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This book demonstrates why I read Indie books and have enjoyed doing so immensely. Yes, some self-published books don’t deserve to see the light of day, but this isn’t one of those. Far from it. It was exciting and it had mystery.

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  Eliza Green had me from page one. Her creative world-building constructed a panoramic view of the consequences of two worlds colliding where both sides want to win, neither trusting the other. Will good conquer evil?

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  BECOMING HUMAN

  The Exilon 5 Series, Book 1

  By

  Eliza Green

  Copyright © 2012 Eliza Green

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Editor and Proofreader: Averill Buchanan

  Editor (2017 Update): Andrew Lowe

  Cover Design: Design for Writers

  This book is also available in print.

  Prologue

  They watched the multiple independent re-entry vehicles approach in the night sky, illuminated by a string of bright lights along their exteriors. The AI system guided the vehicles along a predetermined trajectory towards the planet. The next succession, fired from the nearest planet’s surface, was already on its way to Exilon 5. The race wouldn’t live long enough to witness their arrival.

  The multi-launch command came from the Zodiac 117B ship which hovered in the great expanse above Exilon 5. The super heavy-lift vehicles, tightly packed with as many cluster bombs as possible, contained terraforming chemicals. Solid-fuel engine rockets drove the expendable vehicles towards the atmosphere where their outer shrouds would separate away and burn up. With just one chance to get the rockets there safely, force fields protected the shrouds to prevent the payload from early destruction. The bombs would alter the atmosphere. A successful strike would result in many unavoidable deaths.

  The MIRVs, specifically designed to make light work of the atmospheric layer, tore through space towards the planet. When the terraforming process was over, others could begin the next phase of the operation.

  The race huddled together, unsure what the lights were or where they had originated from. Some of their young continued to chase each other, oblivious to the danger above them. Those with stronger empathic abilities picked up on the mood of the adults and clung to them for protection.

  Distant rumbling filled the skies as thousands of MIRVs burned bright upon entry. They resembled stars, except they were growing in size. There was no immediate sanctuary for the race, no place for them to hide in the desolate open. So they watched and waited. Some had already sought refuge in the tunnels beneath the surface. Others remained above ground. Their silence was punctuated by the sound of heavy breathing and bare feet scuffling across the earth as their young continued to chase each other.

  The AI system deactivated the force fields around each launch vehicle and the outer shrouds fell away piece by piece. A flimsy wire mesh remained to protect the payload. Shiny chemical-filled spheres jostled about inside their last housing, eager to break loose with every twist of hot metal. As the mesh cage disintegrated, several spheres broke free, clashing together and cracking open on impact. Hot liquids and inert gases leached out from their containers and quickly merged. The liquid toxins dropped to the earth like rain. The gases, slightly heavier than the atmosphere, sank more slowly. As more bombs broke free, the payload leached out of tiny fissures that had appeared in their design. A thick gas cloud lingered just below the skyline, waiting.

  Few moved as the lights neared them. They sensed the immediate change in the air. The young lost their enthusiasm for the chasing game.

  The first drops of acid rain hit their faces and burned their skin. The air transformed into static as the terraforming chemicals disrupted the electrons around them. The statically charged air nipped at their skin.

  Dropping to their knees, they picked up handfuls of soggy earth and smeared it over their faces, their chests, their arms and legs, to lessen the effects of the static. The acid rain-sodden ground only aggravated their condition. The adults’ screams pierced the contaminated air. Hot, salty tears fell from their inflamed eyes. The young, equally afflicted, struggled to stay on their feet. Shiny spheres dropped to the earth in bundles, splitting apart and unleashing their gases just before impact. The chemicals worked silently on the races’ breathing, forcing several of them to the ground.

  Broken pieces from the cluster bombs rained down as the last of the mesh cages melted away. Unbroken bombs transformed into mini projectiles, destroying anything they touched. The liquid chemicals sprayed upwards and out, falling like a gentle mist.

  With heavy legs and weak bodies, they staggered towards the tunnels for protection. Some crawled with young on their backs, exhausted from the effort of breathing.

  New lights appeared in the skies, brighter and bigger than the ones before. These were not MIRVs designed to break apart. These did not carry explosives. Their sole purpose was to ignite the gases and permanently alter the atmosphere. Their impact was controlled, their explosions timed. Little remained in the aftermath, and whatever had survived would not last for long.

  The controllers aboard the Zodiac 117B monitored the MIRVs’ trajectory closely. They reported to unseen people about the even dispersion of gases across the sky. The liquid that had seeped into the soil would correct the pH balance so the terrain would accept plants and trees at a faster rate.

  Everything had happened exactly as planned. It would be a while before they could inhabit the planet, but for now, Stage One was complete. They would make time to celebrate properly when they arrived back on Earth.

  1

  April 2163

  In the heart of New London, Bill Taggart sat alone in Cantaloupe restaurant at a table by the window. Exhausted after a long day, he devoured his steak and chips. Cantaloupe was his favourite restaurant and the best New London had to offer. It was not one of the more affordable establishments on Exilon 5, which used real—not replicated—ingredients to make its old-fashioned fare. Since the World Government—his bosses and the biggest powerhouse on Earth—was picking up the tab, he made sure to indulge as often as possible. The World Government, an organisation made up of twelve global leaders, had been set up after the collapse of the United Nations in 2078.

