This is the End 2: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (9 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  “Let’s go,” I told him.

  We walked through my admittedly large and beautiful house, each step representing several square feet of very expensive real estate. My background check on Neil showed he didn’t own a vehicle, so I lead him to the garage. Like everyone else who sees my ride, his eyes bugged out when I turned on the overhead lights.

  “You have a…car?”

  “A 2024 Corvette Stingray, retrofitted for biofuel.”

  “It must have cost a fortune,” Neil said.

  “A gift from my wife.” I stared at him pointedly, letting him know his visits helped pay for this baby. But he apparently didn’t need a reminder.

  “With biofuel prices these days, it must cost a fortune to run. How many clients does Victoria have?”

  I shot him with my eyes, and he cowed. He was right, though. Funny how history repeats itself. During the energy crisis of the early-twenty-first century, desert sheiks artificially inflated the price of oil. Western countries decided they’d had enough, and half the world switched to a renewable energy source. Biofuels, made from cheap and plentiful vegetation. Extract the oil, then compost the rest for methane. But the population kept growing, and soon the foliage grown specifically for biofuel began to compete for space with the foliage grown for human and livestock consumption. That jacked up the prices of both fuel and food, and now everyone in the civilized world used every square inch of land they could spare to grow plants to make more fuel.

  I’ve seen pictures, movies on the intranet. Chicago, and the world, once looked industrial. Now every apartment had a garden, every roof a farm, every building covered top to bottom in vines. The urban jungle was, truly, a jungle.

  I hit the security button on my keys—this thing was so classic it still used keys—and we climbed into the front seat. The garage door, however, was chip operated. I waved my wrist over the remote box on the dashboard, and the door automatically levered open.

  I started the engine, listening to it purr and enjoying the look of wonder on Neil's face. Chances were high he’d never been in a car before. I hadn’t, until Vicki bought me one.

  “Address?” I asked.

  “Thirteen twenty-two Wacker.”

  I squeezed my earlobe, turning on my headphone implant. The familiar dial tone came on in my head.

  “Car nav,” I said. “Thirteen twenty-two Wacker.”

  The message was sent to my car’s navigation system, and the semitransparent map flickered and then superimposed over my windshield. Another addition that wasn’t available back in 2024.

  The garage let out into the alley. I tapped the accelerator, eased out of the garage, and fishtailed. The greentop road was spongy, and needed to be harvested and replanted. Normally I did that myself, but this week Neil would get to enjoy that particular task.

  The alley let out onto the main street, Troy, and the city kept the greentop well maintained with regular uprooting and reseeding. If I’d been able to really floor it, my tires would have had no problem sticking to the road.

  Of course, with four million biofuel bikes on the street, I’d be lucky to hit thirty miles an hour anywhere within the city limits. It was like driving through a gaggle of geese. Fast geese, who enjoyed cutting you off. Even more annoying were the kermits, who were so green they rejected even biodiesel. They powerbocked; bipedding around on frog legs, which were flexible leg extensions that added thirty inches to their height. You could run forty miles an hour in a pair, perform a fifteen-foot vertical jump, and still manage to look like an idiot with that awkward, hopping gait.

  We weaved our way through the green skyscrapers, avoided injuring any utopeons, and even managed to cut off a few CTA buses, their roofs sprouting flowers arranged in a Cubs logo, to celebrate their eighth consecutive World Series win.

  “So why do you think someone murdered your aunt, Neil? Does she have enemies?”

  “Not that I know of. But she does have credits. Quite a bit. Came into it late in life. She’s a tech-head.”

  “You can’t murder someone for their credits. Credits don’t exist IRL. To make a transfer, both people would need their biochips. There would be a record of the transaction.”

  Neil lowered his voice. “Some people don’t use credits.”

  “Who? The dissys? Did your aunt associate with any dissys?”

  “One of her nephews is a dissy. And he’s a bit…unstable.”

  I filed that away.

