Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  Carter took a deep breath, trying to hide his annoyance. “If you mean I’m the Zelotyr liaison, then yes.”

  "Whatever." Peters nodded at the window. "We’re waiting for forensics to confirm what was in that tin, but I’d put money on it being the virus.”

  “That’s a hell of a jump—from drug running to xenocide?” Carter turned to the observation window. The lad was sitting on a wooden seat, arms on the table in front, chin resting on them. He looked young, maybe about fifteen, his hair long, falling into his eyes. “He’s just another street kid.”

  “You didn’t see his face when he heard the Zelo were dying. Or how sick his friend is. He told us the other lad ingested whatever they released, and he’s ill. Really ill. It doesn’t take a genius to make the link.” Peters walked across, his footsteps loud in the empty room. “Any idea who’ll be behind it?”

  “Not him.” Carter thought for a moment. “Locally, there’re a couple of possibilities. When we get confirmation from forensics and know what we're looking at, I’ll get someone on to it.”

  Peters threw down his cigarette, grinding it out, and Carter glared at him. The sergeant ignored him, crossing his arms, muscles standing out against his black t-shirt.

  “What will happen to them, if they did release it?” he asked. “I was told you knew the Zelotyr better than anyone.”

  Carter walked back to the desk and picked up the custody form, checking the details. “Hard to know for sure; they’re odd, the Zelotyr.”

  “We noticed.”

  Carter signed the sheet, separated the duplicate, and checked the report of the arrest. “A year ago, I was with an army captain—a guy called Nugent. We were cornered by a pack of Zelo teenagers.”

  “I heard. He got killed, they say. Eviscerated.”

  The sergeant’s voice was clipped, and Carter looked down, studiously reading. “Yes, it was…it wasn’t quick.” He swallowed bile at the memory. “When an adult Zelo came across what was happening, he let me go. He didn’t support the killing; it went against their culture.” And yet the Zelo had descended on Earth, unleashing an attack across the world that had killed millions. “The problem is, what happens to the lads, if you're right, isn’t just Earth's decision. You know why the Zelo came here, right?”

  “The three bears’ porridge was good for their babies…”

  “Yep. Their planet’s overheating—they can't breed on it. Earth matched what they needed.”

  “It’s our planet.” Peters frowned. “Just because their technology is a bit more advanced than ours—”

  Carter snorted. “A bit? We’ve managed to get a couple of probes into space, walked on our satellite; they have faster-than-light technology, and weaponry that could blow Earth out of space. I call that more than a bit.”

  “So?”

  “So, they were working with us. Rathcoole, for instance: they funded all the new housing.” Carter ducked his head, not able to meet yet another stare branding him a conspirator when it was the only way to save the little people. Lads like the one in the room next door, abandoned in the ruins of a dying city. “Look, I know what everyone thinks of me, I’m not stupid. Or deaf…But, we're wrong about the Zelo. They made a mistake on Earth and they're committed to rectifying it.”

  “A few billion deaths is more than a mistake,” spat Peters.

  He was right: it was a fucking tragedy. But so was a few billion more. Carter set the report down and rubbed his forehead. God, he was tired. “I don’t believe they knew we were sentient.” Unless the aliens had completely duped him, of course. “In fact, I think since they found out, they’ve been trying to atone for their sins. They are unbelievably moral, in their own way—”

  “What’s moral about destroying a planet?” The soldier started to pace. He pulled another cigarette out. “What’s moral about killing kids and families who were in the way of where you wanted to put hatchlings?”

  “Nothing.” Carter pushed his hair back. “Nothing at all. And they would agree with you. That’s why their technology is running our hospitals. That’s why they provided the transports and weaponry you need to do your work. Without them, Earth will take decades longer to rebuild.”

  Peters shook his head in disgust, and pulled the papers to him. “Right, which copy is mine?” He took the lid off his pen, his movements jerky and angry.

