Zoic

ZOIC

James Bottom

Copyright 2004 James Bottom

Smashwords Edition

For Mum, Dad and Brother

Prologue

This world was dead. Nothing lived here. Too burnt, too dark, too cold. There was no capacity for life. It drifted, almost invisible. It could only be seen as its silhouette blocked out the light of distant stars. There was nothing to illuminate this world. This planet had no star. It drifted through space forever. Falling, always falling.

Not how it started. Once, it had been the only world orbiting a small, red dwarf sun. These two bodies had made up a micro system of their own, spinning, gripping each other. The star was barely larger than the world itself, but it gave off enough energy to bring it to life. It had created a vastly diverse environment from its own fire. Even in the high levels of ultraviolet radiation, life managed to flourish. First, amino acids in stagnant pools of poisonous liquid. Much later, bacteria and protozoa. Complex animals with dense exo-skeletons for protection from the star. They showed intelligence. Promise.

Slowly, life; robust and brutal as it was, began to claw out a niche. The world had lived. Given time, the things that lived here might achieve . . . anything.

Too late. Dealt a bad hand by fate, theirs was cut short. When the star died, nothing on the planet stood any chance of survival. The sun waned, and missing its influence, the world was cast into the emptiness of space as if released from a sling. It gained enough distance to remain intact even when its atmosphere was blasted away by radiation, and all the living matter withered in the flames of a supernova. The planet turned molten, then quickly froze in the hard cold vacuum that would last forever.

What remained of the living had pressed into hard crystals of carbon, littering the surface.

Perhaps it was inevitable that the world would move towards other systems. Caught by the hints of gravity from stars hundreds of light years away, the lost planet began to drift towards one of the nearest. It took millions of years but eventually, by complete chance, it began to approach an area of space called, by those who lived there, the Vapour Heights, and a system called Bune. A system with two living worlds, twins: Ryune and Kessen, both populated by the same species, who, in the greater picture, had just learned to move beyond their home world.

Chapter 1: Dead Drop

Off in the distance, a mist had rolled in from the sea. The skyline on the far side of the central plaza was now obscured, tower block windows, where people still worked as the sun went down, were sharp points of light, the colour radiating out, bleeding into the low cloud. Bright dots, hanging in an orange glow. It looked, to Ulan Ladat, an avid stargazer and space geek, like a stellar nursery. A place where stars were born.

From his position under the tramway awning, he could see the city square was all but empty. The worst of the rush-hour traffic had melted away an hour ago, leaving only stragglers making their way home. At this time of day, this centre of financial and commercial activity was typically deserted. Low visibility, gentle rain rippling shallow pools on the platform. Perfect conditions for this kind of operation.

His hand gripped the briefcase handle tighter and he turned for the steps. Ulan had picked it up from a live drop back on the tram. The case passed between them with only a nod. According to the instructions he’d received the previous evening, this was the final stretch. This case, whatever it was, whatever was inside, Fletcher wanted it stashed in a room of the Hannot Hotel. For one hundred kams an hour, Fletcher could have it stashed anywhere he liked, Ulan didn’t care, just as long as they still paid travel time. He’d left early, taken a scenic route to the live drop. Fletcher never made a fuss when it came to signing timesheets, just so long as he was on time.

Besides, this was the last leg after all, he could afford to walk slow. Nobody to meet; to hand over to, this was a dead drop. He was probably being cocksure. Lower level ops did the courier runs, the hand-to-hands. The more experienced players, who’d been around for a few years were trusted with the pick-ups, the dead drops. He’d been tasked with two or three in the last few months, now this was his second in a week. Things could be looking up. And why not? Ulan had done his share of shitty details. He’d been the guy freezing his balls off on a corner before. Once, he’d dressed as a vagrant and lived under a bridge for a week. Just watching a warehouse across the river. Keeping track of who came and went. He was a good watcher.

Let the new kids fill in, Ulan had seen a lot of fresh faces lately. At thirty-two, with nine years in, he felt like one of the old men at times.

Nine years.

The rain was coming in harder now. Stung his face. It made him think of a question Fletcher had asked him, right at the beginning.

