By Duncan Paul Johnson

(dpjrugby@aol.com)

Chapter One – Notes from the Underground

The dawn of the twenty-first century has been called the new industrial revolution. A new order had emerged from the ashes of the old, still lingering in the twilight of the previous hundred years. Miniaturisation and automation were key, but a new watchword had been added to the already potent mix: adaptability. The new technology was designed to cope with the most adverse conditions, better still, to thrive on them. Finally, industry was able to move away from society; the people were freed from their work to enjoy the fruits of their labours. Work and pleasure could now be separated geographically as well as temporally. Communities sprung up specialising in either business pursuits or pleasure-seeking activities. Gone were the more cosmopolitan, homogeneous cities of the past. The factories left the cities and reclaimed the deserts.

Liz Turner was late. Had she known that she was soon to be even later she might not have hurried.

Her supervisor, an annoying man with greasy hair and a lisp, had turned up at the end of the shift – just as she was packing her things – to inspect her work. Surprise inspections were standard, of course, but she could not help feeling that this one had been contrived just to inconvenience her. The supervisor, Carl Steven Ward (he always used all three names) had once made a pass at her, which she had rebuffed. He had been making her life at the facility hell ever since. Nothing that she could take action for, of course, but enough to make her life hell all the same. Like an unnecessary and tedious inspection.

And now she was half an hour late. Her booted feet clanged on the surfaces of the metal steps and gangways as she hurried to make her way to the surface and escape this underground termite's nest. In order to save time she had decided not to bother changing out of her work overalls. Now they clung to her sweaty body like a second skin. She was hot, tired, uncomfortable and angry. No, not angry, she was furious – with Carl, with herself, with the whole world in general. Not the best of ways to start a romantic weekend with ones lover.

Brian would forgive her, though. He would sit patiently in the car listening to his Elgar and then tell her how much he loved her when she finally arrived. To Liz's mind, however, that only made things worse. She was spoiling his weekend; he should be mad. She certainly was. They would be lucky to make it to the hotel in time for dinner. It was a long drive from the Nevada facility to San Francisco, even in Brian's new sports flitter. Brian loved that car (almost as much as he loves me, Liz thought with a smile. Maybe tonight would not be so bad after all). It was a Ferrari Hummingbird, the first anti-grav vehicle the company had made. The press had made a big thing about the car when it had first appeared, but to Liz's mind it more than lived up to its hype, even if she did not like the garish red paint-work. Maybe that's why Brian did not mind waiting; he got to spend more time with his pride and joy. And tonight, Liz thought wickedly, I'll make sure he forgets about her completely.

Liz had made it up to the surface level. The artificial illumination of the rest of the complex was giving way to natural light filtering in through tiny windows high above. Most of the complex, like an iceberg, was to be found beneath the surface. Liz spent five days of every week deprived of natural light, though the psychologists said it did her no harm. Something to do with the specific wavelengths of the artificial lights, Liz recalled. She could smell the machinery from up here and, even though she was used to it, it still made her nauseous. Pollution was far less of a worry these days than it had been. This deep in the desert, any harmful by-products released into the air would dissipate long before they reached any population centres.

Fortunately, Liz managed to stay away from manufacturing. She was in charge of one of the many testing divisions. She would much rather have been in research, but she had spent far too much time at university partying instead of studying. At the time it had sure been worth it though. It was true what they said about Uni. being the best years of your life. It beat testing microchips day in and day out. Over the last week, her team had found twelve defective chips out of several thousand they had tested. The automated manufacturing processes were not quite infallible, but they were getting that way. The manufacturing supervisors were probably even more bored than she was.

It made sense to make microchips in the desert. Converting sand into silicon was easy. Converting sand into high-quality silicon needed for chips was more difficult, but the techniques were there. And there was plenty of sand available. So what if the air-conditioning was always on the blink or the staff continuously complained of chronic boredom? There was money to be made out here and lots of it. At the end of the day Liz could not really complain when she was paid as much as she was.

