Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

CHAPTER ONE

John got up from the bed as quietly as he could, making Stuart stir before settling again with his thumb stuck in his mouth. John paused—he should probably take it out. Their mother had said, to the day she died, that only babies sucked their thumbs. He didn’t, not wanting to disturb the boy, but gently wrapped their Da’s winter coat closer around his brother, tugging at a loose piece of the furred lining until it came away. He straightened, shivering. Rain fell steadily through the hole in the ceiling, but at least the room was safe. Well, as safe as anywhere in Belfast.

“ ’Night, Stuart.” John tiptoed to the door and pulled it closed behind him. It was no warmer in the hall, but the roof was intact and the floor dry. He crossed to the window and looked out over the city. All was quiet under the curfew. The only thing moving was a cat crossing the yard below. It padded carefully, keeping its distance, and no wonder: there were a few recipes for cat stew doing the rounds. Further away, on the lough, the sewage farms’ floodlights lit up the night skyline. A low anger started, and he found his fists clenching. He bet the aliens’ kids didn’t wake up freezing and hungry, like his wee brother and sister did. A door closed and he turned to see Josey coming out of the girls’ room.

“Is Sophie asleep?” he asked.

She nodded, and she looked tired and older than her thirteen years, her face wan, her blonde hair lank and dirty. “Yeah.”

“Stuart’s settled, but he was asking for his night-light again. You’re sure there’s nothing we could take batteries out of?”

“No, I checked everything I could think of.”

“I told him he had the moon instead." He half-smiled at the silver lining of a hole in the roof. "I’ll keep an eye out for batteries. I have to go out and see what I can scrounge, anyway.”

“If you could get some sort of heater, it’d be good,” said Josey. Her voice didn’t hold out much hope.

“I’ll see what I can find.” He brightened. “I could nick a barbecue.”

“We could get some furniture from downstairs. The kitchen table is wood.”

“Maybe. I’ll see if I can get a barbie first.”

“Okay.” Her voice was small and he put his arm around her, feeling how thin she was through her fleece. She’d lost so much weight it worried him. He pushed the thought away; it was no more than he’d lost, and there was nothing more sinister behind it than hunger. He let go and climbed onto the window ledge. “You know the drill: if anyone comes near the house, the three of you get under cover, right? Don’t come out until I’m back.”

She nodded, her eyes resigned to his nightly instruction. He put his hands onto the wall at each side, bracing himself for the jump down.

“John?”

Her quiet voice stopped him. “Yeah?”

“Be careful. And stay away from McDowell—he’s dangerous.”

John didn’t reply. McDowell was dangerous. He was also the person with the best access to food, medicine and water in North Belfast. All of which they needed. He took a deep breath and jumped onto the flat roof below. He stepped onto the wall of the yard and ran along, his arms out for balance. At the end, he climbed down the iron supports Da had put in. Christ, he wished his da was here and in charge.

The sound of flapping made him jump and press against the wall, heart somewhere in his throat. A ripped poster opposite caught in the wind, and he relaxed. Nothing but the usual promises of food-drops, hospitals, reopened schools….

A lot of shite. His old school was a dent in the ground, the only upside of the invasion. The hospital, shut down in the war, hadn’t reopened. There were rumours—good rumours, too, from different sources—that the cops and army were working with the aliens now, and things were about to get better. His mouth pulled into a sneer. He’d believe it when he saw it. The Earth-Committee leaders, pulled from the governments that had made it through the invasion, might have time to drag their feet: they weren’t starving their arses off in the ruins of Belfast. It didn’t matter a damn to him that working with the Galactic Council meant liaising with the Zelo, or the never-seen Barath’na, it just mattered that someone, somewhere, turned up with some food. And a roof, that’d be good.

“ ‘Supporting Earth to a better future’,” he muttered, straightening. “There was nothing wrong with it before the bastards invaded.”

He hugged the wall until he reached the end of the back lane, and darted across to a wider alley, the first of a series. The authorities could say what they liked about the war being over. He was taking no chances until someone proved it.

A hand slapped down on his shoulder. “Got you!”

John reached for his knife, but stopped at a laugh. He croaked, “Taz, you bastard.”

“McDowell wants us,” said Taz, his voice hushed. His jacket was denim, not nearly thick enough. He hunched into it, so the only parts visible were his nose and dark eyes. His clothes were clean and well patched, though, proof of having a mum who took care of such things. John swallowed a sharp wrench of jealousy. He was nearly sixteen, he shouldn’t be yearning after his mum. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched. “Why?”

“He says he has a job, and we’ll get food if we do it.”

“Christ, for that I’d take on a Zelotyr patrol single-handed.”

“Yeah, right.”

They stopped where the alley opened onto a courtyard, once part of the council’s sports-ground where he’d tried out for the first team. Da had stood on the touchline, screaming for John to get the ball over the line. His celebrations when the try had been allowed had almost got him thrown out for incitement. Now, the courtyard was weed-strewn and garbage-clad, and his da six months dead.

“Get back.” Taz grabbed him, and they pressed against the wall as a platoon of soldiers crossed. Human, not Zelo—the lack of stench told him that. Not that it made any difference. They’d still lift him and Taz for curfew violation.

The platoon left the courtyard, and John ran across, through a hole in the fencing, and down the final alley skirting the playing field. Taz, quick and wiry, soon passed him. They reached the rubbled remains of the peace wall. John smiled as he stepped through the gap; it was easier getting across the city now the Zelo had trashed it. He relaxed as they entered his old estate and passed the gable end mural. Its slogan, We’ll fight for Ulster, had been replaced with the promise to do the same for Earth since he’d last been here.

