to buy himself a small pack of cannabis cigarettes than it was for him to get hold of a thick, sirloin steak.  Such was life.
  The smoke curled up towards the ceiling, dancing with the flowing movement of the air conditioning, and disappeared into one of the many vents peppering the walls.  Funny also how air quality was such a concern inside buildings, yet they were struggling to tackle the continued smog plaguing the major cities.
  Alexander was still eating, steadily carving every piece and savouring the so-called taste.  Even by modern standards, this stuff was still leagues above anything he would have got in prison, and judging by the careful speed of his eating, Gene figured he had gotten used to eating quickly.
  “Oh, I've been meaning to ask,” Alexander said suddenly.  “All those protesters blocking the streets back in Manchester; just what is it they were protesting about? There didn't seem to be much of a theme to their many banners and chants.  It was like everyone who wanted to protest about anything all came out at once.  It was chaotic.”  He almost spat the final word, like a curse.
  Wary of a trap, Gene answered carefully, puffing softly at the lingering dog-end of his cigarette.  “Well, that's pretty much about right, to be honest,” he said.  “People out there are angry, about pretty much everything.  We're living in the later part of the twenty-first century, in one of the most developed countries in the world, and even here there is poverty, famine, disease, not to mention the border wars.”
  Alexander nodded.  “I heard about them, petty squabbles between the border towns of northern Scotland and England, little more than fisticuffs, no doubt.”
  “Mostly you're right,” said Gene.  “The whole thing kicked off about gas shale mining on the Solway border, and the tremors it triggered.  The media gave it a nice, emotional name, and made more of it than it actually was, but a few people still died up there, homes were damaged, and the anger still simmers under the surface.  Those on the streets of Manchester – and Birmingham, London, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Cardiff, Glasgow – all of them are trying to make a point that they've had enough of it all.”
  A slight smile crept over Alexander's face.  “And is it working?”
  Gene stared right back at him, serious and unflinching.  “The Government are playing the whole thing down, and have managed to get most of the tabloid media on their side, naturally.  So many people have moved out of and avoid the major city centres these days that the tabloids paint the picture that the protests are just trouble-making hippies, and the average person believes it.  Much of the general public may be unemployed, but their benefits still allow them to read the tabloids, and if there's an opinion they can get from anywhere else, then its just not worth holding.”
  “Like I said,” Alexander said, finally settling his cutlery down onto his plate.  “People are idiots.”
  Gene sighed, but it was pointless to argue, he knew.  It wasn't that people were idiots, its that the people were afraid.  They had all the gadgets and net-hookups they could ever hope for, but they knew that just miles away there were people without nourishing food or running water.  The hospitals were so overloaded that the public health service had long been scrapped and replaced with health insurance.  Those with money got treated quicker and better than those without, and as long as the Government kept on making sure they had that money, then everything was fine.  All those bad things, the poverty, famine and riots, at home and abroad, well that was someone else's problem and as long as they kept food on their own table and a roof over their own heads, that was all that mattered.  It was perhaps harsh, but also entirely understandable.
  A knock at the door broke the silence once more.  Alexander looked like he'd just spotted a dinosaur walk up to the door.  “Relax,” Gene said, making his way towards the front door.  “That will be our neighbour, Mrs Watkins.  She said the other day she might stop by and make sure we were getting on okay in this old house; she said the old couple who lived here passed away about a year ago, probably checking their ghosts haven't driven us insane.”  Gene smiled.
  “Lovely,” Alexander said.  “I'll be getting out of the way, then.”
  Alexander made his way quietly up the stairs, as Gene braced himself for the barrage of noise, compliments, and platitudes that were about to head his way.  He had had some dealings with Mrs Watkins on the day they moved in, and she was probably eager to meet the mysterious stranger with whom Gene was sharing the place.  The sooner those medics got here with the surgery kits, the better.
  He opened the door, and there in front of him was a small, young lady, her hair tied harshly back, silhouetted by the sun behind her.  It mattered little, though.  The hair, the deep eyes, the glowing skin and the sharp, pointed chin, could be only one person.  This was Jocelyn; his other daughter Robyn had his features. 
  She smiled, and Gene smiled back, despite the horror now creeping into his soul.  “Hi Dad,” she said, and pushed her way into the house.


The meeting room in which Josep Arrondo now sat – plush, grand, and lavish beyond words – did little to ease the sense of unease that had settled over him in the past half an hour.  Mara Frost had kept him waiting, as was her wont, but now she was looking across the table at him with those cold, dark eyes.  She was clearly a career politician – nothing else could quite etch the same lines on a person's face – and her sharp suit and immaculate appearance defied the situation.
