Genesis Code (Genesis Book 1) Read online

He had been close to their kind before; so close he’d felt the heat from their warm-blooded bodies. His body emitted a static electricity that irritated them. It was a weak defence, but one nonetheless. The Surface Creatures’ skin could handle fluctuations in temperature, something Stephen’s body would not allow. He hoped the silicone skin would protect him from any surge in temperature.

  ‘It will,’ Anton replied to his thought. Stephen usually kept his private thoughts from others, but his current distractions made it hard to hide them from his friend.

  ‘Hey, do you remember when they first arrived on the planet?’ said Anton.

  Stephen nodded. ‘We were just a pair of curious Evolvers back then.’

  From a distance they had watched automated cranes remove pallets of materials from several spacecraft. A piercing screech had sounded while their equipment drilled downwards. Fires, from burning materials, had released noxious gases. The sound of yelling had filled the void the drills left when they weren’t running. But to everyone’s relief, the Surface Creatures had not ventured down far enough to discover the beating heart of the planet. Central Council could not guess how many Surface Creatures would follow after that day, but they soon outnumbered the Indigenes’ population. After ten thousand years of peace, the Indigenes had not prepared for the terraforming or the takeover of their planet.

  Stephen shook the negative thoughts from his mind and grabbed an air filtration device from the table.

  Anton clapped his hands once. I was wondering when you’d test this out.

  Stephen left the laboratory with a giddy Anton following close behind. In a nearby tunnel, he touched the rock face made of insignia. The rock, with its ability to trap cocoons of surface air in its wall, 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 stood inside.

  Anton watched—eyes wide and hands covering his mouth—as Stephen tested his equipment.

  The first breath of contaminated air burned Stephen’s lungs. 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.

  ‘I get just an hour with this thing?’

  Anton ignored his question. ‘How did it feel?’

  ‘Painful at first, but fine once the filter kicks in.’

  Anton looked relieved. ‘One hour. No more. You could swap a depleted device for a new one, but not without risking contamination to your lungs. My team and I are working on a better, rechargeable version using the body’s kinetic energy, but it could be months before that’s ready for production.’

  ‘This will work fine, Anton.’

  Fine? Anton switched to telepathy again. It’s the best thing I’ve invented, besides the skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anton. It’s perfect.’

  ‘It’s better than that. It will help to keep you safe.’

  Stephen had other skills that would do that. ‘I’m already the fastest runner in this district.’

  ‘No arguments there. But how about you stick to the time limit so you don’t need to test that out?’

  3

  The evening sun warmed Bill’s naturally aged skin. He relished the feeling on a planet thirty light years from the dark and gloomy Earth he’d left behind. On his walk back to his apartment, he passed by people enjoying Exilon 5’s sweet, clean air without the need for breathing masks or oxygen canisters. Not like on Earth where the poisonous air demanded them. Exilon 5’s sunny climate made it easy to forget that place ever existed. But it had been where Bill had met Isla. The bloated and poisonous planet would hold a part of him prisoner forever.

  Bill arrived at his ITF-issued apartment in the New Westminster area of New London. The hierarchy went: World Government, Earth Security Centre, and International Task Force. But the ITF, the people Bill worked for, were far from soft touches. Not when they had Deighton’s full backing to make sure protocol was followed.

  A chair dropped from a window above his head to the pavement, just missing him. Bill jumped out of the way and cursed.

  He looked up to see a man following up with a couple of garbage bags down after it.

  ‘This isn’t a fucking collection point,’ he shouted.

  The man flipped him off and slammed his window shut.

  Yeah, things were going great on this utopian planet.

  Bill grunted as he tossed the chair and both bags into the alley on top of more discarded waste. The cleaning autobots weren’t scheduled for a few days. Scheduled rubbish collections, like on Earth, was one of the World Government’s ill-thought-out plans to smooth the transition from old to new planet. But without anyone assigned to police the efforts, waste collection had become a problem.

  Bill pinched the end of his nose and hurried inside.

  Exilon 5 was supposed to be a fresh start for the human race. Six cities to start, each one a nod to their twin cities on Earth and a fraction of their size. Not enough to accommodate twenty billion people. Terraforming efforts had made the planet liveable in just five years, but only a fraction of the population had been transferred to Exilon 5 in the last twenty-five years.

  If the World Government was serious about transferring all inhabitants of Earth, then Exilon 5 needed more cities, more housing, more of everything.

  And better rules.