“Let’s hope it’s only McDowell,” said Taz as they reached McDowell’s familiar terraced house.

“Oh, Junior will be here. His da isn’t taking a piss these days without him in attendance.”

“Just keep your distance if he is,” said Taz. “Don’t rise to him—that’s what he wants.”

“Okay.” Taz was right, but John hated Gary McDowell knowing his business. The latch turned, and he put his shoulders back. If the cost of a meal was toadying up to Gary, so be it. He’d kick a few walls on the way home to feel better.

“All right, lads. You took your time.” It wasn’t Gary, but Demos, one of his cronies.

“Patrol,” muttered John, eyeing Demos’ fat belly hanging over his trousers. He’d no problem getting food, evidently. His own stomach clenched, but he stood straight and waited while Demos made a show of checking were they to come in, all the time holding a pistol by his side. After a few moments, they were led into a room off the hall, where a group of men were gathered close to a fire. The men turned, their eyes more dangerous than any soldier’s.

“You wanted us,” said John, keeping his voice steady.

“Aye.” McDowell stood, his tall, rangy frame dwarfing John. A scar, running from his left eye to his ear, stood out against his skin. His badge of honour, he called it, given to him by a Zelotyr he’d fought with an iron bar and balls of solid rock. The sort of balls that earned so much street respect John’s hands shook, and he had to stick them in his pockets to hide it.

“John Dray and Taz Delaney, I’ll make a deal with you,” said McDowell.

John swallowed and hoped his voice held. “Go on, then.”

McDowell didn’t answer, and John made sure to stand straight. He focused on McDowell’s leather jacket—it may be battered, but it was thick and warm. On his wrist, a designer watch could be seen.

The silence stretched until Taz drew in a loud breath, making John want to thump him and tell him how to face someone like McDowell: by embracing whatever he issued and coming back for more, knowing you’d either grow or die from it, until you were strong enough to protect your own. He glanced at Taz, decided his friend was in danger of passing out, and said, “All right, what can we do for you?”

“Good lad, right to the heart of it. When you’ve got a bit of flesh around your scrawn, you’ll go far.”

John fought the urge to smile. It wasn’t the first time McDowell had hinted he might take him on. He looked at McDowell’s boots—new, thick soles, real leather—and down at his own trainers, their uppers parting from the sole. His mouth went wet and spiky with desire, but he didn’t say anything. Stay cool, like it’s just another job…

McDowell reached into his jacket, and John held his breath. Weapons? He’d done his first delivery across town about three weeks ago, and had been terrified: not just for himself, but for Josey and the kids if he got lifted. The payment for it had been a coat for Sophie, though.

McDowell brought out a tin box, just small enough to fit into his inside pocket. He held it up, displaying it. “You can take yourselves to the top of the Cave Hill and open this,” he said. “Give it a shake, make sure you empty out what’s in it. If you do, and come back to me, I’ll see you get some food.” His eyes narrowed, and he nodded at John. “Maybe some fresh fruit for wee Sophie and Stuart?”

The boys exchanged glances. That was it? John took the box and stuck it in his pocket.

McDowell went back to where he had been sitting, popped a beer and nodded to the door. “Best get going, boys.”

They backed out and headed up the street, onto the bottom of the Cave Hill. They followed the path up the hill, and the stench from the sewage farms hit John, even worse this high up. He pulled his scarf off and tied it so it covered his nose.

Taz gave a short laugh. “You look like a twat.”

John felt himself go red, and pushed the scarf back round his neck. They kept going, the hill getting steeper now they were away from the streets. They climbed in near silence, taking their time to pick their way over the rocks in the dark, until they reached McArt’s fort and sat for a minute, getting their breath back. From here the city looked tiny.

“What d’you reckon is in it?” asked Taz.

John shrugged and shook the tin. It made no sound. “The ashes of the last poor fucker to piss him off?”

Taz shook his head. “His finger.”

“No, an eyeball. We’ll open it and it’ll be looking at us—”

“Both of ’em—he wouldn’t take one and leave the other.”

John shook it again, and it didn’t feel like eyeballs. He glanced over at Taz.

“We don’t need to,” said Taz. “We could just say we did.”

For a moment John was tempted, but the thought of going home with no food strengthened his resolve, and he shook his head. “You must be joking.”

He edged to the cliff face. From here, it was like being king of Belfast. He cast his eyes over the lough. What was left? He knew Glasgow had been wiped out—it had gone early—and it would be years before London would be rebuilt. New York, too—everywhere. He shivered, and bile rose up in him. It wasn’t their planet; what right had the shit-eaters to destroy it?

He opened the box—it took a bit of work, the lid was on tight—half-closing his eyes, sure it would be gruesome. Instead, all it contained was dust, fine like ash, sparkling very slightly in the moonlight. He touched it with his finger, tracing a pattern in it, and it felt like fine sand.

“It’s drugs,” he said, a little disappointed. “It must be a bad shipment.”

Taz leaned over and put his finger in the sand. “Weird—why not tip it down a drain and have done with it? Why here?”

“Who cares? It’ll get us food, and I’m starving. You’re so skinny, you’ll slip through a crack in the road soon.” John reached the tin out. "Want some?"

Taz shook his head. "Go fuck yourself."

"Chickenshit."

"Bollocks I am." Taz traced a line in the dust and put his finger to his mouth. He licked it. “That’s not drugs; it tastes like sand or something.”

“You could be eating someone’s body,” said John.

Taz rubbed his hand over his mouth, and paled a little. “It’s not a body, you arse.”

