FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  Helen crouched by his side. “Where’s Lynch?”

  “At the barn. I’m just following orders.”

  “What orders?” Luke asked.

  “He gave me encryption codes to establish connections with your interfaces and said you were terrorists.”

  “This is Helen Penshaw; your new boss. Do as we say and expect fair treatment. Where did you take a bullet?”

  “My hip.”

  A black desk with four workstations had replaced the banquet table, making it look more like a small control center. Luke hauled the man to his feet, propped him on a swivel chair, and spun it to face the screens. “Make your new boss happy and cut the connections.”

  The man rested his palms on the glassboard and the outline of blue keys illuminated. He winced as he input a series of commands, leaving red smears on its surface, and the white noise stopped.

  “Where’s the rest of your team?” Helen asked.

  “Two are stationed at the barn; a pod arrived an hour ago.”

  “That’s it?” Frank said. “Lynch left Clifton Hall unprotected?”

  “Nobody expected terrorists… I meant people, to make it here. Troublemakers stick to Zone Seven. They’d have to make it past perimeter guards and chain guns, and even if they survived the drones and reached the estate, they face a solid wall with more guns.”

  “You don’t seem bothered,” Helen said.

  “You won’t find many complaining about a leadership change; Lynch and his trusted hardcore treat us like dirt. Did you cause the explosions at the PCC?”

  “Forget about that,” Luke said. “How has Lynch reacted?”

  The man shifted uneasily in his chair and studied the screens. “After he received a call about the attack, he ordered a rotorcraft squadron to scramble from Birmingham. They’ll arrive in ten minutes.”

  “Tell them to back off,” Helen said.

  “Are you sure—?”

  A stream of data scrolled across the next screen along, Engage – Clifton Hall Clayport flashed at the top, and a spinning digital image of Lynch built in its center.

  “Where is it?” Luke asked.

  “The kitchen; go back outside, second door on your right.”

  “How many clayports around the estate?” Frank asked.

  “Two. The kitchen and the barn.”

  “I’ll destroy the clayport,” Luke said to Helen and Frank, and motioned his head toward the injured goon. “Keep an eye on him and call off the rotorcrafts.”

  Before either could answer, he turned and left the room. Debating their every move wasn’t an option, especially when the mad doctor had promised to return with something lethal, and a claytronic engage only took seconds to execute.

  Luke’s boots thudded along the corridor as he headed for the kitchen. Hearing the estate only had one clayport outside the barn came as a relief, and Lynch lying about their numbers was as predictable as a damp British summer.

  The mad doctor increasingly reminded him of the Wizard of Oz; venerated by citizens as a solution to their problems, but behind the curtain he was nothing more than a charlatan, leveraging technological solutions to maintain his power.

  Luke stopped by the open kitchen door, took a deep breath, and spun to face inside. Blue lights winked around a clayport at the far end, but he had no way of telling if Lynch had already formed from an expelled cloud of programmable matter. Steel cupboards, fridges, and freezers lined the walls, surrounding four solid preparation tables, giving the doctor plenty of places to hide.

  The lights on clayport cut and its internal fan reduced to a quiet hum. Luke moved between the first two tables. “This can only end one way, Lynch.”

  A spoon clattered against the right-hand wall. Lynch leaped from behind a table to his left and swung a saucepan at Luke. It hissed past his ear and battered against the X90 rifle.

  Luke instinctively fired twice; the rounds drilled through the doctor’s stomach at close range, creating two metallic tunnels in his body, and he quickly raised his aim for the required headshot.

  In the blink of an eye, Lynch grabbed the barrel, forced it to the side, and tore the rifle free of Luke’s grip with unnatural claytronic power. A bitter smile stretched across his face, he threw the weapon across the kitchen, and it clanked against a freezer. “Congratulations for making it this far, but I’m going to end this the old-fashioned way.”

  Luke took a step back and reached for the Timetronic pistol in his thigh holster. After the brute force and alarming speed of his disarm, he knew he had to avoid a physical fight at all costs.