  “I’m not defending them,” Carter said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Christ, of all people I’m not going to do that. What they did to Nugent….” He wiped his mouth. “I think we can say I’m no lover of the Zelotyr.”

  Peters shrugged, and Carter wanted to tell him that every night he’d gone home from working with the aliens and scrubbed himself in the shower, only the belief he was doing the right thing getting him up each morning. Instead he said, “In another couple of weeks, this lad would have been off the streets before the winter set in. We’d have pulled Belfast back from the brink.”

  Peters shifted, his stance relaxing. “We’ll have to agree to differ.” He nodded at the boy. “You didn’t answer my question: what happens to him?”

  “The Zelo will believe whoever did this must be punished. An eye for an eye.” He paused. “How many Zelotyr are dead?”

  “Thousands.”

  “When they let me go, they said their teenagers would face three deaths each, the same as Nugent.”

  Peters paled and glanced at the small figure in the interview room. “Shit.”

  “Yes.”

  “But they must know the virus didn’t come from the streets of Belfast. It could have come from anywhere; the Barath’nas won’t exactly be sorry about it.”

  “And I’m sure if they find a Barath’na is behind it, they’ll murder him a thousand times over, too.” Carter knocked on the window, a rat-tat-tat of nerves. “If these lads released the virus, under galactic law they’ll be found guilty of…” He shook his head. “I don’t know; accidental xenocide, I suppose. Alien-slaughter?”

  “What will you do?” asked Peters, after a moment.

  “What can I do? I’m only a policeman, I have no authority over the GC.”

  “A policeman whose jurisdiction the lads lie under. The Zelotyr have pulled out; our colonel is dealing with the fallout. No one else has claimed jurisdiction.”

  Carter shrugged, hoping to hide how upset he was. The soldier was right—the boys were humans, they deserved to be dealt with as such, but the last months had taught him his hands were tied when it came to the Galactic Council. He was nothing to them, just a cop buried on Earth.

  “It lies with the GC. I’ll report the incident to their representative,” he said, knowing how it sounded, a Judas taking his silver coins. Peters’ mouth tightened into a thin line. Carter crossed his arms. "I don’t like it either, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  Peters looked through the glass, taking a long moment before he turned his gaze back to Carter. “If it were me, I’d hand in my stripes and walk away.” Carter went to cut him off, but his voice rose over Carter’s. “Because it’s shit. He’s human, they’re the invaders. It’s shit.”

  He turned and walked out, leaving Carter to stare at the boy. Peters was right. It was crap, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Carter walked into the interview room, pulled out the chair opposite the boy and sank into it. It had taken him a bit of time to find out who he was, but finally a constable had come up with a name. The boy ignored him and Carter watched for a moment, letting the silence stretch. John was holding something in his hand, a rag of some sort, and his hands were clenching and unclenching around it, as if it was the only thing he could sense or control.

  “John.” No response. Carter rapped the table. “John Dray!”

  This time, John lifted his head. “What?”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “The station. Antrim Road station.”

  “Good lad. My name’s Henry Carter, I’m an ins
pector based here.” The boy nodded, and Carter went on, “Now, since I already know your name, could you confirm it for the record?”

  “No.”

  Carter took a deep breath. “John Dray,” he said. “Your mate is Terence Delaney. Living somewhere in the Oldpark. Parents died about three months ago, foraging for food. Got some siblings.” He laid his hands on the table. “That’s all I know about you, John. Can you help me out with some more?”

  “I haven’t done anything,” said the boy. “You’ve no reason to hold me.”

  He clenched his fist around the rag and Carter pointed at it. “What’s that?”

  John looked at it, and his eyes seemed to soften. “It’s nothing. Just something I carry around with me.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Carter waited, thinking. The siblings, apparently, were younger. “What will happen when you don’t get home?” The lad’s head came up, and Carter shrugged. “Because you’re not going anywhere.” Carter leaned forward. “You weren’t the only one who carried out a job tonight: Baltimore, Rostov, Marseilles, Istanbul, Buenos Aires and Mombasa, they're the ones we know of. All the other runners who let the virus go are dead.” He paused, but there was no answer, so he pushed again. “All the Zelotyr are dead, John. That’s what the job was, to kill them.”

