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.