He still didn’t know if he’d given the right answer.

*

'Would you rather stand in the rain, or feel no pain?'

Ulan screwed up his face. Of all the . . . what the hell?

Fletcher peered over the tablet, looking bored. 'Just answer the question.'

It had been the strangest day. He woke early when a call came through, a summons for a work placement. Ulan hadn’t seen enough hours lately and was starting to worry about the rent, so he threw on some clothes eagerly, smart, but not overly. He barely got any details from the curt voice on the line, so he had no idea what kind of work was on offer. Didn’t make any difference really. Since leaving college with average results, he’d worked in just about every setting there was to mention; Corporate offices, manual labour, never anywhere for more than a year. Such was the life of a transient temp. While the constant change was good, constant bills were not, so he was glad to get a call from one of the many agencies he registered with.

As he left his tenement, he realised the woman on the phone hadn’t told him which one she worked for. Funny. It was normally the first thing they’d say. He shrugged it off. He’d find out on payday.

The office Ulan had been directed to was in a two-storey concrete block in a dilapidated part of the industrial area, the outskirts of the city. All he had was the address, and a contact name, not even the name of the company, but he knew the area. One or two years earlier he’d worked at a small mechanical repair firm only minutes away. Still remembered the tram route to get here.

The door was open, and seeing no sign of life, he took the steps two at a time to the upper floor. Three people were dressed in suits, another wore plain clothes. They looked up from their filing or typing as he entered. Filing, with paper. Who even used paper anymore? What kind of third-rate company was this?

He smiled, 'looking for Mr Fletcher?'

One of them waved him through to a door at the back. As he entered, a grey-haired man, his chin dusted with a short beard looked up. He grinned at Ulan like he already knew him, greeted him by name. It wasn’t until he’d been shown to a seat opposite that he noticed a police badge on the man’s desk. Unusual, yes, but surely, on occasion, police needed temps too.

Right away Ulan guessed it was an admin assistant they needed. A small detail like this, working outside of department headquarters? An undercover unit perhaps? Interesting. Interview might be a little tougher than most, but they’d want to vet whoever the agency sent, wouldn‘t they?

After the standard introductions, Fletcher began, with a test, he told him. The policeman picked up a tablet from his desk and began to read.

From the start Ulan could see no sense to the line of questioning. 'Which is better, going out, or coming home? Given a choice, would you live under the sea, or on the moon?' They went on for half an hour, each as impenetrable as the last. Was it some kind of personality test? Then this, the latest question, and Ulan had reached the limit of exasperation.

Would you rather stand in the rain, or feel no pain? He really didn’t know what to say.

Fletcher smiled to put him at ease. 'The first answer that comes to mind.'

Well, fuck it, he already considered this a bust. He’d been inarticulate through the whole ordeal. He was probably expected to answer these ridiculous questions with some kind of meaningful response. Instead he’d only managed to be monosyllabic. Muttering single word answers like a imbecile. This was the worst interview he’d ever experienced. Instead of giving the answer he thought Fletcher wanted to hear, liked he tried to do with the others, now he would do as asked, and go with instinct.

Uncommonly, Ulan liked the rain. It was something about how it changed people’s behaviour, something that amused him. Being made largely of water, it always seemed odd to Ulan how people shied away from it. They’d hunch up and look down, as if the puddles they tried to avoid were waist deep. Their world would shrink down to an area a few feet in front of them. It made people . . . less likely to notice things. Yes, that was it. When the rain closed in, so did everyone’s awareness.

And so he answered.

Fletcher looked amused at this too.

The questions went on, but he was relaxed now, and talked without thinking of the outcome. He still thought he’d failed, but it was liberating, not to care. It felt like they’d reached a turning point. The questions went on, for another hour? Perhaps longer. Fletcher tapped on his computer tablet every now and then. He began to recognise a similar tone develop. Did his answers determine the questions which followed? Concepts pulled into focus as more and more were asked. Themes of . . . alienation, isolation. Being on the outside, looking in. When Fletcher was finished, he stood, picking up his coat.

'Let’s take a walk.' He said.

