The Whisper of Stars

by Nick Jones

  His composure returned slowly, along with the familiar process of beating weakness from his mind. There was no way he could allow himself to slip now. Jacob Logan. According to Anderson, just the mention of that name had triggered his wife’s murder. He waited a while longer for his breathing to settle before walking unnoticed from the alleyway.

  By the time he reached the net café it was almost eleven. He paid for an hour and sat in a corner booth, facing outward. It was time to put his programming degree to the test. If my students could see me now, he thought, attaching a small device to the glossy terminal. The owner had needed to rummage out back for an old board. Everyone else was augmented. Nathan wanted to be as untraceable as possible, deliberately old school. He placed his fingers on the ancient keyboard. It was slightly sticky.

  Right, Jacob Logan. Let’s see what we can find out about you.

  He began his work, hacking a local exchange and then hopping over to an internal Metropolitan Police site. From there he found a back door into what appeared to be a records database. He was already doing better than his attempts in Canada. Remote hacking was almost impossible these days. Locally bonded infrastructure was so much easier. He glanced around the café. No one was paying him any attention. He resumed, but it didn’t take long to confirm what he had suspected might be the case.

  JACOB LOGAN:

  DECEASED.

  HEART ATTACK.

  He wasn’t surprised. What he found more interesting was the lack of random information. Everyone had that, messy data scattered like pristine coins waiting to be unearthed. He spent another ten minutes searching before he was convinced. Jacob Logan’s data was too tidy, way too neat. Nathan sat back and rubbed his right eye hard.

  Tailored.

  That was the word. Logan’s life was trimmed and presented, professionally stitched, sifted and sorted. GCHQ would explain some of that, of course, and there were also military connections, but it was obvious. Someone had gone to a considerable amount of effort to ensure Jacob Logan was clean.

  Nathan downloaded everything he could. There were encrypted files, too, but he would need more time and better equipment. He decided to get what he could. As file names flashed across his screen, one caught his eye.

  Nathan flicked back. There it was. A profile image appeared, a woman. Intense green eyes and a shock of dark red hair. No wonder it caught his eye. She was striking, beautiful and yet tough looking. Nathan searched further. A name appeared.

  JENNIFER LOGAN.

  He smiled. Jacob had a daughter. Perhaps Matt Anderson had given him something useful after all. Nathan read quickly, trying not to think of Anderson lying on the concrete floor in that lock-up, trousers soaked in piss, face bloodied. Ten minutes later he grabbed the hacking device, wiped the keyboard down and stepped out into a thick fog that had draped itself over London.

  He had made progress, but Jennifer Logan wasn’t going to be easy; nothing was, it seemed. She was police, Duality Division. The last thing he needed was Duality on his back, asking questions. Like the distant buildings shrouded in mist, the truth seemed more elusive than ever. He tugged his collar and walked. His wife’s spirit was still with him, warning him.

  This woman might be your last chance, my love. Make it count.

  * * *

  After escaping Brook Mill, Jen spent the night at a roadside hotel, the kind that didn’t ask too many questions and still took cash. The box containing the Histeridae – if that was actually its name – never left her side. She lay on the bed and retraced her steps. How did they know where to find her? She thought back, trying to find mistakes, but each time she returned to the dream. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Mac. Did it mean Callaghan was right? Were the Government scanning people? Had they scanned her and known her plans, known she was going home? She slept with those questions tugging her subconscious like seeds of doubt finding fertile soil.

  The following morning was the Sunday before Christmas. She spent it cruising the streets on her bike, searching for answers. When they didn’t come, she called the only person she could trust, the only friend she had left.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Jim McArthur answered, the panic in his voice unexpected.

  ‘Why? What’s up?’ Jen replied.

  ‘Peter Callaghan is missing.’ He spoke quickly. ‘I was worried about you. I kept calling. Are you okay?’

  ‘I just needed some space.’ It was limp, and she knew it, but she was also trying to process what he’d just said.

  What’s happened to him? What have they done with Peter?

  ‘Mac, we need to talk,’ she said, her desperation now obvious. ‘Can we meet today?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you want to come to my house?’ There was a pause. ‘They’re out shopping.’

  Just the mention of Mac’s wife and children sent a cold shudder through her. She knew that involving him might put them all in danger, but there was no way she could do this alone.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Her decision was made. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’

  Chapter 24

  Jim McArthur’s house was set back from the road in a leafy suburb just north of Beaconsfield. Pulling onto the driveway, Jen spotted his Audi. His wife’s car was gone.

  Mac was standing in the doorway, and on seeing him Jen felt a pressure in her chest, an overwhelming urge to melt into his arms and burst into tears. She didn’t. They hugged and she did her best to maintain her composure. When she finally relaxed a little, he pulled away, holding her shoulders and looking her dead in the eyes.

  ‘I’m glad you called me,’ he said, eyes swimming.

  It helped to know she wasn’t the only one fighting back tears. Mac led her through the hallway, which was covered in Christmas cards and decorated in blue fairy lights. A huge red sock stuffed with small presents hung above the kitchen door. The McArthur’s home exuded a kind of easy happiness that many families aspired to, a comfortable, harmonious existence built on solid foundations. Jen sometimes wondered if this kind of life might come to her one day, but she had no experience of it, nothing she could reference or build on. For now, she just enjoyed living vicariously in Mac’s version. She had always felt welcome here.

