‘Some worker called Bob Harris,’ said Stuart. The group shrugged. ‘I know, I don’t recognise the name, either, but apparently it means something to them.’
‘Falsification of departure records again?’ said Paddy.
‘No, not this time. An identity chip was stolen and used to gain access to the ship. Whoever is using it is of great importance to them.’ Stuart glanced at the door and lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but the order is coming directly from Charles Deighton.’
Paddy let out a low whistle.
‘So, the military are taking over next week,’ said Maria. ‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes for them to get what they want, and ruin a perfectly good working week in the process. It’s going to get a little crowded in here. I need you all to keep clear heads. I don’t want to give the ESC any reason to shut this place down. Are we clear?’
‘Understood.’
30
Laura immersed herself in work and had little or no time off during what the ESC had described as a “hectic” period in the calendar. They had said they weren’t sure when the double shifts on Level Five would end, only that it would be soon. In no position to negotiate an early release from duty, she accepted that they needed her.
Though she could barely keep her eyes open, she decided against taking a fifth Actigen pill that week, even though her employers had advised it would help. There were just twenty-four hours left in her current shift and she could go home. She would make it.
The last Actigen was still in her system and would see her through the next three hours, although Laura had already felt its effects disappear. She would try to grab an hour’s sleep in the Energy Restoration room on Level Two beside the Energy Creation area and gym. Her preference would be to go home and sleep in her own bed, but the ESC insisted it was inefficient to send workers home.
Just one more day, she reminded herself, then she would go home and sleep for twenty-four hours. Chris and Janine’s behaviour had affected her mood, but something far more illicit was playing havoc with her thoughts.
She was feeling particularly irritated by the grey partitions encasing her isolation booth, by Level Five’s lacklustre interior. She arranged and rearranged the items on her desk: a photo of her mother, a communication earpiece and an inactive DPad. No matter what she did, she couldn’t distract herself away from her negative thoughts or her thumping headache.
She walked to the back of the room and requested water from the H2O replication terminal. The woman from booth sixteen arrived with a disc in hand and deposited it in the vacuum tube to Laura’s right. Sixteen waited until she heard the familiar sucking noise that told her the disc was on its way to Gilchrist’s office before returning to her seat. She didn’t look at Laura.
Laura was too tired to care about her colleagues’ indifference any more. Lifting the tiny cone-shaped cup to her lips, she drank and requested a refill twice before she was satisfied. But the hydration effects did little to lift the edge off her mood, or ease her headache. She returned to her workstation and avoided eye contact with the others. She sat down, closed her eyes and thought about the Bill Taggart files containing an overwhelming amount of information. But her own plans to transfer to Exilon 5 were her priority, not some files about aliens, and autopsies and some investigator she’d never met. Exilon 5, with its abundance of sunshine, was her fresh start.
Nothing about Earth was good, including the fragile mindset of its people. The move to Exilon 5 was meant to secure their future survival, but the sudden appearance of an indigenous species was pulling the World Government’s focus off the lottery and transfers. Laura wasn’t sure what the government planned to do with the Indigene race, but the documents led her to believe they were only beginning their discussions. It looked like they had only recently sent an investigation team to the planet, led by Bill Taggart.
How long would she have to wait to see Exilon 5? Overcrowding, no sun and diminishing air quality had turned Earth into a cesspool. She couldn’t face a future like that.
She thought of the Indigenes, whose very existence was threatened by the arrival of humans. Apparently, the explosions on Exilon 5, which had terraformed the planet, had almost wiped out their race. Evidence in the earlier files, which recounted an officer’s close-up experience and detailed the autopsy of Species 31, categorised the Indigenes as an aggressive and primitive species. But Laura had been surprised to read about the new information on the Indigene referred to as Stephen and his meeting with a boy. The previous evidence about their aggression had been wrong.
Two keywords stood out from the latter files: “Intelligence” and “Adaptability”. If any race was going to survive it would surely be the most intelligent and adaptable.
Stephen’s image was etched in her memory. She’d also memorised Bill Taggart’s unique and naturally aged face, right down to the grey flecks in his hair and the number of lines on his forehead. But now, every time she closed her eyes, their faces would appear, making sleep impossible. She wondered if she would recognise either of them if they were standing in front of her.
So, what next? The investigations were continuing to gauge the Indigene’s level of threat to the human population. Considering the investment to date, that was understandable. But with hundreds of millions having already transferred to Exilon 5, it would be impossible to keep the other race’s existence a secret forever. In addition, the planet was too big an asset to be abandoned.
Laura guessed the government would stay and fight. With time running out for humans on Earth, it would be impossible to find another planet with such exacting requirements in a short timeframe. Why not try living side by side? Was the planet not big enough to accommodate everyone? Couldn’t the Indigenes just live somewhere without humans interfering? Was that the reason for the ongoing investigation; the World Government was working out if everyone could live together? She wanted to believe the Indigenes were peaceful, but humans had already threatened their existence; from the reports, it wasn’t clear how they felt about their presence.
