Writers of the Future, Volume 29

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Neil glanced over his shoulder at the portal. It had shrunk, as if the scab were healing itself. He looked around at the great golden clockwork, drew the truncheon out of his pocket.

  The first thing he did was break the green globes that hung on the nearest complications. A single tap and they shattered and went dark. Then he smashed the black gears that connected into the polished wheels.

  Under the truncheon, they broke like hard, stale candy, pieces scattering everywhere. He climbed up the shaft, smashing black metal as he went. The metallic buzz of wings was everywhere now.

  Climbing up into the top, he came to the Grande Complication itself. This took the longest, but he pounded at it until the pieces rained down like broken glass. Locusts landed and worried at his clothing but he flicked them away, unafraid. They had plenty to eat all around him. Each iron wheel he smashed revealed polished gold underneath. He worked until he stood upon the golden compass rose of the true Grande Complication. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he noticed that the golden arbor rose through the center, but it did not connect.

  He’d never had much of his father’s gift for seeing how things fit together, but this time he felt the missing piece as if it were his own heart. Neil drew out the black iron key.

  He picked up the truncheon and smashed the key until it cracked. He drew the small gold pinion ever so carefully from the key head and slipped it into place.

  ILLUSTRATION BY OLIVIA XU

  The World Clock rang, gears slamming into a tension he could feel in his bones. The chronophage buzzed around him. Neil stood, trying to keep his balance.

  “Jack? Jack!” called Neil. He looked about and saw the bird preening his tail on the broken globe above, looking plumper than before.

  “We’ll leave the rest to the chronophage, Jack. They will take care of it now.” Neil tucked Jack inside his jacket and ran. The clanking grew louder. Shattered ironwork began to rain down through cracks as the clock strained to move.

  Clockwork teeth bit at his fingers as he squeezed himself down through the narrow gap. A gear ripped into his jacket cuff. He let go in order to free himself, tumbling down. His hands latched onto the arbor and he slid down through the gap as if it were a fireman’s pole.

  Neil landed next to Mr. Harrison. Beyond his body, the portal had begun to shrink. The crowd on the platform inched slowly forward. The train engine loomed so close that it blocked out the sun.

  Neil ran, not looking at the great eye of the engine. He leapt from the edge of the hole toward the distant platform.

  The world filled with so much sound and movement that Neil screamed louder than when the world had stopped. His knees hit the platform edge and he rolled onto his side. The engine plowed past just as all trace of the portal disappeared.

  Neil touched his chest where he had cradled the bird. It was gone. A hand reached down and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him up.

  Miss Dutton towered above Neil, shaking with rage. His father’s watch was still looped around her fingers, the gold chain dangling against the leather handle of his suitcase.

  “The orphanage has switches for defiant little boys,” she raged.

  “I am not a little boy.” He lunged for the watch. Miss Dutton yanked it from reach and wrenched his arm till it felt close to breaking.

  “It’s mine now, for the trouble you’ve caused. I’m going to teach you to be a proper—”

  Neil drew in a breath and let out a clear high whistle that turned the heads of the closest passengers.

  “What,” said Miss Dutton, “do you think you—”

  Jack flapped into her face, pecking violently at her nose. Miss Dutton screamed. As she let go of his arm, Neil kicked her smartly in the shin and grabbed for the watch.

  For a moment they struggled, Jack flailing wildly at her head, then Miss Dutton turned and ran screaming down the platform, chased by the black pigeon.

  Neil walked outside the station with his father’s watch and stood on the steps where the earth had first stopped. For a moment, he was the only thing not in motion as the world flowed around him.

  A familiar weight landed on his shoulder and cooed softly.

  Neil gazed south, toward where home used to be, and then all around at the wide world.

  He could see lines of power where he had never noticed them before. Places where the edges of the world didn’t match up quite right: A flock of geese pushed too far west by an uncomfortable fold in the sky; an errant ley line that made the closest hilltop unusually devoid of trees; a billowing smokestack that would allow the wind to sweep the haze from Greenwich Park if only it was broken down. He touched the truncheon in his pocket and wondered if he might be good at fixing certain kinds of things after all.

  He strode east along the bank of the Thames toward the rising sun, Jack riding high on his shoulder. A growing chorus of frog song began to fill the world around them, masking beneath it the soft, ticking heartbeat of time.

  Cop for a Day

  written by

  Chrome Oxide

  illustrated by

  JON ENO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chrome Oxide was created as an internet persona to reflect his collection of music-related books, vinyl, CDs, DVDs and cassettes.

  He started life with a normal name roaming the wilds of Los Angeles. It didn’t take long before he developed his twin passions of listening to music and reading science fiction and fantasy.

  His formal schooling ended with an accounting degree from California State University Northridge. He then attempted to exploit his twin passions by becoming an accountant. Twenty years passed before he realized that seventy-hour work weeks didn’t leave him much time for music or reading. At that point he switched careers to computer consulting.

