‘Oh, and, convict?’
Mulch sighed. ‘You mean me, I suppose, Julius?’
Root scowled. ‘It’s over, Mulch. You won’t escape again, so get your brain ready for cold food and hard walls.’
Mulch stood, presenting his back to the screen. Somehow the bum-flap on his specially adapted tunnelling trousers flopped open, presenting the commander with a lovely view of his rear end. In the dwarf world, presenting your behind was the ultimate insult, as it is in most cultures.
Commander Root terminated the link. After all, there was no come-back from an affront like that.
WEST OF WAJIR, KENYA, EAST AFRICA Loafers McGuire woke up with a debilitating headache. It was so painful that he felt obliged to come up with some imagery, in case he had to describe it later. His head felt, he decided, like there was an angry porcupine crawling around inside his cranium. Not bad, he thought. I should put that in the book.
Then he thought, what’s a book? His next thought was, who am I? Shoes, something to do with shoes.
It is always this way when memory-implant subjects first regain consciousness. The old identity hangs around for a few moments, trying to assert itself, until outside stimuli wash it away.
Loafers sat up and the porcupine went crazy, jamming needles into every square inch of his soft brain tissue.
‘Oh,’ groaned Loafers, cradling his aching skull. What did all this mean? Where was he? And how did he get here?
Loafers looked at his arms. For a second, his brain projected tattoos on to the skin, but the images quickly disappeared. His skin was unblemished. Sunlight rolled across his forearms like white lightning.
All around him was scrubland. Terracotta earth stretched away to indigo hills in the distance. A golden disc of sun blasted cracks in the shimmering earth. Two figures ran through the heatwaves, elegant as cheetahs.
The men were giants, easily seven feet tall. Each carried an oval hide shield, a thin spear and a mobile phone. Their hair, necks and ears were adorned with multicoloured beads.
Loafers jumped to his feet. Feet which, he noticed, were clad in leather sandals. The men were wearing Nikes.
‘Help,’ he cried. ‘Help me!’
The men altered their course, jogging across to the confused mobster.
‘Jambo, brother. Are you lost?’ asked one.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Loafers, in perfect Swahili. ‘I don’t speak Swahili.’
The man glanced at his partner.
‘I see. And what is you name?’
‘Loafers,’ said Loafers’ brain. ‘Nuru,’ said his mouth.
‘Well, Nuru. Unatoka wapi? Where are you from?’
The words were out before Loafers could do anything about it.
‘I don’t know where I’m from, but I want to go with you. To your village. That’s where I should be.’
The Kenyan warriors stared down at the little stranger. He was the wrong colour, true, but he seemed sane enough.
The taller of the two unhooked a mobile phone from his leopard-skin belt. He punched in the village chieftain’s number.
‘Jambo, Chief, this is Bobby. The earth spirits have left us another one.’
Bobby laughed, looking Loafers up and down.
‘Yes, he’s tiny, but he looks strong and he’s got a smile bigger than a peeled banana.’
Loafers stretched his smile, just in case it was a factor. For some reason, all he wanted in this world was to go to the village and live a productive life.
‘OK, Chief, I’ll bring him in. He can have the missionary’s old hut.’
Bobby clipped the phone back on to his belt.
‘Very well, brother Nuru. You’re in. Follow us, and try to keep up.’
The warriors set off at a brisk run. Loafers, henceforth to be known as Nuru, raced after them, his leather sandals flapping beneath his feet. He really would have to see about getting a pair of trainers.
One hundred and fifty feet over their heads, Captain Holly Short hovered, shielded from view, recording the entire incident.
‘Relocation complete,’ she said into her helmet mike. ‘The subject has been adopted successfully. No apparent signs of original personality. But he will be monitored at monthly intervals, just in case.’
Foaly was on the other end of the line.
‘Excellent, Captain. Return to shuttle port E77 immediately. If you open the throttle, you might just make the evening shuttle. We’ll have you back in Ireland in a couple of hours.’
Holly did not need to be told twice. It wasn’t often you got clearance for a speed run. She activated her radar in case of buzzards and set the stopwatch on her visor.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Let’s see if we can’t break the airspeed record.’
A record that Julius Root had set eighty years ago.
PART 2: COUNTERATTACK
CHAPTER 8: HOOKS, LINES AND SINKERS