John reached out his hand, holding the tin tightly. If McDowell wanted it sprinkled over Belfast, that’s what he’d do. Hell, if the big man wanted him to piss off the side of the cliff, he’d do it. He shook the box into the wind, watching the dust lift into the breeze. He put the tin in his pocket and clapped his hands to get rid of the sand. “Let’s go.”

They hurried down, skidding on the scree, half on their feet, half on their arses. They’d got partway down when Taz doubled over with a grunt. His face curled into a grimace. Sweat beaded his forehead.

"Jesus,” said John, reaching for him. “What—?”

Taz screamed.

“What is it?” John shook Taz.

“It hurts!” yelled Taz. He slumped to the ground. “It fucking hurts everywhere!”

Waves of panic thudded across John’s head. Taz rolled onto his side, shaking. John knelt and put his hand on him, not knowing what to do. There was no one to get help from, not this deep into the curfew. He stood and pulled Taz up, fumbling in the dark, almost dropping him, until Taz was draped over his shoulders. He had to get the pair of them back to Taz’s house and let his ma see to him. He took a first step, grimacing at the dead weight on his shoulders, but forced another step, and then another. There was nothing else for it. Taz needed help, and Josey and the kids were waiting for him.

CHAPTER TWO

John staggered to the garden wall, Taz draped over his shoulders. Christ, for a skinny guy he was heavy. John took a breath and his chest burned; he had to stop, just for a minute. He propped Taz against the wall, but his friend slid down and curled up on the ground. He rocked back and forth, moaning. At least he’d stopped yelling.

John leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and took gulps of air. A year ago, he’d have managed Taz’s weight easily, but that was when he was getting ready to try out for the trials, not when he was half-starved. He straightened, looking down the length of the Ballysillan Road, and saw streaks of light in the sky. It had taken them all night to get this far. Josey would be worried, and Taz’s mum.

Maybe he should hide Taz? Shove him under a bush and go for help? He’d be in the Oldpark in about fifteen minutes if he did…A long groan from his friend convinced him not to. He took another deep breath and tapped Taz’s shoulder.

“Come on, mate,” he said, trying to haul Taz upright. His friend fought against him, but John managed to hoist him up, using his belt for leverage. He managed to get Taz draped over one shoulder. John gritted his teeth and headed down the road. “Taz, try to walk a bit.”

Taz nodded against him, and his weight lessened a little. Not enough, though they’d never make it. There was a rumble in the distance, coming nearer. John cocked his head. An engine, somewhere to his left, probably a patrol; no one else would be out before curfew ended. Taz had slumped again, his full weight across John’s shoulders, making them ache. The noise came closer, really close now—it must be in the next street. John kicked open a garden gate to his right, cursing as he tried to manoeuvre both of them through. He tripped and they went down in a heap, Taz screaming as he fell on him. John clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. “Shhh—patrol.”

Taz groaned and nodded. John held his breath. Fuck. He looked around; there was nothing in the garden other than a kid’s slide, purple and shaped like a bear. Totally crap.

“In the corner,” he said. At least they’d be shielded from the road by the hedge. He glanced at the house; it looked empty, its windows dirty with thin curtains drawn. The engine stopped.

Taz crawled, John behind him. A door slammed. He pushed Taz into the corner of the garden and ducked down, pulling the slide in front of them. Voices came from the street: Belfast accents, not Zelo translators. John pulled out his knife, flicking it open, and put his head against the grass, watching through an arch beneath the slide as the tip of a rifle touched the gate, pushing it open. Beside him Taz had collapsed and was breathing too heavily, half moaning.

“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

“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 added 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.

“It lies with the GC. I’ll report the incident to their representative,” he said, knowing how it sounded, a Judas taking his silver coins. Peters’ mouth tightened into a thin line. Carter crossed his arms. "I don’t like it either, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Peters looked through the glass, taking a long moment before he turned his gaze back to Carter. “If it were me, I’d hand in my stripes and walk away.” Carter went to cut him off, but his voice rose over Carter’s. “Because it’s shit. He’s human, they’re the invaders. It’s shit.”

He turned and walked out, leaving Carter to stare at the boy. Peters was right. It was crap, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Carter walked into the interview room, pulled out the chair opposite the boy and sank into it. It had taken him a bit of time to find out who he was, but finally a constable had come up with a name. The boy ignored him and Carter watched for a moment, letting the silence stretch. John was holding something in his hand, a rag of some sort, and his hands were clenching and unclenching around it, as if it was the only thing he could sense or control.

“John.” No response. Carter rapped the table. “John Dray!”

This time, John lifted his head. “What?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“The station. Antrim Road station.”

“Good lad. My name’s Henry Carter, I’m an inspector based here.” The boy nodded, and Carter went on, “Now, since I already know your name, could you confirm it for the record?”

“No.”

Carter took a deep breath. “John Dray,” he said. “Your mate is Terence Delaney. Living somewhere in the Oldpark. Parents died about three months ago, foraging for food. Got some siblings.” He laid his hands on the table. “That’s all I know about you, John. Can you help me out with some more?”

“I haven’t done anything,” said the boy. “You’ve no reason to hold me.”

He clenched his fist around the rag and Carter pointed at it. “What’s that?”

John looked at it, and his eyes seemed to soften. “It’s nothing. Just something I carry around with me.”

“Whose is it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Carter waited, thinking. The siblings, apparently, were younger. “What will happen when you don’t get home?” The lad’s head came up, and Carter shrugged. “Because you’re not going anywhere.” Carter leaned forward. “You weren’t the only one who carried out a job tonight: Baltimore, Rostov, Marseilles, Istanbul, Buenos Aires and Mombasa, they’re the ones we know of. All the other runners who let the virus go are dead.” He paused, but there was no answer, so he pushed again. “All the Zelotyr are dead, John. That’s what the job was, to kill them.”

