Jones 9

43

“So what’s 'EVA', Jones?" Dresden looked at the manual again and scratched his head.

“Extra Vehicular Activity, or space-walking to you and me." Jones was back in his old room and his mother had managed to get Dresden into Chen's room. Sat at Chen’s old dining table, they poured over charts and diagrams.

“And you’ve done it before, Jones? Wow." Jones shrugged.

“Yeah, well, I know stuff all about satellites and computers. That’s wow." Dresden smiled.

“I think we’ll be OK, Jones." He wrinkled his brow. “I’ll just check they’ve got the signal- splitter ready." Jones watched as Dresden commed the Technical Department to discuss the specifications. Within seconds, he was striding round the room and jabbing the air.

“You’re joking! I asked for a five five zero capacity unit! What do you mean it's-" He looked sheepishly at Jones and spoke quietly again. “No, I appreciate all you’re doing. Thank you. I’m sure it’ll be fantastic. Could it be ready by three o’clock please? That’s great. We have a simulation in the floatation pool at half past, so if you would get it to the training centre... thank you very much. Bye!"

Hmm, thought Jones, as he watched Dresden bang on his com. If he takes out his frustration on his adding machine instead of the rest of humanity that’s a fair improvement. Dresden had even had the politeness to say that having met Julie she was quite a babe. On reflection it was a lot more than politeness. In fact, Jones had had found it difficult to butt in on their conversation. Gentleness was not something that Dresden had been used to and, sitting on the rug looking up at Julie, he had been intoxicated by her calm. He was, in short, a tranquilised lion at the feet of his captor.

Gamekeeper’s drugged dart or Cupid’s arrow? Jones wasn’t sure, and he decided not to dwell on it until after the mission. Hearing an engine outside the window, he grabbed his bag and led the way outside.

Once in the car, Jones and Dresden had a final briefing. On alighting, they were led to a small, insignificant door in a bunker. A technician met them and ushered them in. He raised an eyebrow and sighed.

“I’m not sure about this, gentlemen. We have orders to give you the full works, though why we are running an amusement park for teenagers when we should be getting on with waging war on Whisper, I really don’t know. Second Lieutenant Braithwaite doesn’t usually waste our time and as the coding was red I suppose we had better get on with it."

“Blimey," whispered Jones to Dresden, “Julie’s an officer now. She never said anything. Were going to have to salute her." Dresden stuck two fingers in his mouth. Jones groaned. “Joking, Dresden, just joking."

Following the man down a tunnel, they suddenly found it transformed from a hole in the rock into a high tech foyer. Holographic awards on the wall boasted of the laboratory’s involvement in several highly prestigious projects. Models of spacecraft and satellites, self-confident in their own miniature perfection, posed in Plexiglass cabinets. This was where many top pieces of equipment were tested to their limit.

Asked to sit and wait, they were met by an orderly who ushered them into a fitting chamber. They stripped to their underwear and stood against a glass plate to be weighed and measured. Jones looked with horror at the burns and scars left on Dresden’s body by hours of torture.

“Blimey, Dresden. I never realised." Dresden shrugged and patted the scar on Jones’s face.

“It happens to the best of us." He looked in the mirror and frowned as the space suit was fitted around him. “Excuse me, but I’ve decided against the silver; I really don’t think it's me. Do you have this in beige?" Heck, thought Jones. The guy has a sense of humour. The orderly gave him a stony stare and went out.

“So," said Dresden, "It would seem someone’s told them we're spoilt brats out on a jolly." The grumpy man came in and looked even more hacked off.

“OK you two, what’s this about a TV show? Braithwaite said something about an obstacle course and trying it out to see if it’ll work in the programme. Apparently, someone’s paid up front for two hour’s use of the pool, so if we get several thousand dollars for two clowns to splash about in it, why should I ask damn stupid questions? Just don’t mess up the chemical balance or you pay for the drainage and replenishment of aforementioned pool as well. Do I make myself clear?"

“Yes sir" They watched him storm out, waited for a few seconds and laughed.

