Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

Nine million boxes. Over nine million lives. We’ll never know how many were actually lost when the Stormgate Battalions came so close to taking Europe back to 1942. All we have left are fragmented tales that orbit an official story so sanitised even the mainstream media seem reluctant to touch on it.
It must be this place that’s making me maudlin. Under the Stormgate Memorial is somewhere only those with special permission may visit. Unless you break in. Which – because this place ‘only’ holds the dust of a civilisation’s worth of people – is considered such a low-risk intrusion, there isn’t any security beyond basic access control.
“Why are we looking down at a cemetery made of metal racks and little boxes?”
He glances sideways at Samantha.
“Because we’re being overpaid to do a graveyard shift.”
“Don’t you mean ‘shift in a graveyard’?”
“Used to mean the same thing, back when Earth was the only planet humanity occupied.”
“Charming. Come on, Mike. It’s cold, I’m hungry, this stealth rig makes me itch, and it’s four hours until dawn. Tell me why.”
I lean forward and let my vision follow the dizzying perspective down to where all the vertical rails seem to plunge into the coolant mist just before they converge.
“You know how many people visit here each year?”
“No.”
“Less than a fifty. Not even one a week. Officially, that is. Illegal accesses are higher, but nobody really paid attention until few months ago, when a lowlife by the name of Don Gattik entered using a fake ID so cheap it flagged itself in the access logs. After his fourth monthly visit, the Directorate petitioned the Assembly for increased monitoring here. It was denied. Same again for the fifth. So an alternative was proposed: us. Apparently there’s been rumours of malcontents gathering under the Stormgate Memorial. Before the Directorate can take action, independent monitoring is needed to ascertain the level of threat.”
“I’m guessing these malcontents meet monthly, always during a couple of days either side of the night preferred by Mister Gattik?”
“Excellent guesswork. Tomorrow night is dear Don’s sixth visit.”
“Much as I love the money, I’m bored. Hope it’s tonight.”
We settle back to wait. Unlike Don, whoever is dropping or collecting does so without trace. Which is why we’re in full-body stealth gear so they don’t spot us. Our equipment is a simple recording device and a hand-held motion detector.
Which, as if in response to my thought, shows movement coming down the rear maintenance stairs. I point. Samantha reaches out and activates the recorder, rotating it so it covers that direction.
A fashionably dressed figure comes down the stairs like they’re sauntering into a club. I recognise Dante Jeve, representative for Eurocorp at the Assembly. He moves to a nearby slot. With a practised flourish, he lifts the lid, deposits something from his pocket, and leaves the way he came.
Samantha sighs.
“Just like that. Now what?”
“You bring a copybox?”
She nods.
“Go show the drop to the recorder, then replace – after copying if possible.”
“Still stealthed up?”
“Yes. Protects us.”
She goes.
It’s a secure flash drive. Which is ideal, as the copybox doesn’t try to access anything, it just maps bit patterns for later unravelling and analysis.
It takes an hour, but I use the time to update those who need to know.
“Handover and done?”
“Yes. Breakfast is on the Directorate.”
“After I shower.”
Actually, that’s a good idea.
“Showers first, then.”
“They going to arrest everyone?”
“Eventually. But not our problem. We’re paid and out of here.”