FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  For the first time since waking Luke’s stomach growled, and he headed through the square toward an adjoining street in search of a place to eat.

  A sign above the takeaway counter boasted it served Britain’s best food. The aroma of spicy, cooked meat hung in the air, lamb rotated on a spit, and burgers and onions sizzled on a griddle. Luke’s mouth watered while he waited for his kebab.

  The server tossed meat shavings and salad into a circular pitta then folded a checked wrapper around it. “Mustard and cheese?”

  “No chili sauce or garlic mayo?”

  “Garlic what?” she said, looking more confused than a chameleon in a bag of Skittles. “I’ve ketchup and mint?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He paid one credit and wondered at what point tastes had changed so drastically. Chili and mayo went with a kebab like salt and vinegar sprinkled on fish and chips. At least, they did in England fifty years ago, and had for as long as he remembered.

  The central square was a ten-minute walk, and Luke savored his first real sense of independence in 2070 as he strolled in the pleasant summer evening. He tore the paper from around the top of his kebab and went to take a bite.

  The unmistakable noise of a rotorcraft’s blades thudded across the night sky, and a white craft appeared over the buildings and lowered, tossing rubbish around the street with its downdraft. A bright beam stabbed from its hull and focused directly on Luke.

  “Stay exactly where you are,” a voice ordered through a loudspeaker. “This is Pool Security. Drop to your knees and lock your fingers above your head.”

  Luke squinted into the light and held out his arms, guessing they’d mistaken his identity. Anyone tracking his strap could match it to his current location.

  “I won't ask you again,” the voice said. “Comply or face the consequences.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Luke shouted and stepped out the beam’s glare. It continued to follow him across the road and people on the busy footpaths backed away.

  A hollow pop sounded over the engine noise. Something damp splattered against Luke's chest and legs, and knocked him back against a brick wall. He tried to raise his hands, but a transparent gluey substance had stuck them to his sides and rapidly dried to a solid shell. His kebab dropped out of his hand and spilled on the pavement.

  The rotorcraft landed in the middle of the street, and two small groups of people quickly gathered at either side of it. Luke attempted to run, unsuccessfully, and tilted forward. The substance had welded his legs together, and he toppled, unable to break his fall, and hit the ground like a felled tree.

  Two cops, dressed in dark blue coveralls and caps, jumped out of the craft and ran to his side. One crouched next to him, flipped him on his front, and tapped the shell with the back of his knuckles. The other drew a pistol and swept it across the crowd.

  “What the bloody hell’s this?” Luke asked.

  “You’re under arrest. We’re taking you in,” the cop said.

  “For what?”

  “Put a sock in it and don’t make this harder for yourself. You’re under suspicion of receiving stolen goods. Anything you do say—”

  “Cut the official crap. What’s the real reason?”

  Both cops ignored him and with extraordinary claytronic ease, lifted Luke up by his head and feet, carried his stiff body away, and slotted him into a small compartment at the back of the craft. A hatch slammed closed behind him, locked with a metallic thud, and he lay in confined darkness, confused about what had just happened.

  The engines increased in pitch, the craft took off, and he pondered his fate. If Walter had the cops in his back pocket and didn't want to create too much of a mess in his establishment, it wasn't looking good. Luke strained against the shell without managing to create the slightest bit of wiggle room, and in his current state, knew the only option was to face whatever was coming his way.

  After ten minutes the rotorcraft’s skids hit the ground, its engines wound down, and muffled voices talked outside. Luke gasped for air in the stifling compartment and sweat trickled from the exposed part of his forehead.

  The hatch swung open. Two cops slid him out, and he bounced against tarmac. A dark structure, five-stories-high with artificial light streaming through its small square windows, towered to his right. An electric fence, with red winking lights lining the top at equally spaced intervals, surrounded the structure’s grassed perimeter.

  When both cops both turned toward a distant smaller building, Luke managed to force his head a few degrees in the same direction to see what lay ahead.