  Lynch surged forward and for a millisecond, his body blurred. He wrapped Luke in crushing one-armed hug before he could draw, ripped out the pistol, and tossed it toward the clayport.

  “Surrender or Meakin kills Maria,” Lynch said. “I’m ten times stronger and quicker than your pathetic body.”

  “Never.” Luke thrust a heel into his knee and butted the side of his rock-hard face. Neither blow did anything to help free him from the vice-like grip.

  “Continue fighting and you sentence her to death.”

  “Lay a finger on her and I’ll kill you.”

  “I plan to do a lot more than that.” Lynch’s hands clamped around Luke’s neck, and forced him backward until his shoulders thumped against a preparation table. “I’m currently squeezing your carotid artery, cutting the flow of blood to your tiny brain, and you’ll be unconscious in approximately ten seconds.”

  A carving knife sat on a chopping board to Luke’s left. He reached across, but Lynch slid him away from it.

  “Did you think you’d come here, rescue Maria, and have a happy ending? You’re nothing more than a serious version of Austin Powers.”

  Luke’s vision fogged. He realized he only had moments before blacking out and forced his thumbs into Lynch’s eyes.

  The pressure around his neck increased.

  “How does it feel to be owned in Clifton Hall a second time?” Lynch said. “Look at me. I want my face to be the last thing you see.”

  Luke raised his knees in a final attempt to kick the doctor away. Something sharp stabbed into his left thigh, and he remembered the stylus; the tool he gained in the transport management facility and kept as a macabre souvenir. He dug his hand into his pocket, pulled it out and impaled it in Lynch’s temple.

  “No—”

  The force around Luke’s neck disappeared. He rolled to his side, watched Lynch’s image vanish, and shuddered at the thought of repeated fights against a remote-controlled claytronic madman. Destroying the kitchen’s clayport meant they only had the barn to worry about, and that was more than enough. He eased himself off the table, collected his weapons, and headed to the far end of the kitchen.

  Rapid footsteps approached outside. He ducked behind a cupboard and aimed at the door. Frank entered, swept his revolvers around the room, and wheezed between the tables.

  “Over here,” Luke said.

  “He’s coming back. As soon as you took him out, he immediately engaged. What happened?”

  “He reminded me why we shouldn’t have artificial cops patrolling our streets.”

  “No need to tell me—”

  Lights winked around the clayport.

  “Stand clear of the catom dispenser,” a neutral female voice said through a speaker.

  A disc on the clayport slid to the side, an effervescent mass puffed out, and it formed into a ghostly image of Lynch. Luke raised his rifle, moved to within two meters, and waited for the right moment. The figure solidified, and color raced up from the doctor’s brown sandals to his scowling face.

  Lynch’s shoulders relaxed, his eyes widened, and he opened his mouth.

  Luke fired before he could speak or move, and emptied the rest of his magazine into the clayport. Electricity crackled inside it, the fan cut, and the lights dimmed. He moved around the back of the panel and ripped two cables free.

  “We sent the rotorcrafts into a holding pattern,” Frank said. “I’m not
sure they fully believe us, but they gave us half an hour before landing to verify our claim.”

  “Better than attacking. Did the goon talk?”

  “Lynch has pimped Sir Henry’s golf buggy. It’s parked in the stable.”

  “Anything else?”

  “It was Meakin who arrived in the pod with two guests.”

  “Guests?”

  “He didn’t elaborate, and doesn’t know where Meakin took them. I think he’s scared if our plan fails, he’ll be punished if he reveals everything.”

  They returned to the dining room, Luke ordered Frank to guard the injured Timetronic employee, despite the old man’s protests, and he left with Helen to execute the final part of their plan.

  The news of Meakin skulking around the estate added an extra threat, and as Luke walked along the corridor, he wondered why the supposedly most dangerous man in London hadn’t already confronted them. Regardless of Meakin’s exact location, he was another person that needed dealing with, so his presence wasn’t necessarily unwelcome.

