24 - Court Martial II

The knowledge that the current day could be your last is usually enough to concentrate even the least disciplined of minds. Mine took some convincing, however. I fled from The Bunker and lost myself in the faceless jungle of our streets. I walked among, alongside, behind, toward and past other faces, dead faces hiding thousands of unfulfilled dreams, plans both small and large, real lives. But they were all washed lifeless by their uniformity, and that uniformity arose from one fact alone: none of these faces would be in front of a second court martial the next morning.

I walked briskly, then slowly, then injected some urgency once more, then cruised for a while before settling into my usual businesslike stride. I led with my left leg, then switched to the right. I took a small jump on every fifth footfall. I dipped alternate shoulders. Nothing I did made any difference to the throng around me, which breathed regularly and unequivocally, moving its constituents organically through the lungs and vascular system of society. There was so much death that it added up to life.

Finally I came to a halt. The crowd adapted by diverting around me. Not a single body touched mine despite my less than considerate positioning at its very heart. I pulled out my phone and dialled Major Thompson’s number. He answered straight away and told me to meet him at The Angel. Such a dismal pub.

By the time I had found my bearings, established the best route to the pub and ambled there at the general crowdspeed, Thompson had already arrived. He sat at a table with two others. One was the familiar figure of Sergeant Magath, whose head lifted and turned toward me as I stepped through the door. The other man, who I had not met, was deep in conversation with Thompson. The Major himself was draining the last of the liquid from his pint glass, and signalled for me to organise a refill on my journey from door to table.

I discharged my duty and joined them. Thompson introduced Captain Hanwell, and left it at that. He had inquisitive eyes and scuffed shoes. His moustache was too big for his rank.

‘It’s my second court martial tomorrow,’ I told Major Thompson. ‘Colonel Watson has pulled all the strings he can find and short-circuited the whole process.’

He knew all about it.

‘What should I expect?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know, but if I was to learn my fate, I wanted it to be from the Major. There was a symmetry about that which I found comforting.

‘Difficult to be sure,’ he said. Hanwell continued to look at me even though Thompson was talking. His gaze was intense, as if he wanted to draw out of me what he could, while he could. He had still not touched his pint. I learned later that he always waited until the head had completely died away before embarking on his journey to the bottom of the glass.

‘Deportation, I expect,’ Thompson continued.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Do you not rate my chances of passing it, then?’ I asked.

He said nothing. Just looked at me with washed-out eyes from under heavy lids. His right hand remained around his glass, while the left tapped its fingers in turn patiently on the table, as if it were happy to wait forever for something else to happen.

‘They’ve tried executions before,’ he began again after his pause. ‘But recently they’ve not really worked very well. Used to be trouble-free. The embarrassment factor is quite high when it’s anything but perfect, so they’re mostly discounted nowadays. Can’t rule it out totally, though. The main danger for you is some kind of serious disablement, or at least disfigurement.’

‘Not death, then?’

‘Death is fast. Death is painless. Your death concerns you less than it does anybody else. If that’s all you’ve got to worry about, I’d be tempted to switch places with you right now. Except I don’t know how you can drink that bilge,’ he jerked his head at my half-empty glass. I had completely forgotten I was in a pub, in the company of others.

‘Do these people even have any jurisdiction over me?’ I asked. There was just a possibility that he was being serious. People who looked like Major Thompson didn’t joke very often. ‘I’m not actually part of the military. Can they actually inflict any form of punishment on me? Even if they find me guilty of a crime?’

‘That’s a moot point,’ Thompson nodded in reverse. ‘Which is why deportation is probably the favourite option. The alternative is simply a dishonourable discharge, which might affect your visa situation and ultimately lead to the same deportation event, but not necessarily.’

‘They hardly ever do that any more,’ Captain Hanwell spoke for the first time, after essaying a sip of his decapitated beer. ‘It has almost no effect. I mean, it’ll get you out of Watson’s hair, but nobody here talks to anybody outside the military, so it won’t actually harm you or your prospects, long term. I can’t imagine that’ll be tempting to the Colonel. All you’d need to do is find a low-profile place, maybe in warehousing or some kind of retail function – you can be totally anonymous there, and blend back into the general mayhem. You could be back to your current level within six months. We,’ he glanced at Thompson for a second, ‘could probably organise that for you with a little bit of work. We could put Colonel Watson into a position where it’s too much effort to do anything else.’

Major Thompson looked as if he agreed with everything Hanwell said.

‘There’s an interesting position arising, as it goes,’ Magath joined in. ‘I hear Corporal Cowper is organising a task force to travel to the new moon.’

‘Travel to the moon?’ I said. ‘For what purpose?’