  John’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Carter smiled at his bravado. “You know we picked up two men waiting at the edge of the estate? They had guns.” The boy paled slightly at that. “Now, what were you doing on the hill?”

  “Nothing; I told the patrol that.”

  “Spare me.” Carter nodded at the rag. “So, whose is it? Since you’ve nothing to hide, why not tell me?” The boy’s hand clenched around it, and Carter softened his voice. “I’m here to help, John.”

  The boy looked up, his eyes hard. “Like hell you are.”

  “Well, no one else is,” said Carter. He leaned back in his seat, looking at the ceiling's pattern of cracks from the Zelo bombs. He waited.

  “It’s my little brother’s—from his coat," said John, his voice hesitant. "That’s all.”

  Carter stifled a smile of relief. “What’s his name?”

  “Stuart.”

  There was a clatter from the corridor and Carter got up to open the door and take a tray from Sanderson. He set it on the table, picked up a mug of tea, and pushed another mug towards John. “Hot chocolate. I thought you must be cold. Biscuits, if you want any.”

  The boy’s eyes went round at the sight of the biscuits and he reached out and took one, nibbling at it for a moment before his hunger got the better of his manners and he devoured it in two bites. Carter pushed the plate over to him.

  “Help yourself,” he said, and waited while the boy did just that. After, John picked up the mug and huddled over it, his face pinched and dirty, his too-long hair falling over his face, hiding his watchful eyes.

  “Any other brothers?” asked Carter. The boy shook his head. “Sisters?”

  A slight nod. “Two.”

  “Where are they?”

  The boy’s shoulders stiffened.

  “At home.”

  “Where’s home?” The boy shook his head, and Carter moved back to safer ground. “How old are they?”

  John pushed his hair back. He looked younger. More vulnerable. Slowly, he said, “Josey’s a couple of years younger than me—the other two, they’re just kids. Josey’ll look after them until I get home.”

  Carter leaned forward until his hand was nearly touching the boy’s. “Look, John, you’re in a lot of trouble, do you know that? It’s just—you won’t be getting back to them anytime soon.”

  The boy blinked before he looked back at Carter and nodded. He looked like he was scared to speak in case he cried, and Carter didn’t blame him.

  “Can you tell me anything? Who gave you the tin?”

  “We found it.” John’s voice was a whisper and his eyes didn’t meet Carter’s.

  “Where?”

  “On the ground.”

  “So you found a tin, and decided to risk the patrols—leave your kid sisters and Stuart alone—to climb up the Cave Hill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, come on. If you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.” Nothing. Carter fought to keep the frustration out of his voice. “John, I don’t know where you live, but I bet whoever set you up does.”

  There was a rattling noise, and Carter looked around, trying to tell what it was. He looked back at John and realised the boy’s feet were drumming off the ground and he was shaking, his shoulders shuddering as if he couldn’t stop.

  Oh, hell. Carter got up and draped his jacket round the boy’s shoulders. He pushed the table back and crouched down, putting his hand on John's chin, tipping his face so they were looking at each other.

  “John, things are really bad, okay?”

  John’s eyes didn’t waver, even though his teeth were chattering.

  “I need you to tell me what happened, and who was involved.” No response. “If you don’t, John, you’ll be taking the rap for it. You’ll get sent to the Zelotyr and they’ll…” He stopped. He couldn’t tell this kid what he faced. He had to. “They’ll…”

  “K—kill me,” whispered John. “Like they say, on the street—they do it more than once.”

  God help me, he knows. “Yes. Unless you tell me who set you up for this, John, that’s exactly what they’ll do.”

  “I can’t. You’re right, he—he—knows where the kids are. If I tell you…”

  “That’s right, John, he does…” Carter looked into the boy’s eyes—they were older than they should be—until John nodded.

