The Nostradamus Code by P. Temple Hickey - Book Tour
YA Sci-Fi Thriller
Published: July 19, 2017
Publisher: Double Dragon Publishing
On a settlement planet far into the future the worldwide economic crash has turned New Stockton into a city broken by political corruption and pervasive organized crime. Scotland Murrow’s journalist father has gone missing while investigating a twelve year old murder case. The victim was found with an encrypted file, known as the Nostradamus Code, imbedded in his thumbnail leading Scotland to believe that the file contains the secret to his father’s fate. Aided by his reformed junkie friend and a journalist who may have her own secret agenda Scotland scours the city’s seedy underbelly, traverses the unchartered outlands and breaches a fortified Citadel as he peels away layer upon layer of the Nostradamus Code to confront his biggest fears and uncover a plot to bring down the most powerful man on the planet.
Excerpt
Excerpt
Chapter
One
Excerpt
from the Global News Grid, 25-11-98
Still no updates on the whereabouts of renowned Public Eye, Elliot
Murrow, who was formally declared missing on Tuesday the 18th by
the Global News Grid.
For close to two decades Murrow broke exclusive stories for the GN
Grid that shone a spotlight on the corrupt and avaricious in New Stockton's
government and industry. No stranger to extended periods of undercover work,
Murrow's unwavering dedication to the truth resulted in the resignations of
bureaucrats, the closing of pollutant factories, the capture of mob bosses, the
collapse of child prostitution rings and even on one occasion a public enquiry
into the spending habits of every member of the upper house of government.
During his outstanding career Elliot Murrow made a lifetime's
worth of influential enemies with ways and means of disposing pests. Mr. Murrow
was working undercover for the Global News Grid at the time of his
disappearance.
A spokesperson for the NS Peace Keeping Force said that they are
too tied up with maintaining law and order on the streets of New Stockton to
conduct missing person's inquiries.
I lift my
eyes from the article on my slate and take in Denholm's gaze from across our
dimly lit sitting room. I can tell from his dilated pupils and hesitant speech
that he's just returned from an extended visit to an opiate den in the squalid
districts but he's doing a good job at acting sober and concerned for my dad.
"You're
sure he's missing?" He asks, slurring his words slightly. "I mean,
couldn't he have just lost track of time while on an assignment."
"Dead
sure," I tell him. "He was due back over a week ago. He usually
checked in if there was a change to his plans. This is the longest he's ever
gone without any form of contact."
"Have
you reported him missing?"
"Did
that a few days ago for all the good it will do." The Peace Force doesn't
search for missing people. One less person to worry about in the rapidly
decaying metropolis of New Stockton is a blessing for all of the authorities.
When I'm
being brutally honest with myself I don't expect I'll ever see my father again.
Whenever he'd read a report of a Public Eye who'd disappeared or died suddenly
his jaw would set in grim resolve and his eyes would glaze over with a
thousand-meter-stare. This is how good Public Eyes died. It's just inevitable.
An unexplained disappearance. Throughout his career with The Globe News Grid
he'd been beaten up, arrested, kidnapped, and tortured. He blamed himself for
what happened to my mother twelve years ago. She had awoken to the sound of a
thud coming from the living room. She went downstairs to investigate and was
shot three times by an intruder. Hearing the shots my father scurried down the
stairs and fired off a couple of rounds of his air gun catching the intruder in
the eye and sending him fleeing into the suburban streets. I was only five at
the time. It was a long time before I could make the connection between what my
dad did for a living and a man entering our house with murderous intent. My
mother's murder was deemed by the official Peace Force to be the result of an
"interrupted break-in".
My father
and I left our nice house in the outer district and embarked on our
semi-nomadic life of moving from one ramshackle flat to another in New
Stockton's inner city region. We've been in this flat on the forty second floor
of Candlemere Heights for the past four years. It's the first place since our
house in the suburbs that actually felt like a home.
Denholm
sinks further into the faded brown leather armchair. "What are you going
to do about it? You gonna look for him?"
"I
have to. I need to know what happened to him."
"What
was he working on?" Denholm asks, his gaze drifting toward the
kitchenette. The munchies are well on their way as the effects of his dose wear
off.
"I've
been going through his slate to see what files he was working on
recently." I walk to the desk in the corner by the window and grab my
dad's slate.
Denholm
focusses his fuzzy head at the device in my hand. "He left that
behind?"
"He
never took this with him on a story," I reply. "Too many details in
here that would give him away. Especially if he was undercover."
