Bill Taggart sat at the kitchen table in his private Nottingham apartment and read half a dozen internal memos he’d sourced from a contact since returning from Exilon 5. He was out of touch with plans for the transfer programme.
He gazed out the window, free of the stacked boxes filled with Isla’s things. Last night he’d gone through her stuff.
He kept just three things. The first a six-inch-tall glass obelisk preserved with a native Exilon 5 flower from Isla’s funeral that sat on his mantelpiece. The flower with a sweet, peppery scent had been Isla’s favourite. The second, the personal letter she’d written to him. The third, her dog tags he’d used to decode her other letters.
Bill rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the memos stored in an encrypted location on his DPad. The memos had been circulated to staff in the Earth Security Centre and the International Task Force offices, but so far, he hadn’t seen any from the World Government. Had the government—or Charles Deighton—known about his trip to Exilon 5 with Laura and Jenny? Then there was his trip to Magadan to meet Harvey Buchanan and the car chase that had almost ended his and Laura’s life.
Not a word.
Harvey Buchanan may not have advertised his connection with the World Government, but Bill was sure it existed.
He checked the time and turned off his DPad. Simon Shaw had called him in to the London office, the first face-to-face meeting since his return. He picked up his mug of coffee and shuddered as the caffeine gave him a kick. He removed the sound disruptor from the front of the Light Box hardware unit and prised up a loose floorboard hidden beneath his rug. Stephen’s communication stone sat in a small strongbox. He placed the disruptor down and picked up the cold, black stone with a concentric ring design that was useless while he was on Earth.
Stephen had said the concentric rings would light up when it connected with the Nexus. The Nexus would relay any messages the user wanted to send. He recalled how the stone had glowed blue and became too hot to handle when he’d used it on Exilon 5.
‘The connection and raw energy from the Nexus makes it heat up like that,’ Stephen had said. ‘The Nexus turns the stone into whatever you need. You needed a compass, so that’s what it became.’
‘Can it send verbal messages?’
‘Only if a user connected to the Nexus tries to send one,’ said Stephen. ‘Concentrate on the rings. If there’s a message, the Nexus will relay it to you.’
Bill put the stone back and replaced the floorboard and the rug.
He checked his appearance in the mirror and straightened his black tie. He desperately needed a haircut and a shave, but it was the least messy he’d looked for some time. His DPad and ITF communication device found the bottom of his bag. He slung the bag crossways over his body and left the apartment, gel mask in hand.
Half an hour later, he stood outside the ITF office skyscraper in London. Eighteen months had passed since he’d been here and seen his old workmates. Bill swallowed down his nerves as he passed through the environmental field and removed his mask.
A large black entrance door loomed and on the other side he threw his bag on a conveyor belt and walked through a body scanner. The autobot cleared him to enter. He collected his scanned bag and edged closer to the next door. A bout of nerves rooted him to the spot. Losing Isla had changed his world—and him. Now he was about to enter the place run by people who may have helped to kill his wife. The door clicked open when he scanned his thumb.
The wide corridor connecting to the open-plan ITF office looked no different to the last time he’d been there: peeling white paint on the ceiling, the dark blue carpet threadbare in places. The overhead light flickered and he shielded his eyes as they accustomed to the brightness. Offices to the left and right sat on the approach to a set of double doors. The last one on the left belonged to Simon Shaw. The door was ajar. Bill glanced inside but there was no sign of Simon. He ignored a corridor on the left that led to the briefing rooms. One side of the double doors opened automatically for him when he got close enough.
The open-plan office, with its rows of workstations, overused replication machine and digital information board, looked like it had been trapped in a time warp. The male-dominated office had the familiar smell of sweat and testosterone. He recognised some flustered faces, while others were new. As Bill walked to his old desk, one particular voice grated on him.
Halfway there, Bill changed his mind and made a beeline for the coffee machine. On the information board next to the machine he checked the roster. Simon had pencilled him in for a full week’s work, his first proper shift for four months. Up until now, Simon had delivered his work schedule of menial tasks over the Light Box, no doubt to keep him away from other matters.
While Bill and Laura had agreed to keep up with World Government and ESC matters, he had mixed feelings about being back at the ITF. The explosion and Elise’s death had affected him more than he’d let on. He had also learned of his wife’s death and her friendship with the Indigenes.
