FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

Maria lay on the double bed behind him, stuffing her face with hot wings. He liked her carefree personality, and envied it to a certain extent. All he could think about was the mission, and something kept nagging at the back of his mind after watching the apartbot advert. “Is anyone targeted besides Timetronic?” he asked.

  “For the attacks? I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Are you sure it isn’t personal against Lynch?”

  “They tried to make it personal a few times by sticking up posters in the middle of the night. Nobody believed he murdered Sir Henry Penshaw or keeps hundreds of illegal prisoners in our transport systems.”

  “But why him, specifically?”

  “Say what you like about Gideon Lynch, but he’s provided a better life for millions. This isn’t about one man. It’s about society.”

  “I’m not saying anything; he’s part of the reason I’m still alive. I just want to know why they want him and not the president of StarComm.”

  The Dive’s security shutter rumbled up. Two meatheads, dressed in shiny black bomber jackets, stepped out of the darkness and stood either side of the entrance. Both folded their arms, striking the time-honored bouncer pose.

  “We’re in business,” Luke said.

  Maria joined him by the window and parted two of the dusty plastic slats. “Lynch is perfect for a blackmail attempt. He’s high profile.”

  “Forget about that for the moment. What’s The Mega Dive’s layout?”

  “Bar on the ground floor. Management stage fights on the second floor. Known regulars vouch for others wanting to watch or bet.”

  “Can you vouch for me?”

  “I know one of the bar staff. He might help if he’s working tonight.”

  “Don’t worry if you can’t.”

  “What’s your plan?” Maria said. “You can’t mess about in there.”

  “Relax; I’ve been in worse places. The key to deception is making your enemy only react to the wrong circumstances. We need them to make a few false assumptions about my history and temperament.”

  “How do you even recognize a terrorist?”

  “I don’t, they’ll recognize or hear about me. We want them thinking there’s a new ex-con in town who hates Timetronic. It’s important not to force the issue.”

  The plan wasn’t to loiter inside Zone Seven establishments. Past experience told Luke if the terrorists were putting feelers for new recruits, pushing too blatantly would instantly arouse suspicion. Lynch’s team had likely already tried and failed with this approach, wearing something olympically ridiculous like long overcoats and trilby hats with newspapers tucked under their arms.

  He headed for the door, his left knee buckled, and he grabbed the handles of the built-in wardrobes to maintain his balance. A sharp pain throbbed through his head after the sudden burst of rapid movement.

  Maria sprung from the bed and offered an arm for support. “Pop a stimulant. It’ll ease the pain.”

  “I’m fine,” Luke said through clenched teeth. He fished the foil strip from his pocket, pressed out two red pills, and swallowed them with an exaggerated gulp. “Take the fire escape down. I always like two ways in and out.”

  Luke followed Maria out of the studio, hoping the medication quickly eased the cramps in his thighs, and they descended four flights of steel stairs to the ground floor emergency exit. She ignored the warning sticker, pressed down on the bar, and the door punched open into a gloomy alley, confirming an adequate alternative route if required.

  As they crossed the square and neared The Mega Dive, the shaven-headed bouncer on the left focused on Luke and inclined his head a few millimeters, not in a welcoming gesture, more like a lion sizing up its prey. He side-stepped across to the middle of the entrance.

  “Hey,” Maria said. “We’re here for a drink.”

  “What’s with the Wandsworth wardrobe?” the bouncer said.

  Luke quickly put two and two together. His clothes and the prison name. “Just out this morning. She tells me it’s good here.”

  “Transport or cell time?”

  “Transport.” Luke rolled up his sleeve, baring the scars on his left forearm. “Is there a problem wanting beer as my first taste of freedom?”

  The bouncer nodded and stood to one side. Luke headed past him into the dimly lit building and weaved his way between circular tables, each with a glowing emerald lava lamp at its center. Shattered pieces of game consoles decorated the walls, along with five gaming posters behind transparent plastic covers; an assortment of twenty controllers dangled from the ceiling.

  “Recognize any of these?” Maria said.

