Joe nodded absently. “Which way?” he asked.
“Way?” Thursday looked confused.
“Which direction?” Joe turned about on his heels, the room appearing the same every way he looked. Beds and beds. Of Joes. He swallowed the urge to scream.
“Oh!” Thursday laughed. “That doesn’t matter. Alright, follow me.”
Joe walked after Thursday, with two Thursdays following behind.
“This is the divorce section,” said Thursday, gesturing expansively toward the beds. The Joes lay in their rows, and rows.
“Divorce?” Joe didn’t understand. “What is this place?”
Thursday stopped his walk abruptly and turned to Joe. “You don’t know? No idea at all?”
Joe pinched himself again. He was still here. “No, where are we?” He tried not to feel the hair tickling the soles of his feet.
“You’ll see soon enough,” Thursday said, as he resumed the tour. After they’d walked a few rows further, Thursday flicked his wrist at a row of particularly morbid-looking Joes. “Backpacking accidents,” he said. His voice low. There they lay, panting, faces screwed up in pain.
“Please explain to me,” Joe said slowly, “what is going on? I have a List of things to do. Errands to run before Margie gets home. I don’t have time for this.” He patted the List in his breast pocket, but the jagged note wasn’t there. The pocket wasn’t there.
Thursday ignored him. “Monks,” Thursday said, as they walked through a mass of serene Joes, breathing slowly. “Fathers,” he said after a few more rows had passed.
Joe couldn’t take it anymore. Acid tears welled up in his eyes. He asked as calmly as he could, “Please Thursday, tell me where we are.”
Thursday’s face stretched with compassion and good-will. “Oh, Joe. Don’t panic. Alright, buddy, I think it’s time you saw the Determiners.”
“Okay,” said Joe, smearing away a tear. He was ten-years old again.
Thursday waited. “Well,” the bushy-eyed man said eventually, “we don’t have all day. Let’s go!”
Joe stared at him. “What? Where?” They’d been walking in one direction, maybe five hundred yards. But the distant wall of the Chamber still wasn’t visible.
“The door, buddy,” Thursday said impatiently.
“Door, what door –” But as he said it, there it was. Oak-framed, solid-wood. The door stood a few yards away in the middle of the aisle between the beds of Joes, with no wall on either for support. Joe inspected it, looked around the side. Beyond the door were more beds, like everywhere else in the Chamber.
He turned the knob carefully, the mechanism squealed as it moved in the lock. The door opened, and through the doorway, Joe saw –
“Come, come,” Thursday said, nudging him forward.
Joe put one foot across the threshold. “It’s cold,” he said, a concrete floor beneath his foot. An icy wind blew through his thinly-gowned leg.
“Yeah, we keep the temperature low in the Hall,” Thursday said, standing on his heels, waiting to walk through the doorway. “Better for the Determiners.”
“The what?”
“Let me show you,” Thursday shoved Joe over the threshold, and shut the door behind them.
“Is this where the Determiners are?” Joe asked, staring out over the Hall.
“Yup, this is where the magic happens,” all three Thursdays replied, chewing their gum loudly. “Where it all happens.”
The tall man’s face was engulfed in that masticating smile that made Joe want to strangle someone. “We house the probability collectors here, and there –” Thursday pointed to the dark recesses on the sides of the great Hall. “As you can see,” Thursday’s smile widened, if that damned smile could widen any further, “all the Determiners are the latest Laplacian models.”
From this vantage, Joe could look out over the Hall, look out, and out … but he couldn’t see the end of it. He squinted against the high-temperature fluorescent light that seemed to emanate from everywhere. From the walls, the floor, the … there was no ceiling. When he peered upward, there was ... nothing. No end. No sky. Just that white light, forever.
“You can use the binoculars if you like,” Thursday said, noticing Joe’s discomfort. He pointed to a contraption that looked like two telescopes bound together by packing tape.
“Uh,” Joe was staring through the eyepieces, “how big is the Hall?” He was changing the magnification on the binoculars, looking further and further into the room. Men all looking exactly like Thursday sat at computers in rows. And more Thursdays, at more computers in yet more rows, were all Joe could see, no matter how high he turned the magnification dial.