“Well," gasped Jones. "Crafty old Julie! Have you got your box? Then let’s go for it."

An orderly attached diving harness and they stood on the side of the pool. Lowered in slowly, they saw the water rise above their visors. Dresden slammed his panic button and, within seconds, he was out again and sitting by the side of the pool. Jones looked at the underwater monitor and saw Dresden staring at the floor. Great, thought Jones, that’s all we need. He pressed his com button.

“You OK, Dresden?"

“Yeah. I’ll be fine in space. Its water that freaks me out. I’ll try again in a minute."

He looked into the water and saw Jones reaching for an angular white object that had drifted free from its protective container. Dresden fumbled with his helmet and jittered around on the side of the pool.

“Hey, get this hat thing back on me and chuck me in! Careful with that, Jones. That's my baby!" Forgetting his phobia, Dresden jumped in, windmilling his arms and splashing towards the signal-splitter. Reaching for it, he spun round helplessly as he flailed about in the water.

“Go gently, Dresden! You’ll have more control then". Jones moved his limbs slowly and Dresden copied him. Moving towards the signal-splitter, Dresden stretched his arm out and grabbed it. He stood in the shallow end of the pool and got his breath back.

“Come here, Jones, and I’ll explain. Do you see those wires? They’re the contacts. It’s all very primitive but hopefully effective. You have to put the turquoise wire on the gold-plated prong and the orange one on the aluminium prong. When you’ve done that you lay the signal-splitter flat on the surface of the certain secret item we are attaching it to with the black square facing upwards. That’s important because the black square is the transmitter. Got it?"

“Er, yes."

“Don’t worry if you don’t understand, we’ll have a few goes at it. My job is to install the receiver. This will... Actually, I’ll explain more later on when we’re alone. I want us to swap jobs after a while and try the ones we’re not doing, too. It’s as well to be prepared for the worst."

“That’s fine. We’ll give it as long as it takes." Jones heard a faint sigh of resignation from somewhere over his com. Someone was listening. Dresden had been obviously been right to be secretive.

After another half an hour’s intensive practice, they surfaced and went to the drinks machine. Dresden ripped open the ring pull with the flourish of someone who was tasting success at last.

“Do you know what, Jones? If I get this right it’ll be the first real achievement of my life that wasn’t conceived of arrogance or avarice. It’ll be the first time I will be able to feel the warm breeze of victory and know that it’s not just my own stale fart coming back in my face."

He crushed his can and pitched it perfectly - and noisily - into the metal bin next to the grumpy man and made him jump. Dresden smiled. Yes, things were definitely looking up. At this rate, interfering with the Whisper satellite was going to be a breeze.

44

The flight to the satellite had been scheduled for that night and, after more tests and a medical, they had their last decent meal for twenty-four hours. They took a buggy to a hijacked Whisper bubble jet with graffiti markings which stood waiting on the tarmac. Jones quietly hoped that government planes had been instructed not to shoot at them.

Once inside, Dresden was agog as he watched Jones flick various switches this way and that. Then they both sat still as the camera recognised their irises. Jones waited for his personal preferences to come from Central Database back at State Data Headquarters. He was expecting information about him, Cadet Jones, to appear on the screen.

This time was different. No screen adjusted to his preferred level of brightness and there were no whirrings or clicks from his seat to adjust it to his size. That meant that the jet wasn’t receiving any information from Headquarters. There wasn’t even the photo of Julie in the corner of the screen, the picture that had smiled up at him on his flight to Las Vegas. Jones turned to the other orange Whisper space suit.

"We don’t exist, Dresden. This has happened to me before. We’ve got no communication with anyone. It’s so we can’t be tracked by the Whisper. We’re on our own, buddy."

"Great. What if something happens?" Jones shrugged.

"Do you want to go back?"

"Naff off, Jones. I’ve been working towards this for the last two years!" Dresden looked at the small, white objects next to him in their padded box. Closing the container he allowed himself a faint, smug smile. With those little gizmos in place they would be able to spy on all the Whisper’s satellite communications. He was feeling good about this mission. Jones flicked more switches and prepared for take-off.