*

By now he had reached the front doors of the hotel which fronted onto the square. A doorman open for him, with a smile and friendly welcome. Ulan made a conscious effort to smile back, to say hello. It might have been the first time he’d spoken in days, to anyone other than himself, at least. Ulan scanned the lobby, took inventory of every person he could see. He didn’t bother with the front desk, he knew where he needed to be, already had the key. Seventh floor, at the end of the hall. He crossed quickly to the elevators, before any more employees could engage him in small-talk. Inside, when the doors closed, he sighed relief.

Nobody could fault the location though, The Hannot had the highest rating achievable for a hotel, the spacious lobby and wide hallways were incredibly furnished and when he reached the room, it was the most impressive Ulan had ever seen. A white marble hallway lead into a central lounge, large enough to contain the first apartment Ulan had ever rented. A magnificent balcony beyond the window overlooked the square he had just crossed. Four bedrooms branched off from the lounge, each had their own bathroom. He spent a few minutes just looking around.

Snap back to reality. This wasn’t his room and he certainly wasn’t meant to meet it’s occupant. That was the purpose of a dead drop. He put the case down on an expansive couch in the lounge, and left. It felt wrong to linger here.

Riding the elevator back down, he still couldn’t resist smiling to himself. It was a far cry from living under a bridge. He could grow accustomed to this sort of thing.

The floor numbers dropped away, were about to reach the letter L when a thump vibrated through the walls. The tiny room jerked to a halt. The lights went out. He was trapped, alone, in the dark. Muffled by the metal doors, somewhere beyond, he could hear a fire alarm ringing.

*

'The problem we have,' he was saying 'is one of manpower.'

They had gone outside so Fletcher could smoke, they each had a coffee from the small kitchen upstairs.

'The office I run here is Echelon One, do you know what that is?' Ulan shook his head. 'Simply, Echelon One is the information gathering arm of the police. The raw product we receive here, goes on to Special Investigations, Major Crimes, Illegal Substances. Whoever it may concern, but my job is recruiting and handling people, and enough of them, so the product keeps coming in.

'Sure, there are all kinds of fancy toys these days, you take for example the new smart listening devices. Not only are they microscopic, they can fly themselves a hundred metres to where you need them to be. Only problem is, they cost three million and they can be detected by a swarm of firmbots that you buy for fifty kams, you know, the little aerosol cans?' He mimed a spray can, Ulan nodded. 'Or you can just pick up the signal using the right software on your phone. Jam it using ultra wide-band interference. All of this stuff is commercially available.

'The irony is, the abundance of technology we have today, often leaves only the most low-tech option available. You wouldn’t think it, but the basics haven’t changed since they were invented thousands of years ago. Informants, couriers, observers. This is where the best product comes from. This is how you store it, move it. Not electronically. Hell, some of the gangs we go after have better tech guys than we do. Last month, the entire police network was down. A cyber attack cracked it wide open. We couldn’t do anything. You see us using paper upstairs? You can’t hack a hardcopy.'

Ulan was rapt. This was a lot to absorb in a few minutes. The dirty laundry of the city’s finest? Why was he pouring his heart out to somebody he just met? And here it came . . . .

'Echelon One needs people, Ulan. People like you.'

'People like me?' He frowned heavily. 'Because I took your ridiculous test? What does that say about me? Is this some kind of prank?'

Fletcher blew smoke through his nose. He wasn’t joking, Ulan could tell. 'I know all about you. I ran a background check before you were invited here today. Tell me if I’m wrong:

'You’ve worked in a lot of different places, but never anywhere for long. You never entirely fit in, do you? You can walk like them, you can talk like them, but you’re not like them, are you, Ulan? You’ve never felt like there is any world you belong to. You try, for a while, then it just feels like you’re in the wrong place and just . . . move on. I’m right, aren’t I?'

He could feel himself flush with heat, becoming angry.

'You’re quiet, distant. Not the easiest person to talk to. Bet you know what people are thinking though, don’t you? Bet you look at them, turn them over in your head, figure them out, come to see what they’re seeing. Predict how they might act even.'

'This is a nice, roundabout way of calling me a misfit, isn’t it?' he gave a wry smile.

