written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format

This story is “N1990-6″, No. 2 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

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K1987-1 minus thirty-six turns
taken from Crisiandra’s Halburn’s reconstructed memdiary
recorded on Terra Firma

When you know you’re going to die, how do you want to continue to live?  As normally as possible?  Or perhaps have a full and vivid life, experiencing it to the fullest?  Maybe instead you chose a vile and despicable existence concerned with only your own carnal desires?

This is a question I’ve lived with for the last ten ceturnblocs, ever since I chanced across my future death at the tender age of 1.2 miturnblocs.  Sometimes I laugh about it, at what an implausibility it would be to come true, and other times I cry, sad that my end is coming and I know exactly when.

I’ve tried to make something out of my life, to make a lasting impression on either humanity or the galaxy, whichever my actions happen to stick to, but its hard to say if I’ve been successful – and my time is running out, since I only have two turnblocs left.  I probably should tell my maledate.

Over the years, I’ve become involved with a group known as EvoHumanoid, and now sit somewhere near the top of the hierarchy.  A benefit of this entanglement is all the evomods I’ve had access to, not all of which are publicly available, or even legal.  These mods let me delve deeper into my predicted future and hopefully straighten the path of humanity’s future.

Sitting in my large outer-wall office and looking out through the viewfield at the white cloud vapor passing lazily by, I activate my commlink with a thought, hoping to contact Renot – we obviously need to talk.

“Crisian, how are you?”  Renot’s voice is sensual but decidedly male, and he uses the familiar form of my name.

“Fine.  What are you doing tonight?  We should meet for drinks, I have something I have to tell you.”  I hope he doesn’t hear the nervousness in my voice – I want him to think I’m strong and prepared for what’s coming.

“Sure.  How does two turns past dark suit you?  I must finish editing a piece for the current project, you know how it is.”  My maledate, the artist.

“Okay.  Meet me at Mlordack’s at dark-plus-two then.”

“Yes, love.”  He disconnects the commlink in a rush to complete whatever project he’s working on.  Artists always seem to have the public image of self-indulgence and laziness, but he only ever has time for me when he makes it, and then only in scheduled amounts.

My job at EvoHumanoid allows me the freedom to come and go as I please, so long as I handle the workload, and it’s made my life a little easier over the years.  Some of my mods help with this, like the quantum memory disks that function as better storage than the human brain and the holovisual aids that allow me to directly interface with termcomputers, projecting accessed data onto my retinas.

My otherworldly looks, though, are all natural and all mine.  Thanks to them, I hold another job as a symodel with The L. Iolnik Agency, not only for an extra source of income, but also to help fill my schedule.  My lack of shyness is definitely a welcome trait in the industry, and I’m paid well for doing what can’t really even be considered work.  There’s no holoshoot, scan, or anything else tonight, which is why I can meet with with Renot.

As I leave the  office, I call for my flotrans to meet me at the transdock on this level, a neat trick most people can’t do without a remote commterm or a personal assistant – guess which one I have.

The trans arrives just as I walk though the viewfield, onto the windy transdock where the view both out and down is breathtakingly full of clouds, sunshine, long distances, gleaming buildings, and light traffic.  My own method of transportation is long and narrow, just like every other flotrans, except that it’s been painted in a matte black that stands out perfectly from the sunny backdrop.  As it connects with the dock, the door slides up and open.  Leaving the open atmosphere, I climb inside into the lap of luxury.

I still have a few turns before I need to meet Renot, so I instruct the navcomputer to take me home – a visit with the sanutil, ecstasy setting, should clear away the day’s stress before it gets added back on tonight.  The flotrans is full of touch-liquidisplays and interactive holoscreens, but my mind is elsewhere and I let it drift aimlessly as I make my way to the stratosplex.

Technically, I’m a lower-tier citizen who lives just outside the Temne-Duse sector, down in the permadusk, but this is because the Federatgov doesn’t know about my symodel income – Iolnik keeps most payments off the books and I’m no exception.  Because of this lovely sidejob, I also have a very expensive stratosplex unit close to the edge of space under the same alias I use as for symodeling – the stratosplex is the kind of place where you pay enough money for them to not ask questions of you, even when a striking woman named Lesoutae Pilnik doesn’t have a HoloID.

I notice when we start getting close to home, because the air pressure systems start up as we pass through to the final edges of the terrestrial atmosphere, and I don’t feel as heavy as I did when I got in the trans.  My stratunit has artificial gravity, air pressurization, and all the other necessities that come with living within arm’s reach of unending microgravity, but for these last few moments I enjoy the slightly-weightless feeling that reminds me, if only briefly, that I’m still human at the core.

The flotrans pulls into my private transdock and sits unmoving as the dock repressurizes.  After a few moments, there’s a beep from an internal console and the doors slide open.  Accessing my stratunit requires interfacing with a quadsecure lock that needs a commlink authtoken, a palm scan, a vocal imprint, and a retinal scan – I didn’t ask for it, since I don’t need it, but it came with the place.

I turn a holoscreen on to the quadrant’s newsfeed, audio only, and tell the mealprep to be ready for me in a quarter turn – it’s time for that appointment with the sanutil’s ecstasy setting.  I start stripping clothes off as I walk past the long outer viewfield towards the bedroom where I have a proper sleeping chamber, instead of a cheap unicouch, enjoying the starry-night perspective that always has the curvature of the planet on the horizon.

Slightly past a quarterturn later and I’m dressed for the evening, clean and refreshed.  The food is decent, it’s an expensive mealprep unit after all, but I still have another turn before I’m to meet Renot down below.  Not wanting to fall asleep, I turn up the opacity of the viewfield and project the newsfeed onto it, both audio and video.

