Fracture: A Window Overlooking the Universe

By Aidan Grave

Why is the Special Security Division suddenly so interested in Mark Fenton?

For Fenton is a man of supreme irrelevance. A man who has turned his back on his friends and career, a man skulking on the edge of events, the edge of the universe, lamenting his lost love, a disillusioned malcontent uselessly railing against a system that has never even noticed he exists.

So why have they come for him now in the depths of the night? It is the start of a dangerous journey across space to a secret destination, a perilous place where he will confront a personal history he thought was buried and endure a terrifying ordeal. He is going to have to fight for his life but how can he escape a fate that has already happened?

Fenton will have to face the daemons from his past if there is to be a future, for anyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aidan Grave
• Release date: Dec 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311755520

Book preview

Preface

I summoned you.

Now your dark investigations

Yield my deadly revelations

And before the dew,

Before the dawn breaks:

Your last ordeal awaits.

From Prophecy by Rodrik Breen

Part One - Summons

Chapter One - Rude Awakening

The screeching phone knifed through Mark Fenton's haunted sleep.

'Answer,' he mumbled.

The shrieking stopped. Light gently diffused from the wall, dimly illuminating the chaos of his rented flat. Work on his book was taking over. Tablets and other devices sprawled across the desk and spilled onto the floor, mingling with the debris of empty snack wrappers and an overturned coffee cup. The wall behind his monitor was plastered with a collage of hastily scrawled Stickit! notes. They blossomed around the screen, a multi-coloured halo radiating like a spreading stain, brushing the edge of the window. The room had a view of a tranquil vista of space making it, incredibly, one of the better apartments on Accom Station K5, far out in this forsaken solar system, Karnos. On the other side of the room a battered armchair flanked a small table, its surface covered by a stack of dirty dishes, a plate of unfinished food and another tablet. By the bed there was a growing pile of discarded clothes.

The wall glowed softly displaying a simple, disturbingly familiar white crest.

The Special Security Division.

Instantly he was wide awake, reliving his first weeks at the University of Gadder, seven years ago. The Division had detained an innocent couple but this time they couldn't hush it up. He remembered the activism, the debates, the article he'd written. There would be an enquiry. The SSD would finally be dragged from the shadows.

But most of all he remembered the disappointment. Everything had blown over. The enquiry never happened. Nothing changed. The Division still operated above the law. But nobody cared, the public quickly lost interest. And his career in student journalism had fizzled out with it; no-one in the media had picked up on his work. But he'd never forgotten what he'd written: If the Division come calling you can forget about any rights you thought you had.

And now they were calling him.

'Mr Mark Michael Fenton.' A male voice, unemotional, unsettling.

'Yes?'

'Please engage visual.'

Fenton almost laughed. They wanted to see him in his dishevelled, unshaven squalor.

'I repeat, please engage visual. We would appreciate your cooperation and do not wish to override your systems.'

They could take control. Fear gripped him. They'd be able to cut his phone and lock his doors penning him in his flat like a cornered animal. They'd be able to access all his files, including his book. He was furious. It was a total violation of his rights. But then reality struck him. He was totally alone, unprotected and impotent before them.

He had no choice.

'Visual on.'

There was no corresponding concession. The SSD insignia remained inscrutable. But then to Fenton's surprise it dissolved to be replaced by a flickering image, a roar of interference shattering the silence.

Fenton's wall was dominated by the giant image of a man's face, etched in blue monochrome. It towered over him. It was a face carrying the authority of experience but showed scant evidence of age: the nose and chin were striking and angular, the skin hardly wrinkled. The hair, though ruthlessly cropped, was thick, threatening to re-emerge as the flamboyant mane nature had intended. Only the streaks of grey at the temples gave any hint of the years he had witnessed. It was the eyes though that made it a face to be reckoned with. They were intense and alert, burning with fierce intelligence. He was clearly a man who had used time rather than allowing it to use him, emerging from his past strengthened in body and spirit. Fenton envied him.

The picture wavered and shimmered casting eerie blue shadows across the room.

Something was wrong.

'….Fenton,...Mr Fenton..'

The voice was barely audible, just breaking through static.

'Yes?'

'We urgently require your assistance in our investigation.'

'What investigation?'

'That information is...' he lost the sound for a second '...two officers are on their way to escort you here.'

'Where? What if I don't want to be ''escorted'' anywhere?'

The huge lips twitched, curling into what might have been an amused expression. Fenton chose not to interpret it as contempt.

'Mr Fenton, don't be so aggressive. We're not blaming you or charging you with anything...yet.' The expression broke into a metre wide grin. Instinctively Fenton smiled back, relieved, sharing the joke, laughing at his own paranoia. But then his smile froze. He was being manipulated by an expert.

