Noah’s wristband lit up with an incoming notification, and he tapped it to bring up the information on his new comrades. A young woman’s profile flashed onto the screen. In her ID photo, she wore the barest hint of a smile, as if she was trying to suppress a laugh. Scrolling down to her birth date, Noah saw she’d recently turned twenty-five. Noah swiped to the next picture. Male, his wide blue eyes giving him a slightly wild, crazed look. He looked far younger in his photo than the stated age of twenty-two. He’d be twenty-three in just a couple of months. But the question was, would he live until twenty-four?
As he settled down to wait for the transit van, fireworks exploded faintly in the distance. Another service for another dead soldier. He looked up to see small bright flashes of green, pink and white streaking the sky. He pretended that he would not count them, but it was futile.
Twenty-eight pops.
Twenty-eight years lived, and now, nothing.
Twenty-eight. The same age as Noah himself.
three
Zeke
Theycameforhimon a Tuesday evening.
At almost the exact moment the clock hit five minutes to midnight, Zeke knew the game was up. He couldn’t resist twitching the curtain back at the sound of a rumbling growl of a van. Two figures, shrouded in darkness, took the steps two at a time on their journey to the front door of his apartment block. Seconds later, the sharp, piercing tone of the doorbell shrieked through his apartment. He considered not answering. What would they do? Break down the door? Drag him from his house kicking and screaming? It rang again, two buzzes this time, the second longer than the first, declaring,We’re not going anywhere.
“Hello?” he said, after dragging himself to the door, cursing himself for the pathetic whimper that came out.
“Bates! Nice to meet you finally. Are you coming down or are we coming up?” came a booming male voice through the speaker system. There was a long pause. Hand shaking, he pressed the door release button, unlatched his front door, and crossed the room to sit on his windowsill.
He gazed out at the glittering city landscape before him, trying to soak in the view one last time. In the far distance, the shadowy outline of the London Eye stood dark and still. A decade had passed since its last slow circular rotation, but Zeke always thought he would see it move again if he stared at it long enough. Far closer was the illuminated sign of the tube station nearest to his house, its bright glow serving only a reminder of when builders blocked every station with concrete brick nine layers deep. Why was it even lit up? What a waste of electricity.
It didn’t take long for the men to climb the two stories to his apartment. They didn’t bother with knocking—they slipped inside and closed the door behind them without making a sound. He appraised his guests. One, a large bald man, wore a tight, friendly smile, while his shorter partner’s face was blank and unreadable.
“Mr Bates! The man himself, at last! I would introduce us, but I think you know who we are,” said the bald man. He took a seat on Zeke’s armchair and lay back, sprawling his arms behind his head.
“You’re the people that have been harassing me every hour for almost two weeks now.”
Derrick Brown was the name left at the end of the messages. Was that his real name? Or the one he used when he was dragging people from their beds in the middle of the night?
“I’m surprised to find you here, to be honest. I thought you might have made this difficult for everyone by hiding out somewhere.”
Zeke turned to face the window again and placed his palm on the glass. “I didn’t need to hide because I’ve had to decline the offer. I’ve already filed the meaningful employment clause paperwork.”
“That option was inapplicable to you the moment you ceased to be meaningfully employed, Mr Bates.”
“I work at Oakfield Institute. I’m a junior researcher there. My employer—”
“Was no longer your employer as of fourteen days ago. I am aware you were a researchassistant.I’m sure you were very good at it. Sadly, you’re now unemployed. That makes you eligible for conscription under the Fifty-Two Amendment.”
“He’s just gone away somewhere. He’s coming back,” Zeke whispered into the window. His breath caught on the glass, obscuring his view.
Behind him, Derrick gave a sharp laugh. “I can reassure you he certainly isn’t. Right now,Doctor,”—he said the word with a sneer—“Albert Harding is sitting in a cell down at Blackhouse Regional.”
Zeke spun around to face them. “Theprison?”
The other man spoke at last. “My mate took him in ‘bout two days back now. Put up a right performance. I heard they had to taser him to get him in the vehicle.”
“But… why? What has hedone?” Zeke was becoming more and more frenzied, but he was past caring about appearances.
A few weeks ago, when Zeke turned up to work to find the laboratory door locked, he’d known something was wrong. That feeling was only compounded when two police officers turned up at his flat that evening, asking a series of very guarded questions. But he’d thought Doctor Harding had gone missing, or potentially experienced a nervous breakdown due to the stress of the job. Never once did he imagine he’d beenarrested. Were his colleagues aware of this development?
Derrick smiled then abruptly sat forward, causing Zeke to flinch. “None of my business, that. Right, time to get this show on the road. Are you walking out of here with us or are we waking up the neighbours?” he said, conversationally.
“Look, there’s really no point in me going there,” he began, forcing himself to sound as steady and reasonable as possible. He would not beg. He would not beg. He would not— “Just listen for a second! I would make a goddamn awful soldier. I’ve never killed anything in my life. I’m happy to do anything else. I can cook, I can clean—”
“Bring it up with your superiors when we get there, kid. I’m just the messenger.” Derrick rose from the chair and straightened his back with an audible click. “You have five minutes to pack your stuff before we’re out of here.”