Lunchtime came around and Laura clocked off from the system. Even after her humiliating experience with Chris and Janine a week earlier, she’d decided to persist with the idea of taking regular lunch breaks. Apart from the good practice, she wasn’t going to let her former colleagues’ petty behaviour drive her away. She simply made sure to go at times when she knew they wouldn’t be there. Given the abuse she attracted, the replication terminal across the road was not an option.
Laura stared blankly at her plate and ate her lunch in silence. She didn’t register the slight jolt at first as someone sat down beside her, just one seat away. Half-expecting to see Chris or Janine there to offer an apology, she gasped when she set eyes on the dark-haired woman from booth sixteen.
Sixteen ignored her. She scooped food onto her fork and shoved it into her waiting mouth. Laura stared at her.
‘Eyes down!’ said Sixteen as she chewed her food. She looked ahead, making no eye contact.
Laura did as she was told. Her previous observations of the woman had been brief. She appeared to be in her mid sixties. Her black hair was styled into a neat bob, and she had an angular jaw and closely set eyes. Judging from the slouch in her shoulders, she was carrying a heavy burden. Laura wondered what it was.
A kick of adrenaline killed Laura’s appetite. She picked up her coffee mug and took slow sips. She gripped the handle so tight, her knuckles turned white.
Sixteen continued to eat and look elsewhere, but Laura could tell there was more to come. Through small and even mouthfuls of food, the words spilled forth.
‘This place is not what it seems. On the outside, the ESC seems to be working for the good of the people. You don’t know what’s really going on here.’ She spoke quietly and kept an eye on the roving cameras. ‘They are using you. So far, they’ve only shown you things they want you to see.’
What things? What was she talking about?
&nbs
p; ‘You think you know why you’re here. But I bet you’ve questioned your presence on Level Five, on more than one occasion. Why do they need me? What makes me so special? Why did they give me the files? It’s because you’re new. You’re less likely to question their motives.’
Laura gasped. The Taggart files. It had to be what she was referring to. She sought out the camera’s current location. To her relief, it was busy interrogating someone else.
‘This place is a front for something bigger and you and I are pawns in their game. Think about it. The work we do can easily be handled by a computer. So why do they need us? We can’t be necessary for the survival of this place, can we?’
Laura wanted to ask why they needed her, but decided against it.
Sixteen forced more food into her mouth. Shortly after, she spoke again. ‘They think you’re special, and you may well be. It’s for that reason I’m risking giving you these.’
She pulled out three folded envelopes; one had a tiny micro file taped to the front. ‘I think you need your eyes opened a little wider, before they manipulate your good nature and you wind up a pathetic wreck. Because you are good and trusting, and they’ll use that against you.’ Her words were muffled and low. She passed the envelopes under the table. ‘To understand what’s going on here, you need to know what this place has become involved in. And prepare yourself. It’s not what you think.’
Laura wanted so badly to look at Sixteen, to see the truth—or the lies—in her eyes. But she kept her gaze down. She felt around under the table for the letters and slipped them into the waistband of her trousers. The adrenaline was agitating her, but her head was telling her to slow down and play it cautiously.
Her trembling hand brought her mug up to her lips. ‘What are they?’ She took a sip and put the mug down, feeling more alert than she’d done all week.
Sixteen didn’t answer at first. She finished her meal. ‘Try not to get caught with them.’
‘But I still don’t understand. Why me?’
Sixteen grabbed her tray. ‘Because you have no connection to any of it. You’re the last person they’ll suspect to have these.’ She stood up and headed for the exit, depositing her tray along the way.
Laura could feel the adrenaline slipping away, but she still felt jacked-up. Her heart fluttered as it tried to return to a normal rhythm. If her experiences over the last week were anything to go by, then getting caught talking to anyone—including her Level Five colleagues—was not a good idea. She hoped the authorities would view Sixteen’s proximity as an oversight rather than a deliberate attempt to make contact.
Laura battled the urge to take out the letters and read them; she had to assume eyes were on her at all times, as she’d been told they were by the man from booth ten. She forced herself to stay seated for a further five agonising minutes before leaving the cafeteria.
On her way back to Level Five, she stopped in the bathroom, slipped into one of the cubicles and locked the door behind her. She removed the letters from her waistband and peeled away the micro file, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was the size of an old Australian two-dollar coin with a tiny wire-feed extruding from one end. It was designed to be viewed through a monitor, but there was no way she could risk hooking it up at her workstation. Any deviation from her regular tasks would surely raise the alarm.
Laura needed to see what was on the file and what secrets were hidden in the letters. Why would Sixteen risk giving them to her if they weren’t important? She remembered that the hardware control unit for the Light Box in her apartment could accept files of this type. She had no idea if they were monitoring her activity at home. She would have to take the risk.
Laura removed her jacket and ripped a small hole in the fabric of her bra. She slipped the micro file between the padding, then folded and tucked the letters into the back of her underwear where they wouldn’t slip down her trouser leg. She washed her hands and tidied her appearance. Then she took a deep breath and went back to work.
