The Inquisitive Gene, Book Two: The Human Cull: The Inquisitive Gene, Book One: Mother is Coming, #2

By Zino Tutt

We live in chaotic digital times. We spike information with disinformation. Spruik intelligence minus wisdom. Swear by logic without emotion. Think Google is benevolent. Vomit emotion without reason. Think we're big when we're small. Let trolls spin gossip webs. To eat our truths. As we cleverly code suicide notes. For a future civilisation to discover. In Earth's dead mud."

"Zino Tutt understands human frailties. He's travelled. Not willingly. We're a genetic mutation looking for meaning. The only animal group to believe in its own fictions. Of righteous Gods, Governments, and Genocide. We're frightening. We hunt in giant packs. We're a virus. Culling other species. Now something has come to Earth… to cull us."

"The Inquisitive Gene is a disturbing, wonderful, page-turning journey… where we scream, laugh, and cry our way to a better understanding… of ourselves…"

"God is dog spelt backwards. Does that mean anything? To a dog it might."

"Alien creatures have awoken from long sleeps. Sheath are spreading. Governments are infiltrated. Children notice things. Before being harvested for Ripening. Robots are walking. It goes mad… the internet. Satellites shiver. Missiles shake in silos. A handful of humans and a talking dog fight rearguard battles. As the sky rips open and things pour out. With teeth and claws. Darkness spills."

"Zino Tutt lives in more than one universe… of that I am sure."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zino Tutt
• Release date: Nov 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648384113

Book preview

1

A Rustling of Molecules

It’s infuriating - you know humanity won’t learn from its mistakes, yet you feel compelled to save it.

– Voice from the Oversoul

Why so sad? cooed the fake redhead with a mocking smile and tilted head.

The girl had slipped uninvited into Max’s booth, arms outstretched, palms up, inviting. Collagen rich skin glowed as green eyes sparkled. Hard nails tapped on faded linoleum like impatient claws. She wasn’t a slut, but she wasn’t self-actualising on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs either. The girl was looking for early night distraction, after an annoying text from her overbearing big sister she’d run away from in Germany. Kristy was a pain in the arse. Good at everything. Unfortunately. From writing to trap shooting. Yes, Kristy was attractive. But this sister was stunning. In her mind that made her better. She studied Switch’s unkempt brown hair and lived-in face. An easy mark. She looked into his big blue eyes. Haunted. Hers was a knowing look, the sly look of a predator, who’d hunted and caught prey in this jungle before.

Max saw mirth behind her smirk. She thought him naïve. Her green eyes reminded him of Rita Harlow. A bittersweet memory. It’d been a mistake to let Rita go. He thought he’d been protecting her. Like Larry and Emma. Was he protecting them or abandoning them? This girl’s eyes sparkled. Like twin Venuses reflecting on the still surface of a mountain lake at midnight. Stunning. Or maybe it was the drugs that made them sparkle. The pupils were dilated. This runaway sister was eager. Alive. Brimming with confidence. The glow of youth. On closer inspection, Max decided it was a forced confidence. She was proving herself. To herself and older sister Kristy. Ignorance, instinct, and ego had led this sister to this moment. A thread. Within gizillions of threads. Max wondered if instinct would save her.

Ignorance and ego could surely get her killed.

What drove the beautiful fake redhead was a mystery to Max. Like many of her age and gender she thought the slit between her legs somehow made her special. And the lumps of meat hanging from her chest. They were biological quirks. Identifiers. Nothing more. Aids to reproduce the species. One to attract. The other to shit out the result.

Tonight, more important things focused Max. Like protecting the species. Tonight, he was driven by killing, not by mating. Not that it’d always been this way. He’d enjoyed sex. Once. The Tightening in his gut was equivocal about that. He’d been on sabbatical. Drifting. In the animal quagmire. Now that he was Awake, he was focused, on more important things.

So Bolt would tell him.

Max peered deeply inside the girl who’d randomly joined him. As was often the case, there was another person living there. A better person. At least, not a worse person. It would take time to free this girl from her ego-shell, lure her from insecurities, anger, and blame. Unfortunately, time wasn’t Max’s friend. Not anymore. Nor the red-head’s. Not tonight. Not ever. She brimmed with fakery this girl, not just her hair. Her look came from late night TV, the shows that cure cancer, flatten wrinkles, suck fat, hide ugliness. Cheap trinkets to cure the soul. Offerings to the Vanity Gods. Deception. Of perception. Or so they thought.

The girl’s look invited him to swim in her sex. It took practice to get a look like that. Basic. In a sophisticated way. Max gave her points. It was a look politicians developed. Sham interest. Hoax sincerity. If you could fake those the world was yours. This sister didn’t blink. She challenged, enjoying eye contact. Mirror practice Max guessed. This sister liked getting her way. Hated not to in fact. Kristy, the older sister, knew that, had always known that. Max wondered if he’d like Kristy more. If she was her now. The younger sister’s lips pouted, pupils pulsing with rehearsed want. Definitely mirror work. The Devil in DKNY, a hundred shades of grey, body and soul floating, inviting Max to dip desires into hot springs of lust.

Boring really, thought Max… when the world was about to end.

He moved deeper into her mind. She winced. Good. He wanted her to feel his presence. To make her feel uncertain. No-one deserved to feel certain in this world. Not anymore. The runaway sister had been in Australia for six months. Germany and America before that. Here to prove to Kristy she didn’t need an overprotective big sister. Their mother was dead. Not sure how. But she didn’t need another mother. Mothers, thought Max. That was this sister’s deepest thought. If only she knew. About real Mothers. Little sister’s shallowest thought focused on spending $699 and 90 cents on tonight’s hunting outfit. The 90 cents seemed important. She’d been frugal. Not blown her budget. It was a killer outfit, red like her hair, blood red, fateful. Tonight she was stalking. For humanity to survive females of a certain age needed to be wired like this. Though Kristy’s sister didn’t seem to like men. Father issues. She preferred to hunt. Hunter. Not prey.

Yet she needed male attention. Because it made other females jealous.

Very important.

Max wondered if his dead mum Martha had been like this. He hoped not. Memories of her were unthreading. Fading. He should try and stop that. His father, he could barely remember. A homicide cop, stabbed in Brisbane, when Max was a kid. Trying to do the right thing. They weren’t allowed to carry guns in those days. Stupid. Max didn’t think his daughter was like this. Emma was green, but not in experience. Once a Spyder-Vin swallowed you whole it changed a person. All the Switches were changing. Max, Larry, Emma. Helen was a Taylor. The world was changing. Too fast. Most people didn’t see it. Max hoped they wouldn’t see it. Not yet. He needed more time.