John’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carter smiled at his bravado. “You know we picked up two men waiting at the edge of the estate? They had guns.” The boy paled slightly at that. “Now, what were you doing on the hill?”

“Nothing; I told the patrol that.”

“Spare me.” Carter nodded at the rag. “So, whose is it? Since you’ve nothing to hide, why not tell me?” The boy’s hand clenched around it, and Carter softened his voice. “I’m here to help, John.”

The boy looked up, his eyes hard. “Like hell you are.”

“Well, no one else is,” said Carter. He leaned back in his seat, looking at the ceiling’s pattern of cracks from the Zelo bombs. He waited.

“It’s my little brother’s—from his coat," said John, his voice hesitant. "That’s all.”

Carter stifled a smile of relief. “What’s his name?”

“Stuart.”

There was a clatter from the corridor and Carter got up to open the door and take a tray from Sanderson. He set it on the table, picked up a mug of tea, and pushed another mug towards John. “Hot chocolate. I thought you must be cold. Biscuits, if you want any.”

The boy’s eyes went round at the sight of the biscuits and he reached out and took one, nibbling at it for a moment before his hunger got the better of his manners and he devoured it in two bites. Carter pushed the plate over to him.

“Help yourself,” he said, and waited while the boy did just that. After, John picked up the mug and huddled over it, his face pinched and dirty, his too-long hair falling over his face, hiding his watchful eyes.

“Any other brothers?” asked Carter. The boy shook his head. “Sisters?”

A slight nod. “Two.”

“Where are they?”

The boy’s shoulders stiffened.

“At home.”

“Where’s home?” The boy shook his head, and Carter moved back to safer ground. “How old are they?”

John pushed his hair back. He looked younger. More vulnerable. Slowly, he said, “Josey’s a couple of years younger than me—the other two, they’re just kids. Josey’ll look after them until I get home.”

Carter leaned forward until his hand was nearly touching the boy’s. “Look, John, you’re in a lot of trouble, do you know that? It’s just—you won’t be getting back to them anytime soon.”

The boy blinked before he looked back at Carter and nodded. He looked like he was scared to speak in case he cried, and Carter didn’t blame him.

“Can you tell me anything? Who gave you the tin?”

“We found it.” John’s voice was a whisper and his eyes didn’t meet Carter’s.

“Where?”

“On the ground.”

“So you found a tin, and decided to risk the patrols—leave your kid sisters and Stuart alone—to climb up the Cave Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, come on. If you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.” Nothing. Carter fought to keep the frustration out of his voice. “John, I don’t know where you live, but I bet whoever set you up does.”

There was a rattling noise, and Carter looked around, trying to tell what it was. He looked back at John and realised the boy’s feet were drumming off the ground and he was shaking, his shoulders shuddering as if he couldn’t stop.

Oh, hell. Carter got up and draped his jacket round the boy’s shoulders. He pushed the table back and crouched down, putting his hand on John’s chin, tipping his face so they were looking at each other.

“John, things are really bad, okay?”

John’s eyes didn’t waver, even though his teeth were chattering.

“I need you to tell me what happened, and who was involved.” No response. “If you don’t, John, you’ll be taking the rap for it. You’ll get sent to the Zelotyr and they’ll…” He stopped. He couldn’t tell this kid what he faced. He had to. “They’ll…”

“K—kill me,” whispered John. “Like they say, on the street—they do it more than once.”

God help me, he knows. “Yes. Unless you tell me who set you up for this, John, that’s exactly what they’ll do.”

“I can’t. You’re right, he—he—knows where the kids are. If I tell you…”

“That’s right, John, he does…” Carter looked into the boy’s eyes—they were older than they should be—until John nodded.

“He won’t hurt them,” said John. “He knows if they’re gone, there’s nothing to hold me.”

Carter fought the urge to thump his fist on the desk and point out that the bastard, whoever it was, didn’t need more than one of them. He saw the boy was still shuddering, and held his tongue; threats weren’t going to work here. Especially since he suspected the boy knew the truth, but was too scared to admit it.

“John,” he said, picking his words carefully, “the word will be spreading that the Zelotyr are gone.” John watched him, his pupils huge, making his eyes seem like dark pools. "I’m expecting trouble once people realise the patrols are gone. Does that sound right?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. The thing is, when that trouble comes, there’s not enough police or army left to stop it.” He waited until the boy nodded his understanding. “People will get hurt and angry and they’ll turn on the people who can be blamed. Once they realise the Zelotyr were keeping them safe, they’ll blame you for changing things. And if they can’t find you…even if whoever you are working for doesn’t go for your family, someone else might.”

The grey eyes closed, stayed shut for what seemed like minutes, and Carter snaked his hand out until it covered the boy’s.

John’s eyes opened. “Ten Shannon Road,” he whispered.

Carter squeezed his hand. “Good lad. I’ll go and see myself, and then I’ll come back and we can talk some more.”

“If you get my family in front of me, I’ll tell you everything you need to know. The kids need me, I can’t be sent away…” John looked down at the desk. “You might want to check number six as well, that’s where Taz and his mum live.”

“Right.” Carter stood to go.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t mean it. Nor did Taz. Is he okay? He seemed really sick.”

Carter paused. In some ways, the other boy might be the luckier; he was still unconscious, and not aware of the mess. He nodded. “He’s still very shocked.”

“Please, can you help?”

Carter paused, looking at the boy. What had he survived: a year of a bloody war, hiding, foraging food by night? And he’d ended up here, doing someone else’s dirty work.

“I’ll do what I can, John,” he said, choosing his words with care. There was no point promising the earth, not if he couldn’t deliver it.