  Helen led him into the conservatory, and it looked the same as fifty years ago. Her faded coat dangled from a hat-stand next to her reading chair, and cobwebs stretched between the iron rafters.

  “This is where he proposed,” Helen said. “It still gives me the creeps.”

  “I can imagine. Just keep in mind, it’s better if we take Lynch alive.”

  “After murdering my father, giving me ten years of torment, and trashing my family estate? It’ll take a lot to hold back.”

  “I meant what I said. Feel free to smash his false teeth down his lying throat, if you beat me to it, but don’t give a reason for people to resent you.”

  “I’ll decide on our drive to the barn.”

  “I’m racing headlong into another claytronic maniac. We’ll take the buggy as far as the woodland and approach on foot.”

  Luke pushed through the external doors and they crunched along a gravel road before heading under the stable’s gloomy central archway. He moved around the side of mint condition, 1970s Triumph Spitfire and his first view of the buggy’s modifications stopped him midstride. Four alloy wheels with chunky off-road tires had raised the chassis by a foot; chrome trim and painted flames decorated its bright orange body. He settled behind the universal steering wheel, twisted the ignition key, and the engine roared to life.

  Helen sat by Luke’s side as he punched the accelerator pedal and the buggy rolled into the moonlight. He turned toward the parkland knowing the fate of his team, Maria, and the destiny of the country would shortly be decided.

  Chapter 33

  Eight rotorcrafts circled Clifton Hall in the star speckled sky, all buzzing through airspace outside its boundary wall. No search light beams stabbed from the bellies and so far, they had stuck to the promise of delaying their landing for thirty minutes. Luke kept the buggy at full speed, ensuring he didn’t test their patience, nor give Lynch anything more than minimal time to organize a final stand.

  Dark shadows of individual trees extended across the parkland. He weaved the vehicle between the trunks, leaving a winding trail in the dew soaked grass, and headed directly for an area of woodland that concealed the barn from view. Lynch and his two goons hadn’t shown themselves yet, but Luke expected an imminent attack and kept his left boot over the break, ready to slam it down, find cover, and return fire.

  Helen leaned out the frame with a steely determination in her eyes, and she aimed forward, giving her a clear shot at anything coming from their front. In the silver moonlight she looked more like her father, and Luke cast his mind back to his journey fifty years ago, powering toward the same destination with entirely different expectations.

  Before, he had hoped for a restoration of his old life. Tonight, he intended to start a new chapter on his terms. While his guiding principle remained intact, the structures supporting it and his mentality had irreversibly changed. He was now the master of his own destiny and no longer feared a future without definition.

  The buggy neared the woodland; he killed the engine, and they drifted to a quiet standstill. A red light flashed behind the trees, highlighting one of the barn’s roof antennas.

  “How do we play it?” Helen asked.

  “Any other ways in besides the front doors?”

  “A fire escape at the back of the transport zone,"

  Luke remembered the building split into three sections: the first unused, a lab in the middle, and the transport zone at the rear. The goal was to find Lynch, and direct access away from the main entrance was the obvious choice; also the most obvious place to defend against intruders. “Cover me and we’ll take a look.”

  Helen nodded and raised her rifle. He entered the pitch-black woodland, treading carefully to avoid snapping a twig or disturbing anything that would give an audible warning of their approach. Half way through, the dark shape of the barn materialized out of the gloom. He continued forward until he had a clear sight of both ends of the building then crouched behind an oak tree, only a stone’s throw from the edge of the canopy.

  A goon hunched behind a thick bank of sandbags near the front entrance, peering down the length of what looked like a Gatling gun on steroids. An ammunition belt, holding rounds the size of an adult forearm, ran from the side of its eight rotating barrels into a steel container. Nobody guarded the fire escape at the back end, and it lay a short sprint from Luke’s position.

  The barn’s doors parted with a hiss.