The stunner opposite was staring at him with those lens-loving eyes. A practiced look, years of work, thousands of puerile selfies stored in the Cloud, being jerked off over by Arab camel-fuckers. There’s nothing safe in the Cloud. There’s nothing safe anywhere. Not anymore. The girl’s green pupils intrigued Max the most. Rita. Things were better when she was around. This girl’s eyes were closer to his daughter’s skin. And the green shit she ate. That’s where similarities with Rita and Emma ended. This girl had never suffered. She thought she had. She’d been spoilt. Experienced a bit of bad luck. Kristy’s little sister’s tongue crept from its lair. Teasing bovine-injected lips. Click bait lips on a porn site. Ice cream sucking lips. This sister was a stereotype. Convinced she was unique. A definition of human insecurity. Her underclad body oozed want. Her mind oozed need.

The huntress threw a cloaked look at a tattooed Eurasian at the far end of the bar. The kind of look two raptors might give before they fed. Green eyes sparkled as Kristy’s little sister repeated her question, mockery barely concealed in her sultry voice. She was playing with her prey. Wanted her friend at the bar to see. She needed approval. And an audience.

Why so sad? she asked again.

Switch was here by chance. He’d followed six black-eyed bikers into the Kings Cross pub after watching them bump shoulders with anyone stupid enough to get in their way. They moved like pumped ice addicts. Others noticed too, stepping sideways, eyes wary. Kings Cross in Sydney was full of strange things. Tonight, things were about to get stranger.

The girl’s uninvited presence didn’t annoy Max. In fact, it pleasantly surprised him. Surprise was a good thing in his condition. Condition. Yes, a good word. The girl’s advance was random. It showed nothing was fixed. That gave hope. A good thing. Hope was Epoh spelt backwards. Did that mean anything? In some language? Somewhere? If there was a c after the o, that would mean an instant of time in the old Latin. Epoch. That could be meaningful. Time was important. Very. He’d met a Russian once called Epoh. She’d told him E was for empathy, one must give. P was for pathways, there are many. O is for original, one of a kind. H is for hand, the Hand of God. And God was dog spelt backwards.

Where was Brando?

Max frowned. Had he really met a Russian woman called Epoh? He didn’t think so. But someone in his head had.

He came back to reality. Smirking. Reality. There was a joke in there somewhere. The old Max wanted to help this girl. Partly because she had eyes like Rita. Emma’s skin. Partly because she was Kristy’s little sister. Kristy in Germany seemed okay. Not that he’d met her. Partly because he and Larry had helped Larry’s sister. Once. Recently. It had felt good. To help. To save. To be human. Saved her from the Vin. Emma. Kristy’s little sister needed saving too. Saving from herself.

It didn’t mean the redhead had zero to offer. Kristy’s little sister was right about one thing. Max did look sad. Dull blue eyes were haunted. Weighed down with responsibility. Filled with dread. Clouded with doubt. The weight of the world was slumped carcass-like across his shoulders, bloated by the midday sun. Hookers might not read books, but they could read looks. The problem was, Max knew too much about life. And too little. The crux of his dilemma. That combination created a cocktail of sadness. Dregs at the bottom of the coffee cup of life. Max had been staring into those dregs for quite some time… looking for inspiration.

My name’s Cyndie, Cyndie Alpert, began the girl. This wasn’t a lie. She was proud to be an Alpert.

Cyndie Alpert was moving her knight into play. Jumping over pawns. A bold opening. Creating visual etchings of promises to come. As if her name was special. Max lucky to hear it. Months later, Max would remember this moment. Wonder whether it was luck or fate that’d brought them into this bar. At the same time. Creating breadcrumbs. For others to follow. Max looked at Cyndie Alpert. Watched lustful eyes turning pages in The Mark’s Handbook. Cyndie was nineteen. A voice like vodka and cream. Every man’s fantasy. Every mother’s nightmare. No wonder older sister Kristy worried.

Half right, said Max obliquely, referring to her named introduction.

Cyndie frowned, tilting lustred hair on a sculptured neck, making it fall across one green eye. What the hell did that mean? She decided to ignore it. She’d done this a thousand times. Weird was normal in The Cross.

My friend and I thought you might like company? she purred.

The words were throaty, full of innuendo, coming from a mouth too used to sucking cock. With a flick of her conditioned mane, Cyndie indicated her friend at the far end of the bar. Expertly done, another click to open the safe containing tonight’s anticipated treasures. Max wondered if Cyndie knew hair was just columns of dead keratinised cells?

Max brushed the mind of Cyndie’s raptor friend. By contrast the Eurasian’s eyes were dull. Wet riverbed stones. Cold. Dark. She’d been in the game longer. Too long. Tattoos telling unhappy stories. Her name was Maxine, Mexican-American, not Asian, not her real name either, just the one she used in Australia. Maxine. A female Max. Maxine swivelled on cue to expose long slender legs. Crossing like scissors ready to cut. The game was on. Cyndie and Maxine called it GMAMCC. The Game of Middle Aged Men with Credit Cards. It was a game they always won.

My girlfriend’s got great legs, purred Cyndie, cheesing the trap.

Tasty drumsticks, acknowledged Max.

Cyndie frowned. Not quite the expected response. There was something off about this guy. Was he mocking her? His eyes were dull, but still a shocking blue. A pervert maybe? A scene from her favourite TV series came to mind. New Hannibal. Hannibal the cannibal would say tasty drumsticks. Instinct made her wary. Men were cunts. She’d learnt that a long time ago.

Don’t you want company? she teased, flashing teeth made white with blue-light.

I’m just a middle-aged man with credit cards, replied Max grimly.

Cyndie straightened, alert, suspicious, looking at Maxine. There’s no way he could have heard them from here. She’d play it safe. She laughed, as fresh as a babbling brook. That laugh had taken years to perfect. She called it her caught-and-forgive laugh.

Have I scammed you before? she giggled with naked honesty.

Honesty, like her chesty meat sacks, was a tool. Max said nothing, holding his untouched beer in both hands, like the body of a dead puppy.

Cyndie hated silence, unless she was the creator of it. She’d often sulk after one of Kristy’s you’ve-got-to-grow-up speeches. She missed Kristy. Not that she’d ever tell her that. In fact, she missed Kristy a lot. Cyndie’s painted claws tapped faster on the stained bench top of their four-person booth. Her mouth scrunched. Twisting. This wasn’t going the way she wanted.

What’s going on in that head of yours? she asked.

Normally it was a line, but not this time. Was he going to fuck her or gut her? In her experience these were the only two options. Unless he was deviant gay. A watcher maybe? But he didn’t look gay. And he didn’t look like he watched… not her at least. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Max lifted his brown-haired head, seemingly with effort, blue eyes never leaving her green. A light pulsed in his blue. Cyndie’s crutch juiced. Good God! What was that? No, he wasn’t gay. Green eyes swam deeper into blue, her heart pounding. What the? Normally, she faked orgasms. Now she was fighting one down. Just looking at a guy. She’d seen that movie. Years ago. Sally met someone. With Kristy. Thought it impossible. A thousand stories swirled in those crazy blue eyes.

