Becoming Human Page 2

  He had contemplated getting a second apartment, a place that the World Government and ITF knew nothing about, like the one on Earth he and Isla owned in Nottingham. But the stress of keeping one apartment hidden from them was enough.

  Back in the living room a brief flash of light caught his attention. The Light Box—a virtual information system that contained programmable artificial intelligence—shimmered on the wall above his three-seater sofa. He hadn’t bothered to activate the virtual avatar that came as standard, and he’d only ever used the security and secretarial facilities, and the twenty-four-hour news feed. So the flash of light meant that the ITF were watching him again. But they didn’t know that he’d already located some of their bugging devices: two in the base of the table lamps, one inside a disused cupboard in the kitchen and one underneath his bed. And those were just the ones he could find. He had no idea of the levels of surveillance they were carrying out on him, their best investigator. He stopped short of saluting the air. Many times, he had fantasised about settling in one place, but as life became more complicated it seemed like less of an option. Born in Edinburgh, he hadn’t set foot in Scotland for several years, and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

  Bill sat down on the sofa, pulled his digital pad, or DPad, out of his bag and placed it on the glass table in front of him. He was suddenly reminded of the effort to convince Daphne Gilchrist, the Earth Security Centre’s CEO, to put him on the current mission. The World Government was in charge, and the ESC handled international security matters for them. While initially Gilchrist had been against his involvement because of what she had reasoned to be his inexperience, something—or someone—had changed her mind. The ITF handled the grunt work for the ESC—investigations, arrests, policing—and nothing ever happened without Gilchrist’s say-so.

  Bill stood up and studied his face in the Light Box’s virtual façade. He pulled at the skin around his tired eyes, noting how old his naturally ageing face was looking. He ruffled his hair; dark-brown with dotted flecks of grey. The signs of age could be reversed with a little genetic modification.

  Isla had once told him that no matter what advances were made in age alteration, it was important that he was always able to recognise himself in the mirror. He hadn’t given too much thought to it over the years, but the advice seemed more pertinent now that she was gone. Memories of her tore at his chest and he looked away from the screen, refusing to allow whoever was watching him to share his private moment.

  In the kitchen, Bill filled his coffee pot with water, then added fresh granules to the machine and brewed some coffee the old-fashioned way. A delicious aroma filled the room as the black liquid streamed into the pot. He licked his lips. He knew his addiction was becoming a problem, and for some reason the coffee didn’t taste as good when he was taking Actigen, pills that allowed him to skip sleep. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a decent night’s sleep—two years, since Isla’s disappearance—and tonight would be no exception. The Indigene’s meeting was anticipated for the following morning and, if World Government intel was correct, it would occur in the hour after dawn. What worried him most was the way the Indigenes, unable to survive in the temperatures on the surface, had figured out a way to surface safely.

  The coffee pot finally sizzled and Bill filled his favourite “I heart Boston” mug to the brim; Isla had bought it for him in an antique shop a few years back. He ran a finger over the cracked rim and examined the heart design; the red colour had largely faded where he had rested his fingers most frequently. He believed that the mug helped to focus his mind; or maybe it was just the coffee. Whatever the reason, it was an important link to his past and he vowed never to part with it.

  Adding cream substitute and artificial sugar to his steaming coffee, he settled on the sofa again. He placed his DPad on one knee while he balanced the mug on the other. He resumed his review of the government’s files on the alien race.

  The problem of the indigenous race was not an easy one to solve. With the conditions that prevailed on Earth there were only two options for humans: move to the new planet or die on the old one. The Indigenes were preventing full human integration into society, and he had long suspected they were responsible for Isla’s disappearance. Too many things didn’t add up. Now he would make them pay for that mistake.

  2

  With a dry mouth and feeling colder than normal, Stephen pondered the decision he was about to make. It would be the first time the Indigenes had tried anything like this. Exposing his fragile skin to the Exilon 5 sun could come at a hefty price. He could almost feel his translucent skin blister at the very thought of it: an uncomfortable build-up of heat that would begin in the pit of his stomach then spread to the rest of his body.

  Is that what it will be like when Indigenes burn?

  He had never stayed in the sun long enough to find out.

  Stephen paced the length of District Three’s laboratory. Previous attempts to make contact with Surface Creatures—the Indigenes’ name for the race that lived above ground—had always been at night when the darkness could give them protection. If this mission was a success, it could change the very essence of how the Indigenes lived. Everything had to go according to plan. He needed to get the information quickly, before a Surface Creature noticed him in their world.

  Shadow People.

  It was what the Surface Creatures’ offspring called the Indigenes. The name was right, he felt, because some of his kind hunted more than just animals in retaliation for what the surface dwellers had done to their race. He understood the reasons that fuelled the predatory motives of those who could not forget the past. In weaker moments, he considered joining them on their nightly hunts. After the land explosions, and with so few of the Indigenes surviving the blasts, he cared little for their children. Stephen had been friends with Anton since they were young Evolvers, but Anton was not scarred by events of the past. Stephen had witnessed the land explosions and the early changes to their society; changes that had later killed his parents. But Anton, born after the initial horror, was not consumed by feelings of revenge like some of the others. Like he was, on occasion.

