Jimmy Coates: Power

The country is under attack, but the people don’t know the truth. Is Jimmy too late to save even himself?

To Mary-Ann Ochota, always.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Excerpt

Dedication

01 THE MESSAGE

02 TUNNEL VISION

03 THE WALNUT TREE PROJECT

04 CRATE EXPECTATIONS

05 TURNING UP THE HEAT

06 NELSON’S SHADOW

07 LUCK OF THE EGYPTIAN

08 DOCTOR’S ORDERS

09 THE OTHER WING

10 THE HOLLINGDALE INCIDENT

11 RATE OF DILAPIDATION

12 THE CORPORATION

13 WHAT’S UP. DOC?

14 POWER AND LOYALTY

15 ERT IT

16 POWER AND CONTROL

17 PUPPET SHOW

18 VISITING HOUR

19 MESSING ABOUT ON THE RIVER

20 THE MAKING OF A MONSTER

21 TIME TO SHOOT

22 POWER AND RESPONSIBILITY

23 BURYING A HATCHET

24 THE LAIR OF THE RIVER SPIDER

25 MESSAGES SENT

Acknowledgment

About The Author

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

01 THE MESSAGE

“This is Jimmy Coates…”

The boy paused and stared harder into the lens of the tiny camera attached to the top of the computer monitor. His eyes didn’t flicker. “I mean, I am Jimmy Coates.” He could hear his voice trembling, but he knew he had to go on. He had to get his message out—tell his story. Tell people the truth.

“This is going to sound like the craziest—” He cut himself short, startled by a noise behind him. He looked round. The glow from the lamp-post outside filtered through the slats of the Venetian blinds and the rain on the windows, lighting the small second-floor office in disfigured orange lines, like diseased skin. Nothing had changed.

He glanced again at the infrared detector in the corner of the ceiling. He knew it wouldn’t be flashing. Only minutes earlier he’d disabled the office’s alarm system. But if anybody passed by the building they might notice the gleam from the computer screen. If they investigated any further and saw Jimmy’s makeshift rewiring of the entry system at the door, they’d certainly call the police. There wasn’t meant to be anybody in the office of the Hailsham Gazette this late at night.

“I know I look like a normal boy,” Jimmy went on, trying to steady his breathing so he could get the words out. “I’m twelve. But…” Again he stopped himself. His mouth wouldn’t form the words. They raced through his head, but he couldn’t force them out. He wanted to scream everything at once: I’m the perfect assassin. They made me that way. They designed my DNA in a test tube…

At the same time he knew that some parts of the truth were better left out. Nobody would believe him, and if they did, they’d be terrified instead of listening to what he had to say.

Jimmy forced himself to concentrate and adjusted the direction of the webcam, making sure his face was clear on the monitor. It was so strange seeing himself like this. His features didn’t look like his own. His cheeks were thinner and his eyes looked grey.

But in front of him on the desk was something that strengthened his resolve. It was the latest edition of the Gazette. The headline leapt out: BRAVE BRITAIN TO HIT BACK AFTER FRENCH ATTACK OUR OIL RIG.

“The Government is lying,” continued Jimmy. “The French didn’t attack the oil rig. They’re just telling everybody that, and like always they’re controlling the newspapers and TV and the Internet…” Jimmy half-scrunched the newspaper in frustration. “But now they should know it isn’t true. I’m the proof. I blew it up—by accident.” His words rushed out in a torrent. “Everybody has to know. If the Government carries on with plans for war, everyone needs to know their reasons for it are a lie. People will die for nothing.”

He stopped and took a deep breath. It felt like there was so much more to say, but before he could go on, he saw a reflection in the screen. A blue flash. He’d stayed too long. The police were coming.

“Spread this message,” he insisted into the webcam. “And protest every way you can. I know you can’t vote, but…” Again he tailed off. The Government had abolished voting when they created Neo-democracy, so Jimmy wondered what possible way there could be to protest about anything. The sound of a siren cut through his thoughts.