  A claytronic version of Lynch walked out carrying a rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. He talked to the goon and jabbed his finger at different parts of the estate.

  Adrenaline flowed through Luke's body, and he considered taking a shot, but quickly discounted the idea. Hitting them at this range wasn’t an issue; the problem was either might survive, dip below the sandbags, and turn the beast of a gun on the woodland. Similar situations in the past told him timing was the key to success, and he considered his options while keeping scanning across the parkland for any other signs of movement.

  Lynch glanced at the rotorcrafts, shook his head, and shoved the goon to one side. He grabbed the gun’s twin firing handles, swiveled the barrels skyward, and fired a short burst. Five bright projectiles streaked through the darkness toward the closest craft. The first three missed, the last two erupted against its body.

  The craft keeled over and plunged at terminal velocity, spewing out a wake of dark gray smoke. Luke shuffled across to Helen before an explosion boomed somewhere beyond the wall and a plume of orange flames gushed into the distant sky.

  “He’ll blame it on us,” Helen said.

  “He won’t get a chance.”

  The other seven rotorcrafts banked away from the estate. Lynch spun the weapon, following their flight path, and turned his back on the woodland. He fired again, sending five more projectiles zipping toward the stars.

  “Now,” Luke said.

  The rotorcraft engines and the gun’s repeated bursts drowned out any noise his boots made as he broke free of the canopy, crossed the grass in seconds, and reached the far end of the barn.

  Helen joined Luke at the fire escape, out of the goon and the Lynch’s line of vision. He depressed a steel bar; the door clanked open, and they entered the transport zone.

  Two rows of powerful spotlights had replaced the ceiling’s blue fluorescent strip. A mahogany display case ran the length of the left side, and four gleaming transport systems jutted from the right wall.

  Luke advanced through the room and kept his aim on the internal opaque doors. The firing continued outside, and he knew the longer Lynch remained distracted and used his claytronic version for a malicious attack on his staff, the more time they had to reach his real self without detection.

  The transport systems had TS01, TS02, TS03, and TS04 on their sides in bold chrome letters. Framed pictures of Helen, Luke, Meakin and someone else he didn't recognize hung on the wall above each, along with inscribed brass plaques. The whole thing had the appearance of
an exhibition from a successful space mission rather than telling the ugly truth about Lynch’s operation.

  “He’s a freak,” Helen said. “And this is his show.”

  “Didn’t he show you around?”

  “It wasn’t like this ten years ago. He’s creating a legitimate backstory to preserve his false legacy.”

  Luke switched his focus to the display case and moved past parts of electronics, technical drawings, and miniature models of transport systems sitting on a printed timeline. Above it, glossy pictures depicted the mad doctor working in a lab, talking at boardroom tables, and posing in different locations at Clifton Hall.

  One image stuck out, and sent his blood pressure soaring: Lynch standing on top of his transport system playing an air guitar, crowded by employees with raised beer bottles, no doubt celebrating a minor breakthrough while oblivious to the fact they surrounded a trapped body.

  Helen eyed her transport system and scowled. Luke had no idea if she intended to kill Lynch, but he was conscious that a powerful claytronic version of him lurked outside with a deadly weapon. He stepped in front of the internal doors; they automatically parted, and he edged into the empty corridor.

  A transparent security door blocked the mid-section of the barn, as it had five decades ago. He shoved his palm against the cold glass and realized he needed to make a split second decision. Attacking it was the only quick way through and would attract Lynch’s attention. The alternative of trying to find a subtle way carried equal risk as the mad doctor could return at any moment.

  “Stand back,” Helen said.

  Luke glanced over his shoulder, and she had already worked out the dilemma. Helen leveled her rifle at the center of the door; he moved behind her and accepted they had little choice. Force gave the only guarantee of reaching the lab before Lynch discovered their presence.

  Helen fired on automatic; her shots reverberated through the corridor, empty cases rattled across the floor, and the glass splintered around a loose grouping of bullet holes.

  The gunfire outside stopped.