The lights dim slightly as the images of two carefully constructed avatars appear: one male, one female, both strangely attractive and racially ambiguous.  Their audiofeed begins in the middle of a story that doesn’t seem too important – “… but concerns remain over the viability of such a long term pet, if you will, project” and they both share an equally fake, but somehow cute, laugh.  Their banter intermixed with semi-useless information begins to wash over me, and as much as I didn’t want to fall asleep, I’m now on its very edge – random memories from the day, action-item lists not completed, and other random personal errata flash before my semi-conscious mind, and I startle awake as the newsfeed crackles with an apparent lost connection before fading to a calming blue holding screen.

Thanks to the restless nap, I’m now late and rush about the stratunit, getting to the flotrans with less than a quarterturn before dark-plus-two, and it takes longer than that to get to Mlordack’s, just barely in the eastern-neighboring quadrant at the terra firma level.  Using my commterm, I silently override the velocity controls of the trans and forcefully suggest it get me to the bar on time.

During the faster-than-usual trip, I take the time to access unprocessed audimail from my commlink filtering service, almost all from adoring fans of my symodel career – which is the reason why they were filtered out in the first place.  But it’s nice to hear from loving stalkers on occasion, so every few kiturns I flip through the backlog to help boost my ego when I’m feeling a bit down.

Just as I come to the end of the audimail backlog, the flotrans navcomputer announces our arrival at Mlordack’s.  It’s not exactly a high-class place, and Lesoutae Pilnik wouldn’t be caught dead here – but it’s EvoHumanoid friendly, and my real persona’s well known in the community, so it makes for a good low-key high-privacy meeting place.  Mlordack is a large, burly Grog from Gredar who used to participate in activities that might be considered less-than-legal and generally pretends to be deaf unless his customers want a drink or conversation.  He lets the calm image work in his favor – until he has to handle the quarrels that are inevitably found in a place like this.

As the flotrans touches down on the landing pad positioned over the entrance to the bar, I exit and mentally instruct it to find a public storage facility for safekeeping and recharging since there’s no reliable transdock anywhere near.  A brief tube journey to the ground brings me to the dim entrance of Mlordack’s – the building must have been considered rich and fanciful in its time, but the bar now occupies the bottom floor of an old-fashioned, and rather short, stratosplex comprised of endless dirty glass-like mirrors.

Walking into the bar requires a deep breath and some personal courage, but there are no guards at the entrance – only a HoloID scanner.  “Hello, N1990-6.  Welcome.”

Humans and non-humans alike are scattered amongst the dimly lit interior – a member of almost every known race is present, ranging from the small, subservient Nekkar from Wyndel to the gigantic and boisterous Fretonn of Mazlyk.  A HoloID scanner, via a retinal overlay, registers Renot’s lack of presence, so I go to the bar for a drink.

“One alcodep, mint, please.”  As I start speaking, the green, scaled non-human turns to face me, revealing the odd appearance of a reptile crossed with a large bear.

“Ah, Crisian!  I haven’t seen you for a bit – how’ve you been dearie?”  Mlordack’s voice is a mixture of a hiss and a roar, in line with his appearance, but the accent and precise pronunciation are straight from the New Kingdom sector.  “I haven’t even seen you on the newsfeed recently, have I?”  In spite his facial features, he manages a snarky grin.

“Hi, Mlordack.  No, you haven’t – I’ve been too busy to make any public appearances or give the Polirevs any reason to arrest me, but I wanted to meet Renot for a drink, so I thought we’d stop by.”

The grin quickly turns into a slight scowl now.  “Still with that maledate, eh?  He’s a bit too much of an artist for you, if you catch my meaning – never did like him.”

I laugh at the old routine.  “Well, I think he’s afraid of you, if it’s any consolation.”

“True, true.  A mint alcodep, you said?  Coming right up, Crisian.”  He disappears beneath the counter for a moment, no small feat considering his size, and reappears clutching a small container of green liquid.  “Try not to let ole artsymale have too much of this, will you?  We all know what kind of tolerance he has.”  His facial features contort into something like a reptilian wink.  “This one’s on the house, love.  Chalk it up to the return of a friendly face.”

“Thanks, Mlordack – I won’t let him drink too much, I promise.”  My HoloID scanner registers Renot’s entrance, and I move to meet him at a table.  “In fact, he’s here now, so I’ll see you in a bit.”  Mlordack grunts disapprovingly and turns to another customer.

“Crisian!  So good to see you, it’s been too long.  You sounded worried earlier – whatever is wrong?”

“Let’s sit down, Renot.”  I lead to a table in the corner where we are’t likely to be overheard by any overzealous data traders.  “Look, I have something to tell you – you’ve been a good maledate, and deserve to know something important I’ve been hiding from you.”  He makes a predictable face of revulsion.  “No, I haven’t cheated on you.  This is – different.”

“Okay then, what is it?  Surely it cannot be too horrible.”

I hesitate, using the last moments of procrastination to soothe my writhing soul.  “I’m going to die, Renot.”  Now he’s understandably shocked – he may be an artist, but he’s still human.  “Not from disease, not from an accident, but from murder, in two turnblocs – and I’ve known since I was twelve.”

He stays silent for a while, pensive and staring at the table surface that used to be glossy and smooth but has been worn matte over time, neglect, and abuse.  “Twelve – that’s ten ceturnblocs.  My Furiana!  Who else knows of this?”

“Only the old fortuneteller I met so long ago.”  Words cannot express his immediate skepticism.  “I know how it sounds, and I wouldn’t have believed her either, except that what she said aligned with dreams I’d been having as a child.  And since then, I’ve been able to get glimpses of the future with the help of my mods and some experimental tech.  It’s true.”

