Half Light

by Matt Doyle

  Gary curls his lip into a sneer and pushes the photo back to me with a snort. He stands up, quickly pressing the sticker to the side of his prison garb, and then looks to the door and yells, “Hey. We’re done here. Take me back to my cell.”

  The guard opens the door and looks to me. I give a less than satisfied nod and gather the photos back up.

  *

  Angel’s instructions were very clear. So, come the early afternoon, I headed to my bathroom and gave my hair a wash. She hadn’t asked me to do anything other than go to the bathroom, but I felt like my hair needed it, so why not. Once I was done, I stuck a small earpiece in my ear and pulled out another sticker like the one Locke took. On the back was a transmitter. Looking at it now, it’s remarkably small. According to the papers that came in the envelope, I’m supposed to place in the roof of my mouth, and it’ll act like a microphone and receiver, wirelessly transmitting the received audio to the earpiece. My guess is Angel is linked up to this, too, and will be hearing every word.

  I sigh and carefully remove the transmitter from the sticker and then open my mouth and press it in just behind my teeth. The tiny needles built into the thing pinch as they embed themselves, and once locked in place, the device emits a small buzz to let me know it’s working. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

  As instructed, I leave the bathroom in silence and start doing some housework. Within moments, Gary’s voice comes through in the earpiece, albeit a little quietly.

  “Good, everything is working. I apologise for having to keep my voice low. The drug worked; though I wasn’t expecting blood to come up with the vomit. Regardless, I’m in the private cell in the infirmary, but they still listen. If I’m under the covers, I can talk without being noticed. Can you still hear?”

  Angel’s voice cuts in, confirming my suspicions. “Cassie, remain silent. If you can hear him fine, click your tongue.” I do so, and Angel continues, “We can both hear you fine. Now, what do you have to offer?”

  “Information, M-Miss Tanner. As I understand it, you want to know more about New Hopeland’s history. Or the side of it the public records don’t reflect. Before M-Miss Tam had me placed in here, I had access to a lot of things that may interest you.”

  “Summarise,” she says.

  “Let’s start with New Hopeland’s most famous creation, Tech Shift gear. The technology has been available to the public for five years now, but it was first conceived some time before that as part of a much larger initiative. In fact, it was referenced in the original plans for the current police station. I would not be surprised if there weren’t other similar government contracts; ones that were in place long before they became public knowledge. Or in some cases, contracts destined to never be made available to the public. Much of my research was based on following the breadcrumbs on that basis.

  “For example, if you were to contract several small companies, all of whom are run by the same few people, and ask them to produce small parts for use in different items, do you know what you could do? Build secret technology into seemingly innocuous items. Video and audio transmitters were the obvious ones, but I understand you already discovered one of the bigger projects. Who would have thought a simple environmental system like the EU25s could house holographic projectors?”

  He’s talking about the roadside air processors used to clean up emissions from the city’s non-electric vehicles. Who would have thought the conspiracy nuts crying about them being something more sinister than high-end air cleaners were on to something?

  “Based on what I dug up, the EU25s were in planning for a long time, though there was no set date for them to be released. My guess is they were either ready earlier than planned, or something caused the need for them to exist sooner. With the number of small parts contracts funnelled into them, though, it should have been clear they weren’t entirely what they seemed. And there’s evidence of a lot more of these modifications, especially with the TS gear. Like I said, you just have to follow the breadcrumbs. Most people don’t because the government crows eat them up before anyone can spot them.”

  “And can you prove any of this, or is it all just wild theories?” Angel asks.

  “I have evidence, though I hadn’t finished going through it all. Piecing it together was a team effort before The Roots of Eden are Rotten was shut down. I already t-told Sanderson my price for this. I want out of this place.”

  “If you can provide me with proof of what you’re saying, even if it’s incomplete, I will make sure you get what you want.”

  “Give me what I want, and I’ll give you the information.”

  “I see. I would rather not be starting from a near blank slate but knowing what I need to look for is enough of a start point. Goodbye, Mister Locke.”

  “No, wait,” he says, far too quickly. Clearly, he expected his little show of bravado to work far better than it did.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll tell you where I stored everything.”

  “Okay, better.”

  Gary sighs. “Everything is backed up on a memory stick. It’s stored in the wishing well at the park near Main Street. Not in the well itself. There’s a loose brick at the bottom. Lift that, and dig. Just don’t use the stick on anything connected to a New Hopeland system, as the contents of the files will be picked up on the regular government scans.”

  “How did you access them when you needed to?”

  “I used a modified NHC Blend phone. There should still be one with the stick, but if it’s broken, there are always options. T.J. Crest Repairs is a few blocks from the park. Go there and speak t-to Paul Stack. You’ll need to ask for a shell for an old NHC Blend. Check the date first. If you’re asking on an odd numbered day, say some things probably can’t be fixed, but it’s worth a shot if it’s cheap enough. If it’s even numbered day, say I cracked the edges and it spread around the back. The wording is important; it’ll tell him I sent you. Get it right and he’ll set you up.”

