‘You’re all the same. Why can’t you leave well enough alone? Why are you always trying to mess around in things that don’t concern you?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that aimed at me specifically?’
‘Not specifically. Well, yes. Maybe.’ Isla sighed.
‘Love, what are you talking about?’
‘Just leave it, Bill. I can’t talk about it.’ She turned away from him but spun around to grab hold of the lapels on his jacket and look him dead in the eye. ‘Don’t jump to obvious conclusions. Do you understand me? It’s an easy out. Never stop searching for the truth.’
The passion in her voice had caught his attention. The pain in her eyes confirmed what she’d been feeling. It had not been one of her common lectures, but a warning that he hadn’t seen coming.
He stood at the mirror a little longer than usual as he remembered that conversation and the many others that followed after that night.
‘Have you ever heard of Morse code?’ Isla asked him one evening over dinner in their private Earth apartment in Nottingham.
Bill shook his head and grabbed a replicated chicken leg from a bowl in the centre of the table. He took a bite. ‘Can’t say that I have.’ Juices ran down his hand. He licked his thumb and forefinger.
‘Dad uses it. He once told me that he can listen in on any conversation in the world.’ Her father had worked for the communications section of the World Government. While he’d insisted he didn’t listen to every conversation, he had known of others who were less moralistic about it.
That piqued his interest. ‘How?’
‘Through the equipment that we use every single day. It acts as a relay, bounces the sound around and comes through as an echo on the line. It’s clear enough to make out conversations.’
‘Shit.’ He dropped the chicken leg on his plate. The thought of another person spying on him had him feeling agitated. ‘Is he listening in now?’
Isla smiled at him. ‘No. He gave me a sound interrupter. We can’t hear it, but it disrupts the sound enough so that it plays back as gobbledygook.’
Bill relaxed a little and wiped his greasy hands on a napkin.
‘Not everyone listens in, but he says that there are some who would. Dad was sure the World Government was taking notes. Before he went on his last mission, he gave me the sound interrupter and told me to leave it on permanently. It’s the reason he uses Morse code to communicate.’
‘Morse code? How does that work?’
‘It’s a series of beeps or clicks, each linked to a letter, word or phrase. You can talk to another person this way. He has tried to use it in public but he says it draws too much attention.’
He had a vision of Isla’s father in one of the food replication terminals, banging on his food tray while another patron did the same. He grinned at the image.
‘I know, I know. It’s impractical,’ she said, almost reading his thoughts. ‘But there has to be a better way to communicate without being seen to communicate.’
She shared something she had read recently, gesturing more than normal. ‘I’ve been reading up on it and one story stuck with me. Back when Ireland was ruled by the English, Irish was still the primary language of the country up to the eighteenth century. But the nineteenth century saw Irish decline as a first language in favour of English. Why? Two things: because of the Great Famine and because the English prohibited its teaching in schools. Many Irish leaders also saw Irish as being too backward and pushed for the more progressive English language. They were right to in the end, but Irish people felt that their heritage was being stripped away by English rule, so they continued to teach the language to their children. When the struggle for independence began in the late nineteenth century, the soldiers communicated back and forth in Irish because the English couldn’t understand them. A secret language.’
‘I like that, Isla. The idea of others listening in any time they want has rattled my cage. You’re suggesting that we develop our own language?’
‘Why not? Doesn’t have to be a spoken language. I haven’t really thought about it beyond that, but I will.’
Isla had once told Bill that the chats with her father ignited a passion to search for a solution to that problem of how to converse safely in public. He expected her to bring it up again but when she didn’t, he assumed she had given up on the idea altogether. His brow creased at the memories, in particular the conversation about the secret language. What did she mean by it? He had to let it go; deciphering a riddle without all the parts would drive him insane.
He ran a hand over his two-day-old stubble. ‘Grooming will have to wait, Isla,’ he said, recalling how she always hated the way the start of a beard scratched her face. He’d always made a special effort to be clean-shaven for her.
He dressed and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. He filled his mug to the brim and rooted through the almost-bare cupboards for something to eat. He settled on a box of replicated cereal flakes and munched on dry handfuls of the stuff. As he ate and drank, he stifled a yawn. The lack of sleep would only get him so far. His body and mind were pushing him towards a deep coma-like sleep. But he would continue to work this way until it claimed him. Sleep was for the dead. And he needed answers.
Bill reviewed the files from the week before, noting the Indigene’s plans to meet with the boy that morning between 6:45 and 7am at Belgrave Square Gardens. He and his team had watched the interaction between the boy and alien at the bus stop. Bill relocated to the café directly across from them while his team maintained a discreet distance.
When he first saw the Indigene, he prepared to feel nothing but pure hatred for the race that had taken Isla away from him. It was how he’d felt when he first saw footage of the young alien captured a year earlier. Something told him they were involved. The alien had been wild and animal-like in its behaviour; expected traits from a seemingly uncontrollable and thoughtless race. But this Indigene was different: it moved and talked like a human. It was a long-held belief that the entire race was wild. Now it seemed as if the opposite was true: that they were more intelligent than humans had considered them to be.