  Between them was a large, mahogany table, adorned by fresh-cut flowers perched daintily in a brown vase.  A large fireplace occupied the far end of the room, but most disturbing of all was the bear's head perched above it, framed by glass.  The sun shone bright through the large windows facing out onto the Madrid streets, and Josep could still hear the slight murmur of people out on the streets, all wondering what was happening.
  The power was still out, and people were now talking about it being at least another day before it is restored.  Back-up gas generators, wind turbines, solar panels, were generating power now on a micro-scale, allowing at least some communication, but the major distribution networks were damaged, it seemed.  What shocked him more, however, was the sheer scale of the situation.  He had assumed it to be a fairly local phenomenon, but in fact it had spread across the whole of Europe, like a virus.
  That was pretty much all that Minister Frost had informed him so far.  What she had as yet failed to mention – aside from the probable cause – was the purpose of their meeting.  So far it had been a one-way dialogue, with Josep looking concerned and interested at all the right moments, whilst the Minister held court on all that she knew.
  “I've spoken to the Spanish President a short while ago,” she carried on.  “He says that the immediate danger to life has passed, but regrets to hear that there have been fatalities so far.”
  She was impeccably English, Josep thought.  Her voice was controlled and eloquent, like a member of royalty.  No other country in the world had quite mastered that same ability to sound reassuring and so clueless at the same time.  Spanish speech was much more passionate and had evolved over the centuries, whereas listening to Mara Frost talk was like watching the old period dramas Katrina liked to watch on the BBC.  That was just the public face, of course, and he knew from previous visits that in urban British cities the language was crude and full of vernacular.
  From outside of the room, Josep heard Katrina laugh loudly.  Her and the James boy were waiting in the ante-room, and had clearly abandoned all idea of political protocol.  It was strange how this situation was making some people behave – it was almost like people were somehow more relaxed without the shackles of technology.  That would likely change this evening when the temperature dropped and boredom set in, but for now it was almost refreshing and Josep welcomed it.  It was unlikely that Minister Frost shared his views on that particular matter.
  “I've also spoken to the Prime Minister back in London,” she said.  “She isn't ruling out any cause right now, but is concerned about the growing public view that terrorism is the likely cause.  We would like to set on record at this stage that this angle is to be down-played at all costs; the last thing anyone needs right now is mass hysteria breaking out.  We've worked hard to help restore order to the streets of England in recent years, your assistance in maintaining the peace would be appreciated.”
  “Forgive me, Minister,” Josep said, frowning.  “I assume that you have already communicated your concerns to the President? I doubt my authority will be worth more than his.”
  Mara Frost straightened in her chair, and looked at him down her large, hooked nose.  “You strike me as an eager young man, Mister Arrondo,” she said.  “When the power first went out, your first thought was to get down onto the ground and begin the public relations exercise before your President had even risen from his bed.”
  Josep flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and loathing.  Whilst the Spanish President was far from perfect, he was still the leader of his country, and to have this snooty English lady come in making derogatory remarks about him riled his patriotic senses.
  “I fail to see what that has to do with anything,” he said, calmly.  “Given the situation, I think we should probably be more communicative in our current dealings.”
  Frost smiled slightly.  “Forgive me,” she said.  “I did not wish to cause any offence.  My point is that whilst you may not be of particularly high standing in the current Government, someone of your intelligence and political nous could come out of this situation looking very good indeed.  I mentioned it to the President, and he was particularly impressed.”
  Josep smiled, but this woman gave him a sense of two personalities; whilst she seemed on the surface to be warm and friendly, he could see something in her eyes.  There was a cold, calculating stillness to them.  This would be Le Raptor he had heard so much about.  He had no doubt that she had indeed had such a conversation with the President, but it would have been for her own gain.  He just had to try to figure out what that was.
  “Very kind,” he said, smiling back.  “But I merely acted in the moment.  It was obvious that people needed help immediately, I just provided my assistance in delivering that help.  Most of the good work was actually done by those camped outside this building, they're the ones we should be thanking.”
  It was the Minister's turn to rile slightly now, although it was much less obvious.  To Josep it was just a flicker of the eyes and a deep breath, but he could read so much more into her actions. In his own opinion, the protester's made a valid point and were doing a good job of remaining peaceful thus far, but they seemed to make Mara Frost nervous.  The moment was fleeting, and she had composed herself almost immediately.  She was good; she was very good.  Nonetheless, he had to take advantage, however momentary the lapse might be.
