Project Blue Book
appendix 63-A
What if ‘Think Differently’ was more than a campaign slogan?
What if it was part of a mind control network geared towards advanced sciences, creating a vibrant, creative and competitive workforce?
This is the world of Glass Shore, a dynamic existence featuring fierce vehicles, cruel weapons and serious body augmentation.
Manhattan, 2076. The fabled city of gold realised; a city of dazzling buildings and beautiful people; a city celebrated for converting an obsolete subway system into an adult playground. Manhattanite Nikki’s life changes forever when she finds the files labelled ‘Project Blue Book appendix 63-A’. The report contains a disc related to the Glass Shore, the horrendous nuclear event at Puget Sound in 2062. Disclosure of these files is not an option, so powerful people want Nikki dead. To protect her Nikki hires Apollo, her long-time friend and lover, who is magnificent at his job. He is also a clothes whore with an honest enthusiasm for life.
Nikki and Apollo are the hottest couple in Manhattan. Betrayed by friends at every turn, set upon by bounty hunters and other elements of security, law enforcement and civil protection, they utilise the best hotels, the sexy Underground and the glorious city of Manhattan as their shield.
“Government hit squads, illegal weaponry, hackers, cyborgs, twists, turns, sex, drugs, and a surprising lack of rock’n’roll – Glass Shore takes its readers on an express journey through the highs and lows of life in a dystopian future. Leaving you wondering at each turn what will come next, the story is superbly balanced between government conspiracies, criminals and corporations and how they inevitably intertwine.”
GLASS SHORE
STEFAN JACKSON
Elsewhen Press
Glass Shore
First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2014
An imprint of Alnpete Limited
Copyright © Stefan Jackson, 2014. All rights reserved
The right of Stefan Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Quote from Deadwood © 2004, Home Box Office, Inc. All Rights Reserved, used with permission.
Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ
www.elsewhen.co.uk
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-908168-48-1 Print edition
ISBN 978-1-908168-58-0 eBook edition
Condition of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited
Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events and conspiracies are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual conspiracies, events, sites or people (living, dead, or extra-terrestrial) is purely coincidental.
Bollinger is a trademark of Societe Bollinger & Co. (France); Cadillac is a trademark of General Motors LLC; Christian Louboutin is a trademark of Christian Louboutin; Colt .45 is a trademark of Colt’s Manufacturing Company LLC; Dom Pérignon is a trademark of MHCS; F.B.I. is a trademark of Federal Bureau of Investigation; NASA is a trademark of The US Government and its Government Federal Agency National Aeronautics & Space Administration; NYPD is a trademark of City of New York; Smith and Wesson is a trademark of Smith and Wesson Corporation; The Royal Air Force is a trademark of The Secretary of State for Defence; Waldorf-Astoria is a trademark of HLT Domestic IP LLC; WHO is a trademark of World Health Organization. Use of trademarks has not been authorised, sponsored, or otherwise approved by the trademark owners.
contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Draft Proposal - DWR
For Angeliki and Isabella – Two of a perfect pair.
Selfish behavior and economic incentives rule every aspect of life.
–Chicago School of Economics. Circa 1950s
Prologue
Puget Sound. July 15, 2062.
A murderous bullwhip crack shattered the sound barrier.
In that instant planes, birds, trees, flesh, bone, rock, fish, metal, concrete, dirt, candy, love – all things become undone.
In that instant sand was pounded and melted to perfection.
Vitrified.
Super-cooled.
In that instant a pristine sandy coast was turned to miles of solid and smooth dull crystal shoreline.
1
Manhattan 2076
5:45 AM. The ring on Nikki’s pinky finger vibrates.
Her eyes snap open and her mind fires on all cylinders. She removes the ring from her finger and sets it on the contoured alloy charging cradle, shutting down the alarm.
She checks her phone. No coordinates yet. The pinky alarm had been synced with her phone. She had expected to awaken to instructions on what to do next. Now she is on hold. She doesn’t like being on hold. Nikki is a girl on the move. A woman in constant motion.
She slides out of bed and walks over to the translucent screen on the east wall of the rented apartment. She pushes the small yellow button that activates the device. The translucent wall becomes a three dimensional, real time image of the outside world. The device is designed for spaces that have no real windows. She places her forefinger on the wall and calls up the east view. The window displays the still and verdant corner of Henderson and Broad streets. Outside is soft blue-gray and quiet. The sun is on a slow rise, a soft yellow flare on the horizon. She enjoys this time of the morning more than any other time of the day. She had read that the magical energies of the morning sun blast away the negative residue from the preceding day. So each day is fresh and clean. And those who set their path in the wake of that healing wash can own the day. It is something she believes. And so, more often than not, she is successful in her endeavors.
