FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  “Is she still around?”

  “I’m not sure. Helen cut herself off from society. Sometimes people can’t handle the transition. We’re trying to improve that side effect of the procedure.”

  Luke remembered the emotion in Penshaw’s glossy eyes while he talked about his desire for one last chance to meet Helen. The old man had a bold dream and came within a whisker of achieving it, which seemed a crying shame.

  “What about Lynch?”

  “He’s made billions for the Penshaw estate. You’re meeting him for breakfast.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Age is a personal question in modern society. He founded Timetronic and all he asks is you listen to his offer. Use the clothes on the table. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

  “Five minutes? Why the rush? I’ve been in here fifty years.”

  “We’ll talk in the rotorcraft.” Meakin unbolted the side wall of Luke’s transport system, and it tilted down. “Gideon’s a busy man. The sooner you start moving, the quicker you’ll loosen up. Don’t forget the tablets.”

  “What about Timetronic?”

  Meakin nodded toward the clothes and a foil packet of small red pellets.

  Luke gave his right hand a closer inspection. The smooth cream skin stopped at his wrist. Whoever operated hadn’t bothered with individual digits and carried out a full replacement.

  “Get dressed,” Meakin said with an increased firmness. “This is for your benefit.”

  “Are you staying to watch?”

  Meakin groaned and walked out of the room. His static shadow stretched across the corridor, so he hadn't gone far. Luke eased himself down to the heated floor, confirming the sensory success of his new left foot, and unsteadily rose to his feet.

  Six tendon popping steps took him to the table. Each one was easier than the last, and the effort was nothing like straining along a set of parallel bars at walking school after receiving his prosthetic foot.

  Meakin leaned his head around the door. “Get your skates on.”

  “People still say that nowadays?”

  “It doesn’t matter; being late does.”

  Luke took the unsubtle hint, grabbed a zip by the side of his neck, and lowered it. He wrestled the rubber suit from his body and studied himself in a full-length mirror. Every inch of fat had gone from his body, and his six-pack had re-emerged after years in the wilderness.

  The light blue long-sleeved T-shirt had TIMETRONIC stamped across the left breast in navy blue capitals. He pulled it over his head, climbed into a pair of black cargo pants, and squeezed into a pair of boots.

  “This way,” Meakin said. He turned, and his footsteps echoed along the corridor. Luke pocketed the tablets and headed outside.

  At first, he struggled to keep up and pressed his arm against the wall for support. By the time they reached a security door, his balance and coordination had returned to the point of near natural movement. The impressive personal repairs made him wonder about what advancements were waiting for him outside.

  Meakin pressed his thumb against a black glass pad and the door opened with a smooth electronic hum. He led them through a dimly lit area full of minimalist-style chairs, tables and wall-mounted screens.

  A metal stylus balanced on the edge of a table to the left. Luke stepped to the side, reached down, and grabbed it. In the unlikely event of everything not being as it appeared, he wanted something extra to defend himself, no matter how small.

  Meakin stopped, and his head snapped to the side. “Take the lead. Straight ahead, and out of the entrance on your right.”

  Luke headed through a reception area, past an open-mouthed security guard, toward a pair of glass doors. He dragged them apart, received his first blast of fresh air in fifty years, and the sight of dawn breaking in the distant sky.

  A white lozenge-shaped chopper with black tinted windows sat on the concrete to the left. Its futuristic twin set of metallic blades sliced through the air with a high-pitched whine and a single headlight speared through the darkness, highlighting specks of drizzle blowing across a landing strip.

  “That’s our ride,” Meakin said over his shoulder. “Hands behind your back.”

  Luke received a waft of the same sickly sweet aroma he had experienced earlier and realized it wasn’t from the transport system or side effect of the drugs. It was Meakin’s aftershave, and it reeked like sugar infused turpentine.

  Something jabbed in his lower back.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be this pleased to see me,” Luke said.

