by Kondor, Luke
He readjusted his hearing aid and pointed it to the house. All around him the nightlife of the Earth creatures crawled and scurried. He opened his jacket and readjusted a dial on his overalls. The sound of the creatures fell away from him and brought the movement inside the house into focus.
A small Earth-pet. A human female. A rustling of some sort of synthetic fabric. A coat or something. Horrible noise indeed.
He dialled the hearing aid back a bit.
He heard the Earth-pet run up the stairs. He heard its nose sniffing the closed faces of the collateral. He even heard the tear as it fell from the human’s face. He heard everything.
Perhaps he should close them too. What was one more human?
The thoughts disappeared as the device in his pocket buzzed. The tablet, a thin slice of glass a little bigger than his hand. At first it displayed nothing, but JoEl ran his finger down the centre, top to bottom and then left to right, and the thing beeped into life.
With human technology at the place it was now, they would likely be able to use it. A home screen. A messaging service. And the connection to the Network: The Freelance Network, that is. The software that connected Freelancers across the galaxy.
JoEl tapped on the tablet to bring up his case. A tick box — mission complete. A notes section — 2 x adult humans, collateral. To sign off, he wrote his name on-screen with all the flair of a painter.
Within seconds, the currency was processed. A collection of ones and zeros that would keep him fed and happy for a quite some time. He lifted open his jacket pocket. He went to put the tablet back into its correct pocket but it vibrated again. Another notification. Before he had chance to look at it, it vibrated again, and then again, and again. Again. Again. Again.
His account, the list of briefs, full. No pictures; just names and ages. All children. A window popped open in the centre of the screen and a message read “Do You Wish To Add These To Your To-Do List?”
“Yes,” he said aloud. “Yes, I do.”
He put the tablet away and felt a buzz of energy run through his fingers. He tightened his gloves and thought of TeAl. It would be a while longer before he would get to go back to see his son and his wife. A while longer indeed. He had a lot of work to do.
Freelance Network Welcome Pack
Hello and welcome to the Freelance Network.
If you’re reading this then you have found yourself part of a very ancient collective of Freelancers — adventurers, smugglers, mercenaries, personal assistants, videographers, copywriters, social media managers, and whatever else happens to be needed by somebody within the Galactic Community.
The Freelance Network is a simple networking service reachable only by the invited. Post spam at your own risk. The Moderator will not take it and you will be deleted.
When you first sign up with your invitation code and have completed the mandatory video course, you should head over to the introductory board and post a simple one line bio — your name, transport method, and skills. Any more than that will be considered unnecessary, and you will be deleted from the Freelance Network for good. And by deleted, we mean killed.
The job board is where you can look for work or post jobs that you require filling. The jobs available can be as simple as transporting a package from one planet to another, or could be a little more involved. It could be an ongoing lifetime of work which could keep you going for centuries to come or it could be a one-time affair.
The moral nature of these jobs is, again, unfiltered — please keep all opinions about morality to yourself.
We are a proud community of Freelancers who have been acting under the radar of the Galactic Community for a long time, and will continue to do so as long as discretion is taken seriously. If you leak information of the Network, you will be sure to find a job on the board with your name on it, and a price.
Whatever computing node you’ve been given — chip, tablet, phone — you can find a simple set of video instructions down the sidebar and there’s always the Tech Admin team available for any support you may require (additional subscription fee needed).
All in all,
See you on the boards,
Happy Freelancing,
Yongzak
Scribe & Community Manager
Ian Foster
THERE WAS A PERSON, NO, a child. With chocolate brown curls on his head and sweet caramel skin. With a smile that could win over the stoniest of hearts. The demeanour of polite all over his blue cotton school jumper and ashen short trousers that end above his unspoiled kneecaps.
He was the kind of kid who would do his homework before leaving school. The kind of child who’d ask the teacher for more work to do afterwards. When the rest of the class had their hands resting on the tops of their bags, ready for the bell to ring to make their escape, he would wait behind. He couldn’t leave without asking the teacher a few more questions. How exactly do plants convert light into energy? Why does metal expand when heated? Why does the Earth rotate?
He was a smart kid. Most teachers would consider him a blessing.
To Ian Foster, the child’s science teacher, he was a pain in the arse.
It wasn’t an ordinary school to begin with. It was an all-boys private school for the gifted. Only a special breed of child was allowed in this school. A child like Darpal. But Darpal was more than special. And it all became apparent in that one class. The last one of the day. The final stretch before the home-time bell.
The sun beat through the windows onto the students’ backs and into Ian’s thick lensed glasses. All around him was warm and sticky, and the floral fabric beneath his armpits was damp and translucent.
He’d been there, teaching that class, for five years. Forever waiting, watching. They didn’t just let any old teacher in there either. This was an IPC-funded school. When Ian took the job he was briefed on what to look for, and after monotonous class after monotonous class, it finally happened.
