The Whisper of Stars

by Nick Jones

  Jen searched for the right words, but they never came, perhaps because there weren’t any. Thomas marched off and a few seconds later could be heard crashing around his bedroom. Probably packing. Again. She felt sorry. He was innocent and now implicated in this mess. Thomas had meant something to her once, back in a previous life. He had been her window into another world, one that she could never truly inhabit but loved nonetheless. They’d had fun, but that all that was over now. She would offer him more money and persuade him to disappear for a while.

  Turning to Nathan, she said, ‘I’m in serious shit.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied, stone-faced. ‘We both are.’

  The moment for saying sorry about the previous night came and went. Instead Nathan just smiled lamely and said. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  Jen couldn’t see how. It had been hard to move about before; it would be almost impossible now. She felt trapped and frustrated, and later, as she watched Thomas leave his apartment, despair joined the chorus.

  Peter Callaghan, Jim McArthur.

  Dead.

  She needed to figure out her next move, and quickly – before their names were added to that list.

  Chapter 37

  It snowed solidly for three days. Jen woke on the last day of December to an icy grey London cut in two by a blood-red sunrise. It was below freezing, but that didn’t bother her. She had known real cold. National service had made sure of that.

  It was times like these when climate change could seem like a distant problem. It was hard to imagine in the fresh chill of winter that some regions were now uninhabitable dustbowls. She sighed. Of all the things she was questioning or doubting, accelerated climate change wasn’t one of them. There were enough independent accounts across the globe to reassure her it wasn’t part of the conspiracy. Temperatures were screwed at both ends of the spectrum. Mankind had been on the brink of extinction. Until the answer arrived. Until Hibernation.

  ‘Shit,’ she said into the empty room. She dressed quickly. ‘If Hibernation is the answer, what’s the real question?’

  She joined Nathan. He was at the lounge window enjoying the silence only a heavy deluge of snow can bring. On the dining table sat a steaming cafetière and two cups. She was amazed at how much coffee he drank in a day. The news was still on, but the volume was down. Her face was appearing less frequently now. Hard to keep a story alive without something juicy to add each day. Laying low wasn’t really her style, but it had been necessary. Until now.

  ‘I know what we need to do,’ Jen said.

  Nathan walked to the table and poured some of the coffee. ‘Good morning,’ he said, demanding manners.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ She smiled and joined him. ‘Good morning.’

  They sat for a while and Jen waited until Nathan seemed happy for her to start.

  ‘You said we needed proof that the Hibernation chip is being used to control people. I think I know how to get it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Nathan said, pouring yet another coffee.

  ‘Powell knew their chip could be used to search and manipulate people. Baden Corporation turned a blind eye, took the money. The Government paid them off and some people got very rich, very quickly. So, inside the CEO’s dream, I suggested he could help me find evidence, maybe even locate my father’s original research.’

  Nathan lowered his cup and stared at her. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything, he showed me. In his dream, his nightmare, he showed me a place where Baden keep all their secrets – their dirty laundry, as you put it. And I know where it is.’

  The location was the Shiryaevo Vault, a privately owned facility in Russia. Jen had spent some time there early in her career, and it had taught her many things, the most important of which was the value of useful land. Russia had plenty, and when the world went to shit, they delivered year-round farming on a scale previously unimaginable. Russia had become powerful again, but it wasn’t just because of agriculture. Large-scale data and computing operations required huge amounts of energy and needed to be kept cool all year round. The vault was the biggest of them all. As she filled him in, it became clear that he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘There must be an easier way,’ he protested.

  ‘There isn’t. I saw it. It makes sense.’

  Nathan paused, drank the remainder of his coffee, and eyed the kettle. ‘Putting aside for a second that the Shiryaevo Vault is one of the most secure installations in the world, it’s in Russia, Jen. I mean, how the hell would we even get there? Especially now.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, doing her best to sound confident, knowing he wasn’t ready to hear her unorthodox travel plans. ‘Let’s just say we can get to Samara and I get inside. We get the evidence we need, Nathan. We can take them on.’