  Through the gloom, a man approached on a beefed up version of a Segway; Luke immediately recognized Gideon Lynch’s thin build and his wispy ponytail snapping in the wind.

  Chapter 14

  The Segway’s chunky wheels maneuvered between the cops and halted next to Luke’s incapacitated body. A red rotorcraft tail-light flashed against Lynch’s vacant face as he gazed over his handlebars.

  “So much for wanting my help,” Luke said.

  “I asked them to bring you in and make it look realistic.”

  “Why?”

  Fire raged in Luke’s belly, and he struggled against the shell, only managing to rock it from side to side. The doctor, president, or whatever he classed himself as nowadays, had compromised his mission before he even had the chance to make decent start.

  “Take it easy,” Lynch said. “My measures protected you. I’ve organized McClaren’s interrogation first thing tomorrow morning in the Pool Control Center’s solitary wing.”

  “Protect me? You could’ve sent a note or knocked on my door.”

  Lynch rolled his eyes. “We followed your strap’s location updates. If I’d sent a message, and you traveled here on your own, anyone from that grotty bar might’ve followed. I made it easy; greased the wheels.”

  “Alternatively, you’ve blown my cover because I told them I’m on the run from Leeds… Any chance of getting out of this slime cocoon?”

  “They were meant to cuff you. Nothing more.”

  “He resisted arrest, sir,” one of the cops said. “I was forced to use the restrainer cannon."

  “Is that how you classify resisting?” Luke asked. “You had the breaking point of a Kit Kat.”

  “Is that secret agent-speak?”

  “It’s an old chocolate bar,” Lynch explained. “He’s got every right to be upset. Release him, on the double.”

  The cop’s left eye twitched. He opened a panel on the side of the rotorcraft, stretched out a thick rubber tube, and aimed a nozzle at Luke’s torso. “Close your eyes and hold your breath. It’ll only take a few seconds.”

  A burst of white gas hissed out and Luke squeezed his eyes shut. A sharp chemical odor blasted up his nostrils, and he breathed out to avoid it entering his system. The shell’s tight grip loosened and crackled. He shoved out an elbow and knocked a chunk off the side then raised his knees and the section around his legs shattered. The thick coating across his chest snapped open.

  Lynch and the cops didn't say a word. Luke's lungs screamed for air, his body trembled, and he screwed up his face, unsure if it was safe to inhale.

  A few more silent seconds passed. He couldn't hold his breath any longer; he forced his eyes open and gulped for air.

  A thin cloud of gas drifted across the murky landing zone and the shell had transformed to brittle, translucent shards. Luke heaved himself to one knee and tore the remaining pieces from his clothing and skin.

  “Apologies,” Lynch said. “My team usually deal with pond life.”

  “We need to get something straight if I’m continuing,” Luke said.

  Lynch waved away the cops and rotated his wheels toward the main building. He eased the handlebars forward and rolled away at a casual walking pace. “Talk to me on the way to the PCC. I’ve booked you a room for the night.”

  “If you want success, we do it my way. I don’t want drip-fed information; I need full access to yo
ur files.”

  “Consider it done. Anything else?”

  “No more cover stories or unarranged pick-ups,” he said. “I’ll act autonomously or use Maria if needed.”

  “Do you want to have sex with her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Leave it to the professional, eh?” Lynch replied and gave a clumsy wink. “I'm sure you've established it’s me the terrorists want. I thought if I could help …"

  “Help by staying away. I don’t need monitoring, or want claycops charging in like a bulls in china shop.”

  Luke’s strap beeped. He scratched a thin layer of dried slime off its face and read a message from Maria. She claimed to have new information about his mission and was already at the PCC.

  Lynch increased his Segway's speed and hummed to a set of double doors. He dismounted, heaved one of them open, and gestured inside with the flamboyancy of a ringmaster.