The lower left corner of the window reads: 41°F. Wind: 10 NW. Nikki uses her finger to slide the panel from east to north, then to the south and to the west. She finds it is a peaceful mornin
g in all four corners of the city. She moves the window back to the east.
Walking into the bathroom Nikki looks in the bathroom mirror – Twinkle. (You are loved.) She sits on the toilet, content.
Later, Nikki washes her hands and again looks in the mirror – Twinkle. (Life is good. You have the power to make it better.)
She grabs a sleeveless, knee length, open back Basesuit from her black satchel, stands before the full-length mirror –Twinkle (You are beautiful) – and inspects her body. Her breasts are more than a mouthful and nicely shaped. They get attention and elicit smiles from both men and women. Nikki likes that.
Nikki works her slender form into the black, skintight body garment made of live fibers that mimic and mold to wardrobe programs.
She walks over to her laptop computer, opens her wardrobe folder and searches for the perfect outfit. Nikki is not happy with her current stock but she doesn’t have time to shop now. She settles for a dress she has not worn in years, a long black sleeveless number with a swooping open v-back. She double clicks SHOW/RUN. A life-sized image of the dress is projected next to Nikki. She steps into the projection and looks at herself in the mirror. She likes the way the dress falls at the back; it really accents her firm butt.
Nikki steps out of the projection and grabs the belt off the countertop. She removes the marker from the belt and slips it into the coding slot on her laptop computer. The belt icon (a smiling woman with a bright yellow jumpsuit) appears on the computer monitor. Nikki opens the icon, removes a few wardrobe programs from the marker, then uploads the black dress. She returns the marker into its niche on the belt. She presses a tiny chrome button on the belt. The black dress she selected a moment ago envelopes her body. She taps the SELECT button and calls up her work outfits; finally choses black denim pants and a black shirt with a chrome spine and blue-laced trim on the collar and sleeves. She puts on her flat-soled, closed-toed shoes, which the wardrobe program converts to black peep-toed pumps. (Nikki selects Mickey Mouse Red for her toenail color.)
Nikki pops the wand free from her laptop. She taps the end, activating the eyelash detail.
Her phone rings. She looks at the screen and notes the code. Time to go.
2
I’m not right.
I feel a frost of mind and grit in my veins. I feel like a deliberate melody with a dragging bastard beat. A nagging, unwanted but proud vibe. I want to be free of it. I want to feel free in body and mind. Yet I can’t jump the tricky beat. I can’t find the time.
I run my fingers over the nape of my neck and locate my mjac. I plug into Aliceon and set my authorization code. 00:01 running appears as a quiet ghost before my eyes. I fade the Aliceon timer.
I tap the audio icon and select jazz, play all. The city is beautiful and quiet at this time of morning, save for the dozens of personals moving about. I drive south on Seventh Avenue. The stores of Chelsea are bright and empty with the exception of a few window dressers working on their displays.
03:01 complete flashes three times and quits. Then Clean appears and fades away.
I still feel like hell. I unplug Aliceon, running my fingers along the nape of my neck, blindly manipulating my skin and securing the port.
Buzz-buzz emits from the dashboard of the mot. The call is from Nikki. Little Miss Fun. I press the speaker icon and say, “Yo.”
“Hi, Lover. Whachadoin’?”
“Dealing with my mind.”
“Still? Damn. Did you run a diag?”
“Yeah. Aliceon says I’m clean.”
“I’ll give you a proper scan when I see you. I got the call.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“Cool. See you soon.”
“Yep.”
Nikki disconnects.
Suddenly my mot and I are scanned by a palm-sized personal. Once the unit has verified occupancy, it displays Olympic champion Bosnit Pota winning the one hundred meter men’s dash in seven-one wearing Naide’s Pulsewear. Naide is my preferred brand of sportswear.
3
I drive my mot into the horseshoe drive of Nikki’s apartment complex. She rushes from the lobby when she sees me. I come to a stop and she gets in the vehicle. Nikki is sweet on the eyes and havoc on the imagination. She has caramel dipped skin, a clean oval face accented with thick eyebrows and cushy lips lightened with warm and smiling amber eyes. Her thick black hair is captured in a ponytail that curls at length’s end. She uses her hands to talk and she pinches and punches, slaps, hugs and touches.
