Free Contact by Chris Morphew Page B

that made my stomach turn in on itself. They called Dad over to join them, but he held up a hand and said, ‘Later.’
    Apart from that table, the cafeteria was pretty empty. There were a couple of people waiting to use the lift, including Keith, the guy whose picnic I’d run through when we were chasing the phone. He glanced at the lift buttons, then snorted like he was sure I was the one who’d pressed them all.
    The lift started moving again.
    I leant back against the wall. Jordan seemed disappointed. So far, this was exactly what a trip to your dad’s work should be: a waste of time.
    â€˜Level two is meeting rooms,’ said Dad, lowering his voice now that there were other people in here with us.
    The lift slowed to a stop, opening onto a long, white hallway lined with glass doors.
    â€˜See?’ said Dad, as Keith and his mate squeezed out and headed down the hall. ‘Two dozen of them, all the same. I’ve had meetings in every one, and I can assure you, there’s nothing in there except tables, chairs and – Ah, g’day boys!’
    Two more men had walked out through a door to our right. Mr Ketterley and Dr Montag.
    And whatever the meat in the cafeteria had done to my stomach, it was nothing compared to seeing these guys coming towards us.
    They froze halfway into the lift. Dad clearly hadn’t run his tour plans past these two.
    â€˜Oh, hey kids,’ said Ketterley, recovering first and sending a look in Dad’s direction. ‘What brings you here?’ He joined us inside, and the doc followed him.
    Dad shrugged. ‘Pete and his mates have it in their heads that there’s something weird going on in the building. Thought I’d bring them in and show them everything’s above board.’
    I think I might have had a small stroke right there and then.
    Even if Dad wasn’t out to get us, he’d get us killed anyway with comments like that.
    â€˜No,’ said Luke hurriedly, ‘Mr Weir, I think you’ve misunderstood what we –’
    The lift doors slid open again. This time, we were looking at a sprawling open-plan office space. Dozens of suits swarming around desks and whiteboards and computer stations. Bunch of guys I knew. Couldn’t see Shackleton doing anything dodgy here. Not with this many people around.
    Montag and Ketterley got out.
    â€˜Hey doc, we still on for Tuesday?’ asked Dad, holding the door.
    â€˜Assuming you’re ready by then,’ said Montag. He gave Dad a look, like he didn’t think now was the time to talk about it.
    â€˜Almost there,’ said Dad. ‘Just costing a few of the parts and I’ll be good to –’
    â€˜Money is no object, Brian,’ said the doc. ‘Just make sure it works.’
    â€˜Oh, it’ll work, doc,’ Dad grinned, pulling his arm away from the door. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’
    Montag nodded, and he and Ketterley walked away into the offices. I had just enough time to see Ketterley reaching for something in his pocket before the doors closed again.
    Dad smiled to himself.
    I couldn’t even look at him.
    Before Phoenix, Dad used to be a mechanical engineer for this massive construction company. But he’d talked for ages about giving it all up to become a writer, and moving out here to work for the local paper was supposed to be his big career change. Trading in the high-pressure city job to pursue his real passion. That was story he’d fed Mum and me.
    But apparently, it was all a load of crap. Apparently, Dad’s real passion was actually designing Shackleton Co-operative death machines.
    The lift started moving again and Dad kept talking as though there’d been no interruption to our tour. ‘We call that floor the Hive. It’s where they handle all the day-to-day logistical stuff – water, electricity, maintenance, intranet …’
    The lift pulled to a stop.
    â€˜And this, ’