Where they fall, p.1
WHERE THEY FALL, page 1
WHERE THEY FALL
L J Duncan
ALSO BY L J DUNCAN
The Soteria Trilogy:
End of Pride
Dawn of Envy
Fall of Wrath
First published in 2022, by Duncan Press, Nairne, South Australia
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Copyright © 2022 by L J Duncan
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All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.
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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to a real person, living or otherwise, is purely coincidental.
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Duncan, L J, author.
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Where They Fall
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Paperback ISBN: 978 0 6488501 7 5
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E-book ISBN: 978 0 6488501 8 2
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www.ljduncan.com
This one is for my daughters.
Between work, writing and family it’s often a juggling act, but the family will always come first. Kirra and Harley already love books as much as their dad does. I couldn’t be prouder…
Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
FROM THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Tangerine sky gave way to a violet horizon.
Unnerving silence gave way to the vulgar noise of fear. Thumping heartbeat. Manic breathing. Hurried steps. Fear had an unmistakable sound. A sound no less alarming than the thunder that rumbled in the distant clouds to the south. A low-pressure system intensified beyond the lifeless plains—uncharacteristic for the season, and even more so for the arid location. The lightning, although fierce, lingered too far away to be a threat. It hovered around the last remaining peak of the ranges.
Lonely screams echoed between weathered sandstone boulders. They were purposeless screams. They fell on deaf ears, silenced by the sheer expanse of the sweeping desert sand. Those lonely screams barely existed on a map. The location was no coincidence. There were no heroes out there. No fences. No security gates and no witnesses.
She screamed regardless.
Call it instinct, if indeed she possessed such a thing. Her act of pointless desperation was the predictable primal reaction to fear. Fear is not rational. It’s more vivid than the monster under a child’s bed and more dangerous than the dark.
She roared for help, running naked across the warm sand. Dried spinifex grasses wilted in the afternoon heat. The sun had only just set, yet the full moon hovered over the distant hills like an inflated and dull party balloon.
Open cuts covered her bare feet. Her sweaty golden hair clumped to the side of her neck. Exposure to the harsh Australian sun left her porcelain skin red and burnt. She had never known thirst. She had never known fear or pain until that day. Not that she knew it, but she had never seen sunlight either.
Underprepared for her hopeful dash for freedom, she had no idea where to go. The grey space of the unknown clouded any concept of processing a plan. Prior to the last few months inside the facility, she had no memory. No name. No age. No family.
No previous life.
Fatigue took its toll on her wiry muscles. Cramping slowed her pace every ten minutes, vicious pain clawing at her leg muscles like a dog’s brutal bite.
She came across a small pile of sandstone boulders clumped together and spotted a puddle of brown water in a recess on top of a rounded rock. The cause of the water’s origin was of no concern to her. It didn’t even register in her manic thoughts as something to query. Anyone else, given the arid environment and lack of seasonal rainfall, would have questioned it.
Bees hovered around the water, indecisively landing, only to leave again, unsure of their purpose. Oblivious to the insects stinging abilities, she shooed them away, leaned over, and slurped from the dirty puddle. Despite the gritty texture and foul taste, she slurped until nothing remained.
Her screaming stopped as she drank, replacing fear’s theme song again with that striking silence. She heard something in the distance amidst the calm, the hairs on her skin coming to life with rigidity. Dogs barking. She had never seen a dog, but she had heard them before. She knew enough to associate that noise with her masters. That noise haunted many restless nights.
She pulled a splinter from the sensitive skin on the underside of her toe and continued to run. Her bloody feet left dark prints on the sandstone. The barking became more consistent, louder, closer. All-consuming dread clawed at her sunburnt back. The symphony of fear reached its crescendo. Combined with her manic panting and the distant barks of trained canines came the unnerving purr of a semi-automatic rifle.
Cack-cack-cack.
An unbearable pain crippled her. The impact of the gunshot sent her sprawling forward onto the hot sand. Wide eyed, she gazed down at her left leg for the source of pain. A bullet had gone right through her calf muscle, taking a fragment of bone with it. Crippled and frightened, she cried tears of defeat. It was the first time she had shed tears. Her chin trembled. Emotion was still an unusual concept for her. Blood pooled in the sand beneath her naked and chafed skin, only to soak into the dry granules.