"Makes
sense." He rises from his chair and saunters behind the counter in the
kitchen area. "Keep talking. I'll just fix myself a sandwich. You were
saying he was working on... "
"Seems
like he was investigating two stories, the reason behind the economic collapse
of '87 and an old murder case where a body was discovered in a wasteland on the
outskirts of New Stockton about twelve years ago. According to his notes the
victim was David Kohn, inventor of The Nostradamus Algorithm."
"The
program that predicts the future," Denholm mumbles loudly with his mouth
full of bread.
"During
his post mortem examination it was discovered that David had a chip hidden in
his thumbnail that contained a very cryptic cypher."
"I
remember that!" Denholm shouts, spitting fragments of sandwich out onto
the counter. "Nobody could break the code. Didn't fit in with any
parameters of any cryptographic programs! I always wanted to have a go at
cracking that code myself but I never got around to it."
I flip
through the pages on my father's slate. "I think my dad got somewhere with
it from what I can see in his notes."
"Maybe
cracking the code got him into trouble. Somebody might want it to remain
un-cracked."
"How
would anyone know if the code was partly cracked?" I ask.
Denholm
takes a contemplative bite of his sandwich. "Yeah, I don't know," he
says with a shrug. "He wasn't the type to go bragging about it." He
swivels around and pulls open the fridge. "Unless he mentioned something
to his boss at the Globe. Mr. Whatsit."
If my dad
gave his boss an update of where he was with the story would he mention that he
was on his way to breaking the code? Maybe. "I don't think Kiefer Gray
would sell my dad out, though."
Denholm
takes a swig from a bottle of mandarin juice. "These are tough times,
Scotland. People do all sorts of pathetic things to get by."
"I
should go and talk to him," I say, grabbing my keys from the mantle.
"You wanna come?"
"No,
you go." Denholm's eyes shifted uneasily from left to right. "I've
got some business to take care of at the office."
The
"Office" for Denholm was the seedier side of New Stockton's Ex
District. So called because it used to be the financial district, after the
collapse it was known as the Ex Financial district and now people just refer to
it as the Ex District. Denholm deals drugs and uses his extensive medical
knowledge to patch up injured criminals who can't go to any official doctor
without alerting the Peace Officers. Though only eighteen he learned everything
he knows from his doctor mother who administered to injured and dying criminals
until it got her killed in the crossfire of a gang shootout about six months
ago.
I step
out into the bare concrete hallway and hope at least one of the elevators is
working today. Forty two floors is a long way up and I'm in no mood for a jog
down the stinking stairwell crowded with kids either bored out of their minds
or high on the cheapest opiate available on the streets.
The door
bings and slides open. Nav Dhalla stands menacingly in the middle of the lift
with his feet planted wide and his hand outstretched. Since I'm eager to get to
the Globe I don't argue with him and hand over a five. I don't mind being
extorted out of a five every once in a while because if it weren't for Nav's
boss these old elevators would probably never run.
"Busy
today?" I ask, breaking the elevator silence.
"Nah,
too many people using the chutes and taking the stairs," Nav says
mournfully. "If it weren't for the old or the sick we'd hardly have any
paying customers at all."
The
ground floor of Candlemere Heights is packed, as usual, with stalls selling all
of life's necessities. The sounds and smells hit me like a punch in the face as
soon as the elevator doors slide open: spices, herbs, fruit, fish, buyers
haggling with vendors, vendors yelling about their wares. It's all here. I'd
never have to leave the building if I didn't want to.
Outside
it's chilly and grey. It's always grey. The sky above could be clear blue but
on street level there's nothing but grey. The buildings stretching eighty to
over a hundred floors high surround you at every turn so you're always in the
shade no matter what side of the street you walk on. What sliver of natural
light might actually trickle down to the street is obscured by the hundreds of
makeshift chutes and bridges running from building to building at every story.
Life in New Stockton doesn't just happen on street level.
I push my
way through the bustle and head toward the Pipe station at the end of DuPont
Street. The line-up for the Pipe is surrounded by sleazy pushers and the usual
child pick-pockets in filthy rags two sizes too big for them but, like most
experienced public transport users, I keep my hand in my wallet pocket and my
deadpan face pointed forward.
A ten
minute Pipe ride brings me right outside the fortified offices of the Globe
News Grid. I tell the armed guard at the gatehouse that I'm here to see Kiefer
Gray. The guard scans my cred card and disappears behind a door. After a minute
or two he reappears, hands me back my card along with a visitor tag and tells
me to head on up to the top floor.
The
elevator doors slide open to a hum of activity. There must be about sixty or
seventy people working on this level. Some are hunched over slates, entranced
by their reading, some are typing furiously and others are on video-links
engaged in loud and frenzied conversations.