Fletcher still looked serious. 'It’s a skill. There are elements of high emotional intelligence. You’re a people watcher, Ulan. Dispassionate, maybe, but you can pull their strings, without them pulling on yours. You even enjoy it, don’t you?'

He didn’t say anything. He felt like those strings were being pulled hard now. Fletcher made him sound like a psychopath or something. The worst thing was, elements rang true. He’d never voiced these things. Even to himself. What kind of aberration was he?

'It’s not that there’s anything wrong with you,' Fletcher told him, 'it’s just a personality type. My point is, what makes you so unsuited to the rest of the world, also makes you perfect for Echelon One field work.

'You might be called upon at any hour. It can be dangerous, Ulan. Operatives can be injured, even killed, but we’ll prepare you, train you the best we can, and it’s rewarding. Immensely rewarding. Knowing you’ve played a part in reducing crime. Keeping people safe. You’ll never have any recognition, but it does pay generously.

'I want you to think on this, Ulan, and when you decide, you come back here, to the office.' He went to go back inside, then turned and pointed. 'Whatever you choose, I will say this: Be true to your nature.'

Then he was gone.

Ulan was alone in the street, still holding his mug. Felt like a mug. Like he’d just met a real puppet master who knew he’d bring it back.

It really wasn’t difficult to decide. Not any world to belong to.

He returned the next morning.

*

And he had been right. It had been rewarding, at first. Ulan had helped put away some serious characters. He’d sat at a crowded bar and drank with known killers without a bead of sweat forming, knowing the details of their grisly exploits.

Along with dozens of other ghosts like himself, he helped bring down a notorious crime syndicate in the city. An empire built on people smuggling and prostitution, even of minors. He followed their members, built a picture of their organisation, established trends. When Major Crimes took over and made their move, every high-ranking member was picked up. Including the head man, who until that point nobody had been able to identify, along with all of his lieutenants.

The arresting detectives received commendations. Fletcher, his staff and his ghosts had their own celebration at the office, well into the night. It was the proudest moment of his life.

A few years in and Ulan was buying drugs from low-level dealers working out of shipping and receiving, too small a catch for Illegal Substances to assign officers to, but Echelon had a lot of people. His identity was a secret, even from the police. If he had been caught, he would be looking at real jail-time for possession. No bail-out from his handlers. Nothing to compromise the office. Getting caught out by the dealers would have been worse. With no wires or electronics, he could never be traced if anything went wrong. It was made clear at the start, he was on his own.

The quantities he asked for was more than they could deliver, hoping to flush out their suppliers, but he never asked for an introduction. Eventually, smelling an opportunity, they came to him.

By the time the regional drug squad could take on the case, it was open and shut. Dozens of arrests were made. If Echelon had not done all the leg work early on, there would have been no case at all.

It wasn’t always clear cut. He was sent to watch a woman at her home. After a couple of nights, he knew she wasn’t a crook, could feel it. Going off assignment, against orders, he did some digging of his own, followed her to work. She was a journalist. She’d been writing articles about corruption in the city. Collusion between officials and wealthy entrepreneurs. He confronted Fletcher, who seemed receptive to his concerns, but found himself tasked to something else the following day. No doubt someone else rotated on, taking his place. He felt like he hadn’t won any points with that one.

Year or two later, Ulan sat in a circle of fifty-something activists, wondering what the hell he was doing. These people were harmless. They planned a demonstration outside a corporate office, to draw attention to their employment policies. His handler on this, a younger man, subordinate to Fletcher, hinted that it might be useful should the group turn violent on the day. Give the police a reason to run them all in. Ulan was appalled by the suggestion of acting as a provocateur. In the event, he didn’t inform the office when the demo was on. It went ahead as planned. Twenty people handcuffed themselves to the main entrance of the company headquarters for twelve hours. It made the national news.

Ulan got chewed out for that one. He claimed to have missed the meeting where they decided the date and time, but he doubted anyone believed him. He didn’t care anymore. The idealism of the early days had long faded. By now he knew the authorities weren’t really about maintaining law and order. It was more about maintaining the status quo. Everything they had done on crime felt like . . . problem management. Administrative. Progress was never made. All the people they put away, only a fraction were the violent, dangerous type. Most of them were desperate, misfortunate people who had made some bad choices along the way, and never stopped paying for it. They were replaced overnight.

