by Jo Zebedee
“Lads –” Carter moved forward, his hands out. “Don’t screw yourselves.”
“Don’t call us lads!” John stood and leant over the table, surprised that he was almost as tall as the policeman. “We’re not going to be lads when they send us off Earth, are we?”
Taz’s seat was pushed back and he got to his feet. John had never felt closer to anyone. It was the two of them against the world. Bugger that, against the galaxy. No one else knew how he felt, the fear that churned through him each night, only Taz.
“Let them throw the fucking book at us.” Taz looked at the lawyer. “We don’t need to meet you again unless something changes, and you know what change we mean. We plead guilty, whatever the charge is.”
John didn’t look at Taz. He didn’t look at anything except his hands, fingers looped and tight, and he didn’t try to tell himself it would be all right. He could keep it up with everyone else, but he was too damned tired to lie to himself anymore. He waited, shivering in the damp air, for Peters to come and take him back to his cell and leave him to wait another day, and another, until Carter came back and told him Josey was okay and this horror show could be sorted out. Either that, or she was dead, killed by John as surely as if he’d taken his own knife to her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carter stood at the prow of the small private cruiser and took a deep breath; even on a day like this, with the winter sky so blue it nearly hurt to look at it, the boat trip had been rougher than his stomach liked.
He moved to the side, trying to stay downwind of Peters’ cigarette smoke, and the two soldiers standing there walked away, pointed in their avoidance of him. He ignored them and looked across the glittering sea, molten silver despite the bright day, at the flotilla of boats jostling for position. Most were small, locally owned, and all were staying back from the GC boats lining the approach to Rathlin Island. Carter frowned at the water cannons mounted on them, and at the distant GC fighter planes, their dart-like forms nothing like any ships he’d seen from Earth, sharp and menacing against the sky.
“This is far enough,” he said.
One of the soldiers held up a hand and indicated switching off. The engines stopped and the boat slowed, rocking from side to side with the waves. Footsteps approached from behind, making the boat rock even more. Christ, he wished it would stop that...
“I take it since we’re not on a GC transport we’re not here officially,” said Peters.
“My superintendent knew we were coming,” said Carter. “And she informed Colonel Downham. But the official boats were reserved for the GC.”
Peters squinted at the GC boats. “Funny, they seem to be full of dogs...”
“Talking ones, too.” Carter shrugged. “I wanted to see what the prison was like. I mean, we’re filling half of it with our detainees from the riots, we should at least know where they’re going.”
“Right.” Peters flicked his cigarette into the sea. “Well, it’s a day out of barracks.” He leaned his head back, rolling it until there was a crack from his spine, so loud it made Carter wince. “Who has the boys today?”
Carter stamped his feet. God it was cold. “They’re with Catherine,” he said.
“Getting anywhere, is she?”
Carter shrugged. “She won’t talk about it. The lads say they haven’t changed their minds.”
“Can’t blame them. If Sal was being held by that bastard, I wouldn’t sing either.”
Carter nodded. The island was bigger than he’d expected. From here he could see two of its three lighthouses, but the other buildings were gone, the small community shunted off to a new estate on the mainland. They’d complained, but the GC had quickly silenced them, like they did anyone who protested: what the Council wanted, it got, with a swift reminder that Earth was buggered without it. Around the island, a troop of construction-bots – he could never look at them without thinking how much like mini street cleaners they were – worked at smoothing the rocky surface.
A black line appeared in the sky behind the fighters, framed against the clouds. It got closer, became recognisable as a freighter, and Carter pointed. “There.”
Peters turned, watching it approach. From its undercarriage, a clear structure was suspended, shimmering in the winter sun. A second, smaller ship appeared on the horizon.
The first ship came to a halt over the island, appearing to hang in the air. Its engines were deafening, making Carter pull his earplugs out of his pocket and stick them in. Peters didn’t; according to the soldier, ever since a shell had exploded near him during his final tour in Afghanistan, loud noise never bothered him.
The clear structure – looking more than anything like a giant box with cut out doors and windows – was lowered, directed by the construction bots who hovered just above the island, lights flashing as they communicated with the ship. The structure settled into place, and the bots worked around the bottom of it, moulding it seamlessly to the ground. Once it was in place the bigger ship lifted off, letting the second take its place. Molten metal poured from the ship’s belly in a steady stream, expanding through the walls, like mercury running over paper.
Peters gave a low whistle. “It’s massive.”
Carter nodded, and tried to guess how tall it was. At least seventy foot, he reckoned, and covering about half of the longer section of the island. He couldn’t see a door in the side they were looking at, and if there were windows they were too small to pick out. He shivered; it looked like a tomb.
“They’re calling it Inish Carraig,” he shouted. “Fancy a stay there?”
Peters spat out to sea. “They can call it what they like. I’m using Rathlin.” He folded his arms. “I don’t get governed by what the aliens want.”
Carter frowned, but Peters’ face was bland. “It’s going to be hellish,” Carter said. “There’s no rehabilitation, this is a street-cleaning exercise. It’s part of the peacekeeping ethos, apparently.”
“You’re sure they’ll be sent there?”
