The Whisper of Stars (8 page)

It was a scene she knew all too well, the cornfield, clouds moving by, except she had an awareness of being asleep, along for the ride, an odd sense of voyeurism. To her right was a young girl she recognised instantly as herself, aged nine. As the familiar gust of wind whistled through the jagged corn, it brought with it a realisation. Jen would be watching the familiar dream as a spectator. The young girl turned, looked straight through her and darted away.

The dream was playing out as it always did, exactly to the note. A horrifying thought arrived, one that made her figurative legs go weak.

Am I going to see myself ripped apart, eaten alive? Is this how the dream ends?

In the distance she saw her father and the young girl chasing after him and heard the thrashing corn behind her, the creatures closing in. Jen followed and arrived at the clearing in time to see her father pass through the doorway. She watched her younger self, tears streaming down her cheeks, frantically twisting the door handle, eyes darting and bright with fear. Jen went to her, hands trembling, and watched, helpless, as her adult hand passed through the solid object.

I’m a ghost,
she thought.
I’m already dead.

The sound was building. She knew how this gruesome scene ended. In a moment the creatures would fall on this helpless girl and pull her apart, and Jen would be made to watch.

And listen, Jen, you get to hear the ripping and gnawing. The screams of youth.
The sound of breaking bones and tearing flesh.

Jen stood defiantly over the girl, breath bursting in and out, tears welling up inside her. If she was a ghost, then defiance was pointless, but she had to do something.

You left us both, Daddy.

The first of the dark figures broke through the corn and Jen, struggling to process the information, finally faced her demon. Huge, midnight-black and encased in a thick shell, its small head twisted towards her, mandibles flashing in the moonlight. It was a giant beetle. She recoiled, fighting an overwhelming impulse to flee. The girl was crying and pounding the door as more beetles flooded through the corn into the clearing. There were at least seven now, closing in around them, their hungry mouths like razor combs, clacking and vibrating.

Jen felt a wave of nausea as her legs folded beneath her. She couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. They burst out, weak, guttural sobs mixed with a terrible sound of insect feet scratching at the ground. There were too many beetles to count now, like a sea of black ink surrounding them. Jen turned to see her younger self standing, poised, ready to run straight into the solid door, and in a sudden rush of clarity she finally understood. What if this was the memory, buried for all these years, and the doorway is a metaphor? If the memory had been unlocked, surely all she had to do was open the door…

With that single, basic thought the door flew open, bathing the clearing in a thick column of blinding light. The swarm of beetles writhed and curled, their terrible, high-pitched screams like tortured whale song. The delay was long enough for the girl to dive into the light and Jen to follow. The door slammed shut behind her, silencing the nightmarish howls instantly and forever.

Jen lay on the ground, panting and crying. Time passed, tears flowed and she found herself praying that when she opened her eyes, what she saw wasn’t somewhere worse. What could be worse? She smelt grass and felt a cool wind whipping up and over her. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes.

A full moon hung majestically over a dark Cotswold scene, one she recognised instantly. She was home. The recurring dream, the nightmare that had been with her for so long, had finally been resolved. She had unlocked a memory and opened the door. Now, she needed to find out what happened next.

She looked around, praying she wouldn’t wake. It was a strange feeling, being so alert and yet certain this wasn’t real. She spotted the girl from the cornfield creeping along a hedgerow to the side of a churchyard. Jen absorbed the scene and remembered. This actually happened; this
was
real.

Jen stood but had to fight to stop her legs from shaking, still reeling from the horror of the beetles. Her younger self, wearing nightclothes now –
yes that’s right, I remember
– slipped through the church gate. Jen followed, tracing along a low stone wall, recalling this night more with each step. In the churchyard, she found her father on his hands and knees burying something. Jen heard her younger self speak and instantly the conversation came back to her. It was as if she was learning, seeing and remembering simultaneously.