It both fascinated and disgusted him how easily the Indigene won the trust of the boy. Both parties had conversed quite freely, so language had to be one of the Indigene’s inherent skills. Using a pair of magnification glasses, Bill watched the Indigene closely from his seat in the café. Its posture was wrong, almost forced. A pained expression flashed across its face. Then it smiled. Why? Such a human act.
His team on the ground had reported the alien’s last sighting to be at one of the underground station entrances. When they lost track of its movements, Bill had followed the boy to Belgrave Square Gardens, where he stopped to look at a wooden bench before moving on to the swing area.
Although they could still capture the alien, the boy could be their best shot at getting the information they needed. The boy seemed rattled when Bill approached him on the swings. Bill’s attempts at a genuine smile did little to relieve the tension. The boy jumped off the swings and stood with this arms fisted against his side.
‘I’m Bill Taggart,’ he said. ‘I work for the World Government on Earth.’ The boy seemed nervous. ‘You aren’t in any trouble. Please don’t be scared.’
‘Do you know my mother?’
‘No, I don’t. What’s your name?’
‘Why, what’s it to you?’
‘You know mine. I want to know yours.’
The boy relaxed. ‘Ben.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eight.’
‘Can you tell me about the man you were speaking to at the bus stop earlier?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Ben tensed up again.
‘He’s not in any trouble. I only want to ask him a few questions.’
A sudden breeze rushed through the trees above their heads and lifted leaves from their branches. The leaves danced and swirled around Ben’s head. Why had Ben so eagerly accepted f
riendship from a complete stranger—and a potential killer? He needed a new angle.
‘If you’d prefer, we can always ask your mother about your new friend.’
Ben fell to his knees before clambering to his feet. ‘No! Don’t tell my mum. She doesn’t know I’m out here. Please! Don’t say anything to her!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Bill. ‘I won’t if you just tell me what I need to know.’
Ben moved closer and the secrets spilled. He told Bill the stranger’s name, recalling his own observations about Stephen’s odd appearance. Bill’s skin prickled at the Indigene’s use of a human name. The information had been a mixed bag and through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy, the Indigene might not have seemed so out of place. If anything of significance was shared between them, Ben may have been too young to understand it. He’d at least managed to get the time and place of their next meeting.
Bill reached into his bag and pulled out the special gift he’d brought with him. He handed the teddy bear fitted with an audio-visual recording device to Ben. Ben eagerly accepted the gift.
‘Don’t forget to bring it along to show your new friend next week,’ urged Bill.
Bill hoped his chat with Ben Watson would pay off. He ran a hand through his hair as he waited for the morning’s meeting to begin. He thought of the Indigene and its attempts to look more human. Was that why Isla had disappeared? Because one of them had tried to befriend her? The thought made him sick to his stomach.
His cold coffee tasted vile as he sucked it up. Even though he was only after the caffeine, it was getting more difficult to swallow with each mouthful. He refilled his cup without emptying out the old coffee. It turned the steaming black liquid into a lukewarm fusion. The taste only marginally improved but at least he could drink it.
He checked the time again; it was now six fifteen. While he waited, Bill activated his DPad and scrolled through countless news articles and official reports generated by the World Government and Earth Security Centre. Some were about the initial move to Exilon 5.
The reports reminded him of when Isla had changed careers about two and a half years ago. Bored in her teaching role, she’d expressed an interest in helping the newest residents of Exilon 5 to settle in.
‘I feel useless stuck in this classroom while the population is going through these changes. I need to do something constructive. I need to satisfy my altruistic side.’
Bill laughed. ‘Well, you’re not being entirely altruistic if you’re satisfying your own needs.’
She punched him playfully and had counteracted with one of her cleverly disarming arguments.
Isla had turned her attention to training and became a Task Force soldier, working for their military outfit. At the time, the Indigenes weren’t a threat to humans and ground patrol duties had been light.
It was around the same time—three months before her disappearance—that Isla had made another drastic change in her life.
‘What have you done?’ he said.
‘What? It’s my hair. I’ll do what I like with it.’
‘But, it’s all gone!’ Isla had been wearing her military uniform and steel-toe boots. Her hair had been cut so short that it altered the very angles of her face.
‘You never liked it anyway,’ she said coldly. ‘It doesn’t seem important to hold on to such frivolous things when there are bigger problems in the world.’
‘I never wanted you to do this to yourself.’
‘Like I said, Bill, it’s not important.’
The World Government had not been able to say whether Isla was dead—there was no body—only confirming to Bill that it had happened when she’d confronted one of the Indigenes near the city border of New Copenhagen. But he had an issue with the World Government version of events. He knew his wife better than they did and he couldn’t imagine her confronting an Indigene. More likely, she had tried to reach out to it. Even though her personality had changed during her stint on Exilon 5, her core beliefs remained the same.
He opened one of the official World Government reports about the initial move to Exilon 5 and forced himself to read it.
