Inish Carraig

by Jo Zebedee

  He set off down the track, and she struggled to keep up with his longer strides. They didn’t talk, and she fell into a rhythm: a step onto a track, a jump to the next, another step. Some time later she glanced up and saw a house to the right of her, and then another. A small estate. Josey blinked, sure it would vanish, but it didn’t.

  “Keep your head down while we get across town,” said Sean. “You can hardly walk down the road without needing a permit.” He pursed his lips. “They say it’s to allocate resources, but I don’t like it. We used to track cattle movements the way they track us.” He flicked her ear, gently. “Next thing you know, we’ll be wearing tags.”

  He set off and she half-walked, half-ran beside him. She found herself looking all around, on edge in the familiar way from Belfast, when every step had been a danger, every movement a chance for discovery. They reached an empty train station. To the right stood a building, metallic, but gleaming oddly, like it had rainbows painted onto grey. There was a gate across the entrance, closed and unwelcoming.

  “The barracks,” said Sean. “Careful, now. Don’t look worried and they shouldn’t stop us.”

  A huge animal – too like a rat for her liking – guarded the gate. She pulled on Sean’s arm. “What is that?”

  He frowned. “You have been out of it, haven’t you? That’s a Barath’na. Don’t worry, they don’t bite.” His face darkened. “Or so they tell us.”

  The guard’s attention moved onto her. She froze in the middle of the street and, even as she did it, knew it was the wrong thing, that it made her look guilty. The alien brought its gun around to point at her.

  “Shit.” Sean pulled his documents from his pockets and walked up to the alien. “We’re needed at the depot,” he said in a cheerful voice.

  The alien barely looked at his documents, but focused on Josey. Its eyes narrowed, knowing.

  “Yours?” it asked. She shook her head. She glanced behind her, but there was nowhere to go, just a wide, empty street.

  “Into the station,” said the alien, and there was no friendliness in its eyes or voice. Her legs went rubbery, and it was only Sean’s arm that kept her on her feet as the Barath’na lifted the barrier and watched her walk into the station.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Peters tapped a rhythm on the arm of the chair next to Carter, over and over again, setting his teeth on edge. He’d ask the big soldier to stop but Peters was tense, his jaw tight, and it wasn’t worth the aggro. Carter got up, stretched, and shivered in the chill air. The Belfast army HQ hadn’t been upgraded – read for that demolished and replaced – and two of the small windows running along the top of the waiting area were glassless.

  Posters filled the noticeboards: Join the army and see the world; first aid arrangements; a fantasy football league listing clubs that hadn’t played in a year, all achingly familiar. Many of the football players must be dead. It didn’t matter how fancy your house was, or how high your gates were, the Zelo had bombed wherever they liked.

  The biggest board, highlighted with coloured pins, showed a list of new housing developments and a reminder that Earth-citizens should be mixed in the estates so ghettoes didn’t re-form; in Belfast it always came down to who lived where with whom. Carter fought the urge to laugh. He’d give it a few months before old issues resurfaced and people forgot how they’d pulled together in the city’s defence.

  The last noticeboard held a copy of the Intergalactic Charter binding Earth to the Zelo and Barath’na. The terms were in perpetuity for space-faring activity, but enforceable on the planet only as long as the peace-keeping forces were in place. He didn’t need to read it; he’d taken a copy home weeks ago and memorised its references to an Earth being managed back to health, not given space to breathe.

  “Sit down, you’re making me nervous,” said Peters. He tapped his cigarette packet against his thigh, and glanced at the smoke alarm. “Reckon that still works?”

  “Probably not.” Carter sat and picked at a piece of frayed upholstery, pulling it along the seam of the chair. On the whole he preferred dilapidation to the sterile conformity of the new alien buildings, all soft metal and seamless walls. “But it would be our luck that we’d start an evacuation and have to explain it.”

  Peters put his packet into his top pocket. “Any idea what the colonel wants us for?”