Dresden looked round the inside of the Bubblejet. There were marks on the floor where seats had been taken out. A hastily installed mattress with sleeping restraints was there in their place.

What are the straps for, Jones?"

"This thing doesn’t have the luxury of artificial gravity and we’ll be going weightless for a while, so if you want a kip you’ll have to be strapped down. If you aren’t, there’s always the risk of floating through a hatch into space." Jones glanced at Dresden’s face.

"Jo-o-o-o-king! Hey, Dresden, chill out! Tell you what, go and have a lie down."

"Very funny. Where’s the little boys' room?" Jones pointed to the detachable tube in the side of Dresden’s space suit.

"You just go for it and pray that all the tubes are connected OK."

“Number two’s as well?”

“Yep”.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I’m sure." Jones laughed as a look of relief came over Dresden’s face. "All fit? Then let Operation Earwigger commence!"

"Operation what?"

"Earwigger. I always give my little excursions names." Dresden’s smile disappeared as he heard the engines start to roar.

"Is this it? Are we going up?"

"That's the general idea. Hang on to your underpants!" Dresden grabbed his seat as they lurched forward and watched the murky blur of tarmac fall away into the distance.

Whisper control satellite was several kilometres above the Earth. Although he knew most of it, Jones listened politely to Dresden as he droned on about all the technical detail and nodded a "yes" now and then as it kept Dresden’s mind off the flight. The sudden communication from Whisper headquarters in Las Vegas concentrated the mind, too, as their hijacked Bubblejet's displays suddenly burst into life and took them both completely by surprise.

Tracked down by Whisper Control, the two lads took their telling-off for not being in contact with due humility and promised not to let it happen again: what Whisper didn’t know was that the real pilots of the craft were, at that very moment, in a prison in the Presidential compound. Despite all the banter, Jones hadn’t felt so isolated for a long, long while.

Real weightlessness took Dresden by surprise and he just managed to shut the container before the signal-splitter started floating around inside the cabin. Checking the contents of the other box yet again, he prepared the receiver for attachment to the satellite.

They weren’t far away now, and as they approached they saw three Whisper craft patrolling the area. In the middle of them was the satellite and there they floated, three basking sharks protecting their young. Jones’s com buzzed into action and he realised he had to think quickly as the enemy craft were contacting him. His earphone clicked awake and he listened carefully.

"Good to see you, Three Four Seven,” said a voice from one of the craft. “Aren’t you due next week?"

"Just a little blip" said Jones. He tried to play it cool and confident. "We were told to come and look at the transponder. Got a little patching up to do."

"Telemaintainance were up here last night and they said it was working perfectly”. Jones managed a derisory laugh before he answered.

"Yeah, well, no offence to their esteemed capabilities, but didn’t a New State Bubblejet almost get to Vegas last week before it was picked up? You know, the one with a couple of geeky kids in. I rest my case."

"OK, Three Four Seven” said the Whisper craft, “but just remember one thing." Jones tried to sound as casual as possible as he replied.

"Oh yeah, and what’s that then?"

“Careful who you talk about it to. Base is still a bit embarrassed about those kids getting through!" Jones and Dresden laughed nervously.

"Don't worry. I’m not in the mood for bruising fragile egos. See ya round!"

"'Bye, Three Four Seven. Happy hammering!"

Steering between the other two craft, Jones and Dresden docked carefully and floated out to the satellite. Dresden was right: he may have panicked in the pool, but in space he was a real pro. He went up and patted the metal and, pulling himself round the other side, located the carbon fibre plate where they had to attach the signal-splitter and the receiver. He signalled to Jones to join him.

Removing the devices from each other’s backpack, they peeled off the protective covering on the adhesive. Pressing the instruments firmly onto the surface of the satellite, they set about attaching the wires. Jones looked in horror at the prongs and realised that they were both of the same coloured metal. Which one was which? If he got it the wrong way round he would damage the signal coming from the satellite and alarms would ring back at Whisper Headquarters. Put on premium alert, the patrolling craft would be onto them, discover their identities and either take them prisoner or blow them up. He turned to Dresden. He was no wiser.

