by Jo Zebedee
“Shhhh,” he said, but Taz didn’t respond. He looked terrible, pale and sweating, his eyelids fluttering.
The gate opened fully and someone stepped into the garden, their cargo trousers tucked into a pair of heavy boots. Shit. The feet stopped. John huddled beside Taz, holding his head, and his friend was hot, really hot.
The slide moved. John held his breath. Could he run? He tightened his grip on the knife.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He looked up into the barrel of a machine gun. He followed the line of the gun, up past a burly chest, to see a soldier of about forty, his face stern.
“The knife. Hand it over.”
“Right.”
John got to his knees and handed the knife to the soldier, who snapped it closed and put it in his pocket.
“Captain!” the soldier yelled. He gestured to the boys. “Stand up, hands in the air.”
John got to his feet, slowly, keeping his hands high.
“And your mate.”
“He’s hurt.”
Taz moaned, a long moan, and the trooper frowned. He really was big, like a rugby player or something. His cheeks were flushed; John bet his hair was red under his helmet. “How did he get hurt?”
“I dunno. Maybe he ate something.”
The captain came into the garden. “Bring them in, Peters; they’re out after curfew.” He cursed and turned away. “They’re the last thing we need on top of what’s happening to the Zelo.”
John tried to protest, but two of the squad stepped forward and grabbed his arms. He twisted, trying to get away, but his wrists were pulled behind him. A circle of cold iron encased them, snapping into place.
“You can’t cuff us! We haven’t done anything!” yelled John.
“Save it.” Peters jerked his head at the gate. “Let’s go.”
Another pair of soldiers pulled Taz to his feet, and he gave a long shriek. John glanced back at him; he was sweating and pale, his face scrunched in pain.
“My mate – Taz – he really is sick,” said John. “Look at him.”
“If he is, we’ll get a medic for him.” Peters pushed John out of the garden and up against the wagon. He patted John down, his hands hard and impersonal, and stopped at the tin in John’s pocket. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
The soldier pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. He looked up at John, and his eyes were shrewd. “Doing a run tonight, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said John. Behind him, Taz screamed, and a voice said something about the boy telling the truth, he really wasn’t well. John, his head held against the vehicle, said, “Taz – he is sick.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The soldier let him go. “Get in, lad.”
John clambered in, struggling with his hands cuffed, and the soldier leaned in, giving what looked like a sympathetic smile. “If he’s taken something, you’d best tell us. The sooner we know, the better for him.”
Taz was ushered into the vehicle and collapsed onto the bench opposite. His eyes were wide and scared.
“You think we’ve taken drugs?” John asked the trooper. “You must be thick. We don’t have money for anything like that. I don’t have a clue what’s wrong with him. We were up on the hill, and then he doubled over on me. I know it was after curfew, but you want to see where we live. It’s such a dump, you have to get out sometimes.”
The soldier paused a moment, as if considering this. He looked back down at the tin in his hand, and up at John again. “What’s your name, son? And there’s no point lying to me, we’ll get to it one way or the other.”
John took a deep breath, looking at his sympathetic face. “Piss off,” he said, and kicked out. Sympathetic, hell. No one cared about the people left in the estates. His kick didn’t get anywhere near the trooper, who shook his head and slammed the door, leaving John in the dark, his hands pulled behind him, the only noise Taz’s soft groans. He put his head back as the engines started. Shit.
CHAPTER THREE
The door to the office opened. “Inspector!”
Carter set down the overnight report he’d been reading, smirking a little; it appeared there were worse jobs than being the Zelotyr liaison officer in Belfast. In Derry, some residents had taken to chucking rocks off Butcher’s Gate, proving Zelotyr skulls were close to impenetrable. Since the Galactic Council had ruled humans were sentient, the Zelotyr couldn’t retaliate by razing the Bogside, a point O’Leary, his counterpart in Derry, had spent the night making. Apparently, even the aliens were finding Ireland a bastard to conquer. “Yes?”
