by Andrew Lane
Tara had left then, and never gone back.
Would Rhino be there at Calum’s? That was the big question. He had turned up a couple of times over the past few weeks, mainly to finish up some paperwork and give Calum an invoice for ‘services rendered’, but he wasn’t really part of the group. He wasn’t really integrating. Maybe he was feeling isolated, left out. Maybe it was because he was older than the rest of them.
Maybe she should just keep herself to herself and let him make his own decisions.
She took another sip of green tea, and grimaced. The idea of giving up caffeine was great, but the taste didn’t match the smell, even sweetened with honey. It didn’t do much to keep her awake either. Maybe she should just cave in and go back to the coffees she used to drink, and put up with the trembling and the heart palpitations.
Calum managed to put away a fair amount of that special Mexican Coca-Cola that he drank, she noticed. That had a lot of caffeine in it. How did he manage to process it all without showing any symptoms?
Her tablet beeped. Putting down her green tea, she tapped the screen to bring it back to life. The ‘Notifications’ tab indicated that she’d had an email. She quickly checked it, and found that it was actually an automated notification from one of the many software search-bots she had created and sent roaming around the World Wide Web like little scavengers, looking for particular things. One of them had found something.
She booted up the search-bot controller app that she’d written, and selected the particular bot that had sent her a successful ping. The other search-bots were looking for phrases in emails or on websites that might match things that Calum Challenger was interested in – cryptids, Neanderthals, monsters and so on – but this one was particularly interested in images. It scanned through thousands of JPEGs, GIFs or whatever every second, looking for particular shapes. A few years ago Tara would have been lucky if a search-bot could locate a shape like a dog in a photograph labelled ‘dog’, but they were now so sophisticated that they could not only identify a whole range of animate or inanimate things in a single photograph but could also decide how large or small they were, based on the things that were around them.
Which is why Tara was now looking at a photograph of a giant rat.
One of the many images that the search-bot had been looking for was that of a rat – facing left, facing right, dead, alive, it didn’t matter. It was just looking for a rat. That was one of the search terms that Calum had specified – Tara wasn’t sure why. Having found a rat, the bot would then check its size. If it seemed unusually large, then it would send Tara an email with a copy of the image. Nine times out of ten the images were of rats in situations where perspective made them look larger than they really were, but, on examining this particular image, the rat in it was huge. Not elephant-sized, but still pretty impressive: about the size of a fully grown Alsatian, but bulkier. The bot had sent Tara a photograph of a grinning Asian man holding a turtle. The rat was in a cage in the background. The man gave the rat its scale.
Tara found that she’d stopped breathing, and took a sudden gulp of air. The rat looked completely ordinary until you realized its unusual size. It was side-on to the camera, and Tara could clearly see its beady black eye and its blossom-like ear.
Calum would want to see this. He’d told Tara that there had been intermittent reports from locals in Indonesia of colonies of giant rats living in the jungles, but nobody had ever taken a photograph or brought a body back for examination. And now here was one, sitting meekly in a cage somewhere.
Actually, maybe not ‘meekly’. Its mouth was open slightly, and Tara could see the glint of large incisors inside.
She checked the metadata that the search-bot had thoughtfully included in the email, just in case the image had been taken from a horror movie and was just a rather good special effect rather than something real. Interestingly, the website from which it had come was part of the ‘shadow’ internet – the massive collection of web pages that deliberately stopped themselves from being indexed by search engines, keeping themselves hidden so that you actually had to know the web address to find them – or have a set of sophisticated search-bots like Tara did. They didn’t want to be found by casual browsers because they were either borderline illegal or, frankly, completely illegal. This particular website was hosted in China, which was interesting too. She used her tablet web-browser to navigate to the site, and moved up until she hit the home page.
She gasped.
The banner on top of the website proudly proclaimed, in English: Xi Lang’s Emporium of Unusual Pets! The main space was taken up by several images of lions, crocodiles, a sullen-looking gorilla and a really big snake. All were in strangely inappropriate settings like landscaped lawns, outside swimming pools and flagstone patios. A message underneath the photographs read: You have a desire for some strange or exotic animal, and we can supply it, direct to your door! Come inside and take a look!
Interesting. Interesting and rather creepy Tara had known of course that some people with more money than sense kept pets that you wouldn’t or couldn’t fit into a normal house – Michael Jackson had kept a chimpanzee, for instance – but she had never thought to wonder where they got them. Of course, it made sense that there would be a middleman, a facilitator who could offer these animals for sale the way a normal pet shop would offer kittens or puppies.
It was almost certainly illegal. There were international laws against trafficking in endangered or dangerous animals, but that didn’t stop some people from wanting them. They were status symbols.
