FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  Maria trudged up the ramp, wheeling a mountain bike at her side. “Knocked them down to thirty-five credits. You can thank me later.”

  “I hope you paid a huge tip. It’s on Lynch.”

  “My account, my credit. There’s tons of better places I can blow it.”

  Luke grabbed the handlebars, inspected the bike, and saw it had similar features to a cross-country one he owned as a teenager. He adjusted the seat, flicked to a low gear, and straddled the frame. “Show me the map again.”

  Maria brought up a high-level colored image on her scroll and zoomed in on the roads between Enfield and Waltham. From here the route was easy. North for three miles, right turn, and a straight four-mile stretch, all measured out on the bike’s odometer. Luke rested his foot on the pedal and prepared to push off.

  “Stay safe,” Maria said and looked toward the road. “And don’t sleep near anyone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Remember trust being a two-way street?”

  She turned and met his stare. “You shouted in your sleep last night. Something about an embassy. I’m a good listener if you need to get things off your chest.”

  “I’m all right,” Luke said, though he knew Cairo still lurked inside his system and haunted his dreams. “Head back to the Flamingo and don’t answer the door to any strangers. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  “If you don’t return?”

  “You’ll be back at the facility monitoring screens. Promise me one thing before I go.”

  “Sure, anything you say.”

  “If I end up in a transport system, you’ll unplug me straight away.”

  “Why would you end up—”

  “Maria, I need a back-up plan, and you’re my best option. Whatever you do, don’t tell Meakin or Lynch I’m working another angle.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  Luke pushed away and headed for the pod tracks with three clear goals in his mind, and the first two weren’t necessarily exclusive: stopping the terrorists and finding Helen Penshaw. Afterward, he planned to tackle the third and potentially larger task of confronting Gideon Lynch. He turned onto the road and waved at Maria’s distant figure. She grew on him with every hour he spent with her, and he hoped to see her again, but expected his next destination would bring events to a hazardous head.

  Chapter 19

  After seven heart-pounding miles of cycling, Luke finally sighted the northern perimeter behind a row of well-spaced apartment blocks. Electrified cables ran between six-meter-high steel girders. Faded yellow warning signs, displaying a black figure with a lightning bolt going through it, were attached half-way up each one.

  Past the cables, a distant drone buzzed between two low-lying clouds and powered over farmland that stretched as far as the eye could see. The inner sense of claustrophobia he’d experienced since arriving in London eased a touch. He pedaled between two blocks and skidded to a halt on a wide gravel track that hugged the inside of the fence.

  The perimeter gently curved eastwards for half a mile to checkpoint buildings either side of the security gate, and disappeared over a small hill beyond. To the west, a small section jutted out to accommodate the former town’s old sandstone church.

  The warehouse lay directly ahead, beyond the boundary fence. A hundred-meter long featureless gray structure with a corrugated plastic roof. A road led from it and split in two directions. One to the gate, the other north.

  Luke turned, wiped sweat from his brow, and focused on the nearest block. A glass-walled staircase, presumably a fire escape, ran up the left-hand side to a viewing balcony at the top; an ideal vantage point to watch the warehouse and gate for a few hours.

  Before ascending, he pushed his bike along the track, searching for any obvious ways through the fence, like a warped gap in the cables or disturbances in the gravel where the terrorists had placed climbing apparatus. Everything looked robust and untouched. In addition to the drone threat for any illegal trespassing, automatic chain gun turrets were attached to every twentieth girder and ominously rotated across the farmland. He figured only a madman would approach the warehouse in the open or risk transport time by sneaking fertilizer through the gates.

  Luke propped his bike against the side of the block and pushed through a pair of opaque swing doors. A static jiffbot stood behind a small desk at the far end the lobby. A piece of masking tape covered its powerless face, and an Out of order sign hung around its sloped shoulders.

  The stairwell’s internal and external doors were open, letting breaths of wind cool the ground floor. His thighs burned climbing the ten flights, and the summer sun had transformed the upper section into a greenhouse, but he maintained a steady pace and reached a glass door at the top leading to the balcony.

  An old man, wearing a green tracksuit, leaned on the chrome safety rail at the far end. He took a drag of a cigarette and puffed smoke skyward. When Luke opened the door, he bolted upright and thrust his hand behind his back.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” Luke said.

  The old man glared across the balcony. A thin trail of smoke drifted up from behind his shoulder, reminding Luke of being caught red-handed by his father at the local park, the difference being he was fifteen.

  “Relax,” Luke said. “No need to hide it from me.”

  “You never know who it might be nowadays.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Has been for thirty years unless you fancy living in Zone Seven.”

  Luke moved to his side and rested his elbows on the rail. He browsed the distant fields and the small network of warehouses. A few agricultural vehicles trundled up and down roads between them; hundreds of tiny figures worked the land.

  “Where did it all go wrong?” Luke asked.

  “You sound like me,” the old man said and eyed Luke’s forearms. “When was your comeback?”

  “Monday. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Seventy-nine. You?”