"I don’t know, Jones, I really don't!" He took an educated guess and pressed the wires into place.

Whisper craft floated slowly towards them and maneuovered close to the satellite. Jones and Dresden waved nonchalantly and floated back to their Bubblejet. In twenty minutes they were back in their seats and casting a wary eye at the monitor.

Whisper craft moved in: two of them flanked their craft and the other one faced them and blocked their path. The com grated.

"Identify yourselves!"

"Three Four Seven."

"You sure?"

"I repeat, we are Three Four Seven. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment in Vegas. This little beaut was nearly skyjacked and I aim to get it back. If I don’t, my neck’s on the line for wasting firm’s time."

"Whereabouts are you taking it?"

"Just to the Amazon Hotel. There’s someone there who wants to use it and they’ve booked already." Jones carried on even though he didn’t know if he was talking utter gobbledygook or not. "We're invited to dinner, so, if you’ll excuse us... Apart from anything else, I want to check my screen and find out the theme for the meal." Jones and Dresden waited in the silence.

The craft in front of them rose slowly and got out of their way. Jones edged forward and started moving slowly in the direction of Earth, and, although relieved that they were moving, he wished the craft either side of them would peel away and leave them alone.

But they didn’t. As they went towards home, it dawned on Jones and Dresden that they were going to have to actually go to Las Vegas. They listened to the scratchy com and knew that they weren’t going to like it. A woman’s voice this time.

"We're coming with you, Three Four Seven! A lone Bubblejet is nice prey for a government missile. Anyway, we’re going back off duty ourselves. Your voice sounds unfamiliar. We’re Alice and Martinez and the talkative ones over there are Ariadne and Mesh. Say 'Hi' to the Bubblejet, you unsociable peasants!"

There was a laugh from the other craft and, after another woman’s voice, came the one sound that Jones didn’t want to hear.

"Hi!" crackled the intercom. "Mesh here!" I know, thought Jones, I know. He spoke into his com, slipping into the faintest hint of a New City accent.

"Hi. We’re Jolyon and Dredger. We appreciate the gesture, you guys. See you back at Vegas!" On the way back, Jones explained the minutiae of safety procedure when on board a Bubblejet. He talked about the ejector seat and parachute systems in such detail that Dresden got quite edgy. And remember," said Jones, "emergencies can happen at any time."

They entered the Earth’s atmosphere near Las Vegas and dropped down a long way before levelling out. They had to lose the Whisper craft on their tail. Jones waited until they were over a remote part of the desert and he signed to Dresden as talking was too public. He pointed to himself and Dresden and made a downwards spiral motion that ended in a mouthed explosion.

Dresden was getting the gist and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. He watched Jones’s gloved finger as it prodded the air at the ejector button and then proceeded to go pale green. He mouthed 'No' to Jones but he realised that this was probably a futile exercise when Jones mouthed 'Yes' and, grinning, dropped the Bubblejet into a downward spiral. Flicking his mic switch, Jones commed the other craft as if in a severe state of panic.

"Emergency. Stay out of range. Explosives on board!" Whisper craft needed no second bidding and turned away from them to get well out of range. Jones pressed the ejector button and he and Dresden both shot out of the craft.

Looking below, Jones saw the Bubblejet hit the ground: looking away again, he managed to avoid the glare of the explosion. Dresden’s chute had opened, so hopefully he was OK, too. He peered up at his own, thinking how hanging from a large jellyfish in the air was actually quite a peaceful experience given the circumstances.

Dresden had the presence of mind to roll over on impact with the ground, and Jones followed him onto the hard, dry sand in a matter of seconds, then running over to him.

"You still in one piece, Dresden?"