  Now with more free time, he accidentally became a recording engineer. His recordings are now available on CDs, DVDs and the Internet.

  Recently, because of inadequate discouragement, he started writing science fiction and fantasy. For the last two and a half years he has been torturing his writers’ group by learning two bad habits for every one he fixes. They thought he was ready to start submitting stories. He didn’t. You can now judge for yourself. This is his first fiction story published for a wide audience. It won’t be the last.

  His website is chromeoxide.com.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Jon Eno is also the illustrator for “War Hero” in this volume. For more about him, please see his bio here.

  Cop for a Day

  Beep.

  My modification of the comm unit worked; however, I knew I should’ve disabled the call circuit when I’d disabled the streaming audio. I hadn’t at the time because I’d expected a call from my parole officer. Six months later and I still hadn’t gotten any of the required weekly calls or monthly visits. This made sense because no sane person would live in or visit the government-provided Simple Living Urban Modules if any other options existed. The crowded conditions proved that sanity and other options didn’t exist.

  Beep.

  I stared at the comm unit. The listings got updated less frequently than the census. Ignoring a call from a government official is a crime. Disabling the streaming audio is a crime. Some crimes are worth committing. I am sentenced to live here. However, I refuse to listen to the government-provided version of the news, which, much like a blind man’s version of an elephant, contains elements of truth distorted until they’re worthless.

  Beep.

  It wouldn’t be good news, but delaying bad news wouldn’t help. I hit
my kill switch to enable the streaming audio before answering. “…employment reached 256.3%, up 15.7% from last week. In an effort to boost morale of the hard-working public servants, the legislature gave raises to all elected and salaried officials. In the spirit of fiscal conservatism and balancing the budget, safety and fire units will only respond if victims can pay in advance…” The streaming audio automatically muted as I answered the comm unit.

  “Yo, Mark Rollins? In future, answer phone quicker?”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Who are you?”

  “Me Sergeant Sam Frank. Today your lucky day. You selected for work detail. Come to Amalgamated Security Services unit at corner Winston Street and Smith Avenue.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can; however, public transportation is running slow this time of day.” Not that it ever runs fast.

  “Be here on time today. Blame government no excuse. Penalty for not show up.”

  “I know. Everything is a crime. I’ll be there.”

  “Yo, Mr. Bad Attitude. That get you trouble.”

  The only guarantee in life is that government will make your life worse. Since my life was bad enough already, I didn’t want to find out how much worse it could be, so I shut up and disconnected.

  A chill ran down my spine. This could be my only chance to get out of here. Ever since the government had performed “asset forfeiture,” stealing everything they thought I owned, I’d been stagnating from fear that the government was waiting to arrest me the moment I started working again. However, if the government was offering a convicted felon a job, then it was time to stop worrying and restart my life. I wanted more than to live on a government handout and obey rules designed to keep everyone subservient and grateful.

  No matter what happened, I’d start my business again. Asset forfeiture had missed some of my gear and supplies among the multiple caches, so the loss of any, or even most of them, wouldn’t stop me from restarting my business.

  The news feed started up again, “…the hoarding of goods will be punishable by…” The comm unit continued babbling as I walked down the graffiti-covered hall, tiptoeing through piles of trash that people had been too lazy to throw out their windows or dump into the empty elevator shafts. The weekly trash recyclers were only a few years behind in their pickups.

  The government soup kitchen, located in the first floor of my building, provided something to chew on for the ride to the Amalgamated Security Services fortress. The government claimed their specially prepared Government Regulated Uniform Edible Lumps contained the minimum daily requirements of calories and vitamins, but it looked and tasted like what came out of the composting end of a person. Yet another quality product created to government specifications and provided free of charge to everyone who couldn’t afford anything better.

  I walked to the street corner and enjoyed the sunshine and the small breeze. The government hadn’t figured out a way to tax them. Yet.

  It didn’t take long before a fleet of multiseat bicycles came down the street. The most recent version of government-provided, environmentally safe, mass transit and employment opportunities. Of course, this temporary alternative to polluting fuels had only been in place for twenty years, but the government assured us they were making progress on alternative-fuel development.

  I located a three-seater heading in my direction so I climbed on and started pedaling. As the government cracked down on technology usage among the Sovereign Laborers And Valued Employees, I wondered what form of transportation would replace bicycles when they couldn’t be repaired anymore.

  The ride took a couple of hours and sent pain up and down my back and legs. No matter what happened, I needed to exercise more. We weren’t attacked on the trip because everybody knows that people using mass transit have nothing valuable left to share.

  The sight of the Amalgamated Security Services fortress—with its gun ports, security doors and barred windows—caused me to flash back to my prior encounter. Would this be the end of that nightmare?