“Just spread this message,” Jimmy pleaded. “Tell everyone.”

He shut off the webcam. It took him less than a minute to post the clip of himself on as many video-sharing websites as he could think of. He knew Government censors would remove it as soon as they found it. They might even shut down the websites completely. He just had to hope that enough people would see it first, and that they’d even spread it themselves on to other sites.

Next Jimmy found the newspaper’s publishing software and quickly set up some new headlines for the Gazette:

FRENCH DIDN’T ATTACK.

NO REASON FOR WAR WITH

FRANCE. GOVERNMENT LYING.

He knew they would never dare to publish anything like that, but Jimmy thought that if the staff saw them, maybe they could also spread the message.

The wail of sirens was louder now and the whole office was filled with the flashing blue light. Jimmy jumped up from the computer and dashed towards the door, taking the half-scrunched newspaper with him. He could feel his brain counting off the seconds before the police came charging in. Every muscle urged him to race away to safety, but as his hand settled on the door handle one thought held him back: maybe somewhere in this news office would be information about what had happened to his family. Maybe he could even track them down and rebuild his life. A normal life.

Jimmy could sense tiny vibrations in the floor. Somebody else had breached the building. He could feel the muscles in his thighs tightening to force him to run. Stay, he pleaded with himself. But Jimmy was fighting his own mind and body. Inside his skin were two beings interwoven. Only one was human.

38 per cent of Jimmy’s DNA was identical to that of any other human being in the world. The rest was the template for something entirely new. An organic assassin. Not robot or machine, but even more deadly. A custom-designed being meant to kill for the British Government. His future had been programmed into his blood. It was his human side that constantly resisted that future. And that’s what had turned him from the Government’s finest weapon into their number one target.

The assassin instincts in Jimmy were growing stronger by the day. He was designed to be fully operational at the age of eighteen, when his human feelings would be completely controlled by his assassin DNA. But extreme danger had kick-started his development early. He had no idea how long it would be before the assassin in him would take over completely, or what that would feel like. All he knew was that time was running out.

Every second of his life he felt that tension inside him. Now it was as painful as ever. The assassin in him was efficiently marshalling his body as if he were on a mission. Escape. Survival. And rationally, Jimmy knew he should trust that instinct. Yet at the same time he could see the faces of his mother Helen, his sister Georgie and his best friend Felix. Were they still together? Were they still alive? He longed to comb the office, to study every memo, article and report. Somebody must have news of what had happened to them.

BAM!

He’d hesitated too long. The door jolted open. The wood smacked against Jimmy’s shoulder and the handle stabbed into his ribs. Before he could react, an enormous figure barrelled into the room. Another followed—two huge policemen, made even more bulky by the Hawk-801 body armour. Jimmy was knocked to the floor, but his powers were already working, fizzing through him.

His fingers had locked around the door handle and as he fell he kicked out, jamming his heel into the lowest hinge. With a crack of splintering wood, the door came free from its frame and followed Jimmy down. Before the two policemen even had time to turn their heads, Jimmy jumped up, leaning his shoulder into the door. It battered the first policeman, then Jimmy kicked the bottom half of it up to crunch one edge into the second man.

Through their grunts and moans, Jimmy picked out two noises. One was the crackle of a police radio. Backup was on the way. The second noise was the click of a Sig Sauer P229 sidearm.

Jimmy didn’t want to wait to find out whether they’d really shoot a child. He couldn’t even be sure that they’d seen who it was in the room—that’s how fast Jimmy had moved. Instead he charged towards the empty doorway. If back-up was on the way, that meant there was probably nobody covering the corridor or the exterior of the building.

Then came the shot. To Jimmy the sound of it wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t even shocking. All human responses had shrunk away, swamped in an instant by his programmed instincts. The small explosion of the gun was almost pathetic compared to how Jimmy had anticipated it in his mind. And the anticipation of an assassin had yet again saved his life.