  ‘But there is no way we can do it.’ He was almost shouting. ‘It’s imposs –’

  ‘I accept you can’t hack a place like that from the outside,’ Jen argued, ‘but we have the Histeridae. If I can get inside, I can give you local access. Thanks to Powell, I know the vault number and I have his access code.’

  Nathan shrugged and looked at the floor. ‘I’m not that good. I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

  ‘You said you wanted proof.’ She was up and pacing. ‘Well, this is where we find it. Powell was scared of what Baden have hidden down there. My guess? We find evidence that proves the Government are using Hibernation to control people. Don’t you see? Then we have a chance!’

  Nathan locked eyes on her. ‘I get it. We need evidence, and maybe, just maybe, it’s down there, but there’s a really big fucking problem. I’m not a professional hacker and you’re wanted by every camera on earth.’

  He was right: her plan, this crazy idea, all hinged on their ability to get to Russia and hack one of the most secure facilities on the planet. She could easily forget that Nathan hadn’t been specifically assigned to infiltrate this target. Her days of Government teams and drafted experts were over. He was just some guy who knew his way around interfaces – handy enough, she supposed, but also sloppy. The mansion security guards were a good example of that. She thought again about the Histeridae. Perhaps it alone would give them a fighting chance. Breaking into the vault, eluding armed guards… she could feel fear lurking, trying to push its way to the surface, but did her best to hide it from him. This had to work. They didn’t have any other options.

  ‘My father managed to break the Histeridae out of GCHQ. I’m learning how to use it, getting better each time. Stronger. I controlled three people at once. We can do this.’ Her eyes tightened. ‘We have to.’

  Nathan was up and making more coffee. Jen knew she needed to tread carefully. Getting to Russia would require a fake identity and the correct travel permits. That meant becoming the kind of person she used to hunt. She needed to become invisible.

  She took a long deep breath, knowing her only option was Lynch Taylor.

  And he wanted her dead already.

  Chapter 38

  A taxi stopped near a cluster of tall warehouses in London’s dockland region. Jen paid and stepped out, cramping against the bitterly cold air. Like most of the people she would see this evening, the driver wasn’t augmented or chipped. The criminal underbelly of London had chosen to remain device-free.

  A smart move, she thought with some irony.

  She hadn’t told Nathan she was coming here. Managing his mental state was important now and tonight’s meeting was a dangerous move. If Nathan had known what she was walking into he could easily melt down, and although she didn’t want to admit it, she needed him – perhaps more than he needed her.

  She looked around. It was January 3 and the snow was gone, replaced by patches of depressing brown slush pushed up against mounds of grey ice. Large storage facilities towered around her, dark and deserted. In the distance she could hear the muffled thudding of a bass drum. The Docklands, largely ignored during the extensive redevelopment, now consisted of low-quality storage, underground c
lubs and rundown bars. The perfect place to exploit the needs of your average man. She found herself wishing she had the Histeridae but knew she couldn’t risk bringing it here. She would have to rely on good old-fashioned greed and bribery. She walked towards the muffled music, hoping her contact would show up – and that she would make it out of here alive.

  She arrived at the agreed meeting place, a small red sign fizzing in the damp air above her. She checked the time: 9.49pm. She was early. There were a few people, heads down, moving quickly. This wasn’t a good place. It was for drinking and vice and you didn’t linger. She was relieved when a man approached her, heavy set, middle aged and smartly dressed. His hair was white and thin and lay scraped over his head like flattened candy-floss. He looked her up and down, and when he spoke his lack of dental hygiene was obvious.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jen asked.

  The man didn’t reply. He looked around, his puffy yellow eyelids seemingly accustomed to the gloom.

