FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  Something crunched under Luke’s boot.

  Two pigeons burst from behind a wheelie bin and flapped toward the roof. He dropped to one knee and paused, waiting to see if the noise had stirred any other movement.

  The birds settled in their new lofty positions and silence returned.

  Luke continued forward, avoiding the debris, and headed under an ornate stone lintel to the platforms. Two tracks ran either side of a central walkway to bricked-up exits. An old silver and red Pendolino train sat at platform six. Pigeon droppings covered the roof and streaked down its dusty tinted windows. Someone had forced open the second carriage’s dented door.

  With the terrorists managing to give Timetronic the slip for ten years, he expected one of two outcomes. They either wanted him here for a reason, possibly to send a message, or they’d finally made a mistake and set-up an obvious ambush.

  Luke moved level with the open carriage door, keeping the dark space beyond in his sights. A few glass bottles and food wrappers littered the floor. He stepped onto the train and twisted to his right, aiming between the rows of seats.

  A strong scent of mildew filled in the air. At the far end, a clean envelope hung from a glass door separating the next carriage. He crept along the aisle, checking behind each seat as he advanced.

  Tape held the envelope to the glass, and somebody had written Luke Porterfield on it in thick black marker. Luke’s heart raced as he read his name again to confirm he wasn’t imagining it. He peeled it away, slid out three glossy A4 sized sheets, and tapped the side of his strap to illuminate them.

  The first showed Lynch sitting in a leather bucket chair and wearing a VR headset. The second captured a monitor displaying a view through a leafy bush into a young couple’s bedroom window. In the final one, Lynch slumped with his eyes closed next to the drinks globe in Clifton Hall’s library, wearing an open silk robe with a half full bottle of booze in his lap. His gaunt wrinkled face and thin white hair gave him an older appearance than his claytronic version.

  Luke put the three images together and tried to figure out if they had any further meaning beyond Lynch using Sir Henry’s home and claytronics for his own voyeuristic gratification. He had a faint idea that the doctor was at the top of the weirdo range after their first meeting, and if that was the intent behind leaving the pictures here, it didn’t prove anything other than what he already suspected. He flipped them over and the center one had a message written on the back.

  Your life is in danger. Don’t risk it by carrying out Gideon's dirty work searching for me because you’re already a victim. If you want the truth, take off your strap and we’ll meet.

  The note confirmed his stalker knew something about his circumstances, and the use of Lynch’s first name coupled with the pictures strongly suggested a personal connection.

  Luke’s eyes narrowed as the information sunk in. He never expected his investigation to be simple, but this was more than an oversight from the doctor. Lynch knew his attacker.

  Helen Penshaw was the only living person that linked him with Lynch. She possibly had an axe to grind over the death Sir Henry, and although he had only seen her in a transport system, the fact remained, Lynch had covered up his association.

  The trust Luke had in his mission instantly evaporated. The only thing left was to work this situation to his advantage, maintaining the illusion of continued investigation for Timetronic in order to tap their resources. He decided to use the McClaren lead, meet the terrorist on his terms, and find out what was really happening in 2070.

  His strap vibrated in silent mode and displayed a message from Maria.

  Three people entered. Armed.

  A surge of adrenalin pulsed through his body. He folded the pictures, slipped them in his back pocket, and searched the carriage for the best defensive position.

  Two raised voices echoed through the station; a tactically stupid approach for anyone with serious training. Luke ducked between the seats and observed the platform’s entrance through a grimy window.

  A beam of light cut through darkness and flashed across the tracks. Heavy footsteps thumped against the ground, getting louder every second.

  Three figures, all in dark clothing and with pistols raised, walked under the stone lintel and stopped short of the train. One carried a torch and focused it on the open carriage door.

  Luke put a round in his chamber and aimed between the seats. Two groups knew he might be here: the terrorists, who he no longer feared, and Timetronic. He had no intention of shooting a member of the security forces and end up suffering virtual fish attacks for eternity.

  One of the figures, male in appearance, boarded the train. A glass bottle rolled out of the carriage and smashed on the concrete below.

  “Watch your bloody step,” a man outside shouted in a recognizable voice.

  Lynch’s head of security, Dave Meakin, had turned up with a small team. It was as predictable as a failed New Year’s resolution to join a gym, and it strengthened Luke’s determination not to wear a strap for all future operations. Timetronic evidently continued to track his every move and would only continue to bumble in where they’d previously failed, even though Lynch had already told them to do it Luke’s way.

  The man edged forward with his pistol arm fully extended; a schoolboy error exposing him to an easy disarm from the side.

  Luke had no idea about the strength of an assembled claycop and didn’t want this one or his potentially itchy trigger finger moving a step closer. “Stop or I fire,” he shouted.

  The man dived to his left and thudded against the floor.

  “Why did you follow me?” Luke asked.

  “We’re here for back-up.”

  “Throw your weapon into the aisle and raise your hands.”

  “Who are you to give orders?”

  “The person that’ll blow your electronic brains out if you don’t comply.”

  No immediate response followed. The man remained in his cover position and whispered something. The figure holding a torch—presumably Meakin as the final team member had a slim female appearance—entered the carriage. He shone his beam around the seats and fixed it on Luke.