Jimmy had already twisted the unhinged door to hold it behind his back. The bullet imbedded itself in the wood with a feeble thud. Another shot followed, but by then Jimmy had dropped the door and disappeared.

While his limbs pumped with such power and speed, Jimmy felt supremely calm. It was as if his nerves were coated in something that numbed them to the fear, but still heightened his alertness. He raced out of the building, feeling almost as if he was flying. The drizzle on his face felt refreshing. The sirens in his ears were like hunting horns, driving him on faster and harder.

Jimmy knew exactly where he was going. Hailsham was only a small town and his system had easily absorbed the layout of the streets. More than that, he was suddenly aware that his legs were powering him along a predetermined escape route. The assassin had already planned for this.

He pounded away from the high street, cutting through the stillness, a bolt of heat in the rain. His steps reverberated louder as he left the sirens further behind. He wove along the residential streets of endless, identical houses, then cut through an industrial estate and vaulted the iron fence at the back in one huge leap.

Now security lights gave way to darkness, but Jimmy had no doubt where he was. He’d found his way back to the playing field of All Saints School, where he’d arrived earlier that night. Despite the mud, his pace hardly dropped. In seconds he had crossed two football pitches and was climbing into the cockpit of a Tiger Hellfire IV helicopter, which was just where he’d left it.

His chest heaved, but every breath of cold air seemed to pull in more strength to keep him going. Before he’d even strapped on his helmet, his hands were already darting over the controls and the chopper rose several metres off the turf. He carefully balanced the roll of the machine, but at the same time he reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled ball of newspaper he’d snatched at the office. There was one thing he had to find: a doctor.

For a second Jimmy was mesmerised by his fingertips. A blue tint had bloomed across his nails and into the skin alongside. It seemed to glow in the faint light, reflecting the LED display on the chopper’s control panel. The sight made Jimmy feel sick. So far this was the only visible damage from the one thing that put him in more immediate danger than anything else. More than the police scouring the town for him, more than the British Secret Services, more yet than the assassin instincts inside him that were gradually overwhelming his human mind. As if all that wasn’t enough, he had radiation poisoning.

The French Secret Service had tricked him and left his body damaged by massive over-exposure to uranium and actinium. A fully human body would have been destroyed by now, Jimmy was sure. But he had no idea how the radiation was affecting him. He just knew he had to find a doctor who could help him as soon as possible. He scrabbled through the pages of the newspaper. His eyes scanned the text with the processing speed of a computer, letting each sheet fly away into the night when he was finished with it. At last he came to a directory of local health services.

By now he had brought the helicopter above the line of the buildings around the field. He hovered there. Where should he go? He studied the tiny print, his eyes’ natural night-vision enhancing the available light.

Jimmy knew it would take luck to find a doctor who would examine him willingly. He was an enemy of the State, and anybody helping him would surely be found and punished. But he knew that out there were other people against the system of Neo-democracy. Jimmy had to find a doctor who not only had the expertise to treat radiation poisoning, but wasn’t afraid to stand up to the Government.

A thought burst into life. If the doctor’s afraid, it hissed, use force.

Jimmy’s heart jolted at the violence in his own head. The power of the darkness inside him was growing and it shocked him, even though he knew that in this case it was right. He would probably have to at least threaten violence to convince a doctor to help him.

He scrunched up the last sheet of the Hailsham Gazette and hurled it out of the cockpit. There was only one place Jimmy had any chance of finding a hospital with the right, modern equipment—and the right doctor. He ran his fingers over the control units of the chopper and tore through the sky towards London. In seconds, he was away from Hailsham, soaring over open country.

Suddenly, Jimmy heard a sound. A distant thud. His eyes jumped to the horizon. At first all he could make out were the shapes of the clouds against the night sky. Then he picked out a tiny flash. Soon there was another just alongside it. They disappeared behind a cloud for a second, then emerged brighter. Not brighter, thought Jimmy. Closer.