  The district tunnels that ran underneath Exilon 5’s surface had preserved what was left of their species, giving them a chance to start again.

  Stephen tried on the artificial skin designed by Anton, but it felt strange to him; an additional layer that weighed almost nothing. Changing his appearance bothered him but he needed to blend in if he was to carry out his mission successfully. He brushed his fingers against his face and the delicate silicone yielded to his gentle touch. How could something so fragile feel so heavy? He was not ashamed of his appearance, and was proud to be a unique member of a great society. But it was necessary to change, for them; the physical differences were too great.

  The Surface Creatures had controlled life on Exilon 5 for too long. What happened the following day could shift the power back into the Indigenes’ hands.

  He had been close to them before; so close he could feel the heat from their warm-blooded bodies. His hatred of them made his blood temperature rise, but not as high as theirs. They never reacted well to his presence. His body emitted a static electricity that irritated them. The Surface Creatures could withstand the sun’s strength; their skin was less transparent and capable of dealing with fluctuations in temperature, something Stephen’s body would not allow. The silicone skin was designed as much to protect his natural skin as to disguise those differences.

  The Indigenes carried different abilities. Anton’s skill was manipulating technology; in particular, the technology that belonged to the Surface Creatures. He had discovered an alternative use for their silicone skin. Surface-Creature literature declared its main use, in its original state, was to make deep-sea diving suits lighter, while other materials protected the wearer from the effects of abnormal pressures. Anton had found a way to alter the molecular structure of the silicone to make the artificial skin lightweight and wafer-th
in, and with the ability to cool upon touch. He had also added pigmentation so that it resembled the Surface Creatures’ opaque appearance. While the skin worked well, there were still obvious flaws; the uneven density didn’t allow natural light to penetrate it. There would be a degree of anonymity, but how much Anton couldn’t say.

  Stephen and Anton had been a pair of curious Evolvers back when the Surface Creatures had begun to occupy Exilon 5. They had watched from a distance while large cranes removed pallets of materials from smaller spacecraft. A piercing screech had filled the air as their equipment drilled downwards. Fires, from burning materials, released noxious gases. The sound of yelling filled the void the drills left when they weren’t running. To the relief of all in the districts, the Surface Creatures had not drilled down far enough to discover the beating heart of the planet. Central Council had not been able to guess how many Surface Creatures had arrived that day or now lived on Exilon 5; only that the numbers were far greater than their own population. For the Indigene race, which had existed for ten thousand years, this was the first species to arrive on Exilon 5 and attempt to take over the planet.

  Stephen focused his mind on the current task and grabbed an air filtration device from the table. In another tunnel not far from the laboratory, he touched the rock face made of insignia, with its ability to trap cocoons of surface air in its wall. The rock vibrated in response. He set up a device powered by the amplifying strength of gamma rock in front of the wall. The device drew a single cocoon of air from the wall and stretched it until it was large enough for Stephen to stand inside.

  He drew in a deep breath from District Three’s strictly controlled atmosphere and opened his hand. The air filtration device came in three pieces, clear in colour. He fitted the two smaller pieces into his nasal cavities and the third larger piece at the back of his throat. He pushed through the cocoon until he was inside.

  The first breath of contaminated air burned his lungs and he waited for the single-charge micro filter to restrict the flow of oxygen to his lungs. When the device caught up to his air requirements, he exited the cocoon and carefully removed it. He remembered Anton’s warning about the one-hour time limit. He could swap a depleted device for a new one, but not without risking contamination to his lungs. Anton’s team was working on a better, rechargeable version using the body’s kinetic energy, but it would be months before it would be ready for production.

  Stephen leaned against the wall and tried to think of what advantages he had over the Surface Creatures, things that would guarantee his safety the following day: speed, strength. As far as intellect went, the Indigenes fared better, but the Surface Creatures had a better understanding of cunning and deception that put him at a disadvantage. He pushed away from the wall and paced the length of the tunnel. What else could he use? His vision?

  An Indigene’s vision worked best in low levels of light; it allowed them to make sense of the dark. It was why they preferred the surface at night; the tactic they had used early on in their need to find out more about the Surface Creatures.

  Stephen recalled one night mission, ordered by Central Council, when three of them had surfaced, dressed in cheap costumes and without the silicone skin to protect their identity.

  They had approached the city border for New London and wandered the streets looking for willing individuals to question. They spotted seven of them—all children—standing outside a replication terminal building. Stephen had caught the smell of alcohol long before they were close enough to smell it on their breath. They stopped a short distance from the children.

  The atmosphere changed as whispers replaced the loud chatter. The boys had been curious about the three oddly dressed strangers, but Stephen sensed an underlying lack of trust. Being this close to them had left him feeling skittish and unable to speak. What did he want to say exactly? Your parents are murderers and you will grow up to be one, too. Not exactly the best way to get them talking.