  “Chronologically or biologically?”

  The old man let out a chesty laugh, which developed into a wheezing cough. “You’re speaking like a true Lynch pin, young man.”

  “Trust me, I’m no part of his organization, and for the record, I’m a year older than you. I spent fifty years in a transport system.”

  “Seriously? I’m not sure who had it worst. Me, witnessing society relegated to green-fingered cyber junkies, or you, coming out after five decades and being hit across the face with it.”

  “Flip a coin,” Luke said. “What did you do for a job?”

  The old man dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his tartan slipper. “Met police. They gave me early retirement. No use for this old dog on the street nowadays.”

  Luke wondered if he’d ever worked alongside the man and considered mentioning Leicester Square, but decided against stimulating any potentially painful memories. Law enforcement gave them a common factor and usually helped to establish a rapport.

  “I was in the SIS for eight years, went to explore another opportunity, and woke up in 2070.”

  “Let me guess; somebody faked your suicide?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A stream of prominent business leaders and politicians all supposedly topped themselves, and we never found their bodies. Any strong opposition to Lynch vanished in the same way, but the government shut us down before we had a chance to raid his facility.”

  “I wasn’t his opposition,” Luke said. “He cured my injuries.”

  “I’ve heard that one before. Did you agree to transport time?”

  Luke shook his head. “You’re surely not suggesting…”

  “Let me tell you something about 2070; the unspoken words are the important ones.”

  Luke considered the retired cop’s words, which were backed up by the posters and what Maria said about patients in the facility. It seemed inconceivable that three independent sources were all wrong
and Lynch had nothing to hide. He cast his mind back to the meeting in the barn and wondered if at any point, the doctor saw him as a form of opposition.

  “Starting to doubt why you’re here?” the old man said.

  “If what you say is true,” Luke said. “Why didn’t you stop Lynch?”

  “What was I meant to do? Report it to the bloody claycops and end up alongside the rest of the poor buggers in a transport system?”

  “I suppose not. Do you come up here often?”

  “Is that a chat up line?”

  Luke smiled at his response. Under the current circumstances, anything that cheered him up came as a welcome relief. “Seen anything suspicious around the perimeter fence?”

  “Depends on who’s asking?”

  “Me, and I’m not one of Lynch’s minions. If anything, after my investigation, I’ll end what you started. Have you witnessed anything unusual?”

  “This whole bloody place is strange,” the old man said and jutted his chin toward the fence. “If you don’t have a valid strap, those guns turn you into a pile of entrails. We’re trapped here and you can’t beat them.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Anybody scouted the area, late night activity, that sort of thing?”

  “It might be nothing. There’s a woman…”

  “A woman?”

  “She visited the church a couple of times during my bedtime smoke. A religious type, I think. Most go virtual nowadays.”

  A muddy field lay between the church and warehouse. Three long thin expanses of water had pooled where the ground dipped a few inches, all in a perfect line between the two buildings. Luke’s heart skipped a beat, and he pushed away from the rail.

  “What’s up?” the old man asked.

  “Thanks for your help,” Luke said and headed for the door.

  “Hey, wait. What’s your plan?”

  Waiting wasn’t an option, not when a chance of finding the terrorists presented itself. Luke ran down the stairs, out of the block and jumped on his bike. The solution seemed obvious, and one that he might have chosen had he enough time and resources. The age of the church meant it had a crypt, and the grounds extended out from the rest of the perimeter. It was an ideal place for digging a tunnel and gaining undetected access to the Waltham Abbey warehouse.

  The bike’s tires crunched over gravel as Luke accelerated away. More clouds had rolled in from the North Sea, increasing the thickness of the air, and he wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The church lay directly ahead, inside a V-shaped section of the fence, and a drystone wall formed the internal boundary. He quickly covered the distance, fueled by adrenalin, and stopped next to a wooden archway at the center of the wall.

  A path led to the church’s open doors. Tombs and moss covered crypts spread around the grass on either side. He balanced his bike against the archway and advanced toward the dark entrance.

  A shaven-headed vicar, dressed in a black shirt with a white collar, stepped through the doorway and folded his arms.

  “Looks like rain,” Luke said.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m new to the area; just came to look around.”

  The vicar edged back and grabbed one of the doors. “We’re closed. Come back next week.”

  “It won’t take a minute.”

  Luke increased his speed, sensing he was about to be locked out. The vicar slipped inside, one of the doors slammed shut, and a heavy bolt screeched along its rail.

  Before the second door closed, Luke raced the steps and wedged his foot against it.

  The vicar shoved twice from the inside, but his foot held firm.

  “It’s happening whether you like it or not.,” Luke said.

  The vicar's scowling face appeared in the gap. “This is a house of God. How dare you?”

  “Do houses of God support terrorist activity?”

  “You can’t come barging in like this.”

  “Fine. Call the Lynch mob and let them take a look. I promise you letting me in is your safest option.”

  No response came. Under normal circumstances, Luke would’ve forced the door open, sending the person behind skidding across the floor on their ass, but something inside told him to stop.