  With a heavy step, Bill climbed the stairs to the third floor where his apartment overlooked Belgrave Square Gardens, a close replica of the same gardens once seen in London on Earth. Green open spaces, taken over to build apartments on Earth, had been included in the city’s limited design plans.

  He opened his front door, but didn’t enter.

  His job as investigator made more friends than enemies. Bill had gotten used to living out of a suitcase and sleeping for two, maybe three, hours per night. The paranoia had become a steady companion in his fight against crime and desire to put things right.

  Hunting and catching bad people didn’t always live up to the sexy reputation it had garnered on Earth. Yeah, it felt good to put the bad guys away, but it was a lonely existence. Being good at his job had earned him a ticket to Exilon 5 and an opportunity to search for Isla. That’s all that mattered to him.

  He examined the apartment that looked the same as it had when he’d first moved into it, over a year ago. One sofa, one Light Box, and one kitchen table with four chairs next to the window made up his home. If he could even call it that. The kitchen, bedroom and bathroom were separate rooms. These apartments weren’t huge, but they beat the studio shoeboxes on Earth for size.

  Bill crept into his apartment. The virtual Light Box didn’t greet him; he’d disabled its security function. A thick layer of dust covered every surface—a tip from an informant. It made it easier to see when things had been moved. Old circular imprints from legs of chairs remained hidden. He sloped to the bedroom to check on the only thing of value: his suitcase. Hidden in his bedroom wardrobe, it contained personal items belonging to him and Isla.

  This apartment belonged to the ITF and was on their radar. So was his life. He kept what he could private.

  Gilchrist’s call still angered him. Bill had worked hard to separate himself from the politics and to focus on what mattered: learning more about the Indigenes and the location of their lairs.

  Caves. Wherever the savage creatures congregated.

  But her lack of faith in his ability had brought Isla into play, a topic Gilchrist knew was off limits. Her warning not to make a move on the Indigenes made him want to do the exact opposite.

/>   Watch and wait. Gather information, and strike at the right time.

  Yeah, it made sense. But this was no ordinary mission for him.

  Bill retrieved the files on the Indigenes from a wall safe hidden behind a bookshelf in his bedroom. To open the safe he scanned his identity chip and security chip, in his left and right thumb. To operate the digital pad and access the private folder containing the files, he repeated the steps.

  He returned to the living room with the DPad that was the size of his hand. The Light Box flashed once and he grunted. The first thing Bill did when he moved in to the apartment was to disable the virtual information system with programmable artificial intelligence. But the flash of light told him someone had found a way to reconnect it.

  One of Gilchrist’s people, no doubt. He’d already located some of the ITF’s 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. The head of the Earth Security Centre and Charles Deighton’s right-hand woman trusted nobody. She was another snake with a reputation for getting what she wanted. Bill had been vague about his reasons for wanting on this mission. Gilchrist’s pep talk earlier told him he was not hiding those reasons well enough.

  But he was their best investigator.

  Their best, ill tempered, wayward Scottish investigator who hated authority more than he did liars.

  And snakes.

  Bill set the DPad down on the glass coffee table and walked over to the Light Box. He studied his reflection in its shimmering facade that was a virtual representation of an actual screen. The skin around his tired eyes aged him more than the flecks of grey in his dark brown hair. Nothing a little genetic modification couldn’t fix. But Bill hated dishonesty, and those who modified their appearance were just lying to themselves. Deighton and Gilchrist were both huge fans of the treatment.

  It had been some feat to convince Gilchrist to put him on this mission. Given that Isla had disappeared on this planet he thought his chances were slim, but 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.

  Isla had once told him that no matter what advances were made in age alteration, he should always be 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. Thinking of her tore a new hole in his festering wound. He turned away from the screen, refusing to allow whoever watched him to see his grief.

  His hands shook again. Only one of two things could settle his jitters.

  In the kitchen he shunned the food replication machine, and made a pot of coffee the old fashioned way. He filled his “I heart Boston” mug to the brim, something Isla had bought for him in an antique shop a few years back. The aroma filled the room and he licked his dry lips. Actigen—pills that allowed him to skip sleep—and coffee were his go-to diet on missions. Sleep only made him dream of Isla, and he’d rather not think about what the Indigenes had done to her. He’d survived without sleep for the last two years. And that’s how he’d continue until he found her.

  Bill carried his mug with the cracked rim and faded heart back to the living room and his waiting files. The Indigene’s meeting was rumoured to happen the following morning and, if World Government intel was correct, it would occur in the hour after dawn. These cold blooded Indigenes with a low tolerance for high temperatures had found a way to surface safely.

