Running - The Alien in the Mirror

by Lazlo Ferran

  Running

  (The Alien in the Mirror)

  Lazlo Ferran

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales organisations or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Lazlo Ferran at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2015 by Lazlo Ferran

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book maybe used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Lazlo Ferran at:

  lazloferran@gmail.com

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Ash and Pedro.

  Visit the Lazlo Ferran blog to see what I am currently working on: http://bit.ly/12nFGgI

  Sign up for the Lazlo Friend Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/K9r8P

  Mirrors

  Ishmael Bodd ‘woke up’ at 11.52 in the morning of Tuesday 13 April 2B101M002,192. He felt different but, at first, had no idea what had changed.

  But something had fundamentally changed. Within hours, he would break the law, something no Citizen had done in his thousand years of life, and begin to run.

  ***

  At 11.53 am, he stared out of the Newspaper’s panoramic window, at the Marstoo landscape, and felt something:

  Not like the clones’ paradise on Earthtoo. I … like the red sunset and the distant row of red hills, the endless expanse of Marstoo Supercity, stretching as far as those hills. It feels like home.

  In fact, his nice, quiet house was out there, at the foot of those hills. A tiny, two-seat wind-copter scudded across the Regulation four-storey buildings. Nothing ever changed there and that was just the way he liked it.

  But something had changed; he had been talking to himself.

  The sensation felt strange.

  He returned his attention to his monitor, to the small column article he had been writing for the next day’s issue and saw the chip, a tiny piece of ceramic and rare metal, on his desk. He studied its maze-like surface and picked out some silver lettering down the side. Turning the chip, he read; C199989 Single. No offspring.

  Now I understand!

  Again, the words in his head disturbed him but he felt slightly reassured that he had found an explanation; he had gone through an RB and been patched up.

  RBs; Reality Breakdowns – instances in time where all reality structures breakdown locally, often in areas of less than ten square metres. All affected Citizens require patching up; a C-chip replacement by a qualified medical officer. But nobody knows why we need our C-chip, the Control chip, replaced.

  Putting the chip in his pocket, he looked up the word ‘like’ in an archive lexicon of the once-universal language, Basic, accessible only to journalists who wrote on history and archaeology, as he sometimes did. He found the verb:

  Like - to enjoy doing something, or to feel that someone or something is pleasant or attractive. Disused.

  Disused; that means it has no more use.

  He remembered the chip and the three words; Single. No offspring. It suddenly irked him that he had always been single and had no offspring. Why should it be so? He had a girlfriend and he would see her tonight … .

  Altogether, a lot of things suddenly seemed out of place and disjointed. He felt uncomfortable. He forced himself to focus and flipped on the morning news bulletin. The level voice announced:

  You remember the discovery, a few weeks ago, by an archaeological team on Earthone, of the very earliest hominid ever found; 5.4 Million years BC in the ancient Kenya region. We can report that traces of intact DNA have been found, analysed and have the distinctive tensi of very early clone hominids; molecule strings hanging off DNA strands, which form the letters MC – the Made by Citizens tag. This is yet again indisputable proof that Citizens existed before clones.

  The following bulletins didn’t interest Ishmael so he turned it off, quickly transmitting a reminder note to write something on the discovery for the Thursday edition. For the next forty minutes, he looked through any historical publications he could find for pictures of Citizens before his time. The pictures were the same he remembered as a minor; a family on a picnic, a brave explorer scaling a sheer cliff, a speedboat pilot careering around a race circuit, a model tossing her glossy, russet hair for the camera. The pictures looked familiar and yet they looked strange.

  ***

  When the buzz sounded for lunch, Ishmael immediately headed for the Mall. He never visited the Mall but he needed to escape from the office. Everything looked strange to him. His eyes took everything in but his mind became jammed with new sensations. He found himself smiling at two minor Citizens, as they scuttled between the legs of the parents and then ran for a confectionary kiosk. Ishmael helped one of them across a busy intersection and, “You have gained one credit,” rang up on his retina display.

  Ishmael saw a sign, reminding him that; Running is Against the Law for Adult Citizens.

  I remember running as a minor. I wonder why it is illegal.

  Before he could stop himself, he had broken into a run. He ran past staring Citizens and on, to the travelators that would take him through the long tunnels to the centre of Supercity. Horns blared and Policeman scrambled to pursue him but most were too slow to catch a running Citizen. He turned away from every monitoring device he detected but it hardly mattered; his face looked like a thousand other Citizens and his ID would already have been recorded anyway.

  When he reached the next intersection, he reversed course and passed the struggling Policeman going in the other direction.

  Before the buzz to mark the end of lunchtime, he had reached his office but he saw a Policeman at the entrance.

