Zeno Effect

Andrew Tudor

Description

It is the year 2029 and the United Kingdom is no longer united.Scotland and England have become uneasy neighbours, while across the planet unchecked population growth continues to ravage the environment. When a disillusioned scientist releases a genetically engineered virus, the spread of disease and of social disorder will shatter the lives of so many. This is the Zeno effect.Alison MacGregor, a Scientific Liaison Officer for the Scottish government, is among the first to receive leaked information about the Zeno virus, knowledge that will profoundly influence her fate as well as that of three others who are also privy to the secret. These include Irene Johnson, her best friend's mother and a Senior Scientific Adviser to the English government; Jonathan Hart, Director of England's Domestic Security Division, who is increasingly disturbed by his own government's policies, and young journalist, Julie Fenwick.When the crisis deepens, the lives of these four intersect as they grapple with violence, military rule, and apocalyptic religion, obliging them to journey across an increasingly fraught landscape in search of safety.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 16 janvier 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789019452
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Andrew Tudor

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1789019 452

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Freya
In the hope that the world in which she grows
up turns out better than the one portrayed here
Contents
Prologue

Part 1
INCUBATION
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9

Part 2
ONSET
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10

Part 3
FEVER
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12

Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
The man in the white coat stood up and stretched. Bending over a microscope was particularly uncomfortable for someone so tall, and he felt the click of bones moving back into position as he lifted his arms and arched his back to ease the stiffness. The bench in front of him was busy with equipment: racks of glassware, a computer, implements of various kinds, a thermal cycler, as well as the microscope. His was but one bench in a large open-plan laboratory, presently filled with late summer light from windows that looked out onto the Wiltshire countryside. Or, at least, that part of it that could be seen beyond the high fencing that wound away in either direction. Other than him, the lab was empty. It was Friday and his co-workers had embarked on their weekends some time earlier. Pleading a pressing set of tests to finish he had remained behind, though truth be told he had no reason to get home early and there were things to do which were best done when he was alone.
Retrieving a sealed container from an iris-authenticated secure store, he carried it across the lab to a glovebox and placed it inside along with a needle syringe and a small blue-labelled bottle. Then, closing the cabinet, he eased his hands into its gloves and taking great care not to spill any of its contents, he opened the container. With the syringe he transferred a small quantity of clear liquid from container to bottle, resealing both when he had finished. Retrieving his kit from the glovebox, he dumped the syringe in the secure waste bag, returned the container to storage, and slipped the bottle into his pocket. The whole process had taken only a few minutes but, he thought with a private smile, its ramifications would rumble on for years.
His business complete, he hung the white coat on his peg, replaced it with a nondescript jacket, collected his briefcase and left the lab. There was a security barrier at the entrance foyer to the building, manned by a uniformed guard and equipped with surveillance cameras and X-ray screening.
“You’re the last out, Dr Livermore,” the guard said, running the briefcase through his equipment as Livermore emptied his pockets into a tray. “Still getting the hay fever then?” the guard added, seeing the small bottle among the other bits and pieces.
“Yes, it’s not good at the moment, but” – Livermore pointed at the bottle – “that stuff helps with the eyes. Just as well really, having to work with screens and a microscope.”
“That’s you through. Enjoy your weekend. Any special plans?”
“A few things that need doing, but not much. See you next week, Graham.”
With that, Livermore reclaimed his possessions and headed out to his car, one of only three remaining in the car park. Once it was disconnected from the charging post, he set the car’s auto-destination and was on his way home. A matter of twenty minutes or so to his house in the little village of Pitton.
At home he sat for a while absent-mindedly staring through the window at his small garden. What to do next? Perhaps he would walk up to the Silver Plough and eat there. It was still a little too early for the evening rush when the shuttles from Salisbury would deposit their weekend revellers, so he would be able to find a quiet corner. Yes, that was a good idea. He deserved not to labour in his own kitchen on this evening of all evenings. Besides, the few minutes’ walk to the pub would be a pleasant diversion in such splendid weather.
As he expected, the pub had only a scattered handful of customers.
“Evening, Charles,” the barman greeted him. “A half is it?”
“No, a pint tonight I think, and I’d like to order some food.”
“A special occasion?” asked the barman with a wry grin – Charles was not known for excessive or even moderate drinking.
“Not really. Just that kind of mood, I guess. I’ll have the rabbit casserole and a side salad.”
“Right you are. Shouldn’t be long while we’re still quiet.”
Charles found himself a table from where he could take in the whole pub and fell into a kind of reverie, looking at the other customers but without really seeing them. Odd to think that he would never come in here again after so many years, first with his father and then, after his parents died, on his own. It was a familiar place, pleasant enough in its own way even for somebody like Charles who wasn’t much inclined towards sociability. Decent food too, he reminded himself as he set about his meal.
By the time he had finished eating the shuttle buses were arriving and the noise level was becoming uncomfortable. Waving to the barman, he made his way out through the crowds, his now vacant table instantly occupied by a partying group who were commandeering chairs to put around it almost before he had got up to go. Definitely time for home, he thought, and to prepare for tomorrow.
Back in the house, he dragged a cardboard box from the depths of the under-stairs cupboard and carefully arranged its contents on the dining table: a pair of rubber gloves, a mask and protective goggles, a syringe, and three anonymous-looking 100ml spray bottles. From a drawer he took a dozen or so small blue-labelled eye-drop containers identical to the one already in his pocket, and these too were placed in an orderly group on the table top. Then, wearing gloves, mask and goggles, for each of the eye-drop containers he reversed the procedure that he had followed in the lab earlier that evening until the spray bottles were partly filled. Not too full, he told himself; best that they look ordinary and well used.
What a mixed blessing it had been to be brought up to be so meticulous, he reflected, as he returned the now empty eye-drop containers to the drawer and the other bits and pieces to the cupboard, leaving only the three spray bottles neatly lined up on the table. He sat looking at them for some time, fascinated by the ordinariness of their appearance and the extraordinariness of their contents, then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he crossed the room to switch on the television.
The main evening news had just begun, a familiar recitation of the troubles of the world which could serve only to stiffen his resolve. Or so he hoped. The presenter, blandly charming as always, was in the midst of explaining the latest diplomatic tensions between the determinedly independent Scotland and the surviving UK, a relationship fed half by mutual recrimination and half by the geographical and economic necessity of co-operation between two governments of such dramatically different political persuasions. Charles paid scant attention to the details; as far as he was concerned they would soon be of no significance.
When the bulletin turned to international matters, however, he focused on the screen almost voraciously. “Water levels are rising faster than expected,” announced a reporter, behind whom the ocean was lapping against beachfront bars and cafés which had clearly once hosted the holidaymakers who could be seen beyond them on higher ground. “Representatives of the Confederation of Low-lying Communities are appealing to the United Nations to provide further practical and economic support.” A graphic showing the rate of reduction of Antarctic ice was matched by another showing the flooding of islands across the world. “Even on the major continental landmasses settlements are now at risk,” the reporter added, leading into a montage of shots of coastal cities in a number of countries where rising levels were all too apparent.
Its allocated five minutes complete, the televised disasters of climate change gave way to the even more visually dramatic disasters of warfare, terrorism, poverty and social disorder. “Going to hell in a handcart,” Charles muttered, a phrase of which his father had been unduly fond and which Charles had come to appreciate more and more. “Enough,” he said out loud, as much to the larger world as to the television, and switching it off he took a final look at the three bottles in their neat row on the table. They were ready. He was ready. Tomorrow was th