Authors: Sam Hawksmoor
The Hunting
Also by Sam Hawksmoor
The Repossession
Text copyright © 2012 Sam Hawksmoor
First published in Great Britain in 2012
by Hodder Children’s Books
This ebook edition published in 2012
The right of Sam Hawksmoor to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing from the publishers or in the case of reprographic production in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 444 90545 8
Hodder Children’s Books
A division of Hachette Children’s Books
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
An Hachette UK company
For the YA bloggers from all over that came to the support of Genie and Rian. And thanks to their blogs I discovered a whole host of books I now want to read.
Thanks too to Beverley and Naomi for guiding
The Hunting
through the editorial process at Hodder and Michelle for the brilliant covers. Cheers also to my former students at Portsmouth who kept the faith and will one day be on everyone’s iPads and Kindles themselves.
Test Subject
C
arson Strindberg was in the observation room at the Fortress. The assembled technicians were tense, the atmosphere electric. No one wanted anything to go wrong. Strindberg, the new boss of Fortransco, had a reputation of being hard to please, ruthless with anyone who screwed up. All their jobs were on the line.
The clock said twenty-three hundred hours. A preliminary countdown had already begun. This would be Strindberg’s first teleport experience and he was secretly very excited. This was where all the billions had been spent. Everything came down to mere nanoseconds of intense concentrated power.
The test subject was a hitchhiker from Newfoundland brought in by Strindberg himself. The kid had no idea of what was to come. Only that he’d get two thousand dollars cash for just standing very still under bright hot lights. They’d shaved his head, got him wearing a white close-fitting T-shirt and shorts. The way he figured it – he was broke – this would be the easiest two thousand dollars he’d ever make.
The technicians in their spacesuits had to maintain a pristine atmosphere. The only DNA in the teleport chamber would be the hitchhiker’s. There could be no shortcuts with Strindberg watching.
Twenty-five seconds flashed on the lab wall in big red numbers.
Strindberg had given him a ride on his way to the airfield. The kid considered it his lucky day when an Aston Martin Virage Volante rag top slowed to a stop beside him. He’d been waiting for a ride for hours and almost given up. He’d always wanted to ride in an Aston and getting picked up by the silver-haired short guy had been the luckiest thing that had happened to him since he’d reached B.C.
‘Cool car,’ he’d said, putting his knapsack in the small trunk.
‘Broke? Need money?’ Strindberg had asked as he drove. ‘We’re looking for young test subjects like you.’
‘Test subject?’
‘Observation experiment, new sub-atomic enhancement process. Got anything you always wished you could get rid of? That birthmark on your neck, for example. We could erase that, give you a perfect neck.’
The kid instinctively pulled his collar up. It had been the cause of much strife in his life. Been teased and bullied about it for years.
‘We can take care of that, for free,’ Strindberg had informed him casually.
‘So it’s like plastic surgery?’ he’d asked, trying not to sound interested.
‘But better, faster, non-invasive. Zero pain and comes with full restoration of an unblemished neck. Cost you twenty thousand dollars to get that removed privately – more, probably.’
‘Really?’ It sounded too good to be true.
‘Really. We do a complete DNA map of your body. I mean complete and it’s just a blast of sub-atomic particles and you’re practically perfect again.’
‘Practically?’
‘We can take care of blemishes, but we can’t fix psychological problems. Been backpacking long? When did you last let your folks know where you are?’
‘Haven’t logged on since I left St John’s. Wanted to take time to think, y’know. I wanted a lot to think about … experiences.’
Strindberg had smiled. Perfect. A complete loner. No one to ask questions. He drove to the waiting chopper that would take them to the Fortress.
They had bounced across the field towards the waiting helicopter, a Sikorsky S-92. The kid was impressed, it was huge and the Fortransco logo on the side was somehow reassuring that they wouldn’t stiff him the money. Living on the road had taught him a lot about whom to trust. The waiting crew opened the car doors and were all smiles.
‘One Newfie volunteer. Make him comfortable,’ Strindberg told the crew. ‘What’s the weather like at the Fortress?’