  “Oh oh! Not good!” He turned away and headed for the travelator heading towards his home district. His body had begun to feel alien to him and several times, his footsteps faltered, attracting the gaze of other Citizens. On the travelator, he had to take stock. Everything seemed to be happening to him for the first time; as if he had previously been asleep. And yet he knew he had gone to work at the same place and spent his days in exactly the same way for almost a millennium.

  When he reached his intersection, he took the travelator, not to his own house, but to that of Yaela, his girlfriend. He had to talk to somebody.

  At her neighbourhood, he stepped off and went into the restroom he always used just before walking to her house. He took his comb from his pocket and tidied the hair of his reflection in the mirror. He noted the obligatory blue suit of a worker and the typical, symmetrical and pleasing face of a modern Citizen; each eye almost half the width of the face, a tiny, vestigial nose and a tiny mouth, smaller than each eye at full stretch. His head too had the pleasing egg shape; high forehead and thick hair. As an afterthought, he darkened its tone from blonde to dark brown. He stared at his reflection and wondered who looked back at him.

  Yaela came to the door herself and showed her surprise with raised eyebrows:

  “Ishmael! You’re far too early and lucky I’m here! I left work ea
rly to tidy up! You had better come in. Have you darkened your hair for me? It looks nice.”

  “Yes.”

  Looking around for anything suspicious, Ishmael sat gingerly on the lounge sofa and listened as Yaela bustled around, fixing him a toxocharge.

  “Won’t be long darling,” she declared, putting the charge into his hands. “Just need to tidy the kitchen and make the bed and then I’ll be all yours. How did your day go at the office?”

  Ishmael put the charge to this lips. The novel fizz, when the charge touched his lips, delighted him.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention, it’s a new one. Just trying it for the first time. It’s called Ion Flux Bright Number One! What do you think?”

  “Mm. It’s nice. I wanted to talk to you about your day but I will wait until you are ready.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. You know my job is boring. Yours is the one that interested me!”

  Ishmael knew Yaela scored very high on the charm scale and her job in government administration to be a very highly paid and important one.

  “Yaela, I don’t feel right,” he finally blurted when she had sat down and they had drunk a few more glasses of Number One. Her conversation had been engaging enough but he felt a growing restlessness. When he blurted out his sentence, the corners of her mouth raised in a pleasant smile.

  “Well, we will have to see what we can do about that, won’t we!”

  “I’m not ready for sex yet, darling. I mean, something happened today. I feel different. I think … I know I went through an RB and I found my own C-chip on my desk. I have it here!”

  He took out the tiny chip and held it out in the palm of his hand. Yaela looked at it, shaking her head.

  “You’re not supposed to show such things to other people Ish, even your girlfriend! You always were a bit forward. Anyway, RBs will become more frequent now.”

  Ishmael didn’t know what she meant but, putting the chip back in his pocket, he forced a bashful hue to his face and continued:

  “But I ran in the Mall!”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like … fun!”

  Another word I have to look up!

  “That’s bad! Anyway, Ish, you are not making any sense. What is ‘fun?’ Is it one of those old words clones used?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I have used several today. I wouldn’t mind looking at a few books about the clone way of life now. I don’t have access.”

  “Really Ish! Now you are getting too much! That is completely illegal! It is virtually pornography!”

  “Why?”

  “Clones are so dirty. They have organic bodies and eat organic matter and defecate! You can’t seriously be interested in them. Look what they did to Earthone!”

  “Not alone. We … Citizens were part of it too in the AH Alliance.”

  Yaela shook her head. “It was before the Alliance.” Then she clamped her lips shut. Ishmael could see she wouldn’t speak further on such things. Yaela reached out her hand, touched the back of Ishmael’s and murmured:

  “Come on, it’s time. We can eat after.”

  ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ Ishmael wondered, but he feared the answer. On the mezzanine, he paused to glance out of the window for flashing blue lights. He didn’t see any.

  Perhaps all this will pass, like a nightmare! But ‘nightmare’ is another disused word!

  Yaela had already stripped off her daygown when he reached the bedroom and lay on the bed with her delicate hands across her chin. Her magnificent breasts never failed to arouse him and she knew they would. He saw the innocence of a child and the awareness of the ultimate seductress in her eyes, both at the same time. She had bewitched him since they had been at school together. Now, yet again, he felt powerless to resist. He lay on top of her and kissed her body while she steadily removed his suit. By the time he lay naked too, his penis almost glowed red and she signalled with her eyes that she felt ready for it. They coalesced in waves of pure electric pleasure, neither of them slowing until they had reached the height of ecstasy and coasted on the waves of its subsidence to a gentle rest.