  It took ten minutes to drive the twenty-four blocks. Parking in Chicago was even more competitive than driving, and the car didn’t fit into the pay carousels. But being a cop had its privileges. I parked up on the clover-covered sidewalk, flipped down my sun visor with my badge number on it, and climbed out of the Vette.

  Aunt Zelda’s apartment building, predictably, was green. But the wall ivy had tiny red flowers on it, making the building appear orangish. I popped the trunk and grabbed my utility belt and holster, mostly out of habit. I didn’t expect any trouble, but it never hurts to be prepared. After cinching on the buckle and adjusting my holster, I reached for the TEV, winding the carry strap over my shoulder. Next to it was my digital tablet, and when the sun hit the solar panels it powered up, beginning a slide show of crudely drawn stick-figure pictures. Neil was nearby, so I quickly pocketed it before he noticed.

  “Were those pictures of you?”

  Apparently he’d noticed.

  “Mrs. Simpson’s third grade class. I, uh, do a lot of school demonstrations. Community relations stuff. I tell kids to stay out of trouble, only take recreational drugs in moderation, that kind of thing.”

  “Sounds important,” Neil said.

  But I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: it wasn’t nearly as important as working Homicide. I’d become a cop to save lives, to make a difference, and now I was basically just a walking public service announcement. Not that I longed for violent crime to come back. That would be monstrous.

  And yet, there was a spring in my step as we walked to the apartment door.

  The lobby had UV grow lights in the ceiling, artificial sun for the bamboo lining the walls. As expected, the elevator also sported UV, the railing lined with hemp seedlings. Along with the vine kudzu, hemp and bamboo were among the fastest-growing plants, but most people favored hemp. If Chicago caught fire, everyone within three hundred miles would be stoned for a week.

  Aunt Zelda lived on the thirty-second floor. Whether it was habit or nervous tension, Neil picked and pruned the tiny plants as we took the ride up. Like a good little citizen he palmed the tiny bits he’d pinched off, then dropped them in a biorecycle container when we reached our floor.

  We walked past more plant life, found the correct door.

  “I’m programmed with her key code,” Neil said. “I check up on her a lot.”

  He waved his wrist chip in front of the doorknob, and it opened automatically.

  When I walked into the apartment I whistled in awe.

  Aunt Zelda’s home was completely packed with contraband.

  THREE

  “Oh, I…uh…I forgot about those,” Neil said.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Just the biorecycle price alone would be worth a bunch of credits. But on the black market, we’re talking some major duckets.”

  Neil shrugged. “My aunt, she’s from an older generation. She grew up with paper. I told her to give these up, but she can’t.”

  There was a fortune around us. A fortune in books. Thousands of books. All of them illegal.

  Not that their contents were illegal. Their content was public domain. It was the paper that was illegal.

  Sometime back around when I was born, thirty years ago, the biofuel shortage began, quickly followed by the food shortage. To stem off the inevitable, plants were no longer used to make anything but fuel or food. So natural cloth, wood furniture, and paper, among many other plant-derived products, were banned. Those that already existed were gathered up and recycled for fuel.

  Not that
anything was actually lost. Even back then synthetics could imitate, or improve upon, most natural products. And digital memory had become so cheap and plentiful, every word ever written had been digitized and could be stored on something called a hard drive, which was about the size of many of these smaller books.

  Those were dark ages, compared to today. Now you could fit 300 petabytes on a memory card the size of my fingernail. Enough to store every piece of media ever created by human beings. This base of information was given away freely when you bought a digital tablet. It also came with an intranet operating system, so you could access and search the vast volumes of knowledge and entertainment, accurately updated IRT by a team of experts and technicians. If you wanted a recent bit of media, like a new book or movie or magazine, you could download it at a news kiosk for credits with a flash of your wrist, and it would transfer directly to your digital tablet.