  Bill wanted to know how.

  He placed his DPad on one knee and balanced the mug on the other. With a flick of his index finger the information from the screen presented in the space before him. He resumed his review of the government’s files on the alien race.

  The problem of the indigenous race was a difficult one to solve. Humans had to move to Exilon 5. It was either that or die on a resource-exhausted Earth.

  And just when everything looked like it might settle down, the Indigenes popped up out of nowhere. Even Gilchrist had been shocked.

  But not Bill. He knew they’d come. Intel reports had said bands of Indigenes were targeting humans during their nocturnal trips. He estimated it wouldn’t be long before they surfaced again.

  The wait was almost over. Soon, one of the creatures would make a mistake and walk right into Bill’s backyard. And when they did, he would be waiting.

  4

  Stephen leaned against the tunnel wall outside his lab. What advantages did he have over the Surface Creatures that would guarantee his safety the following day? Speed? Strength?

  The Indigenes fared better on intellect, but the Surface Creatures understood cunning and deception in a way that put him at a disadvantage. He pushed off 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 and was the reason they preferred hunting at night.

  Relax, said Anton leaning against the entrance to the lab. It’ll be fine.

  You wouldn’t say that if it were you going.

  Anton grinned. Yes, I would. I have faith in my inventions.

  Stephen hid his jealousy; his friend’s easygoing nature was hard to take sometimes. Seeing his parents die had made Stephen anxious about everything. But the upcoming trip was too important to mess up over his insecurities. Insecurities that made him want to tear the silicone skin from his face and cancel his plans. His last trip to the surface to study the Surface Creatures hadn’t gone so well. His group of three had used a cheap disguise and no silicone skin to hide their real identities.

  On the back of Central Council orders to find out more about them, his group had started their search just inside the city border for New London. Outside a closed food replication terminal building, they’d found group of seven boys. Even from a distance, he’d caught the pungent smell of alcohol in the air.

  Their approach reduced the boys’ loud chatter to whispers. A skittish Stephen hung back while the other two Indigenes moved closer.

  What could he say to them? How about, your parents are murderers and you will grow up to be one, too?

  Not exactly the best way to get them to talk.

  To his relief, one of the other Indigenes started the interrogation. The mood started out light, but turned heavy when the questions to the boys became more personal. Stephen’s finely tuned hearing allowed him to pick up the boys’ utterances.

  ‘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 boys came at them, arms flailing and legs kicking, fuelled by a mixture of alcohol and stupidity. Stephen retreated into the dark night. The other Indigenes followed. But instead of leaving, they stopped a short distance away and listened.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ said one boy.

  ‘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 don’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 whom among their race was hunting Surface Creatures. Any future contact with the race on the surface needed to be planned out.

  Why is Pierre letting you go and not me? Anton’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  Because it was my idea to target one of them during daylight hours.

  He must have been crazy to suggest such a thing. But all he could think about was avenging his parents’ death. To do that, he needed to learn more about the race’s weaknesses. While Pierre had agreed with his logic, Elise, Pierre’s wife and the second elder of District Three, had not.

  He had a target in mind: a loner boy who he’d been observing for a while. He’d promised Pierre he would use the boy’s natural curiosity to gain his trust.

  You’re not exactly the friendliest Indigene around, said Anton.

  Only two Indigenes could say that to him: Anton, and his other friend, Arianna.

  And the elders.

  I can pretend for a day.

  Stephen 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.

  ‘Took me a few tries to get that.’ Anton switched to his voice. ‘She kept moving her bag around. I had to move faster than she did.’

  Stephen located to a new room off from the tunnel where he’d tested the air filtration device. A metal table sat in the centre of the square shaped room, flanked by two chairs. A soft hue illuminated the white walls; the light was facilitated by tiny solar-powered discs embedded into the wasteland above. He placed the tiny recorder on the floor, near one of the table legs, and waved his hand over the device to start the first recording.

  A high-resolution 3D image of the restaurant burst out of the device, filling the otherwise plain room with a soft light. The wall’s surface bounced the images back into the room. Stephen watched as Cantaloupe restaurant came into focus. It felt strange to sit in a place where people served other people food. Stephen ate nothing he didn’t kill 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 rich in iron. Animal hunting satisfied their primal urge while 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 to the primoris. While the taste of warm blood and fresh meat from the new animals suppressed their desires, it did not satiate their hunger.