The Whisper of Stars (7 page)

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An hour later, Jen arrived at Callaghan’s house, the low rumble of her bike cutting through the silence of the leafy suburban street. She dismounted and looked up to see him standing just inside the front door. The wait had obviously been agonising for him.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he whispered nervously, peering up and down the street. ‘Your augmentation and comms – they’re turned off, right?’ He tapped his head.

‘Yes, I’m off-duty and offline.’ She did her best to hide a shiver of nervousness bursting over her back. He looked gaunt, almost skeletal, and his fear seemed to be catching. Callaghan stole one more look outside before shuffling inside, gesturing for her to follow. Jen hadn’t visited the house since his divorce, over two years ago. Back then it had seemed warm and homey; now it smelt stale, a bittersweet smell she associated with a lack of attention. In the hallway a cluster of family photographs still clung to the walls. Jen paused and studied them. Peter looked impossibly young and confident, taller even, and she realised how much he had changed over the last few years.

‘I do miss her.’ He was smiling, trying to conceal his obvious sadness.

Jen smelled the faint odour of whiskey on his breath and noted his growth of pepper-white stubble. She remembered the split: Callaghan always working, his wife leaving him for a man who showed her some attention. After the Harveys’ depressing tales of doomed marriage and infidelity, it appeared to be this month’s theme. All very predictable and sadly poignant, with Christmas just around the corner. During the silence that hung between them, Jen noticed the layers of dust covering most surfaces. She probably could have done more, checked in on him maybe.

‘At times I hate her for leaving.’ He stared blankly at the wall representing his past, eyes glassy, tone defeated. ‘But I don’t blame her.’

‘Peter.’ Jen asked gently, ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Yes… yes, of course.’ He seemed to physically shake the memories from his mind as he looked her dead in the eyes for the first time that evening. ‘Follow me.’

He continued down the hallway, stopping at an undersized door and gripping the handle. After an audible beep, the lock opened. On hearing the familiar sound, a large ginger cat appeared and proceeded to swirl and weave between Callaghan’s legs, purring loudly. He shushed it away, raising his eyebrows and smiling awkwardly before opening the cellar door and stepping through. Jen followed, instinctively placing a hand on her sidearm.

They descended dusty stone steps, lit poorly from above, the smell of oil and boot polish mixed with earth. At the base of the steps was another door, this one much larger and made of steel. Callaghan turned to face her, his eyes shining like black marbles in the half-light.

‘I need your help.’ He paused. ‘But what I am about to tell you could put you in further danger.’ He waited to be sure she understood the importance of those words.

‘I understand, Peter. You can trust me.’

The damp smell, wet ash and freshly dug earth, was more intense now and conjured memories. Jen recalled her childhood, the wine cellar at Brook Mill Farm, and felt a strangely familiar sensation, as though they had skipped a few seconds of time. She was struck with a sudden, undeniable certainty. She couldn’t explain how, but she knew whatever secrets were hidden behind this door would have deep significance for her.

‘I
know
I can trust you.’ He leant in close, eyes tightening. ‘But it’s not
you
I’m worried about.’

Chapter 13

The basement was a functioning laboratory, filled with expensive equipment and odd items of antique furniture, scattered without any sense of taste or consideration. This was a man’s den, a refuge, and Jen wondered if she might be the first women to set foot down here. She also suspected it might have played a part in his divorce. Too easy to come down here and hide. There were various machines, cooling fans whirring, data running down displays like rain. Callaghan closed the door, pulled two small leather chairs together and offered her a seat. Jen sat. He walked to an ornate wooden bureau, poured himself a whiskey and held another empty glass, raising his eyebrows at her. She declined his silent offer.

‘This room is completely secure,’ he said, sitting opposite her, his mood a little brighter.

She figured by
secure
he meant from surveillance, that they could talk freely. She observed him, his eyes a little bloodshot. He wasn’t drunk, though, he was using the whiskey to calm his nerves.