  Luke passed him into a cool air-conditioned corporate reception, and Lynch’s hot breath brushed against his ear. He stopped and scanned the doctor's facial features under the bright fluorescent lights, wondering if the flesh and blood version stood before him.

  Eyes like a dead fish gave the claytronic version away. Luke mistakenly assumed on meeting him at Century House that his soulless, static pupils had developed through natural aging. On closer inspection, they were not-so-perfect technical features of programmable matter.

  “Sorry again for picking you up,” Lynch said. “I want this over with as quickly as possible. Only fools rush in, right?”

  “I know what I’m doing. By the way, your cops aren’t popular in Zone Seven.”

  “It’s a pimple on the country’s backside.” Lynch looked up at suspended holographic images of Manhattan, Port Jackson, and the Sagrada Familia. “Think about what sprung from the barn? Timetronic’s systems educate and entertain the vast majority of the population. Some whine about our security measures, but show me any point in recent history without an undercurrent of anti-establishmentarianism. On a personal level, it worked for you.”

  “I can’t deny that.”

  “You can’t deny the deaths of our citizens, either. Deliver the terrorist leader and restore our nation’s integrity.”

  The determination to catch whoever carried out the bombing wasn’t a problem. Luke didn’t need managing, and after the unceremonious splattering in the street—with Timetronic following his strap’s every move—he knew he needed a way to become more invisible to stop them crippling his investigation.

  Lynch led him out of the reception area toward a sign marked ‘Control Center’.

  A windowless corridor sloped down to a huge circular blast door. An armed guard slouched against the wall in front of it, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. When he saw Luke and Lynch approach, he bolted to a pad and input a code.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lynch,” the guard said.

  “Evening …” Lynch glanced down at his nametag. “Meredith.”

  The guard fidgeted with his rifle strap, visibly concerned about arousing disapproval, which suggested the doctor’s presence was less than soothing. Luke understood it to a certain extent. Not many climbed to the top of the corporate ladder by playing Mister Nice Guy.

  An internal locking mechanism groaned, and the blast door smoothly opened with an electric grind.

  Lynch stepped into the vast space beyond. “Welcome to London’s Pool Control Center; our crown jewel in security management.”

  A marble atrium rose sixty meters to a domed ceiling. Two escalators curled up together like giant corkscrews with drop off points at five steel constructed gallery levels. The buzz of chatter and electronic noises filled the air. On the ground level, staff in dark blue uniforms—now synonymous with Timetronic—sat in front of wall mounted, holographic screens.

  “We cover the whole urban pool and the surrounding region,” Lynch said. “Zone Seven doesn’t deserve your sympathy; it’s the majority of peace-loving folk whose quality of life is under constant threat that do, and we protect them as best we can.”

  “How many work here?”

  “Four thousand split into four shifts. The ground floor monitors security feeds and handles emergency calls. Our cops operate from the second floor and engage to the nearest clayport to deal with any reported trouble. Drone control takes up the third, IT the fourth, and the fifth is admin and management.”

  “Impressive,” Luke said, although the idea of armed drones patrolling farmland repulsed him. Judging by the graffiti and Walter’s words, Lynch’s earlier claim of Timetronic using a less intimidating form of community policing was also questionable, but he admitted to himself that he didn’t know enough about 2070 to form a clear opinion. “You mentioned a solitary wing and a room for the night?”

  “I've reserved you a spare cell. Apologies again; I guessed you didn’t want us breaking down your apartment door at four in the morning.”

  “No need to continue apologizing; as long as we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly.” Lynch scrutinized a digital clock on the internal side of the blast door, displaying a time of 11:58 pm. “I've another appointment shortly. Maria's waiting for you on five.”

  They crossed the atrium and boarded the escalator's ascending silver staircase. Luke estimated roughly a thousand chairs, similar to the one in Century House's claytronic station, lined all three walls of the second-floor gallery. Cops wearing headsets populated three-hundred on the right side. Most individual screens above them displayed different angles of a football match and the surrounding crowd. A few others showed moving scenes of dark city streets.

