by Anthology
Taz gave a short laugh. “You look like a twat.”
John felt himself go red, and pushed the scarf back round his neck. They kept going, the hill getting steeper now they were away from the streets. They climbed in near silence, taking their time to pick their way over the rocks in the dark, until they reached McArt’s fort and sat for a minute, getting their breath back. From here the city looked tiny.
“What d’you reckon is in it?” asked Taz.
John shrugged and shook the tin. It made no sound. “The ashes of the last poor fucker to piss him off?”
Taz shook his head. “His finger.”
“No, an eyeball. We’ll open it and it’ll be looking at us—”
“Both of ’em—he wouldn’t take one and leave the other.”
John shook it again, and it didn’t feel like eyeballs. He glanced over at Taz.
“We don’t need to,” said Taz. “We could just say we did.”
For a moment John was tempted, but the thought of going home with no food strengthened his resolve, and he shook his head. “You must be joking.”
He edged to the cliff face. From here, it was like being king of Belfast. He cast his eyes over the lough. What was left? He knew Glasgow had been wiped out—it had gone early—and it would be years before London would be rebuilt. New York, too—everywhere. He shivered, and bile rose up in him. It wasn’t their planet; what right had the shit-eaters to destroy it?
He opened the box—it took a bit of work, the lid was on tight—half-closing his eyes, sure it would be gruesome. Instead, all it contained was dust, fine like ash, sparkling very slightly in the moonlight. He touched it with his finger, tracing a pattern in it, and it felt like fine sand.
“It’s drugs,” he said, a little disappointed. “It must be a bad shipment.”
Taz leaned over and put his finger in the sand. “Weird—why not tip it down a drain and have done with it? Why here?”
“Who cares? It’ll get us food, and I’m starving. You’re so skinny, you’ll slip through a crack in the road soon.” John reached the tin out. "Want some?"
Taz shook his head. "Go fuck yourself."
"Chickenshit."
"Bollocks I am." Taz traced a line in the dust and put his finger to his mouth. He licked it. “That’s not drugs; it tastes like sand or something.”
“You could be eating someone’s body,” said John.
Taz rubbed his hand over his mouth, and paled a little. “It’s not a body, you arse.”
John reached out his hand, holding the tin tightly. If McDowell wanted it sprinkled over Belfast, that’s what he’d do. Hell, if the big man wanted him to piss off the side of the cliff, he’d do it. He shook the box into the wind, watching the dust lift into the breeze. He put the tin in his pocket and clapped his hands to get rid of the sand. “Let’s go.”
They hurried down, skidding on the scree, half on their feet, half on their arses. They’d got partway down when Taz doubled over with a grunt. His face curled into a grimace. Sweat beaded his forehead.
"Jesus,” said John, reaching for him. “What—?”
Taz screamed.
“What is it?” John shook Taz.
“It hurts!” yelled Taz. He slumped to the ground. “It fucking hurts everywhere!”
Waves of panic thudded across John’s head. Taz rolled onto his side, shaking. John knelt and put his hand on him, not knowing what to do. There was no one to get help from, not this deep into the curfew. He stood and pulled Taz up, fumbling in the dark, almost dropping him, until Taz was draped over his shoulders. He had to get the pair of them back to Taz's house and let his ma see to him. He took a first step, grimacing at the dead weight on his shoulders, but forced another step, and then another. There was nothing else for it. Taz needed help, and Josey and the kids were waiting for him.
CHAPTER TWO
John staggered to the garden wall, Taz draped over his shoulders. Christ, for a skinny guy he was heavy. John took a breath and his chest burned; he had to stop, just for a minute. He propped Taz against the wall, but his friend slid down and curled up on the ground. He rocked back and forth, moaning. At least he’d stopped yelling.
John leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and took gulps of air. A year ago, he’d have managed Taz's weight easily, but that was when he was getting ready to try out for the trials, not when he was half-starved. He straightened, looking down the length of the Ballysillan Road, and saw streaks of light in the sky. It had taken them all night to get this far. Josey would be worried, and Taz’s mum.
