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Chapter Twenty-Three

OCTOBER 2095

Josiah

“Why don’t you unpack while I load up a cash card for you,” Josiah said when they returned to his house.

Alexander disappeared upstairs with his bag, while Josiah took an empty cash card from the hallway bureau and added funds. He took it upstairs and knocked on the door of the spare room.

“Uh – you can come in. It’s your house,” Alexander said as he opened it.

“Yeah, but it seems rude, without knocking.”

He handed Alexander the cash card, then glanced around. The IS had already unpacked the Halo of Fire picture, which was standing on the bedside table. It was strange how important this picture seemed to be to him.

“I need to get to work,” Josiah told him. “Come downstairs, so I can run through a few things with you before I go.”

“You’re leaving me here? Alone?”

“Well, yeah. I can hardly work this particular case with a possible suspect trailing along behind me. Plus, if I drive you to Inquisitus in my duck the press will go nuts trying to get photos.”

“A possible suspect? This morning, I was your prime suspect. I seem to have been downgraded.” Alexander grinned .

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Josiah grinned back. “You’re confined to the house – don’t try to leave. I’ve set a perimeter alert on Tracker Plus, so if you set one foot outside the door it’ll sound an alarm. I can have the local police here within seconds.”

“Very thorough. I’ll try to be a good boy, then.” Alexander smiled seraphically.

“I suspect that’s never been your strong suit,” Josiah retorted. When Alexander gave a snort of laughter, he could have kicked himself. Was he flirting with the IS? He had to turn away and stomp off downstairs to stop himself joining in.

Alexander followed him back down into the living room, where Josiah gave him a few instructions. “If you need anything, order it online using the cash card and have it delivered.”

“Anything?” Alexander raised an eyebrow.

“Within reason. Remember, you really don’t want to piss me off.”

“Never.” Alexander gave him a sly wink.

He couldn’t help grinning in response. Something had changed between them at Dacre’s house; the formality had gone, and there was a sense of familiarity that he was enjoying far too much. Maybe he’d been alone for too long. “Also, help yourself to food. Any food. Make sure you eat.”

“Can I watch the screen?”

“Sure.” He turned it on, and the twenty-four-hour news feed automatically appeared.

“News – that’s what you usually watch?” Alexander queried.

“Yeah. Mostly.” That wasn’t entirely true. He remembered how he’d kicked back with Peter on the sofa, and they’d watched all kinds of different programmes – Peter had enjoyed shows Josiah thought were total garbage, but despite his best intentions, he’d usually become sucked into their absurd plotlines. There had been one particularly ludicrous detective drama that Peter had loved, and one of Josiah’s great pleasures had been pointing out everything they did wrong. Hattie had always joined them, her chin resting on any available knee or foot.

“Sir?” Alexander prompted softly .

“Sorry.” Josiah shoved the memory away. “Watch whatever you like.”

“Thank you.”

“The latest update on the Elliot Dacre murder is that, so far, Dacre’s indentured servant, Alexander Lytton, has not been charged,” the newsreader suddenly announced. Both men turned to look at the screen.

“It’s the latest scandal to hit the Lytton family, with Alexander Lytton once more at its heart.”

“Want me to turn it off?” Josiah asked.

“Yes.”

“We spoke to Charles Lytton, the famous Olympic and Paralympic gold medallist,” the newsreader continued.

“No,” Alexander said quickly.

The screen showed a big old house, surrounded by photographers, reporters, and film crews. The front door opened, and a broad-shouldered figure emerged, walking with a stiff, unsteady gait, holding on to a motorised wheelchair for support.

“Charles! Mr Lytton! Do you have any comment to make on your brother’s arrest?” a reporter asked, running across the wide driveway to accost Charles.

“He’s walking,” Alexander breathed, transfixed. “Last time I saw him, he was sitting in the wheelchair, not standing behind it.”

“They’ve made huge advances lately,” Josiah said. “Although, judging by how he’s holding on to the wheelchair, he’s not confident about his legs yet.”

“I didn’t know. Oh God – this is fantastic. I’m so happy for him.”

Onscreen, Charles gave an amiable smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”

“When did you last see your brother?”

“Not since he was sold as an IS – I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since that day.”

Alexander was gazing at his brother intently, visibly drinking in the sight of him. Josiah watched him, intrigued.