Only then did the helicopter’s 2012 four-beam Doppler radar system confirm it. Two planes. It hadn’t taken long for the police to identify who had broken into the local newspaper, and these days the Secret Service kept a constant watch on the police. Jimmy’s only surprise was that it had taken them this long to send the Royal Air Force.

He felt a sudden swirl of panic that his programming quickly crushed. Forward, he heard throbbing in his brain. Faster. But the chopper wasn’t fast enough. His ears could pick out the sounds of the two planes ripping through the clouds towards him. He was exposed. A single shot would take him out.

With the flick of a finger he shut off the lights on his helicopter. The Nomex Honeycomb panels and Kevlar skin of the chopper made tracking it by radar almost impossible at the best of times. If Jimmy stayed dark and low enough he could escape precision guidance systems on the planes’ missiles. Now the pilots would have to rely on their own aim, and that gave Jimmy his chance.

The display on his control panel still glowed, as did the banks of LED lights and switches. Even that was too bright. Jimmy didn’t want to give the planes any chance of seeing what they were aiming at. His hands darted across the controls, overriding the onboard computer to shut off any system that gave off a light.

Now Jimmy’s senses prickled, heightening his awareness in a way he’d never experienced before. Every tiny ripple of air tingled the hairs on his forearms. His eyes flickered hundreds of times a second, his night-vision illuminating his path in a faint blue haze, giving his reactions precious extra split-seconds to guide the machine.

He could feel the grip of the assassin on his muscles, holding them steady, guiding his limbs. The power of the Tiger Hellfire surged through the mechanism around him. It was as if his body had a direct connection to the 1200 kW turboshaft engines. His slightest thought impacted on his flight path before he even knew what he was doing.

He crossed a motorway, the helicopter low enough for the runners to whoosh over the car roofs. He dodged between two lorries expertly. Still he could sense the presence of the planes holding a position above him, like hovering eagles waiting to swoop on a vole.

Even in the darkness Jimmy could see the animals in the fields scampering away. He dipped beneath every telegraph wire, leapt over every fence and swung past the front door of every farmhouse. Meanwhile, the engines rumbled, straining to push the chopper beyond its supposed maximum velocity.

The planes kept pace with him. Their two floodlights danced across the fields with Jimmy, sometimes catching him in their glare, but only for tantalising glimpses. Jimmy was making it impossible for them to fire at him, but he still wasn’t getting away. It was no good, he thought. Even if he reached London, he would never be able to land.

Then he realised that NJ7 had no intention of this chase ever making it that far. Rising up from the horizon ahead of him were more than a dozen black dots. A cluster of state-of-the-art military helicopters. Each one held steady, just above the land. Then, as one, a dozen sets of floodlights flashed into life. Jimmy squinted in the glare and felt the sweat break out on his forehead. And NJ7 could see every drop.

02 TUNNEL VISION

There was nowhere to hide. Jimmy wanted to throw up his hands, or brace himself for the explosion of the missiles, but his body wouldn’t let him. The lights from the enemy choppers had shown the assassin in him a new way out. They lit up a track that crossed directly between them and Jimmy. And approaching slowly from the right, like a worm across a battlefield, was a train.

Instead of turning his helicopter around, or even slowing down, Jimmy charged straight ahead. The helicopters confronting him did the same, moving towards him as a pack. They were hunters, designed and built to complete a mission with total efficiency—and a zero failure rate.

But so was Jimmy. His eyes locked on to the train. His muscles relaxed when he should have been growing more tense. It was as if some chemical had been injected into his system to make his limbs more supple and give him greater control. But it all came from within.

He was nearing the tracks now, winning the race with the choppers ahead of him. The planes overhead fired two rockets, but Jimmy was already into his defensive manoeuvre. He dodged so quickly that he didn’t have time to be afraid. The explosion rocked the cabin, but it was the ground behind him going up in flames, not him.