  There’s a moment of silence, and then Angel says, “Okay. We’ll retrieve the stick, and if it looks like you’re on to something, I’ll make the necessary arrangements for payment. Cassie, finish up what you’re doing, and head out there. There’s no time like the present, after all. Once you have the stuff, check it over. I’d like to know what you think before we decide on the next steps. Oh, and take your time with it. I’ll tell you where we can meet tomorrow.”

  And with that, the communicator goes dead. So, I head back to the bathroom, remove the earpiece and transmitter, and store them in a little box in the cupboard under the sink. “You say jump, I say how high,” I mutter.

  *

  I wasn’t aware the wishing well in the park existed until late last year when I stumbled across it by accident. I was angry with how a case was going and essentially stormed into the little clearing at the back of the wooded area without thinking. It’s interesting because it looks like a traditional wishing well but isn’t built like one. The part sticking out of the ground is a mix of traditional brick and plastic built to look like wood. If you look inside, you’ll see the entire interior is a concrete tube rather than continued brickwork like you’d see in an actual old well.

  It doesn’t take long to find the loose brick Gary mentioned. Once I slide it out of place, I start digging with my hand entirely because I don’t tend to carry small shovels with me. Luckily, while deep enough to be fully submerged in dirt, the little box isn’t so far down as to be a problem. I remove the stick and phone from the box, replace it, and push the dirt back on top and then slide the brick back into place. Once I’m back in the car, I try switching the phone on, but it doesn’t respond to either my button presses or my attempt to charge it. Removing the battery reveals why; the motherboard is not only visible but clearly water damaged.

  Resigned to needing to do a little extra work, I make my way to T.J. Crest Repairs. The store is unremarkable to look at. It’s small
by modern standards, and the outside looks clean enough, but lacks the branding bigger chains have. That makes sense given who sent me here.

  Inside, I can only see one staff member, a tall, tired-looking man sitting behind the counter. I walk over, and he raises an eyebrow at me. I nod back and say, “Hi. I’m looking for Paul Stack. Does he work here?”

  The man sighs and drums his fingers on the counter. “You found him.”

  “Right. I’m kinda looking for something specific and was told you might be the guy to speak to.”

  “So says a lot of people. You an undercover cop?”

  “No, just a customer.”

  “Uh-huh. Well let me make this clear. I don’t do dodgy shit. You want stolen goods look elsewhere.”

  Sounds like someone’s been having some trouble. Ignore the attitude and play nice. “No, no, nothing like that. Look, it’s just—nowhere seems to stock what I’m after anymore, and a friend told me you may be a Locke to get it fixed.”

  He blinks, the emphasis on Gary’s surname apparently registering the way I wanted, and asks, “What are you after?”

  “I need a shell for an old NHC Blend,” I say and think to the date. It’s the twenty-second, so I continue, “I cracked the edges, and it spread to the back.”

  “You got the handset?”

  I pull the broken one out of my pocket, and he looks it over. “Looks about right.” He places it on the table and asks, “Is everything backed up?”

  “Yeah, I got it all on a micro-USB.”

  “Okay, good. These things are rarely beyond repair, but they don’t fix easily. Best option is I give you a replacement handset.”

  “How much?”

  He shrugs. “I can always use a Blend. Straight trade is fine.”

  “Sounds good.” An idea hits me, but I have to be careful. I look up and notice something is missing from the walls. “I just realised; you don’t have any cameras up.”

  “Best not to, right?”

  I nod. “Obviously, but I mean, what about security?”

  Paul nods over my shoulder, and I turn to see a large man polishing a shotgun in the back corner of the store. I can’t believe I missed him on the way in. I guess dark clothes and dark corners go a long way together. Still, the main thing is, there’s no way for anyone to see what I’m about to do.

  “More effective than a video clip of an intruder, eh? Anyway, sorry to be a pain, but could I take two phones?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Why?”

  “Well, from what I hear, my friend has been detained for a little while now, but he’s going to be coming out my way soon. He has a fondness for the handset, so I thought it would be a nice surprise for him.”

  “That right?” Paul says, rubbing his chin. “Well then, I don’t see why not. If he likes Blends, he’s a man of taste, at least. I tell you what. I’ll give you two, but you tell him not to be a stranger if he needs anything. Sound fair?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Paul reaches under the counter and pulls out a lockbox. He opens it up and hands me two handsets. I give my thanks and slip them into my pocket before heading back to the car. So I don’t look too suspicious, I drive away from the store and make my way to my apartment. Sitting on my comfy couch, I can relax enough to have a proper look at the phone.

  The NHC Blend was the first to be manufactured in the city and had the sort of thinking behind it you’d expect; making use of a micro-USB slot for data transfer, New Hopeland branded parts, that sort of thing. If anything, the only surprise about its release was it took nearly fifteen years for a telecommunications company to move in.

