bulk of the room was taken up by long tables. In one corner stood a chair, adorned with leather straps and metal appendages. This was the only thing in the room which caused Dora to shudder. It did not seem to her that anything good would befall a person who found themselves strapped into such a contraption.
‘Who are you and what is going on?’ asked Kaz.
The man shook his head and smiled, unintimidated by the gun. ‘Same old Kaz,’ he said, almost fondly. He slowly put the backpack over his shoulder.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘There’s no time for small talk. The bomb won’t keep them occupied for long. We have to move quickly and quietly. I’ll explain later. All you need to know is that I’m here to help and you have to trust me.’
Kaz shook his head. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’
‘Look, I understand,’ said the man. ‘You’re confused and angry, you don’t know what’s happening and you want to run. I get it. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel exactly the same way. But the truth is that without my help you have absolutely no chance of escape. They’ll pick you up, put you back in front of the mind probe, let you finish your story and then, when they’ve got everything they need, they’ll kill you.’
Kaz stepped forward and rested the cold metal gun barrel against the man’s forehead. ‘I don’t believe you. This is some kind of trick. You’re the man who brought me here, why would you let me go?’
The man’s face blurred and shimmered. Kaz recoiled in horror as he found himself standing face to face with … himself.
‘Chameleon shroud,’ said his doppelgänger as his face shimmered again, this time turning into that of Dora. ‘It’s a disguise, see? I’m not Sweetclover, the man who brought you here, but if I look like him, these guards will follow my orders. I can simply march you straight out the front door, get it?’
Kaz was beginning to waver. ‘So who are you, then?’ he asked as the man shimmered back into Lord Sweetclover.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘For now, can we go, please?’
After a second’s consideration Kaz nodded. ‘Don’t suppose I have any choice.’ He lowered the gun.
‘Don’t suppose you do.’ The man stooped down and began rifling through the guard’s pockets.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Kaz warily.
The man stood, holding a chipped key-card. ‘OK, we have three things we need to do before we can leave. First, we need to get the recording from the mind probe. We can’t let them keep your life story, it’ll cause too much disruption. Second, we need to find the chip they’ve taken from Jana. Then we need to round up the girls.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Kaz. ‘Can you at least tell me your name?’
The man smiled. ‘You can call me Steve.’
The real Sweetclover was feeling a lot less cheerful as he surveyed the wreckage of what looked like a very expensive motorbike, strewn across the road outside the complex’s main gate. Around him stood five short men in heavy black riot gear – Kevlar helmets and chest plates, black uniforms and heavy boots. They carried very big guns and their faces were obscured by mirrored visors on their helmets, but their uniformity went beyond their clothing and equipment.
Unlike the rest of the guards, these five stood motionless as if reserving their formidable power for when it was most needed. All roughly the same height and build, they stood with exactly the same posture. Even a person accustomed to facing riot police would have found these men unusually unsettling, their lack of individuality a physical manifestation of something sinister and repressive.
Sweetclover turned to the gatekeeper, who was eyeing the five riot guards nervously. ‘And nobody’s approached the gate since it blew?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ replied the twitchy gatekeeper.
‘And there’s nothing on any of the perimeter cameras, all the other guard posts
‘Who are you and what is going on?’ asked Kaz.
The man shook his head and smiled, unintimidated by the gun. ‘Same old Kaz,’ he said, almost fondly. He slowly put the backpack over his shoulder.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘There’s no time for small talk. The bomb won’t keep them occupied for long. We have to move quickly and quietly. I’ll explain later. All you need to know is that I’m here to help and you have to trust me.’
Kaz shook his head. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’
‘Look, I understand,’ said the man. ‘You’re confused and angry, you don’t know what’s happening and you want to run. I get it. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel exactly the same way. But the truth is that without my help you have absolutely no chance of escape. They’ll pick you up, put you back in front of the mind probe, let you finish your story and then, when they’ve got everything they need, they’ll kill you.’
Kaz stepped forward and rested the cold metal gun barrel against the man’s forehead. ‘I don’t believe you. This is some kind of trick. You’re the man who brought me here, why would you let me go?’
The man’s face blurred and shimmered. Kaz recoiled in horror as he found himself standing face to face with … himself.
‘Chameleon shroud,’ said his doppelgänger as his face shimmered again, this time turning into that of Dora. ‘It’s a disguise, see? I’m not Sweetclover, the man who brought you here, but if I look like him, these guards will follow my orders. I can simply march you straight out the front door, get it?’
Kaz was beginning to waver. ‘So who are you, then?’ he asked as the man shimmered back into Lord Sweetclover.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘For now, can we go, please?’
After a second’s consideration Kaz nodded. ‘Don’t suppose I have any choice.’ He lowered the gun.
‘Don’t suppose you do.’ The man stooped down and began rifling through the guard’s pockets.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Kaz warily.
The man stood, holding a chipped key-card. ‘OK, we have three things we need to do before we can leave. First, we need to get the recording from the mind probe. We can’t let them keep your life story, it’ll cause too much disruption. Second, we need to find the chip they’ve taken from Jana. Then we need to round up the girls.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Kaz. ‘Can you at least tell me your name?’
The man smiled. ‘You can call me Steve.’
The real Sweetclover was feeling a lot less cheerful as he surveyed the wreckage of what looked like a very expensive motorbike, strewn across the road outside the complex’s main gate. Around him stood five short men in heavy black riot gear – Kevlar helmets and chest plates, black uniforms and heavy boots. They carried very big guns and their faces were obscured by mirrored visors on their helmets, but their uniformity went beyond their clothing and equipment.
Unlike the rest of the guards, these five stood motionless as if reserving their formidable power for when it was most needed. All roughly the same height and build, they stood with exactly the same posture. Even a person accustomed to facing riot police would have found these men unusually unsettling, their lack of individuality a physical manifestation of something sinister and repressive.
Sweetclover turned to the gatekeeper, who was eyeing the five riot guards nervously. ‘And nobody’s approached the gate since it blew?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ replied the twitchy gatekeeper.
‘And there’s nothing on any of the perimeter cameras, all the other guard posts
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