“The Hall is as big as you like,” Thursday said, “but it grows all the time.”
Joe stared through the binoculars, magnifying and magnifying. The icy breeze burrowed through his gown. He wished he was wearing underwear.
“What are all the machines for?”
“For you, Joe. It’s all for you.” When Joe didn’t reply, Thursday continued. “They’re living your life, Joe. Giving you options.”
“Options, I don’t – what?”
“For every choice you face,” Thursday said, “another Joe appears in the Chamber. Every time you choose chocolate over vegetables, or go on that holiday to the Alps rather than to Mexico, or fight with Margie rather than swallow your tongue, more Joes are created. Because those Joes chose differently. They ate vegetables, went to Mexico, and kept quiet. Every Joe there is, every Joe there could be, is in the Chamber.”
“And the machines?” Joe asked again, staring at the rows, and rows of workstations. They gleamed an obsidian beauty in the white light.
“The Determiners watch you, Joe. They see every option available to you at every point in your life, and produce enough Joes in the Chamber for each possibility. There’s a Joe for everything you ever did, and everything you ever didn’t.”
“So this … this is all for me?” Joe’s eyes widened. “Every person has a Chamber, a Hall of Determiners? Every person is … many?”
Thursday laughed. “Oh, no Joe. No, no. There’s only you, Joe.”
The hairs on the nape of Joe’s neck sprung to attention.
“What … what do – where’s Margie? Is there a Chamber full of Margies?”
“Oh, Joe,” Thursday smiled at him, as if watching a child take its first steps, “I don’t think you understand. All that everyone ever was, or ever will be, is an option for you, Joe. Everything, everyone, is Joe.”
The Cryo Killer
Sales in the mornings. Killings in the afternoons. We’re a small business, so I have to do it all. I don’t like sales much. Most of the time I’m selling our front – life insurance. But not today.
The couple who walks in is young. Younger than my usual. They don’t look a day over thirty. Her face is bright. She scans the small office like it’s a chocolate shop. Whole universes reflect in those eyes.
“I’m here for the New Year Special,” she says. Ten years ago I would’ve found that syrupy voice irresistible. She takes the chair before I can offer it.
The man on her arm is gray. Also young, but he hobbles after her geriatric-like. Perches on the edge of his seat and glares at us. Anxious.
She’s used the pass phrase. The ‘New Year Special’. I unlock the top drawer of my desk and confirm with her, “Would that be the extended cover, or the starter package?”
“Extended.”
“Welcome,” I say, shaking their hands. His is cold and rubbery. “… to Life Extensions Ltd. I’m Barker.”
She smiles at me in a way that makes the world feel a whole lot smaller. Pushes every thought I own into that warm, wet place between her lips. She looks familiar. Almost.
“Have we met?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t think so,” she says.
I put on my kind face, as Janet calls it.
I feel Janet watching from her desk. It’s just the two of us here at Life Extensions
Ltd. She’s been with me pretty much since the beginning. She does the bookings and the admin. And I … well, I do everything else.
It hadn’t taken long for Janet to work out that I don’t really sell life insurance. Or at least, that’s not the only service I offer. She hadn’t made a fuss of it, though. “I don’t judge,” is all she’d say when pressed for her opinion. But she’d clutched the cross hanging from her neck.
“Thank you,” says the girl with the smile. “Inesa, and this is my husband, Paul.”
“Inesa and Paul, good to meet you. Who referred you?”
“Mr. Camfrey’s wife.”
Paul’s hands are working. Picking at each other. At the cuticles.
“Ah yes, I was sorry to hear about his passing.”
“I think,” she lowers her voice, “that it was professionally done. Heart attack, I hear.”
I lean forward. “You’d like a similar package, ma’am?”
Paul speaks up for the first time. “Is it quick?”
If I had a penny for every time a client asked me that question. “Painless,” I say, “or your money back.”
Paul harrumphs.