Finally Liz reached the entrance. She could see Steve, the security guard, silhouetted in his office next to the vast open gates. Putting on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the glare outside, Liz turned to wish Steve a pleasant weekend. She liked Steve. He had been at the complex longer than anyone else she knew and when she had first arrived it was Steve who had taken her round and shown her the ropes. He was one of those people you found it impossible not to like, to whom you would find yourself pouring out your life story before you even realised it. Liz would often come up here during her off-duty hours for a chat and Steve would happily chatter about his wife and kids for as long as she would listen. Liz remembered that she was going to ask him how Tommy got on in his exam yesterday.

Only it was not Steve in the booth. This man was shorter, squatter and clean-shaven. Dressed from neck to toe in all-concealing black with dark glasses hiding his eyes. He also held a gun.

Liz instinctively reached for the pepper spray she kept in her jacket before remembering that she had not had time to change. The gun was large, chunky and grey. It dominated her vision and she could hardly focus on the man behind it. He held the weapon limply, pointing at the floor. It still terrified Liz. She could see Brian's car across the car park. The colour scheme was unmistakable. She wanted to scream for his help, to send him charging to her aid, but her throat was dry and could form no words.

'Liz Turner?' the man in black asked.

Liz nodded mutely. The man shrugged. 'A pity,' he said. He stared out at the horizon for a long moment and Liz considered making a run for it. The she saw the gun again, its cold matt finish promising only one thing: death.

The man reached beneath the desk and put a piece of paper on the ledge between them. It looked like a computer printout. 'Seen this?' he asked.

Liz leaned forward for a closer look. Inside the office she could see Steve lying on the floor, his usual white shirt stained crimson. Liz felt a numbness spread across her. Up until now she had thought she had a chance of escape, that this mysterious man would let her go or someone would come racing to her rescue. Now she knew with certainty that she was going to die here. Her hand shook as she reached for the printout. The man in black seemed not to notice. The paper showed a green line, flat except for a single small peak about two-thirds of the way along.

'W-what is this?' she stammered. 'What does it mean?'

'It's your death warrant Ms Turner,' the man replied indifferently. Liz noticed the gun being raised until it was level with her chest. It did not frighten her. She could not feel any emotion any more.

'Why?' Liz demanded, her voice little more than a whisper. 'I haven't done anything.'

'You were born, that's enough,' the killer – that was all Liz could think of him as now – said. Liz could not fathom his meaning. She was surprised how appalled she felt that she was going to die without ever knowing the reason.

'It's him I feel sorry for,' the killer continued, indicating Steve with a movement of his head. 'He hadn't done anything wrong, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now you, on the other hand, you have got to die. We don't want your kind here.'

Liz raised her hands defensively. She knew it was a useless gesture, but it was all she could think to do.

'Night, night, genejoke,' the killer sneered.

The gun fired, a surprisingly muted thunderclap. Liz did not feel the impact, she just felt her legs suddenly give way as she tumbled to the floor. She felt cold, so very cold. She could feel her energy draining away like sand in an hourglass, faster than she could catch it. She pressed a hand to her chest; it felt warm and sticky. But if that was warm, why did the rest of her feel so cold? Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. Sleep beckoned, one final, everlasting rest.

As Liz Turner's life drained away, she felt only regret that she could not apologise to Brian for ruining his weekend.

The man in black looked at the woman curled on the floor in a pseudo-foetal position. Her crimson blood pooled about her head and chest like an unholy halo. He spat on her, a glob of saliva that landed on her unfeeling cheek. She had been scarcely worth the effort to kill. He could hardly believe he had wasted a bullet on one of them. He knew his cause was just, though. Racial purity had to be maintained. Their kind was a threat and had to be eliminated. Right and wrong had nothing to do with it; that was simply the way the world worked. He was restoring an upset balance. He did not want his children to have to grow up among them. He was doing it for his children, for all children. He felt guilty about the security guard. Killing your own was unfortunate, but those that aided their kind had to be punished.

He tapped a button on his collar. The concealed radio transmitter sent a signal to his masters that the job was complete. By the time he got home there would be a new target waiting for him. He was paid well for each hit, but he longed for the time the money stopped coming in. That would be the day they were finally wiped out. The thought caused a wolf-like grin to spread across his features, but it never reached his eyes. There was still far too much work to be done.

He turned and strode from the complex in search of more victims.