by Edge O. Erin
About the author
Edge O. Erin grew up in British Columbia and now resides on the island of Cape Breton in Nova Scotia, Canada. A passionate outdoorsman, the natural world is imprinted on his psyche. His surveying and remote sensing experience in disparate parts of the globe has informed his opinion on land use, the human condition, and the importance of biodiversity and environmental stewardship. He is at work on his next novel, Time Sneak: Emergence.
Legacy of Seconds
Edge O. Erin
Legacy of Seconds
Vanguard Press
VANGUARD KINDLE
© Copyright 2021
Edge O. Erin
The right of Edge O. Erin to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions
of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-80016-045-3
Vanguard Press is an imprint of
Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.
www.pegasuspublishers.com
First Published in 2021
Vanguard Press
Sheraton House Castle Park
Cambridge England
Acknowledgements
To Anastasia, thank you—from all facets of my heart—for your unwavering support and sincere encouragement. Your friendship, sarcastic sense of humor, and capacity for kindness, have had an immeasurable impact on me.
Thank you to Katie Wells for the cover art.
Chapter One
Claire reluctantly reached into her jacket pocket and extracted an oyster-shell vessel crudely inscribed with “Bend over and take it in the eye”. She pulled out her Cyclops and secured the monocle in position with a most unofficial rubber band. She plopped down, popped in earbuds, and affected a middle-finger-maestro-twirl in the air to signify her enthusiasm. A loving yet firm female voice began to speak:
“To address the collective lack of resources on Earth, and to guarantee the permanence and vitality of Goddess-created humanity, a twelve-year mission to the planet of Prometer will be undertaken. Prometer is a wonder; an incredibly Earth-like world that offers vast resources, both in and of itself and its moons, by all expert analysis. It promises an opportunity for humankind to prosecute a prosperous future for billions of lives and billions of years…”
As the preamble droned on, she did another middle-finger-funnel-cloud, though with less enthusiasm than before. Finally, the duplex-dame came to the new information:
“On the eleventh anniversary of Prometer’s discovery, all Goddess-blessed crew will be finalised and announced. Amongst these will be the geniuses referred to as ‘Wakees’; incredible children responsible for monitoring the ships systems and reviving key personnel as…”
The ninety-second minimum had passed, so she removed the earbud and Cyclops and clamped them in the clamshell.
To her way of thinking, people had not evidenced the ethics and values necessary to substantiate visiting, let alone inhabiting, another world. Still, as Cooper continued to remind her, perhaps this endeavour would raise humankind to another level. Maybe special people operating under demanding conditions and in a unique environment could realise something, err… special. She shrugged her shoulders and resumed chipping the red coral.
***
Liked, he was not. Respected, mostly, but liked, no. An individual with a degree of empathy would, at some point, intuit a link between cause and effect; of action and reaction, mainly as it applied to interpersonal relationships. Security First-Class Jop Baturu-Heim was not such an individual. A thoughtful sort would see respect enhanced, not diminished, by nourishing rapport and trust. Jop wouldn’t give a cockroach’s entrails for rapport, even if he knew what ‘rapport’ meant. Jop was not a man of words.
He liquified a strong cup of coffee and walked out on his private balcony. Easing his husky, muscular frame into a chair, he gazed down. Only one other person was on their balcony at this early hour, and predictably it was old lady Klark-Ghan. He knew the old hag could barely see well enough to water her plants and didn’t hear much either. Mrs Klark-Ghan was the only person — apart from himself, and the building super — allowed unfettered and unmonitored balcony access. Everyone else did indeed have a balcony, but its use required a daily permit from the super, and she only granted ten passes a day.
About half of the eighty residents in the relatively small complex apparently didn’t want to venture out; for to his knowledge, only thirty-nine tenants regularly applied for permission. Of these, sixteen used their terrace on a semi-regular basis to water plants and flowers or cultivate permitted herb gardens. These individuals all passed security screening and consented to a surveillance camera being installed to ensure they weren’t up to anything illegal. Additionally, it was imperative that residents didn’t violate anything in the ruling elites ‘Red Articles’. He knew this because he was Jop; observation one of his refined skills… and he was a vital member of the community’s security service.
He enjoyed chewing snuff and had his tobacco-growing uncle to thank for that.
“Always better in the raw,” his uncle had said. Jop let loose a voluminous spurt and narrowly missed the outer row of Mrs Klark-Ghan’s plants. The old lady jerked her head up and sideways and shook her cane angrily at the sky. He knew she couldn’t see or hear all that well, but apparently, her sniffer worked just fine if she could smell the black muck going by. She had to know the stinky streams came from him but had never voiced her concern or registered a complaint at a board meeting. No matter: the old buzzard surely knew her place and tenuous grip on life, if not tenancy. For him, it was, “If you chew, you spew,” and he wasn’t using a spittoon unless he had a guest. Better to let the vile bile mix with the papers and garbage that typically blew in and wedged at the junction of the twelve-foot-tall security fence and the building’s north wall. The maintenance staff routinely cleaned up the area, and he felt justified in contributing a few ounces of unpleasantness to the weight of their job. He spat again, and this time it sailed well out and beyond the old lady’s plants.