“Excellent,” says Inesa, beaming. “You’ve been doing this a while?”
“Best in the business,” says Janet, striding over to us. She places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re safe with Barker.”
“So, you’re wanting the double package?”
Inesa squeezes her husband’s arm. Every carat on her ring finger catches the sunlight. His nod is miniscule.
“Yes,” she replies after a moment.
“Those are difficult.” I lean back in my chair, weighing the ring out of the corner of my eye. “Coroner looks closely at doubles. Need a plausible cause of death. Right now all I have in stock are gas leaks and home invasions. Invasions can get messy – brings down the property value. I suggest the gas leak. Although …” I glance at Paul. “Home invasions are on the rise.”
Paul scratches the skin over his knuckles. His lips have taken on a bluish tinge. I’ve seen all manner of manners displayed in the chairs on the other side of my desk. Clients respond to their impending deaths in all sorts of ways. Paul’s reaction isn’t unique.
“Gas leak,” says Inesa definitively.
Paul nods, a quick jerk up and down. “When’ll it happen?” He can’t meet my gaze.
“I could probably fit you in next week. Any preferences?”
“I’m writing an exam on Tuesday,” says Inesa. She looks to Paul, “And I’m sure you’d like to finalize that merger?”
He groans.
“Late next week?” she asks.
“Let’s see … Janet, check my availability, please.”
“Could do Friday next.”
“Excellent,” says Inesa.
“But …” Paul is fading to a paler blue by the minute. Droplets dot his forehead. “I just can’t live with the thought of this hanging over me for the next ten days. I just …” He swallows. “I just can’t.”
I reach out a hand and touch the man’s shoulder. His golf shirt is saturated. “Not to worry, sir. A memory wipe is included. You’ll never know you were here.” I offer him my warmest smile. Janet calls it the Big Daddy. “In fact, you may’ve been here before, and you wouldn’t know.”
Paul eyeballs me. “Have we been here before?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” I wink again.
Paul’s brow furrows.
“How much for the gas leak?” Inesa asks.
“Well, it’s a double. I charge three times the single fee, with the complications and all. That’ll be …” I jab on my ancient calculator for effect. “A hundred and sixteen thousand.”
Paul bolts upright.
“But for you,” I add, “a ten percent discount.”
“How do we know,” Paul says, watching me sideways, “that we haven’t paid for this before? If you wiped our memories, you could be double charging us.” He raises his voice. “Hell, we may have been here multiple times.”
I sigh internally. “The memory wiper only works once, sir. If I try to wipe your memory of this meeting, and you’ve met with me before, it won’t work.”
Inesa nods. Satisfied. Paul slumps back into his chair. She grips his arm. “It’s a small price to pay, darling. Just think … when they thaw us in twenty years, imagine what your savings will be worth.”
That seems to sway him. “You sure it won’t hurt?”
I chuckle. “You’ll be dead before you know it.”
Inesa’s cheeks bunch into a perfectly dimpled smile. “Oh Paul, isn’t this exciting!”
An hour later, Paul’s cash locked away in the top drawer, I walk the couple to the door. “Now remember to have an early night. You’ll wake up in the morning with a hangover, but you’ll recall nothing of this meeting. It’s important you tell nobody about this before the memory wipe takes effect. The Cryo Bureau have ears everywhere. If they get wind of this … you don’t want that.”
“Of course,” says Inesa, “we won’t say a thing. Will we darling?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Good. And thank you for using Life Extensions Ltd.”
I close the door behind them with a tinkle.
“Tough sell,” says Janet, not looking up from her screen. “I thought the husband was gonna pull out.”
“You doubted me?”
She finds my gaze. “I don’t know how you do it. How you convince them to … you know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” It’s not the first time I’ve said this. “Even if it’s illegal.”
“Yes, but …”
I give her a stern look.
“Alright.” Her tone returns to business, as she hands me my moleskin folder. “You’ve got a stroke at two-thirty – Mr. Oglevy. Dr. Hanfan called to say the butter’s ready.”