  “Are you Christian?” the vicar asked.

  “Officially, but I’m also an enemy of terrorism. Show me the crypt and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wants justice.” Luke thrust his shoulder against the door, creating enough space to enter, and moved inside. “This isn’t official business. I won't leave until I’ve seen downstairs. It's not up for debate.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me it’s confession time?”

  “No, it’s the part where you take me to the crypt.”

  “If I don’t?”

  Luke nodded toward a statue of an angel.

  The vicar held up his hands and headed through the nave. It had a distinctive Norman appearance of huge decorated pillars supporting semi-circular arches, and the place stank of candlewax. He turned left, passed a visitor center signpost, and descended a flight of well-worn stone steps.

  Luke stayed close, and drew his pistol, ready to raise it at the first sign of trouble.

  Old souvenirs filled the left side of the converted crypt; calendars on a spinning rack dated 2035, fridge magnets on a whiteboard, and a collection of bibles, etchings, and other small items on a table. To the right, a glass display cabinet housed religious artifacts.

  “Whatever you’re looking for, isn’t here,” the Vicar said.

  A purple velvet curtain covered the far end of the room; a partial muddy footprint disappeared underneath it. Luke grabbed one end and looked over his shoulder. “What’s behind here?”

  The Vicar lunged for the table and grabbed a silver letter opener.

  Luke dropped to one knee and aimed at his chest. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “You don’t understand. They’ll kill her.”

  “You mean Helen Penshaw?” Luke moved away from the curtain and encouraged the Vicar forward with his muzzle. “Open it.”

  “Don’t make me do it. Please.”

  “Open it,” Luke said in a firmer voice.

  The Vicar grabbed the curtain, and swiped it to the side, revealing a small rusty door. He twisted its latch and pushed it inward.

  A dark passage led into the distance. At the near end, artificial light radiated from space on the left-hand side.

  “Go on,” Luke said and moved closer to him.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” the Vicar said and stepped into the passageway. “Things are different in 2070.”

  “I get it. You’ve seen my tan, or whatever you call it.”

  Luke ducked under the doorway and entered the tunnel, making sure he kept the Vicar firmly in his sights. Somebody had spent considerable time and effort constructing the underground route to the Waltham Abbey warehouse. Solid wooden beams lined the walls and ceiling, and pick marks scarred the damp clay.

  The Vicar backed into space on the left and stood in front of a small desk and black leather chair, illuminated by a string of white Christmas tree lights.

  Two short-range radios, a pink wooly hat, and a map of London lay across the desk, along with a half-eaten sandwich.

  “When’s she coming back?” Luke asked.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. Helen Penshaw. We’re staying here ‘til she does.”

  “I can’t …”

  Luke dropped his pack and sat in the chair while keeping his aim on the Vicar. With the supplies from the supermarket, time wasn’t a problem, and he hadn’t come this far to be fobbed off by simple words.

  Chapter 20

  Maria’s pod whined away from Enfield toward Zone Seven. She gazed out of the rain-spattered window at nothing in particular and reflected about how her experiences over the last few days had altered the way she viewed the world.

  She knew it was i
mpossible to change society and truth be told, she liked it for the most part, but she had to take personal responsibility. She could no longer condone working at Timetronic with the knowledge they held people against their will, though she’d held her conviction back from Luke to avoid him facing the might of the Lynch mob.

  If quitting the facility meant losing her apartment and job, it was a price worth paying to break free from the self-denial most worked under.

  Luke’s crystal clear distinction between right and wrong provided the catalyst for her thoughts. She had never questioned the blurred lines of modern society, but now they took on a dirty feel compared to his moral code. Maria wanted to prove to herself she could live in the same way, using the credit on her strap for a fresh start in another pool’s Zone Seven.

  The pod’s overhead holoscreen displayed a trip time of nineteen minutes.

  Maria activated her strap and searched for a quiet virtual location where she could decide on an exit strategy, and the right words to use when inviting Luke to join her. Her favorite spot, the Bryon Bay beach bar in northern New South Wales, had a hundred active users.

  Only forty online users were active in Fisherman’s Wharf, San Francisco; a vast virtual space with an excellent seafood stand serving clam chowder bread bowls. She bought a session, grabbed a headset from below her seat, and placed it on.

  The weightless dark quickly transformed into dazzling sunshine and gust of fresh sea air brushed against her face. She peered across the bay at a white boat plowing through the water toward Alcatraz Island, and for the first time during a virtual experience, she wanted more than anything to visit this place in the flesh. It was like an irreversible switch had flicked in her brain. The love of all things retro had transformed into a need for a simpler, reality based life where she could travel and take in real experiences.

  Maria wandered over to the seafood stand and sat at one of the empty tables spread around its service area.

  The menu and napkin holders had Timetronic stamped along the bottom of them. An old yellow tram, with Timetronic plastered on its side in bold metallic lettering, rumbled by and its bell tinkled. Maria looked back toward the pier at the company logo painted on the bow of three white ferries.