Another cack-cack-cack was the last thing she heard before a bullet hit her just below the left eye, the exit wound taking the back of her skull off. She twitched for a moment, before falling lifeless in the hot afternoon sand.
Their secret was safe.
ONE
The moon was full. Lachlan’s tumbler of whisky was empty.
Never usually a man of nerves, butterflies flapped their giddy wings as Lachlan Harvey waited for the evening’s host to call him up onto the small stage. Under normal circumstances, the invitation to present his research would have excited him. He felt a little off tonight. Nauseous. Unsteady on his feet.
Lachlan had served the industry for two decades. He’d worked tirelessly for the innovation and scientific respect he believed his field deserved. He had given up a good part of his life, not only sacrificing his love of golf but also straining the relationship with his family to the brink of shattering. Now, finally being recognised for his efforts, he had earned himself a spot as one of the nation’s most respected geneticists.
Presenting to an audience of biology and genome experts would not only help solidify his reputation, it would help fund future projects. Lachlan had learned long ago that funding for synthetic biology seemed to go one of two ways—enormous investments from big pharmaceutical firms with clandestine motives, or scarcer than rain in the Simpson Desert.
Lachlan stared into the mirror behind the bar. He looked tired. Despite the designer suit and the recent barber’s visit, he looked dishevelled. His silver hair glistened grey and dull, his light blue eyes, usually vibrant, seemed cold and ashen. He was clean-shaven for the event, which he thought would make him appear younger. Instead, in the theatre’s overhead lighting, it just highlighted every wrinkle and sunspot on his aging face. He took a big breath in.
“I’ve just been spending too much time in the lab,” he said to himself, justifying his drowsy appearance.
Lachlan’s wife Sharon had originally agreed to come; yet she remained at home. She left the jade green summer dress at home. She left the fake smile and resentment at home. Most disheartening for Lachlan, though, she left her support and pride at home.
He gazed into the audience, the theatre barely half-full. The Human Genetics Society of Australasia only had a few hundred members Australia-wide. Half were from the area. Maybe a few had flown in from Sydney or Brisbane to mingle, but Lachlan accepted that human genetics would never be the most popular lifelong obsession.
His presentation concluded a full day event co-hosted by the International Federation of Human Genetics Societies. The theme of the conference focused on bridging the gap between what was happening in the medical research field of genomics and what clinical practitioners accepted. Lachlan’s presentation showcased the relationship between genomics and synthetic biology. For the politically correct, synthetic biology was not only an oxymoron, it was also outrageously immoral. More than once Lachlan had been coerced into debates about ethics and artificial DNA production. His fourteen-year-old daughter, Allie, grew to become his biggest critic. She was a naturalist, a vegan, and steadfastly against some of the research her father conducted. Needless to say, Allie was at home with her mother.
Lachlan’s palms felt clammy, his fingers bulging with heat. He could feel a pulse in his ring finger as blood forced its way past the white gold restriction. Lachlan had spent much of his adult life public speaking. He lectured at the University of Melbourne three days a week and often wrote journal articles for the School of Biology. He was not unfamiliar to the public eye. The nerves made little sense. He’d slept well. He’d eaten a wholesome lunch. Yet an odd darkness lingered behind his eyes.
The room erupted into a symphony of applause as the previous presenter concluded her speech and exited off stage.
Helen caught Lachlan’s eye from the front row. She nodded and winked, mouthing the words “it’s time,” as she stood. Helen had taken on the role of MC for the evening’s formalities. She was a close friend of Lachlan’s and long-time member of the Genetics Society. Her job required her to welcome each presenter, engage the audience and keep to the schedule. The small theatre hired for the event closed at 9:00pm due to liquor licensing laws. Getting biological scientists to keep from digressing was like trying to tell a kid in a candy store to only buy one item. Luckily for Helen, she was quite persuasive. She had kept to the schedule down to the minute.