  “Together,” Yaela mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  A distant wail interrupted Ishmael’s contemplation of her secret word but at first, he only felt irritation:

  “What’s that bloody noise?”

  “Ishmael! You swore. How … .”

  “It’s a bloody Police siren. I know it is!”

  Ishmael had already leaped out of the bed and began thrusting on his clothes.

  “Wait!” Yaela protested. “Where are you going?”

  “They are coming for me Yaela. I know they are. I told you, I ran in the Mall!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s just a small fine. It can be fixed! I can talk with my superiors!”

  But Ishmael hadn’t stopped to listen to her. He had already reached the stairs and moments later, he rushed out into the hot night.

  ***

  Ishmael only just made it to the station before a Policedrone came round the corner behind him. But, to his horror, he saw another Policeman watching the platform. He ran into the restroom and stared at himself in the mirror again. He changed his hair colour to black and threw his jacket into a cubicle.

  On second thoughts … .

  He took the chip from the jacket pocket and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He walked out of the restroom, straight into a Policeman:

  “You have been recorded running sir. Would you kindly come with me?”

  “It wasn’t me. You have the wrong Citizen.”

  “Oh. That must be a mistake then. I apologize. I will have to confirm this with my central database operator.”

  “Fine. I will just go and put my jacket on.”

  “Good.”

  Ishmael turned round and re-entered the restroom.

  I just lied! And I lied to a Policeman. Only clones lie. How did I do that? It must be a major offence! It’s not even supposed to be possible for a Citizen! I can’t let myself get caught now! They will terminate me prematurely!

  A long row of windows lined the restroom wall, near the roof. Ishmael had no trouble climbing onto a washbowl and opening one. He had more of a struggle, squeezing through it but when he dropped to the ground, he saw no Policemen so he ran for the nearest street corner and turned it.

  Ishmael soon ran past a sign that told him he had entered a neighbouring district. He had begun to feel safe but moments later, flashing blue lights in the sky told him this search would not stop. A Police wind-copter swooped down low over the rooftops and shone a spotlight right in his face. He darted into somebody’s garden and climbed a wall but another copter picked him up when he reached the adjoining street. The sound of sirens seemed to surround him.

  He reached another street corner by dodging the probing spotlights and saw what he dreaded; Policemen approaching from both directions.

  Cornered! Have to think.

  Scouring the street for somewhere to hide, he could find nothing. He stared down at the ground to think and found himself looking at the answer. Moments later, the Policemen converged where he had been standing but he had gone.

  ***

  Ishmael had to crawl on his hands and knees in the sewer. He couldn’t be sure that the Police bots wouldn’t follow him but he guessed they were no designed for such feats of dexterity.

  He guessed right. Since the last clones had been quarantined, half a million years before, the Policeman had only to protect Citizens since their charges were unable to break laws. They had never needed to visit the sewers since Citizens would never go there and so Policemen had become less manoeuvrable with time.

  Ishmael crawled north though he hardly knew it. The sewers had long been cleansed of any clone filth but they were still dark, damp and full of old, broken pipework and obstructions, all of which presented great risk to a Citizen. The constant dripping of water from the condensation on the tunnel roof began to g
et into his eyes and ears and his clothes became soaked, making it harder to move. After a few hours, he reluctantly removed his trousers and shirt. He made sure the chip still lay securely in his shirt pocket and wrapped the garment around his waist, before continuing.

  In this way, he crawled north for nearly eleven hours, managing to cover a distance of only one mile. But it looked, as far as he could tell, as if the Police had lost track of him. He badly needed a charge but he could find no charge machines and there could be no restaurants or bars. Many pipes lined the tunnels but when he found breaks, he could see these pipes had once held liquids or still held long-corroded electrical wiring.

  It proved lucky for him that he had crawled north, back towards the centre of Supercity because just as he felt he would not be able to continue, he spied a grill in the far distance.

  With his last burst of energy before going on reserve, he tore the grill off its hinges and peered into the tunnel beyond. It looked cleaner, bigger and had rails along its bottom; a maintenance duct. He crawled into it and switched to reserve.

  He had leaned against the tunnel wall, to consider his next move, when he experienced another RB.

  Oh no, now there are no Medical staff to patch me up!

  His anxiety turned into what he gradually recognised as ‘anger,’ one of the few emotions he knew from lessons at school.

  “Clones suffer from many faulty behaviour patterns, the worst of which are anger, hatred, revenge, jealousy envy,” his teacher had told them. “Citizens suffer from none of these and we tried to genetically engineer them out of clones but never succeeded. Their emotions are what created the Wars that destroyed Earthone and made their quarantine necessary. They are much happier on their reserves now anyway.”