SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Carter walked back to the desk and picked up the custody form, checking the details. “Hard to know for sure; they’re odd, the Zelotyr.”

“We noticed.”

Carter signed the sheet, separated the duplicate, and checked the report of the arrest. “A year ago, I was with an army captain—a guy called Nugent. We were cornered by a pack of Zelo teenagers.”

“I heard. He got killed, they say. Eviscerated.”

The sergeant’s voice was clipped, and Carter looked down, studiously reading. “Yes, it was…it wasn’t quick.” He swallowed bile at the memory. “When an adult Zelo came across what was happening, he let me go. He didn’t support the killing; it went against their culture.” And yet the Zelo had descended on Earth, unleashing an attack across the world that had killed millions. “The problem is, what happens to the lads, if you’re right, isn’t just Earth’s decision. You know why the Zelo came here, right?”

“The three bears’ porridge was good for their babies…”

“Yep. Their planet’s overheating—they can’t breed on it. Earth matched what they needed.”

“It’s our planet.” Peters frowned. “Just because their technology is a bit more advanced than ours—”

Carter snorted. “A bit? We’ve managed to get a couple of probes into space, walked on our satellite; they have faster-than-light technology, and weaponry that could blow Earth out of space. I call that more than a bit.”

“So?”

“So, they were working with us. Rathcoole, for instance: they funded all the new housing.” Carter ducked his head, not able to meet yet another stare branding him a conspirator when it was the only way to save the little people. Lads like the one in the room next door, abandoned in the ruins of a dying city. “Look, I know what everyone thinks of me, I’m not stupid. Or deaf…But, we’re wrong about the Zelo. They made a mistake on Earth and they’re committed to rectifying it.”

“A few billion deaths is more than a mistake,” spat Peters.

He was right: it was a fucking tragedy. But so was a few billion more. Carter set the report down and rubbed his forehead. God, he was tired. “I don’t believe they knew we were sentient.” Unless the aliens had completely duped him, of course. “In fact, I think since they found out, they’ve been trying to atone for their sins. They are unbelievably moral, in their own way—”

“What’s moral about destroying a planet?” The soldier started to pace. He pulled another cigarette out. “What’s moral about killing kids and families who were in the way of where you wanted to put hatchlings?”

“Nothing.” Carter pushed his hair back. “Nothing at all. And they would agree with you. That’s why their technology is running our hospitals. That’s why they provided the transports and weaponry you need to do your work. Without them, Earth will take decades longer to rebuild.”

Peters shook his head in disgust, and pulled the papers to him. “Right, which copy is mine?” He took the lid off his pen, his movements jerky and angry.

“I’m not defending them,” Carter said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Christ, of all people I’m not going to do that. What they did to Nugent….” He wiped his mouth. “I think we can say I’m no lover of the Zelotyr.”

Peters shrugged, and Carter wanted to tell him that every night he’d gone home from working with the aliens and scrubbed himself in the shower, only the belief he was doing the right thing getting him up each morning. Instead he said, “In another couple of weeks, this lad would have been off the streets before the winter set in. We’d have pulled Belfast back from the brink.”

Peters shifted, his stance relaxing. “We’ll have to agree to differ.” He nodded at the boy. “You didn’t answer my question: what happens to him?”

“The Zelo will believe whoever did this must be punished. An eye for an eye.” He paused. “How many Zelotyr are dead?”

“Thousands.”

“When they let me go, they said their teenagers would face three deaths each, the same as Nugent.”

Peters paled and glanced at the small figure in the interview room. “Shit.”

“Yes.”

“But they must know the virus didn’t come from the streets of Belfast. It could have come from anywhere; the Barath’nas won’t exactly be sorry about it.”

“And I’m sure if they find a Barath’na is behind it, they’ll murder him a thousand times over, too.” Carter knocked on the window, a rat-tat-tat of nerves. “If these lads released the virus, under galactic law they’ll be found guilty of…” He shook his head. “I don’t know; accidental xenocide, I suppose. Alien-slaughter?”

“What will you do?” asked Peters, after a moment.

“What can I do? I’m only a policeman, I have no authority over the GC.”

“A policeman whose jurisdiction the lads lie under. The Zelotyr have pulled out; our colonel is dealing with the fallout. No one else has claimed jurisdiction.”

Carter shrugged, hoping to hide how upset he was. The soldier was right—the boys were humans, they deserved to be dealt with as such, but the last months had taught him his hands were tied when it came to the Galactic Council. He was nothing to them, just a cop buried on Earth.

“It lies with the GC. I’ll report the incident to their representative,” he said, knowing how it sounded, a Judas taking his silver coins. Peters’ mouth tightened into a thin line. Carter crossed his arms. "I don’t like it either, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Peters looked through the glass, taking a long moment before he turned his gaze back to Carter. “If it were me, I’d hand in my stripes and walk away.” Carter went to cut him off, but his voice rose over Carter’s. “Because it’s shit . He’s human, they’re the invaders. It’s shit.”

He turned and walked out, leaving Carter to stare at the boy. Peters was right. It was crap, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Carter walked into the interview room, pulled out the chair opposite the boy and sank into it. It had taken him a bit of time to find out who he was, but finally a constable had come up with a name. The boy ignored him and Carter watched for a moment, letting the silence stretch. John was holding something in his hand, a rag of some sort, and his hands were clenching and unclenching around it, as if it was the only thing he could sense or control.

“John.” No response. Carter rapped the table. “John Dray!”

This time, John lifted his head. “What?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“The station. Antrim Road station.”

“Good lad. My name’s Henry Carter, I’m an inspector based here.” The boy nodded, and Carter went on, “Now, since I already know your name, could you confirm it for the record?”

“No.”

Carter took a deep breath. “John Dray,” he said. “Your mate is Terence Delaney. Living somewhere in the Oldpark. Parents died about three months ago, foraging for food. Got some siblings.” He laid his hands on the table. “That’s all I know about you, John. Can you help me out with some more?”

“I haven’t done anything,” said the boy. “You’ve no reason to hold me.”

He clenched his fist around the rag and Carter pointed at it. “What’s that?”

John looked at it, and his eyes seemed to soften. “It’s nothing. Just something I carry around with me.”

“Whose is it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Carter waited, thinking. The siblings, apparently, were younger. “What will happen when you don’t get home?” The lad’s head came up, and Carter shrugged. “Because you’re not going anywhere.” Carter leaned forward. “You weren’t the only one who carried out a job tonight: Baltimore, Rostov, Marseilles, Istanbul, Buenos Aires and Mombasa, they’re the ones we know of. All the other runners who let the virus go are dead.” He paused, but there was no answer, so he pushed again. “All the Zelotyr are dead, John. That’s what the job was, to kill them.”