The Whisper of Stars

by Nick Jones

  In the distance, the nearly complete Thames solar receiver stood majestic, rising up out of the water. Once operational, it would supply nearly half of central London’s power needs. It was incredible to think that a combination of technologies could end up giving the planet free energy, a fact that seemed all the more impressive as she watched the city glow into life, preparing itself for another power-hungry weekend. Jen continued on, deciding she would have a quiet night, a glass of wine and some mind-numbing entertainment.

  Simon, her roommate, had other ideas.

  Their apartment was on the third floor of a newly constructed smart building on Ropemaker Street. Her rent was heavily subsidised by the Government, a perk of her position at Duality. Simon had been an obvious choice for a roommate. He was clean, tidy and worked long hours as a healthcare assistant. That suited her. Only once had he made a move on her. He’d been drunk and suggested it would be ‘Fun!’ and might do them both some good. Logan had been careful not to hurt his feelings but made sure he wouldn’t suggest it again.

  She made her way through the main entrance and up the stairs, and as she approached the door, she heard music. She opened it to see Simon and three friends in the kitchen, downing shots, dance music blasting from multiple speakers. The smell of warm food hit her immediately: pastry and spices, fresh herbs and cumin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

  ‘Officer Logan!’ Simon raised both hands in surrender, then grabbed a tall bottle and poured a generous measure into a shot glass.

  Jen knew the friends. They were good people. They’d had some crazy nights out together, but she wasn’t in the mood this time. She walked over to them, planning to exchange pleasantries and make her excuses. Simon pushed a drink into her hand.

  ‘Your face?’ he said with mock concern, his infectious smile catching her.

  ‘Yeah, tough day.’

  ‘Rules are rules, Jen.’

  They had made a pact. If either of them had a Friday that was beyond crap, then they had to go out. No questions. Drink, hit the town and blast the hell out of work. It was stupid and immature, but Simon had a contagious kind of optimism. She needed that sometimes.

  His smile had become impossibly wide. ‘We are going to party!’ he screamed and resumed dancing.

  ‘Can I at least eat something?’ Jen pleaded.

  ‘You’ve got half an hour.’

  She swore, knocked back a vodka shot and decided that actually, this might be just what she needed.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Jen was lost in herself, dancing alone, music pounding through her. From an open-air veranda she looked down onto a cobbled street packed with people. The Dome Nightclub, so named because of its huge clear glass ceiling, was crammed full. Projected colours and imagery flashed over its neon-blue floor as a sea of bodies swayed like tribal warriors, laser projection changing their appearances like flames licking a sea of ice.

  In that brief, exquisite moment, Jen’s day ceased to exist, the stress gone. Most of the club members were augmented, linking and planning the rest of their evenings, the power of speech dwarfed by the ability to think together and share thoughts and feelings. Jen preferred to dance alone. It was a form of release for her, a kind of meditation. Later, the clubbers’ mind chatter would become flirtatious invites revealing desires and dreams, but for now the mood was exuberant anticipation.

  Jen had turned off her social linking – she didn’t want to meet someone random tonight – but accepted the club’s audiovisual feed. She wanted to experience it alone. To her, that was the point. Which was why she was so frustrated by the man blatantly staring at her. Jen knew her dancing wasn’t overly sexual or erotic, and she wasn’t advertising or broadcasting herself as available. She ignored him and allowed her thoughts to wander. Thomas. She hadn’t seen him in a while. She sent him a message and waited, the music traveling through her. Minutes later she received a reply.

  It read: < So good to hear from you. How about my place at 1? >

  She felt the unexpected, welcome rush of sexual anticipation. She continued to dance, trying to ignore the man still staring at her. She moved away as he approached, but he followed, smiling, eyes all over her. He closed in, seemingly unaware of the invisible boundary, the line between them. Jen stopped dancing, folded her arms and stared at him, the hypnotic trance broken.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she shouted.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The man was drunk. As he placed his hand on her shoulder, he soon found himself on the floor facing the opposite direction, his arm twisted. He cried out, almost loud enough to be heard over the music. Jen released the wrist lock and walked away. The man sat there for a while, staring into space, rubbing his arm, shaking his head.