At last he reached the tracks and turned. The detour to avoid the rockets had worked in his favour. It had given the train time to reach him. Jimmy slowed to keep pace with it and once again brought the chopper as low as it would go, gliding past the telegraph poles, wires and signals, sheltering alongside the last carriage of the train.

The fleet of NJ7 helicopters circled over the top, then wheeled round to follow, just behind the train. Jimmy could almost feel himself smiling, against his will. Something inside him was revelling in the danger and the furious pace, responding to it with a detached fury of its own.

Jimmy switched his display system back on. The lights didn’t matter now, and he needed to keep track of his pursuers. What he saw surprised him. They were pulling back. When Jimmy looked up, he realised why. Only a few hundred metres ahead, the track went into a tunnel. Jimmy was hurtling directly towards the side of a hill.

Pull up, he pleaded with himself. But his body flicked away his fear. Please, he begged, battling his own instincts. His body wasn’t responding. The ground loomed towards him. Was this part of his programming, he wondered. Perhaps he was destined to destroy himself to avoid capture.

The world seemed to slow down around him. Every clump of mud in the hillside was cast into sharp relief by the floodlights behind. The sharp outline of his own helicopter’s shadow grew rougher and rougher, larger and larger. There was nowhere to go. Above and around him was a net of military firepower controlled by NJ7. Ahead of him was solid earth, with no way through.

Through, Jimmy thought. Of course. At last he realised what his programming was planning. With split-second timing, Jimmy’s hands heaved on the controls. The helicopter slowed momentarily, darted sideways, then charged along the track, directly behind the train.

Jimmy plunged into the tunnel, but the rotors of the chopper were too wide. They snapped off with a powerful crunch and shattered in every direction. Jimmy knew he had no control now. All he could hear was the piercing screech of his runners scraping along the track. In the fountain of sparks, Jimmy saw that the nose of his cabin was pressing against the back of the train.

This was only half the plan. For the rest, he had to move faster than he ever had before. He swung himself out of his seat and around the side of the helicopter. The metal casing was burning hot to the touch, but he wasn’t holding it long enough to care. The friction of the tracks was slowing the chopper, while the train powered ahead. Before a gap could open up between them, Jimmy flung himself forwards, pouring all of his strength into stretching for a safe landing.

The back of the train seemed to jump up and smack him in the face. The impact knocked all the wind from his chest. The tips of his fingers caught a metal rim of some part of the carriage, but he couldn’t even see what he was clinging on to. Somehow he managed to claw his way round to the side of the train for a firmer grip and closed his eyes against the rush of wind and dust in his face.

The train burst out of the tunnel with the body of the chopper bouncing behind it. Jimmy opened his eyes to see that the whole airborne fleet was there waiting for him. Within a second, the sky was lit up with the blast of rockets. Jimmy gasped and clenched every muscle. He couldn’t believe it—NJ7 were actually going to blow up a train full of innocent passengers just to kill him.

But they weren’t. Instead, the rockets slammed into the broken and battered helicopter he’d just left. The rotorless body of the chopper erupted into a huge ball of flame. It tumbled along the track, spitting fire and debris in a huge circle around it.

Jimmy rattled on towards London, untouched.

The Cavendish Hotel on London’s Jermyn Street offered five-star accommodation from a past era. It was one of the city’s oldest remaining independent hotels, but everybody knew it wouldn’t survive for long. Hardly any tourists were allowed into the country these days, and there was no reason for British people to come and stay, even if they could afford it. That left only wealthy foreign businessmen, and most of them had better taste than to stay within the Cavendish’s sprawling corridors, with its peeling paintwork and lights dim enough to hide the stains on the walls.

More importantly to Zafi Sauvage, the service was erratic. For example, the management team didn’t care enough to ask each other about her—the pretty twelve-year-old girl who had recently appeared on the cleaning staff. As long as her uniform was tidy and she appeared busy with something, successive managers each assumed she was on work-experience for somebody else. It was an assumption Zafi nurtured through artful manipulation.