  “I see why it’s called The Mega Dive.”

  She grinned and ambient light from the lamps made her teeth appear green. “A play on the late 80s console.”

  “No, it’s just a dive.”

  In a garish step too far, which reminded Luke of a tacky showbiz dressing room, bright multicolored bulbs lit up the bar and a row of spirit bottles on the mirrored shelf. A shaggy-haired man leaned on the treadplate counter and waved at Maria.

  “Your mate?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Ben’s cool. Most of us are fans of the old games; he’s on another level, though.”

  “Don’t you have better options?”

  “It’s a nerd thing. Didn’t you play Pacman or Donkey Kong?”

  “When I was thirteen.”

  Luke ducked below suspended plastic figures of the Mario brothers, reached the bar, and scanned the assortment of game cases on the wall behind it. He enjoyed reminiscing, and didn't have a problem with a love of the past, but thought this type of overt nostalgia sometimes revealed a deeper problem in society. He suspected with the sweeping changes of the last fifty years and the boundary constraints of urban pools, people attached themselves to a bygone age in an attempt to block out current problems and gain some existential worth.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Ben said.

  “Nice to see you too,” Maria replied and settled on a stool at the end of the bar. “Make mine the usual.”

  “Who’s your pal?”

  “I met him in a pod this morning. He’s fresh out of Wandsworth after a twenty-year stretch. Wanted to find a legit watering hole.”

  “He’s got the tan all right,” Ben said and eyed Luke. “You've come to the right place. What can I get you?"

  “What’s good nowadays?”

  “Typhoon, if you like pale ale?”

  “That’ll do. Make it a pint.”

  Ben reached below the bar and raised an empty glass. “Half a liter’s the closest thing nowadays. We phased out the last Imperial measurement in ’58. Just say Typhoon in future, or whatever you want.”

  “Thanks, I’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

  Luke held his strap over the bar's payment pad. It pinged, and he confirmed the transaction. Ben poured the beer, placed two old, scratched CDs on the counter, and put the drinks on top of them.

  Four people entered The Mega Dive and headed for the bar.

  “What’s on tonight?” Maria asked.

  Ben leaned toward her and said in a lowered voice, “We’re hosting Glasgow’s champion at midnight. People are calling it the Battle of Britain. They’re configuring the servers for double power hits.”

  “Too brutal for me. I’ll pass.”

  Luke edged across. “Sounds great. Do I need a ticket?”

  “It's invite only. Ask Walter; he'll be in shortly.” Ben rested his hands on the beer pumps and smiled at the new arrivals. "Gentleman, what’ll it be?”

  Luke led Maria to a table in the corner or the bar, next to a life-sized polystyrene Stormtrooper. He kept his back to the wall, maintaining a view of the bar and entrance. She sat opposite, spun her glass on the table's greasy surface, and chewed her thumbnail.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “People go missing when Walter’s involved. I avoid him like the plague.”

  “You head off. You’ve done more than enough today.”


  “Are you sure?” Maria said.

  “Positive. How do I recognize Walter?”

  “You can’t miss him. He’s over two meters tall, big belly, and shaved head. Two bouncers always follow him around.”

  “What does he do, apart from arranging clayfights?”

  “He owns this place and runs protection for other bars and shops.”

  “Swing by tomorrow at nine. I’ll buy breakfast.”

  “I’m staying at the PCC. Give me a shout if you need anything.” With barely disguised anguish, she stood and made her way out.

  Electronic calypso music struck out through wall speakers, and two holographic Ninja figures battled with sticks on a small display to the right of the bar. Luke sipped his drink and wondered again why he couldn’t be more like Maria. She chose to evade trouble, and here he sat, ready to expose himself to a local crime lord. He eventually put it down to his thirst for justice, burned into his core after years of tracking vile creatures, and a personal trait of finding it difficult to let things slide.

  For the next twenty minutes the bar slowly filled. None of the customers that clustered around the thirty tables paid him much attention.

