by A C Praat
Setting a geo-fence of two hundred meters, he tapped deploy, and stepped back to see what would happen. Nothing at first, except a slight hum as the bees connected to each other. Then they rose into the air. Brett froze as the bees circled him, but none landed. He was sufficiently unlike Philip to tempt them. Thank God for that – on so many fronts.
Rather than fly through the bush, they spiraled above it, setting a course east toward the beach. East was the default setting if nothing else – no one else – was in play. Brett trotted back down the path to beach, trying to keep the bees in sight through the canopy of tree-ferns and various scrubby bushes he couldn’t name.
As he emerged from the trees onto the beach, the bees were coalescing around the log he’d straddled just this morning. What had they found?
Mishra!
Surprise stole Brett’s breath. Her eyes were covered with a scarf, but her chest was slowly rising and falling. She must be sleeping. What could he do – she couldn’t know he was here. At least two bees were crawling over her face and four hovered above her. Her hand jerked toward her neck and her eyes fluttered.
Fuck! He had to hide before she woke up. But the freakin’ bees!
Bolting back through the trees to his house, Brett marshaled his thoughts. The smartphone: where was the abort command? Shrieking reached his ears. Christ. He grabbed the phone, glared into the camera and swiped his thumb over it. Flick – sortie in progress. Flick up, flick down. Where was it?
Another shriek.
Abort.
Brett ran back down the track, stopping short of the beach, and crouched down among the bushes. Mishra was sprinting toward the headland, tossing off clothes as she went. The bees weren’t trailing her; they were a faint haze angling over the canopy in the direction of his house. The abort command must have worked. Thank God.
Mishra stopped at the boulders where the headland jutted into the sea and bent over her knees, her phone to her ear. Brett waited in an agony of indecision. The need to make sure she was all right warred with his need to stay hidden. If she keeled over he would give up the mission and try to keep her alive.
Now she was sitting, her arms wrapped around her knees, gazing out to the water. When he heard the buzz of an outboard motor and then saw a runabout curve around the headland into the bay, he decided it was time to leave. If they got suspicious they might search the area.
Back at the house, the bees, all eight of them, were settled in their moulds. Like butter wouldn’t melt. He replaced the smartphone and slammed the briefcase shut. They’d failed; they’d identified the wrong target. Hebden wouldn’t be pleased.
But Brett couldn’t continue this mission with faulty products.
He hauled the briefcase inside, then began stuffing his clothes into his bag as he thought through the implications of this morning’s experiment. The bees were a public health risk, and if people responded the way Mishra had – batting and swatting at them – chances were they’d be disabled and potentially irretrievable. Or worse, they’d drop the payload on someone other than the target. Surely Hebden wouldn’t want them exposed?
Of course they weren’t truly autonomous on this mission: the target had been preselected for them. But the public probably wouldn’t care about such operational subtleties, nor the New Zealand Defense Force.
He shouldered his bag and picked up the briefcase, his laptop, and a couple of bags of groceries, then scanned the house one last time. No time to clean up properly – he’d have to pay the extra service fee – another cost for Hebden to absorb. Would Hebden see this as another spectacular cock-up on Brett’s part? Maybe Hebden would let the whole thing go.
Brett closed the door and began the climb through the bush to his car. He didn’t want to think of the alterative scenario: taking Philip out by some other means.
TWENTY-THREE
Thursday morning was a miracle: bright skies, searing sun and a light wind. By lunchtime when Philip was mowing the grass under the shade of the bush block running the length of the orchard, the grass was dry. This time he was pushing an oversize lawnmower, finessing the lawn and gardens surrounding the house. It didn’t have a catcher. Raking up the clippings would be the next job. He circled round to finish the last strip of grass next to the fruit trees of the home orchard and turned off the mower. Relief. It was too damn noisy, even with the earmuffs. On the plus side, nobody could talk to him.