The face suddenly vanished, collapsing into a frenetic burst of zig-zagging blue light, the audio howling. There was an empty second before the oscillating lines coalesced back into a picture, the head reappearing in profile urgently mouthing orders. Then the volume dipped back and he was looking steadily at Fenton again.

'Mr Fenton, I look forward to meeting you.'

The room crashed back into silence as the stark white SSD crest reasserted itself. Fenton stared at it, shocked by the conversation's abrupt end. They must have been forced to cut it. But there was another possibility. Talking to him was a waste of their time. That was more likely. Either way the dialogue was over. His questions had been ignored and his objections overruled.

A memory cascaded in his mind. He was seven years old at that expensive school paid for by the money his parents had left, arm straining into the air, waving excitedly at his teacher. She was scouring the class, desperately looking for someone else who knew the answer.

'Yes, Mark.'

'The symbol of the Special Security Division of The System's Central Authority is a bird called the dove. Its motto is Peace, Protection, Freedom from Fear.'

Fenton shivered.

'Your escort will arrive soon. Please be ready.' He jumped as the voice broke through his reverie. It was the same monotone as before. He lifted his head to protest but it was too late, the logo vanished, plunging the room into brittle darkness. He sat in silence, vacancy enveloping him like a shroud, conscious only of how tired he felt. He called out for subdued lighting then reached for his wrist-strap, checking the time. It was three am. He'd been asleep just over an hour. He cupped his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his long dishevelled hair and moaned.

The doorbell rang.

Chapter Two - Visitors

Fenton's mind raced. It couldn't be them, they'd only just told him they were coming. But then he realised: the call had been timed to reach him just before they did. It was a ploy to reinforce their reputation for efficiency, impressing on him he had no chance, they would always be one step ahead. They were trying to disorientate him. That's why they'd called him at this hour. He was furious. It was an affront to his rights and an insult to his intelligence.

The doorbell rang again.

Stay calm.

Think it through.

The operation was being stage-managed. They must have already been outside when he took the call, waiting for their cue. He grinned smugly. Central had sent morons who couldn't even ring a doorbell without permission. He could outsmart them. The relief was momentary. The men at his door were the Division's hands and they would mindlessly implement any instruction. Pressing a doorbell was no different from pulling a trigger.

The bell rang a third time.

What had he done? He'd been an activist at Gadder. But that was long ago and no one had even noticed. Or so he'd thought. Had they spent the last seven years weeding out the dissidents, working their way down to him?

There was a fourth ring.

No. People didn't just vanish for criticising the administration. They'd said they needed his assistance. With what? They weren't here for help with their history homework and if they were they'd have found someone who'd actually graduated. So were they just flattering him to catch him off guard? Why bother? If they wanted to arrest him surely they could just walk in?

The doorbell rang once more. This time it was a long insistent screech rather than the previous brief bursts. They were getting impatient.

Something was biting into his sweaty palms. He was gripping his wrist-strap so tightly it was hurting. Would they confiscate it? He'd have no communications without it and be cut off from Central's data. They'd be less likely to notice it if he was already wearing it when they came in. He quickly slipped it on and pushed in the earslugs.

'Visual on.'

A monster lunged out of the darkness. Fenton recoiled in horror as its spindly fingers reached out for him, its giant hand blotting out the light.

The doorbell rang again. The image reappeared as the grotesque hand retreated.

There were two of them, floating in the pool of light cast by the lamp above the door, framed by the blackness of the long, gloomy corridor, their swollen heads, bulging eyes and squat piggy noses hideously out of proportion to their thin insectile bodies.

Text materialised over the picture:

'IMAGE TRANSLATOR MALFUNCTION – REQUEST REPAIR?'

He'd been terrified by a viewer fault. They were just men.

'Bollocks!' hissed Fenton.

'PLEASE CLARIFY LAST INSTRUCTION'

'Repair negative. Open sound link.' He was horribly aware of his heartbeat. He heard a voice barely recognisable as his own stammer 'yes.'

'Mr Fenton, Special Security.'

The figure in the foreground spoke, the piercing blue eyes and cultured voice jarring with the distorted face. He was blonde, the man behind him dark, their hair short and neatly groomed. They wore immaculate blue suits with tastefully patterned ties and their shoes glistened. They weren't the thugs he was expecting but they were powerfully built.

'Mr Fenton, will you open the door please.'

'I want to see your ID.'

Obligingly they both raised their right hands, displaying their rings.

'EXECUTIVE OFFICERS OF THE SPECIAL SECURITY DIVISION - IDENTITIES CLASSIFIED'

The figure smiled. 'My name is Brozmam and this is Mr Javer.'

He made them wait.

'Mr Fenton, are you going to let us in?'

'Do you have authorisation?'

'Which particular authorisation would that be, Mr Fenton?' He couldn't decide if the tone was derisive or whether Brozmam was genuinely puzzled.