  “The boys, I suppose.” Sharp fear accompanied the words, quickly smothered. John and Taz had only been in the prison a couple of days – nothing could have gone wrong yet.

  “I knew that, Einstein.” Peters gave a half-smile. “I don’t remember working with you on anything else.”

  “I just got told to report here.” Carter glanced at Downham’s door opposite and ignored the niggling unease. “I don’t fancy another run-in with your colonel, though. Still, he’s not in charge of me –”

  Superintendent O’Brien’s voice rang up the corridor. Shit. He exchanged a nervous look with Peters.

  “Well, one of us has done something they’re interested in,” said the sergeant. “I’m pretty sure it’s not me.”

  Carter didn’t reply. If both the colonel and the superintendent were here, this was serious, probably GC serious. He thought of the bots with their kettle bodies and little legs, and the last meeting he’d had with the designer. The niggle intensified to an itch. The colonel swept up to them, and Peters stood, saluting. Downham stopped and glared at Carter, who got to his feet but didn’t salute. O’Brien joined the colonel.

  “Ma’am,” Carter said. O’Brien gave a curt nod, but her blue eyes were harder than he’d ever known. He swallowed his nerves and nodded at Downham. “Sir.”

  The colonel’s face was tight and angry. “Carter, you first. Peters, wait here.”

  Carter followed O’Brien into the office and faced Downham’s desk, noting how tidy it was. A computer, a couple of photos – his wife and kids, presumably, all golden-haired and white-toothed – a pad and pen. Anal-retentive, obviously. The door slammed so hard his teeth practically rattled in his head. Not good. Not good at all.

  Downham stopped and looked out of the window, making Carter wait. At last he turned. “Who had responsibility for the bots? You or Peters?”

  Crap. O’Brien was glaring at him. Carter faced her, meeting her eyes. “I did.”

  “Peters?”

  “He recommended the designer, that’s all. And the designer is fully approved.” Carter remembered the designer’s desperation, how he’d been torn between the bribe and the need for the GC’s business. “If something has happened with the bots, it’s entirely down to me.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down his back; the bots couldn’t have been activated. But, if they had gone off – why? They were programmed only to act if there was a threat to the boys’ lives. The trickle was joined by another. “Ma’am, may I ask –”

  "Do you understand the term ‘police state’?" O’Brien’s voice was high, barely constrained. Carter dropped his gaze and looked at his shoes.

  "Look at me, Carter.”

  He raised his eyes. She wasn’t just angry, but disappointed too. He liked O’Brien; she’d done a good job during the invasion, determined to uphold some kind of law in the city. He hated disappointing her.

  “Did you have anything to do with a security function within the bots?” she asked.

  There was no point lying; the designer would have to tell them what had happened, and the trouble would only get worse.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I arranged it before the boys went to the prison.”

  O’Brien leaned back in her chair, and Carter waited for Downham to leave. When he didn’t, Carter looked between the two senior officers. “Ma’am? Sir?”

  “The colonel and I are taking a joint approach to this matter. It will have to be taken to the GC.”

  It wasn’t a surprise, but he still had to draw in a breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

  "Explain why you did it."

  Carter took a moment, trying not to wilt unde
r their combined scorn, until he said, "It didn't feel safe, sending the boys somewhere I knew so little about. I was worried.” Perhaps honesty would count for something.

  "You’re a damn fool who knows nothing about what you are dealing with." Downham slammed his hand on the desk.

  “Sir, I...”

  “Be quiet.” Downham’s face was red, his mouth a thin line of anger. He looked nothing like the controlled soldier who’d pulled a rag-tag army out of the remnants of the British forces and the paramilitaries purported not to exist anymore. That army had held Belfast for weeks. It had been his resistance that had given time for the first alliance with the Zelo to be forged, the city unsurrendered. Without him, Belfast would have been unsalvageable.

