Peters shifted, his stance relaxing. “We’ll have to agree to differ.” He nodded at the boy. “You didn’t answer my question: what happens to him?”
“The Zelo will believe whoever did this must be punished. An eye for an eye.” He paused. “How many Zelotyr are dead?”
“Thousands.”
“When they let me go, they said their teenagers would face three deaths each, the same as Nugent.”
Peters paled and glanced at the small figure in the interview room. “Shit.”
“Yes.”
“But they must know the virus didn’t come from the streets of Belfast. It could have come from anywhere; the Barath’nas won’t exactly be sorry about it.”
“And I’m sure if they find a Barath’na is behind it, they’ll murder him a thousand times over, too.” Carter knocked on the window, a rat-tat-tat of nerves. “If these lads released the virus, under galactic law they’ll be found guilty of…” He shook his head. “I don’t know; accidental xenocide, I suppose. Alien-slaughter?”
“What will you do?” asked Peters, after a moment.
“What can I do? I’m only a policeman, I have no authority over the GC.”
“A policeman whose jurisdiction the lads lie under. The Zelotyr have pulled out; our colonel is dealing with the fallout. No one else has claimed jurisdiction.”
Carter shrugged, hoping to hide how upset he was. The soldier was right—the boys were humans, they deserved to be dealt with as such, but the last months had taught him his hands were tied when it came to the Galactic Council. He was nothing to them, just a cop buried on Earth.
“It lies with the GC. I’ll report the incident to their representative,” he said, knowing how it sounded, a Judas taking his silver coins. Peters’ mouth tightened into a thin line. Carter crossed his arms. "I don’t like it either, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Peters looked through the glass, taking a long moment before he turned his gaze back to Carter. “If it were me, I’d hand in my stripes and walk away.” Carter went to cut him off, but his voice rose over Carter’s. “Because it’s shit. He’s human, they’re the invaders. It’s shit.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Carter to stare at the boy. Peters was right. It was crap, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carter walked into the interview room, pulled out the chair opposite the boy and sank into it. It had taken him a bit of time to find out who he was, but finally a constable had come up with a name. The boy ignored him and Carter watched for a moment, letting the silence stretch. John was holding something in his hand, a rag of some sort, and his hands were clenching and unclenching around it, as if it was the only thing he could sense or control.
“John.” No response. Carter rapped the table. “John Dray!”
This time, John lifted his head. “What?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“The station. Antrim Road station.”
“Good lad. My name’s Henry Carter, I’m an inspector based here.” The boy nodded, and Carter went on, “Now, since I already know your name, could you confirm it for the record?”
“No.”
Carter took a deep breath. “John Dray,” he said. “Your mate is Terence Delaney. Living somewhere in the Oldpark. Parents died about three months ago, foraging for food. Got some siblings.” He laid his hands on the table. “That’s all I know about you, John. Can you help me out with some more?”
“I haven’t done anything,” said the boy. “You’ve no reason to hold me.”
He clenched his fist around the rag and Carter pointed at it. “What’s that?”
John looked at it, and his eyes seemed to soften. “It’s nothing. Just something I carry around with me.”
“Whose is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Carter waited, thinking. The siblings, apparently, were younger. “What will happen when you don’t get home?” The lad’s head came up, and Carter shrugged. “Because you’re not going anywhere.” Carter leaned forward. “You weren’t the only one who carried out a job tonight: Baltimore, Rostov, Marseilles, Istanbul, Buenos Aires and Mombasa, they’re the ones we know of. All the other runners who let the virus go are dead.” He paused, but there was no answer, so he pushed again. “All the Zelotyr are dead, John. That’s what the job was, to kill them.”
John’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carter smiled at his bravado. “You know we picked up two men waiting at the edge of the estate? They had guns.” The boy paled slightly at that. “Now, what were you doing on the hill?”
“Nothing; I told the patrol that.”
“Spare me.” Carter nodded at the rag. “So, whose is it? Since you’ve nothing to hide, why not tell me?” The boy’s hand clenched around it, and Carter softened his voice. “I’m here to help, John.”
The boy looked up, his eyes hard. “Like hell you are.”
“Well, no one else is,” said Carter. He leaned back in his seat, looking at the ceiling’s pattern of cracks from the Zelo bombs. He waited.
“It’s my little brother’s—from his coat," said John, his voice hesitant. "That’s all.”
Carter stifled a smile of relief. “What’s his name?”
“Stuart.”
There was a clatter from the corridor and Carter got up to open the door and take a tray from Sanderson. He set it on the table, picked up a mug of tea, and pushed another mug towards John. “Hot chocolate. I thought you must be cold. Biscuits, if you want any.”
The boy’s eyes went round at the sight of the biscuits and he reached out and took one, nibbling at it for a moment before his hunger got the better of his manners and he devoured it in two bites. Carter pushed the plate over to him.
“Help yourself,” he said, and waited while the boy did just that. After, John picked up the mug and huddled over it, his face pinched and dirty, his too-long hair falling over his face, hiding his watchful eyes.
“Any other brothers?” asked Carter. The boy shook his head. “Sisters?”
A slight nod. “Two.”
“Where are they?”
The boy’s shoulders stiffened.
“At home.”
“Where’s home?” The boy shook his head, and Carter moved back to safer ground. “How old are they?”
John pushed his hair back. He looked younger. More vulnerable. Slowly, he said, “Josey’s a couple of years younger than me—the other two, they’re just kids. Josey’ll look after them until I get home.”
Carter leaned forward until his hand was nearly touching the boy’s. “Look, John, you’re in a lot of trouble, do you know that? It’s just—you won’t be getting back to them anytime soon.”
The boy blinked before he looked back at Carter and nodded. He looked like he was scared to speak in case he cried, and Carter didn’t blame him.
“Can you tell me anything? Who gave you the tin?”
“We found it.” John’s voice was a whisper and his eyes didn’t meet Carter’s.
“Where?”
“On the ground.”
“So you found a tin, and decided to risk the patrols—leave your kid sisters and Stuart alone—to climb up the Cave Hill?”