  A large bouncer approached as she neared the door. ‘You okay, miss?’ he asked, his voice almost as deep as the sub-bass shaking the floor. ‘That man bother you?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  The exit, a large circular tunnel, was reminiscent of a steel igloo. She stepped out into the cool evening air, called a taxi and disappeared into the night.

  Fifteen minutes later Jen was in Thomas’s apartment. They shared a few drinks and kissed, warm, lingering kisses that lit her up inside. Thomas had shown her how sex should feel. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say he had unlocked its elusive mystery for her. Now they were naked, making love, entwined as one.

  This dance, like the music earlier, was another way of losing herself, of giving herself away. Luckily Thomas was in no hurry. He had undressed her slowly, ensuring he paid attention to every curve, every delicate inch of her skin. Time ceased to exist as his movements led her towards orgasm.

  Control. Jen spent her life in control, calculated and considered. But not here. Here she was free. She cried out as she climaxed, an intense wave of emotion and pleasure. It wasn’t something she decided to do; it just happened, natural and involuntary, and that made it beautiful. And yet, with each passing second, those feelings of purity left her, along with all thoughts of love and companionship. Those were the dreams of ordinary people. For Jennifer Logan, they were always fleeting, elusive and so quickly distant. She could never hold on to them. She lay silent for a while, nearly content, the warmth of his body permeating hers. Thomas fell asleep and Jen slipped away quietly, leaving money on the table next to his bed. It was a good arrangement. She would see him again when she needed him, when the time was right.

  The rain was coming down in a thin mist, the street buzzing with traffic, people and energy. Simon was right. Tonight had been just what she needed, the day forgotten for a while. Her thoughts turned to Mac. She was going to miss having him around. The old man would be flat out by now. She thought of him snoring and smiled. Retirement was coming at the right time for him. Jen, on the other hand, had work to do. Duality never stopped. She would need to take it easy the rest of the weekend and make sure she was recharged before it all started again.

  Chapter 7

  Jen awoke late on Saturday morning and spent most of the day at home, enjoying the calm lethargy a mild hangover can bring. By the time Sunday arrived she was feeling better prepared for the week ahead. She ran before dinner – the cold shift to December subtle, yet enough to invigorate – and then settled in for the evening.

  That night, a recurring dream returned, one that hadn’t surfaced for a month but had featured heavily over the years. It always started, and finished, in the same way.

  Jen found herself in a large cornfield, above her a ghostly moon behind drifting clouds. A sound like breaking surf shook the crop, clacking its tall blades in unison. She sensed him first – her father – and then saw him in the distance, moving through thick, green stalks.

  ‘Daddy!’ she cried, running. ‘Wait!’ Her voice was young, the voice of the child she once was.

  She ran hard, but somehow the distance between them remained, the earth pulling at her, sl
owing her down. They were both in danger. She could feel something closing in, dark figures with claws and sharp teeth. Did her father know they were here?

  ‘Daddy, they’re coming. Don’t leave me.’ She was in tears now. Up ahead, in the inky darkness, a warm glow. She headed towards it, crashing through the sharp corn until she reached a circular clearing. In the centre stood a framed doorway, and in front of that her father, silhouetted in warm light. He spoke, his voice clear and caring.

  ‘Daddy has to go away.’ He sounded calm as he opened the door and stepped through. ‘I want you to forget me.’

  The sickly sweet comfort of his voice warmed her heart, but those words twisted in her gut. Sounds crashed around them. Closer they came. Jen ran, but the door was closing. She grabbed at the handle, her hand slipping repeatedly on its smooth surface. The door continued to close, eventually slamming shut: just a door and its frame, upright and solid. Jen fell to her knees, pushing tears out of closed eyes as the creatures approached. From every angle she could hear them, thrashing through the cornfield, snarling.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’ she screamed, pounding the door. The dark shapes broke through into the clearing. ‘Daddy, how could you leave me?’