  To his relief, one of the other Indigenes spoke first. The innocent enquiries and retorts were bandied back and forth until the other two Indigenes changed tack, asking questions that were more personal. The boys whispered to each other, but the Indigenes’ sharp hearing allowed them to pick up everything they said.

  ‘Who the fuck are these losers?’

  ‘I know. I’m losing me buzz.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s show these clowns what dirt tastes like.’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘I wanna go home.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Jason. Everybody’s stayin’ put.’

  ‘D’ya think they’re some kind o’ military?’

  ‘Dunno. They’re not wearing uniforms.’

  ‘Don’t wanna to get into no trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Jason. Do as I say.’

  ‘Seven against three. Easy.’

  The children surrounded them, forcing Stephen to take a step back. It was an irrational thing to do—he was stronger and faster—but the way they circled him had put him on edge.

  They attacked, arms flailing and legs kicking, fuelled by a mixture of alcohol and stupidity. Before the boys’ punches could reach them, Stephen bolted, and the other Indigenes had the good sense to follow. They listened from a safe distance.

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘It’s like them Shadow People I keep hearing ‘bout.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. That’s just legend. A story to scare the little kiddies so they don’t fall ‘sleep.’

  ‘No, I heard them people’s real. They hunt late at night and they eat kids and adults if they sleep. Sometimes they catch them out here.’

  ‘That doesn’t even make sense, Jason. We’re out here ev’ry night, and I haven’t seen no Shadow People.’

  ‘Well what’dya call them people just here then?’

  ‘Fucking losers.’

  It was the first time Stephen had heard the term “Shadow People” and Central Council had no idea who among their race was hunting Surface Creatures in such a brutal way. No matter what rumours existed about the Indigenes and their way of life, they had to be more careful. They needed a better plan.

  It was at the next council meeting that Stephen had presented his own plan to District Three’s Council elders, Pierre and Elise. He put forward a bolder, more daring strategy that would mean surfacing during the day. Pierre had seen the logic in his plan while Elise, Pierre’s wife, had not.

  But Stephen had a target in mind: a boy he’d been watching for a while who was not aggressive like the earlier targets, and was always alone. He explained to the elders how he planned to use the boy’s natural curiosity to gain his trust. Pierre’s faith in him had swung the votes of the representatives.

  Even though the idea of being close to the Surface Creatures made his skin crawl, Stephen had worked hard to mimic their movements. He had no choice: he had to immerse himself in their lives. The target must not become suspicious.

  He took out a box and rummaged through the items that had been ‘acquired’ from the Surface Creatures over the past few months. He fished out a thumb-sized digital recorder that Anton had stolen from a female’s bag; the tiny recorder measuring the size of his thumbnail.

  He moved to an adjoining room off the tunnel where he’d tested the air filtration device. It was a square area with a metal table in the centre, flanked by two chairs. A soft hue illuminated the white walls, the light feeding through a shaft linked to tiny solar-powered discs embedded into the wasteland above. He placed the tiny recorder on the floor, near one of the table legs, then waved his hand over the device and the first of the recordings began.

  A high-resolution 3D image of the restaurant burst out of the device, filling the otherwise plain room with a low light. The wall’s surface bounced the images back into the room. Stephen watched through pale Indigene eyes as Cantaloupe restaurant came into focus. It felt foreign to him to sit in a place where people served you
food. Stephen had never eaten anything he hadn’t killed himself, but the decline of the primoris—a native animal on Exilon 5—had forced their race to seek alternatives to a raw-meat diet that was rich in iron. Animal hunting satisfied a primal urge but was no longer necessary to survive; a synthesised protein substitute kept them alive. The animals the Surface Creatures had brought with them tasted strange; the composition of their blood was different. In the end, the taste of warm blood and fresh meat from the new animals was enough to suppress their desires, even if it didn’t satisfy their hunger.

  Stephen took a seat at the table and aligned his body to mirror one half of a Surface-Creature couple, immersing himself into their timeline as they ate. It was unnatural for him to sit; he preferred to stand. He gripped the steel edges of the chair and studied the recording, observing the way they used their hands to gesture. He listened intently to their conversation. When he watched the Surface Creatures through recordings like this, he could be clinical in his observations; no hate, or panic or fear to get in his way. His lips moved in perfect synchronicity with theirs. Their hands danced, almost as if they were conducting a musical score. He picked up the pattern easily enough. He had replayed the scenario so often he could recite every movement by heart. But he planned to watch it right up to the break of dawn, when he would finally leave for the surface.

  Anton had recorded the scene a month ago. Even in his disguise, he thought the Surface Creatures had noticed him, but nobody approached other than the female attendant who’d asked if he was ready to order. A lone male in his forties sitting by the window had watched him for a while before returning to his private solitude.

  The recording looped, and he looked beyond the couple eating dinner. A much older male sat to his right.