  When Walter entered, fitting Maria’s description to a tee, everyone focused on their lava lamps as he headed for the bar. His two bruisers, dressed in white linen shirts to match him, followed closely behind.

  Walter spoke to Ben and glared over his shoulder at Luke. He sent his goons up a flight of wooden stairs and approached the table.

  Luke swallowed a mouthful of beer and met the big man’s cold stare.

  “Should I be worried?” Walter asked in a north-east accent.

  “About what?”

  He sat at the table and scraped his chair across to Luke’s. “Unplugged this morning, drinking in one of my establishments this evening… You and I need to chat.”

  “Fire away. I’ve all the time in the world.”

  “Upstairs, away from the music.”

  “I’m comfortable here, thanks.”

  “I’ll rephrase my statement.” Walter placed his hand on Luke’s shoulder and squeezed. “We’re going upstairs for a chat.”

  “You’ll have no problems.”

  Walter jutted his chin toward the staircase and tightened his grip.

  Luke sighed as if he couldn’t care less and found the situation a chore, grabbed his drink, and followed Walter upstairs. So far, his time in The Mega Dive was going better than he anticipated, and he had an early chance to stamp his cover credentials. In his experience, criminals didn't beat each other’s brains out when first meeting. They would either explain the rules of their turf or find out if any mutually beneficial opportunities existed.

  The bruisers stood next to a boxing ring in the center of the second-floor room. Steel girders supported the ceiling and the planked floor gave it a more original appearance than the bar downstairs.

  Walter thrust his hands into Luke’s back, pushing him away from the stairs. “I know a couple of screws in Wandsworth who keep me updated with transport releases. I like knowing what’s coming into our little community.”

  “So what?” Luke said. “Touch me again and—”

  “You weren't released this morning. It's time we learned who you really are.”

  Both bruisers drew wooden clubs from behind their backs and approached Luke. Walter slipped on a brass knuckleduster and cracked his neck.

  Chapter 13

  Luke backed toward the wall and raised his palms. Trusting Lynch for a cover story had proven a glaring error, and he instantly regretted taking advice from an amateur and not planning his own way to infiltrate Zone Seven.

  Walter and the bruisers formed a semi-circle around him, blocking off the stairs, and advanced with weapons raised. They paused within a few meters. Luke eyed each one in turn, trying to read the immediate intent on their faces.

  “You better start talking,” Walter said. “Mister Wandsworth Bullshitter.”

  “Okay, easy does it. I was plugged in Leeds, the cops want me back inside, and I came here with a new identity. No way am I going down for another twenty years.”

  “I know the only two strap hackers in Yorkshire. Who did yours?”

  Luke shook his head. “You know I can’t say.”

  Walter waved the bruiser on his left forward with a sweep of his knuckleduster. The man hunched down and charged with the same aggression as a bull surging through the narrow streets of Pamplona. He lifted his club over his shoulder and launched in the air.

  Luke had a split second to decide whether to avoid or strike. He ducked to his right; the club whooshed over his head, and he connected with a bone crunching uppercut to the ribs.

  The bruiser staggered to his side, grabbed his chest, and sucked in a deep breath. He looked back at Walter, who nodded in Luke’s direction.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” Luke said. “What the hell do you think I’ll do?”

  “It’s what you’ve already done that concerns me. I know your type.”

  The bruiser approached with more caution this time, holding his club forward in a two-handed grip. Luke sensed Walter was testing him. Otherwise, all three would've attacked and taken him down in a hail of blows.

  As soon as the club made it within touching distance, Luke quickly reached out and grabbed the end of it, knowing the bruiser's first instinct would be to hold on and not lose his weapon. He took advantage of the natural reaction, thrust forward, and crashed his forehead into the center of the man's face with a satisfying thud.

  The bruiser grunted and collapsed to all fours. A string of blood dangled from his nose and pooled on a plank.

  Luke edged back toward the boxing ring. “What do you think I’ve done? I came here for a quiet drink.”