She studied her father. Seeing him again was so hard. She desperately wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go. She knew of people who had used dimensional films to relive past experiences, to see lost relatives again. She had tried a demo once but found the experience void of true feeling. This was completely different; she was
living
this moment, every sense, smell and feeling. The pain of love lost combined with the ecstasy of a rediscovered past.

Her father stood suddenly, horror in his face.

‘Jenny, what are you doing here?’

Her younger self ran and hugged him. Jacob, rigid at first, wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her in return. Jen walked towards the pair, somehow knowing she would remain invisible for the duration of this performance. Her father’s eyes were welling, his skin covered in perspiration. She remembered hearing him leave the house that night. She had been awake and followed, worried about him. How could she have forgotten all of this? Why had it been hidden from her?

‘Jenny,’ her father said.

The young girl looked up and waited patiently, her green eyes glinting in lamplight, melting his heart. Nobody called her Jenny except him.

‘I need you to help me,’ he said softly. ‘Will you do that? Will you help me?’

‘Of course.’ The girl’s voice was kind, innocent.

‘Good girl. I need you to keep tonight a secret.’ He leant in, playfully. ‘Really secret. We need to hide it away so no one can find it.’

‘Like treasure,’ she replied excitedly, craning her neck, trying to see the mound of earth behind him.

‘Exactly.’ He smiled, but the pain in his heart was obvious to her older self.

‘I need you to forget this, Jenny. The church, tonight. Forget all of it. Can you do that?’

The girl nodded obediently.

Jen felt a weight lifted from her as his words echoed back through time. All these years she thought her father had wanted her to forget
him
. That wasn’t what he’d said at all; he had only wanted her to forget
this
night, this moment.

‘Daddy has to do this, sweetheart,’ he explained. ‘Trust me, okay?’

He placed one hand on the freshly dug earth and in the other took his daughter’s tiny hands. Jen remembered how that had felt, a vibration pulsing through her, his hands unusually cold to touch, like they were made of chilled metal.

Without warning or fear, the churchyard scene, her father and the girl drifted away into darkness. Jen, still inside the dream, was back in her old room, warm and safe. Her father was perched on the edge of her old, ornate iron bed, looking down on his daughter, now tucked in and sleepy. Again, Jen remembered this.

‘Daddy?’ Jenny asked.

‘I’m here, honey.’ He stroked the hair from her face.

‘I’m scared. I don’t want you to go.’

‘Baby, I have to go. It’s important. Mummy is here.’

The nightlight cast a comforting amber glow across her father’s face. The girl reached up and touched his dark skin, felt the roughness of his stubble. He leant forward and hugged her. Jen could smell him again, conjuring feelings of security long since gone. She lived the moment again, wishing it would last forever.

‘Why do you have to go?’ the girl whispered.

He paused and sighed heavily. ‘There is something I need to do, sweetheart.’

‘When will you be home?’

‘A week, two at the most.’ He smiled, hiding his pain. ‘As soon as I can.’

The girl snuggled down into her blanket.

Her younger self seemed satisfied, but Jen knew better. Her father never came home. He died a few days later. Jen was crying now, shouting, pleading with him not to go. Her warnings fell silent, trapped inside a vacuum of time.

Daddy, you die! Don’t go! Mummy never forgives you.

There was nothing she could do. She was on a tortuous rollercoaster, trapped and mute until the end of the ride.

‘Good-bye, sweetheart,’ he said softly. ‘I love you. I’ll be home soon.’

The girl was asleep by the time her father left the room, the memory of the churchyard locked away in her mind, where it would remain hidden for years.

Jen awoke in tears, her tattered voice breaking thinly in the darkness. She was struck by an immediate and cloying sense of loss. It had been such a gift to spend time with her father again, but the experience had bought fresh grief and new pain. The memory of that night, the one Callaghan had dislodged, was clear and thankfully remained with her. She remembered every detail and vowed she would never lose it again.

So it was her father who had hidden the memory, trying to protect her. But why? And perhaps more importantly, from whom?