His spacious apartment — all six-hundred glorious square feet of it — was on the top floor and afforded an expansive view. He liked trees, and some big pines stretched towards the sky. Some years prior, he climbed way up one to remove a large kite that had become entangled in its branches. It wasn’t to rescue a kite for some useless kid, but rather to enable a full view of Demghan Hill and the edifice of ‘Bang Block’. Bang Block was his home away from home; it was where he had taken the bulk of his training and where he now delivered training to recruits and specialists alike. Most disliked the imposing grey structure’s architecture, but he liked the underlying message, ‘stout, resolute and uncompromising’. Even the sea at its foot seemed subdued.
The sky was a familiar dreary grey, and the air pungent; akin to odour neutraliser sprinkled over fresh vomit. The rain had stopped, at least for the time being. A sea breeze would soon nullify, or at least mollify, the smell. The medical establishment and those annoying environmentalists frequently talked about how energy-intensive practices
should be regulated more strictly and certain things not be done at all to make the world a ‘greener’ place with better quality air, water, and food. Sure, it sounded good, but with the distrust between the world governments’ two reigning blocs and the lack of will as well as engagement of the world’s elite — principally the Ghans — to address equity and equality concerns, he expected little change. Funky air and tainted water aside, one positive was the mandate agreed upon by the Western and Eastern Blocs namely to, by any means necessary, suppress and ultimately destroy the Men’s Equality Movement and the blight of Newvalutionism. For one involved in special forces or the military, conflict nearly always translated into promotion, job security, and perks.
The Men’s Equality Movement—more commonly called ‘MEM’, had been around for decades, but the Newvalutionist element within it was a new threat. While dangerous and subversive, MEM was also strategic and had a quasi-political wing that the authorities occasionally engaged. Cracking down too forcefully on MEM had proven problematic, for men still provided the bulk of unskilled labour and military personnel. As a man, he couldn’t divorce himself from thinking that men being considered equals might be a good thing. But then again, overcoming additional obstacles and prejudices meant only the best of men, such as he, rose to the top.
A bright blue Newvalutionist propaganda slip fluttered in front of his eyes, and he deftly snapped it out of the air. He produced his lighter and burned the stub of paper, for in his mind such writs were an order below snuff-spew.
Often distrusted by the very people they sought to help, Newvalutionists would do just about anything to promote their cause. Why, just last week, two of them jumped off a roof, through a fake-glass ceiling and into a meeting between representatives of the GMO/Fuel Company, ‘GROWMO’ and ‘MESI’, the Ministry of Education and Information, and detonated a device that killed themselves and six of the targeted attendees. Some reports even went so far as to suggest MEM might have operatives in local governments, and Newvalutionists were weaponising their ideology within organised religions. Jop doubted the former but could see the latter, for people that believed in an omniscient God or Goddess were probably gullible enough to think their actions could have a bearing on the next life or phase of existence. In his mind, that scenario was about as likely as a dog turd being reincarnated as a butterfly. No matter, he didn’t discriminate; Newvalutionist, traitor, insurgent, nutcase, they all squealed the same tune under duress and died with uncertainty and disbelief in their eyes.
From his vantage point, he could watch the security fence line the way towards Bang Block. The fence separated two worlds. There was the landlocked and service-starved ‘Lower Town’ with its squat apartment complexes and congested streets to his left.
Lower Town was the region allotted to the predominantly non-Red ethnic majority, and for the most part, they beetle-scurried about without causing undue concern. On Colombe Street, he could see the tail of a queue that surely stretched around the corner and for two blocks down Princeps Ave to Western Grocers. Somebody had lit a dumpster on fire, and homeless people were emerging from abandoned or dilapidated cars and air-scoots. He dug out his high-powered sling-shot and positioned it on a stand on the rail of his balcony. Then he set a ball-bearing in it and took out the rear window of a wreck which caused a person to disembark from their bedroom and hide behind the burning dumpster. He rang another projectile off the dumpster just as the space-waster was pondering an escape. It caused him to chuckle.
To the right, and by the ocean, was ‘High Town’. High Town was where local and Eastern Block officials, dignitaries, bureaucrats, blood ‘Reds’, Ghan family personages, and a handful of Western Block diplomats resided. High Town had reputable shops and restaurants, desalinated water, in-house air filtration systems, adequate skilled-labour, and international air and ferry services.
His uncle had died of lung cancer but had left him the apartment in High Town, and Jop’s position at Bang Block permitted his occupation. He was one of few ‘Pinkies’, people of red and ‘other’ lineage, allowed an education, and his place in the chain of command evidenced that. Someday he might even become as famous as the near-mythical Emaris Yugon.
