The New Authority Conspiracy (The Keeley Dorn Adventures Book 1)

by J. S. McClelland

  “You want to actually go there?” he asked, incredulous.

  “What if there are others like me on this island?”

  “What if there is no one else like you?”

  “That will tell us something too,” I said.

  “Where do you propose we get this map?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  He uttered a disapproving noise. “Already I don’t like it.”

  “You need to take me to Arches Archive in New Dublin.”

  I nearly flinched at his expression.

  It occurred to me twice during the following animated discussion that Bee would have immediately seen the logic of my suggestion and agreed.

  Flick required half an hour of convincing.

  Finally, after a long, painful silence, he groaned. “Fine. But you should stay here.”

  “Ajel will not assist you with as much haste as will be required.”

  “Why not?”

  I paused. “She doesn’t like you.”

  “I don’t need her to like me.”

  His argument was invalid and he knew it, but I allowed him to vacillate for a few more minutes to validate his displeasure.

  “Your brother told me to keep you out of the city.”

  “We will have to return eventually,” I pointed out.

  “He said the situation is delicate.”

  “Meaning that he is not willing to tell me the truth about why I am in these circumstances, and he requires some time to cover it up.”

  Flick blew out a perturbed sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

  “There is no other way for us to make an informed choice. We need all the information first.”

  He nearly snarled. “My informed choice is that we go around and smoke everyone wearing a pink suit.”

  I smiled to show him solidarity with that sentiment, even though I understood he was being facetious.

  He sat down on the ground in front of me and took my hands. “We go together, then. I will be right outside waiting for you. Understand? I don’t want you taking any chances, and the minute you get the coordinates we leave.”

  “Agreed.”

  Now that we had settled on a course of action Flick’s mood improved. He set about securing the camp, stowing gear, and removing all signs that we had been here.

  We loaded the jetcar and headed back to the city.

  The flight to New Dublin lasted a little more than half an hour, and as usual, we flew incredibly close to the surface of the water.

  “This is an unsafe altitude,” I said.

  “Only if we crash,” he replied.

  I gripped my harness with white knuckles.

  He patted my leg reassuringly. “I can’t fly any higher than four meters or we might get picked up on surveillance,” he explained.

  “Can you fly at 9144 meters instead?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Not even the Governor has a pressurized jetcar.”

  Flick maneuvered into the trees outside of the city, set us down skillfully, and locked the vehicle. We trudged through the jungle for over forty minutes.

  I was wearing my less than clean black dress once again and Flick wore a brown jacket and pants to avoid standing out.

  He halted our steps a few meters from our chosen entry point and stood in front of me, gripping my shoulders while he spoke. “We can’t summon the jetcar to come pick us up this time. It would be like a beacon. As soon as you finish with Ajel, we get out of there, and if we are separated, I will meet you back where we landed. Can you find it again?”

  I took his hand. “Yes. And I understand the plan. I will be quick.”

  He kissed my forehead and led us between two short buildings, up to the walkway and then inside a large public transport vehicle that sped us through the city rapidly.

  We stood in close proximity but did not acknowledge one another. Only two other citizens rode the transport, and they both ignored us.

  The Grey who had assisted me before was presumably still monitoring my movements, but Flick insisted we not waste any time in case he was no longer able to access the feeds. There was no way to know how deep the New Authority tentacles penetrated. Perhaps they even ran the city itself.

  When the transport arrived at our destination, I exited first, and Flick followed me from a discreet distance as I made my way to the archive building.

  As I walked inside the main doors I saw him stroll behind me on the walkway, reflected in the glass, on his way to who knew where to await my return.

  The reception area appeared deserted, so I ignored it and went straight down the stairway behind it and into the archive storage area. I heard someone moving around at the back of the room and headed in that direction.

  Ajel looked up as I approached and she half-smiled, half-smirked.

  “I thought you were promoted and transferred.”

  “I was, but not until the day after tomorrow. Packing, cleaning, you understand.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve moved three times since taking this position. I keep upgrading, but that means I upgrade with more accumulated junk.”

  I laughed, and then dropped my gaze to show her I was serious. “Ajel, I’m moving out of paper records permanently.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “That’s too bad. You haven’t even had time to develop allergies to the dust yet.”

  “Maybe I will develop allergies to my new co-workers and find a way to return here.”

  She smirked. “So what do you want? I know you didn’t come in today to say goodbye.”

  “Well, there was something I was curious about,” I began.

  “I don’t have anything better to do than wait on you,” she said sarcastically.

  “Can you show me the immigration records for the past seven days?”

  Her aura shifted instantaneously. Her glib attitude vanished, replaced with sharp professionalism.

  “Sure. This way.”

  She led me further back into the archive and withdrew a fat, spiral bound paper index from a shelf.

  “They are in order by date, so just look up the days you are interested in and there should be a complete list of everyone who came in at that time.”

