The Whisper of Stars Page 2

  < Old tube or Sublevel? > she asked, flicking her attention left and right.

  Cole had a possible match, but he explained it was taking multiple cameras and way too long. A transaction linked to the account of V.HARVEY appeared on his screen.

  [London DTL: Embankment: c8.60].

  ‘Sublevel,’ he replied quickly. ‘She’s just bought a ticket.’

  Jen pivoted and raced towards the SUBLEVEL signs, pushing her way through queues until she reached a giant lift already crammed with at least a hundred people. She squeezed in as a large semicircular door span closed and the lift dropped in a rapid descent. Jen worked her way through the faces she could see, but it was difficult to move without arousing suspicion, so she reluctantly stopped and waited.

  ‘Target is already on the platform,’ Cole informed her. ‘The next train is approaching.’

  < Understood. > Jen composed herself, sending the thought as calmly as she could. There were other thoughts, laced with failure, but she kept those to herself. She exited the lift and broke through the mass of people to see a train waiting at the platform.

  ‘She’s on that train, Logan. Don’t miss it,’ Cole advised.

  Jen cleared the platform in three strides and jumped, the doors closing behind her. The train levitated, departed and quickly accelerated. She only managed to advance three of the eight carriages by the time it reached Canary Wharf Station. On Cole’s instruction, she stepped onto the platform and discovered she had, completely by luck, gained an advantage. She was next to the only exit stairwell, so the target would have to pass her. A crowd of sombre faces trudged past.

  < Logan holding, awaiting visual on target. >

  Nothing. More faces.

  Finally, as the wave of people thinned out she locked onto a confirmed identification. Victoria Harvey stood alone at the far end of the platform.

  < Confirmed visual on target. Canary Wharf substation, Platform 1. >

  Jen watched the target move out of sight into a nearby walkway tunnel and tried to anticipate her next move. Catch another train? Why? She might as well have stayed on the last one. She glanced up at the station clock. 8.27am. Would the target really meet her contact down here?

  The lift opened and a fresh group of busy commuters spilled out, blocking Jen’s line of sight. Cole offered her a video feed from the platform camera and she accepted, reducing the transparency until it floated, ghostlike, at the top right of her vision. She waited and watched as Victoria Harvey glanced nervously around the platform. She appeared to be waiting for somebody.

  < Cole, do we have ears yet? > Jen asked silently.

  ‘I’ve been trying, but there isn’t anything down there I can use. You might need to use a drone.’

  Jen took a small bug-like device from her pocket and placed it on the palm of her hand. It flickered to life before floating silently and attaching itself to the tiled ceiling about fifteen feet from the target. The tiny drone inched closer, seen by no one. Jen turned her attention back to the target and was surprised to see that Mrs Harvey had started a conversation with an unknown male.

  ‘Logan?’ Cole said, tentatively.

  < I see him, but why can’t we hear him? > she asked.

  ‘I’m working on it. Give me a few seconds.’

  Jen scanned him. The man was Marcus Aldridge, an investment banker. Middle-aged, smartly dressed with a serious countenance – pretty much the same as half the people on the platform. In the distance she heard the rumble of another approaching train. If they decided to take this one, Jen wanted to be close. She walked slowly towards them.

  McArthur this time: ‘Jen, it’s okay, this train doesn’t stop. Keep your distance. Let’s hear what they have to say.’

  Jen’s relief was short-lived. Something wasn’t right. Even at this distance, it was obvious the conversation was turning into an altercation. Victoria Harvey was standing awkwardly and shouting.

  ‘How could you do this to me?’ Her words became a scream as the drone opened its audio channel. ‘You told me you loved me!’

  Marcus Aldridge looked stunned, all colour sucked from his normally healthy-looking face. He was blinking and mumbling, shaking his head.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, but I… can I get someone to help you?’ he offered in desperation.

  ‘Sorry!’ She crumpled to the floor in apparent defeat, a discarded shoe next to her. ‘It’s been agony without you. Why are you acting as if you don’t know me?’