  Years ago, when DTs needed separate monitors and processors and were called computers, people used the Internet to communicate and exchange information with other people. These days, the Internet was an underground thing for bored hobbyists and fanboyz, saturated with untruths Wikied by the uninformed, conspiracy flakes, and pr0n. Basically just a big mess of nut jobs jerking off and shouting lies at one another. And don’t even get me started on the malware.

  That was why, when Web 4.0 became a wasteland, the tech geniuses took everything off the Internet that was worthwhile—basically every bit of knowledge, media, and art in human history—and created the intranet. Now everyone owned everything, and no one missed the flame wars and inaccurate half-truths of the Internet. It was much easier to communicate using headphone implants and digital tablets. And why waste time looking for unverified information when you could spend fifteen lifetimes sorting through the accurate information on your personal intranet and not even come close to viewing it all?

  Since these books were old, I could guarantee Aunt Zelda, and everyone else on the planet, already had copies of them on their intranet cards, so there was no real reason for her to keep them, other than sentiment. Especially since digital books were interactive and versatile and just plain better. I pulled a volume off the shelf, and peered at a random page. It was medieval. You couldn’t adjust the font size, couldn’t change the contrast, and it didn’t even have a button that made it read to you.

  Still, if Zelda had met with foul play, here was a monetary motive.

  “She, um, gave up everything else,” Neil continued. “Cotton clothing. A real particleboard desk. Some cherry-wood frames. But she couldn’t part with her books.”

  “How about these bookcases?” I asked, pointing to the wood grain on them as I replaced the book. Truth was, I didn’t care at all about an old lady’s book collection. But I did enjoy freaking Neil out.

  “Synthetic,” he quickly said. “All fake.”

  I frowned, pretending to think things over. “Is there any other contraband I need to be aware of?”

  Neil got even paler. “She, uh, also has a still.”

  I raised an eyebrow. As the twenty-first century marched onward, liquor also joined the ranks of illegal products. Again, not for its effects—the Libertarian Act of 2028 made all recreational substances legal. But alcohol was made from plants, and plants could be used only for food and fuel. While the synthetic forms of drugs were cheap, plentiful, and popular, synthetic alcohol supposedly didn’t taste right. It was eventually made into pills like all other drugs, and I sometimes liked to kick back with a few whiskey tablets when I was off duty. I’d never tasted the real thing, and I was curious.

  “You’ll show that to me later,” I told him, my voice stern. “But first, show me the blood you found.”

  Neil nodded quickly, then led me into the kitchen. I lugged the TEV after him, setting it down next to the sink.

  “There,” Neil said, pointing.

  I squinted at some brown splotches on the stainless steel. It was blood. If I went back to my car for my crime scene kit, I could have analyzed the sample on the spot, compared it to a hair sample from Aunt Zelda’s brush, and instantly matched the DNA, proving this blood was hers.

  But why bother with that when I could actually see what happened here instead?

  I took the tachyon emission visualizer off my shoulder and set it on the floor. The TEV sort of looked like an antique film projector. It was box-shaped, with a lens on the front, and two large spinning disks on the side. The top contained the control panel, recording software, and input pad. On the other side were the contrast dials. It had a handle on top, and a shoulder strap.

  “Do you know your aunt’s Tesla ID number?” I asked. I could have used my own, but preferred to save the credits when I could.

  “I have it written down. Hold on.” He dug a digital tablet out of his pocket and powered it on. “B-D-R-five-two-nine.”

  I punched the code onto the keypad, and the TEV accessed the airborne electricity and powered on. Just ten years ago, electronic devices still needed to be plugged into wall outlets, fed by generators that used enormous power lines.

  Now Tesla generators threw electrons into the atmosphere, which were zone-coded so customers paid for only what they used in their prezoned area, using specific serial ID numbers. It got rid of all the wires, making room for more plants. But the generators ran on biofuel, so I wondered exactly what we gained in the transition.