Maybe he should hide Taz? Shove him under a bush and go for help? He’d be in the Oldpark in about fifteen minutes if he did…A long groan from his friend convinced him not to. He took another deep breath and tapped Taz’s shoulder.
“Come on, mate,” he said, trying to haul Taz upright. His friend fought against him, but John managed to hoist him up, using his belt for leverage. He managed to get Taz draped over one shoulder. John gritted his teeth and headed down the road. “Taz, try to walk a bit.”
Taz nodded against him, and his weight lessened a little. Not enough, though they’d never make it. There was a rumble in the distance, coming nearer. John cocked his head. An engine, somewhere to his left, probably a patrol; no one else would be out before curfew ended. Taz had slumped again, his full weight across John’s shoulders, making them ache. The noise came closer, really close now—it must be in the next street. John kicked open a garden gate to his right, cursing as he tried to manoeuvre both of them through. He tripped and they went down in a heap, Taz screaming as he fell on him. John clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. “Shhh—patrol.”
Taz groaned and nodded. John held his breath. Fuck. He looked around; there was nothing in the garden other than a kid’s slide, purple and shaped like a bear. Totally crap.
“In the corner,” he said. At least they’d be shielded from the road by the hedge. He glanced at the house; it looked empty, its windows dirty with thin curtains drawn. The engine stopped.
Taz crawled, John behind him. A door slammed. He pushed Taz into the corner of the garden and ducked down, pulling the slide in front of them. Voices came from the street: Belfast accents, not Zelo translators. John pulled out his knife, flicking it open, and put his head against the grass, watching through an arch beneath the slide as the tip of a rifle touched the gate, pushing it open. Beside him Taz had collapsed and was breathing too heavily, half moaning.
“Shhhh,” he said, but Taz didn’t respond. He looked terrible, pale and sweating, his eyelids fluttering.
The gate opened fully and someone stepped into the garden, their cargo trousers tucked into a pair of heavy boots. Shit. The feet stopped. John huddled beside Taz, holding his head, and his friend was hot, really hot.
The slide moved. John held his breath. Could he run? He tightened his grip on the knife.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He looked up into the barrel of a machine gun. He followed the line of the gun, up past a burly chest, to see a soldier of about forty, his face stern.
“The knife. Hand it over.”
“Right.”
John got to his knees and handed the knife to the soldier, who snapped it closed and put it in his pocket.
“Captain!” the soldier yelled. He gestured to the boys. “Stand up, hands in the air.”
John got to his feet, slowly, keeping his hands high.
“And your mate.”
“He’s hurt.”
Taz moaned, a long moan, and the trooper frowned. He really was big, like a rugby player or something. His cheeks were flushed; John bet his hair was red under his helmet. “How did he get hurt?”
“I dunno. Maybe he ate something.”
The captain came into the garden. “Bring them in, Peters; they’re out after curfew.” He cursed and turned away. “They’re the last thing we need on top of what’s happening to the Zelo.”
John tried to protest, but two of the squad stepped for
ward and grabbed his arms. He twisted, trying to get away, but his wrists were pulled behind him. A circle of cold iron encased them, snapping into place.
“You can’t cuff us! We haven’t done anything!” yelled John.
“Save it.” Peters jerked his head at the gate. “Let’s go.”
Another pair of soldiers pulled Taz to his feet, and he gave a long shriek. John glanced back at him; he was sweating and pale, his face scrunched in pain.
“My mate—Taz—he really is sick,” said John. “Look at him.”
“If he is, we’ll get a medic for him.” Peters pushed John out of the garden and up against the wagon. He patted John down, his hands hard and impersonal, and stopped at the tin in John’s pocket. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
The soldier pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. He looked up at John, and his eyes were shrewd. “Doing a run tonight, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said John. Behind him, Taz screamed, and a voice said something about the boy telling the truth, he really wasn’t well. John, his head held against the vehicle, said, “Taz—he is sick.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The soldier let him go. “Get in, lad.”