Sergeant Sanderson, short, squat and scowling, looked more bad-tempered than normal. Just. “One of the Zelotyr is downstairs – he says there’s an emergency.”
Carter rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, but stopped when he saw Sanderson’s slightly raised eyebrows. It wouldn’t do for the aliens’ liaison officer to admit that the Zelotyr still turned his stomach. Not given what the rest of the station thought of him: an efficient turncoat and traitor were the most generous comments he got these days. That he’d been ordered into the role when Bar-eltyr, the alien commander from the Cave Hill, had requested him as part of the deal for peace didn’t make any difference – he’d still been tarred as a collaborator.
“Thanks.” Carter grabbed his jacket and was halfway down the hall when he heard shouting. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into reception. A male Zelotyr – a senior, judging by its armour – was cradling the body of a junior, its eyes blank and silvered over.
Carter took a moment, not sure what to say, and raised his eyes to meet the Zelotyr’s, at the same time managing not to look in its maw. It had taken weeks to learn that trick. “What happened?”
“Dying,” said the Zelotyr, in flat, electronic tones.
Carter touched the child, careful to be gentle. “Yes, I see that. I’m sorry – what can I do?”
The Zelotyr owned the hospitals, they controlled what remained of the transport network… there was nothing Carter could offer that they didn’t already have.
“All dying…” The Zelotyr gave the child to Carter and stumbled back. “Dying…”
Carter handed the baby to the receptionist, too quickly for her to realise what it was and refuse. He darted forwards, put a hand on one of the huge arms and nodded at Sanderson to do the same. A look of disgust swept over the sergeant’s face, but he took the other arm and held it firmly.
“Who are dying?” asked Carter, straining to support the alien.
“The Zelotyr. All of us.”
“How?”
The Zelotyr dropped to its knees and cast its eyes between the two policemen. “You must ensure we are avenged.”
It pitched forward, its body emitting a stench like Carter had never smelled before: worse than the sewage the aliens harvested or the mucus oozing through their plating. He covered his mouth, fighting not to gag, and stepped back.
“Sir.” Sanderson pointed at the screen above the reception desk, broadcasting the news. The receptionist had set the baby's body on her desk and was backed against the filing cabinet, watching the screen, her eyes shining with what looked like tears.
Carter read the words scrolling along the bottom of the screen. It was true: the Zelo were dying. Sanderson's face cracked into a grin.
“Yes!” said the sergeant. “Someone had the balls to get rid of the shit-eaters. About bloody time.”
“It says it’s happening all over the world,” said the receptionist. The reception filled with officers and station staff. One of the cleaners wrinkled his nose and asked who’d died. Carter winced and tried not to look at the Zelo’s body. On the screen, a spaceship leaving Earth caused someone to start a round of applause, and it spread through the room. A whistle pierced the air and the caretaker jumped onto a chair, punching the air. “Don’t bloody come back!”
There was a cheer, and Carter ad
ded his voice to it – he might have had to work with the Zelotyr, but he’d never wanted to. The screen changed, showing their little scene being played out in a darkened Times Square, followed by a snow-covered Russian vista. A human presenter appeared on screen, and the information band along the bottom announced the retreat of the aliens. The picture changed, highlighting the locations – worldwide, filling the screen with red dots – where the poison had already taken effect. It plotted the spread of the virus, showing how it would cover Earth in a maximum of two days. The picture changed to another departing ship; it appeared the aliens weren’t going to wait around. Judging by how fast the alien had died tonight, Carter didn’t blame them.
“They’re gone!” Sanderson’s voice carried over the cheers, reigniting them, and the noise went on for a few minutes before quietening again. Now the initial excitement had passed, it felt strangely flat, like Christmas after dinner, with all the presents opened and the T.V. still crap.
Carter watched for another moment, until the screen started to show repeats of the same pictures. His gaze fell on the body of the baby Zelo, its silver armour – not armour, not yet, more like scales – dulling as the body stiffened.