Carter nodded. “Taz turned sixteen three days ago; John does in a month.” He nodded at the prison. “That’s where they’re going.”
The filler ship pulled away and a new depositor appeared, this one carrying the roof. They watched it settle into place, making the structure recognisable as a building. Carter turned, ready to tell the crew to go, when a high whine split the sky.
Peters swore and covered his ears. “What the fuck!?”
The noise changed to an electronic voice, booming over the gathered boats.
“Do not approach GC lines. Repeat: do not approach GC lines.”
One of the fighters came out of formation, streaking across to the island, focused on a single fishing boat which had drifted away from the flotilla.
“They need to get back,” said Carter. The boat didn’t stop. He stepped to the front of his ship, fists clenched, and watched as the crew of the fishing boat shouted something.
Peters cursed. “There’s something wrong with the boat. It’s not coming roun–” A line of light ripped across the sky, making the sergeant reel back. “Jesus!”
Carter brought a hand up to his eyes and turned his face away as an explosion ripped through the still air. It faded, replaced by shocked yells from the boats around him. He looked across to where the fishing ship had been: it was gone, only wooden debris floating in its place. His boat was lifted by the wash, sinking back down a moment later. “Christ almighty.”
Peters moved back to the bow, and took a moment to review the scene. “A bit trigger-happy.”
“Trigger-happy!” Carter ran his hand through his hair. “They did it in front of all of us...”
Peters nodded. “Aye.” His face changed, becoming tighter; worried. “And they’re the peacekeepers.... The GC boats are moving; we should go.”
Carter nodded and signalled to the engine room. The boat started up, the skipper obviously eager to go. The other ships were pulling away, too. Carter watched the island vanish, his eyes scanning the w
ater. He blinked and the beam of light was still imprinted on his eyes. It had happened. Should he report it? Maybe... but who to? It would only end up back with the GC. He took a last look at the dark cube of Inish Carraig – Rathlin, Peters was right – and turned, a feeling of not sea sickness, but fear, rising up from his stomach to choke him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lights flashed. John had lost count of the news people ages ago, and it was even worse in the street leading to the courthouse. In the front seat, Carter looked straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
The car slowed. The lights were right up against the windows, their flashes brief sparks against the tinted glass. He’d dreamed of being in a car like this and having the press photograph him, but he’d wanted it to be for bringing home the World Cup. Taz stopped looking out the opposite window and met John’s eyes. He looked as sick as John felt. The car pulled to a halt. It was time: the point of no return. More flashes popped, right up against his window.
Carter turned and raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”
John swallowed a rush of nerves. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready for this. “What happens now?”
“We get up the steps as quickly as we can.” Carter’s mouth twisted as he unclipped his seatbelt. “Don’t worry, half of them are here for me. What I do is tell myself they know nothing about the real me and dive in.” He flashed a half-smile. “Ready to dive, lads?”
“Yes.” It was Taz who answered first.
“Yeah.” John could hear a tremor in his voice, and he tried to calm himself. He was going to be on telly – he needed to look like he wasn’t scared shitless.
“Let’s go.” Carter tapped his window and all three doors burst open. John stepped out and a soldier flanked him. Taz came round the back of the car, escorted by a soldier. Carter had one either side of him – he hadn’t been lying about expecting attention, then.
The media crews jostled forwards, pushing against the police lines. Questions filled the air, each drowned out by the next, and cameras flashed. John’s escort moved forwards, keeping him close all the time. To the right, Carter dove into a forest of mikes and gave a terse series of no comments. The media flocked to the policeman, leaving John and Taz a clear run to the bottom of the courthouse steps. Briefly, John wondered if the officer had done it on purpose. If so, he’d been too smooth to catch.
On either side of a wide flight of steps, crowds of protestors were tightly corralled behind barriers lined with the Barath’na. It was the first time John had seen the second alien race up close, but he was pushed past so quickly he only had the sense of bared teeth and fur covering muscular bodies. Dogs, he thought – dogs on two legs. With long rifles and hard eyes.
One set of protestors shouted that he and Taz were Earth’s saviours, not Deklon’s to condemn. Quite right; give that crowd a medal. A woman leaned over the barrier and shouted, “They should be freed!” She looked like a nutso, her red hair – dyed, definitely, no one had that colour of hair – whipping as she yelled, and a placard thrust in the air, but John’s breath still caught; he hadn’t realised there was any support for him and Taz.
Shouts grew from the crowd on the other side of the steps and became a chant. It took John a moment to catch that they were asking for him and Taz to be expelled to Deklon. Hatred exuded from their glares and fist-punches, their chants that Earth had been risked by the actions of two cutting through the chill air. Taz’s eyes went wide and scared. Bastards. John moved away from his escort. He’d tell them they knew nothing about him or Taz, just like Carter had said. The soldier, who knew him from the barracks, was quicker and grabbed his jacket. “Oh, no, you don’t. Keep walking.”
“Up the steps!” Carter reached them, trailed by the media. His face was set and determined, and John pulled himself straight. Deep breath. Dive in.