  Bill picked up his coffee mug, his fourth refill. His hands trembled as the rim neared his lips; the caffeine only made his tremors worse. He took a sip and returned the mug to the table. He interlocked his trembling fingers. The caffeine wasn’t the real reason for his nerves.

  He played with the rest of his food while he watched the crowds on the streets outside, pushing past each other, not stopping to appreciate they were the lucky ones on Exilon 5, or New Earth. Old Earth, located thirty light years away was dilapidated, bloated at the seams and toxic to anyone who needed to breathe. But here on Exilon 5, the planet deemed to be a fresh start for the human race, people were falling into old, dangerous habits. The World Government was working on ways to transfer the entire population of twenty billion over the next twenty years. It was 2163 and barely a fraction of that number had been transferred so far. Their targets were too ambitious for a planet with insufficient resources.

  Exilon 5 needed more cities. The numbers stood at just six: New Delhi, London, New York, Taiyuan, Vienna and Copenhagen. The World Government had strived to keep the most familiar parts of Earth’s urban centres so that people would adapt quickly to their new lives. The first batch of transfers had included doctors, engineers and teachers to help set up indu
stries before the rest of the population transferred. If the World Government was serious about transferring all inhabitants of Earth, then Exilon 5 needed more cities, more housing, more of everything.

  Bill had an ulterior motive for choosing Cantaloupe that day. It was the reason for his nervous disposition. His skin still prickled with the residual energy in the air from the static charge emitted by the alien race. The children referred to them as ‘Shadow People’. He knew them by another name: Indigenes. He’d been waiting a long time to come face-to-face with one of them; two years to be exact. He was working as an Investigator for the World Government’s International Task Force division. But he was using the mission as a cover to find out the whereabouts of his wife, Isla.

  He took another sip of coffee. The caffeine jolted his heart into more feverish action, but its effects weren’t as strong or his heartbeat as fast as before. His hands shook like a city junkie’s. But there were worse people than junkies to fear out there. An old enemy—Larry Hunt—sprung to mind that caused him to touch the spot where he had been knifed. The new cities needed to be policed better, but to his mind, there were other reasons that made it dangerous to live on Exilon 5. The residents were being fed half-truths about their new home.

  A pain gripped him as he remembered Isla with her rosy cheeks, waist-long brown hair and dimpled smile. She was the strongest woman he knew, and a less cynical version of him. She was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. Her disappearance was also the reason he struggled to get out of bed. Without her, he was a shadow of his former self. He owed it to her to continue in his search. A part of him suspected she was already dead. But he had to know for sure.

  Isla, I promise you. I won’t give up.

  Remembering their life together was difficult for him. Since her disappearance, he couldn’t recall when he’d last felt like smiling. He was a realist by nature. Isla had been the optimistic one, the antidote that smoothed out his rougher edges.

  ‘Turn that frown upside down,’ she had said to him one evening when he was in one of his moods. She had been sitting on one end of the sofa with her legs curled underneath her, reading a tome on the history of Earth.

  Strands of her waist-long hair fell forwards and she flicked them behind her. She unfurled her legs and placed her feet on the floor.

  Bill sat in silence on the other end of the sofa. He didn’t react to the cliché.

  ‘We’re here for a long time, not a good time.’

  Cliché number two usually snapped him out of it, although not always.

  ‘The grass is usually greener on the other side.’

  The last one caught his attention. He turned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Isn’t it, “the grass is always greener”?’

  She stuck her tongue out at him. ‘I was just checking to see if you were listening.’

  He laughed, noticing her long legs for the first time that evening. ‘It’s hard not to. Any more special anecdotes up your sleeve?’

  Isla slid over to sit directly beside him. She gathered up the ends of her hair and tickled his face. ‘Not today, but it’s working. I can already feel the seismic shift in your pessimistic mood.’

  Bill gazed at her soft face, and at her hair that seemed to tangle at the hint of movement. It had taken her many years to grow it out, and often he’d wondered if it was worth the daily maintenance.

  ‘Have you ever thought about cutting your hair?’ he said.

  ‘No. It makes me feel feminine. It’s also where my strength lies, like Samson.’ She gathered up a bunch of hair and studied the split-ends. ‘It’s taken me so long to grow it. I guess it would feel like I had lost a part of me.’ Isla let go of the hair and swept it behind her. She settled into the soft sofa and pulled her feet back underneath her, staring at the imitation fire that never needed stoking.

  ‘Do you ever wear it down for work?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Isla worked for the military outfit of the International Task Force. It wouldn’t have been practical.

  ‘Knowing what we do about the situation on Earth, is there really any point in living on this planet?’ said Bill. ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier to end things?’

  ‘Termination?’ She stared at him, her blue eyes filled with pity. Or disappointment; he hadn’t been entirely sure. ‘Never! Life is for living. I’m not here to exist and neither are you. Why would you even consider that?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘Hypothetical, love. Not for me but for others. Things aren’t getting any better here.’