‘He’s got some ideas about agricultural methods,’ Magath grinned slightly as he recalled the ideas. ‘He’s convinced some important people that he can triple their output for a minuscule extra investment. Their experts had no idea what to make of his presentation, but he got them to admit that they couldn’t find any obvious scientific reasons why his scheme wouldn’t work, so he’s got the grant he wanted, and a promised promotion if it all comes off.’

‘Only tripling the output? That’s almost a disappointing lack of ambition from Cowper,’ I chuckled.

‘Oh, he’s got another agenda, too,’ Magath said. ‘He’s also got clearance to attempt a trial colonisation of the moon.’

‘Colonisation?’ This was more like Cowper.

‘Yeah. He’s certain that the shuttle problem is going to get worse, now Young is in charge, and he’s convinced himself that we are going to starve, after all. He wants to be where the produce is grown, so he can pick it and eat it himself, without relying on anybody else.’

The picture in my mind of Corporal Cowper came vividly back to life. I said I would think about accompanying him, but really I didn’t feel tempted. I might well have been better off as an integral part of one of his madcap schemes, but the idea of flight above fight sat uncomfortably with me. I was well aware of the extent of Colonel Watson’s influence and my own lack of it, yet I had a chance to appeal to genuine consciences of genuine men, to have myself measured against a yardstick of truth. Many in my position in the past had been given no such opportunity, and to spurn it would have been disrespectful to their memories.

And another thing: this was my project, by now, as much as anybody else’s.

‘What will happen to the project if I fail?’ I asked. ‘Or if I run or hide? We need some kind of protection from Norris and his phalanx of stupidity.’

‘Sergeant Magath can take over your role in that case,’ Thompson sniffed. ‘Until we bring somebody else fully up to speed.’ He seemed spectacularly unruffled at the thought of Magath in a role he would find totally impossible to discharge. I fell flat once more. I was alone.

Thompson drank up once more. He stood.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said to Hanwell, who also polished off his pint and made ready to leave. Magath pushed his full glass away to the centre of the round table.

‘You’re off, are you?’ I asked.

‘Can’t stand this boozer,’ Thompson grimaced. ‘I’d rather spend my time at The Pig and Whistle. Beer there doesn’t turn my stomach.’ He belched loudly, as if to illustrate the point.

‘Then why do you keep arranging for us to meet here?’ I said.

‘I thought you liked it,’ he said. ‘Small said you brought her here. Is that not true?’

If I was honest, I generally found the beer had a similar effect on me, too.

‘Well, you’re welcome to join us, if you like,’ he said, half over his shoulder, half out of the door. I declined politely and got myself another pint.

The sun had not yet risen. I had just over three hours until my hearing. The streets were as empty as they ever got and the security guard hardly looked up as I shuffled through the outer door, waved my card at the first reader, slid the firedoor silently to one side and traipsed uncertainly down to the basement. My entire future hung in the air, and that became even more noticeable when I entered the enclosed space. Outside there had been plenty of room for the whole world, but now my own imminent fate dominated.

The yellow door was locked. I made sure to try it as noiselessly as possible: the atmosphere crackled with a charge and I had no idea how it might react to unnecessary vibration.

Undeterred, I strode across to the alternative entrance. I found it straight away. Its camouflage was powerless against my heightened senses. I felt the same about the deathly path, which remained as damp and dangerous as ever. I crouched low as I proceeded. Down through the sharp spiral section with no mishap, I arrived at the window over The Bunker in no time.

Norris, Young and Blackburn were deep in conference within the cave. Mortenson stood slightly aside, close to the largest model. He could have been reassuring it. Colonel Watson paced around the outer plinths, examining them idly. RSM O’Hara arrived at the main entrance. He almost filled it as he walked through. Behind him came two others. I recognised them as the two strangers from the meeting with Pfister. They remained together, but hardly interacted at all with the others in the cave.

Their interest was entirely taken by the central model. Corporal Young appeared to be taking charge, although he regularly deferred to Mortenson or Norris. He and Blackburn moved, removed and realigned various parts of the model, still just about recognisable as our work despite the changes Mortenson and Magath had been forced into making over the previous days. I grimaced as they attempted to make sense of my crowning glory, which was rapidly losing all form and meaning. Every alteration plunged another knife into my pride, and it dribbled away along with the tears which I wiped with clenched fists.

A smile of sorts returned to my face as I homed in on RSM O’Hara. Working independently of the main delegation, he poked as gently as he could at an oddly peripheral section which appeared totally orphaned form the rest of the design. From the roof of a warehouse he picked up a tiny piece of tin can, which I believed would have been originally designated as a high-powered satellite receiver, and the entire supporting structure began to sway from side to side. Within seconds it had totally collapsed, and taken a large part of the surrounding scenery down with it. Clearly it hadn’t been as orphaned as I had thought. O’Hara’s shoulders trembled and he looked Corporal Young right in the eye across the wreckage. He was actually laughing. The bass chuckle filled the cave and brushed past my face. The hairs on my arms stood up. Never had a man been so utterly unconcerned about the imminent tortuous demise of the country of his residence.