  They descended, sharp claws sinking into her back. Her pain rose above adrenalin and she screamed, but no sound came, no one would save her, he was gone, her father was gone.

  The dream ended there, as it always did, in a vacuum of silent pain. She awoke covered in sweat, heart racing, a ringing in her ears accentuated by the deathlike quiet of her apartment.

  She cried for a while, waiting for the power of the dream to fade, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come again. The dream – horrible as it was – also left her with a nagging feeling of absence, of something missing, like a ripped section of a map or a name you couldn’t quite remember. The day’s first light cut the darkness above her. She decided to get up, shower and focus on the day ahead.

  The order had come through last night. She was to extract Phillip Harvey – husband of Victoria the train killer – from Hibernation and interview him. His wife had splintered, the result of a back-street body swap, and Jen was determined to get to the source. At least that was in her control; at least that was real. By the time she left home, the nightmare had lessened its grip. But her father’s words lingered:

  Daddy has to go away. I want you to forget me.

  Chapter 8

  The silver Mercedes sped west, finally free of central Brasília’s dense traffic, the temperature pushing its tired air conditioning to breaking point.

  ‘Put these on,’ the driver ordered, passing sunglasses over his shoulder.

  Nathan leant forward, grabbed the glasses and did as he was told. Relief from the fierce glare was instant and he was able to gaze out the window without squinting. The colourful vibrancy of the capital had been gradually replaced by sprawling urban towns framed in scrubland and separated by rows of tired telegraph poles stretching far into the distance.

  ‘How long will it take us?’ Nathan shouted over the engine noise.

  The craggy-faced driver glanced up at the mirror but didn’t answer. Nathan struggled to see him and realised it seemed to be getting darker. He panicked briefly, thinking he may have been drugged, but then relaxed. It was the sunglasses; they were actively blocking his vision. As the world gradually turned black, he understood: he wasn’t supposed to see where they were going. He scanned as far as he could in all directions. Nothing. The glasses masked even his peripheral vision. His only input was a dark void, and the monotonous drone of the engine.

  Better than an old-fashioned blindfold.

  He’d left Canada a week ago, traveling carefully and slowly, arriving in Brazil as planned. The previous evening had been spent at the Imperial Hotel. His contact, Raul Ferreira, had arranged it all. Apart from the impossibly thin waiter who delivered room service, Nathan hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone. His sleep had been restless, waiting for the telephone to ring. Could the people who murdered his wife know he was in Brazil? He wasn’t sure, but it was better to be safe and suspect everything and everyone. In just a few hours he would be in a new body, he reassured himself, he would become somebody else.

  The car banged over another pothole. Nathan cursed his delicate stomach as tiny beads of sweat appeared across his brow and his mouth filled with saliva. The lack of vision combined with the driver’s sour body odour sent ripples of nausea through him.

  ‘I’m going to puke. Stop the car,’ he pleaded, knowing there was nothing he could do. ‘Stop the car!’

  The driver slammed on the brakes. ‘Be quick,’ he shouted, turning the radio up. ‘And mind the seats.’

  Nathan stumbled out, pulled the glasses from his face and heaved, ejecting most of his breakfast. He paused for a while, hands on his knees, eyes adjusting. The area was desolate, mainly scrubland. It smelt like a tinderbox waiting to go up. Jesus, this heat, he thought and puked again, the air burning his lungs.

  ‘Let’s go,’ the driver barked a few minutes later.

  Nathan spat a large globule of bile onto the ground and watched it curl and disappear in a thick ball of dust. He wiped his mouth, got back into the car and pulled the door shut.

  ‘It’s not far now, just hold it in,’ the driver ordered without any sense of compassion.