  “It’s a pistol. I’m not repeating myself. It’s for both of our safety.”

  “What do you think I’ll do?”

  A handcuff crunched around his left wrist.

  Meakin grabbed his right arm and fastened the other. “This is ‘til we understand each other. We’re not the enemy, Luke, and people are prone to lashing out after an unplug.”

  “The cuffs aren’t necessary.”

  “The world’s a different place, and you need a structured integration. Gideon will put your mind at ease.”

  Meakin nudged Luke forward, and he headed toward the rotorcraft.

  A panel on its side punched out and swung up in two abrupt movements, revealing a brightly lit cabin. Four metal steps folded down and rested on the ground.

  Luke turned his face against the rotor wash, instinctively ducked as he reached below the blades, and clambered inside. An orange leather couch ran around three sides of the interior; an opaque door led to the cockpit. He sat next to a porthole window, hopefully allowing him to ascertain his location once they took to the sky. Meakin followed him inside, and the door thudded shut.

  “Do you all travel like this?” Luke asked.

  “Timetronic executives do. Now, if you don't mind, I'm getting some well-earned rest.”

  “What about we’ll talk more in the rotorcraft?”

  “I lied.”

  The rotorcraft’s engines increased in pitch, and it rose vertically in a steady climb, giving Luke a first glance at the scale of the vast facility, close to a mile in length. Behind it, a cluster of small buildings surrounded a lake. Darkness prevented him from seeing any distant recognizable landmark to orientate himself.

  Meakin relaxed back on the opposite couch and aimed his pistol at Luke’s chest. The rotorcraft's nose dipped, and it thumped forward across the early morning sky.

  Chapter 8

  A sense of déjà vu struck Luke as he stared out of the window. For the second time in recent memory, he was headed for a meeting that promised to provide everything he had lost. Shafts of early morning sunshine broke through the parting clouds and radiated onto miles of patchwork farmland below. Deep blue sea spanned the horizon, and the rotorcraft powered directly toward the coast, but so far, he couldn't locate himself geographically.

  Meakin had drifted in and out of sleep on the opposite couch for the last half hour. He went through a jumbled string of snoring, licking his lips, and bolting rigid after realizing his eyes were closed, like a dog surprised by its own fart.

  Luke still couldn’t understand the cuffs. He had no idea about the present day political, military, and economic situation. Any escape attempt would be going into alien territory, and he needed a sensible way to explore the modern world.

  Meakin’s eyes blinked open and he checked the device on his wrist.

  “If you feel like talking,” Luke said. “Just let me know.”

  “We’ll be there in five minutes. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “At least tell me where we are?”

  “The Kent coast.”

  Luke couldn’t see any of the indicative small villages peppering the landscape, only gray warehouses every few miles. “It doesn’t look like Kent.”

  “The coalition government bought the majority of the county through compulsory purchase orders in the early forties. It’s mostly used for farming.”

  "Why? It used to be called the Garden of England."

&nb
sp; “Now it’s the vegetable garden of England. Shortages of global energy and food turned nations toward isolationist policies during the mid-thirties. The public demanded politicians of every stripe put their petty bickering aside and form a government of national unity.” Meakin jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the window. “This is what we got on a nationwide scale, apart from our national parks.”

  “Their answer was to flatten culture and grow carrots?”

  “It's not as simple as that; technology drives the country. Production, education, experiences, services, you name it. We had to find a way to harness it while becoming self-sustaining.”

  “I’m surprised they got away with shifting generations of families. Didn’t environmental groups kick up a stink?”

  “The government framed it as surviving as a nation. They even rehashed the old dig for victory posters from the Second World War. Once public momentum took hold, it was unstoppable. Everyone lives in an urban pool.”

  “Sounds unbelievable. The Yorkshire Dales?”

  “Wheat, barley, and dairy. Our predominant output is tech, though. It's one of the few things that still trades globally, and thousands work in manufacturing and software houses.”