Grey skies, frigid temperatures and a vanishing sun; clear signs that Earth was changing. The first layer of atmosphere formed like a skin that strangled the sun’s attempts to reach the surface below. The sudden change in air temperature made the air feel ice cold, like a giant refrigeration unit. After passing on four unsuitable exoplanets, Exilon 5 had become the last hope. The terraforming process, along with the liquid chemicals that seeped into the soil, made it possible for plants and trees to grow more effectively.
While stationed on Exilon 5, the ITF’s role had initially been to help new transferees to adjust to their new home. But the alarm of living on Exilon 5—an alien world—had been too much for some people and their behaviour became increasingly erratic. The World Government ordered them to be separated from the rest of the population. They wanted the new planet to be a utopian society where humans lived harmoniously and no longer traded life for technology.
Bill read the report.
“We intend to reintroduce technology until it complements the human lives that use virtual systems as a replacement for thinking. Exilon 5 will give the people new opportunities to re-learn the basics of thinking, feeling or just being, as well as accessing several forms of technology in a safe and productive way.”
The land beyond the city boundaries, known as no man’s land, was undeveloped. The ITF military patrolled the areas day and night, armed with Buzz Guns and Impulse Tasers. Transport arterial routes swept outwards, connecting the cities. Black markets dominated the undeveloped land either side of the roads that connected to the cities. In the black of night, criminals operated freely, taking advantage of the shortage of technology on the planet and making a living out of swindling the desperate and vulnerable. No matter how many times the ITF smashed the operating rings, fresh businesses would always emerge unscathed in alternative places. It was on such a night that the animal sound was heard. The noise had originated inside the border limits, where animals were strictly forbidden.
Bill opened a video file, which was an interview with one of the ITF officers. He had been the first to arrive on the scene. He alone had seen the bright shining eyes of the animal that had wandered inside the city limits. Calling for back-up, he approached the animal alone. For the interviewer’s benefit, the officer held his hand up like a gun as he looked around the room. Acting it out seemed to help settle his nerves.
‘Eyes fixed on me, then looked away.’ His eyes flitted from the interviewer to a spot on the wall. ‘I heard the animal. It sounded like it was injured. But when I got closer, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.’
The interviewer leaned back in his chair. ‘What was it?’
The officer laughed. ‘Two boys, crouching over what I think was a wolf. The smell of blood turned my stomach. There was so much of it.’
The interviewer leaned forward. ‘So you’re saying they killed the animal. You were right to report this illegality. The biodome animals are protected.’
The officer shook his head and whispered. ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong. They were eating it.’ He drank from a cup of water. ‘I thought the attacker had been an animal of some sort because of its body contortion, its reflective eyes, its primal interest in the wolf. I was unable to retrieve my Buzz Gun without attracting attention to myself. While I waited for back-up to arrive, I took a step in its direction. I was trying to corner it, you know, to make the catch a little easier? But that’s when I saw something that chilled me.’ He swallowed hard.
The interviewer leaned in closer. ‘Saw what, exactly?’
‘It looked at me and smiled. Smiled, for God’s sake! I mean what kind of animal was it? What creature of God’s making looks and acts like a wild animal, then takes time out of its killing spree to flash its pearly whites at me?’
The interviewer sat back in his chair.
The officer continued with his s
tory. ‘I felt a rush of cool air pass right by my face. We caught one of the bastards. The second one managed to escape.’
‘That’s a good thing.’
‘Have you even seen this thing?’ The officer closed his eyes. ‘I have never seen anything like it in my whole life.’
Bill closed the video file and opened another, labelled Initial Examination of Species 31. It was recorded by Dr Frank Jameson, a bio-physician who had carried out the first assessment of the captured young Indigene male. According to his file, Dr Jameson worked for a World Government subsidiary on Earth called Bio Technologies. Bio Tech specialised in genetic manipulation therapy and disease control.
The doctor used a roving camera to record events through subject motion-tracking. While the laboratory’s interior was sparse, the set-up was far from basic; the New London-based laboratory was using the most up-to-date equipment. Bill noted the most recent request for high-spec equipment had been approved by the World Government CEO, Charles Deighton.
Dr Jameson looked into the camera and groomed his hair and neatly trimmed beard. Two colleagues entered the room. He towered over them. All three wore white boiler-suits over their civilian clothes. He flipped up the hood and pulled the drawstrings closed. It puckered around his face.
There was palpable excitement among the tight-knit group as Dr Jameson introduced Doctors White and Henshall. The room they were in measured about fifty by forty feet. To the left was a small workstation where one of two assistants sat at a research monitor. A stainless-steel shelf ran almost the full length of the back wall. A large sink sat in the middle and took up almost a quarter of its length. To the right was a tray with various cutting tools, including a laser scalpel. Off to the side was an airtight flexible membrane containment unit with an examination table inside.
Dr Jameson motioned towards it. ‘We control the unit’s gaseous composition through our workstations. We can pass through safely without breaking the seal or compromising the atmospheric configuration inside. The membrane has tiny memory particles that scan our security chips to allow entry and exit from the unit. Mostly used for infection cases and detainees, today we will be using the containment unit for both.’