“You promise?”

The too-old eyes searched him, as if grasping at the hope in front of them. Carter took a deep breath. “Yes. I promise.” He turned away before the boy could ask anything more.

CHAPTER FIVE

Josey sat at the top of the stairs, in the spot where John stayed when he kept watch. A shaft of daylight crawled over her foot, warming it, and she bit her lip. Where was he? He’d never been so late back, and he knew she had no food. She glanced at the two empty water bottles—she’d had to give the kids something to fill their stomachs—and over at the dwindling supply in the corner. Tears pricked her, but she bit down on her knuckle, making sure no noise escaped and woke the kids.

She looked over at the closed bedroom doors. The lay-out was the same as in their old house, and all it took was a slight narrowing of her eyes to imagine she was back there, a year ago. There’d been no way to know 2014 was going to bring an invasion worse than any in the comics John and Taz used to buy. She shifted on the step and stared at what would have been her parents’ bedroom. What she wouldn’t give to push open the door and find them sitting there, cups of tea in hand. Or go to her room and get into a bed that wasn’t mouldy and manky, but clean, its covers just off the line and smelling of fresh air.

Some hope. Useless daydreams, nothing more, like the dreams of the family who’d lived in this house at the start of the war and who’d been in it the day the Zelo bomb had brought down the roof. Their kid had died in the house and they’d fled Belfast afterwards.

She got up and paced the landing, not able to sit any longer. Her CD player sat in the corner beside her bedroom door. She’d love to turn it on and dance to Jessie J. She’d done that with the kids to keep them from crying after Ma and Da died, until the batteries had given up. She wanted it to be the old days when John annoyed her and it was easy to hate him, not sit and pray he’d get home, and he hadn’t been caught, or….

She leaned her head against the door. He couldn’t be dead. He was too smart. He was quick, like a shadow in the streets. He’d be fine.

A soft noise made her start, and she strained, listening, but there was nothing except the kids’ soft snores, and a whistle of wind.

Another noise came, louder this time, from downstairs. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down into the darkness. It had been ages since she and John had barricaded the door and told the kids it was going to be a grand adventure camping on the landing. Neither of the little ones had been fooled, not really. They knew aliens weren’t the only danger in Belfast, that hunger made people desperate.

There was a crash, making her jump. A splinter of light appeared where the front door was. She wanted to scream, to run, but stayed still, not daring to give away they were in the house. A second thud and the damage widened to a crack.

That got her moving. This was no looter, trying for an easy break-in. She ran to Sophie’s bedroom and kicked the door open. “Wake up! Hide in the wardrobe and don’t come out unless me or John tells you to.”

Sophie came awake immediately—she might be only eight, but she’d lived through the invasion, too—and darted into the wardrobe. Josey ran into the boys’ room. She picked Stuart up, struggling a little, her hands slippery from fear. She managed to pull him onto her hip and ran into the biggest bedroom, the one that had no roof at all left, not daring to look downstairs. As she shut the door, there was a splintering noise, followed by the sound of men’s voices.

“Wha…?” asked Stuart, still sleepy.

“Shhhh,” she said. “It’s hide and seek, okay, Stuart? You have to be quiet.”

He, too, was a veteran, and crawled under the big bed. She joined him, pulling boxes around them, ignoring their musty smell. Her ma had used the same sort of boxes to store shoes she’d never wear again. Josey choked back something—not quite a sob, more a strangling fear. There was no time to mourn Ma, not when she was busy trying to be her. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, more than one pair. Josey closed her eyes and prayed: be John. It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. A plastic bottle was knocked over, dully bouncing on the landing floor, and she had to bite back a yelp. She wished she hadn’t separated Sophie, but the wardrobe was too small for all of them.

Wardrobe—who was she kidding? Whoever this was, they were going to find them. She groped around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. She kept her other hand on Stuart’s back. He squirmed and she didn’t blame him—the stench of mould from the carpet was thick, clogging her throat.

The door was kicked open and hard footsteps crossed to the wardrobe. The door opened, followed by a loud tut. Josey fought the urge to wriggle away, and pulled the terrified Stuart close. He was too warm, his skin sweaty. The footsteps came over to the bed and stopped. She could see boots, leather and shining. Top of the range. No one she knew had new clothes.

“Josey Dray, is that little Stuart you have there?” The voice was broad Belfast, harsh, not at all safe. “Come out before I drag you.”

She didn’t move. Another tut, and he got down on his knees. His face appeared at the edge of the bed, looking at her from a sideways position, and her breath caught: Gary McDowell. He was a good four years above her at school, but she knew about him. He’d taken one of the boys from her class, who’d called him Graham instead of Gary, and flushed his head down the toilet. He’d left the boy in the cubicle for an hour, telling him if he called for help he’d spend every day facing more of the same.

“There you are,” he said, and gave a mock wave. His mouth tightened, and his eyes flashed anger. “If you don’t come out, I’ll kick your arse from here to Derry.”

She had no option; he was between her and the exit.

“I don’t want to,” whispered Stuart.

“It’s all right,” she said. She backed out, pulling him with her, and stood. Her heart was hammering in her chest, making her a little dizzy, but she lifted Stuart onto her hip and faced Gary. She daren’t show fear; his sort loved people to be scared.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He came to the end of the bed, blocking her way past. “Where’s the wee girl?”

He was close enough to smell beer on his breath, and her fear deepened; drunk and looking for kicks was never a good combination. She stopped meeting his eyes—she couldn’t afford to anger him. She tightened her hold on Stuart, trying not to frighten him. “She’s in the next room. I’ll get her.”

He grabbed her arm. “Let’s do that.” He pushed her towards the door.