  She followed him into the lounge, a large comfortable room with leather sofas and a log burner glowing in the centre. Two oriental rugs – picked up on their travels, Jen suspected – covered a pale wooden floor. In one corner was a Christmas tree with simple white lights and in the other a black upright piano. The house was tastefully decorated and ready for the holidays. Mac would often tell her it had nothing to do with him.

  They sat, Mac smiling patiently. Jen wasn’t sure where to start.

  ‘Some of this is going to sound crazy,’ she blurted. ‘I just wanted you to know that. Okay?’

  Mac collapsed back into his favourite leather chair. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong.’

  Jen frowned. ‘What happened to Peter?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ he replied, a sadness coming over him. ‘Literally no sign of him since last week.’

  Jen took a moment to gather her thoughts. ‘I saw him. The day before he went missing. We talked.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was scared.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That’s the thing, Mac. If I tell you, I could be putting you in danger.’ The words echoed, returning from the past. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s what Peter said to me. Before he went missing.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight.’ Mac smiled. ‘You’re worried about putting me in danger…’

  Jen didn’t smile back.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But Jen, it’s me you’re talking to.’

  He had a point. Jim McArthur had been in enough scrapes, had enough threats and risked his life enough times. He was well acquainted with danger.

  ‘You said you talked to Callaghan.’

  Jen took a deep breath and told him, ‘H
e thinks minds are being searched during Hibernation.’ It was a relief to be finally saying the words. ‘He found traces, “search echoes” he called them, then he ran tests.’

  ‘Search echoes?’ Mac asked, frowning.

  ‘I have them too.’ Her eyes met his. ‘And that’s when he uncovered something else, a memory, hidden away, even from me.’ She pulled the metal box from her rucksack and opened the lid. ‘It led me to this.’

  They both stared at the Histeridae, resting on dark velvet. On first glance it was a simple, pebble-like object, glossy and circular in shape. But swirling in very centre was what looked like a piece of red silk dancing slowly. Jen had agonised all night about this moment, but Mac was the only person left she could trust.

  ‘Does it always…’ Mac trailed off, searching for the right words.

  ‘Yes. It’s always moving like that.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mac asked.

  ‘I think it’s called a Histeridae. My father wanted to hide it, even from me.’

  She thought about the words leaving her mouth. He had hidden it from her; he had been scared that night, his pallid face burnt into her brain.

  ‘A secret? Why?’ Mac sat up in his chair. ‘What does it do?’

  Jen watched, almost voyeuristic as her hand drifted towards the Histeridae’s surface. From the moment she’d found it she’d wanted to touch it, but hadn’t felt safe. Now Mac was with her. This was the right time.

  ‘Be careful,’ Mac said sharply. ‘Should you really touch it?’

  She could feel its energy pulling at her fingers as they moved nearer. It reminded her of being close to a waterfall, the ions in the air charged and excitable.

  ‘Jen!’ Mac shouted.

  But it was too late, her fingers touched the glassy surface, and she felt something similar to the charge of energy all those years ago. Every inch of her skin shimmered, as if her blood had cooled and then heated again, as if all her tiny hairs were lifted in a warm breeze. She was calm, the room suddenly brighter, colours more saturated and vibrant. She looked down at her hand and tried to lift it away, but it felt as though her fingers were glued. She tried again, eventually plucking them free. The room slowly returned to a more natural colour. She sat quietly for a while, adjusting, trying to understand what had just happened. In real time, the moment of connection had lasted a second or two; for Jen, it had felt more like a minute.

  ‘Did you feel anything?’ Mac asked carefully.

  Jen turned to face him. A trace of the rich saturated colour remained around the edges of his body, gently flickering. She had heard the word ‘aura’ before, now she was seeing one, crystal-like and yet oily. She became acutely aware of her body, as if it were separate and floating. A new feeling permeated through her, a strange understanding. It was as if her mind had roots and they were traveling, searching for sustenance. Time seemed to slow again.

  Mac’s face was moving but he was sluggish, his voice deep and flabby. She saw ghostlike strands stretching across the room like reeds pulled by the tide, luminescent tendrils with a life of their own. They latched onto Jim McArthur and the connection was tangible. Jen could actually feel it; a kind of bonding, an organic linking of space, time, earth and blood. She could see him, but also see herself. It was a unique sensation of union, as profound as it was powerful. The tears finally came, but they didn’t arrive in isolation. She could hear Jim McArthur’s thoughts, flowing through her, clearly separated but as strong as her own.

  Mac looked at her with concern.

  {The Histeridae – finally,} Mac told her without moving his mouth.

  The two of them sat staring at each other.

  ‘Jen?’ Mac asked, worry spreading over his face. ‘What is it?’

  {I need to keep her trust.}

  They were his thoughts, burning in her mind. Then a silence that seemed to last forever. Mac swallowed, frowned and without his knowledge revealed more.