  ‘This way.’ He shuffled off, mumbling something under his breath. Jen decided not to attempt any further conversation. They continued in silence, the hunched figures around them thinning out. The man took a left turn into a narrow alley that smelt faintly of moist ash and rotting vegetables. Her senses were wound tight, working every sound, shadow and angle. Although the alley appeared deserted, Jen could feel eyes watching them.

  The man was only slightly ahead of her. She played various scenarios through in her mind. There were many ways to break a limb, and she was ready if he made a sudden move towards her. The man stopped outside two dark blue steel doors. Old posters had been ripped from the brickwork around it and there was music coming from inside.

  ‘This is it.’ His voice was impossibly low. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Jen thanked him.

  ‘Oh, and you’ll be quite popular in there.’

  She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘You being a woman,’ he added. ‘With hair like that.’

  The man lingered too long on her breasts and then banged loudly on the door three times. As it opened, Jen found herself walking in.

  She entered the dimly lit bar, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The place was a nauseating hybrid of American truck stop and Italian restaurant and smelt like sour beer and ashtrays. In the corner, an antique jukebox, its florescent tubes, once vibrant, now succeeded in framing it like some kind of infected rainbow. Jen counted ten people spread amongst the circular tables. The establishment felt big but it was too dark to tell. Jen approached a steel bar that ran the length of the furthest wall. The barman eyed her with suspicion.

  ‘Double whiskey with ice,’ she ordered, sitting on a faded leather bar-stool.

  ‘On the rocks,’ the barman corrected her.

  She nodded, raising an eyebrow. Just get me the fucking drink. Asshole.

  She’d been given no further instructions, so she began memorising the room, planning her escape if it all went south. She missed the security that Duality bought to a situation like this and considered the policewoman she used to be. And there it was.

  Used to be.

  Her job had been her life. The barman placed the drink in front of her and she knocked it back, enjoying the harsh burn on her throat. I’m not a policewoman anymore, she thought with bitterness.

  There was a mirror behind the bar, just below the inverted optics, and she used it to study the room behind. She could see at least two men watching her. She turned as another man approached. He asked her to follow him and they left the bar, the man ducking under an archway in the corner of the room and entering a smaller, private area. Jen scanned her surroundings. In the centre a circular table, surrounded by tall, purple velvet seating, a gold chandelier hung above. It reminded Jen of a cheap strip club. A thin man sat in the middle, flanked by two others. Jen was frisked thoroughly. The thin man stared at her, eyes shadowed in deep sockets.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ Jen said, as confidently as she could manage. The man looked bored and flicked his bony fingers towards the seat in front of her. She sat down and he continued.

  ‘How could I not?’ His faced curled inwards. ‘You’ve got fucking nerve coming here, that’s for sure.’ He paused and smiled, his red lips stretching over his teeth. ‘But honestly? Jennifer Logan? Needing my help? I’m intrigued.’

  The man opposite her was Carl Taylor – or, as he was more commonly known, Lynch – and Jen didn’t take her eyes off him. She’d been part of the team that convicted Lynch of human trafficking. He’d done eight years. The case had also exposed two crooked police officers and unraveled an elusive, organised crime network in the Central London area. Lynch had every reason to hate her and even more reason to want her dead.

  ‘I need transit to Russia,’ she said loudly over the music. ‘Can you do it?’

  The two men on either side of Lynch eyed their boss carefully. Lynch smiled, his white skin almost translucent under the lights.

  ‘There’s no fucking way, Logan,’ he said, his London accent attacking each word. ‘You’re one hot package right now, and the reward on you is too good.’

  The men looked back at her confidently.

  ‘Give me just one good reason why I shouldn’t hand you in,’ Lynch said playfully, clearly enjoying his moment. ‘Or why I don’t just kill you now?’

  Eight years inside and Jen could feel the hatred leaching from him.

  ‘I can get information on Conrad,’ she said, her lips shaking into a smile. ‘I can tell you where he is.’

  Lynch frowned, leant forward, resting his chin against his long fingers, and began stroking his lips inwards. ‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you.’