The
sights and sounds of this are familiar to me. I've been here many times with my
dad. Over the years I got to know some of the other Public Eyes and would
sometimes amuse myself on a guest slate while my dad finished off a story or
accessed the Globes secure reference database. There was always a sense of
urgency in this room. Urgency and purpose. It was that sense of purpose - that
feeling that I could make a difference to this failed nation - that made me
want to follow in my father's footsteps and become a Public Eye too. Besides
it's not like I had a scrap of training for any other job and my formal
education is as non-existent as every other kid who isn't from an uber-rich
family.
I head
over to Kiefer Gray's corner office. Two glass walls overlook the hive of
activity that is the epicenter of the Globe News Grid. Gray's desk is
positioned at a forty five degree angle to the two exterior windows that gaze
out onto the sprawling metropolis of New Stockton from the ninety seventh
floor.
I walk
past the sliding glass door and Mr. Gray raises a finger to indicate "one
minute".
"Just
get it to me in the next forty five minutes and we can get it into our next
broadcast," he says to whoever's on the other end of the line. He taps his
slate screen and turns his attention to me. "Sorry about that. Another
Public Eye who thinks he can bring this planet crashing to its knees. You'd
know about that."
It's an
obvious jibe at my dad and I feel my body tense. If my dad were with us now
he'd laugh off the remark and make some stinging retort but right now I frown
back at Kiefer Gray and watch his face crumble in embarrassment.
"I'm
sorry, Scotland," he says. "That was in bad taste. It'd completely
slipped my mind that he was gone. It always seems that he'll just pop up out of
nowhere and hand in a Diogenes Prize-winning story." He waves his hand to
a chair. "Take a seat and forgive an old man his rotten sense of
humor."
I sit in
the comfy leather and chrome chair and observe the man in front of me. He isn't
old at all, probably just over fifty. He just looks his age and that's unusual
for somebody with money. His hair is a bristly grey frizz, his eyes are
surrounded by lines and dark circles and his waistline hasn't been regularly
sucked or vibrated into shape by some contraptions I've only ever seen
advertised on the grid.
"What
can I do for you?" he asks, his voice low and sympathetic. "I assume
it's about your dad?"
"Yeah,
I'm trying to get a handle on what happened to him," I reply. "Was he
working on anything that might've got him into deeper shit with the rich and
powerful than he already was?"
Gray's
face hardens into a frown. "I'll be honest with you Scotland; your dad was
working on a story I had no intention of publishing." He exhaled slowly
and shook his head gravely. "He was obsessed with an old murder. Ancient
history. No use to me. I want what's going on now. I told him I can't use this
old stuff but he kept delving into it. He didn't file a decent report to me
since mid-summer." Kiefer Gray remembers who I am and stops himself from
uttering any harsher criticisms of my dad. "Pity, he was always such a
good Eye. One of the finest."
"Is
there any chance of getting a look at any reports or files that he was working
on?" I ask.
"Why?"
Gray's casual demeanour suddenly morphs into alert tension. "What would
you want them for?"
"I
figured if I knew what he was working on and how much progress he'd made I
might be able to piece together his last movements."
"I
don't have anything," he says rising abruptly from his chair.
"Truthfully, any file he handed over in the last two months was promptly
deleted. It was useless stuff, nothing worth saving." He stands by the
sliding glass door and I take this as my cue to leave. "Just an
embarrassment to the man he was, frankly. Now, if you'll excuse me, Scotland.
Time and tide and all that. I have a News organization to run. I don't have
much time to help boy scouts track down their errant fathers."
I storm
out of the building, my head full of rage and hatred for the man who was once
my father's closest friend. I'm not even sure what a boy scout is but I can
tell it was used as an insult. A condescending, patronizing insult. What a
grade-A asshole!
I walk
past the Pipe stop and keep marching. I need to blow off some steam and try to
get a bead on the situation as it stands now. I was relying heavily on Kiefer
Gray being an ally but now that's out of the question I don't know where to
turn.
Drops of
rain begin to fall, I pull my collars up and continue to stomp through the New
Stockton streets. I'm about ten blocks away from the Globe's building when I
notice somebody walking in step with me on the other side of the road. If I
were going to follow somebody on foot I'd shadow them from across the street
too.
About the Author
Patrick Temple Hickey has written for TV shows on BBC and Ireland’s RTE. He contributes editorial and single panel cartoons to various newspapers and magazines all over the world and has graphic stories published in independent anthologies such as Slambang, The Shiznit and Don’t Touch Me. His first YA SCi FI novel, The Nostradamus Code, was published with Double Dragon Publishing in July 2017.
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