by Nick Jones
There was nothing left to do.
A guttural shout left him as he pushed her off the ledge and watched, through distorted tears, as her body flopped into the icy river, rolled once and was gone. He screamed at the world, clenching his fists in pain, inhalation impossible.
He was alone, again.
In that single moment, Nathan changed forever. He had spent the last few years trying to become somebody new, somebody he thought he needed to be. That night he became something he could never have imagined. It was as if he’d been truly reborn and his purpose reset. He walked away, whispering dark affirmations to himself, the Histeridae glowing silently in the bag beside him.
He would expose the truth, and then – when the world knew everything – he would hunt down those responsible and kill them.
All of them.
Epilogue
Seven months later.
Nathan counted six passengers, including himself. Yesterday the bus had been full. It banged its way over what was left of the road, the thin plastic seats offering almost no protection from the constant barrage. Nathan didn’t care, it was better than being outside. The rain had started a few days ago and not stopped, not even for a moment. Nathan was sure he had never experienced rain like it, such a constant and consistent deluge of water. It seemed impossible to him that the whole of India wasn’t underwater by now.
He was trying to remember his history and became increasingly sure it was Pakistan that had first been declared a failed state, and that India followed quickly behind. One thing he knew for sure: by 2055, the entire region had been classified uninhabitable.
Large beads of water traveled along the window panes, racing the gushing rapids in the roadside below. He gazed out at the shacks and abandoned cars, groups of people walking, carrying heavy loads above their heads, tall palm trees swaying alarmingly in the high winds above them. Humans still lived here, they just weren’t official. Yet, they managed somehow. People always managed. Tens of millions of refugees had attempted to leave the country. That was just the beginning. What followed had been much worse.
The bus hit another pothole and punched him up out of his seat. His expression didn’t change. Since losing Jen he had killed two men. His expression hadn’t changed then either. The first, as he was leaving Afghanistan, was a straightforward mugging. He’d stabbed the assailant in the neck with his own knife, pushing him to the ground, sending his accomplice running. The man bled out, his sticky hands wrestling against Nathan’s firm grip. The second was more complicated. After paying a decent sum to cross the Pakistani border, his contact then sent an assassin to retrieve the rest of Nathan’s stash – a common scam, he suspected. He had been ready, waiting in the darkness, his dead eyes watching the door. He strangled the assassin with a bootlace, cutting into his skin. The man’s face had bulged purple, legs thrashing. Nathan had felt nothing. He had stared at the ceiling. No emotion. Nothing. He was breathing, the man was dead. No big deal.
The bus’s engine groaned, popped and backfired. Nathan opened his eyes suddenly, realising he must have fallen asleep.
Sweet dreams, he thought bitterly, rubbing his shoulders.
The driver was shouting and waving his arms and the passengers were shouting back. Nathan got the gist. The journey was over. He walked to the front of the bus. Flash flooding had caused a landslide and half the road was gone. A couple of days back the driver had asked everyone to stand on one side of the bus as he negotiated a similar, half-eaten road. This was different, though; they were higher up now and the bus had been sliding sideways for a while, losing traction. This was literally the end of the road. Nathan slung his rucksack over his shoulder, walked past the arguing passengers and jumped off the bus. He studied the jagged triangular holes cut into the mountain where the road should have been.
Parts missing, gone for good.
Pulling his hood forward he began to walk, thick orange mud cloying his boots. Two days later he arrived at a crossing, exactly as described. A roughly built wooden bridge stretched over an angry-looking river. In the distance, against an ash-white sky, he spotted a thin line of smoke leaving the hillside.
It was dusk by the time he arrived at the hut, which was surrounded by thick trees, its stone walls packed and sealed with mud, windows covered. Thin shafts of light emanated from cracks in the walls. He knocked. There was no reply. He twisted the cold metal handle and opened the door. Pushing it slowly, he raised a hand defensively and stepped inside. The house was small and tidy with oil lamps lighting the edges. In the centre a large wooden staircase and beyond that, in the far corner he saw a figure, a man sitting with his back to him.
‘Mr Mohanty?’ Nathan asked. There was no reply.
Nathan shook his coat, closed the door behind him and approached. The man appeared to be writing. To his right there was a fire, warm and welcoming with an old-fashioned black cauldron hanging above it. It was like stepping back in time. It had taken Nathan months to find this place, to find this man, and a part of him just wanted to sit by that fire, dry his clothes and not speak. He stood in awkward silence staring at the figure hunched over the desk.
‘Professor George Mohanty?’ Nathan asked, clearer this time. Still the man didn’t move. ‘My Name is Nathan O’Brien. I’m here about Jacob Logan.’
The man bowed his head, turned and faced him. He was Indian and elderly, with thin white hair that hung messily over his collar. Nathan noticed he was holding a gun in his right hand.
Mohanty met Nathan’s gaze. ‘I heard about the Vault. I figured it was only a matter of time before you started looking for me.’
‘Jacob’s daughter,’ Nathan said, the words pinching his heart. ‘She’s dead.’
Mohanty frowned and nodded. ‘I know. I was very sorry to hear it.’