Eventually it was about the paycheque. It was a job. It covered the bills. He was just like anyone else. The enthusiasm he’d started out with felt like a foolish, long-forgotten dream.

*

It wasn’t the dark, or the confinement that bothered him most. It was the fucking alarm. The rattle that shook the building. What was that? The doors opened onto the lobby. Only a few seconds had passed. It was enough time for Ulan’s mind to reach the worst places. Please no.

He stepped out. People were already heading for the exit.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I need you all to leave quickly please, through the main entrance,' this from the clerk behind the desk. She picked up the handset of a telephone, started keying numbers.

Please no. He was paranoid. He always thought the worst, but it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

Out in the street, the doorman wasn’t helping anyone leave. He stood a few metres away from the doors, walking backwards. He was looking up at the building. Rule out a goods vehicle slamming into the building. Rule out a subway crash under the hotel. No, they wouldn’t. Not this.

Ulan burst out onto the street, pushing past someone. A crowd was already forming. He followed their gaze. Up the tower, black smoke and flames poured from a massive hole in the hotel. Broken windows. Screaming. Somebody in the street was injured. Ulan pinpointed the centre of the damage, counted the levels. Seventh floor. The fire was concentrated on the seventh floor. Debris crunched underfoot. Glass had been thrown out across the plaza. An explosion.

Cold dread tied his stomach in a knot. Already there was no doubt in his mind. This was a bomb. He had delivered it.

Without being aware of the fact, he was already moving away from the building. Ulan needed to get far away, quickly. If he brought the bomb, then he was the patsy. Somebody with a grudge against society. It wouldn’t be difficult to sell this idea to the public. He’d spent time living rough, using drugs, they would say. He was a dangerous, angry loner. The shear scale of betrayal, from Fletcher, from all of them at Echelon One was numbing. He needed to get away, but one man, running from this would draw attention.

Another mob had formed around a street vendor a few metres ahead. People emerged from neighbouring buildings to join them. Ulan melted into the back of the group. Sirens could be heard in the distance. They meant to capture him. Or kill him. That would be neater. Never given the chance to speak. Laid out on a slab. Yes, they probably meant to kill him.

A police officer ran past, bolting for the hotel. There were usually officers on foot patrol here at any hour. Ulan needed to cause enough chaos in the next few minutes to slip away.

'Did he say it was a dirty bomb? Is that what he said?' Ulan spoke above the crowd, nodding towards the policeman.

Amongst the assembled, it spread like wildfire.

'Dirty bomb?'

'Don’t be stupid,'

'Is that what he said?'

'. . . . Would never be able to tell. . . .'

'Radioactive?'

'Did somebody tell you that?'

'Oh my god,'

'Who told you that?'

People from this part of town were usually hard-bitten cynics. But they valued their lives. Ulan wasn’t the first to run, he wasn’t the last either.

'They’re saying it’s radioactive!' A voice shouted across the square.

Suddenly people were hurrying away. Not everybody ran. But enough. Enough so he wouldn’t stand out. Somebody fell, on the steps to a subway station. Other people stepped over them, kept running, more tripped and fell. Panic had taken the crowd.

Ulan didn’t feel anything. Couldn’t yet. They’d want him dead. If a few people got some bruises, or broken bones, it was nothing. He kept running. Dozens of others were too. Bemused faces streaked past in a blur. Others told them what they thought was happening between giant, panic breaths. 'Poison gas . . . in the explosion!'

Looking back, he couldn’t see the hotel. It was darker now, with the sun almost gone. Fog cut visibility down to a hundred metres. Police cars screamed in his direction, sirens and strobes blazing. They would set up a cordon, Ulan knew. He spent a lot of time tipping off the police. Knew how they would react, and how quickly. The cars passed by. Wherever they would set up their line, he was already outside it. He could afford to slow down again, catch his breath.