John clambered in, struggling with his hands cuffed, and the soldier leaned in, giving what looked like a sympathetic smile. “If he’s taken something, you’d best tell us. The sooner we know, the better for him.”
Taz was ushered into the vehicle and collapsed onto the bench opposite. His eyes were wide and scared.
“You think we’ve taken drugs?” John asked the trooper. “You must be thick. We don’t have money for anything like that. I don’t have a clue what’s wrong with him. We were up on the hill, and then he doubled over on me. I know it was after curfew, but you want to see where we live. It’s such a dump, you have to get out sometimes.”
The soldier paused a moment, as if considering this. He looked back down at the tin in his hand, and up at John again. “What’s your name, son? And there’s no point lying to me, we’ll get to it one way or the other.”
John took a deep breath, looking at his sympathetic face. “Piss off,” he said, and kicked out. Sympathetic, hell. No one cared about the people left in the estates. His kick didn’t get anywhere near the trooper, who shook his head and slammed the door, leaving John in the dark, his hands pulled behind him, the only noise Taz’s soft groans. He put his head back as the engines started. Shit.
CHAPTER THREE
“Inspector!”
Carter set down the overnight report he’d been reading, smirking a little; it appeared there were worse jobs than being the Zelotyr liaison officer in Belfast. In Derry, some residents had taken to chucking rocks off Butcher’s Gate, proving Zelotyr skulls were close to impenetrable. Since the Galactic Council had ruled humans were sentient, the Zelotyr couldn’t retaliate by razing the Bogside, a point O’Leary, his counterpart in Derry, had spent the night making. Apparently, even the aliens were finding Ireland a bastard to conquer. “Yes?”
Sergeant Sanderson, short, squat and scowling, looked more bad-tempered than normal. Just. “One of the Zelotyr is downstairs—he says there’s an emergency.”
Carter rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, but stopped when he saw Sanderson’s slightly raised eyebrows. It wouldn’t do for the aliens’ liaison officer to admit that the Zelotyr still turned his stomach. Not given what the rest of the station thought of him: an efficient turncoat and traitor were the most generous comments he got these days. That he’d been ordered into the role when Bar-eltyr, the alien commander from the Cave Hill, had requested him as part of the deal for peace didn’t make any difference—he’d still been tarred as a collaborator.
“Thanks.” Carter grabbed his jacket and was halfway down the hall when he heard shouting. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into reception. A male Zelotyr—a senior, judging by its armour—was cradling the body of a junior, its eyes blank and silvered over.
Carter took a moment, not sure what to say, and raised his eyes to meet the Zelotyr’s, at the same time managing not to look in its maw. It had taken weeks to learn that trick. “What happened?”
“Dying,” said the Zelotyr, in flat, electronic tones.
Carter touched the child, careful to be gentle. “Yes, I see that. I’m sorry—what can I do?”
The Zelotyr owned the hospitals, they controlled what remained of the transport network…there was nothing Carter could offer that they didn’t already have.
“All dying…” The Zelotyr gave the child to Carter and stumbled back. “Dying…”
Carter handed the baby to the receptionist, too quickly for her to realise what it was and refuse. He darted forwards, put a hand on one of the huge arms and nodded at Sanderson to do the same. A look of disgust swept over the sergeant’s face, but he took the other arm and held it firmly.
“Who are dying?” asked Carter, straining to support the alien.
“The Zelotyr. All of us.”
“How?”
The Zelotyr dropped to its knees and cast its eyes between the two policemen. “You must ensure we are avenged.”
It pitched forward, its body emitting a stench like Carter had never smelled before: worse than the sewage the aliens harvested or the mucus oozing through their plating. He covered his mouth, fighting not to gag, and stepped back.
“Sir.” Sanderson pointed at the screen above the reception desk, broadcasting the news. The receptionist had set the baby's body on her desk and was backed against the filing cabinet, watching the screen, her eyes shining with what looked like tears.