  "Sir, ma’am," Carter managed. “May I ask how the programme was found? Was it activated? Because if so –”

  “Enough!” thundered Downham.

  The superintendent picked up a pen and began to write on a notepad. “The bots will be taken from the prison tonight and decommissioned once their data has been appraised. After that, you’ll have a chance to put your side of things to the GC.”

  Carter's chest tightened. “I’m being disciplined by the aliens? Why not our own people?”

  “You're facing a serious accusation," said O’Brien. Her eyes, at least, showed some sympathy. And frustration; her already stretched force were going to struggle to cover his workload. She handed him a chit carrying his orders. “Your line of command was from the GC. You had an obligation to carry out their work with your detainees correctly.”

  “Ma’am, I understand that.” Carter forced his shoulders a little straighter. “But –”

  “The GC will be leading the investigation, Carter. That’s not negotiable.”

  He shook his head, shocked at the hold the GC evidently had on O’Brien. Downham, too.

  “Ma’am, if the bots went off, there was a threat to the boys. Did you ask the Barath’na why the bots had to intervene?” O’Brien started to say something, but he went on, “Ma’am, we don’t know anything about that place –”

  “Quiet.”

  Carter fell silent at the colonel’s order and stared straight ahead. The smell of burning, he decided, was his bridges going up behind him.

  "You are facing a tribunal over your direct disobeyal of a GC-ordered action." The colonel nodded to the door. "Get your office cleared out – you’re suspended.”

  “Ma’am?” Carter looked at her. This was her call, not Downham’s, surely.

  She looked at the colonel, who crossed his arms. He was the one with the direct line from the GC, remembered Carter, and he didn’t like that line being confused.

  O’Brien gave a soft sigh. “You heard the colonel.”

  “And you might want to warn your designer to expect an audit of his facilities,” said Downham.

  Oh, hell, the designer wouldn’t get any work if the GC struck him off. Carter remembered his threadbare suit, his shoes shone so often they were practically in holes.

  “I requested the chip,” he said, the words falling out in the haste to explain before Downham physically threw him out. “And I signed off the documents, it’s not his fault.”

  “Enough.” Downham returned to the window, his tone a clear dismissal.

  “Ma’am...” He spread his hands. “It’s not fair to blame the designer when I gave him his orders.”

  “It’s for the GC to decide.” She pointed at the door. “Ask Peters to come in on your way out.”

  Carter paused, wanting to argue further. He closed his mouth; it was only going to lead to more trouble. “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded over at Downham. “Sir.”

  He walked out, closing the door after him, and leaned against it for a moment. He could be fired over this, and if he was, it wouldn’t even be decided by his own top brass, but by the GC.

  “Well, any idea what it’s about?” Peters’ voice cut through his shock.

  “The bots.” His chest gave a small spasm of stress, tightening. “I had extra programme chips put in, ones the designer had decommissioned from a security bot. The security function went off.”

  Peters whistled. “You stupid bugger.”

  “So I’ve been told. Pointedly. But when we saw the prison being put up and how remote it was... I was worried. The boys were bound to be a target.” Carter pushed himself off the door. “You’re in the clear. I told them it was down to me.”

  “Where are you going?” Peters looked at his watch. “You’re supposed to be at Inish.”

  Carter shook his head. “I’m to clear my office.”

  “You mean...”

  “Yeah.” His breathing was coming easier; there was nothing he could do now, anyway. “The boys will have to manage without me.” He jerked his head at the closed office door. “They want you.”

  He left and walked down the corridor to the main door, ignoring those he passed. He wasn’t able to face anyone. The police had been his life. He’d been in the force since he’d left university, had fought alongside the army and the hoods through the whole Zelo invasion. He’d taken the promotion he hadn’t wanted and worked with the aliens when everyone else refused to, because a cop did what was right and made the best of things. Now what was he going to do? Go back to his father’s estate and breed pheasants? He’d go mad in a week.