  A female sprinted along the left walkway, jumped into a chair and tugged on her headset. Camden Clayport appeared in bold white letters on the screen above her and the image of a night market appeared.

  On the next floor, thirty staff were spread in front of individual control panels, watching fluctuating measurements, graphs, and infrared drone feeds of agricultural landscapes.

  The quiet IT level had open plan desks and lab areas, filled with servers, wires, and test equipment. A red model Ferrari in a glass case sat on a raised golden plinth by a coffee machine, bringing back memories of Clifton Hall.

  Lynch let out three rhythmic grunts.

  Luke turned to face him and saw that his head sagged to the side, his eyelids had closed, and his mouth hung open. It appeared he’d fallen asleep—or worse—in his remote claytronic suite. Within seconds, they’d reach the fifth floor and the end of the escalator. He reached over and shook Lynch’s shoulder.

  “What? Where…?” Lynch blinked and focused on Luke.

  “Burning the candle at both ends?”

  “It’s a blip. Must be bandwidth issue because of the football.”

  Lynch headed between desks of the admin area toward a darker end of the floor. Luke read a few of the many corporate slogans stamped on the wall. ‘Let’s throw our ideas in a blender and make a thought smoothie’ made him wince. ‘Timetronic — Our virtual becomes your reality’ was only slightly better.

  Maria sat in a small partition, hunched in front of a glass keyboard. Meakin arched over her, pointing at different parts of a holoscreen.

  Lynch cleared his throat, and they both turned.

  Dark rings circled Meakin's eyes; his tie hung loosely around an unbuttoned collar, and his bedraggled appearance drew an instinctive yawn from Luke. “Looks like Porterfield flushed out a rat,” he said.

  “Show me,” Lynch said.

  Maria didn't look any fresher. She sagged in her ergonomic chair, gave a faint smile, and spun back to her keyboard. “I monitored Luke's movement from The Mega Dive to the Abra-Kebabra takeaway. When Mister Meakin helped me apply filtering, something stood out.”

  Luke moved to her shoulder and watched colored dots jump around a Zone Seven street map. “Talk me through it.”

  “The circles are ten-second periodic location updates from registered straps. I tracked yours and inputted a five percent simila
rity range with a sixty-second buffer. You're the green marker.”

  Maria tapped on the glass and shifted to one side. A small green marker exited the bar and moved north. A red one followed shortly after, keeping its distance, and crossed the road opposite the location of the takeaway. When his marker headed back in the opposite direction toward the Flamingo Apartments, red pursued again until the large glowing outline of a rotorcraft appeared.

  Carl was an obvious initial candidate. The bruiser certainly had revenge in his eyes after the headbutt, but he didn’t wear a strap, and Luke guessed an attack by him would be about as subtle as an earthquake. “Any footage from the street?” he asked.

  Meakin snorted. “In Zone Seven? The cameras get smashed in hours. We stopped replacing them years ago.”

  “Mister Percy D. Uck registered the strap,” Maria said.

  Lynch kicked an empty chair, sending it spinning across the vinyl flooring, and it crashed into another desk. “I want to know who accepted the registration. Find out by tomorrow morning.”

  “Who’s Percy D. Uck?” Luke asked.

  “A kids’ virtual character,” Maria said. “It’s not a complete dead end, though. The strap’s currently updating in Zone Three.”

  “Where?” Lynch asked.

  “Kings Cross station.”

  “I’m sending air and ground drones to check for heat signatures,” Meakin said. “If I pick up human activity, say the word, Gideon, and I’ll hit them with a strike team.”

  “You wanted to call the shots,” Lynch said to Luke, “How do you suggest we proceed?”

  Luke rolled a chair next to Maria and studied a replay of the movements. Following with a registered device appeared an obvious ploy, considering people were wise to Timetronic tracking capabilities. “Does the strap have a history?" he asked.