“Is it true that your father disowned him when he disgraced your family? ”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Charles’s amiable smile faltered. “Now, I’m so sorry, but I must leave. I have an appointment.”

“Charles! Charles! Do you think your brother is capable of murder? Did he murder Elliot Dacre?” the reporter demanded, pressing against the duck as Charles tried to climb in, blocking his path.

“Let him bloody well get into his duck,” Alexander said, his hands curling into fists. “He’s unsteady on his feet, for God’s sake.”

“I really don’t know. I don’t know anything about this poor man’s death,” Charles replied, looking visibly upset now. “Like I said, I haven’t seen my brother in several years.”

His legs suddenly gave way, and he hauled himself into the wheelchair to recover. Then, abandoning his attempt to leave, he glided back towards the house.

The screen cut back to the newsroom. “From teenage tearaway to national disgrace – and now a murder suspect. We examine the fall of Alexander Lytton.”

Alexander laughed, rolling his eyes, but Josiah was intrigued as the screen showed the mangled wreck of a duck on a country lane. Alexander’s laugh stopped abruptly.

“Lytton was expelled from three different boarding schools before the age of seventeen, and in 2082 was found responsible for the tragic duck accident that killed his mother and paralysed his famous brother.”

Archive film of a teenage Alexander visiting his brother in hospital after the crash flashed up. He was thinner then – slighter and less toned. His angular cheekbones were as sharp as razors, and his grey eyes looked huge in his pale face. He pushed determinedly through the media crush outside the hospital, somehow managing to look both devastated and defiant at the same time. Beside him was a grey-haired man who looked enough like him to be his father.

“Blood tests taken at the time of the accident proved that Lytton was high on the recreational drug known as crocodile tears. Four years later, he hit the news again when he lashed out at the paparazzi during the Paralympics in Mexico, on the eve of his brother’s gold medal triumph.”

Footage of Alexander, clearly drugged off his head, lashing out furiously at photographers and then falling down in the street, filled the screen.

“Then, just when it seemed that Lytton had turned his life around, he was found guilty of stealing a hundred and forty million pounds from his father’s company.”

Pictures of a barely recognisable Alexander being escorted into a courtroom came up. He looked gaunt, miserable, and as abjectly guilty as it was possible to look.

“He was sentenced to indentured servitude, both as punishment and to pay off the sum he had stolen. It seemed, at this point, that Alexander Lytton’s disgrace was complete.”

The report segued into footage of Alexander’s lawyer, a buffoon called Tobias Bailey, making a self-important speech on the court’s steps. Beside him, a distraught Charles Lytton sat in his wheelchair, his shoulders hunched, wiping tears from his cheeks with a handkerchief.

“Turn it off,” Alexander said abruptly. “They’ve already decided I’m guilty. I think you’re the only person on my side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just want to do my job and find whoever killed Elliot Dacre. Now, I have to go to work. I’ll log you on to the house network – I have no objection to you going online while I’m out, although you should bear in mind I’m tracking every site you visit. What password do you want?” Josiah grabbed his holopad and gazed at Alexander expectantly.

“How about ‘indiehunter’?” Alexander suggested.

Josiah glared at him. “I don’t think so. You can use ‘Hattie’.”

“Any reason?” Alexander glanced over his shoulder.

“None. Your access is restricted to safe sites only. I’ve got an old nanopad upstairs – you can have that in case of emergencies – any calls you make will be automatically recorded.”

He ran off upstairs to retrieve the nanopad, reactivated it, and then trotted back downstairs and handed it to Alexander.

“My nym is programmed in. Call me if there’s anything I need to know.”

“How about if I’m lonely and want to chat?” Alexander asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Then I am definitely not your man,” Josiah retorted .

“We can work on that.” Alexander grinned flirtatiously and pocketed the nanopad.

Shouldering himself into his jacket, Josiah departed. It felt strange leaving Alexander alone in his house, but he didn’t know what else to do with his unwanted IS. He’d been driving for barely five minutes when his holopad buzzed.

“You still alive?” Reed’s familiar voice asked.

“Yup, he didn’t try to kill me in my sleep despite all your dire warnings.”

“Bet he tried to seduce you, though.”

“If he did, I manfully resisted.”

Reed’s loud laugh reverberated around the duck. “Knew it.”

“Do you have any news for me?”

“Not really. Sarah says thanks for letting me go home last night. I’m sitting here wondering what your plan is for today and what you want me to do.”