  This particular handset is interesting though. It’s lighter than it should be, which the inbuilt diagnostics confirms is due to the speaker, camera, antennas, and Wi-Fi adapter all being missing. Scrolling through the app list, I realise it only has a few basic office things installed. For all intents and purposes, it’s a file reader masquerading as a phone.

  “I guess that’s what he meant by not being connected to the New Hopeland network. This doesn’t have the ability to connect to anything.”

  I pull the memory stick out of my pocket and plug it in, and the phone immediately starts copying the files across. It runs surprisingly quickly for such a basic piece of equipment and lets me know it’s done within a few seconds. Now for the tricky part.

  I lift the phone and intentionally drop it, being careful to catch it on my feet rather than let it hit the floor and risk breaking. “Diu.”

  I lean over and nudge the phone onto the floor, carefully removing the memory stick as I do so. When I sit back up, I use my free hand to remove the second handset from my other pocket and switch it on while I lift it up. I plug the memory stick in and place the phone on the coffee table, making it look like it’s taking its time. Carefully avoiding the other handset on the floor, I stand up, head to the kitchen, brew a coffee, and then come back. With the files already copied, I remove the stick, take a mouthful of liquid energy, and start reading a file named “Clean Up List.”

  The file appears to be a collection of profiles on people who have lived in the city over the years. A few of the names and faces look familiar, but I can’t place them. The main thing of note is each and every person on the list has a criminal record.

  The sixth profile I come to makes me pause.

  I know the name listed as an alias.

  I know the face.

  I worked on their case way back when I first came to New Hopeland.

  The case gave me far too many sleepless nights.

  I stare at the photo on the screen, the same photo the PD gave me, and say, “You were my first TS Murder File.”

  The words on the screen start to sink in, and I realise, if this is all true, and then Gary Locke and his band of conspiracy theorists may not have been the bad guys after all.

  Chapter Two

  After a full evening looking through the files on the small screen, my head is spinning. I can see why Gary said not to review them on anything connected to the New Hopeland network because if everything is as closely monitored as Angel has hinted at, they’d definitely flag someone. I just wish he’d pointed me towards a full-size tablet. So, I treat myself to a normal person bedtime. And yes, when your workdays usually end closer to the next day, it does count as a treat.

  Sleep comes surprisingly easy, as does waking up and resuming my trawl through the various theories. Finally, I message Angel, and she gives me an address to meet her at.

  *

  New Hopeland’s Mall never ceases to amaze me. Most of the time, I find it hard to look at it as anything more than a mass of overpriced shops and oversnobbish citizens. Every once in a while, I find something there that surprises me. Previously, those surprises included a sewer entrance and a secret meeting space for video-chatting with the Four Kings of Utah. Today, it’s The Last Clown, a strangely named, seedy-looking bar buried away at the back corner of the second floor.

  To be fair, the inside doesn’t appear entirely different to some of the bars I’ve visited to meet with the city’s unsavoury types before. It’s just a little darker and dirtier. So much so that, if it weren’t for the sign reading “no purchase, no staying”, I wouldn’t have bought a drink at all. Unfortunately, I spotted Angel at the back of the room the moment I walked in, so there’s no option to wait outside now. So, I buy the cheapest thing they’re serving—something the bartender claims to be unbranded beer—and head over to Angel’s booth. I slide into the seat opposite her and nod to her own glass. “Count yourself lucky you don’t need to drink.”

  She smiles. “Technically, you don’t need to either in this case. Once you’ve bought something, you can stay until it’s gone if you want. I really wouldn’t recommend drinking it, anyway. I’ve been watching them cleaning glasses behind the bar. Spit counts as soap here, it seems.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the thought and push the
glass a little further away from myself. “Why this place? Why not stick at the warehouse?”

  “I’m in a difficult position. If I stay in one place too long, I’m more likely to be caught due to prolonged activity. At the same time, I can’t go just anywhere in the city, not since you tried to have me killed. Twice now you’ve almost ended my fun, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t counting.”

  Angel laughs. “Anyway, the usual criminal haunts in the city are out, for obvious reasons. The Mall has enough entrances and people that I can blend in, and The Last Clown? Well, the patrons here aren’t criminals, they’re just shitty people. They value their privacy, though, so we can talk without worry, as long as we aren’t too loud.”

  “Not criminals, so no links to the Kings. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Not necessarily, but it’s more likely they don’t have a direct link, simply because they have less to gain from it. Now, did you finish reading Gary Locke’s files?”

  I take an NHC Blend out of my pocket, along with the memory stick, and slide them across the table to Angel. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “He certainly feels the same way you do as far as monitoring goes. There are plenty of notes about how all systems linked to the New Hopeland network are recorded and stored. Most of what’s on here is personnel files. Profiles on various people who have come and gone in New Hopeland. He’s been pretty thorough.”

  “Thorough in what way?”

  “It looks like he’s been keeping tabs on people who left the city with their life intact, at least if they were involved in any way with the government. That includes people who worked directly with the staff, people who had contracts of any size, and those who worked with officials via other people.”

  “Do they prove what he said about additional technology being built into public release items?”