He turned and pushed open the door to the car park, welcoming the air on his face. The Zelotyr were gone. It was a good thing; the best thing. He tried to regain the excitement, but it felt like icy tentacles were reaching into his stomach.
“Sir?” asked Sanderson, behind him. “Are you okay?” His voice changed, took on an edge of a sneer. “Aren’t you pleased? Earth is free.”
“Is it?” Carter stared at the housing estate opposite. What happened when the residents found out? Or the Barath’na? The second alien race had tried to force the Zelo off the planet when Earthlings were declared sentient. It was one of the reasons the Zelo had started to work in partnership with Earth, to appease the GC and allow them to stay. Carter hadn’t met a Barath’na, but the Zelotyr enmity to them had been openly evident. Whether it was long-standing racial hatred or based on truth, he’d prefer not to find out. He remembered the horror of the Zelotyr attack, the smart mines – there were some still scattered around the city, waiting for poor sods to get close enough to set them off – destroying the city. The last thing they needed was another lot of aliens deciding to try their luck.
Or, for that matter, the first set wanting revenge. His blood chilled; the Zelotyr didn’t have to be on the ground to attack. Last time, the first waves of bombs had come from space.
“Don’t you see?” he said to Sanderson. “We need to find whoever has done this, before it causes another war…”
Sanderson cleared his throat. "About that, sir." He nodded at the station's barred gate. "You might want to hang around – they've lifted a couple of lads.
***
At the sound of a door closing, Carter turned to face the army sergeant, Peters, who'd brought the two bedraggled lads in. One was sitting in the interview room next door, looking fairly stunned. Carter crossed his arms and leaned against the observation window which dominated the small room. “Well? Ours or yours?”
"Yours." Peters dumped his paperwork on the table in the centre of the room. “It lies under police jurisdiction.” He set a clear bag on the table, and pointed at it. “We thought they were drug running at first.” He lit a cigarette, making Carter cough.
“There’s a smoking ban, you know,” he said.
Peters gave a short laugh. “You want to arrest me?” He leaned back and blew a series of perfect smoke rings at the ceiling. “You know what's happened to the Zelo. In fact, you probably know more than I do; you’re the shit-lover, right?”
Carter took a deep breath, trying to hide his annoyance. “If you mean I’m the Zelotyr liaison, then yes.”
"Whatever." Peters nodded at the window. "We’re waiting for forensics to confirm what was in that tin, but I’d put money on it being the virus.”
“That’s a hell of a jump – from drug running to xenocide?” Carter turned to the observation window. The lad was sitting on a wooden seat, arms on the table in front, chin resting on them. He looked young, maybe about fifteen, his hair long, falling into his eyes. “He’s just another street kid.”
“You didn’t see his face when he heard the Zelo were dying. Or how sick his friend is. He told us the other lad ingested whatever they released, and he’s ill. Really ill. It doesn’t take a genius to make the link.” Peters walked across, his footsteps loud in the empty room. “Any idea who’ll be behind it?”
“Not him.” Carter thought for a moment. “Locally, there’re a couple of possibilities. When we get confirmation from forensics and know what we're looking at, I’ll get someone on to it.”
Peters threw down his cigarette, grinding it out, and Carter glared at him. The sergeant ignored him, crossing his arms, muscles standing out against his black t-shirt.
“What will happen to them, if they did release it?” he asked. “I was told you knew the Zelotyr better than anyone.”
Carter walked back to the desk and picked up the custody form, checking the details. “Hard to know for sure; they’re odd, the Zelotyr.”
“We noticed.”
Carter signed the sheet, separated the duplicate, and checked the report of the arrest. “A year ago, I was with an army captain – a guy called Nugent. We were cornered by a pack of Zelo teenagers.”
“I heard. He got killed, they say. Eviscerated.”