31
In the black night sky, the stars melded into one blur of white light. At their current speed, Bill wouldn’t see the constellations like Andromeda, Aquarius and Orion when the passenger ship neared Earth. Since he was young, he’d had more than a passing interest in astronomy. To him, the stars signified new beginnings. He liked the simplicity of the sky, of space, of the untroubled planets that existed independently from Earth’s mess; anything that suggested life could truly exist without complications.
As it rode the magnetic slipstream between the planets, the ship passed by what looked like two moons. The light changed from white to grey, then back to white again. A moon: that’s what Earth looked like from space, and no longer a luminous blue-and-white sphere as depicted in old photos.
Bill waited until most of the one hundred and seventy Actives were asleep before he ventured around the ship alone. The rest of the thousand-plus passenger list were in stasis, so the place was quiet. It had been a week since he’d left Exilon 5, and while fleeting moments of rest came to him, it was far from restorative. Just when he thought he might give in to sleep, he’d almost suffocated in his sleeping unit. If it hadn’t been for those two men, he may not have survived.
Since that day, he’d given plenty of thought to the two men. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see them: their faceless silhouettes with eyes that burned bright. But he hadn’t seen them since, nor was he seeking them out. He was maintaining a low profile.
The Actigen was helping him to stay awake. It terrified him: the idea of falling into a sleep so deep it could kill. But as he walked the corridors, his chemically maintained consciousness fought him each step of the way. It was no way to live, no substitute for proper sleep. But he wasn’t ready to give up the control yet, not until he reached Earth.
The medication was doing other things to him, making him believe the crew could not be trusted. He had been wary of the officer’s explanation about the oxygen loss and the unit lockdown being part of some computer glitch. A part of him wanted to confront the crew; he would be able to tell if they were lying. Another part told him to leave it alone. He was heavily medicated and out of his right mind. But the World Government owned this passenger ship, commanded the crew, and told them how to react to onboard issues. The government’s shiny exterior was tarnishing with each passing day; even more so in his haze of paranoia.
Bill padded along one of the tubular passageways that connected the wheel rim to the hub of the ship. He remained on-guard as he navigated his way along the spokes, each step illuminating a new section and plunging the previous part into darkness. He zigzagged along the horizontal tubes that connected to the vertical spokes. If someone was following him, it would make it difficult for them to track his movements.
He arrived at the recreation room in the centre of the hub. His eyes lingered on the door separating the operational centre of the ship from the general population. There was nobody around.
He strode over to the door he’d seen the officers pass through using their security chip. There was an access control panel to the right. He pressed his thumb against it and the panel flashed red. Bill told himself to walk away.
He turned and wobbled as a wave of dizziness hit him. It was the Actigen. He stumbled forwards. His motor functions were switching off. He had managed to evade sleep for days on end before, but this was different. He had pushed it too far with Actigen. His body was taking back control.
Bill fell forward and slammed into one of the tables. He groped for the edge and gripped it with all his strength. He eased himself towards the edge of the bench. His backside found only half of it and he fell backwards onto the floor.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling. His breath came too fast, and his hands were shaking. His arms and legs were like dead weights. Any attempts to sit up were futile. He rolled until he was on his side and again until he was on his hands and knees. The floor was cold beneath him as he crawled forwards to the bench.
Anothe
r bout of dizziness blurred his vision and he groped for the table again. He pulled himself onto the seat and rested his spinning head in his hands; it slipped out of his grip and slammed into the table. He briefly lost consciousness as the hard knock brought him back to reality. He tried to lift his heavy head off the flat surface. But he couldn’t. He stayed where he was. It was easier to stop fighting and give in.
Bill awoke with a start, disorientated. In the almost-blackness, the inside of his sleeping pod came into focus. He tried to piece together his last movements. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the recreation room before his head hit the table. It had all happened so fast. Now here he was in his sleeping unit with no memory of how he had got here. He wasn’t even sure of the time. Panic surged inside him.
What the hell happened to me? How did I get here?
32
Laura grabbed barely an hour of sleep in her apartment in Haymarket. What she had in her possession could get her into a lot of trouble. The projection on the wall read midday and she lay in bed wondering if she should even look at the contents of the micro file. She’d been dead on her feet the day before, but now, even with just an hour’s rest, she was unusually alert.
She had spent the better part of the morning thinking about what might be on the file, whether ESC were remotely monitoring her Light Box, or if there was a chance that they’d followed her home. She scrapped the last idea; she’d been home almost three hours and nobody had tried to break in yet. As for the monitoring of the Light Box, it was impossible for her to know.
Laura ran her fingers across the unopened letters on her side table, the ones addressed to Bill Taggart. She brought the paper up to her nose and thought she could smell perfume. While she’d wanted to tear the letters open minutes after getting them, all she could do now was look and wonder. They weren’t meant for her; she sensed they were personal.
Viewing the contents of the micro file would be easier, but Sixteen’s warning came back to Laura: ‘To understand what’s going on here, you need to know what this place has become involved in. And prepare yourself. It’s not what you think.’