Corporal Young, on the other hand, was far from unconcerned. Colonel Watson had taken a short break from setting out the chairs for the upcoming court martial and glared his ire at the design lead. Young took physical hold of Mortenson and they set to work rebuilding the wreckage.

I left them deep in their own confusion, and continued to the bottom of the rocky path. Once more I found myself in the neighbouring cave, its plinths around the edge. From what I remembered of Thompson’s previous route, the way through to The Bunker was via the largest of those plinths. I sat on a smaller one to think. If I were to show myself now I ran the risk of taking some responsibility for what I had recently witnessed. There was no need to put myself into such a position, given what I already knew I had coming.

From somewhere beneath me I made out the unmistakeable sound of moving water. Once I had it, the effect crept closer, until it was as if it were softly plashing against the very rock upon which I had made myself comfortable. I listened more completely. The cave gave up no other sound. I was a matter of feet from The Bunker, in which several desperate men were scrabbling for a semblance of logic, haranguing and blaming each other, while a giant laughed his giant laugh and a sociopath’s vitriol boiled over. And yet none of that intruded on my secret cave. All I had was, somewhere nearby, saltwater stroking a rockface eternally smooth whilst remaining aloof and unacknowledged and unstoppable.

I had to investigate closer. I stood. There was a tiny fissure in the plinth which wouldn’t have revealed itself to casual observation, but under close scrutiny it was quite obvious. At three or four points along the length of the crack were sets of indentations just perfect for finger grips. I chose two and settled my own fingers in and pulled. The crack widened just slightly. The sound of wave on rock rose on the salty warm draught which emerged. I pulled once more. Then again with all my might. Slowly but smoothly the plinth separated and the atmosphere within the cave changed. The outside world flooded in.

The opening was several feet wide by the time I could pull no more. I shook out my cramping fingers and stood in front of the gashed rock platform. Enough light trickled through the ancient tubes, which continued as far as I could make out, to assist my passage. Steps led downwards. I tried them out. A little dry and dusty, but solid rock and quite unchallenging. A small child could have negotiated them easily.

At the bottom of the short flight a boat bobbled on what could only have been seawater. The hull was uniform white although the internal fixtures were much darker, probably some kind of brown. It was, I estimated, large enough to accommodate four people in reasonable comfort, as long as the trip was not too lengthy. It soon became clear that such a trip would have had to be powered by oars or an outboard motor, given the lack of any other visible means of propulsion. The boat looked light, the way it danced on the agitated surface of the water, quite unlike what I was used to in The Pool. Fibreglass, I surmised.

I looked back up the steps. The top of the flight was clearly visible even in the borrowed light, but there was no sign of life, nor any sense of it in the cave beyond. The boat, also, was empty of life. I listened again. Just the tiny waves against the unfathomable rock. The fibreglass hull offered no competing sound. If I had remained at the top of the steps, in the cave, sitting on the plinth, I would never have known it was there. It would have been quite impossible to tell.

It took my weight easily, as if it were expecting me. For a few moments the upward and downward motion increased as a result of my movement, but that soon settled. Now everything was just as it had been, except I was no longer standing on rock. A tarpaulin stretched across the bow where the structure was at its narrowest. A bench spanned the centre where the boat was widest. That was where I sat. Underneath the bench I found a pair of sturdy oars and a rectangular tin the size of a small suitcase, with no markings. It weighed slightly more than the two oars and I returned it whence it came.

I paddled, Canadian-style, slowly and carefully to begin with. I had no idea of my plan or my aim, but it seemed important not to be overheard. The boat, being so light and the result of thousands of years of design improvement, made excellent progress. The network of light tubes only extended for a short time and my way was mostly dark, although within a few minutes I could discern a distant rainbow of bright white. I paddled with more purpose toward it, a waterborne moth.

The arch was low and it was necessary to duck low down into the boat to get through. The sun was just about up but I emerged into the shadow of the rockface. There was no doubting that it was going to be another hot day, though. The summer was in full flow and showed no sign of abating. Every year it lasted a day or two longer.

I thought I had known empty. I thought I had known alone. Until that moment. In a second I had traded the cloistered anonymity of the cave complex for a whole untrammelled emptiness, within which it was impossible to be anything more or less than totally alone. I shuddered in the knowledge that I was the latest in an innumerable line of people over unknown aeons to have witnessed this sight for the first time. The ocean, fanned out all around me, mocked me with its experiences, lorded itself over my naiveté and weakness. Ahead of me was the most ancient sight available to man. Above, the perfect sky, less a mirror than an unshakeable adversary, screamed back its competing memories. I was meaningless in the face of that everlasting battle.