“I want you to go through every item of Dacre’s personal correspondence – emails, letters, holochats, texts – and see if you can find out who made those offers to buy Alexander.”

“You really think that’s the key to all this?”

“It’s one line of enquiry. Keep going through the data and let me know if you spot anything. I’ll be in later.”

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to the personal trainer – D’Angelo Clark.”

“So, you still think Lytton is innocent?”

“Yes, but I also think this murder was about him, in some way. I’m just not sure how or why.”

He ended the call and continued driving, lost in thought. He mulled over the news report, trying to work out why it was bothering him. There was something. A niggle. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. He stowed it away to examine in more detail later.

Then he reflected on Alexander, cast forever in the public’s mind as irredeemably bad, judged and found guilty of any crime he was associated with, and all because of one mistake, made when he was a boy.

Josiah felt a certain affinity with him. Both of them had been given a reputation, accurate or not, and he knew what it was like to carry such a burden.

“You brought me to Rosengarten? Why the hell would you do that?” Josiah asked furiously.

The scarred landscape looked eerie in the sullen twilight. The ground was still black from the bomb blasts and artillery fire of the fierce battle fought here. The resulting blazes had lit up Rosengarten like a Christmas tree.

Charred tree trunks and burnt-out buildings marked the bleak landscape, although thick straggles of weeds were starting to carpet the area in shades of green.

“I thought you might want to lay some demons to rest,” Peter said mildly.

“Well, I don’t. I don’t have any. Let’s go.”

“Not yet. This is the site of a famous battle; I’d like to take a look around.” Peter jumped out of the jeep, Hattie by his side.

Josiah wrapped his arms around himself and stayed resolutely where he was. He watched, balefully, as Peter explored the old battlefield, with Hattie snuffling around enthusiastically next to him.

The damaged land disappeared into a massive lost zone that stretched for miles, broken only by little islands. Hamburg had once stood out there, a huge, thriving city with a long, proud history, now mostly buried under water. The influx of refugees after the Rising had created an instability that dogged the region to this day. Law and order were restored sporadically, but the outlaws and warlords always fought back.

Josiah didn’t know the wrongs and rights of it. He was just a soldier who went where he was sent. He’d never even heard the name Rosengarten until he’d arrived here with his unit to fight, and he hoped never to hear it again. Rosengarten was his past. His future, if he wanted it, was standing over there, with a sleek black dog sitting loyally by his side. Yet he knew Peter wouldn’t allow him that future until he’d faced his past .

Unwrapping his arms from around his body, he opened the jeep door, then walked slowly over to Peter and Hattie. He stood beside them, taking a long, hard look at the disfigured land. He could still feel the searing heat in his throat, hear the deafening roar of the shells exploding, and smell the choking stench of burnt flesh.

“We’d been driving the rebel forces back for miles,” he said tightly, surprising himself.

Peter was silent.

“Then we got here, to Rosengarten, and there was nowhere else for them to go except into the water. We thought they’d surrender, but they didn’t. I suppose they had nothing left to lose.”

Looking down, he realised Hattie was lying at his feet, her chin resting on his boots.

“We got into a pitched battle here – half my unit was killed early in the fighting, including all the officers. There was nobody in charge – it was bloody chaos. We were taking heavy fire, subject to constant drone attacks, hemmed in by rebel forces on all sides, and you know what?” He fought down another rush of adrenaline as he looked around at the blackened landscape.

“I loved it,” he breathed. “I fucking loved it, Peter. I loved the roar of the battle, and I loved having a faceless enemy to fight – people I could cut down without a single shred of remorse. I loved it here. This place, that’s so black and dead now, and where so many died – this is where I felt most alive. I’m ashamed, Peter – I’m ashamed that I’m this way. That’s why I didn’t want to come back.”

“You held off the rebels until relief arrived,” Peter said. “You may not like how it made you feel, but you took out a small army of enemy fighters single-handedly. I read the battle report – what you did here was impossibly heroic. If I hadn’t seen you in action with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. You’re a true soldier, Joe. You did your job.”

“But did I have to enjoy it so much?” he pleaded bitterly. “The army thought I was God’s gift – the great hero of Rosengarten – but I felt like a fraud.”

“You saved a lot of lives.”

“And took a hell of a lot, too. I had my unit to protect, you see. They were the closest thing I had to family. I tried to save them, but most of them died here.” He glanced around the place, feeling the dead weight of all that loss settle on him again.