She scanned through several pages, grateful that she had hacked her tablet’s settings so that anyone else – like the owners of the website she was currently looking at – would think that she was based somewhere in Russia. After Nemor Incorporated had managed to track her location within a few seconds of her hacking their website from a desk in her college library, she had invested in some seriously hardcore security apps. Or, rather, Calum had invested in them for her. He had his own sophisticated computer set-up, but he knew that she was better than him at digital technology. That was the thing about Calum – he could be arrogant and selfish, but he did recognize talent when he saw it.
There were no other obvious cryptids on the site apart from the possible giant rat, and there were no other images showing the rat. The fact that it was in a cage suggested that it was for sale, but the mysterious Xi Lang wasn’t advertising it. Maybe it was a special commission. Maybe it had just come into his warehouse, wherever that was, and he was still trying to work out what it was and how much he could charge for it.
That was a point – where was this warehouse? Checking all the web pages, Tara couldn’t find any details. Just because the website said it was based in China didn’t mean anything, of course, despite the obviously Chinese name of the site’s supposed owner. She opened a separate browser window and set her search-bots looking for any information on Xi Lang and/or his Emporium of Unusual Pets. Even if he was trying to disguise his location, they would probably find it.
And they did. Within a few seconds Tara was looking at a scanned image of a receipt from one Xi Lang to a company named Celebrity Services Inc. for the sum of US$100,000. The item purchased was described only as ‘Biological Specimen’, but Tara was pretty certain that the specimen would have been alive. The address on the invoice was a location in Kowloon, Hong Kong. Which was, technically, in China.
Calum really needed to know about this.
Tara was about to email him when it occurred to her that it would be better to just take a bus across London and pop in to see him. The chances were that he would be in – he rarely left his apartment. He would have questions that were better answered face to face rather than by a string of emails.
She was about to switch her tablet to hibernate when it pinged again, indicating another incoming email. She debated whether to check it now or later, but she was a sucker for instant gratification.
This wasn’t from one of her sear
ch-bots. It appeared to be from a real human being named Tom Karavla. The message read:
Hi,
I hope I’ve got the right Tara Fitzgerald – apologies if I haven’t. If I have, then you don’t know me, but I’ve been a fan of the lostworlds.co.uk website for a while now. I love the whole idea of cryptids, and the fact that there are so many undiscovered creatures and unexplored locations out there in the world. I noticed that you’ve taken over as the website administrator, and I just wanted to say that you’ve managed to turn an already excellent site into something superb. Keep up the good work!
Regards,
Tom Karavla
Tara’s immediate reaction was that it was a scam of some kind. She’d been expecting Nemor Incorporated to make a move against her, after the way she’d let them down when they’d wanted her to investigate Calum for them, and this might be it. If so, it was a lot more subtle than their last attempt.
She was about to delete the message when a sudden compulsion grabbed hold of her. She ought to check a little bit further, just in case. She put the name Tom Karavla into her search-bots and let them loose.
Within thirty seconds she had a potted life history of Tom Karavla, plus a series of photographs. He was about her age – apparently – and good-looking in the kind of understated muscular way that she liked. He was studying politics at the London School of Economics, and lived in east London. He had a wide circle of friends, but according to his social-media profile he was single. And, yes, he did list one of his interests as cryptids, as well as ice hockey and dubstep, which was a mark against him as far as she was concerned, but one she might be able to forgive. As far as she could see from just a cursory analysis, he was real. She even had the IP address of his computer, which gave her another idea.
She logged into the lostworlds.co.uk website as administrator and looked at the log of the times and durations of site accesses, along with the IP addresses of the computers that had looked at the site. The log showed that Tom Karavla’s IP address had accessed the site forty or fifty times over the past year and a bit. That was well before Nemor Incorporated had contacted her. It might still be them, of course, being very clever, but she didn’t think so. Why would they try a clumsy approach a few weeks back if they had a more sophisticated surrogate identity to use? No, the chances were that Tom Karavla was who he said he was.
She ran some quick diagnostics over the website just in case it had been hacked and the logs recently falsified to give the impression that someone with that IP address had been looking at the site for much longer than they had, but everything seemed intact and secure.
She took a last gulp of her green tea and quickly typed a response:
How did you find my email address?
After sending the email, her finger hovered over the Power off button on the side of the tablet, but she hesitated. If Tom was still online, then he might respond immediately. Maybe. That would save her sitting on the bus and wondering if he had got back to her or not.
Five seconds later a new email appeared:
Hi Tara,
I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you, but I did a search on your name when I saw it on the website. I was curious, because I’d only ever seen Calum Challenger’s name on the website before, and then suddenly you were there. I couldn’t find that many Tara Fitzgeralds around, and the ones I did find were older than I expected you to be. I found a likely candidate on the student roll of St Anne’s College of Art. For a while I wondered if that really was you – I couldn’t imagine an artist being a website administrator as well – but then I noticed that you were studying computer graphics and animation, and it kind of made sense.
Sorry, that was a longer explanation than I anticipated! You can tell that I know a little bit about computing as well!