  “Get the light out of my face,” Luke said.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” Meakin said and lowered the glare. “Find anything useful?”

  For a brief moment, Luke considered concealing his discovery but decided against it after coming to the conclusion that copies may have surfaced before, or even worse, they were planted as a demented loyalty test. He pulled the sheets from his back pocket and headed down the aisle.

  “What’s that?” Meakin asked.

  “Seems your boss carries out some extracurricular activity,” Luke said and fanned the images in front of him.

  Meakin studied each one in turn, and his thick lips parted to an open-mouthed expression. He waved his goon off the train and reached out for the pictures.

  Luke backed away and slipped them back in his pocket. “I’m keeping these as part of my evidence. Do they look familiar?”

  “No, and they need to be destroyed. Hand them over.”

  “They’ll stay in my safe keeping. Why didn’t you follow Lynch’s orders and stay away?”

  “I’m head of security, in case you hadn’t noticed. Hand them over.”

  “It’s part of my investigation; keep your nose out.”

  “I’ll tell Gideon. Don’t be surprised if you get another visit.”

  Luke groaned and holstered his pistol. “You sound like a child. Were you this angry before your rugby accident or did Timetronic remove your personality?”

  “Do you think you’re impressing that little tart from operations? I promise you one thing: she’ll come running into my arms; they all do. You’re no match for me.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Somebody needs to keep an eye on you, regardless of what Gideon says.”

  “Was Sir Henry stolen under your watchful eye?”

  Meakin respond
ed with a glare, turned, and headed back out to the gloomy platform. It baffled Luke why Lynch had promoted him to a position of seniority. Every time he had met Meakin, he acted with a rich vein of weapons-grade immaturity.

  The security team huddled together outside and held a brief conversation. All three simultaneously transformed to transparent shimmering clouds and slowly disappeared.

  Luke followed his route back through the station while formulating a plan for Waltham Abbey. He decided to travel there at first light without his smart-strap, discover how the terrorists accessed the warehouse, and try to find Helen Penshaw, his prime suspect and possible ally.

  He edged out from behind the boarding, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. A young female receptionist acknowledged him with a lazy nod and focused back on her holoscreen. Luke took the elevator and an advert sprung to life on its glass wall, showing a couple relaxing over two foamy steins next to the Brandenburg Gate.

  “Visit Berlin, Timetronic’s newest location—” a jovial voice said.

  The elevator beeped, cutting off the ad, and its doors parted on the third floor. Luke headed along the corridor, safe in the knowledge that he preferred real experiences, and knocked on his room's door.

  Maria flung it open. “Who was it?”

  “Meakin and a two other goons. Does anyone like the Lynch mob?”

  “Honestly?”

  “That’s how I prefer my answers.”

  She closed the door behind him. “People loved the initial concept but their behavior gets worse every year. You’d struggle to find any good will on the streets.”

  “Can I transfer my credits over to you?”

  “Easily, why?”

  “I need to lose my strap and stop the buggers following me around.”

  Luke activated the iris recognition, unclipped his strap and handed it to Maria.

  She worked on both devices for half a minute, passed his back, and stared at her screen. “You know what I could do with this?”

  “No, but I know I’m going to do with this.” He placed his strap on the table, picked up a decorative marble paperweight, and repeatedly smashed it down until electronic parts and metal shot across the surface.

  Chapter 17

  Early morning sunshine radiated through a crack in the hotel room’s electronic blinds. Luke had spent the night in a chair, allowing Maria to take the bed, and between bouts of sleep he had contemplated the message on the back of the images.

  The claim of him being a victim caused the greatest concern, especially when he recalled Maria’s words about a poster campaign stating Lynch kept people imprisoned in transport systems. He needed both sides of the story before jumping to any conclusions, but a huge seed of doubt had been planted in his mind over Lynch’s authenticity.

  While Maria showered, he surveyed a map of the urban pool on her scroll. Its vast boundary reached fifteen miles outside central London, and the old market town of Waltham Abbey hugged the northeastern perimeter of the dense urban sprawl.

  The warehouse identified by McClaren, marked as a small black square, lay two-hundred meters outside the boundary line in open farmland. Red outlines of drones, stamped across the green rural areas, gave an emphatic reminder about the price of an illegal incursion.

  Luke scrolled the map north and checked Clifton Hall’s location in Hertfordshire. Predictably, it wasn’t marked on the map unlike Knebworth House, Berkhampstead Castle, and other notable buildings that had managed to avoid the land conversion program, surviving as tiny historical islands amongst the sea of swaying crops.

  Maria walked out of the bathroom, her long hair matted against her shoulders, and sat on the bed. “The supermarket opens in five minutes. Where do we go after that?”

  “This might be a stupid question. Can we buy bikes?”

  “The Enfield exchange center usually has a couple for fifty credits. Aren’t we going to Waltham Abbey?”

  “Order a pod from the supermarket to Enfield. If anyone follows, I’ll lose them before I head to Waltham.”

  “Wait … I’m not coming with you?”