‘Okay, Peter,’ Jen said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

Callaghan licked his lips and swallowed, a click in his throat followed by a deep breath. He looked at her twice, seemingly unable to start talking. He smiled limply.

‘It’s alright,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘Start at the beginning.’

He rubbed his hands down his face and nodded, finally managing to get words to leave his mouth by staring at the floor and blinking.

‘I found things during my research into splintering, anomalies in brain patterns. Things that aren’t…’ He took a sip of his whiskey, wincing as it burned his throat.

‘Aren’t what?’

He replied reluctantly without looking up. ‘Aren’t. Right.’

‘Go on.’ Jen leant forward, placing her hand gently on his arm. ‘Tell me everything.’

He looked up briefly and smiled. ‘I ran some tests on our recent cases, using a new algorithm, something deeper. That’s when I found them.’ His right leg was jangling like a trapped eel. ‘The discrepancies.’

‘In English, Peter.’

‘I’m still trying to figure it out,’ he snapped, clearly frustrated, but then frowned, sighing. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, reaching for his hand. ‘You found discrepancies in brain patterns?’

‘Yes, they exist, like scars on top of memories.’ He held her gaze with a sudden intensity, his confidence returning. ‘But they don’t have an origination signature – they look like search echoes.’

Jen felt the knot in her stomach loosen slightly.

Search echoes.

She didn’t need to say a word. Her expression must have done enough, as though she was telling him off and pitying him all at once.

‘I know how it sounds,’ he snapped again, his voice childlike and defensive.

‘Do you though?’ Jen replied, remembering the years of debate.

In the beginning, people had been scared. Mind interfaces, augmentation, thought comms. They had been understandably concerned about thought privacy, but that was all in the past. All she had to do was reassure him, talk him down, make him see sense.

Callaghan stared into his glass.

‘You’re talking about mind searching,’ she said softly. ‘You know that, right?’

‘I thought it was a part of the splintering at first,’ Callaghan explained, undeterred. ‘But then Aldridge came along, you know, our guy under the train. I ran the test on him, and others, to –’

‘Others?’ she interrupted, working to process the information. ‘How many?’

‘It seems that if you’re a hibernator, you have them.’

That got Logan’s attention. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Of the people tested so far, only hibernators appear to have the echoes.’ He was more animated now, unable to help his enthusiasm even though the subject was clearly scaring him.

‘Don’t you think it’s unlikely that you, and only you, could have discovered this?’

‘Yes, okay, but once you know where to look…’ He trailed off.

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ she asked.

‘No, why?’ The question seemed to increase his nervousness.

‘Because you shouldn’t. The Symbiosis Act, Peter. It prevents all of this. Everything is bound by it. What you’re suggesting is impossible.’

Callaghan finished his whiskey and shrugged his shoulders. The Act ensured data was encrypted within the biological host, that it couldn’t be tampered with or interpreted in isolation.

‘I think someone has broken the rules,’ he said with resignation.

‘So what, then? They’re searching us right now, are they? They’re all in on it? Jim McArthur, Richards, the Prime Minister?’

Callaghan recoiled, and Logan instantly regretted the outburst.

He stood and began pacing the room. ‘I’d rehearsed this a few times. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t deny what I’ve found.’

There was a long silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jen said in a feeble attempt at a truce. ‘You need to understand how this sounds. Just, please don’t start screaming conspiracy. Let me do some digging. You can run some more tests. Just don’t do anything drastic.’

He nodded.

‘So, do you think they’re searching us now?’ she asked, as carefully as she could manage.

‘I don’t know. But I doubt it. I think it takes time. I think they do it during the Hibernation cycle.’

His tone, so matter-of-fact, is what scared her. This man she had known for years, Duality’s consultant of choice, trusted expert witness on a number of high-profile cases, seemed convinced of mind searching. She couldn’t stand by and watch him throw his career away on a half-baked theory. That’s when an idea came to her, so obvious she couldn’t believe it had taken until now to suggest it.

Jen said, ‘Test me.’

Peter stared at her.