The voices in the room carried to Bill at the coffee machine. One in particular was louder than the others. Bill turned around to see Dave Solan staring at him while he talked to someone three desks away. A stocky man with a tight buzz cut, Dave was better suited in the field than answering communication calls. But he’d failed the physical exam for military service, and had been assigned desk duties.
‘Like I said, Monty, they’ll let anyone work at ITF these days,’ said Dave.
Bill gave Dave his best fake smile. ‘Busy today I see.’
‘What the hell would you know about work?’
Dave’s animosity towards Bill ran deeper than a non-existent work schedule for the last four months. It had started back when Bill had picked his team to watch the Indigenes on Exilon 5—a selection that excluded Dave. Dave might have done a better job than the incompetent Caldwell, but Bill just didn’t like the man.
Bill turned his back on him and punched numbers into the replication machine. He ignored the office banter and friendly insults being traded behind him. But Dave’s voice—like fingernails on a blackboard—dominated the other voices in the room.
He grabbed a clean mug and set it under the replication unit. The black liquid streamed into the mug and delivered a faint aroma of roasted coffee beans to his nose. He turned around to see Simon Shaw walk through the double doors.
‘Good you’re here, Bill. Grab your coffee and follow me,’ said Simon.
Bill was in no rush to speak with Simon. He sipped his coffee while Simon waited for him by the double doors.
‘Now, Bill.’
Bill sighed and followed him into his office. Simon closed the door, and sat down.
‘Take a seat, Bill.’
He sat on the chair nearest the door and rested his bag on his lap. He drank more coffee before setting the mug down. Simon read something on his monitor then looked at Bill.
‘I guess it’s been a while,’ he said.
‘It has.’
‘Conditions have changed on Earth since your Exilon 5 mission. We wanted to give you time to readjust to life on Earth again.’
Bill folded his arms. ‘Four months’ readjustment, Simon?’
‘When people return home it takes time to adjust to the masks, lack of light and freedom. You were away for a year. You needed time to acclimatise after your experience. Some detainees who returned to Earth when you did are on termination watch.’
Bill smiled. ‘So let me get this straight. You thought I might be a risk to myself—that I might consider termination—so you left me alone for long periods of time with no support to give me plenty of time to think about it?’
Simon pursed his lips. ‘We monitored you the whole time.’
‘And now what? No more field work—just me sat at a desk while the public whinges on about their bullshit problems?’ Bill waved his hand. ‘A gross waste of my talents, Simon.’
Simon leaned forward. ‘I am your supervisor, you will obey my orders. Are we clear?’
Bill was about to retaliate, but something in Simon’s tone stopped him. Simon was less combative than other ITF supervisors but Bill had noticed a change in the man since his assignment on Exilon 5. His firm tone made Bill wonder if others listened to their conversation. So Bill acted like the hot-head they thought he was.
He banged his fist on the table. ‘Bullshit, Shaw. I’m didn’t come back here to be a receptionist. Give me something better to do or I walk.’
Simon leaned back. ‘I’m working on it. Be patient.’
‘Patience is for the fucking inexperienced.’ Bill stood up fast, knocking his chair over. Simon didn’t move when he jerked the door open and stormed out.
He kept up the pretence all the way back to the open-plan office where he stormed over to the replication unit and ordered a fresh coffee to replace the one on Simon’s desk.
‘I see Simon’s finally knocked you off your pedestal,’ he said. Bill turned to see a sneering Dave behind him. ‘How does it feel to do a little work, same as the rest of us?’
Bill lifted a brow at him. ‘Is that what you do, Dave—work? Because all I see is a washed-up military hack who’s no use in the field anymore.’
‘Well then, I’m in good company.’
‘Except I’m not an ugly sonofabitch with no chance of getting lucky anytime soon.’
Dave paused. ‘At least I didn’t kill my wife.’
It all happened in slow motion. Bill’s fist connected with Dave’s jaw and sent a shock through his hand. Dave stumbled but recovered fast and threw a counterpunch at Bill that knocked him to the floor. He lay there for a minute, winded and dazed while Dave stood over him. He checked the mobility in his jaw, but other than a sharp pain, nothing seemed broken. Dave breathed hard as Bill got to his feet.
‘You’ve got balls, Taggart. I’ll give you that.’ Dave inspected his face in one of the idle monitors.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Sorry, Bill. You’re not my type.’
Bill turned to see Simon Shaw stood at the double doors, watching.