  “I have visited England many times over the years,” he said, apropos of nothing.  “Mostly on business, but I did have the pleasure of indulging in my passion for tourism.  You have excellent scenery,  out away from the cities, a rich, social culture, many museums, and a great and expansive history.  Overall, I would have to say that you have a rather splendid little island there.”
  Again, the affliction of emotion crossing the woman's face was barely discernible, but it was definitely there.  He was rattling her cage, getting under her skin, and he was enjoying it much more than she was right now.  This time it was broken by what seemed on the surface like a genuinely warm smile, her gaze again level and fixed.
  “Thank you,” she said, pleasantly.  If nothing else, it had certainly broken the tension in her voice.  “We are rather proud of our achievements, and particularly proud of our history, but we politicians must look towards the future at all times, otherwise we fear we might come to a standstill.  Dwelling on historical and religious pasts of conquest, discovery, civil war or subservience does any country – whatever its size – any particular good, one thinks.”
  Josep smiled back.  Spain had indeed become somewhat stalled in its progress in recent decades, and Frost's words were almost certainly a direct reference to a speech given by the leader of the opposition party some years ago, accusing the current President of failing to bring the country out of a 'cultural depression', as he had called it.  Others had interpreted it in wider languages – a shoe-gazing malaise was Josep's personal favourite, he admitted privately – but it boiled down to an attack on their leader's preaching of historical social values over the trappings of modern society.  They viewed him simply as a grumpy, hypocritical old man, ill at ease with mobile implants and soft-screen computers whilst all too happy to circle the globe in modern, faster aeroplanes and indulge himself at lavish launch parties for spectacular, if poorly performed, Immersive Animation Movies.  Perhaps they were right in some respects, but their argument was poorly constructed and was now being parroted by an English woman with no love of foreign tongues.
  Josep countered.  “I believe that we must use the lessons of our histories – both our own and those of others around us – to ensure that we do not make the same mistakes, but seek to improve ourselves.  That surely is a more worthy goal than simply living to 'upgrade' our lives so quickly.  What is your English expression – if it isn't broke, don't take it to be fixed?”
  “Something like that...”
  “New is not always better, Minister Frost, and perhaps today should be a lesson to all of us.  Were we not so heavily reliant on our electrical nets to catch our every fall, we would perhaps be closer to solving this small crisis than we are right now.  I believe humanity has lost something with the ongoing rise of automation and consumption, and we would all learn better of this just by looking through a history book every now and then.”
  Minister Frost clapped, almost gleefully.  For a brief moment, she almost look excited.  “Excellent!” she clapped as she sat heavily back in her chair.  “The President has taught you well, I see, he must be very proud.  I'm sure if I tell him about that little speech, you'll be a cabinet member within days.  Excellent stuff, just brilliant.”
  Now he knew why she was so good a politician.  It wasn't just the internal machinations of her brain working out every move two or three or even four steps ahead, though that was clearly her plan.  It was her ability to  completely confound her opponents with a mixture of high and low emotion and empathy.  One moment she was your mortal enemy ready to knife you in the back, the next your best friend, ready for a good, stiff drink at the bar.  She was playing the old-fashioned good politician, bad politician hand all by herself.  No doubt many had seen this before, and there had to have been many who had fought back with broader tactics.  But she was high-up in the British Government, no small achievement.  It had to count for something.
  He figured simple modesty seemed like the neutral route of escape, as well as heading for the nearest exit out of this meeting room and getting as far away from this poisonous woman as possible.  There had to be something more useful he could be doing than this, and now seemed like a good time to go out and find it.
  “It is simply my belief, Minister,” he said quietly.  “Now, if you must forgive me, I must adjourn our meeting and attempt to make contact with my wife in Barcelona.”
  He rose quickly, so as not to invite any hesitation, and stretched his arm out across the table at Minister Frost, who shook his hand whilst remaining seated.  “I have enjoyed our meeting, Mister Arrondo,” she said.  “I look forward to seeing you again.”  That smile, again.
  “Until then,” he said, and made towards the door.
  With his door on the handle, he heard her move forward in her chair, the leather creaking in the heat.  “One more thing,” she said.  “I am so sorry to hear about your young intern.  I do hope he makes a full and speedy recovery.”
  Josep froze, still and dead.  His heart continued to pound but he swore that he could no longer feel the blood pulsing through his veins as he went cold.  Turning slowly, he fixed his eyes on the Minister, who sat again unreadable.  Through the haze of anger and fear, he could only whisper.
  “What has happened to Artem?”