Inside the police perimeter, they wouldn’t let anybody out, not without statements being taken. Ulan had sprinted three blocks, but so far, had escaped. He wouldn’t be canvassed by the police, they didn‘t even notice him. Further on, people still ran. Others joined when the word reached them. There were still shouts of radioactivity and biological weapons.

He zigzagged through minor streets and alleyways, thinking of his next move. Forget the money he had accumulated in several different accounts. Accessing those would only bring them down on his head. He was paranoid enough to withdraw cash in small amounts over the years. Had it stashed around the city. There was a locker at the maglev station, only a short walk from here. Get to a country where extradition was complex. There was enough money for a few years, if he lived modestly. Blend in. They’d never see him again. He would need a false passport. That wasn’t a problem.

Over the years he had cultivated his own network of petty criminals. Users, low-level dealers, forgers. Obviously he couldn’t trust them, but they thought of him as one of them, a friend. He used them to tap useful information. As long as they weren’t dangerous, he wouldn’t give them up. Not to anyone. Besides, they might one day be useful to him.

He was approaching the station when he heard it. The electric hum of a gravity drive. A police hopper, a big ugly storage container floated overhead. It drifted over to the station’s parking area, suspended by its spherical drive units. A black glass canopy glistened on the nose, but Ulan couldn’t see inside. As it touched down, sliding doors on the sides opened. Armed police moved towards him, covered head to toe in body armour. There was no mistaking their purpose. Ulan stopped. He didn’t feel like struggling. Why cause a scene?

Of course he was never going to get away. The centre of Lancet had more camera coverage than the rest of the country combined, Ulan thought. They wouldn’t leave his escape to chance. Probably had him as soon as he left the hotel, been on him the whole time.

It was amazing he’d made it this far.

As they took him away in the lifting hopper, he could see back across the city, the way he had come. Over and above the skyline, near the square, bright fires hanging in an orange glow.

Eyes of the World

Diplomacy suffered a further setback last night after delegates from Ryune and Kessen stormed out of talks concerning the third draft of the Anox Treaty. Independent observers urged the parties to reconcile so negotiations could continue, however, we've just heard that the chairman has adjourned proceedings for the time being. Historically, the conference has been the venue where diplomats renew the test-ban agreement into powerful anti-matter warheads, the most powerful weapons since the atomic age. If members are unable to reach an agreement, research into these weapons may no longer be prohibited.

Chapter 2: Echelon

They had flown . . . north? Maybe six, seven hours. He wasn’t sure. It was so dark now, the windows on the hopper only reflected the interior, lit up in red running lights. Some of the men had taken off their masks. Even gave him a grim smile, but they didn’t speak, even to each other. Probably ordered not to. Ulan didn’t feel like speaking either. He doubted they were police. A black ops hit squad maybe? Sounded far fetched, but what else was waiting for him below? An unmarked shallow grave in the wilderness. He wasn’t meant to be alive.

A brief feeling of weightlessness told him they were making a sudden descent. So this was it. Fuck you Fletcher.

Wheels bumped on what felt like a hard, even surface. The power to the G-drives whined down. The men around him stood and turned to the rear hatch. All of them had their back to him and started to file out of the vehicle. He wasn’t even handcuffed. What was this?

The last one out turned to him. 'Come on,' he waved. Baffled, Ulan got to his feet and walked to the ramp.

Lights and low buildings were all around them. The hopper sat on a landing pad. Six inches of snow covered every surface. His breath hung in the air. God it was freezing. He only wore a thin coat over a t-shirt. The men who had abducted him were already walking into the nearest square building, the last one looked back again, to make sure he was following. The rest were uninterested.

So they might not be about to shoot him.

Dumbstruck, Ulan followed them inside.

It was a canteen area. The men in police uniforms clustered around a stainless steel cylinder with a tap on the front, laughing and talking to each other. They were queuing for cups of coffee. The banality of it left him speechless. Once they had all left the room through another door, their voices fading down a hallway, Ulan helped himself to a cup, and sat down at a table.

It was a few minutes before somebody came to find him. A man in a shirt and tie, maybe forty years old. He had come in from the cold too and wore a thick white greatcoat lined with fur.

'Ulan!' he smiled. 'Why don’t you come with me.' He held the door open for both of them.

*

The