The sergeant’s voice was clipped, and Carter looked down, studiously reading. “Yes, it was... it wasn’t quick.” He swallowed bile at the memory. “When an adult Zelo came across what was happening, he let me go. He didn’t support the killing; it went against their culture.” And yet the Zelo had descended on Earth, unleashing an attack across the world that had killed millions. “The problem is, what happens to the lads, if you're right, isn’t just Earth's decision. You know why the Zelo came here, right?”
“The three bears’ porridge was good for their babies…”
“Yep. Their planet’s overheating – they can't breed on it. Earth matched what they needed.”
“It’s our planet.” Peters frowned. “Just because their technology is a bit more advanced than ours –”
Carter snorted. “A bit? We’ve managed to get a couple of probes into space, walked on our satellite; they have faster-than-light technology, and weaponry that could blow Earth out of space. I call that more than a bit.”
“So?”
“So, they were working with us. Rathcoole, for instance: they funded all the new housing.” Carter ducked his head, not able to meet yet another stare branding him a conspirator when it was the only way to save the little people. Lads like the one in the room next door, abandoned in the ruins of a dying city. “Look, I know what everyone thinks of me, I’m not stupid. Or deaf.... But, we're wrong about the Zelo. They made a mistake on Earth and they're committed to rectifying it.”
“A few billion deaths is more than a mistake,” spat Peters.
He was right: it was a fucking tragedy. But so was a few billion more. Carter set the report down and rubbed his forehead. God, he was tired. “I don’t believe they knew we were sentient.” Unless the aliens had completely duped him, of course. “In fact, I think since they found out, they’ve been trying to atone for their sins. They are unbelievably moral, in their own way –”
“What’s moral about destroying a planet?” The soldier started to pace. He pulled another cigarette out. “What’s moral about killing kids and families who were in the way of where you wanted to put hatchlings?”
“Nothing.” Carter pushed his hair back. “Nothing at all. And they would agree with you. That’s why their technology is running our hospitals. That’s why they provided the transports and weaponry you need to do your work. Without them, Earth will take decades longer to rebuild.”
Peters shook his head in disgust, and pulled the papers to him. “Right, which copy is mine?” He took the lid off his pen, his movements jerky and angry.
“I’m not defending them,” Carter said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Christ, of all people I’m not going to do that. What they did to Nugent….” He wiped his mouth. “I think we can say I’m no lover of the Zelotyr.”
Peters shrugged, and Carter wanted to tell him that every night he’d gone home from working with the aliens and scrubbed himself in the shower, only the belief he was doing the right thing getting him up each morning. Instead he said, “In another couple of weeks, this lad would have been off the streets before the winter set in. We’d have pulled Belfast back from the brink.”
Peters shifted, his stance relaxing. “We’ll have to agree to differ.” He nodded at the boy. “You didn’t answer my question: what happens to him?”
“The Zelo will believe whoever did this must be punished. An eye for an eye.” He paused. “How many Zelotyr are dead?”
“Thousands.”
“When they let me go, they said their teenagers would face three deaths each, the same as Nugent.”
Peters paled and glanced at the small figure in the interview room. “Shit.”
“Yes.”
“But they must know the virus didn’t come from the streets of Belfast. It could have come from anywhere; the Barath’nas won’t exactly be sorry about it.”
“And I’m sure if they find a Barath’na is behind it, they’ll murder him a thousand times over, too.” Carter knocked on the window, a rat-tat-tat of nerves. “If these lads released the virus, under galactic law they’ll be found guilty of...” He shook his head. “I don’t know; accidental xenocide, I suppose. Alien-slaughter?”
“What will you do?” asked Peters, after a moment.
“What can I do? I’m only a policeman, I have no authority over the GC.”
“A policeman whose jurisdiction the lads lie under. The Zelotyr have pulled out; our colonel is dealing with the fallout. No one else has claimed jurisdiction.”
Carter shrugged, hoping to hide how upset he was. The soldier was right – the boys were humans, they deserved to be dealt with as such, but the last months had taught him his hands were tied when it came to the Galactic Council. He was nothing to them, just a cop buried on Earth.