A worrying thought came again, one she had dismissed earlier on the roof. If Callaghan was right, and the Government were searching, she needed to be very careful. Whatever her father had buried in the churchyard and hidden away in her mind wasn’t a secret anymore. It was out in the open. Callaghan had believed the searches were most likely performed during the Hibernation cycle. Well, soon
she
would be back in Hibernation. What then? She had accused Callaghan of being a mad conspiracy theorist. Now it was she who appeared to be spinning out of control.

This is fucking crazy, Jen. You know that, right?

She got up and showered, hoping to make sense of the questions banging around in her head. It didn’t help. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake a growing certainty.

Whatever else she might discover, whatever the dream meant, Callaghan was right about one thing. They were in danger.

Chapter 15

Code Blue.

What the hell is a code blue?

Analyst 13 wandered down the hall, grabbed a coffee and arrived back at his terminal. It was still there, flashing. He rubbed his temples, glancing around nervously. There were around twenty other operators on shift that night, all of them young like him, worker bees, each assigned five hundred cycles per hour. Their job was to flag files of interest and then pass them on for processing. That was it, that was the job and he was good at it.

Mole.

That had been his nickname in college and for a few years after. Until he came here. In this underground deniable bunker, everyone was numbered and faces would come and go. Mole had decided it best not to make friends. If he kept his head down for one more year, he would move up a pay grade and perhaps run his own team. He was a hard worker, he was sure that had been noticed.

Alerts, though, they were rare.

That’s why he double-checked the code blue – triple-checked, in fact. He didn’t want to get this wrong. Protocol required him to make a phone call. Level three clearance. He wasn’t required to interface with people very often and realised he was sweating heavily. Again, he squinted around the room at the ghostly faces tapping away in silence.

Come on, Mole, this could be the making of you.

He dialed the number, fingers trembling.

Chapter 16

In the members’ bar of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, New York, Zido Zitagi entertained her guests with well-researched conversation. Wrapped in a silver kimono dress – a nod to her Japanese heritage – and standing tall on razor-sharp heels, Zitagi was a woman who demanded attention. Her guests, two gentlemen from a prestigious manufacturing company, were discussing their excitement leading up to this evening’s performance.

Immersive theatre, as it had become known, combined live performance with holographic projection and required precise choreography to ensure a seamless performance. When done well, the effect was mesmerising. Zitagi’s dark eyes, displaying a wisdom beyond her years, scanned the two men politely.

‘Gentlemen,’ she said, her voice precise and warm. ‘If you are ready, we can make our way to the private gallery.’

They nodded and she led each of them by an arm, making more polite conversation. The men surely felt special – this was her gift, perfected and used many times. The outcome of such an evening would always be as Zitagi planned.

Her party took their seats, a gallery situated centrally above the ground floor, and admired the impressive building. The orchestra ceased warming up and the audience hushed, the anticipation tangible. Zitagi had seen it once before, and although her focus was on her guests, she allowed herself a moment of wonder.

Two blue lights shone down, revealing the stark simplicity of the central stage. Then, piece by piece, an intricate scene appeared. First, a campfire with rocks and horses and tents, then to the left of the stage a tree-covered hillside, and to the right a steep cliff face. Finally, when a starlit night with moving clouds completed the panorama, actors walked out onto the stage and began to interact with the projected scenery. The tableau was complete, a rich, deep landscape that spanned the full height and width of the stage. The audience fell silent, transported by the stunning spectacle. Later, a horse would travel across the entire scene in an intoxicating display of live theatre, film and immersive entertainment. Zitagi noted her guests. One had a tear running down his cheek. The first time could have that effect on people.

Augmentation was automatically switched off during the performance. But Zitagi’s equipment was beyond their control, set to receive calls of security level two or above. She was surprised when the call came in.

It was level three.

She slipped silently into the adjoining bar, clicking her fingers at the smartly dressed bar staff and pointing to the door. They shuffled out quickly looking worried.