“Okay, I believe you.  Even if it’s not true, you believe it is, and that is quite enough for me.  What do you know besides its classification as despicable murder?”

“Not much, just small bits of information and brief visionary flashes.  It’s not even enough to identify my future killer.”

“Then speak!  Tell me all that you know.”

I tell him the whole story, which is no small feat, and include the details I’ve discovered since.

“Now – an old woman told your fortune at a carnepium, and she frightened you with your own murder that included a precise date, which is slightly over one turnbloc from now.  Since then you’ve discovered it occurs at night, on a transdock, and involves a flotrans explosion.  But that is all, yes?”

“Yes.  Like I said, not much.”

“Is it on-world?  This world?”

“I think it’s here on Terra Firma, but it’s hard to say.”

“Then we must get you offworld!  That is the obvious course of action, Crisian.  I will book for us two places on the soonest flotrans to an available orbstati, and we will sojourn to another world.  Tomorrow night!”

I don’t know why I had never thought of this, since it’s a good idea.  “Okay, I guess.  I don’t like the idea of leaving my life behind though.”

“Oh, but you do not have to!  We can come back after an extended absence, and possibly you could arrange an offworld assignment so you do not lose your job as a symodel.  I assume that you can continue with EvoHumanoid from any location?”

“Location isn’t an issue.  I’ll speak to the agency on the way home, and commlink you first thing in the morning with an answer.  Okay?”

“Do not worry, my femdate.  We will avoid your untimely and unwanted death at all costs.”

We embrace before departing, but both our moods seem hopeful, as if something I’ve believed half my life to be an unshakable truth can suddenly be adapted to our will.  As we walk out, we’re greeted to “Goodbye, N1990-6 and B1957-4.  Enjoy the evening” from the HoloID scanner.

I call silently for my flotrans as Renot walks off into the thick permadusk, and it takes a few minutes to arrive – apparently it couldn’t find a secure public storage facility anywhere nearby.

On the flit home, I commlink the agency, but the boss isn’t there.

“L. Iolnik Agency, how can I help you?”

“This is Lesoutae Pilnik, one of your symodels.  I need to speak with Laetus immediately – it’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available at the moment.  Would you like to leave Mr. Iolnik an audimail or perhaps have me deliver a message?”

“Fine, ask Laetus to call me, Lesoutae Pilnik, as soon as possible.  No matter what time it is, I need to speak to him via commlink the moment he’s available.”

“Thank you, Ms. Pilnik.  I will deliver this message for you, and he will be in contact very soon.  Have a nice evening.”  The connection is terminated.

We once again reach my stratosplex unit, and enter the transdock – but something’s not right.  The bay doors appeared to be securely closed, but there were visible markings before they slid out of sight.  Did someone try to get inside?

As we land and the door opens, it’s immediately obvious that my unit has been the subject of assault, since the quadsecure lock has been somehow tampered with – the method isn’t clear, but the result is evident in the melted and sagging heap stuck in a permanently frozen drip a meter from the floor.

I activate my scanning sensors, adjust for the unit’s size, but don’t find any lifeforms or even any unfamiliar devices.  Ignoring the fact that no-one appears to be inside any longer, I activate the pulse weapon concealed inside my wrist, and slowly enter the unit while remotely accessing the stratunit’s activity records.

As I canvas the entire floorspace, looking for an intruder of some kind, the results come back, indicating a power loss approximately a single turn ago – right as I was meeting with Renot.  If the power malfunctioned, which is highly unusual, the quadsecure lock would have been unreceptive to commands and remained secure, but without a commlink to the Polirev.  That explains how it ended up in its current melted state without a bunch of Policaren showing up with heavy arms.

I call Renot and let him know what’s happened, especially that nothing’s missing or damaged, but don’t talk for long since it’s late.  I put in a request to the stratosplex management for the quadsecure lock to be replaced tomorrow, along with a power-source-independent commlink to the Polirev, but request that they keep this private – I don’t need a Polirev investigation discovering that my Lesoutae identity doesn’t strictly exist.

Preparing for sleep, I use a tempwelder to seal the entryway until tomorrow, so that no-one can enter without undoing the now-fused surface from the inside.

«————»

My commlink nudges my brain from sleep with an electrical pulse – it’s instructed to do that for high priority calls if I’m sleeping, unconscious, or just not paying attention.  I answer, but no-one seems to be there – just considerable whitenoise.

“Hello?”  No response.

“Hello?  You commlinked me in…” I check my internal timestamp, “the middle of the night.  It’s 2|31|47.  What do you want, and who are you?”

There’s more silence, followed by something strange.  “It’s time for you to die, now.  Your fate does not coincide with the plans of those greater and more powerful than you, so your time has come to an end.”  The voice sounds masculine, deep, and oddly detached.

“What?  No!  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this!”  Now a female voice, apparently who the man is talking to – how am I accessing this feed?

“Sorry, but it’s how we’ve planned it, and it’s how it’s happening.”  The link fuzzes out for a few moments, then returns.  “Goodbye, Crisiana.”  Crisiana?  Am I hearing an echo of my future death?

There’s an electrical noise and the sound of something crumpling, followed by deep, unsettling laughter.  And then the commlink disconnects.

Between the break-in earlier and now this interrupted feed, it’s been an extremely weird night, and I’m shaken.  The only way I get to sleep again is with the lights on and the initiation of a melatonin regulation cycle.

«————»

I wake up a few hours later, as the sun begins to crest the curved horizon where the atmosphere meets the nearby cold space, to find that my boss is trying to commlink me – just like I requested.