Regards,
Tom Karavla
Hesitating for a moment, Tara typed a reply:
Hi Tom,
Thanks for getting in touch – and it was very clever of you to locate me. What started your interest in cryptids? Have you ever seen one?
Best regards,
Tara F.
It wouldn’t hurt to do a little customer relations, she thought; and, besides, he might actually have some information that Calum could use. It was worth a go, anyway.
Before she was tempted to stay and see what he said in response, she turned her tablet off and slipped it into her bag. Time to go.
CHAPTER two
Gecko was exercising on the straps that hung from Calum’s ceiling: pulling himself up and down first using one hand and then the other.
‘This isn’t a gymnasium,’ Calum pointed out from where he sat in front of his ten-screen octo-core computer set-up. He was scanning numerous websites in parallel, as well as watching some live feeds from various webcams that other people – usually researchers or television-programme makers – had set up in various remote parts of the world, powered by solar panels. It was a long shot, but it was just possible that some previously unknown big cat or deer might wander into shot, and Calum wanted to be there when it happened. ‘I should start charging you a membership fee.’
‘If you do that I will have to insist on showers and a coffee bar,’ Gecko replied, using his left arm to pull himself up to the ceiling. He could feel the burn in his bicep.
‘You do use my shower.’ Calum’s eyes were still fixed on the screens. ‘And if I don’t make you coffee on a regular basis then you steal cans of cola from the fridge – don’t think I haven’t seen you.’
‘It is a small recompense for the services I offer.’
‘Which are?’
Gecko thought for a moment as he lowered himself down to the ground again. ‘Conversation, of course, and my activities as bodyguard and thief-deterrent.’
‘Bodyguard?’ Calum glanced over at Gecko. ‘Apart from the time Nemor Incorporated broke in, when you weren’t even here, there haven’t been any attempted burglaries or attacks.’
‘Which only goes to prove how effective I am,’ Gecko pointed out.
‘I bow to your superior logic.’ Calum swivelled his chair round to face Gecko. ‘Which reminds me – have you seen or heard anything from those Eastern European gangsters who wanted you to become a thief for them?’
Gecko scowled. ‘Nothing. And that is a worry for me.’
‘Maybe they’ve decided to leave you alone.’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. People like them, they get an idea in their heads and they cannot get it out. If they have decided they want me, then they will keep on trying until I say yes. It is like a matter of honour to them. I am disrespecting them if I say no.’
‘Have you been back to your flat?’
‘No.’ Gecko shrugged. ‘Well, only quickly, to get fresh clothes, and I have been very careful to check the flat out from a distance before I go in. I have been staying with friends.’
Calum turned back to the screens. ‘You could stay here,’ he said casually ‘I have spare bedrooms.’ He glanced up to the skylight. ‘And you already have a key.’
Gecko felt a sudden wave of gratitude wash over him. ‘Would I have to pay rent as well as a membership fee?’ he asked.
‘Not for as long as your presence here discourages burglars and muggers.’ Gecko could see Calum smiling slightly. ‘It’s like having a guard dog.’
‘One who drinks coffee and cola,’ Gecko suggested.
‘Have you thought about going to the police?’
‘What would I tell them? I cannot identify the two men who were in my flat, and I would have to admit that the reason they want me is because I already take part in an activity that is barely legal in the first place.’
‘Actively illegal, as I think I said the first time I met you,’ Calum said. ‘Free-running might be fun, but it does involve trespass. But, yes, I take your point. The police wouldn’t be interested. Not unless they could get you working as an informant and actively encourage you to join up with a gang so you could be their mole on the insi
de.’
Gecko shivered. ‘The only thing worse than working for a gang like that would be working for a gang like that and the Metropolitan Police.’
‘The pay might be OK,’ Calum pointed out, ‘but the pension is lousy.’
‘In the unlikely event that I live long enough to collect a pension.’
Before Calum could respond, the doorbell rang. Calum pressed a key on his keyboard, and one of his ten screens shifted to a view from the camera outside his apartment door. Professor Gillian Livingstone and her daughter, Natalie, were standing outside. The professor had a large box with her.
Calum quickly ran a hand through his hair and pressed another key. The security lock on the door clicked to the open position.
‘Come in!’ he yelled.
Gecko noticed that rather than stay in his seat he levered himself upright and held on to one of the ceiling straps with his right hand, making it look as if he was just casually standing there.
‘Calum!’ Professor Livingstone exclaimed as she entered the large loft apartment and strode across the floorboards. She was a petite, athletic, blonde American who was old enough to be Gecko’s mother but didn’t look nearly that old. She obviously kept herself in good condition with exercise, vitamins and probably, Gecko thought, some strange and secret research programmes at one or another of the various laboratories worldwide that she either funded or consulted with. She gave Calum a hug and he responded, one-armed. ‘You’re looking well. How are you feeling?’