He was desperate to contact the journalist, Charlie Breen, and ask her for details. But first he would check the contents of the USB stick in his backpack. How had he forgotten about that? He needed to borrow the laptop. Unless it was so ancient it didn’t have a USB port. What were the chances?
As he forked the last mound of grass clippings into the wheelbarrow Afra called, ‘Lunch outside, Philip, by the pond. Ten minutes.’
He ditched the wheelbarrow and walked down the slope beside the stream that trickled into a pond – the centerpiece of the garden that was defined by the horseshoe curve of the house – and entered the side door into the laundry to clean up. Away from the mower, the little pieces of the orchard that clung to him smelt of summer: seeds and grass and oranges. He was growing to like the smell.
Wil and Afra were already seated at a round table beneath a sun umbrella, with a deli-style lunch spread before them. Wil was once again reading the junk mail while Afra was gazing at the pond.
‘That needs cleaning too,’ Afra said.
They both looked at him.
‘Never cleaned a pond.’
‘It’s pretty easy. Drain the water, take out the stones, waterblast them, put them back in. The cat and birds have taken care of the goldfish,’ said Wil.
‘A job for tomorrow,’ Afra said. ‘Now we eat.’
As he helped himself to salami, cheese and bread, Afra watched him.
‘How tall are you, Damon? What do you think, Wil – as tall as Bastian?’
Wil looked up from his papers, chewing. ‘Yah, the same as Bas. Not as wide though.’
‘Bas is our oldest.’ Afra popped a pickled cucumber into her mouth. ‘He’s the dark one.’
Philip nodded. ‘I’m six-foot-two.’
‘Do you kayak, Damon?’
Why was she asking all these questions? He bit his sandwich and shook his head.
‘I heard a report on the news … when was it, Wil? Over the weekend? Somebody reported a missing kayaker by the Cavallis. A tourist. The description sounded like you.’
Philip was glad his mouth was full so he didn’t have to respond immediately. The police were searching for someone who looked like him? Someone who was lost near the group of islands where he’d been staying? A coincidence, surely? ‘I don’t kayak. I get seasick very easily.’
Afra nodded, apparently accepting his explanation. ‘Tell us about your trip so far.’
He took another bite of his sandwich. What could he tell them? That he couldn’t remember? That he’d spent time on an island even though he got seasick? If the police were looking for him – or someone who looked like him – maybe he should leave the district. Where would he go? He’d have to rent a car or take public transport. More risk of being observed.
‘Damon?’
‘I haven’t been here long.’ That much was true. ‘I saw your ad over the weekend,’ he continued. ‘Thought it would be good to stay in one spot for a while.’ Also true.
He was warming up now. ‘Spent some time in Oz. Visited that friend I told you about at the institute, then went on an outback tour for a couple of months. Have you been to Australia?’
Wil and Afra shook their heads.
Good.
‘And what was that like – the outback tour?’ Afra asked.
Philip cast his mind back to Melbourne, where he’d had to wait while Tess was quarantined. Then his drive from Melbourne to Adelaide to take up his post at the institute. Not the outback exactly, but he’d researched his new country thoroughly before they left England – read all the promotional material and watched doc
umentaries and Oz-based films. He wasn’t a thrill-seeker so he’d wanted to know what he was getting himself into by accepting a post in Australia. Not that he’d had much choice about going.
‘Dusty,’ he told Afra. ‘Plenty of ‘roos. The eucalypts around here remind me of parts of it. But the outback is immense. This’ –he cast his arm out toward the orchard– ‘is so refreshing.’
Afra smiled. ‘We think so.’
He waited while all three of them watched the stream trickle over the rocks into the pond. Finally he said, ‘I’m still worried about my friend at the institute. Could I borrow your laptop again?’
‘Of course.’ Afra stood and cleared her plate from the table. ‘Come with me.’
Philip stacked plates onto a platter and followed her into the house. The USB stick was still in his room; he needed to retrieve it. ‘Back in a minute.’