“Laetus, hello.  I’m surprised you’re up this early.”

“Yes, Crisian, well, I’m always up as the sun breaks the night, but let’s not share that with many – my reputation as a partygoer of extreme talents brings in more income than if it would be known I was an old man that both went to bed and got up early.”

It’s worth a laugh.  “Alright, I won’t tell.  I promise.”

“What can I do for you, Crisian?”

“Thanks for linking me back so soon.  I have a problem, Laetus, and I need your help.”

“Anything for you.  What’s wrong?  How can I help?”

“I can’t exactly tell you what’s wrong, but I need to get offworld for a while.  Renot’s going to get us seats to another planet, and I’d like to work remotely for a while.  Or even with an offworld assignment.”

“Hm.”  He sounds as if he’s deep in thought.  “You aren’t in trouble with the authorities, are you?  Especially not over your cover name?”

“No, Laetus – it’s both worse and better than that at the same time.”

“Okay, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.  I need a symodel to do a shoot on the Raekis Colonization Project, so you can go there for however long you need.  It’s in the Andromeda galaxy, so you’ll have quite the distance between you and whatever it is that you’re running from.”

“Great!  I really appreciate it, Laetus.  You’re sure you don’t need me anywhere after that?  I can move between planets for assignments during all this, if it makes things easier.”

“No, just go to Raekis and stay there until you can come back here.  I’ll arrange for your transportation and all other details – just be at the aerodock tomorrow at 06|00|00.  We’ll make sure you’re gone quickly, so you can be safe while you make me rich.”  I can feel him winking at me through the commlink.

“Okay, I’ll be there.  Thanks again.”

“I’ll get in touch with you when you’re on Raekis.  Be safe, Crisiana.”  He disconnects.

I once again commlink Renot for the third time in less than a turnbloc, which would be extremely unusual if these weren’t unusual circumstances.  I tell him of the plan to leave early tomorrow morning, but I leave out the details of the prescient audio from overnight.  He agrees that it’s a good plan, especially since it saves him the cost and hassle of arranging transportation himself, and said he’ll pick me up at 22|00|00 for a late dinner and relaxation before we leave the planet.

Now all I have to do is stay out of trouble for another sixteen turns.

«————»

I spend the day packing and arranging for some of my things to follow us via shipcrates, and by the time it’s all completed, there’s only enough time for a sanutil visit and a change of clothes.  The moment I finish getting dressed, Renot’s flotrans appears on the local scan – I’ve kept it on and running since the strangeness the night before.  It’s meant I had to plug in for a recharge earlier, when my body’s natural electricity and rhythms are usually enough, but it’s a small sacrifice.

Renot commlinks to let me know he’s outside, so I gather the two bags I’m bringing with me – the rest are being taken care of by a shipping multicorp – and move towards the rarely used transtube at the front of the unit.  Before exiting, I take a last look around, and an eerie feeling arises, telling me that these might be my last moments within these walls.  It looks rather empty and unlived in, now that everything’s been boxed, stored, or prepped for long-term storage.

With a sigh and a small wave of depression, I enter the transtube, and it delivers me at the passenger port a few meters below, where Renot is waiting.  I clear the transtube for a transfer, and it locks with the flotrans as it goes through a cycle of repressurization.  When it’s finally complete, I climb inside.  Renot asks me something, but I barely register it as speech because I’m so lost in thought and worry.

Our late dinner at a fancy restaurant, for which I was underdressed, has a rather somber mood with only light and inconsequential conversation.  We eventually exit the restaurant in silence, and begin our trek to the aerodock, using the newsfeed to avoid the dark silence.

The flotrans exits the traffic lanes sooner than I’d expected, and we dip through the clouds – the unexpected is not appreciated in such circumstances.

“Renot, where are we going?  We need to get to the aerodock to clear Federatrev security for our shuttle to whatever orbstati we’re headed for.”

“Yes, my love, I know.  But I have a small favor to ask of you before we depart so soon:  to complete my latest project, I simply need an imaging of you in a specific locale.  After this, we may depart.  Is this acceptable to you, Crisian?”

Once again, my maledate, the artist.  “Fine.  But it’d better be quick – we don’t have much time.  It’s already 2|10|29, and it will take at least another turn to get to the aerodock, if not longer.”

“We will be but only a moment – do not worry, my love.”

The flotrans drops into the permadusk, not far from Renot’s loft.  We land in a dark field full of weeds and overgrown brush that’s the height of an average human.

“We have to land here, Crisian, so that we do not compromise the integrity of the piece.  There is a bridge not far from here – I will take you there, but then you must stand alone while I move away to image the scene, yes?”

“Okay, let’s go.”  I’m irritated at this unexpected distraction, as if I really need any more excitement as my predicted death creeps slowly closer.

We scramble through half a kilometer of weeds and miscellaneous nature before reaching the chosen location.  It’s a dark avenue a full kilometer across with painted markings on the old surface, and a few dimly lit, old streetlamps man the borders, adding to the weighty feeling of age.  The avenue passes underneath a gigantic bridge made of rusting material and actual stone, with an overall feeling of malevolvence permeating the area.

“Stand here, Crisian, underneath this archaic lighting fixture – partially in the glow.”  I move to comply.  “Perfect.  I am going on top of the bridge, but I will be back.  You may move, but do not stray from your position.”

Renot quickly disappears into the murky semi-dark that always surrounds places like this, and I suddenly feel alone.  The worries of the last few turnblocs began to creep up: what if the fortuneteller was right?  Or, even worse, what if she’s wrong?  And I’m believing in some long-obsessed nonsense?  How horrible would it be to admit that this was all nothing but a childish fear I’ve let control my entire life?

