by Eliza Green
He raised a brow. ‘I can’t imagine why.’ Several dishes of uneaten food separated them. Stuart eyed one plate with a piece of chocolate cake on it. ‘How did the meeting go?’
‘I’ve got two strikes.’ She sighed and pinched her fingers together. ‘I’m this close to getting another. One more and I’m out.’
‘Another? What happened?’
‘According to them, I made poor decisions during the flight.’
Stuart checked behind him. Jenny saw what he was looking for: a roving camera hovering over a group of trainees in one corner of the room. It turned around to look in their direction.
He turned back around and leaned forward. ‘I saw some memos the other day. Apparently, Charles Deighton is looking closely at budgets and pilots of a certain age. I didn’t think that included you.’
What she’d suspected.
She sipped on her coffee; the caffeine did little to improve her mood. ‘I knew the risks when I reached Grade Four, but now it’s like I have an actual target on my back. That no matter what I do, I can’t change the outcome.’
‘I’m sorry, Jen, I didn’t know things were that bad.’
His apology soothed the rough edges of her mood.
The roving camera focused on the trainees again. Several bodies shifted nervously in their seats; others tried to act brazen, as if the camera’s presence wasn’t an issue.
‘Why couldn’t you have given me Maria?’
‘I did. She was supervising Galen. Look, it wouldn’t have mattered by the sounds of it. Deighton and Gilchrist are assholes and you don’t need their drama. Why don’t you go out on your own again? You still have that rust-bucket in storage, don’t you?’
Yes, her old spacecraft. It had been too long time since she’d done freelance piloting work—it was how she’d started in the industry after getting her pilot’s licence. But giving up a steady monthly wage didn’t appeal to her, not at her age.
‘I don’t know, Stuart. Seems like a lot of hassle.’
He grabbed her hands. ‘If they’re going to fire you anyway, then quit first. You deserve better.’ He let go.
She did, but it wasn’t easy to go it alone in an industry the World Government and Earth Security Centre dominated.
Jenny stabbed a piece of chocolate cake with her fork and shoved it into her mouth. It had the texture of sponge but tasted more like dirt sprinkled with cocoa powder. She’d tasted real chocolate cake once, in Cantaloupe restaurant. But the memory only made eating this replicated mess a lot harder. Places like Cantaloupe weren’t for people like her, surviving on a pilot’s income. Replicated food only reminded her of what she may never have again.
‘I’m sorry, Jenny. I have an obligation to let my trainees loose. But I promise not to put him on your schedule again.’
‘Thank you.’
He pushed one plate closer to her. ‘Now, eat your food.’ She moved the plate off to the side. ‘Take a few days off, more than the eight-hour layovers they give you. Things might look brighter at the end of it.’
Jenny eyed him. ‘Time off?’
‘I’m just saying Deighton and Gilchrist don’t give a shit about you. You need to think about what you want.’
Jenny agreed but she couldn’t see a way out. If she survived this latest Deighton-driven cull, she had another twenty years to give to the job. The alternative to working was living off World Government replicator rations and living in a communal property she was sure she’d hate.
‘I might as well hand in my resignation. Time off is not an option, I’m afraid.’
The camera turned around again, seeking them out.
Stuart glanced at it and switched subjects. ‘How’s your daughter?’
‘Eleanor’s doing well.’ Jenny pushed her mug of coffee away. Her appetite was gone. ‘She’s thinking of starting another course in college, decided to change career paths from law to politics. She can’t sit still for five minutes, that one. So like her father. How about you? Any decent women made an honest man of you yet?’
‘Never going to happen. I’ve had my fill of wives, ex-wives, the lot. I’m planning on living out the rest of my life alone.’ Stuart remained stubbornly single after his last wife had almost bankrupted him. He’d been married three times before that and was still paying for his mistakes. At least he had no kids.
‘When’s your last shift?’ asked Stuart.
She yawned. ‘One last run to Sydney now followed by a layover for eight hours.’
Stuart shook his head. ‘Wow, they really know how to look after their old-age employees.’
‘Hey! Less of the old, please. Seventy-five is the new forty in this genetic age of ours.’
He pulled the plate with cake towards him. ‘Bastards. They wouldn’t recognise talent and experience if it bit them in the ass.’
They recognised it. They just didn’t want to pay for it.
He raised an imaginary glass. ‘Here’s to you-know-who burning in hell.’
She grinned and clinked her mug against his fake glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
27
Working at the Earth Security Centre had earned Daphne Gilchrist the respect she’d craved all her life. But twenty years at the wheel of an organisation that was losing direction was taking its toll. She blamed Deighton and the board members for that. In her office, her male assistant sat across from her. She barely listened while Tim rattled off her schedule for the coming week. Meetings to discuss who should be fired were low-brow tasks for the ESC.
It didn’t help that the transfer programme had stalled for now, thanks to the Indigenes. Deighton—meaning the board members—had been hunting for their location for the last two years. While everyone who mattered had known about their existence on Exilon 5, it had not stopped ambitious plans to transfer twenty billion people to the new planet.
Until recently.