  He stood up and walked to the window, his eyes struggling to see anything of significance in the murky day. It was 3pm and the outside was void of life other than human. The forecast was for worse to come. ‘This is no life for any of us, Isla. Look at where we live now. The planet. See the pain in peoples’ eyes, or lack of. Why exist for this kind of life?’

  She joined him and rubbed his back gently, staring out at the congested landscape that was crammed with tall apartment buildings and a thick grey fog that never lifted. ‘There’s a better life on Exilon 5, I’ve told you. It’s magical. What Earth used to look and feel like. Why do you think I read so many history books? It won’t be long before I travel there on assignment and I can’t wait.’

  He turned towards her, cupping her face in his hands. ‘I wish I could join you.’

  She held his wrists. ‘Me, too. But we’re working to make it safer. It won’t be long before everyone can live there without a constant fear of death hanging over them.’

  Bill leaned in and kissed her, savouring every moment.

  If he had known that their life together would have been cut short, he’d have hidden her somewhere safe. The “somewhere safe” had been a wild concoction in his head, an afterthought after Isla’s disappearance, or death; he still wasn’t sure. He was still searching for the truth. He would have given anything to spend the rest of his life on Exilon 5 with Isla, to feel her arms around him again, to see that smile that was only meant for him.

  The smell of fresh bread wafting from Cantaloupe’s kitchen filled Bill’s nose and interrupted his thoughts. He thumbed a tear from his eye. He sat up straight and tried to remember why he was there. With so many others around him, he struggled to focus on what mattered.

  Cantaloupe restaurant, with its trademark red-and-white chequered cloth-covered tables, was filled to capacity for the dinner-time rush. He watched as over-friendly servers took new orders and well-off patrons settled their bills at the counter with a brief scan of their identity chips. Several children protested loudly at their parents’ suggestion that they try real vegetables, but calmed down after the promise of ice cream. It chilled him to think that one or more of the Indigenes had been here in this very restaurant, so close to children and right under his nose. Normally nocturnal creatures, the Indigenes’ appearance during daytime hours marked a change in behaviour for them. They were becoming bolder and riskier in their choices.

  Bill knew Cantaloupe intimately, having been there several times, but today, he studied the finer details of its layout. While it killed him to be so close to where Indigenes had been, he had to put himself in their shoes to try to understand their motives.

  Why choose this place? Are they hunting for their next victim?

  He rubbed the lingering static from his arm; it was stronger outside, a sign that one of them had recently been in the area. World Government intel given to the ITF had reported that an Indigene was on the verge of making contact with a human. At just forty-five, Bill was considered young to lead such an important mission—with humans living a century and a half, anyone under sixty was considered young—but his ability to do the job well had won him the role.

  The ITF didn’t know the main reason he needed to be on Exilon 5: to get close to the race he suspected to have killed his wife.

  He polished off the last of his steak and ordered a light beer. The alcohol soothed the fiery edges of his nerves. He glanced at the time project
ion on the wall: it read 6:30pm. At the counter, he scanned his identity chip and charged the meal to his World Government account.

  On the walk home to his ITF-issued apartment, Bill tilted his head upwards and let the sun warm his naturally aged skin. Around him, people chatted noisily, drawing in the sweet, clean air. There was no need for gel breathing masks that were mandatory on Earth, where the air was poisonous and long-term exposure carried a risk of lung failure. Since replacement organs weren’t cheap, gel masks and oxygen canisters were the only solution. Under the sun’s warmth, it was easy to forget Earth. But it was where he had met Isla. Earth would always be a part of him as long as Isla was still in his heart.

  He arrived at his apartment block in the New Westminster area just as a man dropped a chair from a window above to the side alley below. The overpowering smell in the side alley was from more than just unwanted furniture. He picked up a couple of rubbish bags that had been left out on the pavement in front of his block and tossed them into the alley. The cleaning autobots weren’t scheduled for a few days.

  A waft of rotting food and disinfectant forced him to pinch the end of his nose. He hurried inside the block as fast as he could. Scheduled rubbish collections were one of the World Government’s ill-thought-out plans to help keep some of the old systems of Earth and smooth the transition to the new planet. While there were many positives about the new planet, the six cities were overcrowded and had already become derelict in parts. Humans had only been occupying the planet for a short twenty-five years.

  His apartment overlooked Belgrave Square Gardens, a close replica of the same gardens once seen in London on Earth. Green open spaces had been one of the main requests on the Exilon 5 transferees’ “wish list”.

  Bill unlocked the front door and scanned the layout of his apartment for signs of disturbance. His day-job was to draw out enemies into the open, but on occasion they would try to seek him out.

  The apartment was sparsely decorated and thick with dust. Personal items were locked away in a suitcase in his bedroom. He examined the dusty surfaces closely; an informant had once told him that it would be easier to spot when things had been moved in a dusty apartment. Old circular imprints from legs of chairs remained hidden, telling him none of the furniture had been moved. He drifted into his bedroom to check on his suitcase hidden in the wardrobe.