A whining, whirring sound comes out of the gloom, lowering from above – it sounds like a flotrans landing.  It’s actually rather close, uncomfortably close, but I won’t move, so Renot can get what he needs without us being here for too long.

I see the atmosportal of the flotrans’ door slide open, and there’s a figure inside, enmeshed with the darkness.  The interior console lights give the person an eerie, otherworldly glow, but manage to hide any telling features, including the face.

With the help of my scanners, sensors, and other various bodymod instruments, I can tell the person is human and male, but that’s it.  There’s no indication of heavy weaponry, nonhumans, or anything legitimately worrisome – maybe he just wants directions to somewhere nearby?

“Hello, Crisian.”  The voice comes out of the darkness, and surprises me.  It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.  “It’s time for you to die, now.”  Now I can place it, and I’m suddenly nervous and frightened.  “Your fate does not coincide with the plans of those greater and more powerful than you, so your time has come to an end.”  The deep, detatched voice belongs to the commlink conversation I overheard the night before – apparently it was an echo of my future death.  Oh, Furiana!

Where’s Renot?  It’d be nice for someone to intervene.  “What?  No!”  I raise my hand towards the flotrans and again activate the pulse weapon embedded inside.  “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this!”  Why am I saying this?  I’ve already heard this audiplay, so you’d think I’d have something more useful to say.

“Sorry, but it’s how we’ve planned it, and it’s how it’s happening.”  Word for word, as if this had been rehearsed – even his speech sounds slightly mechanical and inhuman.  “We know of your future, just as we know that you believed you were to die a turnbloc from now.  Sorry to disappoint, but it is best if you do not leave this planet.  It would… interrupt our plans.  Such a loss of a beautiful face is truly a tragedy, but we do not have a choice.”

I see a flash from a half kilometer away – Renot must have reached the bridge and turned the imager on.  Surely he sees what’s happening by now?

“Goodbye, Crisiana.”  I move to fire my pulse weapon, since it’s now-or-never, but I seem strangely frozen in place.

My body has a mind of its own, and it collapses to the ground in a heap with a sickening slap.  I hear the electronic residue of the weapon this stranger apparently shot me with, but I recognize that the noise wouldn’t register to ordinary humans or even imagining equipment.

As the lights from my optical sensors begin to fade, I see the flotrans move up into the permadusk, leaving as suddenly as he came.  The recorded playback from the last few moments reveals the bright flash of light that I must have unconsciously missed, and a note of sadness rings through my neural network.

I hear someone cry out from a distance – it must be Renot.  It’s too late for him to make any difference, though.

Why now?  Why tonight?  I wasn’t supposed to die for another turnbloc!  And it was supposed to be on a transdock with flotrans explosion, not be murdered by a pulse weapon!  Furiana, my life has been wasted!

The power levels of my bodymods are dropping fast, and I recognize that I no longer have any physical connection to the outside world.  My body is dead, but my neural network, which I have for so long nurtured, is all that is left of me, and will extend my existence a few moments more.

In a move of desperation, I package my consciousness, memories, and other data into a compressed format, and use the remaining power to beam it into the stars above, hoping that one day, maybe, a distant person on a distant planet will reconstruct me and I will live again to succeed where I have so obviously failed.

The transmission completes, and my sensors warn me of imminent shutdown.  I doubt that anyone but me knows the true extent or power of my bodymods, so it’s unlikely that I will be revived – no-one would think that my entire existence was digital, with only the body as a physical, interactive shell.

My memory banks are throwing errors, and the audio sensors’ feed begins to dim.  I hear a faint pounding sound as the clock counts down to zero, and my limited scans tell me Renot has arrived.

At least I know that he truly loved me.

The saga will continue in “B1957-4” (A Piecemeal Future No. 3)

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

This story is “N1990-6″, No. 2 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format

written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format

This story is “K1987-1″, No. 1 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

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How easy I fall for that dark, attractive scent – the aroma of mischief – with a satiny feel and a copper taste.  That explains why I’m down here in the permadusk buying stims again instead of looking out from high over the smog, contemplating the intricacies of a higher order social life.

Money passes between our hands, the goods are delivered.

I make my way back to the flotrans, an older model, and wind my way upwards to find home – fast enough to placate my newly burning desires, but well-paced as to not attract undue attention.  Reaching my apartment on the southern wall of the stratosplex, I dock the trans and can barely control myself.  The door slides upwards and open, but I never leave.

Euphoria.

A personal utopia unimaginable.

“Deitel?  Policazar Zacharias Deitel…  Zachary… HoloID K1987-1!”  The voice in my head won’t go away, and I know it’s not a hallucination.  The haze still hangs, but slowly lifts as I realize that I never left the flotrans – and it’s now probably turns later.

“What?” I reply, my voice choked and full of the haggard pains of sleep.

“The dayshift started a full turn ago, and there’s trouble.” It’s Angelika.

“The usual?” I ask, “I’m on my way in. Brief me when I get there.”

“No.” She sounds agitated, tense.  “This is different, because….”

I don’t want to hear it, so I cut her off.  “Angelika, I’ll be in soon. Brief me then.”  I touch the knot on the back of my jawbone, terminating the commline.  The only bad part about using is the comedown and waking up afterwards.  I need to clean up before making an appearance at the Polirev.

Using the sanutil is always fast, but I have no time for more than a ‘flash and go’ – the suit for the day is on just as quickly as the old clothes came off.  Breakfast is a few pills to help with the stimcloud around my head and a mug of hotcaff for the trans.