Nathan hadn’t expected this but didn’t show any surprise. He gestured towards the gun. ‘Please. There’s no need for that.’
Mohanty’s eyes narrowed. ‘I protect myself, Mr O’Brien. That’s how I have survived all these years. I’ve known about you for a while now, known you were coming. And when I heard about the vault, it made me wonder.’ He paused and studied Nathan, his voice becoming a hopeful whisper. ‘Did she find it?’
Nathan slipped the bag from his shoulder and reached inside.
‘Slowly,’ Mohanty warned, raising the gun.
Nathan carefully lifted a small box from his satchel, opened its lid and showed him the Histeridae.
‘That explains everything.’ Mohanty let out a long sigh and gestured towards a seat by the fire. ‘Please sit.’
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ Nathan assured him.
‘I know that.’ George replied, placing the gun on the table. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said, offering Nathan his hand. ‘Professor George Mohanty. Tell me everything.’
As Nathan talked, Mohanty listened intently. Nathan told him about his wife, about his journey. He explained how he had met Jennifer Logan and how together they had discovered the link between Baden and Hibernation. They had retrieved files from the Vault, classified documents, proof that hibernators were being searched and manipulated. He had also found original ‘Histeridae Project’ files and Mohanty’s name had been all over them. Nathan wanted answers.
George had listened politely but interrupted constantly, and as the hours passed Nathan became increasingly frustrated. He had managed to track down a man many considered to be dead, yet one who seemed interested in only one thing.
Mohanty sank back into his chair, ‘Tell me again about his daughter,’
‘I told you. She was tough. Determined.’
George nodded, ‘Like her father.’ He poured himself another slug of green liquid, filling a small ornate glass to the brim. He checked again if Nathan would like to join him. Nathan refused. He shrugged, knocked back the drink – his fourth in the last hour – and gazed at Nathan, eyes wet and swimming. ‘And she could use the Histeridae well?’
‘Can’t everyone?’
George ignored him and prodded the fire absently. ‘Do you know why it’s called the Histeridae?’
Nathan sighed heavily and shook his head, unable to hide his frustration.
‘We named it.’ Mohanty was attempting a smile but his eyes were sad, his lips trembling slightly. ‘Well, Jacob did, really. Named it after the beetle, said it reminded him of one. Means “actor” in Latin, I think, which is quite fitting really.’
There was a long pause.
‘Tell me,’ Mohanty asked, staring at the fire. ‘How did she die?’
Nathan felt the blood rising up in his throat. He had traveled for weeks to find this man, and for what? To be dragged through the pain of her death again, by a drunkard?
‘How is this relevant? I’ve already –’
‘Please, Mr O’Brien,’ George interrupted, raising his hand and placing it on Nathan’s shoulder. ‘Trust me… it’s important. Tell me how she died. Exactly.’
Nathan sighed. He was tired and aching and wasn’t in the mood for a fight.
‘Near the vault, after retrieving the files.’ Nathan swallowed, the pain in his chest tightening like cooling metal. He instinctively reached for the ring around his neck, his only connection to her. ‘She died in my arms. She asked me to figure this out, expose the truth. That’s why I came to –’
‘The truth,’ George whispered, interrupting him again, staring intently at the fire. ‘The Histeridae is an incredible object. They didn’t have a clue of its potential. Jacob and I were only beginning to understand its power.’
‘Well, now I have it,’ Nathan said simply, staring back at him, wondering where all this was going. ‘And I haven’t got a clue what to do.’
‘You have the Histeridae and a pile of evidence,’ George cackled to himself, ‘and a world that has forgotten how to listen.’
They sat in silence for a while, and when Nathan looked over he saw that Mohanty’s eyes were rolling, the small glass about to fall from his fingers.
Fragile and ready to smash, Nathan thought.
He could feel despair ripping at him. Mohanty was a strange old man, whom Nathan suspected had spent too long alone. He saved the glass and reached for a blanket.
George’s eyes opened, like a snake waiting. He said, ‘Tell me. Was she touching the Histeridae as she died?’
Nathan recoiled slightly. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘And you were holding her?’ Mohanty asked, pulling him closer.
Nathan nodded quickly and George smiled. He was staring at the fire, its reflection dancing in his watery gaze. Nathan turned and watched the shape of the wood collapse, grey ash crumbling to reveal the glowing rocks beneath. A fresh log now lay over the embers and the fire flared up excitedly.
‘Because, Mr O’Brien.’ His voice was a whisper, his face glowing in the warm light. ‘When it comes to the Histeridae, death is a very relative term.’
Author's Note
Thank you for reading ‘The Whisper of Stars’.
As an unpublished author (in the old fashioned sense anyway), reaching new readers is one of the hardest things to do.
By far, the best way to get noticed is via reviews on Amazon. Positive reviews can literally lift a book from obscurity to bestseller. Your help in that journey would be very much appreciated. So, if you enjoyed the book why not add a review? Even just a star rating can be a huge help.
Thanks again. It is a real thrill for me to know people are reading my novel. The sequel is well underway. Keep an eye on my website for news, preview chapters and updates.
www.iamnickjones.com
Table of Contents
- The Whisper of Stars
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Epilogue
- Author's Note
