by Anthology
“There must be other planets, ma’am.” He looked up at the ceiling, and the bomb-damage crack running across reminded him of the little house earlier. “It’s a big galaxy, and they have faster-than-light ships.”
“The chance of the Zelotyr finding another planet within this generation’s lifespan is tiny. Unless they can find a way to overcome the virus—and to do that, they need access to some quantity of the source material—their species is doomed. They will demand full accountability.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
O’Brien gestured at the seat opposite. “Sit down. You know how the GC is set up? That it’s split between the Zelo and Barath’na?”
Carter brushed some crumbs off the seat and sat. “Yes."
“The Zelo believe the Barath’na are behind the virus; the Barath’na claim it came from Earth. To say relationships are tense makes the worst days of Stormont look good-natured.”
Carter took a moment, thinking about that. He’d never met a Barath’na, but knew their reputation: altruistic, cooperative in their dealings with other races, they were nothing like the warrior Zelotyr. He picked up a pen, pressing its nib in and out, the dull clicks filling the room, and asked, “Who do we believe?”
“Hard to say. The means of distributing the virus was low-tech, which makes me think it’s from Earth. But I don’t believe it came from central government.” The chief reached out, took the pen out of Carter’s hand, and went on, “You know the sort of military capacity Earth has?”
“I know about Belfast,”—not enough—“and that our situation is replicated across Ireland,” said Carter. “Farther than that I only know rumours, ma’am, and those rumours aren’t good.”
“They aren’t wrong; if there is substantive resistance, Earth can’t hold the peace. We don’t have the personnel, the hospitals or the people to run them. The army advises they do not have enough troops should civil unrest take hold.” She waited until Carter gave a curt nod. “Earth may have to ask the GC to send a peacekeeping force. No one wants that. Especially not if the GC believe the virus came from us. But we might not have any choice.”
Carter drew in a whistle of breath. "I see."
O’Brien started clicking the pen. “Any force will be predominantly Barath’naian, which is something. But if it turns out Earth's governing bodies had any connection to the virus, the Zelo will attack. They have nothing to lose, after all.” She pointed upwards. “The Barath’na have the weaponry to face the Zelotyr. Earth doesn’t. If we get it wrong…”
John’s face flashed in front of Carter, followed by the memory of the half-lived-in house. How many other Johns were out there? Many—most, if he was honest—wouldn’t survive another war. Carter nodded.
“So, you’ll understand why I say I’m glad you kept your boys on Earth, but they must be dealt with accordingly. Whatever the GC want, we must consider it. It won’t be capital, I hope, but it won’t be youth custody for a couple of years, either. You understand?” Carter nodded. “The lads still haven’t said who gave them the virus?”
“Not yet. Dray has said he’ll cooperate once we let him see his family, which obviously we can’t do.”
“The other boy?”
“Recovering.” A little, anyway—the last report had declared him conscious, but weak.
His boss leaned forward. “Whoever’s behind it in Belfast had to have someone behind them. This was a global attack. Your boys are the first—the only—step on that chain. We need them to talk.”
Carter rubbed his forehead. “I’m doing my best, ma’am.”
O’Brien tapped the table with the pen. “Keep at it. And make sure the boys are secure; to lose them might be seen as careless. Convenient, even.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Carter.
“Good. You can go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
John sat on the narrow cot, chewing his nails. He’d seen no one for hours, not since the cop had said he’d make sure Josey and the kids were safe. It was getting dark now. Helicopters droned nearby. He got up and went to the small window, and watched for a while. There was a lot of activity, police vans coming and going all the time, but nothing he could look at and figure out what it meant.
The lack of information was driving him mad. He didn’t know where Taz was, or if he was okay. He had to find out. He went to the door and started to bang his fists on it, but the metal was so thick he only made dull thuds. He stopped banging. The noise continued. What the—?
Yells, and a muffled bang. John stumbled back from the door. McDowell had found out where he was. It was like in Terminator, when the girl hid while everyone who was supposed to protect her got blown away. He glanced around. There was only the bed, and anyone who came in would look there straight away. He backed into the furthest corner, his heart hammering. Another bang sounded—a shot, he was sure of it—followed by a yell. The handle of his door started to turn, the metal bar-lock moving from horizontal to vertical. He looked around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.
Fuck it. He stepped into the centre of the room, hands spread in front of him, poised and ready. If they were here for him, he’d go down fighting, not cowering like a dog. The door opened.
“Come on!” Carter looked nothing like he had earlier. His baton was grasped in one hand, and his eyes stared out from a filthy face. Behind him a cop raced past, someone supported across his shoulders. Taz. That got John moving, across the cell and out. Carter pointed down the corridor. “Follow Sanderson—there’s a patrol car waiting.”
Yells sounded through the station and running footsteps came closer. Carter backed away, keeping John behind him.
“Get him!” a voice yelled, close and angry. More joined it, echoing through the tiled corridors.
Jesus, it was a riot. Like in the old days, when trouble sprang out of nowhere. But there hadn’t been any since the Zelo invaded—everyone was too busy either fighting them or finding a way to survive. His mouth twisted in sour realisation; now the Zelo were gone, Belfast was back to what it did best.