Pulling out of the transdock, I join the flow of multilevel morning traffic.  The city is beautiful this far from the ground: it exists in an angelic cloudy realm where space is much closer than terra firma, the sunlight gleaming on every surface.  Rounded corners, exotic buildings, and colors of all kinds entertain me as the navcomputer autopilots.

Finally, I arrive at the Polirev and let the autodock system swallow my flotrans after I exit.  A transport tube brings me to my department’s floor where Angelika is waiting.

“Finally!” Again with the nervousness. “Zachary, there’s a Code 72.  That’s what I was trying to tell you before. Murder! Can you believe it?”

Of course there is – I only just arrived and put away my flotrans.

“There aren’t many any more, not since commlink implanting at birth. Do you think it was a drifter?”

Or a non-human. What a day for a Code 72.

I just ignore her attempts at conversation like usual. “Guess I’ll be leaving then.  Send the coordinates to the cruiser, and comm me in a quarter turn.”  I enter the transport tube I’ve just left and key in the department’s cruiser storage level – official trans for official business.

I pick a cruiser from the selection.  Although they are supposed to be all the same, I prefer Cruiser ZX12. Today is no different.

“Hello, Policazar Deitel.” The cruiser has a rich, precise voice, but friendly.  “I have received destination coordinates from your assistant, Ms. Angelika.  Would you like to proceed there?”

“Yes.” The sooner the better.

“Wonderful.” The voice sounds educated too.  “Travel time will be approximately half a turn.  Please do enjoy your ride.”

The gleaming, glittering scenery streams by in a blur, interspersed with clouds. But my head is elsewhere. It’s full of random images I don’t understand. Blurry, disjointed, nonsense images. Like I’m seeing someone else’s thoughts.

A commlink connection from Angelika brings me out of the reverie.  “Zachary.  You said half a turn, and here I am.  Do you want the full details, or just the standard brief?”

“Standard brief.” I surprise myself by actually speaking.  “Send the full file to my cruiser, I’ll review it on my own.”

“Sent.” She never fails. “This is a Code 72, down in the permadusk, Temne-Duse sector.  Victim is female, method and motive unknown.  She HoloID’s, and clears as a lower-tier citizen living not far from the site. The scene is pretty gruesome, so be prepared – the other information isn’t important right now, and it’s in the file. Good luck.”

I sign off the link without saying anything, she knows me well enough to expect this by now.

I’m still turning over the details in my head when the flotrans’ system notifies me we’ve arrived – I should have noticed since the sunlight dimmed and the noise of the city has disappeared. I tell the system to open the door, and it slides back to a thick layer of smog and dirt that makes my lungs immediately hurt. I feel like I was just here, turns ago.

The bridge. The old, decrepit bridge with its two half-functioning street lamps – I was here last night. This is where the meetup always is. Wonderful.

I glance around at the scene marked off in holoscroll tape and see two fellow suits, lower ranking. I approach one for details. “How old is the body?”

“A few turns, Policazar.” The suit is young. “Hard to say until the topsybots take a go at the vic at the Polirev’s cold storage, but the call came two turns ago. Caller said they found the body, so at least that old.” He looks at me for a response, or maybe even a conversation – laughable.

I go over to the body – female, as expected, but Angelika didn’t mention the vic was beautiful. Long, full red hair and a body that many upper-tier citizens pay to emulate. The clothes are elegant, but probably cheap if she’s HoloID’d as lower-tier – unless they were a gift. Or payment.

She’s splayed out in the classic body-on-the-ground position seen in the Hollyworld holofilms, as if she fell forward and twisted slightly at the last second, flailing her arms and legs in their own directions. Blood is pooled around her head in a natural manner – no prints, no wipe marks. Her pale skin seems undamaged except for the fall, no reason to expect domestic violence.

Crime scenes always intrigue me, but this one is more complicated because of my presence here last night. Was I involved? Did I witness this? If anyone catches on, the stim use will be discovered. Bad times.

“Were there any holovids from any nearby security systems or passersby?” The suit looks around, just as naive as before, unsure if I’m addressing him. “Were there, or not?”

“Sir, one, sir.” Must have decided I was speaking to him. “An artist was imaging something for a project from on top of the bridge, and says he caught something. Haven’t seen it yet, but I have his commlink if you want it.”

“Yes.” At least he’s useful. “Call for the cart, I want the body in the office and checked.”

He hands me a memcard and I turn to walk in the other direction as I connect to the artist.

The line buzzes only once before a voice answers. “Hello?” Deep, slow, and sensually effeminate, but still a man’s voice.

“This is Policazar Deitel, HoloID K1987-1.” I try to sound official. “Are you the artist with a potential imaging of our crime scene in the Temne-Duse sector?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?” Ah, smooth too. “I can send a copy to the Polirev, if you’d like.”

“No, I’d like to visit in person. Send me your coordinates.” My link beeps and a light on my thumb glows blue. “Don’t leave.”

Sighing, I walk back to the cruiser, and instruct it to take me to the artist. My head is still hazy and I’m trying to piece together a potential murder. As the cruiser leaves the ground and pivots towards the layer of smog overhead, the topsybots arrive with the bodycart – the young suit is again useful. Surprising.

A few turns have passed since the hazy wakeup, but my head is still cloudy as the sun sits in its midday position. My body is yelling, screaming, trying for more stims. But I can’t and won’t – not while on the clock. Later, if I’m still desperate, I might give in. Good that I’m exempt from bloodxams, my days as a suit are long gone. Being Policazar has its perks.

The trip is uneventful and quick – the artist doesn’t live far from where the girl lays on the aged pavement, which says a lot about the quality of the neighborhood. Plascrete is used these days. The flotrans lands on the ground, terra firma, since the entryway is on the first floor. Primitive.