  Nathan studied him, noting the cheap jewellery, fake watch and lack of hygiene. The driver amused him, acting the big man. Nathan wasn’t trying to be anyone. He was simply living day to day, moment to moment. He wasn’t acting anything, he just was.

  The driver scowled at him in the mirror – ‘Glasses!’ – before pulling away, kicking up clouds of orange dust. They didn’t speak for the remainder of the journey, which felt longer than two hours. They stopped only once. Nathan heard a short conversation, something about roadblocks ahead, then nothing. Just his darkness and thoughts, images of his murdered wife, a different world, long gone. After what felt like days he felt the car lurch, turn a full circle and stop. The engine died. There was a pause.

  ‘We’re here,’ the driver said, tugging the handbrake. ‘Leave the glasses.’

  Nathan did as he was told and stepped out of the car, blinking against the sudden assault of sunlight. His stomach was complaining again.

  He was in a car park bordered by a tall wire fence. In the centre was a large four-storey building, flat-roofed, primarily concrete, with regular square glass windows. Numerous cars were parked neatly in spaces, suggesting it might be an office. Nathan looked out beyond the fence to connecting roads, dry desert and the odd cluster of residential buildings. In the distance he could hear a lone dog barking and the tidal hum of highway traffic. Again, it was the heat that struck him. Oppressive and unforgiving, it surrounded him, robbing his body of moisture. His face and ears prickled.

  ‘When do I see Mr Ferreira?’ Nathan asked, licking his dry lips.

  The driver walked around the car, dumped his bag onto the ground and tossed a small bottle of water at him. ‘Drink this and wait here.’

  Nathan caught the bottle, twisted the cap and took a long gulp, the water harsh against his burning stomach. The driver was back in the car and seconds later Nathan was alone, baking in the midday sun.

  I will miss our conversations, you ignorant prick.

  He could hear machinery grinding inside the building and guessed it was a workshop of some kind. He waited. Nearly five minutes passed. He scanned the area again for shade. Nothing. He considered walking around the building but decided to wait as instructed.

  The sun pounded his head, the heat making each breath a determined effort. A chorus of crickets, quiet on his arrival, were now building to a deafening crescendo. He had noticed them on the hotel menu and wasn’t surprised; there must be billions of them out here. He gulped down the remaining water and placed the empty bottle on the ground, noticing the heat haze shimmering like wet glass across the tarmac. He could feel paranoia welling up inside him. An unwelcome thought bobbed to the surface of his m
ind, making him frown.

  What if I’ve just been left here? Dumped? Three hundred thousand credits lighter, and nothing to show for it.

  He didn’t know where he was, and he had no way of getting back to the airport. He could steal a car, but what then? He wondered if he was being watched. ‘Check it out! The idiot from Canada – the so-called “smart” one.’ He shook the thoughts away, gritting his teeth. This wasn’t a time for weakness.

  Stay focused.

  As he regained his composure, a small metal door at the base of the building opened and a woman stepped out. She was petite and smartly dressed, in her thirties, he guessed. She gestured towards him and Nathan walked rapidly, joining her at the door.

  ‘Your name?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Nathan O’Brien.’

  ‘Thank you. Please confirm you aren’t using any recording devices, augmentation or implants.’ Her voice was clear and precise.

  Nathan shook his head. ‘No, nothing, I don’t have anything.’

  ‘This way,’ she said, and walked back inside the building.

  Chapter 9

  Nathan’s eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor. It was narrow, paint flaking away from the edges of its dirty green walls. He followed the woman into a large open workshop. Blue sparks flickered through the air, lighting up the floor like an electrified sea. The smell of oil and hot metal filled his nostrils. Cars, old but still usable, were being converted to run on biofuel. Busy mechanics crawled over them like sweaty ants. The woman, young and attractive, with hair pinned neatly to her head, crossed the floor ahead of him. Not a single one of the hard-working grease monkeys looked up.