This man was far from boring.

Max wondered where he’d start. If he dared. Would he tell Cyndie the Earth was doomed? That it was once a farming planet. Might become one again. With monsters eating kids. Ripping out spinal cords. Listening to their screams. Sucking on life-enhancing bone marrow. Lava. Or would he disclose planets in other universes? Planets raped by marauding Hordes of Tarkeron Mothers. As they ate their way across the multiverse. Maybe he’d tell Cyndie, the Australian Prime Minister is a clone? Manipulating the world for a secret organisation, The Mother Company. Maybe if Cyndie saw a Sheath Cloud, it might snap her out of her selfie delusions of life?

In the end Max said nothing. He just stared at her with sad blue eyes as she shuffled on G-string divided cheeks. Tantalisingly covered by her $699.90 DKNY dress. Cyndie’s face scrunched again. Not in a nice way. This guy could read her. Like her sister. She hated that. He didn’t even look uncomfortable. That was wrong. He was a middle-aged nobody. She was in her prime, out of his league. He should be twitching like a pinned frog.

We’re bi, offered Cyndie, a little too quickly, almost gushing, borderline desperate. Chocolate on cheese. We don’t think three’s a crowd.

Max’s look made her squirm. A reprimanding father’s look. Not a lover’s look. She felt anger, but he cut her off before her mouth opened.

Are you worth saving, Cyndie?

Cyndie frowned, then understood. Or thought she did. Older guys loved saving younger women. She’s seen it a thousand times. Probably they wanted to fuck their daughters. Or nieces. Not that her dad had done that. Not exactly. She’d loved him. But he’d died… and left her… the bastard.

What do you want to save me from? she purred.

A bullet, said Max. And monsters. Uncertainty stole sparkles from Cyndie’s alpine-lake eyes.

Okay, this guy was weird. Cyndie rolled eyes at Maxine and gave the signal. There were other marks in the bar. She began to slip from the booth.

If you go back to Maxine you die. Max was staring into his drink.

Cyndie slowed, grimacing, unsure. So now you’re a fortune-teller? She couldn’t recall using Maxine’s name. Definitely time to leave. Her mind was already on the bushy eyebrows guy three booths down.

Max looked up. Why’d you pick me, Cyndie with an i?

Cyndie hesitated again. On the edge of her bench. On the edge of a cliff. How’d you know I’m an i?

Same way I know you’ll be safe if you stay with me.

You’ll kill me if I leave? she smirked.

You can’t work in Sydney’s Kings Cross after dark without dealing with psychos. Would-be wizards and vampires were the worst. Her thumb was on speed dial. All smart girls had pet cops, and Cyndie had four depending on shifts. She didn’t mind throwing a few charity fucks for protection.

I won’t kill you, replied Max. With me you’re safe. For the moment, he thought.

Weirdly, Cyndie believed him. He wasn’t there to kill her. He was a protector. It oozed from him. Like that old Equaliser movie with Denzel Washington. She relaxed, looking again at him with fresh eyes. Under the nondescript clothes, he looked fit. His skin was unblemished. Bastard. Those blue eyes of his were… were… full of something. Energy. Life. Despair. She looked hard at Max, then answered.

I picked you because I liked your hair, she lied, answering his initial question. His hair was a mess. And you did look sad. That part was true.

Max smiled thinly, reaching up to pull off his wig. His bald scalp shone. Never trust the obvious. He dropped dead hair beside his dead drink.

Cyndie’s mouth went into another scrunch. This time cute. She was almost tempted to pull off her wig and plonk it beside his. She wasn’t frightened. That worried her. Had she met this guy before? There was something about him. Few things shocked her since running from Kristy, certainly not this guy’s baldness. But those blue eyes went close. She felt them scratching at the back of her brain. Yes, a Kristy trick. Annoying, but nice too, caring. Kristy was still in Germany, doing her travel-writing stuff. Finding answers, she’d always say. But never telling her, finding answers to what? She hated Kristy for that. Secretive, not sharing, protective. Kristy was searching. Something about their parents. Something about the way they’d died. Companies paid Kristy to travel the world. To Cyndie that wasn’t fair. Men only paid her for a hotel room. It came too easy for Kristy. Always had. She got everything and was good at everything. Kristy didn’t grieve over their parent’s death. She just searched. Cyndie had grieved, and still did.

Seconds passed. She sat perched on the end of the booth. Life in balance. Step back or jump. Why hadn’t she left? She turned, lit an electronic cigarette, another fake prop, fumbling for time, deciding.

Let me get this right, she recapped, blowing vapour from a twisted mouth. If I stay I don’t die? Max looked at her, then nodded. If I go back to Maxine I do? Max nodded again. Cyndie blew harder, thinking. Before… you said I was half right, when I said my name? What’s that mean?

How many letters in Cyndie?

Cyndie’s life centred around playing games. Pretending to hate Kristy was one. Pretending to hate her father had been another. When it was her mother she’d truly hated. She looked at tonight’s mark. Beneath the Big W clothes, baldy seemed in control. He was tightly muscled when you looked. What sort of inbreeding created those eyes? You didn’t see it at first. This guy had presence. Maybe you didn’t see it unless he wanted you to see it?

Cyndie smiled. Okay, I’ll play… six letters.

Max looked at her. Divide your name into half. The first half, Cyn. sitting here safe with me. Or Sin. Knowing you’re wasting your life. But if you spell the second half of your name, that’s what will happen if you leave?

Cyndie visualised in her head. That’s not very nice.,

The truth rarely is, responded Max. He looked past her at his real quarry in this pub tonight. She followed his gaze, scrunching her face a fourth time. See those Black-Eyed Peas over there, Cyndie. She had no idea what he was talking about. They aren’t what they seem.

It’s King’s Cross, she shrugged. Nothing was what it seemed.

Cyndie cocked her head, hair spilling in an avalanche of colour, doing the eye thing again. She inspected tonight’s mark, the way Kristy inspected her, judgementally. She pouted, then slowly withdrew the pout, replacing it with a more genuine expression. The real Cyndie was pushing through. Here was the girl once loved by a mother and father. Still loved by an older sister. Before things had changed. Before her mother went mad. Doing things. Inexplicable. Her father soon following. Blowing her brains out. Then his. No explanation. Cyndie was the student who teachers praised. Telling her she had potential. It was sinful to waste potential. Max smiled, reading her thoughts. That’s what his teacher had said to him.

You look familiar, she said finally. Famous?

Infamous, said Max dryly. Killing people did that.

More seconds ticked by. No-one spoke. Cyndie found herself not hating the silence. Instead, enjoying his blue eyes. Mesmerised. There was something burning there. Definitely a protector. Not a stalker. He wouldn’t hurt her. Though violence twitched under his skin. She saw that. But not against her.