She stumbled, barely keeping her grip on Stuart, and hurried next door. To hell with pretending not to be scared. She opened the wardrobe where Sophie huddled, her eyes huge and staring.

“You need to come out,” said Josey.

Sophie hesitated, but at Josey’s nod came out, and they turned to face Gary. Another lad joined him, wiry and full of nervous fidgeting.

“Is that all of them?” he asked.

“Aye.” Gary smirked. “The Dray family, just where they should be.”

Josey shivered. She had nothing to offer to make him go away. He was watching her, his eyes sharp, and her legs started to shake. She’d heard what some of the lads on the streets were up to since the invasion, how girls had been brought into the gangs and made to do what the blokes wanted. It was why John didn’t like her going out to scavenge, even in the daytime. She backed away. “John will be back in a minute.”

“I don’t think so. John’s been detained.”

Detained? Who by? Sophie pulled against her leg. Stuart froze, numb with terror, clinging to her top. She tried to stop her legs shaking—she couldn’t fall apart in front of the kids—and lifted her chin. “What do you want?”

“Put the kid down.” She tried, but had to uncurl Stuart’s hands first. Gary indicated the stairs with a jerk of his head. “You’re coming with me.” He nodded at the other man. “Deal with the kids.”

“That wasn’t what your da told us. He said to get the older girl.”

“Are you arguing with me?” Gary’s voice was low, threatening. He grabbed the other lad’s collar. “Because if you are, we can take it to the Big Man and see who he backs.”

“All right. Calm down, eh? You take the girl and leave the kids to me. No problem.”

Josey moved in front of the other children. Deal with them? She shook her head. “No, please, they’re only kids…”

Gary grabbed her. “Let’s go,” he said.

She fought him, scratching at his jacket. Sophie yelled for her; Stuart was crying.

“Stop that, you little bitch.” Gary tightened his grip, digging his nails into her skin.

“You’re hurting me!” she yelled.

“I’ll hurt you some more if I have to.” He pushed her into the hall. “Downstairs. Go.”

Stuart screamed for her. She tried to turn back but was pushed down the stairs and through the splintered door into the street. Taz’s mum approached, leaning on her stick, escorted by a bloke so fat that rolls of stomach hung over his belt. Liz’s eyes were red, and there was a bruise starting along her cheekbone.

A hard shove sent Josey towards a car. “No!” she shouted, but if there was anyone in the street, they weren’t going to interfere. Liz was pushed into the car. Gary kicked Josey’s legs from under her and shoved her in, too.

“You can’t hurt the kids,” she said. “They know nothing.”

He got in beside her and slammed the door. “Last warning. If you don’t shut up, I’ll beat you black and blue.”

She closed her mouth. He would, and then she’d be no use to anyone. He nodded his satisfaction.

“Good.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Drive.”

CHAPTER SIX

Carter closed the door and found Sanderson waiting in the corridor.

“Any luck, sir?”

“Yes, he’s given us an address. He won’t give me a name, though.”

“We think it was McDowell’s lot.” Sanderson gave a balancing gesture with his two hands. “Dray was a runner for them."

"Makes sense. Get someone to follow it up. Also, I need a car."

"What are you planning?"

They started to walk towards the reception area. “I’m going to head down the Oldpark and check the house.”

Sanderson stopped and stared at him. “You missed the last bit.”

Carter shook his head, puzzled. “I did?”

“Go down the Oldpark, check the house and get lynched.”

Carter paused. Sanderson was right, the Oldpark wasn’t somewhere just to walk into. Not in this city of hidden dens and closed-off, half-feral streets. “I’ll liaise with the army, get some back up.” He smiled. “We may as well go out with a bang.”

Later, as they drove up the rubble-strewn streets of north Belfast, he wasn’t smiling. The city felt as if it was in stasis: the explosion of fear, held in abeyance for months, close and dangerous. The soldiers sat in silence, their faces closed and grim. Peters, leading the squad, had seemed resigned to the request from Carter for support. They passed no other vehicles, saw no one out on the streets. Below them, deceptively calm, was the lough. One of the old passenger ferries from before the attack was moored at its neck. No smoke rose from the sewage farms, but their smell permeated the van, an accusing reminder of the Zelotyr.

They pulled up outside the house. Carter got out of the vehicle, glancing down the small cul-de-sac. There was no one in sight. He could see the Oldpark Road, just visible through a gap beside number ten, its tarmac filled with weeds. A sparrow chirruped nearby, making Carter jump. He looked at the surrounding houses. Their windows—the ones with glass—were dark and empty. Was anyone there? Peters came alongside, his firearm ready, and Carter pulled his pistol from its holster. Both men walked forward, crunching over broken glass in the small front garden. The rest of the soldiers got out of the vehicle, dispersing into the house and round the back. Carter waited, tight against the wall, his heart hammering.

“Clear!”

He stepped through the splintered gash, Peters close behind. Carter pushed a door to his right and stepped into a small living room. He opened the curtains, ignoring the skittering spiders. Peters sniffed; the room was dank, unused. They moved to the back, into a small kitchen, Peters leading this time. Dishes stood in the sink, mould-covered. There was a stench of decay—not just mould, but foul air merging with it—and when Carter touched the kitchen boards a film of dirt clung to his fingers. Peters pointed to the back door. It was ajar, swinging on its hinges. Peters approached it, Carter covering him, and pushed it open. The only people in the yard were three of the squad, carrying out a search. The back gate to the alley beyond was open, and one of the soldiers had taken up position beside it.

“We’ll check the bedrooms,” said Carter. He climbed the stairs. A breath of air touched him and he looked up at the ceiling. Peters was right, the boy had lied—no one could live here. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening, and shivered in the cold landing.