"No thanks to you! What did you go and do that for?" Throwing his harness to one side, Dresden swore under his breath and banged the dust from his flight suit. Jones ignored the ensuing expletives, rolled his parachute up and put it into a tight pile under a boulder.

"Well, now we’re here we ought at least make ourselves invisible. That means ditching these orange suits as well. We’d be spotted a mile off." In five minutes they were trudging along a dirt track road in the noon day sun. On their feet were the heavy space boots they had been wearing non-stop for the past twelve hours, and on their bodies were the undergarments they had spent several hours urinating, defecating and sweating in.

It was safe to say that Jones didn’t feel his most glamorous, and even he had to admit that this was a part of the trip he’d gloss over if he ever got back. As they were miles from anywhere and with no water or food, the idea of survival seemed a bit remote at that precise moment.

Dresden kept looking round for a landmark and squinted as he scanned the harsh glare of the horizon. Glancing over to him again, Jones realised that his companion’s spirits were surprisingly OK. If anything, it was Dresden who was setting the pace, and he’d even managed the occasional wry little aside when they had passed an abandoned rusty truck or a dead animal. After an hour or so they stopped at a boulder by the road and, concealing themselves in its cool overhang, they both went to sleep.

45

Jones woke to see a figure standing over him. He pulled his foot away from the tattered boot kicking his own and tried to focus on the face which loomed down at him. Turning to Dresden, he shook him and slowly raised himself on his elbow.

Looking up again he realised, with relief, that the clothes were more Old Vegas than new Vegas. Rising to his feet, he looked at a woman and her child. Beyond her grained, weather-beaten face was a cart. The woman frowned and spoke.

"Are you from the jet?"

"Pardon?"

“The jet. The one that crashed.” Jones and Dresden looked at each other warily.

“Er, yes, ma'am." She drew her hand out from behind the folds of her shawl and pointed a gun at them.

“Hands up. The only people with jets round here are Whisper. Tie their hands, Little Rock!" A boy of around ten or eleven pulled Jones’s hands behind his back and pulled the rope tight around his wrists. Three minutes later, Jones and Dresden were sat in the back of the cart, their hands tied to the rail that went round the sides. They soon realised that the knots were not actually that good and they could have easily slipped their hands free. A free ride in a cart was not to be turned down though, so they cast each other a knowing smile and stayed still.

The boy cocked the gun and waved it at them nervously.

“Stop laughing at us. You Whisper are always laughing at us. We get good ransom money for Whisper prisoners sometimes. More often we just hand them over and they get shot by their own people for failing but that’s good too, that makes it worth while handing you over. You won’t laugh then!"

Jones stopped smiling and thought. So, there was a recognised line of communication between Whisper and Old Vegas. He looked back at the boy and tried to look suitably scared. The boy went 'Huh' in a triumphant manner, waved his pistol a couple of times and went on talking to his mother. Dresden was looking nervous and Jones was just about to quietly reassure him when he saw the smallest of winks as Dresden turned his head towards him.

Entering old Vegas, Jones reached his hands from behind him and stretched a yawn. He then smiled with half closed eyes as he addressed the horrified boy.

“These carts are very pleasant, but the gentle swaying doesn’t half make you sleepy!" Realising that he was powerless against the two large, unfettered youths in the back, the boy swallowed hard and looked sheepishly at his revolver. Jones took it from him ever so slowly and laid it down on the bench next to him.

The cart had stopped now and the woman looked round at the crowd that had begun to gather. Dorking pushed forwards and shouted at them.

“Jones! Dresden! Where have you been? We haven’t half missed you. There’s a lot to do round here, you know. You can’t just go gallivanting off like that!" The boy looked awkward as he turned to Jones and Dresden.

“So, you ain't Whisper? Then why did you pretend you were?”

“Well, for the free ride, really. Thank you very much.” Picking up the gun, Jones casually tossed it into a large hole in the ground. The woman went from serious and frightened to angry and started screaming abuse at Jones and Dresden.