She had sensed the change in direction, even though Deighton had only hinted at the existence of a new plan. Daphne was no idiot; she’d seen it coming. Deighton, an overachiever like her father, liked to play games. And now he was using her the same way she was using O’Halloran.
Her ridiculous itinerary had pulled Daphne’s focus away from other matters. Bill Taggart’s files for one. Because of it, the O’Halloran girl had yet to receive any confidential material. It was clear the girl’s interest in the new job had begun to wane. Now might be a good time to call her in and remind O’Halloran of her loyalties to the ESC.
Tim droned on. Daphne insisted on the weekly face-to-face meetings, but the micro managing of her organisation, to deflect any surprises from Deighton, was starting to tire her.
‘Is that it?’ she asked.
Tim, a weedy fellow with a nervous twitch, looked up from his DPad. ‘What? Eh, yes.’
‘Fine. Set up the reminders in my diary.’
She dismissed him with a wave.
Her assistant stood up. ‘Of course.’
The young man fumbled with the door handle, drawing new irritation from her, before slipping out. Alone again, she dug deep for some of that interest she used to have. But instead, her weary focus blurred the lacquered table she stared at. A new call buzzed on her monitor, one that bolted her upright in her chair.
She recognised the tone.
Pulling in new air to settle her nerves, Daphne smiled and answered the call.
‘Charles!’
The CEO for the World Government came into view.
‘Daphne,’ he crooned, his voice crackling with age.
Cracks in Deighton’s genetically treated one-hundred and nineteen-year-old face were starting to show: his skin was sagging south. His hair was full, but losing thickness. A degenerating larynx gave the raspy sound to his speech. Although he’d been scheduled to have his larynx replaced, Deighton said the sound gave him a mysterious edge. Every time he spoke, Daphne fought the urge to clear her own throat.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Deighton rattled with la
ughter. ‘Do I need a reason to chat, my dear?’
She matched his fake smile. ‘Of course not. I don’t normally hear from you, that’s all.’
She waited for him to speak; whatever his reason would be revealed soon enough. ‘Daphne, my dear, how soon before Mr Taggart reaches our shores?’
‘A week, Charles. He will be coming in here for a debrief.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The centenarian waved his hand in the air. ‘Make sure to temper his interest in the Indigenes, will you? He’s been useful in dragging those degenerates out of hiding, but he’s still far too emotional about his wife.’
‘Of course.’
She and Deighton had already discussed Taggart’s fate a week ago, on the same day he’d boarded the passenger ship. But she didn’t remind him of that.
‘Oh, and another thing,’ he added. Daphne widened her smile; she hated Deighton’s addendums. ‘Laura O’Halloran.’
Somehow she managed to keep the smile in place. ‘What about her?’
He clasped his hands together and leaned forward in his usual, condescending way.
‘I just heard from one of the ITF reps that you promoted her to Level Five. What were you thinking, Daphne?’
That she was CEO of the ESC and it was her business who she promoted.
She shook her head softly. ‘Nothing to worry about, Charles. The girl is a hard worker and we were short handed, what with the investigation wrapping up.’
Deighton stared at her; his watery blue gaze showed no emotion. ‘I’m surprised, that’s all. You usually run these decisions by me.’
No she didn’t.
‘I don’t understand, Charles. The ESC has always been under my control.’
‘Of course, under normal circumstances, but we are under a new threat.’
‘From whom?’
He laughed and leaned back. ‘The population for one. The workers, when they realise most of them won’t be transferring to Exilon 5. The Indigenes. Take your pick.’ He leaned in again. ‘I don’t want any changes right now. Status quo.’
Daphne kept her tone light. ‘Of course, Charles. But I must insist she stay.’
‘For what reason?’
She needed her. Laura would be her insurance policy if things turned bad.
‘Well, to undo the confidentiality agreement now would be a headache.’
Deighton leaned back, resting a finger on his lips. He liked to play. Too much.
Keeping up appearances for him exhausted her.
With a clap of his hands, he said, ‘What’s done is done. You can keep her. But no more promotions.’
She shook her head. ‘Last one, I promise.’
He clicked off suddenly. Daphne slumped back in her chair with a sigh. She knew how to keep Deighton happy, but for how much longer?
Time to bring in her insurance policy.
She called her assistant. ‘Yes Ms Gilchrist?’
‘Send Laura O’Halloran to the boardroom on Level Five, immediately.’
28
‘Shit.’
Laura stood outside the door of a room she’d never been inside. Gilchrist’s assistant had fetched her moments ago. He led her across the Level Five foyer and down a corridor that was only accessible with the right bioscan.
‘Don’t worry, her bark is worse than her bite,’ he said with a grim smile.
Funny, his jittery disposition told her otherwise.
Laura gave him a tight nod and knocked on the door of the glass-walled room with no view inside.
‘Enter!’ A commanding voice boomed through the wood. She pushed the handle down and poked her head in.
‘You wanted to see me?’ Her voice came out as a squeak.
Gilchrist was sitting at a boardroom table. Her chair was turned away from her. All she saw was the back of her head.
As if in slow motion, the CEO swivelled round to face her. She was tapping one finger on her lip.