So, if I sit with Maxine, I die, she reiterated. If I sit with you, I don’t?

Max looked at her. He’d already answered that question.

What about Maxine? Does she die?

Max closed his eyes, then opened. Not tonight.

Cyndie didn’t like that. It didn’t seem fair. Why?

Max shrugged. Randomness.

She frowned at him, wanting more. He gave it.

We’re a random collection of atoms, Cyndie. Actually, atoms within atoms. Within atoms. I think. Glued together from fluky bits of almost-nothingness. You think you’re special. You’re not. Life’s more than slits and tits.

It was like pressing a button. Cyndie’s eyes masked over. Buttocks rolling, Reason gone. She touched his hand, stroking, predator smirk returning. It always comes down to sex, she purred knowingly.

No, said Max. It doesn’t.

Red lips pouted. This time a child’s pout. He wasn’t playing by the rules. She pulled back her hand.

You’re a loser, she sniffed.

You’ll die.

And Gandalf the Grey is selling weed in the back toilets, she quipped.

The local Hobbits will be happy about that.

She remained teetering, perplexed. He was weird. Max felt a tightening in his human heart. Not the Tightening. That was something different. This tightening said he’d done all he could. Saving someone who didn’t want to be saved was pointless. Was she a symbol of the herd? Her sister Kristy had tried. Just like him. If Cyndie with an i couldn’t cope with her parent’s death, how would she cope with the death of all humanity?

Despite being annoyed, Cyndie hovered. Maxine stared from the bar. Worried. Trying to read non-verbals. She’d been given the signal, yet Cyndie was still there. Did she need help? Was she being threatened?

Finally, Cyndie extended a long slender arm in a theatrical face-saving gesture. It was nice to meet you…? she said loudly for Maxine to hear.

Max, said Max after a pause. He didn’t take her hand.

I didn’t pick you as rude, she pouted, hand hanging in limbo.

"Catholics say suicide’s a sin. You were born Catholic, weren’t you?"

God’s dead, she scowled. One might be, agreed Max.

I’ll be over there, she concluded with miffed confidence. How’d he know she was Catholic? I might come back, she added flippantly.

That’s the problem with truth, Cyndie, said Max. If you walk away from it. Few come back.

Cyndie wasn’t sure if shiny-head was talking to her, himself, or God. Maybe all three. She liked his shiny head. The Bruce Willis look, before he got old. Even his skull had muscles. And no blemishes! Mid 30’s to 40’s. She smiled brightly as she walked away, for Maxine’s sake, looking confident. Though suddenly she didn’t want to leave. Maxine glared at her when she saw the hesitation. Peer group pressure propelled Cyndie forward.

Cyndie with an i returned to the bar, to mirror the scissor-legged pose of her sometimes friend and occasional lover. Maxine had a vodka shot and questions waiting. She’d read the tension between Cyn and the wig guy. Was it fear-tension or fucking-tension? Cyndie gulped Absolut, signalling for time out, lips closed to all else. She was brooding, reprocessing the conversation. She still felt him in her head. A nice feeling. She frowned, the frown of a young girl, a girl still with parents. A girl before her mother had done what she’d done. Turned bad. Now back with Maxine, Cyndie wanted to be with Max whatever-his-name-was. Only pride and stubbornness nailed her to her seat.

The youngest Alpert was determined not to look in his direction. But she did. The piercing blue eyes a magnet. He’d replaced his wig, looking sadder than ever. She wanted to run over and hug him. Suddenly she felt empty, as if she’d missed an important opportunity. Cyndie grimaced, coming to a decision. She’d go back to blue-eyes if the eyebrows guy didn’t work out. She raised her glass in toast to Max across the room. Green eyes met blue one last time. She smiled, genuinely, the foretelling of a good night ahead. She’d give it five minutes then go back. She frowned. Fuck the eyebrows guy in booth three. Fuck making money tonight. And fuck what Maxine thought. Her scissor legs opened and shut in anticipation.

The fight erupted like a volcano. Loud and savage. A drug deal gone wrong. Nothing unusual in King’s Cross. Random atoms doing random things. With Gandalf the Grey nowhere in sight. Cyndie heard the shouting, heard the threats, the swearing. She heard the fear in one isolated voice; the unlucky one. There was always an unlucky one in The Cross. But the scuffle was far enough away, six tables down, not a threat. Instinct nailed her to her stool. It was uncool to run in The Cross. She would watch. She liked watching. She looked back at Max and for the first time felt fear feather her chest. Max was watching her, not the fight. Was that moisture glistening in his eyes?

She heard the breaking of glass, plates, wood, as a table was overturned. A chair was shattered. She didn’t see the gun, but Maxine jumped when it fired. It rang loud in the confined space. Hurting ears. The smell of powder flared nostrils. Maxine tensed but held her ground. It was uncool to show fear in The Cross. Ten bikers in full Ripper colours charged the undercover cop, who until seconds ago, had been their clandestine dealer. Someone had squealed. They ripped the gun from his hand. Smashed his cell phone. Pummelled him to the ground. Blood and teeth flew. Steel capped boots shattered ribs. They were killing him.

Even from that distance Maxine knew something was wrong. They were more than killing him. They were destroying him. Black shit was swirling in biker’s eyes. Dark, sinister, alive. Bearded mouths foamed. The Rippers weren’t worried about witnesses. They didn’t care who saw them killing a cop. That was wrong. Maxine swallowed, instinct in alarm mode. The Rippers weren’t going to leave any witnesses tonight. When she saw intestines being torn from the copper’s gut, that was the signal to run.

Fuck Cyn! she shrieked over other shrieking. We gotta go!

Maxine swivelled on her stool. Froze. The bar stool next to her was empty. The office dweeb on the other side of Cyndie was covered in blood. His bi-focaled eyes were twin pools of horror. His fingers and thumbs frantically searched for bullet holes in his chest. Nothing. The dweeb looked relieved, until he looked down. His face turned white. Maxine followed his gaze, heart sinking, panic rising. She knew what she would find.

Fuck Cyndie, groaned Maxine.

Cyndie was on the floor, one eye staring, the other eye no longer part of her face. Her fake red hair was sticky with non-fake blood. The inside of her head looked like toffee and rhubarb. A random bullet had hit random atoms and ended a random life.

Maxine screamed.

Her friend and sometimes lover was dead, head shattered. Dread flowed like poison. Shit. You didn’t scream in The Cross, not with crazy people around. Ten Rippers with fucked-up eyes turned as one. Maxine’s heart froze. They looked rabid. They drooled, no longer human, covered in blood, black eyes swirling, gizzards in mouths, chewing, looking for necks to rip out with bloodied teeth. Thank Christ they weren’t looking at her. They were looking at the booth belonging to the weird guy with the wig. The bald guy who’d frightened Cyn. But the middle-aged mark with credit cards was gone. Only his untouched beer remained, plus the slowly rising indentation in the bench seat opposite where Cyndie Alpert had sat, brimming with life.