“Over there.”

Carter jumped at the voice. Peters pointed at a small pile of blankets in the corner. Carter nodded and walked forwards, into a small bathroom. It wasn’t clean, exactly, but it was dust free. Four toothbrushes sat on the sink. His breath hitched: the boy had tried to keep going as if it was normal, had brushed the kids’ teeth and made them wash their hands. He rubbed his mouth, feeling sick, and turned on the tap. The water came out, rust brown. If they’d been using this for washing, it was amazing they’d survived. He stepped into the hall and saw the empty water bottle.

“They’ve been here,” he said to Peters, who nodded, his eyes troubled.

Carter pushed open the next door, to a small bedroom dominated by two beds. Light flooded through several holes in the ceiling, and a breeze lifted dust motes, making them dance in the air. He touched one of the duvets, and it was sodden. The other bed had a plain blue cover, and draped over the end was a football shirt, worn through and at least three seasons out of date. They obviously hadn’t had much even before the war, if the boy hadn’t updated it. He took a deep breath and turned round, imprinting the room on his memory. He’d seen many horrors since the war began, but this room, the desolation masking as normality, hit him hard. How had they survived here? They must have been like rats, curled together in a nest. A small noise, like a rustling, made him turn round.

“Peters?”

“Down here! Looks like the parents’ room.”

Carter crept forward and checked the landing, but it was clear. He’d been spooked, that was all. He spun at another noise and scanned the bedroom again. He walked to a small wardrobe and opened it. From the back of the wardrobe, two pairs of eyes, grey like John’s, watched him.

“Peters! Come here.”

Carter reached into the wardrobe. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The children shrank back from him, and he reached in a little more. His hand touched one of them—

“Shit!” he yelled, pulling his hand back, seeing the line of teeth marks. “You little sh—”

The children darted past. He made a grab for the smallest and caught him, but the child wriggled and pulled away, leaving Carter holding only the coat. He lunged forward, into the hall, and found himself looking at Peters, a child held firmly in each hand.

Carter knelt in front of them. The boy was evidently Stuart, and the girl was young; Sophie, he presumed.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m Carter—John sent me. Where’s Josey?”

“Gone,” said the girl. Her voice was a whisper but her eyes met his, brighter since he’d mentioned her brother. “The man with us left when he saw your van.”

Carter got to his feet. “Take them out to the APC. We’ll get them into one of the hostels and cleaned up. I’ll arrange someone to keep them safe. I assume whoever was left with them wasn’t a babysitter.”

“I’d guess not,” said Peters. “And then?”

Carter shrugged, helplessly. He walked down the stairs, taking in the house one more time. How many more were like this? He had no idea. The small figures walked past him, each hand held firmly by Peters. He rubbed his fingers along the hood of the boy’s coat, seeing where a piece had been torn off. They were too young for all this. He stopped and scanned the sky, taking in that thought. They were too young. All of them. Slowly, he smiled.

The outside door of the station slammed, announcing a pissed-off Superintendent O’Brien. Carter set his cup down, checked his uniform, and rubbed at a smear of dirt on the pocket. The more he rubbed, the more it spread, and he cursed under his breath. Still, he’d been on duty for the best part of a day and a half; that might give him some leeway.

“Carter!”

Carter hurried to the reception area, where his chief was standing at the desk, her foot tapping with impatience.

“Ma’am,” said Carter.

O’Brien looked him up and down, lingering on the stain. Evidently, the dress inspection had been failed. She handed Carter some papers and he scanned them.

“Your office, Carter.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Carter led the way, swallowing his nervousness. He opened the door to his office with its usual jumble of papers and bin overflowing onto the floor. The superintendent swept past and sat in Carter’s seat. Carter closed the door and didn’t need to be told to stay standing.

“Enlighten me. Why have I just been given jurisdiction over the biggest pain-in-the-ass problem on earth?” O’Brien’s voice cut through the air like a whip, and Carter fought not to wince.

“Ma’am, the boys didn’t know what they were doing.”

“That’s irrelevant; the Zelotyr have demanded the right to try the boys, and I think Earth has managed to piss them off enough for now. Thirteen thousand dead and all the hatchlings.” O’Brien looked tired, her hair lank and needing washed, her face drawn and strained. “I want an explanation. That—” She nodded to the paper still clutched in Carter’s hand. “—went above your remit. Juveniles, indeed. The Galactic Council judges puberty to be the age of adult responsibility. I’m assuming your boys aren’t falsettos?"

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why the request?”

“Ma’am, I understand there has to be a biological standard when governing more than one species. But Earth hasn’t ratified the Galactic convention; here, they’re considered juveniles.” O’Brien’s eyes hardened, and Carter took a deep breath before he went on, “I thought it would give you time to assess the situation.”

There was silence, and he glanced down at the paper, before looking back at his boss and admitting, “I didn’t think they’d agree. Not so quickly.”

His words petered out under his boss’s glare, but he kept his head up. O’Brien hated people who tried to hide from her flak.

“That’s all very noble, Carter. They agreed because no one wants jurisdiction over this nightmare.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Carter steeled himself—

“But your thinking was excellent.” Carter raised his eyebrows as the chief went on, “I don’t want to hand the boys over. This is an Earth issue, not the GC’s; they’re just another set of bloody aliens.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Carter hoped he’d kept the surprise out of his voice.

She nodded. “You still overstepped your rank. For that, you can do the shit work on this. Arrange some sort of counsel for the boys and liaise with the GC. Find out what they’ll accept.” She paused. “It’s likely they’ll seek a life term.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A life term, at fifteen. His dismay must have shown because O’Brien’s eyes softened.