  The crowd of people near them started to move away, leaving a circle of tension around the pair.

  ‘I… I… don’t…’ he mumbled, then asked, ‘How do you know my name?’

  Jen was running now, praying she was wrong.

  Not again. Not another one.

  She could feel the ions crackling around her as the train approached the station, pushing a large pocket of warm air ahead of it. Victoria Harvey looked to be in pain, her eyes darting like a lost and confused animal. Her face stretched into a grimace, and then for a brief moment, as if a shocking revelation had overwhelmed her, was calm.

  ‘Of course,’ she sneered. ‘It’s that bitch. That twisted, selfish bitch. She’s taken you away from me. She’s poisoned you against me.’

  Jen was running at full pace. ‘She’s splintering!’ she yelled, but her voice was swamped by the growling power of the approaching train.

  ‘She’s what?’ It was Cole’s voice. There was no response from McArthur.

  Victoria Harvey began shaking uncontrollably, her perfectly symmetrical face now smeared with mascara, creased into a sickening grin. Marcus Aldridge began shouting for help, backing away from the woman.

  Jen was still thirty feet away as the train flew past at impossible speed. She screamed through a pocket of nervous bystanders, bashing into a man and knocking him sideways, and just made it through to see Aldridge on the edge of the platform attempting to sidestep his assailant. Jen drew her weapon. Mrs Harvey was yelling, lips drawn over her teeth like a snarling wolf.

  ‘This is what happens when you promise someone the earth!’ she cried. ‘You promised me, Marcus! You told me you loved me.’

  ‘Don’t move. Stay where you are!’ Jen shouted.

  The woman didn’t react.

  ‘Victoria!’ Jen shouted again.

  She watched Mrs Harvey leap up and push Marcus Aldridge hard in the chest. He flew back and away from the platform, seeming to hover in the air for a second before disappearing in a sudden, sickening rush of steel. The terrible image of the train smashing his body was followed by a hiss of brakes and the screams of unfortunate witnesses. Mrs Harvey was on her knees, a look of simple confusion. Jen kept her gun trained on her, knowing that Marcus Aldridge’s terrified expression would stay with her forever – a horrifying mix of shock, disbelief and fear – and that Operation Penthouse had just become a lot more complicated.

  Chapter 4

  Nathan O’Brien glanced around the empty lounge, fresh magnolia paint covering memories of a life long gone. Notes were spread randomly around him, pieces of an elusive puzzle that remained just out of reach. He studied them, mumbling, looking for a connection he’d missed. His wife Katherine had been onto something, a story she believed would be the biggest of her career. It had become her obsession, and it had gotten her killed.

  Nathan corrected himself. Murdered.

  He played her final message again, her voice cramping his stomach and tightening his throat. Kat was meeting a man she thought might have some answers. She told Nathan she loved him, that he shouldn’t worry. The message ended.

  At first, Nathan thought he might be able to accept the official story. ‘Katherine O’Brien, investigative journalist for the Montreal News, tragically killed in mugging gone wrong.’ It was believable. That sort of thing happened. Just not to people like Kat. She was streetwise, capable and smart.

  Nathan gathered his notes, each name, word and place memorised. He would burn them in the garden and then leave this place for good. A place wh
ere grief had owned him and days had threatened to stretch on forever.

  He couldn’t say how, but he’d eventually crawled his way out of that all-consuming grief, a simple word nourishing him back from the edge.

  Revenge.

  He would find those responsible and kill them. Gradually, the singular clarity of revenge became something more, something richer and deeper. He knew that retribution would only offer a brief respite from his pain. He needed to honour her somehow, finish her work, write the story – even it meant bringing down the whole house of cards. Then, and only then, would he would allow himself his sweet reward.

  If revenge meant his own death, then so be it; he would have nothing left to live for.

  A few years ago, all of this would have been impossible to imagine. He had been a lecturer in computer science and programming, a loving husband with a future stretching out in soft focus ahead of him. It had been a quiet life, and it had suited him just fine.