The sound of a shot got him moving, old instincts kicking in. It didn’t matter why the riot was happening, only that he was caught in it. He reached the officer helping Taz, who was at least making an attempt to walk, and took one of his friend’s arms over his shoulder.
The officer nodded his thanks. “The fire-escape,” he panted. They hurried to the door at the end of the corridor, and the policeman swung out from under Taz’s arm. “Take him.”
John tightened his grip on Taz. The officer slammed the fire-bar down and pushed the door open. A shrill alarm rang through the air. In the car park a crowd had gathered at barred fencing, shouting and jostling each other for position.
John ducked as something flew past him, something alight. More followed, lighting up the night sky and filling it with the thick smell of petrol. A second group of protestors sent up loud whoops as they broke through the main gates and flooded the yard.
“Bollocks,” said Sanderson, reaching for his pistol. He wrenched the door of the waiting police car open.
“Get them away!” yelled Carter from behind. “Go!” Another flaming bottle flew past and smashed. “Now!”
John heaved Taz forward, but one of the rioters had broken from the main pack and was blocking his way. Carter pushed past and faced the man, squaring up to him.
“Back off,” said the officer.
The rioter’s face twisted. “Fuck me, it’s the shit-lover!” he yelled. He lunged at Carter. “Here he is!”
The crowd surged forwards, ignoring John and Taz. Carter stumbled back and brought his baton up.
“Sanderson, get them into the fucking car!” he yelled, the posh accent gone. “Now!”
Taz was yanked away from John and thrown into the car. One of the men in the crowd thumped his fist off the car’s bonnet. “The shit-lover’s trying to do a runner!”
Sanderson grabbed John’s collar and forced him into the car, befor
e bundling in after him. The car revved as he slammed the door closed, and the rioter backed off. The rest of the crowd had gathered at the station’s open door—Carter had no hope of getting through.
John grabbed Sanderson’s wrist. “We can’t leave him.”
“We’ve no option.” Sanderson jerked free. He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Put your foot down.”
Sirens sounded as three army vehicles tore through the main gates towards them, scattering the protestors. Soldiers dived out into the remaining crowd. Flames framed the melee, distorted in the riot-shields. The troops forced their way through the protestors to be pushed back, then surge forward again, like a dance. At least one gun sounded.
“We’ll never get through!” shouted Sanderson. “We’ll have to try the back gate.”
The driver nodded. The car screeched in a circle. John craned his head to see what was happening to Carter but it was impossible to tell through the mass of bodies. The driver floored the vehicle. There was another crowd ahead of them. Christ, the car was going to hit them. Even Taz had managed to sit up and was staring ahead.
“Holy shit!” yelled John, ready for the thump of a body. The crowd parted at the last second, diving to the side, and the car made it through the gate and out onto the main road. Something hit the back window, giving a dull smack, and a yellowed flash filled the car. The driver kept going.
“Yes!” yelled Sanderson. He looked back the way they’d come. “They’re too far back—we’re okay!” He paused, and gave a sly smile. “Reckon ol’ shit-for-brains will get out?”
“Carter?” The driver glanced in the mirror. “He’s a lucky enough fucker, all right.”
John remembered the rioter’s face when he’d seen Carter. He’d been the target, not John. He frowned. “Why do they call him shit-lover?”
Sanderson made a hacking noise. “He’s the Zelotyr liaison officer in Belfast.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Carter was a collaborator? He looked over at Taz, whose eyes had widened in shock.
“He worked with the Zelo?” said Taz, his voice slow.
The officer hadn’t mentioned working with them. His hands closed, into tight fists. Bastard. He’d been half-sucked in by him. Hell, he’d thought about giving him McDowell’s name to keep Josey safe. Now it turned out the guy had sold out Earth. How did John know he wouldn’t sell him out, too?
“What did he do for the Zelo?” he asked. There might be some sort of mistake. Maybe Carter had been forced to take the post and had sabotaged the aliens at every opportunity, like an old-fashioned wartime spy.
“When the ceasefire was agreed, the GC put him to work with the local Zelo command.” Sanderson’s voice was as sour as John’s stomach. “He went for it. It seems he’s an ambitious little turncoat—he got a promotion.”
They pulled off the main road and sped to the outskirts of the city. Fires burned in the estates either side of them, radiating from the suburbs and snaking a line of orange into the city centre. Would tonight be the end for what was left of the city?
Carter’s posh voice came over the driver’s radio, ordering reinforcements to the squad trying to hold York Street. He’d made it, then. John felt oddly relieved; no matter what Sanderson said, he was still the only person who’d shown any interest in getting the kids out.
“Where are we going?” John asked.
“Somewhere safe.” The cop turned away and John watched out the window. The sky was orange, not black. There were no Zelo anywhere. None of their spaceships lit up the sky; their armoured transports were abandoned by the roadside, one with a figure lying over the control-panel, its armour glistening in a shaft of moonlight. They’d lost a few of the transports in the early days of the invasion, John remembered, booby-trapped by the locals until the Zelo had learned to check before they used them. It had been the subject of jokes, how the aliens were reduced to using mirrors to check any nooks and crannies, all their technology undone by Belfast’s determination to piss off the authorities, second only to the city’s ability to have a good riot.
