by Jo Zebedee
The sound of a shot got him moving, old instincts kicking in. It didn’t matter why the riot was happening, only that he was caught in it. He reached the officer helping Taz, who was at least making an attempt to walk, and took one of his friend’s arms over his shoulder.
The officer nodded his thanks. “The fire-escape,” he panted. They hurried to the door at the end of the corridor, and the policeman swung out from under Taz’s arm. “Take him.”
John tightened his grip on Taz. The officer slammed the fire-bar down and pushed the door open. A shrill alarm rang through the air. In the car park a crowd had gathered at barred fencing, shouting and jostling each other for position.
John ducked as something flew past him, something alight. More followed, lighting up the night sky and filling it with the thick smell of petrol. A second group of protestors sent up loud whoops as they broke through the main gates and flooded the yard.
“Bollocks,” said Sanderson, reaching for his pistol. He wrenched the door of the waiting police car open.
“Get them away!” yelled Carter from behind. “Go!” Another flaming bottle flew past and smashed. “Now!”
John heaved Taz forward, but one of the rioters had broken from the main pack and was blocking his way. Carter pushed past and faced the man, squaring up to him.
“Back off,” said the officer.
The rioter’s face twisted. “Fuck me, it’s the shit-lover!” he yelled. He lunged at Carter. “Here he is!”
The crowd surged forwards, ignoring John and Taz. Carter stumbled back and brought his baton up.
“Sanderson, get them into the fucking car!” he yelled, the posh accent gone. “Now!”
Taz was yanked away from John and thrown into the car. One of the men in the crowd thumped his fist off the car’s bonnet. “The shit-lover’s trying to do a runner!”
Sanderson grabbed John’s collar and forced him into the car, before bundling in after him. The car revved as he slammed the door closed, and the rioter backed off. The rest of the crowd had gathered at the station’s open door – Carter had no hope of getting through.
John grabbed Sanderson’s wrist. “We can’t leave him.”
“We’ve no option.” Sanderson jerked free. He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Put your foot down.”
Sirens sounded as three army vehicles tore through the main gates towards them, scattering the protestors. Soldiers dived out into the remaining crowd. Flames framed the melee, distorted in the riot-shields. The troops forced their way through the protestors to be pushed back, then surge forward again, like a dance. At least one gun sounded.
“We’ll never get through!” shouted Sanderson. “We’ll have to try the back gate.”
The driver nodded. The car screeched in a circle. John craned his head to see what was happening to Carter but it was impossible to tell through the mass of bodies. The driver floored the vehicle. There was another crowd ahead of them. Christ, the car was going to hit them. Even Taz had managed to sit up and was staring ahead.
“Holy shit!” yelled John, ready for the thump of a body. The crowd parted at the last second, diving to the side, and the car made it through the gate and out onto the main road. Something hit the back window, giving a dull smack, and a yellowed flash filled the car. The driver kept going.
“Yes!” yelled Sanderson. He looked back the way they’d come. “They’re too far back – we’re okay!” He paused, and gave a sly smile. “Reckon ol’ shit-for-brains will get out?”
“Carter?” The driver glanced in the mirror. “He’s a lucky enough fucker, all right.”
John remembered the rioter’s face when he’d seen Carter. He’d been the target, not John. He frowned. “Why do they call him shit-lover?”
Sanderson made a hacking noise. “He’s the Zelotyr liaison officer in Belfast.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Carter was a collaborator? He looked over at Taz, whose eyes had widened in shock.
“He worked with the Zelo?” said Taz, his voice slow.
The officer hadn’t mentioned working with them. His hands closed, into tight fists. Bastard. He’d been half-sucked in by him. Hell, he’d thought about giving him McDowell’s name to keep Josey safe. Now it turned out the guy had sold out Earth. How did John know he wouldn’t sell him out, too?
“What did he do for the Zelo?” he asked. There might be some sort of mistake. Maybe Carter had been forced to take the post and had sabotaged the aliens at every opportunity, like an old-fashioned wartime spy.
“When the ceasefire was agreed, the GC put him to work with the local Zelo command.” Sanderson’s voice was as sour as John’s stomach. “He went for it. It seems he’s an ambitious little turncoat – he got a promotion.”
They pulled off the main road and sped to the outskirts of the city. Fires burned in the estates either side of them, radiating from the suburbs and snaking a line of orange into the city centre. Would tonight be the end for what was left of the city?
Carter’s posh voice came over the driver’s radio, ordering reinforcements to the squad trying to hold York Street. He’d made it, then. John felt oddly relieved; no matter what Sanderson said, he was still the only person who’d shown any interest in getting the kids out.
“Where are we going?” John asked.
“Somewhere safe.” The cop turned away and John watched out the window. The sky was orange, not black. There were no Zelo anywhere. None of their spaceships lit up the sky; their armoured transports were abandoned by the roadside, one with a figure lying over the control-panel, its armour glistening in a shaft of moonlight. They’d lost a few of the transports in the early days of the invasion, John remembered, booby-trapped by the locals until the Zelo had learned to check before they used them. It had been the subject of jokes, how the aliens were reduced to using mirrors to check any nooks and crannies, all their technology undone by Belfast’s determination to piss off the authorities, second only to the city’s ability to have a good riot.
