Genesis Code, (Book 1, Genesis Series)

Chapter 3

On the walk back to his apartment, the evening sun warmed Bill's naturally aged skin. Around him, people breathed in Exilon 5's sweet, clean air. No one wore breathing masks or oxygen canisters here, unlike on Earth where the poisonous air demanded them. Exilon 5's sunny climate made it easy to forget the dark and depressing Earth. It was where he'd met Isla. That bloated and poisonous planet located thirty light years away would always be a part of him as long as Isla was still in his heart.

He 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.

A chair fell from a window above to the pavement, narrowly missing him.

'Fuck!' Bill protected his head and looked up just as a man tossed a couple of garbage bags down after it.

'This isn't a fucking collection point,' he shouted.

The man flipped him off and shut his window.

Bill grunted as he tossed the chair and both bags into the alley on top of several others that were already there. Normally the cleaning autobots would take care of this mess, but they weren't scheduled for a few days. Scheduled rubbish collections were one of the World Government's ill-thought-out plans to help keep some of the old systems of Earth and smooth the transition to the new planet. He pinched the end of his nose when he caught a whiff of rotting food.

Exilon 5 was supposed to be a fresh start for the human race.

Pity about the bad habits.

Just six cities existed: New Delhi, London, New York, Taiyuan, Vienna and Copenhagen. Each a mere representation and fraction of the size of the cities back on Earth. Each bursting at the seams, and none capable of accommodating Earth's entire population of twenty billion over the next fifteen years. Thirty years had passed since terraforming began and twenty five since the planet could be occupied. Barely a fraction of the population had been transferred so far. As usual the World Government targets were way off for a planet with insufficient resources. The first batch of transfers had included doctors, engineers and teachers to help set up industries before the rest of the population transferred. If the World Government was serious about transferring all inhabitants of Earth, then Exilon 5 needed more cities, more housing, more of everything.

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, no longer existing on Earth, had been one of the main requests on the Exilon 5 transferees' "wish list". He unlocked the front door and scanned the layout of his apartment for signs of disturbance. Not from the Indigenes, but from those who took offense to his day job. Hunting and catching bad people wasn't all it was cracked up to be. While he preferred not to be disturbed, some didn't always get the message.

He had changed little about the apartment since he'd moved in a year ago. Just a sofa, the Light Box on one wall, and a kitchen table and chairs near the window. These apartments were by no means large, but they beat the shoe boxes back on Earth for size. The place was thick with dust, just the way Bill liked it. He'd learned from an informant how a thick layer of dust could save his life: easier to see when things had been moved around. Old circular imprints from legs of chairs remained hidden, telling him none of the furniture had been moved. He checked on the only thing that mattered: his suitcase hidden in his bedroom wardrobe with some personal items belonging to him and Isla.

The one place that felt like home was the apartment in Nottingham on Earth he and Isla owned. It was off the ITF and World Government grid. But it hadn't felt like home since Isla's disappearance.

He'd locked the files on the Indigenes away in a safe. To get at it, he pulled out the bookshelf from the wall and scanned his identity chip in his left thumb against a small panel. The door opened and he retrieved his digital pad with the files stored on the device. He closed the door and pushed bookcase back into position. The Light Box flashed once while he worked.

The Light Box was more than a virtual information system with programmable artificial intelligence. It was also a covert way for the ITF to keep an eye on him. Gilchrist's orders, no doubt. He'd been vague about his reasons for wanting on this mission. Bill's questionable state of mind over Isla's disappearance was common knowledge. But he was also their best investigator.

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

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.

Bill placed the DPad on the glass coffee table and walked over to the Light Box. He looked into its shimmering facade that was a virtual representation of an actual screen. He pulled at the skin around his tired eyes that 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. Memories of her tore new holes in his gaping wound. He turned away from the screen, refusing to allow whoever watched him to share his private moment.

Bill walked to the kitchen where he shunned the replication machine in favour of a cup of coffee prepared the old fashioned way, with replicated granules and hot water. 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 lips. Actigen—pills that allowed him to skip sleep—and coffee were his go-to diet on missions. Sleep only brought up memories 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 his wife.

He carried his mug with the cracked rim and faded heart back to the living room and his waiting files. He anticipated the Indigene's meeting to happen the following morning and, if World Government intel was correct, it would occur in the hour after dawn. These cold blooded Indigenes, who had 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 while he balanced the mug on the other. 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 no choice but to move to Exilon 5, or die on a resource-exhausted Earth.

And just when everything looked to settle down, the Indigenes popped up out of nowhere. Even Gilchrist was shocked.

But not Bill. He knew they'd come. Reports showed bands of Indigenes had begun to target humans during their nocturnal runs. It wouldn't be long before they raised their heads above the parapet again.

The wait was almost over. Soon, one would venture into New London, under the dawn's early light. And when he or she did, Bill would make sure they paid for that mistake.