His stomach tensed. Was Josey caught up in the riots? He thought about asking Sanderson if there was any news about her, but the cop was ignoring him, his shoulders bunched and tight. John frowned. He might not know what to make of Carter, but Sanderson was obviously well acquainted with his own right hand.
The car pulled onto a wide, straight road. John squinted, trying to read the road sign coming up, but it had been painted over by a crude picture of a Zelo and the message to take their shit and fuck off. He squinted until he made out the destination and his stomach lurched. Moira: near the space port. They were being sent to the Zelo. He nudged Taz and nodded at the sign.
“Ask,” croaked Taz.
“Hey, guys,” said John, trying not to piss the officers off. “Are we going to be taken off Earth?”
Sanderson’s face softened a little. “No. You’re staying.” He paused for just a moment too long. “For now.”
“What do you mean for now?” Taz’s voice was shaking.
“Quiet.” The officer leaned forward and touched the driver’s shoulder. “Floor it.”
A crowd had gathered in the middle of the road. Something burned behind them, something big—a Zelo space-transporter, John decided, a proper one with deep-space capacity, not the planet hoppers they used for patrols.
“Hold tight!” The driver floored the accelerator. John was pushed back against his seat. The crowd didn’t move. John’s mouth went dry and he put his hand on the seat in front, braced for impact. Twenty feet at most. The driver sped up.
“Just like old times!” yelled Sanderson. “Keep going—they’ll break up.”
The crowd stayed where it was. Sanderson swore. John half closed his eyes. The crowd scattered just as the car shot past, still speeding up.
Sanderson laughed and nudged John. “Didn’t I tell you? They always scatter.” His eyes were high with excitement. “So, you want to know what will happen to you?”
“Yeah,” croaked John. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Sanderson was gripping his gun tightly, making John’s shoulder itch. The officer didn’t look quite balanced. “The Earth authorities will call in the Galactics after tonight. We lost most of our armed forces in the Zelo invasion. Earth needs to be safeguarded.”
“Safeguarded from what?” asked John. “Surely once people find out the Zelo are gone, the resistance will end.”
“People do know they’re gone, and this is how they’re reacting. Besides…” The officer pointed at the sky. “The Zelo attacked from space last time. There’s no reason they won’t again. We need the Galactic Council to hold them off. But if we turn to the Galactics, they’ll want justice for the shit-eaters. It might be a choice between giving them that justice, or being destroyed by another attack.”
John’s stomach twisted, remembering the first day of the invasion, how the smart bombs had fallen through the clouds with no warning. One had taken out a whole street not a mile from his house. He remembered the panic of not knowing where the screaming bombs were going to hit, the scramble to get out the school grounds and home to check his family were safe. He and Taz had taken off from the classroom and split to go to their separate estates, just a quick hand-clasp and good luck to each other, cut off when a bomb hit nearby, denting the air.
Earth would do what it must to avoid another attack like that. He glanced at Taz and knew that if it was a choice between that or handing them over, there’d be no contest. Their fear must have shown because Sanderson gave a grim smile, and a nod.
“Not your best night’s work, was it?” he said.
“No.” John gulped. “So they’ll send us to the Zelo, you reckon? To Deklon?”
The soldier shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” His mouth twisted. “Either way, I wouldn’t fancy being in your shoes.”
No one would. He saw his reflection in the window, framed against the darkness. He was pale and thin and looked nothing lik
e himself. It was a new face, not the same one as before the war. He’d never get back to that person.
The thought shocked him. All this year, he’d told himself that things would go back to normal sometime. He’d tried to keep up some training, doing push-ups in the bedroom and running instead of walking when he could. He’d told himself that everyone would be thinner and he’d still get a place in the first team. Now, there wasn’t going to be any team for him. He’d be on Deklon, waiting to discover how the Zelo would kill him, and how often.
He fought back tears, damned if he’d give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them. He should have left Taz on the hill. It would have been better to die once than face what was ahead. If he had, he’d have got home when he should and McDowell’s men would have shot him. He remembered Gary telling him he wouldn’t miss him—and he wouldn’t have. A single bullet and it’d have been over with.
He wished he could go back to that night and do things over again. He’d have bargained more out of McDowell, he’d have made sure Josey and the kids were safe before he’d taken the job. But he’d still have carried it out. He had no option; McDowell had trapped him months ago, with his errands and food and clothes.
John opened his eyes and forced himself to face the boy in the window. It might not be the person he wanted to be or one he recognised, but it was the one the war had moulded him into. The Zelo had killed his parents because they believed they were worthless; they wouldn’t do the same to him. When he died, however many times he did, he’d make sure they knew they were killing a man, not a boy, who’d survived as best he could, and did the best he could. He’d be brave and make himself count; he owed it to the boy who’d been lost in the war.
Jon F. Zeigler
http://sharrukinspalace.wordpress.com
Galen and the Golden-Coat Hare(Short story)
by Jon F. Zeigler