“We have to abide with the GC’s ruling on this one.” She looked down at the desk and scowled. “You can get in here tidied up, too, Carter; if you have meetings with the GC it can’t be a pigsty.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do it in your own time, Carter.” She frowned. “You do know the scale of what these boys have done? You know the Deklon system can’t sustain the continuation of the Zelotyr?”

Carter nodded. It was the reason the Zelo had come here: their planet had overheated to the extent where their hatchlings couldn’t spawn.

“There must be other planets, ma’am.” He looked up at the ceiling, and the bomb-damage crack running across reminded him of the little house earlier. “It’s a big galaxy, and they have faster-than-light ships.”

“The chance of the Zelotyr finding another planet within this generation’s lifespan is tiny. Unless they can find a way to overcome the virus—and to do that, they need access to some quantity of the source material—their species is doomed. They will demand full accountability.”

“I understand, ma’am.”

O’Brien gestured at the seat opposite. “Sit down. You know how the GC is set up? That it’s split between the Zelo and Barath’na?”

Carter brushed some crumbs off the seat and sat. “Yes."

“The Zelo believe the Barath’na are behind the virus; the Barath’na claim it came from Earth. To say relationships are tense makes the worst days of Stormont look good-natured.”

Carter took a moment, thinking about that. He’d never met a Barath’na, but knew their reputation: altruistic, cooperative in their dealings with other races, they were nothing like the warrior Zelotyr. He picked up a pen, pressing its nib in and out, the dull clicks filling the room, and asked, “Who do we believe?”

“Hard to say. The means of distributing the virus was low-tech, which makes me think it’s from Earth. But I don’t believe it came from central government.” The chief reached out, took the pen out of Carter’s hand, and went on, “You know the sort of military capacity Earth has?”

“I know about Belfast,”—not enough—“and that our situation is replicated across Ireland,” said Carter. “Farther than that I only know rumours, ma’am, and those rumours aren’t good.”

“They aren’t wrong; if there is substantive resistance, Earth can’t hold the peace. We don’t have the personnel, the hospitals or the people to run them. The army advises they do not have enough troops should civil unrest take hold.” She waited until Carter gave a curt nod. “Earth may have to ask the GC to send a peacekeeping force. No one wants that. Especially not if the GC believe the virus came from us. But we might not have any choice.”

Carter drew in a whistle of breath. "I see."

O’Brien started clicking the pen. “Any force will be predominantly Barath’naian, which is something. But if it turns out Earth’s governing bodies had any connection to the virus, the Zelo will attack. They have nothing to lose, after all.” She pointed upwards. “The Barath’na have the weaponry to face the Zelotyr. Earth doesn’t. If we get it wrong…”

John’s face flashed in front of Carter, followed by the memory of the half-lived-in house. How many other Johns were out there? Many—most, if he was honest—wouldn’t survive another war. Carter nodded.

“So, you’ll understand why I say I’m glad you kept your boys on Earth, but they must be dealt with accordingly. Whatever the GC want, we must consider it. It won’t be capital, I hope, but it won’t be youth custody for a couple of years, either. You understand?” Carter nodded. “The lads still haven’t said who gave them the virus?”

“Not yet. Dray has said he’ll cooperate once we let him see his family, which obviously we can’t do.”

“The other boy?”

“Recovering.” A little, anyway—the last report had declared him conscious, but weak.

His boss leaned forward. “Whoever’s behind it in Belfast had to have someone behind them. This was a global attack. Your boys are the first—the only—step on that chain. We need them to talk.”

Carter rubbed his forehead. “I’m doing my best, ma’am.”

O’Brien tapped the table with the pen. “Keep at it. And make sure the boys are secure; to lose them might be seen as careless. Convenient, even.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Carter.

“Good. You can go.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

John sat on the narrow cot, chewing his nails. He’d seen no one for hours, not since the cop had said he’d make sure Josey and the kids were safe. It was getting dark now. Helicopters droned nearby. He got up and went to the small window, and watched for a while. There was a lot of activity, police vans coming and going all the time, but nothing he could look at and figure out what it meant.

The lack of information was driving him mad. He didn’t know where Taz was, or if he was okay. He had to find out. He went to the door and started to bang his fists on it, but the metal was so thick he only made dull thuds. He stopped banging. The noise continued. What the—?

Yells, and a muffled bang. John stumbled back from the door. McDowell had found out where he was. It was like in Terminator, when the girl hid while everyone who was supposed to protect her got blown away. He glanced around. There was only the bed, and anyone who came in would look there straight away. He backed into the furthest corner, his heart hammering. Another bang sounded—a shot, he was sure of it—followed by a yell. The handle of his door started to turn, the metal bar-lock moving from horizontal to vertical. He looked around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.

Fuck it. He stepped into the centre of the room, hands spread in front of him, poised and ready. If they were here for him, he’d go down fighting, not cowering like a dog. The door opened.

“Come on!” Carter looked nothing like he had earlier. His baton was grasped in one hand, and his eyes stared out from a filthy face. Behind him a cop raced past, someone supported across his shoulders. Taz. That got John moving, across the cell and out. Carter pointed down the corridor. “Follow Sanderson—there’s a patrol car waiting.”

Yells sounded through the station and running footsteps came closer. Carter backed away, keeping John behind him.

“Get him!” a voice yelled, close and angry. More joined it, echoing through the tiled corridors.

Jesus, it was a riot. Like in the old days, when trouble sprang out of nowhere. But there hadn’t been any since the Zelo invaded—everyone was too busy either fighting them or finding a way to survive. His mouth twisted in sour realisation; now the Zelo were gone, Belfast was back to what it did best.

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?”

“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.