“You did all you could,” Peter said gently.

“But they died anyway. People always do.” His mother, his father, his friend Jason, who’d died in the prizefighting ring. Then his unit. “I just keep losing everyone,” he murmured. “I couldn’t keep them alive, and God knows, I tried. I really did. That part hurts so much. I tried, and I failed.”

“You can’t keep everyone you care about alive. That’s not your job, Joe,” Peter said softly.

“Isn’t it?” Josiah gave a tight smile. “Later, in the hospital, a couple of the lads who survived came to visit me, and I could see they were looking at me differently. I didn’t want them seeing me as a hero. It was like a barrier went up between us, and they didn’t see me as me anymore.”

“So, you requested a transfer to the Peacekeeping Corps?”

“I couldn’t leave the military – it’s what I’m good at – but I couldn’t stay with my old unit, either. I needed a fresh start. I thought that if I didn’t let people get close, then I could keep the red mist at bay. Keep the fighting professional, if you like, and try not to get high on it.”

“I wondered why you were so aloof with everyone.”

“I thought I could do things differently this time around – and, mostly, it worked, but there was one thing I didn’t factor in.”

“What was that?”

“You.” Josiah glared at him. “All those cosy evening chats in your tent. Before long, I’d fallen head over heels and didn’t even realise it.”

Peter smiled. “You can’t shut people out forever, Joe. Now, what’s this about falling head over heels…?” He reached out and squeezed Josiah’s hand.

“You think you can handle me?” He raised an eyebrow.

Peter roared with laughter. “Oh, somehow I think I can, you big blond idiot.” Taking Josiah’s face between his hands, he kissed him.

Josiah rested his hands on Peter’s hips, pulled him close, and kissed him back. It was an altogether different embrace from the one they’d shared before, deeper and gentler. He felt a warm rush of relief. Finally, after all these years, he’d found someone to love .

“It’s dark, and we’re both tired. Why don’t we stay the night?” Peter suggested when they came up for air. “It’s a warm night. We could sleep out here, under the stars – together.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Peter hauled their bedrolls out of the jeep and threw them onto the ground. Josiah remained where he was, lost in a daze.

“Why are you still dressed, Sergeant?” Peter reached out to undo the buttons on his shirt.

“Just…is this really happening?” he asked in disbelief.

“God, I hope so,” Peter retorted. “I’ve been fantasising about it for long enough.”

“About me?” He blinked.

“Oh yeah. Wake up, Joe. You’re not the only one who fell head over heels.” Peter grinned.

He felt a warmth start in his belly and spread through his entire body. “You love me?”

“Madly.” Peter tugged him forward and kissed him again, several times.

“You do realise that fraternisation between officers and enlisted personnel is frowned upon, don’t you?” Josiah said between kisses.

“Hmm, yeah – so report me.” Peter kissed the side of his neck.

“No chance.” Slipping his hands under Peter’s shirt, he caressed his warm skin.

Easing Josiah’s shirt off his shoulders, Peter paused to examine the ring hanging around his neck on a thin gold chain. “Is there anyone I should know about, Joe?” he asked quietly.

Josiah was pleased to see that the charismatic Peter Hunt was capable of a little jealousy. “It’s my father’s wedding ring,” he explained. “It’s the only thing of his that I have. The only thing he really owned.”

Peter lifted the ring to his lips and kissed it, reverently, then tugged him forward by the chain and kissed him again, too.

Undressing each other slowly, they paused frequently to kiss, caress, and stroke. Peter’s body was earthy, solid, and totally perfect; Josiah thought he could happily spend a lifetime exploring it.

“How shall we…?” he murmured, nuzzling Peter’s ear .

Peter grabbed hold of his buttocks and pulled him in close. “I want you in me, soldier – now!” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Josiah snapped off a smart salute. “Uh…” He glanced around, wondering how best to improvise.

“My pack.” Peter rummaged in his knapsack and pulled out some Vaseline. Josiah remembered him using it to soothe his chapped hands after working on the convoy’s engines.

They made love slowly, under the moon and stars, on Rosengarten’s parched earth. Afterwards, Josiah lay cradled in Peter’s arms with Hattie’s solid weight on his feet, gazing up at the night sky.

“Was that better than fighting?” Peter asked.

Josiah smiled and brushed a lock of Peter’s dark hair away from his eyes. “Oh yes,” he whispered. “Much better.”