His stomach tensed. Was Josey caught up in the riots? He thought about asking Sanderson if there was any news about her, but the cop was ignoring him, his shoulders bunched and tight. John frowned. He might not know what to make of Carter, but Sanderson was obviously well acquainted with his own right hand.
The car pulled onto a wide, straight road. John squinted, trying to read the road sign coming up, but it had been painted over by a crude picture of a Zelo and the message to take their shit and fuck off. He squinted until he made out the destination and his stomach lurched. Moira: near the space port. They were being sent to the Zelo. He nudged Taz and nodded at the sign.
“Ask,” croaked Taz.
“Hey, guys,” said John, trying not to piss the officers off. “Are we going to be taken off Earth?”
Sanderson’s face softened a little. “No. You’re staying.” He paused for just a moment too long. “For now.”
“What do you mean for now?” Taz’s voice was shaking.
“Quiet.” The officer leaned forward and touched the driver’s shoulder. “Floor it.”
A crowd had gathered in the middle of the road. Something burned behind them, something big – a Zelo space-transporter, John decided, a proper one with deep-space capacity, not the planet hoppers they used for patrols.
“Hold tight!” The driver floored the accelerator. John was pushed back against his seat. The crowd didn’t move. John’s mouth went dry and he put his hand on the seat in front, braced for impact. Twenty feet at most. The driver sped up.
“Just like old times!” yelled Sanderson. “Keep going – they’ll break up.”
The crowd stayed where it was. Sanderson swore. John half closed his eyes. The crowd scattered just as the car shot past, still speeding up.
Sanderson laughed and nudged John. “Didn’t I tell you? They always scatter.” His eyes were high with excitement. “So, you want to know what will happen to you?”
“Yeah,” croaked John. “Wouldn’t you?”
<
br /> “I suppose so.” Sanderson was gripping his gun tightly, making John’s shoulder itch. The officer didn’t look quite balanced. “The Earth authorities will call in the Galactics after tonight. We lost most of our armed forces in the Zelo invasion. Earth needs to be safeguarded.”
“Safeguarded from what?” asked John. “Surely once people find out the Zelo are gone, the resistance will end.”
“People do know they’re gone, and this is how they’re reacting. Besides...” The officer pointed at the sky. “The Zelo attacked from space last time. There’s no reason they won’t again. We need the Galactic Council to hold them off. But if we turn to the Galactics, they’ll want justice for the shit-eaters. It might be a choice between giving them that justice, or being destroyed by another attack.”
John’s stomach twisted, remembering the first day of the invasion, how the smart bombs had fallen through the clouds with no warning. One had taken out a whole street not a mile from his house. He remembered the panic of not knowing where the screaming bombs were going to hit, the scramble to get out the school grounds and home to check his family were safe. He and Taz had taken off from the classroom and split to go to their separate estates, just a quick hand-clasp and good luck to each other, cut off when a bomb hit nearby, denting the air.
Earth would do what it must to avoid another attack like that. He glanced at Taz and knew that if it was a choice between that or handing them over, there’d be no contest. Their fear must have shown because Sanderson gave a grim smile, and a nod.
“Not your best night’s work, was it?” he said.
“No.” John gulped. “So they’ll send us to the Zelo, you reckon? To Deklon?”
The soldier shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” His mouth twisted. “Either way, I wouldn’t fancy being in your shoes.”
No one would. He saw his reflection in the window, framed against the darkness. He was pale and thin and looked nothing like himself. It was a new face, not the same one as before the war. He’d never get back to that person.
The thought shocked him. All this year, he’d told himself that things would go back to normal sometime. He’d tried to keep up some training, doing push-ups in the bedroom and running instead of walking when he could. He’d told himself that everyone would be thinner and he’d still get a place in the first team. Now, there wasn’t going to be any team for him. He’d be on Deklon, waiting to discover how the Zelo would kill him, and how often.
He fought back tears, damned if he’d give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them. He should have left Taz on the hill. It would have been better to die once than face what was ahead. If he had, he’d have got home when he should and McDowell’s men would have shot him. He remembered Gary telling him he wouldn’t miss him – and he wouldn’t have. A single bullet and it’d have been over with.
He wished he could go back to that night and do things over again. He’d have bargained more out of McDowell, he’d have made sure Josey and the kids were safe before he’d taken the job. But he’d still have carried it out. He had no option; McDowell had trapped him months ago, with his errands and food and clothes.
John opened his eyes and forced himself to face the boy in the window. It might not be the person he wanted to be or one he recognised, but it was the one the war had moulded him into. The Zelo had killed his parents because they believed they were worthless; they wouldn’t do the same to him. When he died, however many times he did, he’d make sure they knew they were killing a man, not a boy, who’d survived as best he could, and did the best he could. He’d be brave and make himself count; he owed it to the boy who’d been lost in the war.
CHAPTER EIGHT
John sat on a bench just inside a barracks reception hall, somewhere in the back end of nowhere. He looped his hands between his legs and glanced at Taz. His friend looked terrible, pale and strained. Bags were dark under his eyes, and a sheen of sweat across his brow.