“Shit-lover!” The shout went up from someone in the human-rights camp. “It’s the shit-lover!” The other side joined in, and their chants combined into a crescendo of hatred.
John climbed the steps, half-running. No one had told him it would be like this. The shouts followed him up the steps, getting louder by the minute. His breath was coming in gasps, quick and scared. The soldier accompanying Taz grabbed his elbow and half-hoisted him up.
Carter led the way to the now-open double doors, not looking left or right, even when one protester broke past the police line and almost reached him. The back of his hair was curling and damp. The protester was pushed back into the crowd, who surged forward. Fuck, they’d break through.
“Bless you, we’re supporting you, John and Taz!” A man’s voice carried over the other shouts. Should John acknowledge or ignore it?
The decision was made by the soldier pushing him forwards. “Keep going.”
Something dark flashed across the edge of John’s vision, and Taz ducked as an egg pelted past him and splattered on the ground.
“Missed!” he yelled.
Another egg flew. “You could have had Earth destroyed!” More shouts joined in, back to the pitched chanting. John ducked as another missile flew, inches from his head. His heart raced as he scrambled up the last steps. Carter had reached the doors. John was propelled forwards, half off his feet, followed by Taz, who stumbled and half-fell into the huge entrance hall. Carter closed the doors. The thud echoed and faded to silence.
“Jesus Christ.” Taz’s hands were shaking. “Wasn’t there a back door?”
“It’s just as bad,” said Carter. “And the car would have been further away. Speed was the best option, we thought.”
“All right?” Peters appeared from the shadows and gave each of them a short nod.
“Yeah,” said Carter. He, too, looked shaky. “Nasty enough, though.”
“Aye, they’ve been gathering all morning – I escorted Ms Dean in earlier.” So, their defence attorney was waiting for them. That was good; even if Catherine wasn’t able to get them off – and she hadn’t sounded hopeful the last time they’d met – at least she’d be able to fight for terms for them. Peters glanced at John. “More exciting than the gym, eh?”
“Yeah.” John had never been more pleased to see the big soldier. Next time they had to run the gauntlet, he was going to ask Peters to stay beside him.
Catching his breath, he looked around the entrance hall. The ornate ceiling was so high he had to bend his head back to take it in. All the doors off the foyer were dark wood, heavy he bet, and a staircase, running from the centre of the room, had banisters practically the width of his hand. The floor was a polished marble. It was much more formal than he’d expected. He pulled at his suit and ignored the butterflies holding a party in his stomach.
With the click-click of heels, Catherine approached. She wore a jacket and skirt and had her long hair pinned up. An adult stranger, not at all like the barrister who’d come to see them each week in soft jeans and tops cut a little low, so that she’d started to invade John’s dreams. Well, the better dreams, the ones that didn’t have Zelo trying to rip him apart.
She gave a composed smile. “Are you all right?”
Carter pushed his hair back and gave a grimace. “Nothing new for Belfast’s most hated. And the lads handled it like troupers.”
“Well done.” Catherine took Carter to the side, and John heard her murmur, “Any update on Josey and Mrs Delaney?”
“No.”
John pushed himself forwards. “The crowd out there. Some of them said we should be freed, not sent down, that it’s for Earth to decide.” He swallowed his nerves. If that happened, what would McDowell do? Call for him and Taz in exchange for his hostages? It was possible enough that John clutched the life-line offered. He touched Catherine’s arm. “Is there a chance we might get off?”
She glanced at Carter, who gave a helpless-looking shrug.
“There is some popular support for you.” She gave a soft smile, full of sympathy. “But the GC have the mandate for anything that reaches between the three races, and the Earth-committee have agreed to a
bide with the GC’s judgement on you. It’s your word they’ll have to make a judgement on.”
John’s shoulders dropped. Without any of McDowell’s gang still alive, there was no way to prove what he and Taz were saying was true. They’d presented their evidence in custody and it had been sent off-world to judge. He looked at Carter, and one look at the cop’s eyes silenced him. Their sharp edge was gone now, replaced by a weariness that appeared to have shrunk the officer.
“Five minutes,” said Catherine. “The courtroom is set up. It’s quite formal. You and Taz will sit in the front row. It won’t take long once we’re in there.”
John cleared his throat. “You still think they’ll send us to the new prison? The one that has the weird name.”
“Inish Carraig.” Catherine looked sober. “They might. If so, it’s very modern and safe, I’m told.”
A pair of wooden doors opened in front of them, and a court official stepped through. Catherine nodded to John and Taz and pointed through the door.
“Right, lads, ready to face the music?” Carter smiled, but it looked more like a grimace.
God, no. John nodded, his head moving independently of any thought. Taz hunched into his formal jacket. He looked about twelve. They followed Catherine and Carter into a small courtroom and sat together in the front row. Apart from the four of them, the room held a handful of bored-looking soldiers, and three news-people hunched over tablets on their laps. The heavy door closed and Peters took a seat beside it. The soldier’s mouth twisted in what looked like sympathy. Behind him, two of the Barath’na took a place at either side of the door. Christ, they were big. John exchanged a glance with Taz: they were in charge of peace on Earth? They looked about as friendly as McDowell on a bad day.