  “He won’t hurt them,” said John. “He knows if they’re gone, there’s nothing to hold me.”

  Carter fought the urge to thump his fist on the desk and point out that the bastard, whoever it was, didn’t need more than one of them. He saw the boy was still shuddering, and held his tongue; threats weren’t going to work here. Especially since he suspected the boy knew the truth, but was too scared to admit it.

  “John,” he said, picking his words carefully, “the word will be spreading that the Zelotyr are gone.” John watched him, his pupils huge, making his eyes seem like dark pools. "I’m expecting trouble once people realise the patrols are gone. Does that sound right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good. The thing is, when that trouble comes, there’s not enough police or army left to stop it.” He waited until the boy nodded his understanding. “People will get hurt and angry and they’ll turn on the people who can be blamed. Once they realise the Zelotyr were keeping them safe, they’ll blame you for changing things. And if they can’t find you…even if whoever you are working for doesn’t go for your family, someone else might.”

  The grey eyes closed, stayed shut for what seemed like minutes, and Carter snaked his hand out until it covered the boy’s.

  John's eyes opened. “Ten Shannon Road,” he whispered.

  Carter squeezed his hand. “Good lad. I’ll go and see myself, and then I’ll come back and we can talk some more.”

  “If you get my family in front of me, I’ll tell you everything you need to know. The kids need me, I can’t be sent away…” John looked down at the desk. “You might want to check number six as well, that’s where Taz and his mum live.”

  “Right.” Carter stood to go.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t mean it. Nor did Taz. Is he okay? He seemed really sick.”

  Carter paused. In some ways, the other boy might be the luckier; he was still unconscious, and not aware of the mess. He nodded. “He’s still very shocked.”

  “Please, can you help?”

  Carter paused, looking at the boy. What had he survived: a year of a bloody war, hiding, foraging food by night? And he’d ended up here, doing someone else’s dirty work.

&nbs
p; “I’ll do what I can, John,” he said, choosing his words with care. There was no point promising the earth, not if he couldn’t deliver it.

  “You promise?”

  The too-old eyes searched him, as if grasping at the hope in front of them. Carter took a deep breath. “Yes. I promise.” He turned away before the boy could ask anything more.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Josey sat at the top of the stairs, in the spot where John stayed when he kept watch. A shaft of daylight crawled over her foot, warming it, and she bit her lip. Where was he? He’d never been so late back, and he knew she had no food. She glanced at the two empty water bottles—she’d had to give the kids something to fill their stomachs—and over at the dwindling supply in the corner. Tears pricked her, but she bit down on her knuckle, making sure no noise escaped and woke the kids.

  She looked over at the closed bedroom doors. The lay-out was the same as in their old house, and all it took was a slight narrowing of her eyes to imagine she was back there, a year ago. There’d been no way to know 2014 was going to bring an invasion worse than any in the comics John and Taz used to buy. She shifted on the step and stared at what would have been her parents’ bedroom. What she wouldn’t give to push open the door and find them sitting there, cups of tea in hand. Or go to her room and get into a bed that wasn’t mouldy and manky, but clean, its covers just off the line and smelling of fresh air.

  Some hope. Useless daydreams, nothing more, like the dreams of the family who’d lived in this house at the start of the war and who’d been in it the day the Zelo bomb had brought down the roof. Their kid had died in the house and they’d fled Belfast afterwards.

  She got up and paced the landing, not able to sit any longer. Her CD player sat in the corner beside her bedroom door. She’d love to turn it on and dance to Jessie J. She’d done that with the kids to keep them from crying after Ma and Da died, until the batteries had given up. She wanted it to be the old days when John annoyed her and it was easy to hate him, not sit and pray he’d get home, and he hadn’t been caught, or….

  She leaned her head against the door. He couldn’t be dead. He was too smart. He was quick, like a shadow in the streets. He’d be fine.