  All that was blown away in a second.

  The death threats had started a few months back. They scared him at first, but then he understood; it meant he must be close. They had helped him realise what he needed to do. If he was going to track them down, he needed to become a ghost.

  He took one last look around the house, their once-happy home, wincing at the Sold sign on the front lawn. The money from the sale combined with their savings should be enough. It would have to be.

  He played her final message again. How many times had he listened to it? A hundred? More? Her upbeat tone and excitement crushed his heart anew but also strengthened his resolve. He almost played it again, his mind hovering for an age, but managed, in the end, to delete it. He needed to move forward.

  He burned his notes as planned, the words turning to ash and drifting on the wind, and then left their house and all those years behind him. It was time to say good-bye to his body, his identity and to Canada.

  It was time to be reborn.

  Chapter 5

  It was Friday 6 December. Jennifer Logan sat in the window of the Shipwright’s Arms pub and stared blankly outside.

  ‘Tell me again it’s not my fault,’ she asked Jim McArthur as he arrived with their drinks.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he replied, nudging a glass towards her. ‘You should drink up and move on.’

  Operation Penthouse had consumed their week. Debriefs, press conferences and plenty of finger-pointing. Yet somehow, within the department, it wasn’t considered a complete disaster. Chief Superintendent Paul Richards had seemed unusually calm about the whole thing. The operation hadn’t delivered the source of the body swap, but Duality Division still had a chance to secure a prosecution. Negative press for backstreet replication was always good, and the Harvey case would be in the news for weeks: an innocent man murdered – smeared across half a mile of train track – and a ‘swapper’ in custody. It was a good opportunity to highlight the dangers and feed the fear of splintering. Bronze Team had done a sterling job; Richards had said so in front of the whole department. Praise from him was rare, but Jen didn’t feel even the slightest shred of satisfaction.

  McArthur pulled at his tie and sighed. He was solid, some would say stocky, befitting a man of his age. He kept in shape, dressed well and had allowed his hair to vacate residence, a decision that Jen thought suited him. They sat for a while, processing the week in shared silence. The traditional pub, a short walk from the Duality offices in London Place, was filling with after-work revelers and the smell of ale and history was comforting.

  ‘Are we still making a difference, Mac? I mean, really?’ she asked, her eyes searching his for answers.

  ‘It doesn’t always feel like it.’ After a long pause, he asked, ‘Jen, do you know how old this place is?’

  She glanced around. ‘Older than you?’

  He smiled, picked up a beer mat and rotated it in his stubby fingers. ‘Established 1884.’

  Jen smirked, her trance broken. ‘No wonder you like it here; you fit right in.’

  McArthur ignored her and continued to spin the beermat. ‘This place is over two hundred years old and still going strong.’ He leant forward. ‘People all want the same thing, Jen. They want to keep going, they want to cheat death.’

  Jen made no effort to hide her sarcasm. ‘So it’s our job to make sure they die. According to the rules, of course.’

  Mac didn’t take his eyes off her, his stare remaining fixed below a solid frown. It forced her to look down at the table again, huffing.

  ‘Making cloning and replication illegal was the right move.’ The humour was gone from his voice. ‘If people carried on sidestepping the system and living too long…’ He paused. ‘Well, we’d still be in that mess.’

  The mess he referred to was an understatement. The 2066 Superflu had killed nearly a billion people. Then came the riots, the blackouts and of course accelerated warming, millions of refugees seeking asylum in the safe zones. The suffering had been horrendous. It was a mess alright, the biggest of them all. It meant the elusive dream of immortality had been just that.

  Jen rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. The last legal replication – an older mind transferred into a younger clone – was over twenty years ago. Hard to imagine now, she mused.

  McArthur continued. ‘If people want this life – the security that the UN safe zones bring – then they have to hibernate. That’s the deal and it’s a good one.’ He paused a beat, his tone softening, eyes meeting hers. ‘You know it.’