Jones and Dresden looked at the crowd and realised that he and his friend were in the minority. That it was considered OK in Old Vegas for a child to pack a gun. Dresden stood up to speak but Jones pulled him back down again. They had done enough to dent their reputation for one day. Climbing off the cart, Jones realized he had just managed to alienate a very large part of the population.

Crouching slightly, he made his way through the hostile crowd as they jostled him. Dresden got worse treatment. He was the traitor, the one who should have known better than to disappear for days on end. Didn’t he know Whisper were getting even nearer and playing their vicious, absurd games for even higher stakes. What on earth did he think he was playing at?

46

Chased away by the crowd, Jones and Dresden found a back street which provided ample shady doorways: they sloped into one of them and entered a vast room, empty but for rows upon rows of rusting one-armed bandits. Groaning, they collapsed on a pile of old velvet curtains. Dresden looked at Jones in his grubby underwear on the heap of dirty pink and stained gold and clicked an imaginary camera at him.

“That, Jones, is for the press when they run pictures of their illustrious new President taken in his formative years. I can see the caption now: ‘This is surely the picture that betrays the leadership qualities that are now so apparent as our new President takes up the reins of responsibility.’” Jones smiled weakly and pitched a damp, rotting lump of fabric at Dresden. “The thing is, Jones, they don’t know what we have just done for them."

“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s got to stay that way. We don’t know who’s skulking round with a Whisper membership chip under their grubby little skin. More to the point, until we test those devices, even we won’t know what we have - or haven't - done for the inhabitants of Old Vegas.” Jones looked out of the window. “The first thing I want to do is find Roosha. I was always in two minds about leaving her and I won’t rest 'til I know she’s OK.” Dresden went over to Jones. He looked thoughtful.

“Jones, you know when I went to the command centre and had my chat with the guys back here?" Jones looked wary.

“Yes?"

“I was talking to Bradford and he was telling me that-" Jones looked with urgency into Dresden’s eyes. He tried to compose himself.

“Well, Dresden, told you what?”

“He said that two Bomb Bomb Mixer girls had had a fight in a multi-storey car park and-" Dresden was finding it hard to finish. Jones grabbed his collar.

“AND SAID WHAT!"

“That - that one of them didn’t survive. I’m sorry, Jones. I couldn’t tell you earlier. The mission had to succeed. I’m sorry if you feel you can’t trust me now. I did it for the best reasons." Jones nodded quietly. Who had died was almost irrelevant. Roosha was either dead, or found to be a murderer, in which case she would soon be dead anyway. For all their folksy charm, the inhabitants of Old Vegas soon meted out rough justice to those who transgressed the rules and the rules had been made by people who were, after all, exiles from Whisper. Whisper left its mark on its rejects in the most frightening of ways.

“So who died?"

“I really don’t know, Jones. Bradford isn’t always aware of what’s going on; he just sits up in the block sending geeky messages all day, a bit of a loner. He didn’t know either of them - it’s just what he heard on his receiver." Jones started towards the door and turned.

“Dresden... do you think this explains the reception we got? Some of those people knew that Roosha and I were friends."

“Could be. Let’s go and knock up Dorking. He’s an Elder... He’ll know."

Jones and Dresden waited until it was dark and walked the back streets to Dorking's house. He ushered them in and hurried them through to the back of the hotel. He looked at them in the guttering candlelight and frowned.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I can’t give you long. I am about to attend a trial. He glanced at Jones and looked away, troubled. "It's the trial of a girl, lad, and if I’m seen here talking to you it won’t do her any good at all. See, it’s your friend Roosha. She killed a girl." Jones swallowed hard.

“How are they punished? When they’ve killed someone, I mean."

“It’s very quick, son. I don’t think you need to know the details, though."

“Can I see her?"

“She looks a bit of a mess. The crowd got to her before the law did."

“But I’ll probably never see her again!" Dorking shook his head faintly but decisively. Jones knew, just knew that he wouldn’t get anywhere with Dorking. He gave the slightest of nods and walked out of the door. Not looking back, not waiting for Dresden, Jones climbed the stairs of the tall building next to Dorking’s home.