Maxine, a by-product of a base couple thrusting with base lust in a base world, moulded tough by base streets in base cities, was surprised to hear a Voice shout in her head. She’d been raised in the superstitious Philippines though born in corrupt Mexico. An army brat left on a church step to fend for herself. When a Voice talked in the Philippines, you listened. This Voice, a male Voice, told her one thing. Run! Maxine ran. A rampaging bikie was flung out of her path by an invisible hand. Max had promised Cyndie with an i her friend would not die tonight. Max would keep his promise. Maxine, the female version of Max, grabbed heels in one hand and sprinted into the night, never looking back.

Behind her, screams rose, as sirens blared in the distance.

2

Is It Safe?

It’s only when you lose everything that you find yourself… or kill yourself through despair.

– Voice from the Oversoul

Deputy Federal Police Commissioner Philip Arnold was flying at 20,000 feet and jumping with nerves. Flying was the least of his worries, or so he thought. Arnold was a fat man no longer eating. That in itself was wrong. His world had been turned upside down and inside out. Two weeks had passed since the massacre at Uluru. Two weeks had passed since his friend and boss Commissioner Tony Elliot had been decapitated by monsters from another world. Two weeks had passed since his ordered Canberra life had descended into chaos.

Pointer! Arnold yelled to the pilot beside him over ear-shattering engine noise. Grim-faced Jeff Pointer, 32, suddenly looking 42, turned to look at him. When Arnold said nothing, the pilot cocked a questioning eyebrow inside his helmet.

Nothing, said Arnold after a long moment of intense eye contact.

He watched the RAAF pilot turn back to the controls of his C-130J6 Hercules before easing the safety back on the Glock 50 under his coat. If nothing had of been something, especially spooky black shit swirling in Jeff Pointer’s eyes, then Jeff’s brains would’ve been all over the cockpit.

Philip Arnold had spent twenty-one years in the Australian Federal Police and never fired a shot in anger. In the last fortnight he’d shot and killed six people, two being fellow officers, and one slime-bag-crawly-thing full of pus that had tried to swallow him. Pointer the pilot, he’d only just met. He’d be easier to shoot. Along with the five spare pilots accompanying the kids in the back if need be. Those kids were his purpose now. He’d sat beside their beds night and day listening to their horror stories. The dread that had filled him had been astonishing. Then he’d listened to them scream in their sleep. Making it impossible for him to sleep. The suffering of those kids had been abominable. His suffering was abominable. How the hell was he supposed to get the kids back to their parents? How the hell was he supposed to protect them? How the hell was he supposed to get back to his own family? What the hell was going on?

Static sounded in his headset. Arnold slipped it on. He knew who it was. No-one else could communicate direct with him without going through the pilot’s comms. It was the world’s most notorious politician. The global assassin. The mass-murderer with a USD$500 million bounty on his head. The despised killer who’d talked Federal Police Commissioner Tony Elliot into believing him. The world had turned to shit ever since.

How’s it going, Phil? asked Switch.

DC Arnold automatically turned his back on gaunt-faced Jeff Pointer, just in case the fucker could lip read. An hour out of Darwin, Arnold whispered into the mouthpiece. We’re following the coast west. The pilot thinks we’re heading to Perth. I’ll tell him at the last minute to drop below radar and divert to Christmas Island. The old refugee barracks are the best I can come up with at short notice. Arnold knew he was blabbering, but he couldn’t help himself.

How are the kids? Switch’s voice was distracted.

A hundred and eighty-seven strapped in the back. Twenty-six left in Darwin Base Hospital. The one’s too long in the Trees, over ripe, guts a mess.

They’ll be killed.

I know, said Arnold, hating himself. He could hardly believe he’d sentenced a bunch of primary school kids, the same age as his youngest, to death. In war there are causalities, a Voice whispered in his head.

Fuck you, he spat back, fuckin’ Voices. That rock was cursed.

Occasionally he’d listened to Dr Sam Russini’s midnight show on ABC, Now That’s Odd, Isn’t It? Tony had put him onto it. The Doc interviewed people hearing Voices. Arnold had pegged them as psychos. Now he was one of them, and Russini was hangin’ with the madman he was talking to now.

They’ll be looking for you too, said Max. They don’t like witnesses.

I know, replied Arnold again, still not sure who they were. Things had become black and white. Big things said in little words. Life and death. Good and bad. Them and us. He’d been in shock since the day his chopper landed at Uluru. He guessed he was still in shock. He couldn’t see himself getting out of shock anytime soon. What’s happening your end?

Sheaths are active, said Switch. They hijacked some bikers in King’s Cross last night, reported the hated politician without emotion.

It sounded as though he was giving a traffic update. Heartless bastard. Arnold knew active meant bloody slaughter. Sheath was an unknown word in the DC’s lexicon a fortnight ago. It seemed like a year now. Switch the assassin continued. I don’t know why they didn’t die with the Mother. Doesn’t make sense. There’s a lot I don’t know.

What’s the media saying? asked Arnold for want of conversation.

"Bad drugs sending people crazy. They’ve given it a street name; Chaos."

It was fuckin’ chaos all right, thought Arnold. He found himself wanting to talk. To talk meant he was normal, not one of them. When we hit Darwin with the kids, I put out a broadcast press release to all police media outlets about Uluru. Black eyes, giant fuckin’ alien, monsters, butchered kids, slaughtered coppers, hero aborigines, missing politician. You’d have thought at least one network would have run it.

You’d have thought, mused Max. He didn’t need sarcasm in his voice.

I left out the magic and talking dog shit, so they wouldn’t think me crazy. Max didn’t answer. Arnold continued. Where’s that dog anyway?

With Janice.

The blonde girl? Where’s she?

Don’t know.

Don’t know or won’t tell? asked Arnold. Switch didn’t answer. Arnold hadn’t expected an answer. He didn’t feel like one of the top cops in the country any more. They can’t cover this shit up forever?

They’ve done it for a very long time, noted Max. He sounded tired. Silence followed. Arnold felt silence made things worse, so broke it.

Still there? he asked, thinking maybe he should put the Glock in his mouth, or maybe go back to Canberra and shoot his wife and kids.

Just thinking, mused Max, his mind a plague of thoughts.

More silence. Any suggestions? asked Arnold feebly, hopefully.

Max stated the obvious. Trust no-one. Try to survive.

Can I trust you? asked the DC warily. Max chuckled. In no comforting way. Convinced no answer was forthcoming Arnold continued, still feeling the need to report to someone. It was in his DNA. I copied my press release to the Attorney-General in Canberra before we left Darwin.

And?

He got back to me straight away, on the encrypted line.

And?

Said I should fly to Canberra and meet the PM immediately. Arnold had voted for Myatt, trusted him, supported him on the Kill Order against Switch, against Tony’s wishes.

