The Power of Five Oblivion

asking – why do you need to know all this? What has it got to do with me? You’re all business people, aren’t you. Politicians, consultants, celebrities, pleasure-seekers! You wear fine clothes and work in comfortable offices. You would never dirty your own hands … not even to make yourselves a cup of coffee. So why all this talk of war and battles? Well, this is what it boils down to. In return for the many riches and rewards that have been bestowed upon you, the Old Ones are now asking for a display of loyalty on your part. They want you to join the army. When the last, great struggle comes, you are going to be on the front line.”
    There was a murmuring in the room. People were glancing at each other as if they weren’t quite sure of what they had just heard. There had to be some sort of mistake, hadn’t there? Many of them thought the chairman must be joking. Only Jonas Mortlake knew the truth and he was smiling to himself. This was what he had been waiting for.
    “You have been chosen to become foot soldiers in the army of the Old Ones,” the chairman exclaimed. “There are a thousand of you here, enough for twenty battalions. Most of you will die. That is tragic but unavoidable. The rest of you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have repaid the debt you owe to the Old Ones, even at the cost of great pain and suffering to yourselves.” He spread his hands, drawing them all in. “You’ve all been recruited and you will begin your new lives immediately.
    There are buses waiting outside to take you to training camps, where you will be given clothes and equipment. You are also going to be adjusted to turn you into superb fighting machines…”
    “Wait a minute!”
    A man in the front row had got to his feet, raising his hand like a policeman stopping the traffic. Such a thing had never happened before. Nobody would have dreamt of interrupting the chairman while he was speaking. But the man was one of the most influential people in the room, with a business empire that stretched from Shanghai to New York. His name was Sir David Lang … he had been knighted even though he wasn’t a British citizen. He had made his fortune in airlines, hotels, expensive boutiques, film production and telecommunications. He was in his fifties, a small, neat man with silver hair and a slightly effeminate face.
    “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What’s going on here? Are you seriously inviting me to join some sort of army?”
    “I’m not inviting you, Sir David. The decision has already been made.”
    “You’re crazy!” Lang looked around him, trying to draw the audience onto his side. “If you want people to fight for you, go out onto the street. There are millions of them out there. Pay them a dollar and you can do anything you want with them.”
    “We are not interested in the people on the street. We want you.”
    “Well, you can forget it. I’m not available.”
    The chairman seemed genuinely surprised. “Can I take it that is your final word on the subject, Sir David?”
    “You most certainly can.”
    “Then I’m afraid we’ve come to a parting of the ways.”
    The chairman hadn’t given a signal but a second later there was a gunshot, the sound echoing in the vast space. The sniper must have been hidden somewhere high up in the ceiling. Lang twisted round, his blood splattering over the women who had been whispering together before the conference began. The two of them reeled away, their eyes wide, screaming. Lang collapsed. Jonas Mortlake sat quite still. He had known that the businessman was dead from the moment he had opened his mouth.
    And it was as if this first death was rippling outwards, like some fearsome disease. Everywhere, people were getting to their feet, shouting and crying, falling over each other as they tried to fight their way out. At the same time, doors burst open on every side and there was a commotion of whistles being blown, of shouting and barking. Security guards had appeared – the same guards who minutes before had been helping the business people to find their seats. Now their eyes were gleaming with undisguised pleasure as they marched back in, many of them with vicious dogs – Rottweilers and pit bull terriers – straining on leashes. The guards carried truncheons, whips and canisters of mace. There was no way out. The terrified audience was surrounded.
    “Stay right where you are!” the chairman commanded. His voice had found new