I swipe my coat and hat from the dumb waiter. But I turn back to her before I leave. “One day, you’ll want a New Year’s special too, Janet.”
Janet’s hand shoots to the chain around her neck.
I thumb the moleskin as I step to the car. Strokes are tricky, and Mr. Oglevy had requested one specially. “My dad had one,” he’d said. “And his father.”
The man’s right. Genetic predispositions are a good strategy for avoiding the coroner’s gaze. The Cryo Bureau hardly investigates them. No, what their systems flag are unusual deaths. Untimely demises.
I open the door to the old Buick, and flop into the worn leather. The door closes with a comforting clang. They don’t make car doors like they used to. Nowadays they shut with the thwunk of cheap rubber and plastic. But not my Buick. The engine roars into life.
I place the open folder on the passenger seat. Tod Oglevy’s myopic eyes regard me from behind thick-rimmed glasses. Programmer. Thirty-six last month. Takes lunch every day at the deli on Catherine Square. Predictable type of guy. They’re the easiest clients.
I’d agreed with him that a stroke makes sense. But it’s a risky business. Current medical tech is able to reverse most non-fatal strokes, and Cryo Killers will tell you that strokes will be entirely reversible in the near future. But still. You don’t want to damage the memory center of the brain. No-sir. You do that, and your client might wake up in twenty years with no idea who he is, or why he’s there. Of course, if that were to happen, I’d get away with it scot-free. But I have a reputation to uphold. If word got out that I damaged his brain in the killing … well then other clients wouldn’t look my way. No, I’m an ethical killer. I do what I promise. And only what I promise.
The Buick’s engine rises to a dull roar as it surges along the highway, toward Chinatown. Toward Dr. Hanfan. Barring the rare unforeseeable complication, Dr. Hanfan has always been spot on the money. He provides everything I need for clients who require a medical solution.
“Barker!” Dr. Hanfan slaps me across the shoulder. “I got package ready.”
He passes me a Styrofoam box. I lift the lid and peer inside. “Dr. you’re a
life saver.”
The needle-like projectile is thin as a human hair, and about half an inch long. But this is no ordinary needle. Dr. Hanfan calls it a butter bullet. Don’t ask me what a butter bullet is made of. He calls it butter because whatever its composition, the bullet dissolves on contact with a warm body, delivers its medicinal contents, and that’s the end of it. Unless they look for it, the Cryo Bureau would never know the client had been shot.
“This one difficult,” says Dr. Hanfan. “Special preparation.”
I hand him a bundle of cash. “I appreciate your effort.”
“You good man, Barker. Good man.”
I shut the Styrofoam container, and Dr. Hanfan seals it with packing tape.
“Medicine work best if you hit him in the neck.” He cocks his head, and points to his carotid artery with an arthritic finger.
“That won’t be a problem,” I say.
The traffic is easy, and soon I’m sitting at the deli in Catherine Square. It’s one of those afternoons that makes me want to live forever. I get that pastel-blue feeling. When all the pieces of a killing fall into place. When all that’s left is to pull the trigger. I watch Purple Martins flit this way and that through the ancient oak tree towering above us. Sunlight dapples the bricked pavement. The scent of freshly baked ciabatta layers the air between the laughter of children at a nearby table. The table behind Mr. Oglevy’s.
Tod Oglevy is absorbed in his Parma ham wrap, masticating protractedly. As if the wrap offers him some great message. Maybe it does. I reach beneath my suede coat, and grip the pistol. I debate whether or not to let him finish his meal. But a stroke wouldn’t wait, no matter how good the ham. I stand, and toss thirty dollars on the table beside my half-eaten olive ciabatta.
My heart hardly accelerates as I stroll in the direction of Mr. Oglevy. This will be number six hundred and three. Only my ninth stroke, but nothing too unusual. He’s less than two yards away. I place my finger on the trigger.
I’m so close to Mr. Oglevy now, I can see his untrimmed nose-hairs brushing the wrap as he takes another bite. I slide my coat aside, place the barrel an inch from his neck, and pull the trigger.
Obsidian Worlds Page 2