And?

Christmas Island sounds safer… for the moment.

For the moment, Max agreed before lapsing into another long silence. Arnold knew Switch saw no point in this conversation. I have to go Phil, said the AWOL politician. I’m not sure when I’ll make contact again.

Aren’t you some kind of superhero? demanded Arnold. It was half sarcasm, half hope.

No.

Pity, signed Arnold, then as an afterthought. Did Tony die well? His Commissioner had been his friend. And brave.

His head was ripped off, reminded Switch. He died a warrior’s death, if that’s what you mean. Fuck, thought Arnold. He was a pudgy pencil pusher. A warrior’s death sounded awful.

DC Arnold knew Switch was gone but kept talking anyway as he swung back toward the pilot. If that fucker tried to read his lips, he’d splatter his brains all over the cockpit. He didn’t. So, he didn’t.

How’s our load? Arnold yelled over the noise. He watched the six bladed propellers spin as two white circles over Pointer’s shoulder. Physics did funny things to perspective.

Pointer watched him suspiciously. Why the other pilots in the back?

Arnold slipped the Glock 50 into plain sight. Jeff’s pupils dilated, but all else stayed calm. Good training, thought Arnold. In case I have to kill you? he explained. Fuck. This is what conversation had been reduced to. Seconds ticked by, a full minute. Arnold broke first. How much do you know?

About what? shouted the pilot. He chanced a sideways look. Arnold’s face told him his response wasn’t enough. I was ordered to fly this bird from Richmond Base to Darwin by Colonel Davis. Pointer saw meaning in the silence. Davis didn’t have the authority, did he?

Pete and I went to school together, shrugged Arnold.

What did you tell him? To make him break protocol?

I told him Earth was being attacked by child-eating aliens.

Jeff snorted, waiting for the punch line. He frowned when it didn’t come. And he believed you?

No, but I got one of the kids to talk to him. Little Jason. Took a selfie. Nice kid. Seven years old. Dead now, guts fell out. Arnold looked at the pilot hard. More than a little madness at the back of his eyes, he could feel it, scratching. If you see anyone with black shit swirling in their eyes, Pointer, man or beast, kill ’em. And keep your mouth shut while you do it. That’s how they get in. A thoughtful pause by both, with Pointer wondered what the fuck he’d got himself into.

How’s our payload? asked Arnold.

On cue they heard the scream together. Both flinched. A second scream followed, higher pitched. The screams were impossible. Hair-raising. Because you shouldn’t be able to hear anything in the cargo hold through engine noise and thick bulkhead steel. Two cockpit ball-sacks started to crawl up puckering arses. A third scream was cut short. Not a good sign. It was followed by five seconds of silence. Then all hell broke loose.

Fuck, said Arnold. He didn’t want to do what he was about to do. Open the cockpit door, Jeff. He pulled a second Glock 50 from inside his jacket and handed it to the pilot. Shoot anything with black shit in eyes. Must be a head shot. And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut!

The pilot hesitated, until the chaos of screams, grunts and tearing sounds reached a new crescendo. Open! ordered Arnold. Pilot Jeff Pointer unwillingly pulled a lever. Arnold spread fat legs and braced in firing position, ready to empty his 15-shot magazine into anything nasty.

Pandemonium and madness lived on the other side. DC Arnold expected to pop one or two of the spare pilots, if they were infected. Maybe he’d have to head shoot some Sheath-deranged medical staff. But what he saw in the giant belly of the Hercules sent his already shrivelled manhood scuttling up his arse to hide behind his gallbladder. His mouth went dry. Eyes bulged. Blood, screaming, flying meat, was everywhere.

Shut the fuckin’ door! he yelled.

Jeff the pilot turned, froze, gaped, questioned his sanity, mentally blessed himself, then slammed the door shut. All in the space of two seconds. What the fuck was that? he yelped, eyes like saucers.

DC Arnold was still in firing position, heart racing, sweating profusely, despite the cold. Outside the door the screaming slowed. That gave Arnold no comfort. Scratching replaced it, then sniffing, then thumping on the cockpit door. The growling and grunting of predatory animals replaced the screaming of victims. Deputy Commissioner Philip Arnold stood rooted in indecision. Would he shit his pants or shoot himself?

What do you want me to do, Deputy Commissioner?

It was Pointer, the aging-fast pilot, yelling at him. Arnold looked down. He wasn’t shitting himself. Thank Christ. He was being asked for instructions. Ingrained discipline saved the DC. He snapped out of his terror.

Climb as steep as you can. Open cargo doors. Tip those fuckers out.

Normally if Flight Lieutenant Jeffery J Pointer was ordered to tip a load of prepubescent kids out the back of his plane into the Indian Ocean at 20,000 feet, he’d at least query the order. Particularly if coming from a civilian cop with a slippery grasp on sanity. But not this time; not after what Pointer had seen. Green skinned kids with swirling black eyes, tearing necks out of shrieking adults. Blood spurting, meat hanging from mouths. Not the living dead. The Flying Fuckin’ Dead. On steroids!

Pointer pulled hard on his stick. It threw the hulking transport into a steep climb. He gunned all four Allison turbo-prop engines, forcing their 4,600-shaft horsepower to the limit. Simultaneously he punched a big green button to open cargo doors. He didn’t need DC Arnold to tell him to keep climbing. Bloody images replayed in a loop in his head. Lockheed had given this lumbering beast a ceiling of 40,000 feet, and Pointer intended to fly vertical the whole way. Empty space was his new friend. That’s all he wanted to see in the back of his plane when he landed.

Climbing past 30,000 feet he became acutely aware of DC Arnold braced against the bulkhead beside him. The Glock was still in his hands, pointing at Jeff’s head. He stared madly at the pilot’s eyes. Pointer saw the DC’s finger resting a little too heavily on the trigger.

You bullshitted my Colonel, challenged Pointer in a high-pitched voice. Trying to break the mood. He’d done hostage negotiation courses and scored well. Arnold cocked a questioning eyebrow. You told Davis aliens were eating kids. But kids were doing the eating back there.

Sheaths inside them, mumbled Arnold. Must have been inside them when we took ’em down from the Trees. Just waiting to tear us apart.

Sheaths? Trees? mumbled Pointer. Madness.

Arnold tensed. I’ll shoot you if your eyes change.

I get that much, yelled Pointer between fear and anger. Can I shoot you if yours change?

If mine change I’ll shoot myself. Arnold reached over and reclaimed the second Glock. How much juice we got?

Pointer looked at the most important gauge on his panel. Plenty. Five thousand kilometres’ worth. Where to after this?

DC Arnold frowned, thought, then frowned some more. Time to die, Jeff.

Not exactly the answer Flight Lieutenant Jeffery Pointer was after.

3

Hoodies

Families are strongest when they accept each other’s weakness.

