Ecko Rising

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“We’re bein’ stalked.”

It was evening. The press of people was close, huddled and submissive to the public monotone that accompanied them home.

Overhead, the streetlights were halogen brilliant, obscuring the heavy, belly-down sky. The drizzle sparkled like shrapnel.

Fuller, tarnished aplomb in suit and overcoat, gave Lugan a nervous look. “You’re sure – ?”

“Shut up an’ keep moving.” One of the cell commander’s massive, oil-stained hands grabbed Fuller’s elbow and propelled him swiftly through the crowd. A gang of kids, laughing at their own defiance, barged into them and were gone.

Reflexively, Lugan checked his pockets.

Get Collator. Subvocalised, his voice was transmitted from the back of his throat directly into Fuller’s ear. I want CCTV access – like, now. Drones if we can get ’em.

Fuller gave a brief nod.

Tense now, Lugan checked the street. The light pools were bright but the shadows were hard edged and darker than oil. Everywhere he looked, unseen eyes looked back, teeth were bared in unseen grins. He shivered, bristled.

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