When it was Dresden’s turn to leave, Dorking looked at him and then looked away again, shaking his head.

47

Jones sat on the roof and stared at the black night. Standing up, he took out the com that had been dropped for him. It glowed dimly when he turned it on and then gave a slow, sick tone and died.

He let out such an anguished scream that dogs looked up from their meat and listened. He let out such a scream that men paused as they sharpened their knives and drank their ale. He let out such a scream that a girl with a bruised face paused momentarily as she looked in a cracked mirror and tidied her hair the best she could before being interrogated by the Elders.

Dresden gave up waiting for Jones and went to the tower block where he had lived. He had a plan to save Roosha and it couldn’t wait. He climbed the metal stairs to Bradford and, waiting for the familiar reply of a muffled voice, spoke again.

“Brad, it’s me, Dres." The door opened and Dresden fell into the room. “Brad, you’ve got to help, it’s Jones, it’s Roosha, it’s Whisper, it’s everything all happening at once!"

“Slow down, Dres. Easy. Siddown." Bradford sat opposite and looked attentive if somewhat puzzled. “Now, start again!”

“No Time. Can you get a message to New State?" A pause and a nod from Bradford. “Good, Brad, 'cause we need picking up like now!"

Jones was walking down a side street when a small hand plucked at his sleeve.

“Mister." He looked down and saw a child looking up at him earnestly. He hunkered down and took her hand.

“I saw it, Mister."

“Saw what?"

“I saw it. I saw Argentina fall. She wanted to kill your friend but she fell over a thing and she fell over the edge. She fell and she is dead and it was horrible." The small child hid her face in Jones’s sleeve. Jones spoke gently to her again.

“What is your name?"

“My mummy told me not to talk to you."

“Then you better hadn’t, so bye now and take care. You run along home!" He squeezed her hand. “And thank you." She looked at him with an expressionless face, unaware of what she’d done for him. This testimony that Roosha wasn’t a killer gave him new hope and he gathered his thoughts and his plans.

Looking round, Jones reckoned that the safest bet would be Dresden’s tower block. Climbing the stairs, he put his ear to the metal door and listened. He could hear quiet murmurings. Knocking gently, he heard shuffling and a dampened "Who is it?" It was, despite being muffled, a voice he had come to recognise.

“Jones".

“Anyone with you?"

“No." He heard a bolt slid back and he was dragged through the door. A large, ungainly lad was sat at a computer and busy tapping on the keys. Dresden went and sat down next to his friend and Jones looked over the mess of numbers and letters on the screen. Bradford banged the table in frustration. He looked at Jones as if Jones was Whisper and the gang had suddenly appeared en masse in the dark, musty cleaning cupboard that was his tiny eyrie at the top of the block. Dresden went over to Jones.

“It’s OK, Bradford. This is Jones.” Bradford looked at Jones, nodded, grunted in his general direction and went back to his keyboard. Dresden suddenly remembered something and let out a whoop that made Jones jump.

“Hey, Brad - I’ve got it!”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“No, I really have, this time. Listen carefully. This is the Whisper satellite access code… it’s five, four, seven, zero, zero, six, forward slash, B." Dresden wrote the number down on a scrap of paper. With umpteen numbers scribbled down and crossed out on it, the paper was getting crowded.

“Dres, you’ve been saying 'this' sodding 'time' for the last half an hour!" Bradford raised a sceptical eyebrow and typed in the numbers. “No go, Dres. Think again, boy."

“Do it again - those numbers!” spluttered Dresden. You just typed it wrong!" Bradford stared at Dresden. He, Bradford, NEVER ‘typed it wrong’. Jones could see that things were getting somewhat frayed. Bradford breathed out noisily and banged in the numbers off the piece of paper. A small legend flashed. Looking at the grimy, antiquated screen, Jones could just make out 'satellite 006: access'. Dresden punched the air and grabbed Bradford and Jones in a big bear hug.

“We’ve done it, guys,” he shouted. We’ve done it!"

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