  I flipped quickly through the large index to the last seven pages and started scanning the names.

  “Where do these records come from?” I asked.

  Ajel folded her arms. “I don’t know, exactly. I always assumed they came from the Hammermill Refugee Center. They arrive by courier, in sealed files, and I insert them chronologically.”

  “Do you get many requests for this index?” I asked.

  “Anyone can look this up, but the childcare specialists are the only ones who ever come to access the records.”

  “Of course they are.”

  She stared at me quizzically. “You have something against children?”

  “No. Something against child care specialists.”

  My finger located the name I was looking for.

  Steel, Dess. Female. Origin: Lantica. Arrival date 17.4.21. Destination: New Dublin refugee shelter.

  I had not indicated to Hammon where I’d come from. He’d entered the origin data himself.

  The name Lantica meant nothing to me.

  I searched back several pages. All of the immigrants were listed as originating from Lantica. That seemed unlikely for many reasons, but primarily due to the size of the index. I found it unbelievable that so many people who were supposedly immune to the Obsequium virus all lived on one island in the middle of the ocean.

  Unless the island was enormous.

  I replaced the index on the shelf. “Do you remember telling me about the maps we store here? There is one I’d like to see before I go.”

  “Which one? I can locate it for you.” She took the index off the shelf and turned it over, placing it back on the shelf the correct side up.

  “I’d like to see the oldest map on file showing the greater east ocean off the coast of New Dublin,” I said.

  Ajel stop
ped her rummaging and looked over at me slowly. Surprise/attentiveness.

  I pretended not to notice. “Do we have any showing the isolated island chains in that area?”

  She mumbled and tapped her fingers on the cabinet. “I can show you that.”

  I followed her to the last cabinet at the back of the room and she ran her index finger over the labels while she searched.

  “I take it you would like to see the island all of the immigrants are coming from?”

  “If we know where it is. I’ve heard so little about it.”

  She pulled out a specific drawer and leafed through a series of pale green maps inside.

  After a bit of searching, she carefully withdrew a stained, muddy brown colored sheet of paper with faint blue and black lines.

  Before handing it to me she gave me a warning look. “It’s very old and fragile. Handle it carefully. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”

  She slid the map over to me and I lifted it with two fingers at the corners. I read the legend, studied the isolated island located approximately where Flick had told me to look and tried to find latitude and longitude lines to memorize.

  “Thirty-two degrees north, sixty-four degrees west,” Ajel said. “Well, it’s close to that. I’ll write down the actual coordinates for you.”

  She half-smiled as she scribbled on a small wedge of paper. Then she looked at me sharply and spoke almost too softly to hear. “I find the lack of a past liberating. Almost like I’ve been given the chance to start over. Some people come in asking about this place because they want to go back, remember who they used to be. But you can’t go back. Not ever.”

  She wasn’t a Grey. And I was positive she wasn’t New Authority. Ajel was like me, only not exactly. She had come from the same murky place but by an entirely different route.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Three years. You never remember the before, if that’s what you want to know. After you wake up again it’s just…gone. You might as well look ahead.”

  I accepted the small bit of paper she handed to me and stared at it. “If only I could.”

  “Asking these kinds of questions never brings anything but trouble,” she told me. “And a visit from someone in enforcement who reminds you not to get too curious.”

  “I need to know where I came from, Ajel. Not for myself but for the benefit of others.”

  She held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. If you come back again, we can talk about now, or the future, but not then. Not ever.”

  I nodded agreement. “Of course.”

  She replaced the map inside the drawer and closed it firmly.

  I left the archive with the coordinates tucked inside my jacket and stood outside the building feeling the warm sunlight and cool breeze.

  The truth about my origins was most likely disturbing; otherwise, Bee would have explained things to me when she had the opportunity. I’d seen her reluctance to inform me about where I really came from and that meant she knew the information would come as a shock. She’d made an instant decision at that moment and determined that she was not the correct person to deliver bad news.

  Flick strolled past me, moving along the walkway efficiently, and I waited a few seconds before following him. We left the city in tandem and returned to the jetcar without incident.

  I watched as he programmed the island’s location into the computer while I strapped myself in, thinking about the probability of encountering another person like myself within the confines of the city, and coming to the conclusion that it was unlikely I would have done so unless there were more than two of us.

  If the index could be believed, there weren’t a few dozen of us living in New Dublin; there were at least a thousand.

  We lifted off the ground and Flick piloted the jetcar four meters from the water’s surface until he seemed satisfied we were far enough away from the city to avoid detection. Then he climbed high into a cloudless sky and we flew at top speed toward Lantica.

  Although the air was smooth and no storms loomed on the horizon, I had the feeling that I should be braced for the unexpected.

  As we approached the designated coordinates, we dropped precipitously several kilometers to what was hopefully Lantica Island, and Flick flew us in at full throttle, roaring above the choppy waves like we were being pursued.

