The Gastropoda Imperative by Peter Barns (parable of the sower read online txt) 📕

The Gastropoda Imperative

Peter Barns

Published by Boddaert Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Peter Barns

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to

Derry and Ana

Marina Bar-Lagos-Portugal

for allowing me the use

of their premises to write

this novel

Conal Micthell, PA to Dermot Drewsbeck, multi-billionaire and sole owner of Tirolean Enterprises, was tense. He was running out of time and daylight. It was fast getting too dark to fly, and if he didn’t land the helicopter pretty soon, he stood a good chance of ending belly-up in the drink.

Giving a small grin of satisfaction, he relaxed. There it was, dead ahead, just off the Sussex coast, exactly where it should be. Flat Rock Island. Spot-on old son. No probs.

The island was aptly named, looking as it did, as though a giant with an outsize scimitar had sliced the top clean off. Conal swung out from the coast and headed in over the tear-shaped formation from the thin end, searching in the dimming light for the helipad. It had been a long time since he was last here, and he wasn’t too sure how the setup might have changed. He’d have to keep an eye peeled for any obstructions.

The project was situated in a natural indentation at the larger end of the island, or rather, the big slab of concrete that was its roof was. The laboratory itself was buried deep underground.

As Conal approached the helipad, the halogen lights edging the slab burst into life, and for a few precious seconds he was blinded.

“Damn! Bloody idiots. What the hell do they think they’re doing?”

Blinking back tears, Conal landed in the centre of the big white circle painted at one end of the slab and turned off the engine. Flicking switches, he sat waiting for the rotors to wind down. Giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dark, he jumped from the chopper and slammed the door, turning towards the entrance. He set off at a brisk pace, going through the bollocking he was going to give the idiot who’d just nearly blinded him.

As he strode across the concrete, a sudden thought struck him, and he shook his head at his own stupidity, giving a wry smile. The outside lights came on automatically at dusk; he’d been unlucky enough to be landing at that particular time. He couldn’t make out much of the island through the haze of the lights blazing all round him, just the single, lonely looking structure that was the project’s entrance.

Making his way towards the glass box stuck on the far side of the slab, he wiped a hand over his bald head, casting glances right and left as he went.

Conal was stocky, 1.7 metres tall and muscular. He always wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt and red tie, matched with grey slacks and highly polished shoes. His co-workers joked that he’d probably bought a job-lot years ago and hadn’t worked his way through them all yet.

Conal had been Dermot Drewsbeck’s PA for the last five years. The Old Man - as he referred to him in private - had head-hunted him after he’d left the Special Forces, making an offer so outrageous that he couldn’t turn him down. Over the years, he’d earned that money though, saving the Old Man’s neck on more than one occasion.

Conal was edgy, and with good reason, because he was near enough now to see into the glass walled entrance building. The big curved desk facing the doors sat empty, as did the glass sided lift shaft. The car was obviously down at the basement level. There was no sign of anybody anywhere, and that worried him.

Reaching the doors, he pushed the entrance button, the harsh buzzer making itself heard through the reinforced glass. He knew a second buzzer would be sounding down in the laboratory below, in case the security guard wasn’t at the desk for some reason.

Getting no response, Conal punched the over-ride code into the entry pad, clicking impatient fingers as he waited for the glass doors to slide aside. A shiver touched the back of his neck as he entered. Glancing back over his shoulder, he shook his head at his uneasiness.

Walking around the large desk, Conal sat in the seat, staring down at the bank of CCTV screens set in a semi-circle in front of him. There were five, all showing different views of the rooms below. Nothing moved in any of them.

He sat back in his seat for a moment, a puzzled frown on his face, then sat forward with a jerk as he caught sight of something on Camera 5, the one covering The Pit.

Because that particular room was kept in perpetual darkness, the camera was fitted with an infra-red filter, giving everything on the screen an ethereal glow.