A glance at his Wristpad said he should prepare for work. He had an odd feeling, and it reminded him of a time when, as a rookie, he — along with his compatriots — had traversed a deep gorge to access the headwaters of a stream that housed a terrorist encampment. As it happened, they found a much larger force than intelligence suggested, and a major scrap ensued. But he had won that day, as he would this one.
“Sink or swim” was an expression Jop coveted and called his own, and he said it aloud as he dumped three raw and costly eggs into a tall glass of powdered protein milk. He downed the concoction and grinned in anticipation. Few workdays offered an opportunity to feel the pleasure he did with Cheriot. Jop stepped back out on his balcony and peered down: Old lady Klark-Ghan teetered and tottered back inside, so he let a spurt go that would brown a touch of greenery; life was good.
As instructed, microbots systematically recorded and reported Jop’s actions from the time he woke up to his departing thirty minutes earlier than usual. A few moments later, microbots in Cheriot’s holding cell received their wake-up call.
Chapter Two
The loss of his parents to influenza at such a young age, followed by the sudden loss of his older brother and only sibling induced fear of attachment and commitment. A psychologist had told him that, and it sounded about right. The only ones that remained close to him were his sister-in-law Jess, the Grand Lady and — indicative of his emotional isolationism — a little girl that he seldom ever saw.
Born Jon Ghan-Arn, his co-workers usually called him ‘Daco’, short for ‘Data Control Officer’. He approved of the nickname as using it gave others a deceptive level of comfort, familiarity, and camaraderie. He employed nicknames for his microbots as the technical ones weren’t intuitive concerning capacity or function. He opened a drawer and glanced at the compartmentalised fishing tackle box that served as their home. Almost instantly, they began to stir due to the kinetic energy imparted from movement and incoming sunshine. They resembled children awakened for school, so he closed the drawer to allow them more time to rest.
Jon smiled at his foolishness and recognised that he still retained some youthful innocence despite his four-plus decades on Earth. Almost instantly, he felt guilty and inadequate, and this forced him to recalibrate. While he may never realise temporal joy, he could, through adherence to the tenets of Newvalutionism, be a bringer of happiness and peace to others. It was uplifting to recognise that through self-discipline, dedication, and selfless works, one could forge an enduring attachment to ‘real’ purpose and justice and not that theoretically delivered by a deity. Beyond that, working with people he respected gave him a sense of belonging.
Deciphering and fusing data streams was a significant part of his job — and life — and years of its practise made it second nature. Lines, numbers and squiggles became states, conditions, and actions, from which tendencies and trajectories were divined. It was a skill that revealed patterns of behaviour, and Jon used this to manoeuvre himself into a prime intelligence-gathering position. Tonight, that position was on his behind in a private viewing room, investigating a series of anomalies to ascertain if they were outliers or representative of a serious issue.
The subjects’ night-time data was resampled and compared to baselines for scenarios and conditions — and combinations thereof — that could negatively impact one’s sleep. Jon ruled out the most common causes: hunger, dehydration, stress, and others. Mary, as some called the leader of MESI, was not ill and did not suffer from any of sleep apnoea, restless leg syndrome, or periodic limb movement disorders. As a graduate of the ‘Cheriot Wheel Cloning Programme’, it was unlikely Mariot Grey-Ghan would suffer from any of these conditions, but he had to check.
Having eliminated the simple solutions, he now moved on to more complex ones. Diving in
, he found nothing to support a psychiatric disorder, and as such, hallucinations weren’t a factor. With no evidence of trauma, he also ruled out disorientation. Regular theta brain wave activity meant no REM behaviour issue, and her delta waves were sound; she was getting rejuvenating dreamless sleep. The curious aspect was the oscillation, or perhaps vacillation, between a theta wave and delta wave state. Theta was the realm of lucid dreams, while delta was purportedly the gateway to universal mind or the collective unconscious and moving so quickly between the two presented a unique problem.
Jon did not see any symmetry with data overlays, whether from Mary or other clones. He broadened the search to incorporate records from the aborted mind-seeding programme known as Menhance and came up empty. Menhance scientists reputedly manipulated subjects’ sleeping states to make the perfect soldier or assassin, but word had it the programme never achieved the desired result.
Perhaps the answer lay in the arcane, for theta-delta transitions purportedly occurred under the influence of mind-altering drugs. Using psychedelics was anathema to the Ghans and Red Articles, but it was permissible, albeit quietly so, in military psychiatric hospitals. It was in the records of one such clinic he found a match. Subject Beta 6, an officer having difficulty overcoming emotional trauma, had been administered a psychedelic tea derived from tropical plants. As it happened, the officer was, after several treatments, able to resolve her emotional conflict. There was a lengthy description of how the prefrontal cortex was involved in conflict resolution. The authors supposed that the drug-induced theta or twilight state provided a pathway to unconscious realms of experience without interference from the critical/analytical mind, which enabled the healing. It was fascinating and provided a hint at what was happening with Mary. It also spoke to the possibility of a window opening elsewhere, and that was very exciting!