  The TEV hummed. I picked it up by the handle and moved it onto the kitchen table, using the monitor to aim the lens at a wide-angle view of the sink. That was the rudimentary part. The next part was all finesse.

  From what I understood, out of everyone who took TEV training, only .001 percent became a timecaster. It wasn’t that the controls were difficult to use. But the average person couldn’t use them well enough. My instructor likened it to playing a musical instrument. A lot of people could play the notes, but only a few could make those notes really come alive.

  Tuning a TEV required a fair bit of skill, but a lot of intuition. The basic premise was kid stuff, taught in first grade science tablet texts. Until their actual discovery, tachyons were only theoretical particles. Their claim to fame was they moved faster than light. According to classic Einsteinian physics, anything that moved faster than light could go back in time. Einstein was proven correct, but time machines never materialized. Apparently it’s possible to send particles back in time, but not anything larger.

  Some scientists warned against tachyon experiments, saying that they could rip holes in spacetime and create miniature black holes and wormholes. Others insisted that tachyons, if applied at a proper frequency, could travel back through spacetime and record it. The mathematicians still couldn’t figure out how it actually worked, but knew it had to do with the eighth imploded dimension.

  The TEV, used properly, allowed a timecaster to set up in a certain vantage point, and then record everything that happened from that vantage point up to two weeks prior.

  In layman’s terms, mankind now had a rewind button.

  It altered how people behaved, and ultimately changed the world. Pretty much all crime could now be solved. The TEV could record the crime in progress. Even if the perpetrator cut out his chip, it was simply a question of following him backward in time, usually right to his house.

  Within two years the jails—previously empty from back when all the drug-related offenders went free—were once again filled.

  With the violent element removed, the USA became a much nicer place to live. Especially since the rest of society wised up. If, at any given moment, you knew your actions could be recorded, you tended to not break any laws. And legal drugs meant even crimes of passion were kept to a minimum.

  Eighteen years ago, when I became a peace officer, there had been more than thirty timecasters in Chicago. We were now down to two on the payroll.

  Virulence wasn’t good for diseases. A highly contagious, highly lethal virus was so efficient that it would rip through a population, killing all the hosts, and then dying it
self. The same thing with timecasters. We were so effective, we put ourselves out of business.

  “Can I watch?” Neil asked, peering over my shoulder.

  “Only if you stay quiet.”

  I pressed the emitter start switch, and the generator reels began to turn. As they gathered tachyons, they did a disconcerting thing. For brief flashes, lasting a few microseconds, the rotating wheels would disappear. This made them flicker, like jump cuts in an old movie.

  “Whoa,” Neil said.

  “Shh.”

  I closed my eyes, listening to the room, to the hum of the TEV, and to spacetime itself.

  That’s an embarrassing thing to admit—believing I could feel spacetime—and certainly not something I was taught by Michio Sata, my timecasting instructor. But I’d done a lot of research on the intranet to try to figure it out, and I thought I had a possible solution.

  Years back, supernatural phenomena were proven to be bunk by science. Ghosts, ESP, monsters, God, magic, religion, and all of that other mumbo jumbo was abandoned by the majority of society. But a small fringe group hypothesized that belief in the supernatural was genetic. In certain situations, people were able to sense and sometimes control aspects of the eleven dimensions. Little things, like knowing the phone was going to ring two seconds before it did, and bigger things, like Indian swamis who could stop their heartbeats and balance on two fingers, were all related to the interaction among dimensions.

  Certain people were more sensitive to this interaction than others. Throughout recorded history, these people were attributed with divine or supernatural powers. Magicians, prophets, mystics, miracle workers, clairvoyants, soothsayers; these folks could tune in and channel other dimensions. Some were treated like gods for having this ability. Others were burned at the stake.

  This hypothesis never graduated to a theory, because only a few of the imploded dimensions could be proven mathematically, and the only one that could be seen was the eighth dimension, through tachyon emission visualization, and we weren’t even completely sure how it worked.