“What happens now?” asked John.
“Dunno. None of this is good, though.” Taz jingled his cuffs.
“No.” John watched the door of the station, ready for it to open and a squad to walk in and escort them to Deklon. Why else had they been taken from their holding cell to here? He bet the Zelo's planet stank like the hatcheries. He let his mind wander, dreaming up more and more alien environments, taking his mind off his shoulders, tight with tension, and how the muscles along the back of his neck ached.
The station’s door slid open and a familiar posh accent carried from outside, accompanied by one that was clipped and English. John stiffened.
“Showtime,” whispered Taz.
Carter stepped through the door. His uniform jacket was missing, his shirt filthy and torn. His eyes were red-rimmed. A bruise stood out on his forehead. The officer gave John and Taz a brief nod as the second man stepped in. He was tall and thickset, at least in his sixties, with a straight back and steady pace. His jacket – army, not police – was neat. John didn’t know what the insignia on his shoulder meant, but he looked important. The man looked him and Taz up and down. Suddenly, John was sure he’d rather deal with Carter. At least he was the devil he knew.
“This is them?” asked the soldier.
Taz leaned close to John and muttered, “Not good, J-Boy.”
The use of his old nickname didn’t settle John’s nerves. He watched, nervous as hell, as Carter faced the older man.
“That’s them,” he said. “The forensics came through. The tin they had definitely contained the virus.”
“We’ll take them under our jurisdiction, then, and wait for confirmation of orders from the GC.”
John’s stomach dropped. He stared at Carter. Don’t hand us over. You might be a shit-lover, but at least you listened.
Carter met the older man’s gaze. His eyes had the same look as when he’d faced the rioter, fixed and determined. “It’s a police matter.”
“It’s a GC matter,” said the soldier, “and they’re liaising directly with the army until the current crisis is over.”
Carter squared his shoulders, and John’s respect for the officer went up a little – if he’d been facing that glare, he’d have given the army officer anything he wanted.
“The boys are about to be charged for a crime committed on Earth,” said Carter. “I have spoken to Superintendent O’Brien about this and she agrees their case lies with the police, not army. Regardless of what the GC want.” He crossed his arms. “She won’t stand for me handing them to the GC. I'm sorry, Colonel.”
Jesus, a colonel. John gulped. Taz’s eyes widened so far they seemed to take up half his face. A colonel, he mouthed. John nodded, and then the rest of Carter’s words sank in. They were going to be charged. His cuffs jingled and he had to clench his hands together to stop them shaking.
“You need a secure holding place for them,” said the colonel. “The police can’t provide that.”
Carter said, in a much softer voice, “I hoped we could take a joint approach, to be honest.” His posture changed, became more relaxed. “And you’re quite right. Police custody isn’t secure enough. The Super asked if you would assist us in that matter.” He held his hands up. “But we can’t give them up to the army – due process must be followed.”
The colonel flared his nostrils. His gaze swept up and down John once more. John brought to the fore all his experience of facing the McDowells, and managed not to duck his head. He wasn’t going to be cowed. Well, not openly, anyway; inside, he was shitting himself.
“Very well,” the colonel said. “We’ll cede to the police’s authority on the understanding that if jurisdiction moves to the Galactic Council at any point, control reverts to the army. I can’t have my lines of authority to the GC blurred.” His mouth thinned. “It’s confusing enough with the Earth authorities claiming governance of the army, and the GC declaring they hold control for the duration of the crisis.”
“It must be very difficult,” said Carter. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I have exper
ience with the GC. They like to pull their weight on local matters.” He looked over at John and Taz. “I need a moment with my charges, please.”
The colonel motioned for the two soldiers to stand down. Carter crouched in front of John and Taz. “Are you both all right?”
He sounded like he actually cared. John bit back the urge to ask him whether he really was a shit-lover, and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”
Taz shivered. “I feel like shit. Like I have ’flu or something.”
“You were pretty sick. It’s amazing that you’re even up and about.” He took a moment, looking closely at Taz, and frowned. “I’ll get a medic to check you out, though – you don’t look great.”
“Thanks.” Taz hunched down a little.
“Okay, I need you both to listen to me.” Carter’s face became serious, and he cleared his throat. “John Dray and Terence Delaney, I’m arresting you for xenocide. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something when questioned which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” He looked between them. “Do you both understand what that means?”
God, yeah. They weren’t stupid. John’s hands shook again, and he clasped them tighter. He cleared his throat. “You’re arresting us.”
“Yes.” Carter looked at Taz. “You?”
“I get it.” Taz’s voice was half what it normally was. “What happens now?”
“We’ll get some photos taken and have you fingerprinted.”
Mugshots, he meant mugshots. John closed his eyes. This might be the only good thing about his ma being dead: he wouldn’t have to explain getting arrested for doing McDowell’s dirty work to her.
“After that, you’ll get a room here for the time being, and then we’ll have to see.” Carter paused, and then lowered his voice. “For now you are being dealt with by my officers. I intend to keep it that way if I can. I’ll talk to you about appointing a defence lawyer.” He straightened, and turned, presumably to go.