Ian, who admittedly looked like a bearded egg propped on top of a bag of sand, asked the class “Who can recite Pi to five decimal places?”
Of course Darpal’s hand shot upwards. He instantly reeled off the decimal places of Pi like he was reciting his Christmas wish-list.
“Three point one four one five nine,” he said, beaming.
“Okay Darpal, okay,” Ian said, waving him down.
“Two six five three,” he continued. “Five … five … five.”
The children sitting behind Darpal moaned and Ian was about to join them when Darpal’s eyes rolled backwards towards his skull and the numbers went wrong.
“One zero zero one one zero one zero one one.” As Darpal spoke he shook in his seat. The bottom of his stool vibrated against the floor. White foam fell from his mouth. The moaning children from behind him sat up and screamed as the numbers continued to fall from Darpal’s mouth.
“One zero one one zero one one one.”
“Sir, what do we do?” one of the boys shouted.
“Erm …” Ian watched for a second, unsure what was happening. “Well …”
“Sir!”
“Right yes, okay, well, he’s having a seizure so just … “
“One zero one one zerooo one zerooo.” Darpal stopped shaking and dropped to the floor like a lump of meat.
Ian rushed over to him and asked if he was okay?
Darpal replied with murmurs as he writhed on the floor. His pupils were fully dilated and his eyes never settled.
“Sir, should I call his parents?” the little shit Jason Brant said.
“No Jason, it’ll be all right,” Ian said, remembering that Darpal lived in a foster home. “Everyone make your way home now, I’ll get Darpal to the nurse.”
“Sir, honestly, I can call them now.”
“No Jason! Just leave it.”
Ian lifted Darpal’s head in his hand and waited for the children to scatter out through the door and into the field behind the science building, leaving Ian and the broken child alone.
Like the Tolkien tr
ee-creature Ian was, he took an age to figure out that he should probably call someone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the school-supplied phone. Darpal gently shivered in his hands, calming somewhat now.
“Hello,” Ian said, “I have a child here.”
“Yes,” the voice replied. It sounded like an old man. “What do you want us to do with it?”
Ian pressed his hands against the boy’s balmy feverish head.
“You know what I mean. I think he’s one of them.”
Ian hadn’t called an ambulance. There was no point: nurses and doctors couldn’t help the child now. It was up to them. The IPC.
“Well, does he have the speck?” the voice said, tired, annoyed. Probably taken fifty of the same calls that morning.
“The speck?”
A sigh.
Ian felt silly. He could tell the voice wanted to hang up.
“Okay, so let’s go through a quick checklist.”
“Okay,” Ian said as he readjusted the glasses on his face. “I can do that.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, the other kids have all left. Just me and the boy.”
“Okay,” he said. “Does the child have a high sense of self-worth?”
Ian looked down at the boy, now quiet, asleep. He didn’t think so, but there was the boy’s assertion that he deserved an A+ on his recent biology test, even though it was really more of an A-.
“Definitely,” Ian said.
“Does he feel the rigid ritualistic systems are archaic?” the voice said.
“What? Like, is he an atheist?”
“Sure,” the voice said.
“I think so. He never mentioned being a Christian.”
“And last question. Does he have the speck?”
“Speck?”
The voice sighed again.
“The fucking speck. The speckled indigo pigments in his eyes, just around his pupils. If I have to explain it any more than that I will be sure to report—”
“Okay okay. Calm down.” Ian’s face reddened as he gripped the phone between his cheek and his shoulder. He leant down over the boy and lifted his head up. With the boy’s chin cupped in his one hand, he pried open an eyelid with the other. Sure enough, in the boy’s dark brown cornea, he could see the speckled indigo. It looked like amethyst dust suspended in rock. Ian smiled in wonderment as the boy’s eye sparkled.
“Well?” the voice said.
“Yes,” he said. “Bloody hell yes, and it’s magnificent.”
As he peered into the boy’s eye the pupil contracted and he began to murmur. He was waking up.
“Okay then. Get ready because I’m sending over a team. They’ll be there shortly to pick you up.”
“Me too?” Ian said.
“Yes, you’re both coming to the academy. That’s how it works. He’s never going to see his parents again. He needs someone he recognises. And you’re that someone.”
“What? I didn’t sign up for that,” Ian said, letting the boy lie back down on the floor. “Do I have a say?”
“What do you think?” the voice said.
A silence passed between them before the voice said “Goodbye” and hung up.
Nisha Bhatia
Nisha forced the smile. All-pearly-whites. She’d done it every single weekday morning, just like this, for the past five years, but on that day she was struggling.
Lifting her cheek muscles a half-inch was a quest given to her by the gods themselves. She couldn’t blame the gods though, not for that anyway. It would be like blaming the tree in your garden for breaking your arm when you fell out of it. You were the one climbing it.