  {She had it all this time. All these years…}

  ‘I didn’t have it Mac,’ Jen responded instinctively, her voice wavering. ‘I didn’t even know it existed!’

  Mac looked confused, his mouth agape.

  {What the fuck?}

  ‘That’s right,’ she barked at him. ‘I can hear you. I know what you’re thinking…’

  In a poisonous rush of energy, his darkest secrets flooded through her. Multiple threads, thoughts and memories, like an ocean threatening to drown her. She stopped trying to understand, she didn’t need to, she’d heard enough.

  ‘You haven’t been watching over me, Mac,’ Jen hissed. ‘You’ve been waiting.’

  That realisation spread, the truth piercing her heart. Was there anyone in this world she could trust?

  ‘Jen, wait. It’s not as simple as all that,’ he begged.

  She grabbed the Histeridae, pushed it into her rucksack and stood.

  ‘I trusted you, Mac,’ she said, baring her teeth. ‘And there’s nothing you can say. I know what you’ve done. I can feel it.’

  Mac stood, his hands defensive, the colour drained from his face.

  ‘It was an assignment,’ he said, voice breaking. ‘But Jen, you need to believe me. I do care about you.’

  His inner thoughts followed those words. And the two didn’t match.

  {Your father stole it, Jen. They want it back. It’s a dangerous weapon. You don’t know what it can do.}

  Then another thought, mixed up in multiple meaning but perhaps the most common in the heads of men.

  {Money.}

  His betrayal was complete. Jim McArthur had been assigned to her from the start. His mission: Become her confidant, and when she finally revealed the location of the Histeridae, bring her in. Jen also sensed pain and regret. Random fragments. Not enough to make it right.

  ‘It’s too late for regrets, Mac,’ she said coldly. ‘I know what you’ve done.’

  The sound of car doors slamming on the driveway meant his family would be through the door any second. They would bring the excitement of Christmas crashing into this terrible moment.

  ‘Please, Jen. You’re in danger.’ He reached towards her. ‘Give me the Histeridae.’

  She recoiled.

  {Zitagi won’t take no for an answer.}

  Jen felt as through the floor dropped an inch.

  So, there it was – the link – he was with Zitagi. Her anger and sadness welled up and then boiled over as Mac reached towards her again. Suddenly, he was thrown violently backward, thrust back into his seat, his surprised expression that of a child deliberately tripped in a playground.

  They looked at each other, unsure of what had just happened. Jen realised it was her; she had willed it to happen. The thought to push him away had been enough. She stumbled back, scared.

  ‘Jen, don’t,’ Mac pleaded. ‘You won’t make it alone.’

  ‘I’ve been alone my whole life.’ The words cut her heart as they left her. ‘Good-bye, Jim, give my regards to Zitagi.’

  She ran from the house, tears streaming down her face, ignoring the cries of Mac’s wife standing on the driveway. Jen’s tears weren’t just sadness, they were necessary and desperate. Jim McArthur’s betrayal gripped her tightly, threatening to crush her whole. If she was going to survive, she needed to purge herself of those feelings.

  She jumped on her bike and sped away, trying to escape the hurt, to somehow outrun his treachery. She had no idea where she was going or what to do next. Peter Callaghan had been right after all: they were scanning minds. She thought of Peter, his nervousness, how scared he would be. Her tears stopped and she focused. It was a huge risk, but before she could do anything else she needed to go back to her apartment, grab her gear and get off the grid. She needed to disappear.

  Another thought crossed her mind.

  The Histeridae.

  If Jim McArthur thinks it’s a weapon, then I need to learn how to use it, and fast.

  Chapter 25

  It was midafternoon by the time Jen reached her apartment. She
waited outside the door for a few seconds and listened. Nothing. Simon was away in Scotland for most of the Christmas break. She pulled her handgun and entered carefully, covering the angles, checking her corners.

  She needed to get her kit and get out of there.

  Her footsteps were silent as she crossed the hallway floor. She hadn’t used her implant since leaving Brook Mill, knowing it would reveal her location. It wasn’t worth the risk. The apartment was open plan. To her right, the stairs led from the lounge to the mezzanine landing with access to both bedrooms, the bathroom and storage. There was also a small desk that Simon affectionately called his study.

  She jogged up the stairs and into her bedroom, pressing a small keypad on the wall and ducking as a small loft hatch clicked open. Inside was a bag reserved for emergencies, something she never expected to need. Weapons, cash and clothes. She climbed the ladder, grabbed the hold-all and threw it over her shoulder.

  A sound bought her to a dead stop, movement downstairs, people in the apartment. She slid out and onto the landing, crouching against the paneled balcony, her heart banging.

  ‘Officer Logan,’ a voice shouted from below. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  At least two, maybe three. Stupid coming back.

  Jen needed to know what she was up against. She switched her Baden device on, scanning the room. Her active retinal picked up three identifiers – classified UN signatures, probably MI5. Then, in the corner of her eye, another.

  What the hell?

  There was a man inside her kitchen, pressed up against the door. His details appeared. David Shaw. Clean record. Non–UN Citizen, travel Visa.