'Authorisation to come in anyway, if I refuse.'

A brief silence. The delay seemed more for effect than any real consideration of Fenton's demand.

'Mr Fenton, we're not here to arrest you, we simply desire your assistance in our investigation.' It was the voice of a friendly adult reassuring a worried child. 'If you don't intend to cooperate I'm afraid that under the conventions of Authority security we could, regretfully, negate certain of your rights.'

'Which conventions?'

'Mr Fenton, open the door.'

The fake urbanity had vanished. Brozmam hadn't even raised his voice but the anger was unmistakable. Fenton had won round one, Brozmam had revealed himself.

Brozmam stared defiantly at the camera, his blue eyes burning through Fenton's skull. A look of irritation played across his face as he realised he had lost control then it was impassive again. He raised his arm pointing the green crystal eye of his ring at the door. He was going to open it and there was nothing Fenton could do to stop him.

'Open front door!' shouted Fenton. He'd won round two. He'd forced them to reveal their powers but denied them the satisfaction of using them. The ghost of an annoyed expression crossed Brozmam's face. He lowered his arm. Fenton shook his head. He shouldn't be playing games with these men, they were dangerous. He had to though. It was all he could do, the only resistance he could offer.

Brozmam smiled at the camera. 'Thank you, Mr Fenton.' As before the tone was icily polite. The smile was probably meant to be disarming after the unpleasantness over the door. It was anything but, the magnified teeth gleaming like marble tombstones in a cavernous mausoleum. He walked forward, his distorted face widening and leering as he approached the camera. Momentarily it filled the whole screen, the piercing blue eyes staring mockingly down at Fenton, pinning him helplessly to the bed, a skewered insect clinically observed by a vastly superior intellect. Then the screen was plunged into darkness as Brozmam blotted out the light. There was a brief blur of colour before Javer too obscured the camera. Fenton was left facing a dark and empty corridor.

It would take them seconds to cross the hallway. He spun round on the bed, facing the door clutching the thin sheet, his body wracked by fear and excitement, his mind filled with a confused mixture of anger, shame, fear and bewilderment. Were they going to kill him?

The lights flared brilliantly. Instinctively his hands leapt to his face to cover his stinging eyes. He heard the sound of the door hissing open and rapid movement. He tore his hands away from his face, forcing himself to stare directly into the glare.

They were right on top of him, black silhouettes looming over him, guns poised at point blank range.

A moment of absolute terror.

'Clear,' said Javer.

Fenton blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting, blurry colour returning. He just had time to realise Javer had only been holding a compact security scanner before it disappeared into an inside pocket. Brozmam though was holding a gun and it was aimed straight at him. There was a dangerous pause then his hand dropped.

'Normal illumination,' commanded Brozman. Instantly the lights dipped, so much for them not wanting to override his systems!

He was shivering in shock.

'Sorry if we alarmed you, Mr Fenton,' said Brozmam in a polite tone of utter insincerity, 'standard procedure I'm afraid.'

Really? Or was it revenge for the door?

Brozmam glanced round the room, his face conveying disapproval at the mess that was Fenton's living space, the mess that was his life. He probably wore that expression most of the time. Javer looked bored. Fenton guessed that too was habitual. They weren't much older than him, about thirty maybe.

'Please get dressed, Mr Fenton.'

'Mind if I have a shower first?'

Brozmam's mouth began to open, clearly to say no but then he must have registered the state Fenton was in. He'd been so tied up with his book he hadn't washed for days. Brozmam gently nodded. 'Be quick.'

Cautiously Fenton rose, hugging the sheet to his body.

'And don't do anything stupid, Mr Fenton.' The gun arm rose a fraction.

Fenton cautiously walked to the wardrobe hoping there were still some clothes in there. He grabbed what he could find. He turned to see Javer silently emerging from the bathroom, the scanner in his hand. He'd obviously checked it out. Before he knew it Javer had panned the instrument over the clothes he was clutching. They were taking no chances. Standard procedure or did they really think he was going to try something?

He moved to the bathroom door. It obediently hissed open. They made no attempt to follow. The door shut behind him. Harsh white light snapped on.

Alone again he dropped the clothes and let the sheet flutter to the ground. Gratefully he emptied his bladder. He felt exhausted. Adrenaline had cleared his mind but now his brain felt thick and foamy again. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared blankly back at him. His hair was untidy and too long, flopping over his eyes. His face was stippled with ragged stubble. It was not a reflection to inspire confidence, he looked like a hung-over student. Why this interest in him? Were they talking about him now? If he could just hear them he might learn something. Of course, he still had his wrist-strap! It hadn't registered on their scan as a weapon so they'd let him keep it. Idiots! Or had they already overridden it? Only one way to find out.

'Strap, activate,' he breathed softly.