  She did, deep down. The Hibernation programme offered longevity, security, and prosperity. It wasn’t quite the immortality of science fiction novels, but it was more than fair, especially when you considered the options. If mankind didn’t hibernate, there wouldn’t be a habitable planet in which to spend eternity. Accelerated warming had reached tipping point and drastic measures had been needed.

  Jim McArthur was always right, Jen thought, but she’d noticed his eyes had lost some of their sparkle recently. Decades of MI6 crap taking its toll, maybe. She could understand that. The world had changed a lot during his lifetime, and Jim McArthur had seen more than his share of suffering.

  ‘We do make a difference, Jen,’ he said, staring into his pint as if the answers lay there. ‘You just can’t always see it.’

  Small cogs in a big machine, Jen thought.

  It triggered the unwelcome image of Marcus Aldridge, his terrified expression as he disappeared under that speeding train. He was the small cog, smashed under a big machine. She winced at the clarity of the memory and thought of Victoria Harvey, probably rocking back and forth in a padded cell somewhere. She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.

  Splintering was becoming too common for Jen’s liking. It was one of the risks of an unregulated procedure, the mind transfer equivalent of a dirty needle. Fragmented memories of the previous owner’s life – as embedded and real as their own – made the new host unbalanced and dangerous, or in this case murderous.

  ‘I spoke to Callaghan on Wednesday,’ she said, thinking how quickly Operation Penthouse had spiraled out of control. ‘We had fifteen splinters last month.’

  McArthur shook his head but didn’t seem worried. Bigger problems, she guessed, more important things to worry about. They both took a drink and McArthur changed the subject.

  ‘Did you hear the news this morning?’ he asked. ‘They’re ahead of schedule.’

  The controversial draft system had been tested and deemed successful, and that morning the rumours that had been circulating homes, bars and workplaces for weeks were confirmed. With 9 billion people living in the safe zones and a global population approaching 12 billion, the UN had released their new, more aggressive Hibernation targets. During the next two years, 80 percent of people within the zones would be in the Hibernation programme.

  The message was clear: Plan your alignment with friends and family. Choose your cycle – alpha or beta year – and claim a slot before the system chose one for you.

  Jen
hiked her eyebrows and lowered her voice. ‘Like it or not, people need to get used to the idea. Hibernation is happening, and if they want to choose their year, they should do it – and soon.’

  A group of men laughed loudly in unison. Logan checked the time and looked around the bar. She didn’t want to socialise with anyone else from work.

  ‘You going to be okay?’ McArthur asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Jen replied, finishing her drink. ‘Say hi to Cole and the other guys.’

  She stood, pulling on her coat. ‘See you Monday. Oh, and give my love to Sally and the kids. Remember to do that.’

  As they hugged, Jen whispered in his ear, ‘Only a week to go, old man.’

  His expression suggested he’d almost forgotten – retirement – something Jen never thought would happen. Although he didn’t like to admit it, Mac was tired. They both knew the nanobots cleansing his blood and repairing his ageing cells could only do so much.

  ‘I’m not actually retiring for another two months,’ he reminded her, and then said without any hint of importance, ‘Top brass are coming, apparently. Some posh meal or something.’

  Jen smiled warmly and left. That something was a surprise party. A big one.

  From his window seat, Jim McArthur watched her cross the street and disappear into a mass of people. He was going to miss the job, but most of all he would miss her. He had made a promise to watch over her.

  He’d been on this earth for one hundred and nineteen years.

  I guess for some people it’s never enough.

  He drained his glass and ordered another pint.

  Chapter 6

  The Friday evening sky dressed London in soaked purple linen. Jen looked up, shrugged and decided to walk home. It would take her thirty minutes and the fresh night air, rain or no rain, would help her forget what had been an awful week.

  As she crossed London Bridge, she paused to watch a large airship cruise above St Paul’s Cathedral, its blinking red lights cutting through the gloom. She looked up at the moon and found herself thanking it, as many did these days. It had pulled the tides forever, and now it might just turn the tide on the energy crisis, too. There were mining colonies up there now working triple shifts, pulling water and energy out of the ancient rock.