I exit and notice a tenant listing outside the transport tube. The artist said he was on the top floor – five stories isn’t very high for an apartment building, and he’s the only resident listed. Interesting.

The tube deposits me at the fifth floor, and Renot Sergui is there to greet me.

“Policazar!” More smooth in person. “Welcome, please come in. I’m glad to help however possible.” His appearance matches his voice: large but soft, with clothes that let everyone know he’s an artist. As if he would be mistaken for a scientist with long, jagged, multi-colored hair like that.

I cut to the chase. “Where’s the recording?” The apartment is large, and appears to cover the whole floor. An artist’s loft. Either this guy likes cliches or has a big ego. Maybe both.

He frowns, not amused with my lack of pleasantries. A hand goes in his robe’s pocket, returning with a memcard. “Here is your video. The only copy.”

“The only one?” An imaging of this doesn’t need to be floating around. “Is there somewhere I can watch this here?” Verifying leads as legitimate is a hobby of mine.

He smiles voraciously. “But of course! Follow me.” We move into an adjacent room, set up with a large liquidisplay.

“No holoprojector?” I ask, unable to find it in the room.

“Never! Too realistic and not enough room for creative freedom! The older liquidisplays are better for this.” He smiles like I should know. “Here, insert the card into the side slot.” I do as told and wait for the picture to come up.

The picture’s dark, grainy, monochrome, and a little jerky – like an old, bad horror vid. A figure is visible in the bottom left corner, distant and standing in a small pool of light. Probably the dead girl. A bright flash from the right, and a flotrans takes to the air as she crumples to the ground. Falling into the position she’s still in. The image cuts off.

Surprised it ended that quick. “That’s it?”

“Yes, Policazar. I was stunned and stopped imaging – I ran down to see if I could help her.” Are those tears in his eyes? “I had no idea she was dead until I got there, and I went to find someone to ping the Polirev for help.” He actually seems sad. “By the time I returned, your office had begun arriving.”

Interesting. “You couldn’t link us yourself from your commlink?”

“No – it only works for voicecomm inside my apartment, here. I don’t like being bothered when I’m working.” He smiles again, wet face not ruining the beseeching smile.

“I see. And what exactly were you working on that you got the girl dying on imager?” If you can call it work.

He’s nervous now. “I need some gloomy shots for the vidproject I’m working on now, and that bridge is nearby. If you’d like to contact my purchaser for the project description….”

“No.” I pocket the memcard. “Do whatever you do normally. Don’t go very far. I’ll be in touch.” The tube takes me down again.

Strange case – a girl gets murdered by someone in a flotrans, in the permadusk, and someone else catches it on an imager. In the Temne-Duse sector. I wonder what Angelika will make of all this.

I make it back to the office before realizing I still haven’t read the full file. I don’t even know the dead girl’s name. Once again, Angelika greets me at the floor entrance.

“The topsybots have a report for the case. It’s in your desk’s commqueue, Zachary.”

I grunt, annoyed that she’s so efficient. I make my way to my desk quickly so I don’t have to talk to anyone.

Case O2P9KH-3: Posmord Report

Subject: Crisiandra Halburn

HoloID: N1990-6

Birthdate: 2112.53.15|21|07

Deathdate: 2134.25.03|00|00

Status: Deceased

Race: Human, modified

Cause of Death: Combinatory weapon, suspected to be a electromagnetic pulse / disruptor beam.

Comments: Subject has no external wounds, all injuries internal. Was a heavily modified Human, HoloID lists her as a known member of “EvoHumanoid”, a group interested in the evolution of Humans into cybernetic organisms. List of modifications available in attachment. -TB9X14

A self-created cyborg gets murdered, if you want to call it that, by an EMP and a scrambler – it’s almost ironic. Young and full of idealistic nonsense. At least I know her name now. Crisiandra.

The modifications list reads like the latest in human gadgetry from Human Packages: quantum memory disks, holovisual aids, nanite muscle enhancements – the girl had it all. Now that it’s probably murder, suspects need to be found and examined.

Wait. Time of death was the third turn last night – right about when I was there for the stims. Damn me to Furidian Hell! I need to find out whose flotrans that was, the imager didn’t get a good shot. Hopefully not mine.

I grab my polyflex coat and leave my desk as quickly as I arrived. Angelika appears, of course. I need to be left alone. “I’m leaving, home for the day – lunch with an offsite meeting afterward. Don’t link me to anyone until tomorrow.” She looks curious, but nods without questioning.

The tube takes me to the autodock recovery floor, and my flotrans arrives fast. I want to check it now, but it’s too public – people may be watching. Need to go home, to the transdock, where there are no windows, no prying eyes, no cameras.

The navcomputer starts its way home, and I’m consumed with worry: did I kill her? Why did I kill her? How do I act if I did? Many questions, no answers. Not yet.

The dock’s bay door slides shut, and I start sweating. Anxious. Nervous.

I queue the flotrans’s interaction system. “Vehicle location record, this morning, between first and third turns.”

“Hello, sir, yes sir. One moment please.” Silence for a few milliturns. “The record from the first through third turns this morning contains only two unique entries, sir. Would you like to hear them?”

Annoying computer. “Yes.”

“Home until 1|50|21.” It sounds cheerful. “Arrival at the ground-level Fourth Street bridge in Old York – commonly referred to as the Temne-Duse sector – at 2|24|37. That location was left at 2|58|05, and arrived here at 3|23|40.”

I need more information. “Access my commlink geocaching, and compare datasets with this record – Polirev access, authorization K1987-1 Alpha Viertoch.”

