After America (ww-2) by John Birmingham

Author:John Birmingham [Birmingham, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sci_tech

29

London "The armorer will see you now, ma'am."

The young gray-suited man pronounced it "marm."

"Thanks," she said. The occasional vestiges of Ye Olde England still amused her greatly. Caitlin swallowed the last of her thin, lukewarm instant coffee with a grimace. That didn't amuse her at all. It was nothing like the potent brew Bret made back on the farm, but it would have been churlish to refuse it. Such offers were not made lightly, even within the confines of the London Cage, where many of the privations suffered by the wider city were ameliorated by black budgets and secondary funding sources.

"I have a few of the usual suspects to see. I'll join you in the briefing room," said Dalby, excusing himself from the scarred Formica table and the trifling remains of a plate of fries-hereabouts known as chips-lying in a puddle of dark brown gravy. Dalby ate his chips with a knife and fork, which Caitlin also filed under Q, for quirk.

They shook hands, the Englishman being a stickler for the formalities. Indeed, the word "stickler" could have been invented just for him. Caitlin picked up her backpack and followed the younger officer out of the staff canteen and into a long corridor lined with closed doors and blacked-out windows. Somewhere nearby a man, or possibly a woman, was crying. Walking behind her escort, she noted that his hair was slightly longer than normal and his chin more heavily stubbled. She wondered if he had just come in from the field-unlikely, given the lowly nature of his duties today-or whether, like everyone else, he was feeling the hardships of the ration system. She was certainly missing the small luxuries of home life at the farm: the fresh eggs and milk, a loaf of bread baked in the wood-fired oven. And Bret and Monique, of course. She couldn't stop wondering how they were faring and how long it might be before she would see them again. Would the baby even recognize her? On cue, her leaky breasts began aching dully.

"Knock it off, asshole," she muttered to herself before mommy guilt could run away with her.

"Excuse me, marm?" asked the suit, turning his head as he continued to stride down the hallway.

"Don't sweat it." She smiled. "Talking to myself. First sign of madness."

"Very good, marm."

They reached a set of stairs at the end of the hall and descended three flights, which would have put them well below the river. The cinder block walls leaked moisture and in places had sprouted cancerous-looking growths between the bricks. Some of the lightbulbs had burned out, making the staircase something of a darkened well. At the very bottom they pushed through a pair of heavy rubber doors into a workshop, an area much better lit by fluorescent tubes and long-life bulbs. Dehumidifiers labored to suck the dampness out of the space with limited effect. The cement floor still had a moist color to it.

Workers in coveralls bent before workbenches laden with the tools of war. Racks of M16s lined the far wall where a couple of men were working with a larger rifle barrel.

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