Bill’s communication device shuddered on the coffee table, jolting him out of his thoughts. He grabbed it and shoved it in his ear. What did Gilchrist want now?
His patience wore thinner as he activated the device. A thin microphone unfolded to the start of his mouth.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Taggart?’
Bill almost dropped his mug of coffee when he heard the voice. ‘Yeah?’
‘Charles Deighton. Lovely to talk to you, old boy. It’s been a while.’
Not long enough.
‘What, er, can I do for you, Mr Deighton?’
‘I just spoke to Ms Gilchrist about this mission and I wanted to add my support to you and your team.’
First time for everything, he supposed.
‘Thank you.’ Bill had only spoken to the CEO of the World Government twice before; once was to challenge his orders to send Isla to Exilon 5.
‘I must admit I’m a little envious of you, stuck on a sunny planet, filled with fresh air and hope.’ His breathing rasped. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m sick of wearing my damn gel mask every time I leave a controlled environmental zone.’
‘It’s... different.’
‘Bill... I hope I can call you Bill.’ Deighton didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I must stress the importance of the events about to unfold tomorrow.’
‘I’m well aware, sir.’
‘But you’ve had trouble since your wife—Isla wasn’t it—disappeared? There’s still time for you to step down from the task.’
Bill gritted his teeth at the mention of her name. ‘No thank you, sir. I’ll be fine.’
Deighton cleared his aged throat. ‘That’s what I told Ms Gilchrist. She was worried about you, but I said, “Daphne, Bill is one of our best investigators. If anyone can do this, he can.” Are you clear on what’s not to happen tomorrow?’
He nodded, even though Deighton couldn’t see him. ‘At the briefing. Observe only. Don’t apprehend.’
‘Good. This is an important moment for all of us. It’s the first time one of the Indigenes has been brave enough to surface during daytime. We don’t want to scare him or her off. Just let it happen.’
Everything Deighton said had already been covered in Bill’s briefing with Gilchrist over two months ago, when increased activity had been first logged within city limits. He struggled to see the reason for this call.
Deighton continued, ‘Bill, you’ve always been a loyal servant, and you proved that loyalty when you helped us take down Larry Hunt.’
‘Thank you sir.’
‘Your wife would have been proud to see how far you’ve come.’
Okay, he was done talking.
‘I really should get back—’
Deighton chuckled. ‘Of course! Apologies, I’m keeping you from your work. Back to it, soldier.’
Deighton clicked off. The microphone folded back into the top of the earpiece. Bill yanked the unit out and tossed on the table.
‘Fuck!’ Anger bloomed in his chest. He paced the room to try and ease it. The last thing he needed was a pep talk from the man who’d put Isla on the very mission she’d disappeared from.
His breaths turned short and sharp. He punched the spot next to the Light Box, causing its 3D image to ripple. A sudden flash turned his anger into fear. Who was watching him: Deighton or Gilchrist?
Struggling to breathe, he snatched up his DPad and relocated to his bedroom, where he perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Calm down, Bill.’
He couldn’t help it. Deighton brought out the worst in him.
Larry Hunt. A prize scalp in the one-hundred and nineteen-year-old’s eyes.
He activated his DPad and pulled up Larry Hunt’s photo. Staring back at him was the criminal he’d helped to put behind bars. Hunt was an ordinary-looking man; most criminals usually were. Bill had expected retaliation from Hunt for his involvement in bringing him to justice, but more than that, he’d expected to feel relieved. The empty feeling after the catch had surprised him.
The chase had felt too easy, almost like he’d been set up to succeed. When Hunt Technologies had released their latest food replication model, the Replica 2500, the ESC had ordered Bill to intervene. Hundreds of businesses that had bought the model were touting it as a fake.
Daphne Gilchrist had ordered him to a meeting. On his arrival, she’d handed him a list of numbers.
‘What do you see?’
Bill scanned the information, recognising the format of prices against amounts. ‘Shares.’
‘Exactly. Mr Hunt has been pulling a stroke, overvaluing his stocks to gain a better share of the replication market. Naturally, the World Government board members are upset at this revelation. If the Replica 2500 is a fake, the company’s value will drop into negative equity. That’s a loss nobody wants.’
Bill looked up at her. ‘You want me to profile him?’
Gilchrist leaned across the table, her expression cold. ‘I want you to take the son of a bitch down.’