  “You smell like a terrorist,” Walter said. “Fake identity, stranger, sniffing around a Timetronic flunkey. Or is that all a huge coincidence?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Do I look like a court jester?”

  “Do I look like a terrorist?”

  Walter gave Luke a dead-eyed stare for what felt like a minute but was probably closer to ten seconds. He gestured to the standing bruiser to help his fallen comrade, slipped off his knuckleduster, and placed it back in his trouser pocket. “Let's say I give you the benefit of the doubt for a moment, and trust me, it’s only a moment, what are you expecting from Zone Seven?”

  “A hassle free life. Twenty years transport time has put me up shit creek without a paddle. Why would I risk going back inside?”

  “It’s a bigger risk coming here and spinning lies.”

  “Who knows how you treat wanted men?”

  “People here won’t help claycops,” Walter said dismissively. His hard expression eased and he moved closer. “Found a place to live?”

  “The Flamingo Apartments,” Luke said, seeing no reason to lie as he guessed it was easily traceable. “What’s with the terrorist accusation?”

  “You never know who you can trust. There’s a group gunning for Timetronic. I don’t mind, though, it doesn’t hurt my business. Screw Lynch.”

  “What’s your problem with Timetronic?”

  Walter perched his bulky frame on the steps leading up to the boxing ring. “Same as everyone nowadays… claycops, the bloody Lynch mob; heavy-handed sods who think they’re above the law. Their layer away from reality has stripped the veneer of humanity. It’s easier to drag someone around when you’re safe in the knowledge of sitting comfortably in a Pool Control Center.”

  “I heard about a fight here tonight using the same tech?”

  “That’s entertainment people choose. Nobody asks to be pushed around in the streets by blocks of matter.”

  “Why did the government allow it?” Luke asked.

  “Because it’s been a puppet government for the last twenty years, ran by the big five monopoly. Hardly surprising they vote through laws supporting their own products.”

  “And people outside
Zone Seven accept it?”

  “It isn’t a bad life. Most jobs are nine-to-five, the threat of transport time keeps crime low, and they play in their virtual environments. The choice is simple: do you want a bland existence under the corporations’ thumb and have them control your thoughts, or slightly more freedom with limited access to resources?”

  “You already know my answer.”

  None of the three men wore a strap; a wise move in their line of work if they didn't want tracking by security forces. With Luke’s features no longer at threat, he decided against having an ethical discussion about the claycops behavior compared to Maria's claim of people going missing around Walter.

  “Come back in a few days if you haven’t found work,” Walter said and looked at his injured bruiser. “I could use a man like you, but Carl needs time to cool off.”

  “Is this how you normally conduct job interviews?”

  “It's not every day a man walks into The Mega Dive and decks one of my team. You’ll need to pay Carl two-hundred credits in weregild for bending his beak out of shape.”

  “Weregild?”

  “It's an old Anglo-Saxon term for a man’s price for paying restitution. You pay him damages he’s worth, and it keeps everyone happy. Don't expect the Lynch mob to uphold the laws around here. We devised our own system."

  “Wow,” Luke said. “That makes the bar seem modern. I take it you set the prices as the local chieftain?”

  “He breaks your nose; you get the same in return.”

  Carl spat out a mixture of blood and phlegm and scowled at Luke. “I might just do it and we call it even. I want to know why he did transport time?”

  Walter arched an inquiring eyebrow.

  “I killed a man who asked questions that were none of his business,” Luke said and detected a glimmer of a smile on the big man’s face. “I'll pay the restitution and be on my way.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” Walter said in an ominous tone. He extended an arm toward the stairs, motioning Luke to leave, and placing a barrier in front of Carl. “Pay at the bar.”

  Luke didn’t need a second invitation. He paid a sheepish-looking Ben downstairs and made his way out of The Mega Dive with a minor victory achieved. He knew customers would’ve seen him walk away from his encounter with Walter unscathed, and the damage to Carl’s face. He had no intentions of working for what amounted to a small-time Mafia operation, but at least it gave him some credibility and breathing space. His cybernetic limbs had also passed their first taste of action with flying colors.