She gestured to the seat opposite her. ‘Yes, please sit.’
Laura perched more than sat. ‘Am I in trouble?’
Gilchrist stared at her for a moment; her gaze was so intense that Laura struggled to maintain eye contact. But Gilchrist wasn’t looking at her. She was looking past her.
With a cough from Laura, Gilchrist snapped out of it. Her gaze remained chilly but her mouth turned up into what could be a smile. Laura had only spoken to this woman once so she had no reference point.
Gilchrist made a bridge with her hands. ‘Laura O’Halloran. How are you enjoying your promotion? It’s been about a week now. Are you settling in?’
A creepy man occupied booth ten. The other workers ignored her. ‘Fine.’
Gilchrist crossed her legs and brought her hands down to rest on one knee. ‘Ms Brett says that you’re not getting through the work as fast as the others.’
Laura shifted in her chair. ‘Uh, I was expecting an induction, to be honest.’
‘An induction?’ Gilchrist laughed lightly. ‘I’m afraid we don’t do those on Level Five. You’ve been here how long?’
‘Three years.’
‘Consider that your induction, Ms O’Halloran.’ She uncrossed her legs. ‘We’re not in the habit of training up our best personnel. I chose you personally to work on Level Five because I saw potential in you.’
Laura froze. Potential?
Gilchrist smirked. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Well, yes. I didn’t think anyone noticed me here.’
‘I notice everyone, Ms O’Halloran, especially those who work more hours than they roster for. You love your job, and your dedication shows.’
She wouldn’t say that exactly. ‘I believe in the work we do at the Earth Security Centre.’
Gilchrist’s lips drew thin and white. ‘Yes, well I’m glad you have a good impression.’
Laura had to ask. When would she be alone with Gilchrist again?
‘I was... wondering about the transfer programme to Exilon 5.’
‘What about it?’
‘I heard the workers on Level Five have a better chance of making the transfer list.’
Gilchrist raised a brow. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Yes... Well, eventually. ‘
Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘We are not there, Ms O’Halloran. There are more important matters we must focus on first.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘I brought you in here because we are in the middle of an investigation. Many files from that investigation must be processed. I need you to give a hundred percent. Can you do that?’
Laura twisted her hands together on her lap. ‘Of course.’
Gilchrist leaned back, her eyes narrowed. ‘What matters to you most Ms O’Halloran?’
‘What? Um, doing a good job for you, Ms Gilchrist.’
‘But not to transfer to Exilon 5 with your mother?’
Laura widened her eyes. ‘Well, yes, but you said it wasn’t important right now—’
‘Make no trouble and I’ll make sure you’re on the list for Exilon 5.’
‘Really? That would be great. I won’t let you down.’
Gilchrist held up her hand. ‘See that you don’t. There are important files on their way to Level Five. I want you to keep what you read to yourself. Do you understand?’
Laura nodded, not caring what she promised. Her dream to transfer to Exilon 5 was still alive.
‘You can count on me.’
29
Bill wandered the passenger ship’s empty corridor, calling out. An eerie silence filled the ship. The hairs on his arm stood to attention. He forced one foot in front of the other, moving silently along the dark, tube-shaped passageway. Where the hell was everyone?
The ship’s overhead lights illuminated each step. Was he the only one on-board? His trust issues kept him hidden from others, but in that moment he needed to know he wasn’t alone.
He moved his tightly coiled body forward; every new step plunged his last one into da
rkness.
The ship felt unfamiliar, even though it had become his second home for the last week. He’d memorised every inch of it so he could stay off the radar.
But his skin tingled with worry.
The air turned thicker, tightening his chest and making it hard to breathe. He clawed at his throat, trying to push new air into his lungs. Bill dropped to his knees, weak.
A male figure stood in the corridor before him, weak light illuminating his tall shape. ‘Let me help you.’
The tension in Bill’s body melted away. The tightness lifted from his throat. But his heart slammed against his ribcage when the dark shape glided towards him.
Bill scrambled back. ‘Who are you?’
The figure, dressed in a long trench coat and fedora hat, stopped a foot away. He recognised him as the alien he’d been tracking.
‘What are you?’ He got to his feet.
The male didn’t reply. Instead, he removed his hat to reveal a face void of features and expression.
Bill reached out and touched the shape in front of him. His hand sliced through the wispy cloud that instantly reformed into a solid mass. Fascinated, he let go of his inhibitions. Was this real or a dream? It felt real enough.
That’s when the alien stepped closer. Bill caught sight of a shiny object in his hand. He tensed up a second too late as the knife sliced across his throat.
☼
Bill woke with a start and drenched in sweat. His throat tightened, like someone had a hand around it.
The lack of air pinched at his lungs. Resistance on his arms and legs shocked him into action. Remembering where he was, he stopped struggling.
Bill groped in the dark for the lock on the sleeping pod. His mouth searched for new air. He found the lock and smashed it with his fist, but it wouldn’t release. His efforts sapped what little strength he had. Light-headedness made his head swim.
‘What the fu—’
His eyes squeezed shut when new pain bloomed in his lungs. He felt for the lock a second time, using his elbow next to try to open it.