After seeing the faces of the children in pain, she’d hardly slept. She’d finished the bottle of red, and then moved onto a tiny bottle of tequila, a gift from a wedding she went to, and then found half a bottle of Campari and guzzled that down too. She ransacked her own apartment for any secret travel bottles of spirits, any tucked-away beers or wines that she may have forgotten about.
She was tempted, oh so tempted, by the pocket-sized bottle of vodka. The one she’d kept with her for the past two years. Ever since the baby.
In the end, she made another trip to the shop for another bottle of rosé and the shopkeeper gave her the standard, “Are you okay miss?” as he handed her the change.
Of course she wasn’t okay, she thought as she pulled the cork and swigged from the bottle itself. How could she be okay with the horrors she’d seen?
With half the bottle gone she’d laid on her bed with the artificial light around her and the glistening lights of the London skyline in the gap in her curtains, closed her eyes and fallen into a dreamless comatose.
It seemed like she’d simply blinked before her alarm had zapped her awake and she had to peel herself from the bed.
Just as on any other weekday she got up, showered, cleaned her teeth, got dressed and headed out for work. The daily ritual was built into her operating system now. It didn’t matter if her mind had stopped working. Her body was on auto-pilot. Amazingly she arrived at work only a few minutes later than usual.
“Are you okay?” Tom said. He was standing to her right, on the set. “You look like shit. The makeup department told me they nearly keeled over when you zombie-walked into them this morning.”
“Water?” she said to him. A single word. Like she’d returned from a pilgrimage in the desert. “Water.”
“Errm … sure,” Tom said. He turned to one of the runners. “Seb, can you just grab a bottle of water for Neesh?”
The scared wide-eyed runner handed the bottle to Tom, who unscrewed it and handed it to Nisha. She gobbled a few mouthfuls down before handing it back to him.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
“I tried to get in touch with that space guy, but it’s impossible. He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean? Like, he’s not doing TV?”
“No TV, no Facebook, Twitter, anything. The guy has completely vanished. Apparently the panel show guys were trying to get him to guest host a show. He’d agreed on paper, but when the time came, he was a no-show, literally. Since then nobody has heard from him.”
“Oh God, I hope he’s okay,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably camping out visiting churches, beating up priests and testing their faith. I once saw him make a ten-year-old Christian girl cry because she asked him if her mother was in heaven. So yeah, who knows?”
One of the guys behind the wall of cameras shouted something over to Tom and he replied with a nod. He turned back to Nisha. “Okay, so we’re on shortly. Just got a few headlines to start with, then we’ll cut to Dave who’s at Brighton for some festival, and then after the commercial break it’s the interview section.”
“Remind me who I’m interviewing today.”
“Janet Bridge, TV chef, bakerpreneur.”
“Don’t worry, Tom,” she said. “We’ve been doing the same old format since we started. I’ll get it right today.”
“Yes well, I just hope we don’t …” Tom let the sentence drift away.
“What?”
“No, it’s okay. It’s nothing.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, the force of which caused her to burp. The smell of wine rose up to her nostrils, but Tom didn’t seem to notice. He was already making his way back to the wall of cameras. To safety.
The lights were set. The cameras live.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Hello. You’re watching The Good Morning …” Nisha hiccupped into her hand. Coughed. Vomited a little into her mouth, swallowed it back down, and then … “Sorry, Hello. As I was trying to say before, you’re watching The Good Morning TV Show with me, Nisha Bhatia.”
As she went on about the headlines, which consisted of immigrants and a rise in the squirrel population she saw Tom, his beard glistening in the shadows. He looked angry.
***
A fanned-out hand, waving in front of her face. A cool breeze blowing against her forehead. The studio lights dimmed. Not so overbearing now. Not here, wherever she was.
A cold classroom with rows of single desks. A high-tech blackboard on the side of the class behind a teacher’s desk. There were no windows, but monitors and equipment with lights and displays. No outdoor views of football fields or tennis courts. Instead, there were floating pictures of animals in trees, rainforests, insects. An origami montage. Screensavers. Fake views of the natural world.
An inconsistent light pointed at her from the ceiling. A projector light, shrouding her body and her face in the image. She stood up, stepped out of its way, and looked back at the undistorted image. It was a picture of a child. Blond hair cut like a bowl around his head. Bright blue pupils that glowed like stars. Beneath the picture was a name — Arron Turner.
“Such a waste,” a voice said from behind her.
She jumped in her skin and turned around. A short man wearing chunky black platform shoes to make himself appear taller. A skin-tight black top to make him look slimmer. And hair, charcoaled with hair dye.
Nisha recognised the man. Most people in England would. It was Dr Warwick Dalton — the famous astrophysicist and pro-atheist. He’d had a burgeoning media career after his meltdown on live TV. He’d found himself stuck on a reality panel show with some religious zealot and children’s television host. It began with the children’s host asking him how he could live in a world without a God and it ended with Dr Warwick punching him in the groin.
A fine to pay for the assault and a sudden celebrity-status.
Memes, GIFs, YouTube clips. An online cult following.