Bill had spent months trying to get inside the head of the man who had dominated the food replication world for three decades. He eventually found his way in, through a disgruntled employee with bills to pay.
Bill recalled his only encounter with two of Hunt’s henchmen shortly after his indictment. He’d attempted to shake his pursuers as they chased him through London’s dark streets. After cornering him, one man grabbed his arms so roughly he’d almost dislocated Bill’s shoulder. The other produced an antique knife. He’d plunged the blade into the soft area of his left shoulder.
A goddamn antique knife. There were easier ways to kill him.
The attack had come with a verbal warning attached. ‘Hunt wants you to remember this.’
Bill touched the area where the knife had penetrated his skin. Although it was repaired with no sign of a scar, he still remembered the blinding hot pain from the blade tearing through his skin.
His hands shook as he flicked Hunt’s photo away and returned to his files on the Indigenes. The caffeine tremors made it hard to hold the DPad, but the Actigen worked to balance out his addiction and give him focus.
He needed answers soon. Only then would he kick both bad habits.
Bill combed through the dozens of files the World Government held on the Indigenes. With so many to choose from, one drew his attention every time. It was a year ago, when the government had captured a young Indigene. The alien had not lived long due to its inability to breathe the same air as humans. The file also mentioned details about an atmosphere-controlled containment unit in a medical facility, on the outskirts of New London. Maybe Bill would take a closer look at that facility once his mission ended.
‘Watch the subject, don’t approach it.’ Gilchrist’s warning to him at the briefing. ‘And make sure those idiots we assigned you don’t do anything stupid.’
Bill had requested a Special Forces team. What he got was Armoured Division, minus the heavy artillery. ‘Divide and Conquer’ was their motto.
What he really wanted was a chance to question the alien about Isla’s whereabouts. After, the World Government, the ESC—or whoever wanted it—could do what they liked.
Memories of his wife were more vivid than usual. She’d been the optimistic antidote to his pessimism.
One of those memories had been of her beautiful dark-brown hair that hung down to her waist. As he recalled, it had required a lot of maintenance.
‘Why don’t you ever cut your hair?’ he’d asked her once.
‘Because it makes me feel feminine. It’s also where my strength lies, like Samson.’ She gathered up a bunch of hair. ‘It took me so long to grow. If cut it, I’d feel like I’d lost a part of me.’
The memory unsettled him more than usual as he returned to the living room. Maybe it was because he was using the mug she’d given him. Or maybe it was because he inched closer to the truth about her disappearance. He trawled through past memories, searching for new clues that might explain her disappearance. Deighton had been helpful enough initially, but it didn’t take long for him to lose interest.
‘She’s gone, Bill. You must accept that. We have all suffered a great loss. Isla was one of our best soldiers. We share in your pain.’
He walked over to the window and rested his face and hands on the cold glass. Belgrave Square Gardens sat across from his apartment. He watched an automated vehicle pull up to the entrance through a fog his breath had created. Half a dozen children and one woman—presumably their teacher—alighted from the vehicle. The children screamed as they bolted for the swings in the park. The teacher yelled after them to come back but they were running free and wild.
The window fogged up more as his breathing became laboured. Isla had been open about her desire to have children, but Bill hadn’t been as keen as her. He didn’t think Earth was the right environment to raised them, but had promised to think about it again when they transferred to Exilon 5. Now Isla was gone and all he could think about was having a child; a little version of her to make him laugh the way she always could. But Exilon 5 was no safer than Earth as long as the Indigenes existed. The creatures had stolen the one person from him he cared about most.
Isla was in his head. ‘Forgive them, Bill.’
‘Forgiveness is earned,’ he said coldly. If it came down to it, would he grant it to the Indigenes?
He returned to the sofa and buried his nose in the transcripts from the previous week’s surveillance operation. His heart hardened when he read the detail about one male Indigene’s attempts to contact a boy in Belgrave Square. But the mother had returned early and taken the boy with her. Now the Indigene had a new boy in its sights: Ben Watson. A scrawny kid with black hair, no father and a mother more interested in virtual reality than life, according to one of his men’s reports.
The last attempt at contact had occurred in the hour just after dawn. Criminals usually fell into predictable patterns. There was no reason to think this Indigene wouldn’t do the same.
And when he did, Bill would be ready.