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      Adrian Deans

      Adrian Deans is a lawyer, journalist and novelist. He is the author of four richly praised previous novels: Straight Jacket, Mr Cleansheets, THEM and The Fighting Man, and a sporting biography Political Football: Lawrie McKinna’s Dangerous Truth. He lives at Avoca Beach with his wife, Karen.

      Published by Fighting Man Press 2020

       www.adriandeans.com

      Copyright © Adrian Deans

      Cover design: Lucy Barker, www.lucybarker.com.au

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      ISBN: 9780648848301 (p/b)

      ISBN: 9780648848318 (ebook)

      A catalogue record for this title is available

      from the National Library of Australia

      For all those ratbag politicians who make

      me feel so good feeling bad about the world

      Welcome to Ord City

      It felt wrong.

      The two men glanced at each other and the smaller checked the card in his top pocket. There was no need to check the card – he knew by heart the address scribbled there. It was something to delay for a few more seconds what he knew must be done.

      The house in front of them was blackened from an old fire but didn’t seem to be occupied – which was unusual in Ord City where every available inch was given over to find homes for the flotsam of Asia. An empty house, even burnt out, was a wasteful indulgence.

      The larger of the two looked over his shoulder and licked his lips.

      ‘I think we should go.’

      ‘We can’t go,’ replied the smaller man, irritably. ‘He told us to come here … it must be alright.’

      But he made no move to venture inside.

      They were aware of how still it was – as though they had entered a sound-proof bubble when they entered the laneway behind the large apartment buildings. They could make out traffic din in the distance, but here the lane was quiet and smelled of cooking oil, cabbage and cat piss.

      ‘We should’ve kept our mouths shut,’ hissed the larger man. ‘Or spoken to … ’

      ‘We tell no one,’ insisted the smaller man, as he took a step towards the blackened house, then froze as a sound came from the alley to their right – a plastic bottle had been kicked along the ground.

      ‘A dog or cat?’ suggested the larger man, a note of panic in his voice.

      Then their heads snapped around as the same noise came from the left, and an empty drink bottle lay in a pool of light under a streetlamp, slowly spinning to a halt.

      The smaller man glanced desperately about the alley but there was no escape. He pulled the card from his top pocket and slipped it inside his shoe.

      Then, ignoring his whimpering companion, he walked into the burnt out house.

      PART ONE

      Sunday: Thirteen days before the First Wave

      Chapter 1

      The Third Click

      He knows he’s being watched, thought Conan, gazing fascinated at the man’s image which filled the screens. His face was mostly obscured by a yellow cap and scarf, and the NO READING on the iris scan suggested highly illegal scan-resistant sunglasses.

      The man was in a public library in Ord City and had accessed specifications of the National Broadband Network which could only be found on the Dark Web. Most who wandered into that location got out instantly when they realised what they were looking at.

      A second click – and the fellow, using an old-style computer, complete with mouse, had found his way into the engineering maps which highlighted critical linkages. Such access might still only be guilty fascination – the AFP had enough to do without arresting every idle surfer who dallied in the Dark.

      It was the third click that mattered. Anyone with half a brain knew they’d be under scrutiny by now. Getting out quickly was enough display of innocence to warrant being left alone, but accessing a third level where specific characteristics of vulnerable linkages might be found meant – to Conan’s mind – that the man in the yellow cap with the scan-resistant specs was a person of interest.

      The man looked over his shoulder, licked his lips, and made the third click.

      At that point Conan could have locked the library remotely, even all the way from Sydney. Instead, he accessed the peripheral vision at that location and immediately had a choice of images. From behind he saw a thin-looking man in a yellow football shirt with FENG in block capitals and the number 9. Abruptly, the man pulled a data stick from the computer, jumped up and strode from the room. Automatically, the peripheral vision network locked in – thousands of optical fibre terminals in light fittings, smoke alarms, any fixed electronic device and even overt surveillance cameras traced FENG 9 as he hurried from the library and out onto the street.

      Conan knew he was taking a risk. If he’d closed the library, the man would have been apprehended easily and his data stick confiscated. Letting him outside admitted the chance (albeit small) that the man might get into enough of a crowd or blind spot to defy the cameras and drones. A small thrill of adrenalin tickled Conan’s guts as FENG 9 hurried through increasingly crowded streets. The vast amount of visual data coalesced into an all-but-perfect holographic image – occasionally flickering – as Conan hovered invisibly at the fugitive’s shoulder.

      The man was clearly frightened – constantly looking back for pursuers – and Conan smiled grimly, content to let the man take him either to his refuge or, even better, a meeting with senior confederates. That was why Conan had let him escape – the Big Bosses don’t access illegal and sensitive data themselves, they send little fish like FENG 9. But the little fish always swim back to the Big Fish, and then the Big Fish to the WHALES. It was the natural order since the dawn of crime.

      FENG 9 turned a corner and Conan realised the people around his subject were increasing rapidly – what’s more, many were dressed in similar yellow shirts and caps and Conan suddenly understood the risk. For an instant, he took his eye off the subject to read FENG 9 on another shirt, then when he turned back he realised he was no longer certain that the subject was the same man.

      More and more yellow shirts pressed around him as the football stadium loomed overhead, and Conan was already inventing excuses for why he hadn’t locked the library.

      • • •

      ‘I fucking despair of you, Tooley.’

      Conan watched again as Kenny Cook, the chief analyst, replayed the holo of FENG 9’s computer search and flight from the library.

      ‘He knew what he was doing,’ said Kenny, ‘… dressed up in Peril gear. He knew he’d be watched, but if he made it as far as the stadium he’d blend in and get away.’

      ‘I was hoping he’d lead us to his contact,’ said Conan, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

      ‘He’s downloaded specs to the Node you arse!’ scathed Kenny, threatening Conan with half a donut. ‘What were you going to do … wait until he blew it up before maybe letting us know about him?’

      Conan kept his mouth shut. He’d gambled and lost so there was little point trying to justify himself.

      Kenny