  “Is the rest of the world like this?”

  “Most use similar systems. Population planning depends on available space, which isn’t our strong point. America, Canada, New Zealand and Australia don’t need to pool their citizens but we’re all part of the same tech collaboration.”

  A small black plane, with red flashing lights on the tip of each wing, and chain guns attached to either side the cockpit, shot below the rotorcraft and circled around a section of farmland.

  “What the hell’s that?” Luke asked.

  “A remote-controlled patrol drone. They protect areas outside the pools.”

  “From what?”

  “Anyone stealing produce. The guns sync to motion and heat sensors.”

  “If I had a couple of drinks and wander out by mistake?”

  Meakin let out a dismissive snort. “That’s what thieves used to say.”

  “Trapped in an urban pool doesn’t sound like progress.”

  “See the tech before jumping to conclusions. Want to know a funny thing?”

  Luke shrugged, doubting he’d find anything remotely amusing. “Tell me.”

  “Once the population gathered into urban pools, civic pride returned. They all want their city, production rates, and sports teams to be the best. Bringing people together had a deeper layer than anyone imagined. I suppose it’s our tribal instinct. Clearer boundaries enhanced a healthy local and national rivalry.”

  “So everyone’s happy?”

  “What did you expect? A bunch of teenage kids taking down a totalitarian regime? Zombies?” Meakin sighed and turned away. “You’ll hear about our problems soon enough.”

  The rotorcraft powered over the shimmering sea in a wide arc and approached a small cove. Two large communications masts stood at attention on the cliffs at either side.

  A white Tuscan villa perched on a plateau of grassland half way up the valley; its ground level patio doors opened up to a swimming pool. Italian stone pines, with their distinctive umbrella-shaped canopies, surrounded the property’s perimeter.

  A shirtless man walked out of the villa. Slim with a gray ponytail, wearing a pair of yellow shorts and red boxing gloves. He hunched on the patio and raised his arms, taking the form of a spider ready to strike, and threw jabs a freestanding punching bag.

  Luke remembered Lynch's casual salute from his Segway at Clifton Hall, and he never once considered he’d end up meeting the mildly irritating lackey under these circumstances. He also accepted that he owed the doctor his gratitude. Although the decision to put him in a transport system was made without his agreement, it was a decision he retrospectively supported, and he had to look no farther than his walking-talking self to confirm it.

  “Word of advice,” Meakin said. “Gideon’s a genuine man, and he's changed millions of lives for the better. Don’t let the chance he gives you slip through your fingers.”

  “Why would I?”

  “I don’t know. Some people always think they know better.”

  The rotorcraft's skids bumped against the ground, and its engine wound down. Meakin wagged his pistol toward the opening door. Luke rose from the couch and climbed out of the craft.

  A gentle breeze blew across the cove, carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh sea air. Lynch remained on the patio, tugged off his boxing gloves and threw them to one side.

  “Up to the villa,” Meakin said. “No sudden moves.”

  Luke crunched up a gravel path at the side of the property. The cuffs and Meakin’s bossy behavior had sent his pulse rising a few notches, but he sensed no danger.

  Lynch rested his hands on his hips, and his tanned skin creased around his armpits and elbows. The left corner of his mouth rose to a quirk, revealing half a set of sparkling white teeth, and he walked toward Luke. They stopped in front of each other, ten yards apart, at the side of the pool.

  “Luke Porterfield,” Lynch said in a gravelly voice. “Welcome to the future.”

  “I believe I owe you my thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. The project helped create a better and more equal society. You played a small part in our advancement.”

  Luke eyed an inflatable mattress floating in the pool with a gin bottle stuck in its drinks holder. “Some animals are more equal than others.”

  Lynch’s grin dropped. “Are you quoting Animal Farm?”

  “It’s just a phrase. You don’t live in an urban pool like everyone else.”

  “Am I more or less equal?”

  “More, I suppose.”