“Okay, turn around.” Nikki orders as she pulls her laptop from her black messenger bag.
I do as instructed. I feel Nikki peel away the fabric that mocks skin at the nape of my neck. She inserts a plug into my mjac.
“Running,” Nikki states.
“So, you gonna tell me what the gig is?” I ask.
“Quiet,” she snaps. “Let me do this in peace.”
We sit quietly and listen to Cerulean Sea.
“I have to meet your original designer one day. You have some funky codes. You are clear and clean but I don’t like the dress of your programs. You’re tricky.”
She removes the plug and closes my skin.
I run my fingers over the sealed mjac port. “I’ll bring you along the next time I reach out to my creator.”
I watch her secure her laptop within her messenger bag. She then draws a flash drive from a niche in her bag. “Where to?” I ask.
“Eastern Long Island,” she replies as she inserts the flash drive into the dashboard port. The menu appears and she drags the address into the travel bin. She presses the walking man icon.
“Journey loading,” says the mot. Then a heartbeat later, “Destination confirmed.”
Nikki reclaims the flash drive and places it in her bag.
I tap the green button and the mot drives.
“What are we looking for?” I ask.
“My holy grail,” she says flatly.
I nod. “Is this gonna get messy?”
“Probably. That’s why I called you. Otherwise, I’d do this myself.”
“Can you give me an idea of what I’m up against?”
“No. I honestly don’t know. I just know where it is and that we have to get it now.”
Damn. I hate this type of gig. I can’t properly prepare, which means I need to think in extremes so that I can minimize the surprises that reality will hurl at me.
My mot is scanned by numerous personals as we move down the avenue. A large square-shaped translucent flatware appears quickly on my left and features the forever-cool Arsenio Rodríguez and the always glamorous Sparta Rie sharing coffee at a Havana café. Arsenio lights Sparta’s cigarette, then he lights his own. They smoke Página 53. Un producto Cubano fino.
A full sized star-shaped personal on our right shows a platinum-haired woman with exquisitely sharp cheekbones wielding a neon green lasso to stop an evildoer. The heroine wears tight-fitting, thigh-high boots made of S-Leather exclusive for Prini.
Before my mot, dozens of exotic models parade to and fro in colorfully elegant gowns as they display fresh flesh and dazzling jewels. “First Water estate diamonds and gems from the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries, only at Rubin’s,” each model states as she rotates to center position in the advert. Global Certified Consignments flashes at the bottom edge of the ad.
We continue down the avenue as legion of personals suggest people, corporations, services and items of necessity and fantasy specific for Nikki and me.
4
The single door has long ago been removed from its hinges and stored somewhere in this severe indoor landfill.
Cascading mountains of decades old newsprint, magazines, comics, porn, posters, printed cardboard, plain, colored, and printed-paper choke the entire warehouse. White and brown spider webs are thick in the corners, on the walls, from ceiling to floor, a faux netting stretching across the columns of paper, covering meter after meter of the warehouse’s French windows. The vermin leave behind evi
dence that they rule this place. The stench of mold and decay worms into the tongue, it’s like chewing on burning hair. This pervasive smell can’t be from decaying paper alone. No doubt many things have died here and I have no desire to become part of that mix.
Nikki’s phone loudly pings. Looks like we’ve located her holy grail.
We struggle with the junk. Then we extract a bundle of manila folders bound by thin twine. Nikki’s phone emits a single loud drone. She turns it off.
“This is it,” Nikki says low and hard. No question or disappointment in her voice, yet, it feels as though she can’t believe it.
I see the black chip and rip it from the top folder. I crush the electronic tag with my boot heel.
“What’s that noise?” Nikki asks. “You hear that? Sounds like a drunkard playing a Theremin.”
“I know what it is – brace for impact!” I reach for Nikki but too late. The concussion hurtles us to the floor of the filthy room.
I’m on my feet a heartbeat later.
Nikki is not. She’s on her hands and knees for a moment then lands on her ass and stares at me. She blinks. I can see she is gathering her thoughts.
Continued sounds of destruction erupt from the quarters below us. I hear heavy and steady noises of rude, uninvited people.
I expected this.
I do not believe in surprises and accidents so I knew we’d have company sooner or later. Nikki is of the same mind. That’s why she hired me. Now her flesh is my priority.
Life is simple when your agenda is clear.
I turn away from my client and pull out my gun, a blunt-nosed thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson. A classic. Guaranteed to stop and drop. I ease toward the lone exit of this room.
Glass Shore Page 1