“Yes, sir.” A moment passes. “Completed. What would you like to know?”

“Did I leave the flotrans?”

“No, sir, you didn’t.”

“What?” I had gotten out and walked to the bridge, like always. Face-to-face deals.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand your query.” Now it sounds confused. “However, it’s worth noting that you were at the same location twice in just a few turns.”

This is getting out of hand. “When?”

“Just after the day turned over, sir.” At least it has information. “At 00|12|04 you left the flotrans for a short period, and returned home immediately afterward.”

That must have been the stims – but what was I doing back there two turns later? I must have gone to the bridge earlier than I’d thought, not unusual though.

Time to act. “Wipe all location caching, both local and commlink. Immediately.”

“Sir, that is illegal, and I am forbidden to do so!” Its voice is mournful.

“Use the same Polirev authorization. Do it!” I have to clean this up, fast. Tonight. I link my dealer.

“Hello?” He responded fast.

“This is Ruben. We have to meet again.” Hopefully I don’t sound nervous.

“Ok. Tonight, not now – it is still light out.” He doesn’t seem to notice. “Same place, at the turnover.” He disconnects. I need to rest – a nap for a few turns should make up for not sleeping last night.

Darkness.

Screaming.

A flash.

Silence.

I wake up with a start on the unicouch in my stratosplex unit. Nightmares, I hate them. A quick glance at the wall chrono shows I have just enough time to meet the dealer in the permadusk without being late. I throw on some clothes, get in the flotrans, and leave.

The ride is uneventful and the flotrans lands. I call to be let out and the door slides up and out. Nervously, I take a breath and exit, striding purposefully towards the bridge. Hopefully I seem normal – these sorts of people don’t appreciate the extraordinary.

It seems I’m the first to arrive, but it’s hard to tell. The smog and darkness of night combine in an obfuscating fashion – the pathetic artificial lighting only enhances it. I take up a spot against the wall, under the bridge’s overhang, and prepare to wait.

Except that I won’t be waiting – a figure steps out of the darkness to my right, and I recognize the dealer. He comes closer and announces himself with “Ruben.” I nod in return. “More stims tonight?”

“No.” I try to keep my voice neutral. “I need to know something. When did I see you last night?”

His face is obscured by the darkness. “Immediately after the turnover, earlier than usual. Why?” Suspicion creeps into his voice.

“Something disturbing may have happened.” Understatement. “Did I see you again after the first meeting?”

“No.” He pauses. “Is something wrong, Ruben?” His oily-slick voice becomes creepier.

Unsure of how much to tell, I decide on the truth. “There was a murder here last night. A young girl. I may have been involved.”

“Oh, is that so?” He’s faking surprise. “Did you check your location records?”

Clever, this one. “Yes and they say I was here twice. I don’t remember anything after meeting you and going home to use.”

“Well, stims sometimes make people do crazy things.” It sounds like he’s smiling. “This wouldn’t be good for your Polirev career, would it, Policazar Deitel?”

I leap from the wall and grab him by the throat, slamming him to the ground. “How do you know who I am?!” I’m roaring.

He’s laughing. “I know who all my clients are, Zachary. Even those who do not wish to be known. It is merely business.”

“If you so much as think about exposing me….” I let the threat linger.

“Oh, do not worry, my loyal customer! I have no intention of exposing you as a user or murderer. That would not be good business sense.”

“Good.” Wait. “Murderer?”

“But of course.”

The anger is flowing fast – I’m becoming unstable. “Explain!”

He’s laughing. Again. “Those were not ordinary stims that you have become so fond of, Zachary. After the accident, I made sure to run into you – I knew you could be useful. And useful you have been!”

Confusion. “What were the drugs?” There’s a disruptor in my hand, shoved against his temple.

“Stims, of course, but mixed with nanites – nanites with a specific mission. You became my own little soldier after you used, doing whatever I wanted, without the hassle of remembering!” Very confident. “Last night’s murder is merely one in a long string of missions.”

Unbelievable. How am I going to get out of this? Do I kill him? I have to. “Why! Why me?”

“Because you have training, access, and knowledge – why else?” He’s not afraid. Why? “Are you going to kill me, Policazar Deitel?”

I should. I have to – there’s no choice. “Yes. I cannot be brought down by you!” I press the charge button on the side of the disruptor with my thumb.

Somehow, I’m flying through the air. On my back, looking up at the underside of the bridge. “I do not think so, Zachary.” Dizziness helps time move more slowly. He has a device in his hand. “This little toy is so useful! Those EvoHumanoids are so clever – local gravity control is just the tip of their icerock.”

I struggle to my feet – proper balance is impossible. Concussion is probable, since I feel drunk.

“What you’re feeling now is a low-level scrambler applied to your brain – the lovely result is the same as too much alcodep.” He’s smiling again. “So I can clean this up.”

Even though I’m unable to fully control myself, I turn and try to run. Maniacal laughing follows from behind. “Futile, Zachary, futile. It really is too bad you discovered yourself.” He sounds almost sad.

I’ve made it to the other side of the bridge. If I can just get around the corner in time.

There’s a flash in the darkness, coupled with shooting pain throughout my body. A thunderous crack ripples through the silence.

Darkness.

Swimming reality.

A pinpoint of light.

I’m dying, and I know it. Time to discover the fabled Furidian Hell.

After all, I’m dead.

The saga will continue in “A Piecemeal Future” No. 2 – “N1990-6”.

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This story is “K1987-1″, No. 1 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format

A new science fiction short-story series, titled A Piecemeal Future, has been started, and will cover a near-future Earth where individual characters’ paths intertwine, leading to a complex and compelling overall story.

More details to come soon.