This is the shortened version. You can read the full version here.

It is twenty-four years since Contact and I’m drinking coffee while sitting behind my desk in New Scotland Yard. I cleared some space by moving a paper mountain to one side and set my cup down.

“Boss”, declared Detective Sergeant Kieran Mulrooney, as he strode towards me with a memorandum in his fist. “Read this…”

“Let me see.” It was from Intelligence. They were monitoring some scholars in Camden. Hard-wired bugs you understand. We don’t use radio, not since Scrixn’s warning, anyway.