I fixed the oars into the rowlocks and started to row in a conventional style. I was no wiser about my intended destination but I wanted to be out of the shadow of the rocks. Before long, the climbing sun was on my face. I took off my shirt and doused it in the sea, then tied it around my neck. To my left I could see quite clearly the old port complex. It looked even more ramshackle from this vantage point, the majority of the restaurants still closed up until their day began, the boats looking their age. Some of the early fishermen were setting out, heading north away from me. I let the oars alone for a time and I watched them go about their business. The current took me ever further southwards.

The rocks in front rose from the sea in a series of terraces. The low arch through which I had emerged was still visible, and the roof of its cave squatted a matter of feet above the sea’s surface. Close behind, the next terrace rose up, then one, two more like steps of a giant’s staircase. The top two layers were pock-marked with the glinting of the sun, as though the giant had crushed a diamond in his enormous ignorant hand and then scattered the fragments across his stairs. I soon realised they were the hard-working ends of the light tubes upon which I had relied for so long.

On the top level terrace, a figure appeared. It was causing quite a commotion. Its arms waved and its body bounced up and down as if on springs. Some sound carried to me from its yelling, although the details were indistinguishable. I paddled a few strokes in reverse in an attempt to move closer. The figure leaped down to the next terrace. Either the steps were enormous or the man was tiny. He crumpled slightly on impact, then raised himself up once more and began to wave and scream once more. I studied the sea all around: there was nothing within sight, not even the fishermen. The performance was clearly aimed at me. I lifted both oars and worked them with more effort, desperate to come back into range.

He sprang down to the next level. This time I could almost feel the impact, although he dragged himself upright eventually and began again. By now I could clearly make out a voice, even if the individual words continued to elude me. All of a sudden, the parts fell into place: the form, the mannerisms, the voice itself: it was, without a doubt, Corporal Cowper and he was trying to tell me something. I turned the boat around and rowed as fast as I could towards the rocks and his message. He landed on the bottom level, rolled forward and regained his feet in one powerful and graceful movement. Now he was directly above the arch into the cave complex. He carried on forward, not checking his progress in the slightest, and took an almighty leap off the rocks into the sea. I dropped the oars and watched the place where he entered.

For several seconds there was nothing; the sea had reclaimed its own surface almost as soon as he submerged. I looked up and realised I was not alone any more. The tall figure of Colonel Watson stood on the lowest level, his eyes flitting between the ocean below him and me in my boat. On either side of him stood Captain Norris, Corporals Young and Blackburn. They yanked each other’s sleeves, scoured the area like hungry gulls and pointed maniacally at various points on the surface and underneath. The giant figure of O’Hara towered over them from behind, and Mortenson gazed far out to sea, hands thrust deep into pockets. If they were making noise, it didn’t reach as far as my boat.

Suddenly the commotion began again. A few yards from where he was last seen, Cowper re-emerged, grabbing at the available oxygen with both arms.

‘I can’t swim,’ he wailed between lungfuls of saltwater. ‘What have I done? Somebody help me!’ he implored. For once in his life, I reflected, inaction would be his best course of action. He ought to have known how much more buoyant he would be in saltwater, and there were large balloon-like pockets of air inside his clothing. Nevertheless, I took up my oars once more and dragged myself towards him.

Another splash, much larger this time, interrupted my progress and I turned to find out more. O’Hara had disappeared from the group on the rocks, but presently he reappeared underneath the tiny bedraggled figure of Cowper. A few monstrous strokes took him as far as and then under the small arch. Cowper hung on to his shirt collar. He waved weakly at me as he disappeared into the complex. There would be a way through to The Pool.

The ripples from O’Hara’s dive lifted my lightweight vessel up on the pliant surface and set me in motion away from the rocks. Norris and his sergeants were prone on the rock, craning their heads around in an attempt to get a view into the cave, through the arch. Colonel Watson remained where he had been, his malignancy fixed upon me.

I laid the oars down once more. I had no idea how long I had been rowing, but the pain of the effort had faded into the background after a surprisingly short while. The sun really was strong at this time of year. If I wasn’t careful I would burn to a crisp within days. I dunked my shirt once more and wrapped it around my aching shoulders. I lay against the stern, resting my head on my generous ration tin while I drifted a while. The food shuttles came and went above me with monotonous regularity. Every now and then an empty, silent gap in the airspace would overfly me where I would have expected the plaintive wail of a slowing shuttle. The gap would give off an odour of molten metal and death.

THE END