  After ringing the doorbell, I glanced around and shifted from one foot to the other. The crackle of distant gunfire provided a lullaby, ensuring me that I was safe for the moment.

  Much like in The Wizard of Oz, a porthole opened and a face spoke. “Dude. You bumming me out. Go home.”

  “I’m Mark Rollins. Sergeant Frank told me to report in.”

  “Dude. Me Sergeant Beach. Sergeant Frank took lunch break. He back tomorrow, maybe next week. Go home.”

  “What jobs are available? I’m required to register today. Please give me something, anything.”

  “Dude, not my problem. Amalgamated Security Services job only one me know open. You not qualified. Currently hiring minorities. You Eskimo?”

  “No. But I’m here. You have to give me a chance.”

  “You sure you not Eskimo? Well, you Eskimo now.”

  Which crime is worse, not registering for work when called or making a false claim of minority status? I don’t know, but I’d rather find out later than sooner.

  Sergeant Beach let me into the fortress. The thick concrete walls and the steel doors kept everyone inside fairly safe from snipers.

  “Thanks. What forms do I need to fill out?”

  “Dude. You bumming me out again. Writing repressive and discriminatory. No need forms or read write. Do work, stay. Not do work, go. Need get started. What your name?”

  I told him again while we walked into the armory room.

  “Here you guns: pump-action shotgun for crazies, and stun gun for harmless. No machine gun until qualify.”

  While I’d never used a machine gun before, the Church of the Second Right provided me with the training for all the other available weapons. Yet another one of my many skills which made me overqualified for this or any government job.

  We walked down the hall to the armory.

  “Dude, here body armor. But only for wimps.”

  “Consider me a wimp.” Browsing the body armor, I found something I liked. “I’ll go with the type 3A model, which gives me a good balance between weight and protection.”

  “Dude, you freak me out with talk like that. Time to get threads.”

  When we entered the next room, I asked “Why are the uniforms red? I thought they were tan?”

  “Dude. Newbie uniform red. It easy clean blood.”

  It also made me a more visible target, but I had no choice. I found a uniform in my size without too many bullet holes. I reluctantly put it on. Government employees are universally hated. They are too important to fail, so they can’t be prosecuted for any actions performed while on the job. “This one fits. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Dude, listen up, rules. Collect $500,000 today, work tomorrow. Not collect, not work. Here manual. It say enforce asset forfeiture. Only arrest wealthy. Not waste time when no assets around. Observe and record suspicious behavior. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Actually no. I understood what they asked for, but I didn’t understand why they assigned me to the street instead of a desk job.

  We continued walking down the hall and out the back door of the fortress into the parking compound.

  “Dude, here car, here keys. Don’t wreck. Full charge. Come back sundown.”

  “Thanks.” Sundown? Was the average college graduate no longer capable of telling time? Or had the supply of wristwatches diminished to the point where only politicians rated having them?

  “Dude, you don’t look like Eskimo. What your name?”

  I told him my name again and took the key. My assigned car wasn’t the most beat-up one in th
e lot. A couple of cars sat on jacks because of missing wheels and other parts. At least the car I’d been assigned still had some tread on the tires and some unbroken solar panels on the hood and roof. I hoped it worked well enough to survive one more day of patrol. Some tagger had changed the motto to read “To Collect and Observe.” Nobody had bothered removing the change. Sigh. At least I wasn’t assigned to a bicycle or foot patrol.

  ILLUSTRATION BY JON ENO

  I cleaned the windows and disconnected the power cord before climbing into the front seat. All the instrument displays on the dashboard were broken. The floor, roof, and seats were slashed and stained. How had bloody footprints ended up on the ceiling? The car stank of too many unwashed bodies and other less identifiable but more disgusting smells. Why hadn’t they at least left the windows open to air out? Although to be fair, asking about any government procedure or policy never returned an understandable answer.

  The car started with a whine and a hum. I drove a reasonable distance between myself and the fortress before looking for a place with an open field of fire so I could park and assess my situation.

  My weapons were poorly maintained. However, a few minutes work assured me of their functionality.

  The manual, which made no sense, had ten pages of pictures with fewer words than the comic books I’d read when growing up. The ninety pages of footnotes explaining the words and pictures didn’t help. I even found song lyrics for “Anarchy in the UK” and “California Über Alles” buried in the footnotes.

  Neither the instructions nor footnotes matched the briefing by Sergeant Beach. Was this plausible deniability or general government incompetence? I decided to stick with the briefing and hope for the best.

  After replacing the manual in the glove compartment, which contained a functioning camera and a can of black spray paint, I examined the dashboard more closely. The broken displays I didn’t recognize could only belong to the Smart Cars I’d heard about a few years ago. Considering the rumored intelligence level of the Smart Car and the lack of intelligence of the typical user, it made sense that someone had disabled the Smart Car brains. If I could fix it, maybe it would give me an edge.