Carter read the words scrolling along the bottom of the screen. It was true: the Zelo were dying. Sanderson's face cracked into a grin.
“Yes!” said the sergeant. “Someone had the balls to get rid of the shit-eaters. About bloody time.”
“It says it’s happening all over the world,” said the receptionist. The reception filled with officers and station staff. One of the cleaners wrinkled his nose and asked who’d died. Carter winced and tried not to look at the Zelo’s body. On the screen, a spaceship leaving Earth caused someone to start a round of applause, and it spread through the room. A whistle pierced the air and the caretaker jumped onto a chair, punching the air. “Don’t bloody come back!”
There was a cheer, and Carter added his voice to it—he might have had to work with the Zelotyr, but he’d never wanted to. The screen changed, showing their little scene being played out in a darkened Times Square, followed by a snow-covered Russian vista. A human presenter appeared on screen, and the information band along the bottom announced the retreat of the aliens. The picture changed, highlighting the locations—worldwide, filling the screen with red dots—where the poison had already taken effect. It plotted the spread of the virus, showing how it would cover Earth in a maximum of two days. The picture changed to another departing ship; it appeared the aliens weren’t going to wait around. Judging by how fast the alien had died tonight, Carter didn’t blame them.
“They’re gone!” Sanderson’s voice carried over the cheers, reigniting them, and the noise went on for a few minutes before quietening again. Now the initial excitement had passed, it felt strangely flat, like Christmas after dinner, with all the presents opened and the T.V. still crap.
Carter watched for another moment, until the screen started to show repeats of the same pictures. His gaze fell on the body of the baby Zelo, its silver armour—not armour, not yet, more like scales—dulling as the body stiffened.
He turned and pushed open the door to the car park, welcoming the air on his face. The Zelotyr were gone. It was a good thing; the best thing. He tried to regain the excitement, but it felt like icy tentacles were reaching into his stomach.
“Sir?” asked Sanderson, behind him. “Are you okay?” His voice changed, took on an edge of a sneer. “Aren’t you pleased? Earth is free.”
“Is it?” Carte
r stared at the housing estate opposite. What happened when the residents found out? Or the Barath’na? The second alien race had tried to force the Zelo off the planet when Earthlings were declared sentient. It was one of the reasons the Zelo had started to work in partnership with Earth, to appease the GC and allow them to stay. Carter hadn’t met a Barath’na, but the Zelotyr enmity to them had been openly evident. Whether it was long-standing racial hatred or based on truth, he’d prefer not to find out. He remembered the horror of the Zelotyr attack, the smart mines—there were some still scattered around the city, waiting for poor sods to get close enough to set them off—destroying the city. The last thing they needed was another lot of aliens deciding to try their luck.
Or, for that matter, the first set wanting revenge. His blood chilled; the Zelotyr didn’t have to be on the ground to attack. Last time, the first waves of bombs had come from space.
“Don’t you see?” he said to Sanderson. “We need to find whoever has done this, before it causes another war…”
Sanderson cleared his throat. "About that, sir." He nodded at the station's barred gate. "You might want to hang around—they've lifted a couple of lads."
***
At the sound of a door closing, Carter turned to face the army sergeant, Peters, who'd brought the two bedraggled lads in. One was sitting in the interview room next door, looking fairly stunned. Carter crossed his arms and leaned against the observation window which dominated the small room. “Well? Ours or yours?”
"Yours." Peters dumped his paperwork on the table in the centre of the room. “It lies under police jurisdiction.” He set a clear bag on the table, and pointed at it. “We thought they were drug running at first.” He lit a cigarette, making Carter cough.
“There’s a smoking ban, you know,” he said.
Peters gave a short laugh. “You want to arrest me?” He leaned back and blew a series of perfect smoke rings at the ceiling. “You know what's happened to the Zelo. In fact, you probably know more than I do; you’re the shit-lover, right?”