A red projecting light glowed on the strap's centre. He stared into its beam. The word 'READY' overlaid his vision.

'Monitor flat,' he whispered. An image materialised. The camera above the wall gave him a bird's eye view of the living room. Javer was slumped in the armchair, his long legs stretched out. He was toying with Fenton's Solve-It puzzle. His fingers worked nimbly. To Fenton's amazement he slotted the final panel into place. In all the years he'd owned it he'd never finished the wretched thing. He'd have thrown it out long ago if it hadn't been a present from her. Javer wrapped his hands behind his head and lolled back into his seat, relaxed. Brozmam was pacing up and down, arms crossed, the compact automatic in his hand. Neither of them was saying anything. Still, at least he'd got away with it: they hadn't realised he could spy on them, unless they didn't care.

He pressed his face against the shavebox. It whirred. Seconds later his face was smooth and moisturised. He stepped into the shower cubicle. The lancing hot water and scented body-wash were invigorating. The cobwebs in his brain began to melt.

The phone screamed again.

'Acknowledge.'

Fenton spun round, alarmed at Brozmam's voice. But there was no sign of him. The sound had come through his earslugs. The strap was still monitoring the main room. Brozmam had answered the phone.

'Mr Brozmam,' despite the hiss of the shower he could still recognise the voice that had called him earlier, 'we have lost contact with Team-Leader Paize.'

He was aiming the strap's beam back into his eye. Both Javer and Brozmam were standing gazing at the camera giving Fenton the disturbing impression they were staring straight at him.

'A repeat incident?' queried Javer, suddenly animated.

'Unknown,' replied the voice, 'Paize was reporting power loss and communication's interference. Possibly he has no power for non-essential systems, or interference has become too intense.'

'Or, they're dead,' Javer's tone was casual, matter of fact.

'That is a possibility.'

'New orders?' Brozmam's voice betrayed his impatience.

'The Investigation Zone has been declared a Security Hazard Area.' Brozmam drew in his breath. He seemed genuinely surprised.

'Investigation Period?' demanded Javer.

'Class one.'

Brozmam looked apprehensive.

'Do we have confirmation?' asked Javer.

'Fenton checks out on both counts. Treat with extreme caution. You are cleared for violent restraint.'

'Degree?'

'Absolute.' Fenton went cold all over. They would kill him if he resisted.

'Further queries?'

'None,' Javer replied, disinterested.

'Communication terminates. Renew contact on arrival at Investigation Zone.'

'Acknowledged,' both men spoke in unison. They stood staring at the camera for a second then Brozmam turned to face Javer. His composure had been shaken.

'Period class one.'

Javer shrugged as if it was what he'd expected.

Brozmam glanced over his shoulder to the bathroom door.

'He's taking too long.'

'Give him a few more minutes.'

For a second Brozmam seemed unconvinced, then he nodded his assent with a quiet 'okay.'

Fenton dropped his arm ordering the shower to switch to the drying cycle. Paize must have been the man who had spoken to him minutes before. And now he was dead. A repeat incident. They were investigating murder. The killer was still at large. He was being escorted right into the danger zone. Why? But what about the power loss and the interference. Maybe it was something less melodramatic, some kind of accident. That would fit. But why would the SSD be involved? The normal emergency services would have been sent in. Unless it was somewhere classified. How did he fit in? Surely he couldn't be a suspect. But what if the SSD had made a mistake and caused a cataclysm? They'd never admit it. They'd cover it up. How? By calling it sabotage and pinning it on some scapegoat. Someone nobody would miss. Someone with no relatives. Someone who'd antagonised or lost touch with virtually all their friends. Someone with established subversive political credentials. Somebody like him. He fitted the bill. They'd said he checked out on both counts. He'd been with the Earthpeople at Gadder and spent time since with the outsiders. Perfect casting for an anarchist: a classic frame-up.

He froze, shocked by the inevitable logic. He had to get away. He had to escape before they could incriminate him. How? They'd shoot him if he tried. But if they were going to frame him wouldn't they have to kill him to keep his mouth shut? So why hadn't they done it? They obviously wanted him alive at the moment so his best chance was to cooperate with them. But there was one thing he could do. He could call someone and let them know when he was being taken. That would make things harder for them. He smiled in triumph: he had his strap. Who should he ring? Alizen. He dismissed the idea instantly. Phil was his best bet.

The unit had finished its cycle. He was dry.

He raised the strap to his mouth. 'Call Phil Wyler!' he hissed.

'COMMUNICATION PRIVILEGES SUSPENDED,' mocked the strap's soulless electronic voice.

He swore. He had a legal right to a phone call. He'd have to ask them for it. He was furious. He quickly dressed. There was a discarded pair of shoes lying on the floor, he slipped them on. He roughly brushed his long hair into a