‘I’m serious. I’ve hibernated for a year; I would have the search echoes. Can you do it? Here?’

‘I could try,’ he replied. ‘Yes. Probably.’

‘Then do it.’

He grabbed a small square device from the table next to him and tapped it, launching a holographic interface. She watched him work, his face complete concentration. Thirty minutes later, he was set up and ready.

‘Just relax and close your eyes, you won’t know a thing about it.’

Jen sat back in the chair and said dryly, ‘And tomorrow, you will wake up and realise how insane this all sounds.’

The scan took less than three minutes. Jen blinked and looked at him, unable to decide if his expression was confusion or fear.

He was rubbing one eye and repeating himself.

‘That can’t be right,’ he mumbled.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

Callaghan’s eyes tightened, and he shook his head.

‘For God’s sake, Peter, tell me,’ Jen shouted. ‘Did you find echoes?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, you’ve got them, you’ve got echoes, but there’s something else.’

‘What do you mean, something else?’ Her stomach was doing flips, the moment charged with a dark destiny.

He grabbed the screen, turning it towards her. ‘You can see it. There. It looks like a file, a memory, but it’s been buried really deep.’

In the centre of the scan was a highlighted section, words she couldn’t make out.

‘Is it like the echoes?’

‘No, those are searches; they’re quite weak. This is a full and complete memory. It looks like it’s been encrypted – and it’s been there a
long
time.’

Jen had heard of thought encryption, sometimes used by the military to avoid details falling into enemy hands. Was this similar? If so, surely Callaghan would know how to do decode it.

‘Can you unlock it?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

‘Is it Military?’

He paused and sighed. ‘I don’t think so. The encryption… I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Jen stood, peering over his shoulder at the offending, blinking dot. ‘Well, if it’s not one of ours, then who put it there?’

Callaghan didn’t answer. Instead, he gasped, hands pressed against his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘What now?’

‘It just disappeared.’ He turned to her, his expression confusion, face drained of colour. ‘I think it just unlocked
itself
.’

Chapter 14

Jen was on her rooftop looking out over a dark denim sky that bled into the orange glow of London. It was early on Sunday morning, and she couldn’t sleep. It had been three days since Callaghan’s
discovery
and she’d thought of nothing but that tiny flashing dot, the hidden memory and his claims that it had magically unlocked itself.

Three days and nothing.

She hadn’t
felt
anything – although, to be fair, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. What would a new memory feel like?

She shrugged. So many questions.
Who put it there? And why?
She was concerned about Peter, too. He had supported her on some very difficult high-profile cases, been a confidant, a friend, but in all their years she’d never seen him in such a state. In his profession, such outlandish theories could kill a career. He could be struck off within days, metaphorically hanged. If he persisted, Jen doubted she would be able to save him.

She felt a chill ripple up her back, sending gooseflesh over her arms. The night was sharp, and despite three layers, the cold was settling in. She decided to try T’ai Chi. It always helped her think, and she had plenty of that to do, plus it would keep her warm. She glided through the movements, her hands pushing as if through water, fluid motions followed by passages of tension igniting heat in her core. As her heart rate steadied and her breathing became smooth, a thought arrived.

What if Callaghan was right?

Mind privacy had been such a hot topic during reformation, and with the Hibernation programme well underway, it was back on the agenda again. She looked out over London, millions of people already chipped and hibernating with more joining soon. Next year she would be back in Hibernation, part of the January switch. Surely they couldn’t do it? They wouldn’t be able to get away with it. She shook the thoughts away, convincing herself that Callaghan would call tomorrow. He would tell her,
“It’s this old house making me imagine things. Don’t tell anyone. Can we just forget it?”

She completed the Tai Chi form, flicked the remnants of green tea from her mug and went back downstairs, where she lay awhile, staring at the ceiling. Although convinced sleep wouldn’t come, she eventually slipped under its veil and into a deep slumber. Her recurring dream came again, except this time it was different, this time it didn’t stop in the usual place. It continued, allowing fears long forgotten to rise up, scratching, hungry and restless.

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