Something white lay on the floor, just at the edge of the picture - something that looked familiar.

Grabbing the control stick, Conal moved the camera to get a better view, zooming in on the image. A long, sibilant hiss escaped his lips and his eyes widened. Zooming in some more, he felt his heart rate increase and a patch of sweat break out between his shoulder blades. Yes, he’d been right. There could be no mistaking what lay waiting for him down in the lab.

Picking up the desk phone, he thumbed in a number available to only a few select people. Holding the phone to his ear, he continued staring at the CCTV screen. When his call was answered he uttered four words, his tone a dull, flat monotone.

“Jizzle. Island. Now. Alone.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Conal placed the handset back on its cradle and stood, surprised at how unsteady his legs had become. Making his way over to the lift, he pressed the call-button, tapping his finger-tips against his thigh as the car whirred its slow way up from the bottom of the shaft.

The lift seemed to take forever, but when the doors did finally slide open, Conal hesitated, having to stop them closing again with an outstretched hand. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stepped inside.

”Jizzle. Island. Now. Alone.”

When the flat voice spoke in his ear, the adrenaline flowed through Dermot Drewsbeck’s body. The quiet words brought a chill to his heart and a lump to his throat.

Jizzle was his PA’s ‘code word’, used on an open line when security was a concern. It was only employed in a dire emergency. It meant he had to act and act now; take the call extremely seriously, because something bad was going down.

In the five years his PA had worked for him, Conal had never used it before. Drewsbeck pursed his lips as he considered the phone call and its four words.

Jizzle. Island. Now. Alone.

It was pretty obvious that something bad was going down out at Flat Rock Island. Something very bad if Conal had resorted to using the special code word.

Having spent all day with his Finance Director working out which tax haven was the best one to place his company profits in, Drewsbeck was already dogged tired, and he’d promised to take his wife out for the evening. Now here was Conal’s call, doubling the pressure on him.

Heading a global conglomerate whose turnover outstripped many a small country’s national income was bad enough, without all this bloody cloak and dagger stuff. Damn the man.

The call had unsettled Drewsbeck more than he’d have liked to admit, mounting worry on top of stress, on top of tiredness. This was the most exhausted he’d felt in the thirty-five years since he’d begun building his enterprise - an enterprise that spanned thirty-three companies and employed some twenty-two thousand people in thirteen countries. Dermot Drewsbeck sighed loudly, feeling that he was being ground down just a little farther, just a little deeper.

Calling his wife, Drewsbeck waited until she appeared at the lounge door, then gave her his best, disarming smile. “Something’s come up darling. I’m sorry, but I have to go back into the office.”

“But DermDerm,” she said, a pout on her lips. “You promised me that you’d take the night off for once. We’re supposed to be going to that opera I so wanted to see.”

“I know darling. Sorry. I really am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Something important’s come up.”

“It’s always something important DermDerm. Aren’t I important too?”

Drewsbeck may have been a short man, with a florid face, running to fat and well past the first flush of youth - but his wife was tall, slim, perfectly groomed, and twenty-five years his junior. She also had a temper to match her brilliant red hair and was looking at him now with an expression that said she was about to explode.

“Have to go darling.” Practically running into the hall, Drewsbeck grabbed his coat and headed out the door at a fast pace.

***

The lift doors slid open and Conal stepped out into a corridor that ran down the length of the building from end to end. Numerous doors led off both sides, all of which were open - even the one the staff had nicknamed, The Pit.

This wasn’t good - not good at all.

The lighting level in the corridor was low, designed to switch to quarter power whenever the door to The Pit was opened. It was less disturbing for the occupants that way, being as they were, mainly nocturnal.

Conal stood outside the lift, listening intently, jumping when the doors suddenly slid closed behind him. Making as little noise as possible, he eased his way down the corridor, pushing each door fully open as he reached it.

Tea room; small laboratory; larger laboratory; Senior Technician;