The laptop was whirring loudly on the coffee table in the living room when he returned. She’d entered the password for him.
Philip was tempted to reproduce the search on his own name. The memoriam notice tugged at his attention. But that unsettling urge would have to wait.
He plugged the USB stick into laptop and clicked on the external drive folder. Two folders showed up: background and CV. That was as far he got. All the files were password protected. He clenched his toes and fists. Of course they bloody were!
After ripping out the USB stick he typed Charlie Breen into the web browser and waited. The bee articles came back.
He re-read the article recounting the suicide of the person who leaked the project. The words, young, man, brilliant and troubled hit him again. Then confused. They all seemed to match him. But there was something else.
He re-scanned the article – probably. Probably took his own life? Hebden hadn’t been sure about the fate of the person who leaked the project, but they’d concluded the investigation anyway. Why?
… draw a line under this episode …
They’d wanted it all hushed up. Had the ADF really given up their search, or was it just an attempt to divert the public interest in the project? His thoughts flicked to his flatmate. Brett had been in the ADF. Philip frowned. Had Brett been spying on him the whole time?
He returned to the links. Maybe they’d prod his memory further.
From what he could see, the journalist Charlie Breen, who had written the stories, was on the side of the underdog. Her articles and book had a common theme of human rights abuses and corruption. None of the sites had a direct contact option for Charlie, but the book and newspaper sites suggested contacting her through their establishments.
He glanced toward the patio. Wil and Afra were still out there. The murmur of their voices reached him through partially closed bi-fold doors. They seemed settled. Now was his chance.
After he’d set up a new email account, he paused, rehearsing what he’d planned to write to ensure Charlie contacted him.
I am a friend of Rawinia Te Whatu of SNKR. She suggested I contact you about some information I have about the recent public scandal over the robotic bees in Adelaide. Please contact me at this address.
Charlie had broken the bee story, which meant she must know the sources in the article – including the Te Whatu woman. Hopefully that would be enough to encourage her to reply and also to reassure her that he was against the military’s use of robotic bees. How should he sign off?
Not his real name. So he signed it Damon Hunter.
But what if Charlie told Rawinia about the email? Did he want that?
He deleted the first line of the email and replaced it with A mutual friend suggested I contact you.
He sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t be explicit about why he was contacting her. Charlie’s editors would probably read the email. Any mention of the bee project would spark their curiosity – and the curiosity of anyone monitoring Charlie’s contacts.
Too risky. But he needed to talk to her. He scanned back through Charlie’s articles and read her bio, searching for inspiration.
It was me. It must have been me. The thought pounded on the door of his conscience. It all matched up: the description, the timing, the death notice, and the constant feeling of being hunted.
He searched for the memoriam notice and stared at it. His own death. The candle and the message: Taken too soon. There were no specific dates – just the month and year. All of the other memoriam notices had dates.
And suddenly he knew what he should write to Charlie. He navigated back to his draft email.
I need your help. DH.
TWENTY-FOUR
Later that Thursday evening, Mishra was tucked up on a couch at Aunty Ani’s, hot chocolate in her hand, and beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the whole stupid bee scenario. She was embarrassed at having caused such a fuss. Yes, she’d been stung, and she didn’t recognise any of the species of bees and wasps that were the likely culprits as presented to her by Uncle Anaru. But the idea that they could have been micro-bots, an idea that had scared her silly on the beach, was seeming more and more like hysteria. She shook her head. This area was remote. What would they be doing here?
‘What?’ Ra squeezed Mishra’s feet, which were sitting in her lap at the other end of the couch. Ani, Anaru and Raffe were gathered in the circle of armchairs around the wood-burner. It wasn’t cold enough to use it but Ani had lit some candles in shallow dishes and they flickered from its burnished top. It was far too cozy and comforting to believe in anything as sinister as killer bees.
‘I think they were just regular bees.’