– Voice from the Oversoul

Bitch! hissed the tall skinny kid high on the new wonder drug, aptly named Soul-Eater. It was killing people in droves. And they loved it.

Emma kept walking, her mind whirling as always. The juvenile hoodies had been following her in shoulder-hunched movements for the past ten minutes. So far, she’d ignored them, hoping they’d go away. For their sake.

The Switches had spent three days in Central Australia, burying their dead after the Battle of Uluru. They’d shared stories and experiences. They’d shared sorrow, love, and lost time. They’d shared despair. They’d shared fear. They’d re-bonded, or tried to, as much as a broken family can. But most of all, they’d rested. Some had made love. Emma hadn’t.

Yet, for the first time in a very long time, Emma Switch had felt safe. And semi-sane. A bonus. A good feeling. A strange feeling. A delusional feeling in the end. Initially she’d felt exhilarated. She’d been saved. Her nemesis, 6of13, the Wicked Witch of Waah, was dead. Some children had been saved. A pittance compared to her dad’s stories, but some at least. Her family had been reunited. For one stupid moment, Emma had fooled herself that all was back to normal.

It was the Other Emma, now Regna her Signature Ship, who’d told her that normal was a dead word. Lamron spelt backwards. The Great Deceiver of the Dark World of eons ago. Normal was a comfort blanket for the ignorant. Emma’s old world was extinct. Accept it. She was a Saviour Witch, seeded with alien DNA. She was Awakening. Whatever that meant. Once that metamorphosis had started, Regna said, it couldn’t be stopped.

On the fifth day after her freedom, the headaches had started. Vicious. Emma knew what it was. The Sheath in her head trying to escape. Regna instructed her to kill it. Emma refused. That thing would stay, as a bitter reminder, that nothing is what it seems. Nowhere is safe. That Sheath, the essence of 6of13, pretending to be Janice for two years, had kept her sane during Podded life. It’d been very convincing. It had been her only friend.

We are joined now, pathed Emma bitterly to the trapped Sheath. You showed me your world. Now it’s my turn to show you mine. Do you have a name? The Sheath hissed in hatred, screeching in loss for its dead Mother.

The Enemy can never be trusted, seethed Regna in distaste. It controlled you once. It can do it again.

It had power when Six was alive, answered Emma with unmoving lips. Now it’s alone, weak, an orphan.

The Enemy is never alone. The Enemy is never weak.

So you say, sighed Emma as if mouthing a dirge. The Neverending War is a tragic concept, Regna. It’s a story without hope. One I can’t accept.

The Signature Ship waited, forcing patience into her words. She knew this human well. Like fine crystal she had to carry it carefully. Even though sometimes she was tempted to smash it.

Humans are constantly at war, observed Regna. With each other. With themselves. Tension and conflict are at your core. Essential. It’s the lie of peace that confuses you.

Emma’s Signature Ship was slightly less spiteful as Regna. The Other Emma had been an outright bitch at times. The Real Emma, as Emma liked to call herself, pondered if Regna was more considerate. Or just more manipulative?

You know I can hear you? scoffed her Signature Ship. We’re linked by Qig. Emma grimaced in pain as Regna’s energy lines wrinkled. Proving her point. Why do you call yourself, the Real Emma?

To keep myself, said Emma. You want me to be something else, to be a weapon.

You are a weapon. That’s the purpose of all Saviours.

Then you should warn the boys following us.

Regna found their chattering annoying. I can kill them if you want?

So can I, countered Emma. Because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

You humans… using conscience as therapy… to counter your neuroses.

Emma showed teeth, pleased to be called human. She pressed her Ship further. What’s the Oversoul, Regna? She’d head the name among the Voice chatter many times. What was it? Where was it? Those Voices in my head, are they collective therapy too? Or am I just a skitzo?

Regna didn’t answer. A Voice reeking of age tumbled into Emma’s mind. We speak to you, Green Girl, not It. This was unexpected. She tested her Ship. You do hear those Voices, Regna?

Noise, answered her Ship grumbling. A distraction.

Interesting, thought Emma. She’d easily accepted there was much she didn’t know. It appeared there was much Regna didn’t know either.

Beware of experts, rumbled the same Voice. One plus one is rarely two.

Emma had spent a week at Uluru, with parents and annoying brother, getting to know the surviving members of Rita Harlow’s Clowder of Cats. Clowder, a stupid name, but a name she surprisingly missed. Like she missed Rita Harlow. Her creation. Where was the Clowder now?

Sam and SJ she’d liked, not that she trusted SJ. How could you, knowing her genealogy. The Real Janice she’d bonded with. In a way. But that Janice was different to Six’s Janice, her friend in her head. Her father, as usual, was both close and distant. Like he’d always been. Telling stories at home being a dad. Then being elsewhere. Distant. Canberra. Someone else. In places he never spoke of. Two different men. Now a third. If man at all. Yet, she’d loved him at Uluru. He had come to save her.

Then he’d disappeared. Abandoned her. Again. Without a parting word. Emma bet he’d said good-bye to Larry. His favoured first born. Men.

Emma could tell her dad was struggling. As she was struggling. With their new gifts. Or curse. Abomination, Six would’ve said. Larry seemed to struggle less of the three. Annoying. As always. Her dad’s humanity was slipping. Both children had felt it. Neither spoke of it. Just like the father-daughter relationship was slipping. Emma felt that too. When was the last time they’d hugged? Before the kidnapping, that’s when. After one of his Wicked Witch of Waah stories. With Sally. Dead now. No hugs, even after her rescue. Well, one hug, after he’d done that blue-net-thing at Uluru, but that was a two-hand hugger with Larry. Nothing just for her. Always Larry. No more bedtime stories to be told. Just nightmares, past and coming. Otherworldly matter pressed down. Yes, matter, not matters. Forcing a family divide. What was more important, family or species?

Only the two options? a Voice suggested. Female.

Yes, there was always something else… just beyond sight… other options.

Emma’s mother simply worried. As mother’s do. Her mum was too human. Something flawed about that. Emma missed her though. Not quite true… she missed the memory of her mum. Before being Podded. When things were simpler. Through ignorance. In the end, even her mum had sided with Larry. And her dad. At Uluru. Then she’d disappeared too. Admittedly, after Emma had already snuck out. Feeling sorry for herself. But her mum had made no attempt to find her. None of them had.

So, Larry had reincarnated her mum. Just like she’d done with Rita. Emma guessed that created a bond. An image of Frankenstein’s Monster flashing. Reincarnation, weird shit, yet her mind was accepting. Of too many things. That was even weirder. More than accepting… embracing. She wondered if Rita Harlow, Emma’s monster, felt a bond with her? Obviously not. Rita had been the second of the Clowder to leave. Again, without a word.

Emma grimaced, remembering past conversations.