The wooden stairs creaked as Helen ascended to the small black stage. Even with heels on, she took the stairs with poise. Two spotlights suspended from the rigging above the audience came to life as Helen approached a lone wooden lectern. The room quietened as she stepped into the spotlight. In her late forties, she looked as good in her red cocktail dress as any twenty something would. Slim, toned and buxom. Her tanned complexion and high cheekbones radiated under the theatre lights. Her chocolate-coloured hair, straightened for the evening, flowed over her shoulders with a glowing radiance. It went without saying that Helen Campbell was popular among her fellow society members.
She tapped the microphone head with her index finger and smiled.
“Thanks Gida, that was so very informative.” Helen turned to the audience. “I hope you found Gida’s summary of her investigation as interesting as I did… Now, before we move along to the next presenter this evening, I have a serious question. What did the cell about to undergo mitosis say to the geneticist?”
The audience fell silent. Grins appeared in the crowd, anticipating her reply.
“I hope I have your divided attention.”
Helen was the first to laugh. She cackled jokingly into the microphone. A handful of audience members, getting the joke, followed suit.
“Hmm, tough crowd,” she continued, laughing with a smile large enough to catch flies. “That’s the last time I tell a bunch of scientists a joke about science.” She scoffed. “I even Googled that one.” A few people clapped. Those lone claps, among a silent room with grand, echoed acoustics, offered awkwardness to the joke’s reception.
“Let’s move right along,” said Helen, her face reddening. “It’s with great pleasure that I’m going to ask my fellow society member, good friend and resident lecturer at the University of Melbourne, Lachlan Harvey, to come to the stage and present to us some of his theories on synthetic biology and its place in genomics. Now please give him a warm welcome.”
The audience applauded as Lachlan dumped his empty tumbler on a table beside the stage and took the microphone from Helen.
“Thanks, Helen. You’re doing a wonderful job. I liked your joke,” he said, smiling out into the audience. “Thank you all for inviting me this evening. It really is a pleasure.” Lachlan cleared his throat and wiped his left hand along his trousers before transferring the microphone from one hand to the other.
“Since the synthetic creation of a living chromosome in vitro in 2010 and then the successful genome expansion of E Coli DNA from artificial means, the opportunities have evolved enormously for what’s possible in synthetic biology. This is not a discussion about ethics, this is a presentation based upon recent findings on opportunity, and what this opportunity can mean for not only the medical sector, but for food production and for all facets of science. I hope you will find the presentation informative.”
The presentation flew by. The audience listened with genuine curiosity. Before Lachlan knew it, forty minutes had passed. He had completed his conclusion and the crowd applauded him with genuine enthusiasm. He smiled and thanked everyone.
The rest of the evening included informal conversation and networking. The hands of the elegant eighteenth century clock above the door crept closer to 9:00pm. Lachlan swirled a tumbler of whisky while listening to a German biologist discuss the biological trait analysis of rodents. He tilted the glass back and took the whisky in one swig. He felt good, admired within the community. His colleagues and fellow society members looked up to him. It was far more than he could say for his family. Going home meant that he would leave behind the comforting web of support and replace it with the icy embrace of resentment. The odd feeling he had noticed before the presentation had faded away, masked by the whisky’s cloud of contentment.
The evening came to a close and Lachlan said his goodbyes. Helen walked with him outside into the mild spring evening air. They stood at the entrance to the foyer under a dusty halogen porch light. Bugs circled the globe in chaotic hypnosis.
“You did a wonderful job tonight, Lachy. I really think you’re onto something.”
“Thanks, Helen. I don’t know why, but leading up to the presentation, I didn’t have a good feeling. Almost like something was wrong. But everything seemed to go exceedingly well.”
“It really did. I’m confident that will be the first of many more presentations as your findings progress. Now, with the amount of whisky I saw you drink, I trust you’re taking a cab home. There’s no way you should drive back to Sandringham.”
“It’s all good. I’ll get an Uber. I’ll see you at next week’s meeting.”
Lachlan kissed Helen politely on the cheek and turned to make his way to the sidewalk. Helen clutched his forearm, holding onto it for a little longer than what she should have. Lachlan ignored it and kept walking. The streetlights were dim. The moon offered a silvery glow, forcing its way through a blanket of evening cloud.
Lachlan pulled his iPhone from his jacket pocket and ordered an Uber. When he upgraded Allie’s phone to the latest model, he took her old one, refusing to part with a perfectly functioning device.