  “There it is,” he said.

  A tiny speck of land appeared ahead.

  I strained to get a good look at it. “This is Lantica? Without a detailed map, it would be impossible to find.”

  He slowed us down abruptly. “I think that’s the idea. It can’t be more than about 50 kilometers square.”

  We circled the island four times before Flick was satisfied it would be safe to fly directly over it.

  “No chatter,” he said, fiddling with an earpiece that likely scanned radio frequencies.

  I shook my head. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  After a moment spent listening, he tossed the earpiece aside. “The multi-waves are completely dead. If there is anyone talking to each other out here, they aren’t using wirelesses.”

  Although a few crumbling and overgrown structures remained in various locations, and many dilapidated buildings occupied the center, there was no sign of any form of human activity. It was plain to see that the island had been abandoned for many years.

  He slowed our speed and looked hard at the crumbling buildings. “I don’t think this is where you came from.”

  “Myself, or any of the other immigrants.”

  We landed on the remains of a roadway and Flick shut the jetcar’s engines down. “Stay close to me in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

  I nodded agreement and we stepped out into a tropical environment, utterly devoid of people.

  “There is less here than even I anticipated,” I said.

  Flick took the opportunity to check the status of the jetcar and found it in proper working order.

  I surveyed the area while he performed the check.

  Nothing.

  “Could your previous helicar have made it this distance?” I asked.

  “Not even a third this far before running out of fuel.”

  I studied the jetcar. “How many of these vehicles are there in New Dublin?”

  “One for the governor.”

  “Only one of these for the entire city?”

  “That I know of,” he admitted.

  “What about cargo or passenger ships?” I asked. “Are there any equipped with the necessary range capability to sail here?”

  “Not very many. Most of them are short-range river and coastal boats that dock in New Dublin after short jaunts out to sea. There are a few heavy tankers but they don’t cross the ocean unless they need to bring cargo from Aukholm, Bay Harbor, or Sington. Travel between cities is tightly regulated because of virus mitigation protocols.”

  Now that I considered the logistics of reaching this isolated island, the chances that many hundreds of people were being ferried to the mainland from this place became non-existent.

  “Airships are only used by enforcement officers,” I said.

  He nodded. “Primary enforcement has about a half-dozen airships, and it may be as few as four active and working when the others are being serviced. Unless you are enforcement, and on mission, or evacuating civilians from a disaster zone you don’t use them. Ever.”

  “Average citizens would never be able to reach this location.”

  “Average citizens will live out their entire lives and not even know how to imagine a place like this,” he said.

  It confirmed what I’d suspected. “So this is a mythological fabrication, and the immigrants are coming from somewhere else.”

  “But where?”

  “I need to spend some time thinking about that problem.”

  Flick checked the sun, shading his eyes as he surveyed the horizon. “Well, if you want to do some uninterrupted meditating, I can’t think
of a better place to do it than right here.”

  “Are you suggesting we stay?”

  “For a few days,” he said. “Not up here on the roadway, but as soon as I find a good place, I’ll move us there and we can set up a permanent camp.”

  I tried to think of a logical reason to argue, but his suggestion seemed like sound judgment.

  The likelihood that we would be discovered here was remote.

  And the governor had instructed us to stay out of the city.

  This place was about as far away from New Dublin as was possible to get.

  Flick used the jetcar’s visual display recording of the island to search for a suitable setting to spend the night. After half an hour of studying the images, he decided he’d found a good place and flew us around the coast. We landed on a secluded strip of land on the easternmost tip of the island. A single, old structure, built of durable ancient concrete and facing a quiet lagoon stood between two clusters of palm trees. It was lovely, in spite of the dilapidated old house.

  He gathered up his personal gear and I retrieved the pack he had loaded for me.

  Inside the house, the furniture had eroded away into scraps. The walls were cracked, but sturdy. In spite of the passage of time, the roof was solid enough to provide shelter and only a few places showed water damage to the floor. This place was built to withstand tropical storms and had weathered the elements reasonably well.

  Flick was taking no chances and set the chameleon net over the jetcar after shutting down all of its electronic systems.

  We spent the remaining daylight moving the old scraps of unusable items outside and cleaning the floor. Then we brought in two hammocks, drove graphene stakes into the corners of two walls, and strung them up beside one another.

  As darkness fell we ate a surprisingly good meal and Flick took great delight in building a tiny fire beside one of the tall windows, to provide, as he explained, ambiance.

  I climbed into my hammock, aware of the impending sleep-death that would come soon, and Flick tucked me inside my improvised bed before climbing into his own.

  We held hands across the short divide between us, and he spent the remaining hour relating a few of the more interesting stories from his time working as a Grey.

  The last thing I heard clearly was the sound of Flick’s voice, and his laugh, as he described details of a disaster he had once caused during a training exercise.