  “Why does everyone keep misunderstanding George Orwell?” Lynch replied and stepped closer. “The less equal don't live like the majority. To be more equal, I'd be working in a factory or farm. Do you see how the common perception of the quote is back to front?”

  “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Communism died a long time ago. Your Orwell analogy is wrong. We need less equal people, outliers, to drive innovation.” Lynch looked over Luke’s shoulder at Meakin. “Take off his cuffs and lower your gun. He won’t be giving us any trouble.”

  Without a single word in reply, Meakin unfastened the restraints, slipped them back inside his jacket pocket, and holstered his pistol.

  “Much more civilized,” Lynch said. “Join me for breakfast and I'll answer your questions. How does coffee and a bacon sandwich sound?”

  “Eating with you brings back bad memories.”

  Lynch let out a short, sharp laugh. “I miss a good old-fashioned dry sense of humor. You were in pretty bad shape. I thought we’d lost you for a minute.”

  “How close did I come to shuffling off this mortal coil?”

  “A gnat’s whisker. We took you in and Sir Henry helped tie up the loose ends.”

  Lynch turned and headed back toward the patio. Luke followed to a cast iron set of table and chairs overlooking a grass plateau. Meakin stayed several yards back and prowled between the path and the pool.

  “Don’t worry about Meakin.” Lynch said and poured a steaming pot of coffee into two cups. “He’s my head of security, and a heavy-handed bugger, but he does an excellent job.”

  “I take it medical science discovered a cure for him a lot sooner than me?”

  “Your limbs were replaced twenty years ago. The complex brain injury was tricky because it damaged an integration area for your man-machine interface. We got there in the end.”

  “My man-machine interface?”

  “I’ll explain shortly. Let’s eat first.”

  A young woman in a flowery dress walked out of the villa. She placed two bacon sandwiches on the table and turned to leave.

  “Thank you, Claudia,” Lynch said. “I’ll see you later.”

  The woman's blank expression didn't change, and she returned inside.

&nb
sp; “Is that your wife?” Luke asked.

  “Employee. I don’t have time for marriage.”

  Lynch slurped his coffee and bit into his bacon sandwich. He finished it in six large bites, chomping with an open mouth, and dabbed his lips with a napkin.

  The rising sun’s heat had grown in intensity and warmed Luke’s back. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at the faded white scarring that dotted his forearms.

  “Cannula placements,” Lynch said. “We moved to feeding tubes in ‘39 for the commercial systems.”

  “Meakin said you had an offer?”

  “Correct. I’ll give you a bit of background first. The SIS no longer exists. It disbanded in the forties after years of global peace. Once nation states turned inward, and technology raised the worldwide standard of living, people were less inclined to join a terrorist cause. Coincidence?”

  Luke shook his head and imagined the faces of his former colleagues if somebody told them the service would be gone in less than forty years.

  “Glad you agree,” Lynch said. “Peace reigned for a couple of generations; now terrorists threaten our way of life again. I need your help to defeat them.”

  “Why is a corporation responsible for defeating terrorism?”

  “Timetronic runs government security contracts to protect urban pools. Complacency set in—partly my fault—and we’re lacking in certain skills. As weird as it sounds, you can come into this with a fresh pair of eyes and give us a new perspective.”

  “What kind of threat are we talking?”

  “Machine Breakers, Luddites, rabble-rousers, whatever you want to call them. They're targeting VR infrastructure and eroding public services. Before you accept or decline, I'll give you a tour to show what's at stake. You need to believe me.”

  “What’s their problem?”

  "They believe modern society is corrupted by technology. The lowest unemployment rates, poverty gap, and crime levels don't matter to them; neither does the best literacy rates, housing conditions, and entertainment…”

  As Lynch continued to talk, it dawned on Luke that he had the perfect opportunity learn about modern society while doing what he knew best. He had no intention of wasting his second chance, no matter how hard it was to wrap his head around the fact that he’d woken fifty years into the future.