  “As much as I admire your enthusiasm, we need somebody with a working strap, and I can’t risk being tracked. My trail stops at Enfield with you.”

  Although he left it unsaid, Luke also wanted to avoid placing Maria in jeopardy. She’d been rock solid over the last two days but he envisaged events escalating to dangerous levels and didn't want her to be part of the collateral damage.

  After he scanned the quiet street for any lurking goons, they headed out. The hotel receptionist, wearing a headset at a slight angle, lay zonked in her chair under the influence of electronics, and didn’t move a muscle as Luke passed her and pushed through the revolving glass door.

  The cool morning air prickled the hairs on his arms, reminding him his only possessions in the world were the clothes he stood in and a pistol, and he needed to add to his wardrobe. Maria ordered a pod as they made their way along the street, and they entered the brightly lit, deserted store.

  Instrumental music in the style of Jean-Michel Jarre quietly pumped through unseen speakers. Luke scanned the six short aisles. “I thought you said supermarket?”.

  “Most of us shop on the Superhighway. You won’t find anything bigger.”

  “Has society given up every experience?”

  “Did people living in the 1970s accuse you of the same thing?”

  Luke grabbed a basket and considered Maria’s response. He knew he lacked a naturally evolved view of the world. Anyone jumping ahead from the 70s to 2020 would’ve found the internet, smart-phones, cuisine, and entertainment systems a shock to their system.

  “I get it,” he said. “Drop the fifty-year-old attitude and judge things in the context of today, regardless of whether I like it or not?”

  “Something like that, yeah. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

  A waist-high chrome robot, shaped like a bowling pin with two stubby arms, gracefully wheeled between plastic flaps covering a metal archway, stopped in front of Luke, and its blue LED mouth curled into a smile.

  “Good morning, customer,” the robot said in a chirpy synthetic voice. “May I be of assistance today?”

  “It’s a jiffbot,” Maria said. “They escort you to goods or run errands. Need anything specific?”

  “I don’t suppose they stock jackets or backpacks?”

  An internal fan whirred inside the jiffbot. Its eyes blinked twice. “We have blue fleeces in standard large and a thirty-liter daypack. Would you like me to proceed?”

  “Proceed,” Luke said, impressed that it had accurately scanned his size.

  “Continue shopping while I obtain your goods. We have a special offer on pureed sprouts. Five trays for the price of three.”

  “Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”

  The jiffbot spun and whisked back through the plastic flaps.

  Maria led along the aisles, and they collected pre-made meals, chocolate, and bottles of mineral water, all with a golden fox on their wrappers.

  “Does it only stock one brand?” Luke asked.

  “Vixen packages and distributes for local suppliers. To produce food and drink, you form a limited company under their umbrella.”

  “We used to have competition laws against this kind of activity. On the news in Zone Seven it mentioned five corporations. Who are the others besides Vixen, Timetronic, and StarComm?”

  “Neptune supplies domestic goods and services and Metropolitan maintain and build infrastructure. It’s not as bad as you think; they sub-contract a lot of work.”

  “If they contract it they own it. Who holds them accountable if they control the government?”

  Maria gave Luke the moon cheese smile again. “When you talk like that you sound old fashioned. Our systems work and people don’t care.”

  “Perhaps they should. What about claycops?”

  “Who said the world was perfect? It’s a damn sight better than fifty years ago.”

&nbs
p; “If you say so.”

  The jiffbot waited next to five plastic posts with a fleece hanging off one arm and a daypack on the other. “Please examine the items before purchasing. Everything is one-hundred-percent non-refundable.”

  Maria ran everything past a post, held her strap against it, and it flashed to green.

  Luke grabbed items, unconcerned about the supermarket’s miserable policy as it was Lynch’s credit being burned. He checked the fleece lining and pack for anything resembling a bugging device, not wanting to take any chances after last night’s revelation, and stowed his supplies once satisfied.

  The jiffbot followed too close for comfort by his side as he headed out, with the same awareness of personal space as a used car salesman. It eventually stopped by the stacked baskets.

  “Thank you for shopping at Fenton’s,” it said. “Please come again.”

  Luke grunted a farewell to a robot, and wondered why it carried out a physical job while people worked in virtual environments. The shift had started heading in this direction fifty years ago with remote working, self-service checkouts in supermarkets, and kiosks in fast food joints. He never supposed those early signs signaled the tip of an automation spear that would drive a section of society into living like cyber-hermits.

  A white two-seater pod with dark windows waited on the rails outside. Its gull-wing door thrust out and rotated open. Luke checked the street for signs of life before following Maria inside.

  The milky plastic walls and ceiling gleamed, and it had a strong leather smell, evoking memories of Penshaw’s Phantom. The black seats were slightly bigger than the previous model and had headsets attached rather than stowed. Luke dropped the daypack behind his seat and relaxed against its smooth upholstery.

  An overhead holoscreen showed a trip time of twenty-eight minutes. The pod’s engine rose to a steady hum and tall buildings on either side rushed by in a blur. Only another vehicle could follow at this speed. Easy enough to identify once they approached their destination, although if Meakin and his team followed Maria’s device, and they still had the clayport option to transfer locally.