  Conrad Fowler had been Lynch’s right-hand man for years, but when caught and pressured, he cut a deal that put Lynch and the rest of his crew behind bars. For that kind of betrayal people expected retribution to be swift, but Fowler had somehow managed to evade Lynch and disappear. The money ploughed into finding him had become almost legendary in criminal circles.

  Lynch seemed to drift away mentally for a moment, until finally he let out a long, deep breath.

  ‘And I thought I was going to get to play with you tonight.’

  Jen didn’t want to think about what that might mean. Lynch gestured for his men to leave, and when they were alone, Jen asked him again.

  ‘Will you do it?’

  Lynch shook his head, tutting, his outstretched finger flicking from side to side. ‘Now, now, Logan,’ he said, mocking her. ‘Not so fast.’

  ‘I need ID and transit to Samara. In return I give you Fowler.’ She added, ‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Get me to Samara,’ she said, ‘and you have my word. I will deliver Fowler to you on a plate.’

  Jen knew what was important to people like Lynch. He might be a slippery, evil son of a bitch, but shit-suckers like him valued trust and honour above all else. He wanted Fowler more than he wanted her dead. That was the gamble, and it seemed to be paying off.

  Lynch tipped his head back and screamed. ‘Fuck.’ He was laughing but was clearly annoyed. ‘You got me good, Logan. Rock and a hard place.’

  ‘No maybes,’ Jen said clearly.

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ he said, flapping his large hands around. ‘It’s more than you deserve, but I can get you to Moscow.’

  ‘No good. I’m taking all the risks.’ She realised with unease that he wanted her to persuade him. He wanted to play games. She could see him searching for a way to kill her and get the information on Fowler. She said, ‘And you get him. Finally.’

  Lynch chewed his tongue, his black eyes glistening and cutting into her. Playtime was over.

  ‘I can get you on a cargo plane of farm workers,’ he said dryly. ‘It flies into Ufa.’

  ‘Ufa?’ Jen said doubtfully. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s the closest I can get you,’ he snapped. �
�Take it or leave it.’

  ‘What about Kryazh Air Force Base?’ It was small, near Samara, and the one she’d had in mind all along.

  ‘Sure. If you want to get caught, go there.’

  Jen couldn’t visualise the distance between Ufa and Samara. Traveling across Russia would be difficult, especially in January. Icy conditions and her inability to travel via conventional routes increased the chance of failure exponentially. Jen swallowed, unsure of her next move.

  ‘How far from Samara?’ she asked, knowing his response wouldn’t be helpful.

  ‘Jesus, Logan!’ Lynch hissed loudly, spraying small globules of spit over her. ‘Beggars. Choosers. It’s the best I can do.’

  Jen closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

  ‘And it won’t be cheap, either, a fake ID and retinals. Plus, I’ll need to pay people off on both sides. It will work, but it’s going to cost you.’ He paused, enjoying his moment, reveling in her desperation. ‘It’s going to cost you a lot.’

  ‘How much is a lot?’

  ‘Sixty,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  He smiled, sat back slowly and folded his arms. ‘It would have been cheaper if I hadn’t done eight years, Logan.’

  This was payback. It was the best she was going to get.

  ‘When?’

  His wide, sickening grin was back. ‘Three days,’ he said, clearly pleased with himself. ‘Be ready.’

  * * *

  It was early. Nathan stared at his screen and cracked his fingers. ‘Hacking’ was an ugly word, something his students would use at the start of their course. He guided them towards more elegant terms, ones that suggested grace and some level of artistry. Hackers hacked, and often their motives were monetary or just plain malicious. What he had taught – in a life before this madness – he considered an art form.

  Most of his students would go on to be security experts – white hats, as they were known – and they, of course, would fight the black hats. The terminology was oversimplified, something invented by people in suits who needed a simple analogy to describe a complicated world, but it was true. It was chess. A game. Good against bad. Sneakers against criminals.