Genesis

by Bernard Beckett

He watched Joseph closely, observed the entering of the security code and the arming of the laser. And then, following procedure, Adam checked the viewing screen, to ensure the inhabitants of the craft posed no immediate danger to his colleague. And so again he looked into her eyes, and this time he couldn’t look away. She was sixteen years old, only a year younger than he was, but aged by three months at sea; out of food and water, thin and close to death. Adam zoomed in on her face. Surveillance records confirm this. He saw her expression: confused, uncomprehending, only dimly taking in the great barrier, the fatal end of her journey. Adam said it came to him as a flash, a realisation. He told the authorities that he did not make the decision to fire, but rather heard the report of his gun echo through the small room. He looked to the laser mount, and saw his colleague slumped forward, a burn hole in the back of his head. Immediately a message from control crackled through. By this time Adam was panicking. ‘Gunshot recorded. Please report. Please report.’ ‘This is Adam. Joseph is dispatched. We have a small vessel at the fence. There’s a girl on board. Joseph hesitated, Sir.’ ‘You’re sure it’s a single passenger?’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ ‘You need to finish this, Adam.’ ‘I know, Sir.’ ‘Report back when it is done. We’ll send in a substitute. Congratulations, Adam. The Republic thanks you.’ ‘Thank you, Sir.’