Ra sighed. ‘You couldn’t pick them out of the lineup.’
‘I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was running away.’
‘What about the man in the bush?’ Raffe asked.
‘Moved out this afternoon,’ said Anaru. ‘I rang the owners. Only stayed a few nights – they were expecting longer.’
‘Does he have a name?’ Ani clipped the thread of the trousers she was mending.
‘Oliver Cromwell.’ Anaru peered at Ani above his glasses, a half-smile on his face.
‘Fake,’ said Ra. ‘Did they describe him?’
‘All done online,’ Anaru replied.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Raffe asked.
Mishra gazed back at him. ‘Should it change anything? I was stung by an insect. Big deal. I’m still here. We haven’t found Philip, you’re leaving, and I’ve got tickets booked for Wellington on Saturday.’
‘If there is some dodgy git hanging round here it’s better that you leave,’ said Ra. ‘Where are you staying in Wellington?’
‘Got an apartment booked.’
‘Charlie’s down there too, don’t forget,’ said Raffe.
Mishra pressed her lips together. She’d only met the journalist once when Charlie helped them expose the military project. Mishra had almost forgiven Raffe his part in Philip’s activity and his plot to run away, but she didn’t know if she could extend that forgiveness to Charlie.
Ra read her thoughts. ‘She didn’t know about Philip’s disappearing trick, did she?’ Ra looked to Raffe for confirmation.
Raffe was shaking his head. ‘She wasn’t even in the country at that stage. Sol handled the communication.’
Mishra frowned.
‘Sol didn’t know either, Mish.’
Mishra set down her mug. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Ani and Anaru.’
‘Kei te pai, Mishra.’ Ani stood. ‘Long day, eh, dear?’
They all stood up and Raffe and Ra gathered their coats.
‘You come again, hine-iti,’ Ani said as she hugged Mishra good-bye under the porchlight.
Anaru kissed her cheek.
She loved Ra’s relatives, but she couldn’t imagine coming back here without the spectre of Philip’s loss staining the experience. Another reason to feel sad.
‘Course she’ll be back,’ Ra said as they trotted down the steps. ‘She’d miss me too much to stay away.’
Mishra elbowed Ra. But that was true too.
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TWENTY-FIVE
Hebden had been adamant: Brett was to keep tracking Philip and he must use the bees. Brett had to trust him – there was a good reason for the bees showing an interest in Mishra. They might sting in self-defense, just like ordinary bees, but the immobilisation bees would only deploy against the target.
Trust him? Brett spat into the gutter as he pounded the pavement bordering the four-lane road that bisected central Wellington, up toward the university that was hosting Mishra for her sabbatical. It was Friday midday, overcast and windy, but not so windy that the tang of exhaust fumes was completely blown away. Brett eyed the commercial buildings lining the street – plumbing suppliers, electronic suppliers, garages. Such a contrast to the bush and beaches of Northland. He’d much prefer to be up there.
Mishra wasn’t due in Wellington until tomorrow. He had enough time to do a quick reccie of the university and deliver his letter before secretarial services closed for the weekend. His phone directed him to the building housing the Psychology Department – a squat, concrete piece of ugliness with recessed red window frames and glass doors. What were the architects thinking? A group of students walked by and Brett tagged onto the end of them, entering the building. Two students split off, also taking the route to the Psychology Office, signposted by arrows inside the entrance.
‘Damn it.’ A straggly girl in oversized boots cursed as she read the note stuck to the sliding glass windows of the office: Back at 12.30pm.
‘Told you.’ Her friend lounged in one of the four seats that constituted a box-like reception area in front of the windows, one booted leg crossed over his knee, his black hair and nail polish reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.
The unattended reception was a bonus – Brett didn’t want anyone seeing him deliver the letter. But the students didn’t look like they would move any time soon. He leaned against one wall, watching the overhead monitor flash photos and profiles of the staff.