  He got into his requisitioned car. It’d have to be handed in, too, he supposed. He joined the right lane to go to the station, driving automatically. The road was a new one, replacing the bombed, pot-holed one of a few weeks ago, carrying two lanes for ordinary traffic and one for the alien transporters to zip along, so fast they blurred.

  He stopped at traffic lights, and looked at the city laid out in front of him. The Barath’na weren’t wasting time: they’d been told to rebuild Earth, and that was exactly what they were doing. Except... the buildings on each side of the road, and the housing estate in the distance, were constructed of the same alien metal as the prison.

  It didn’t feel like Belfast anymore. In fact, it looked more like the pictures he’d seen of Tahro than any place on Earth: replace the light sky with a darker one, add some red to the ground and riddle it through with the traditional underground tunneling of the Barath’nas’ ancient cities, and they could be interchangeable.

  The lights changed to green, but he paused, foot on the accelerator. The boys would never know why he hadn't come; they would think he'd run out on them like everyone else. He remembered John pleading with him on the boat, how much it had cost the boy to ask him to come, the wariness in his eyes as he waited for the rebuff, the relief when Carter changed his mind. And Taz, hunched in pain, smiling even when there was bugger all to smile about.

  Carter yanked the wheel to the left. Fuck it, he was screwed anyway. Ignoring a honk of protest, he swung into the lane leading out of Belfast and up the coast to Inish Carraig. His shoulders relaxed. Nothing was resting on him anymore. No job; no responsibilities. Just time to take his own decisions and not care whether they were the right ones. He wound the window down and started to whistle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two Barath’na came for John sometime after the tranquilliser had worn off, their clicking claws announcing their approach. They were unarmed, but it made no difference; their claws alone could finish the job on his neck.

  “Come,” one said. Its translator unit was low, so the word was barely discernible over the growl of its native language.

  John left his room and walked before them down the quiet corridor. He itched to look back and see how close they were, but wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. The clicks kept pace and he tensed, expecting a claw on his shoulder at any moment. Had they picked up his conversation with Neeta? He reached the stairs and waited, ready to be told to start climbing to the third floor. What would he do? Run, he supposed, for what it was worth – they’d be onto him in moments. He thought of Taz, thrashing in a writhing mess of grey, his yells muffled by the aliens’ bodies, and it was all he could do not
to rise onto the balls of his feet and take flight.

  “Where am I going?” he asked. Somehow, his voice had stayed steady, and he managed not to look up the stairs.

  “Your visitor allocation has arrived.”

  He gasped relief. Carter had come. He’d been sure Neeta had been right, that the cop would either have been convinced to move on with his life, or been forced to. But, no, there was an opportunity, a chance. Hope grew inside him, growing from the tiny kernel he’d managed to hold onto, guarded and bare.

  He went down the stairs and reached the main hall. A door beside the library, one that had always been closed, stood open. Beyond, a corridor stretched. A Barath’na glared at John and bared its teeth. John held his ground, his body so tense it felt like it could break. He’d faced the Zelo for a year, through patrol after patrol; he wasn’t about to back down to this lot.

  The alien jerked its head at the door. “You may go through.”

  He went into the corridor, his footsteps ringing on the metal floor as he walked. He was going to have to let Carter know what was happening. Except he didn’t know exactly what was happening, he only had half-guesses from a source who’d say anything to save her skin and a bot that might already have been scrapped. He might be risking himself to tell Carter something that meant nothing.

  He stopped at a door guarded by another alien. It swung open to reveal Carter, sitting at a desk in the sparse interview room. The cop looked awful, in need of a shave, his eyes dark-ringed. Apparently, John wasn’t the only one having a bad day. The door closed with a soft click.

  He took a step forward and a camera in the right-hand corner of the room moved to track him. A red light blinked on. Fuck. Watching and listening. He glanced at his shoulder. And monitoring. Slowly, he pulled out the seat opposite the cop, and sank onto it. He had no hope of getting information across.