It’ll fade, her mum had assured her over and again in that I-can-make-everything-go-away mother’s voice. The green. Emma hated that voice. The lying adults voice. Telling shrivelling cancer kids they’ll be back playing ball in no time. Most of all, Emma hated the way her mum looked at her skin.

It’s only colour, mum, she’d snapped. Is this what black people went through? Poor bastards. Emma’d never really thought about it much.

But what’d really annoyed her was the stop-eating-that-sludge line. She’d tried. Many times. That sludge had saved her life. Craving sludge made chocolate and ice cream craves look like pussy craves. Green sludge kept her alive. Was still keeping her alive.

The Real Janice had sympathised, wise beyond her years. Too wise at times, Emma thought. Hiding something. In her Mansion? She’d tried to comfort Emma, but Janice was close to a hundred. Looking like a kid. Creepy. Like in one of those vampire movies. The Real Janice was fighting her own demons. Living outside her time. Lonely and parentless. Her mum was a ghost. Not always there. Not reliable. And unlike Emma and Larry, Janice didn’t grow. Emma didn’t understand the aging-on-steroids stuff. But she didn’t hate it either. Size counted. So, she empathised with Janice. Couldn’t help it. An adult trapped in a child’s body. Janice had left on the third day. To find her father. No-one had tried to stop her. Ever-faithful Brando bounding at her heels, eye-balling kangaroos as they’d strode into the desert.

Larry of course was different. Always different. Annoying different. Happy with SJ. Too happy. Making Emma jealous. Yet that jealousy, that foul human emotion, comforted her, in a dark way. Firing her human heart against the coldness of the alien implant.

It’s not a machine, said Regna.

Emma ignored her. Jealousy might be a curse, but it was a human curse. In the end, the entire Clowder got comfort from someone except her. Larry had SJ, her mum had Sam, her dad had Rita, Bones had many, and Janice had Brando. Emma had no-one.

We don’t have time for this simpering nonsense, scolded Regna, anger spelt backwards.

Emma knew very well how angry Regna could get. Hundreds of mutilated corpses at Uluru proved that. She scowled, conflicted as always. Emma loved her new power. It had saved her. Yet she hated it. She loved to fly. That was exhilarating. Yet power and flight were also frightening. The yin and yang of life. From the first alien injection, from the Shadok-Svet over her bed, Six’s Sheath in her head, being Podded, swallowed by her Vin, the pin turned flaming sword in her eye, Regna’s imposed skitzo ego… all were changing her. On reflection, she identified with the Soul-Eater addicts following her. No-one was in control.

"Don’t have time for what?" Emma asked eventually, long after the statement, purposefully petulant, wanting to annoy her Signature Ship, another human trait. Good.

Regna sifted through Emma’s mind, digging. We don’t have time for whatever game you’re playing, she responded.

Emma sniffed, glad her Ship didn’t understand her journey down memory lane. Didn’t understand the way she saw things. Remembered things. Memory was an anchor for her sanity. Prior to Brisbane, where she was now, Emma had insisted on flying to her old family home on the Sunshine Coast, near Noosa. Regna had resisted. But Emma had wanted to see the house where she’d been raised. The place where the core of her human memory resided.

On arrival, the house had been dark. Lights out, no-one home. Family no longer in attendance. It had felt ominous. The only thing missing was a For Sale sign on unmowed grass. She heard the soft wash of the Pacific Ocean in the background. The sound of waves hitting moonlit beaches. A sound that had soothed her to sleep on many nights. It was nature’s voice. One of many. A kind and peaceful whispering. Rhythmic. Emma had walked through every room of their home. Two levels. Bedrooms upstairs. She’d spent the first eight years of her life here. It had been her world. Small yet safe. Big then. It had felt permanent. Indestructible. Until the Shadok-Svet had breached her castle. Thrusting a foul sting in her neck. She shuddered. Her room was the same. Too much the same. A mausoleum. A shrine to a dead daughter. Regna was right. The Old Emma was dead.

Finally, sighed her Signature Ship.

Emma lay on her pink quilted bed. It felt girly. Yesteryearish. No longer relevant. Yet still comforting. She closed her eyes, not waiting long before the black shape of the Shadok-Svet hovered above. Fear had consumed her that night. Now hatred boiled. Its stink had been overpowering. She’d watched its dripping poison with huge frozen eyes. Felt its vampire fang penetrate her neck. Not sucking blood, but injecting nightmares. She hoped she’d slaughtered that creature at Uluru. It in particular. They looked the same but sensed personality. Difference. Regna raged, remembering the Enemy’s violation. Inside Emma’s head, the Sheath burnt in remembered joy. Emma pinned her skull hard between green palms. Her brain on fire.

Kill it, said Regna.

Since her podding, Emma had slept only fitfully. Yet she’d managed to sleep deeply in the bed of her youth during that visit. When she woke, she found herself sitting, staring into the mirror at the base of her bed. In that mirror she’d practiced dance moves with Sally Parsons, as they’d listened to the latest Burn music through their Apple Ears. She and Sally had pulled a zillion faces in that mirror. Childish. Funny though. They’d laughed. Nothing to laugh about now. She was a big green freak and Sally was dead.

The urge to eat sludge gnawed at her gut.

Hours later Emma exited into the night. She’d hovered motionless above the house three houses down in their quiet beachfront cul-de-sac. Her war horse more a shimmering around her. She looked at the street sign. Seeing. Something she’d never done before. Prophecy Place. Ominous. Why had her parents built here? The house below was Sally’s house. Sally who’d been ripped apart by Shadok-Svets in front of her dad. Sally, who’d rotted away in an overturned car. Her skeleton was still out there. Alone and nameless. With a combination of hesitancy and eagerness, Emma entered the house to visit her best friend’s family.

These people were once her second family. Sally a defacto sister. Now she was invisible to them. Literally. She glided like a ghost through the house. Watching, remembering, smelling, avoiding. She listened to Sally’s parents, Trevor and Lauren, to her two older brothers, Tim and Anthony. The boys had gotten bigger but were just as obnoxious. Boys talking boy things, laughing about nothing, always with a hint of nastiness. The whole family was talking trivia. Events she didn’t know about. Gossip she was no longer privy to. Furball the cat had died. She’d liked that cat. There were new bullies at school, new movies to be pirated, new friends to be discussed, new smart phones, clothes that talked to you, and of course, a new cat. Time had moved on. Sally’s name was never mentioned. Not once. Nor was Emma’s. It was as if they’d been photo-shopped out of existence. Emma didn’t look back as she ascended toward the waning moon. Adrift in a starless midnight sky she swooped fast, seething with loss and anger, tears rolling down both cheeks, before the wind wiped her green face clean.

Emma was leaving her past behind. Forever. Or so she thought.

The Old Emma had spent a lot of time in Brisbane, with her mum mostly, sometimes with her dad, when he was home from Parliament. Sometimes with Sally’s parents.