‘Wet, windy. Not ideal,’ the pilot told him.
Strindberg shrugged. ‘Well, we have to go. They’re waiting for me.’ He turned to the kid. ‘Coming?’
The kid had seemed impressed. An Aston Martin and a chopper ride all in one day. He’d hesitated a moment and Strindberg smiled, putting an arm around his shoulder to reassure him.
‘I think you’re going to be impressed by this outfit,’ he told him. ‘They just had a major breakthrough. I’m going there now to do some reorganization.’
‘Can I get paid up front?’ the kid had asked.
Strindberg grinned and reeled him in. ‘Absolutely. I’m afraid you can’t eat until after, but we’ll make sure you go away happy. Guarantee it.’ He looked at the kid, knew that he was going to do it. He wanted the ride on the chopper. Desperately needed that two thousand dollars. ‘Name’s Carson Strindberg, by the by. One day soon we’re going to be one of the world’s biggest cosmetic restructuring companies. That’s why we need test subjects. You won’t regret it.’
The kid had grinned and practically jumped up on to the chopper.
This really was his lucky day.
Twenty seconds.
And now almost ten hours later, hungry and thirsty, despite the glass of thick orange juice they had just made him swallow, he stood waiting, staring at the men and women in spacesuits as they scanned his body, collating his DNA. Without his hair, the birthmark was huge, from his neck and right across his left shoulder. That too had to be taken into account and mapped so the skin tone that replaced it would be the same as the rest of his body.
The countdown moved to fifteen seconds. He briefly thought of the money paid to him, lying in the locker in the anteroom. He’d head north almost immediately. He wanted to go to Alaska before winter set in – maybe get a job. Anything would do, just as long as he didn’t have to go back to St John’s.
He focused on the light.
‘We want you to relax. Focus on the blue light ahead of you.’
Strindberg watched keenly from the observation room as a technician adjusted the cameras recording the event. ‘These are the exact conditions that prevailed when Genie Magee transmitted?’
‘Exact, sir, except for the fire. Didn’t think we should try to replicate that.’
Strindberg watched the kid and thought how relaxed and trusting he was, totally unsuspecting. Genie Magee had been like this too on her transmission recording. She had looked so relaxed. Or resigned, perhaps.
Five seconds.
The Chief Technician arrived and took the seat next to Strindberg.
‘You fond of executions, Chief? Hadn’t expected to see you here.’
The Chief attempted a smile. ‘This might work this time.’
Strindberg made a note of the Chief’s ‘might’.
‘You’re sure this is an exact replication of Genie Magee’s transmission test?’ Strindberg asked again. He didn’t take his eyes off the platform or TV screen showing the empty teleport chamber over in Synchro thirty-five kilometres away.
Two seconds.
The transmission signal went to green for go. The platforms were in synch.
A warning buzzer sounded, signalling a transmission was about to begin.
The kid vanished from the platform. Strindberg was astonished.
It worked
. The damn thing really worked. All those billions hadn’t been wasted after all.
Almost instantly the boy reappeared on the Synchro teleport platform. His birthmark was gone. He opened his eyes, blinked – then exactly three point six seconds later spectacularly exploded in a hot flash, casting a black shadow on the curved white wall. Some blood traces trickled down from uncarbonized bits of flesh on the remote camera lens.
Strindberg was momentarily shocked. The Chief held his silence.
‘DNA capture ninety-nine point six per cent,’ the computer announced dispassionately. ‘Subject partially stored on servers 18000 to 19450. Test subject conscious for three point zero zero three seconds.’
Strindberg, recovering, pursed his lips. He was annoyed. He didn’t know if they got carbon blowback because the kid was only ninety-nine point six per cent transmitted or what? He needed answers. Clearly this almost worked, but
almost
was completely lethal.
‘I want a complete analysis on my desk in an hour. Check the stability algorithms. I want to know what that missing zero point four per cent was and why it hasn’t come through. I want solutions, people. Now.’
Strindberg stomped out of the room, glancing briefly at the TV screen showing the carbonized shadow on the Synchro teleport chamber wall. It struck him that it looked a lot like an angel with its wings outstretched.