Escape Velocity: The Anthology

by Unknown

  range just by thinking about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We use an ultra-sensitive detector, pretty much like an EEG. It picks up the electrical pulse of your auditory input as well as that of your thoughts, and then actuate output—’

  ‘Whoa. It’s enough that it works.’

  At last she smiled with perfect teeth. ‘And it will improve. This is cutting edge, Abner, we’re not even sure of the limits of its capability.’

  He tapped his nose. ‘More than you’re letting on.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I know about another one of your experiments. She made contact with me.’

  The doctor raised already tall red eyebrows to a greater height. ‘Explain.’

  ‘You don’t deny that a woman, Harmony, is one of your cochlear implant experiments?’

  Her green eyes looked at him showing no surprise. She turned and left, followed by her minder. Abner’s stomach tightened as he thought maybe she didn’t know about Harmony. If that was the case who the hell was she?

  The doctor returned with an electronic pad. Abner saw photographs.

  ‘I didn’t see her.’

  ‘Okay, but I need you to listen to these recordings, only a dozen.’

  As his memory tested the voices for a match, he wondered if their owners had thought they were unique too. Harmony though, knew she wasn’t, and she must have concocted her name or McBain would have known it.

  He reached the end. ‘Either she was a good voice actor, or...’

  ‘You worked it out, Abner. Your Harmony isn’t one of ours.’

  While the consequences of the doctor’s words danced in Abner’s head the general showed up.

  ‘Hello again, Abner. Good to use near normal communications this time, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We’re going to offer you a job, Abner, but first have you any questions?’

  ‘Yeah, can I not have a military job?’ Abner threw a frown. ‘What happened about that torture stuff I reported?’

  ‘Those voices came from a cabin all right, they were playing a games console.’

  Abner didn’t believe he made that mistake. ‘How did you track me down? I can’t believe my parent’s trailer’s on a database.’

  ‘No, but their credit data is. You called a cab even if directed to a wrong location. Your cell phone got us your position.’

  ‘Okay, so what d’yer want me to do, and how much is the pay?’

  Back in the trailer, at the pullout table, Abner yanked the tab on another can of beer even though it was dawn. His mission allowed as much time as he needed. No pressure. He’d carefully uprooted one of the Scarlet Pimpernel red flowers and potted it in a jam jar. It wilted for a whole day, but recovered its will to live and now looked a survivor, much like himself. In the rays of a desk lamp, the red petals opened. No rain today. He checked the clock. 5:08. Two minutes to go. Funny that she was working for another government all along and now he was being paid to bring her in, to his. Would she be there? ‘Hello Harmony, it’s me, Abner. I’m ready to be your friend…’

  Caveat Emptor!

  Bec Zugor

  The fifty-something man in the Titanium White suit waves an expensively-manicured hand at the screen in front of us. “There’s really no need,” he says. A beep, and our images appear, along with the date, September 24, 2058. “We can deal with this privately, you know. Some compensation maybe?”

  “No! I want this on record, Barlow. People should know the truth.”

  “So you keep telling me,” he says. “But our products are highly recommended in all the medical journals.”

  I’m exhausted, but too jittery to be able to relax in one of Barlow’s Comfi-Gel chairs, so I lean against his desk. “You’re selling faulty goods.”

  “I can assure you, we’ve had many satisfied customers.”

  “Not this one. Checks should have been made.”

  “Young man, we’ve been selling these products for over twenty years.” Barlow sighs. “People normally register complaints with our Customer Service Department, they don’t insist on TV stations being notified. But it’s late. Let’s get on with it, now you’re here. Please begin.”

  “I know why you’re helping. You’re planning to delete this once I’ve gone.”

  “Begin.”

  “One of your reps called round about eight months ago.” I raise my voice and stare at the screen, so people will be able to see me mouth the words as well as hear them. “A representative from Barlow Implants. Aesthetic Division!”

  “Your normal voice is sufficient.”

  I go and grab a coffee from the dispenser and down half of it – the hot bitter liquid masking the metallic taste of blood – before continuing. “She called at my habi-unit with one of your damned holobrochures.”

  “Be specific. I’m not having all our products slated.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be interested in cosmetic surgery, would I? It was the one selling skill implants.”

  “TransTalent 3000? We don’t get too many complaints about that – the anti-rejection drugs have no side effects these days – unless a donor hasn’t been entirely honest.” Barlow laughs. “You know, the recipient suddenly finds their sexual orientation has changed. Relatives create one hell of a fuss about that. Is that it? Or were you vegan and now you crave meat? Oh.” He gasps and sits up straight, squinting at me as if searching for... what? “TransTalent 3000. How long ago, did you say?”

  “Eight months. I still get twinges in my chest from where they made the incision.”

  “Y-you didn’t state your name. We’ll, er, need that for the files.”

  “Kyle Martin. Eighteen years old. Residential Sector D.”

  “K-K-Kyle Martin?”

  “You’ve heard of me?” I unzip my new leather jacket. Colour of Burnt Umber, if I was painting it. Barlow doesn’t seem to notice my blood-spattered shirt.

  He turns his head. “Y-yes, I remember. You’ve lost weight, so I didn’t recognise you.” Frowning, he looks at his wristcom. “I could call someone else to assist, if you prefer?”

  “No. Thought I’d go to the top.”

  “Y-you were saying?” His forehead glistens, despite the breeze wafting in through the open window.

  “You must have had loads of complaints about this before. That’s why you’re nervous.”

  “Go on, Kyle, please.”

  “Look, I only wanted to better myself,” I say through gritted teeth. “To be good at something. So I chose the Artist Option.”

  Barlow’s eyes look glazed. “It’s good to be creative.”

  “I wanted to make my parents proud of me. They didn’t approve of me leaving home. Then I failed my art exams and I didn’t have the heart to tell them.”

  “So you had the implant, Kyle. A wise choice in your situation.”

  “No. It was wrong. I should have accepted that I’m not naturally artistic, even though I love art. I never knew what colours to use, and I couldn’t draw. It just wasn’t in me. Now I’m paying the price.”

  “You’re dissatisfied with the result?” He wipes his brow, his hand shaking.

  “The brochure made it look so tempting. So easy.” Looking towards the glasplex window I point to the huge illuminated billboard on an office tower a block away. “See what it says? ‘TransTalent 3000. Want to be a skilled musician? Artist? Writer? Be the envy of your friends! Don’t waste years honing a talent – transplant it! Effective in less than two months!’”

  “Most customers are happy.”

  “Well, I think you should have Caveat Emptor printed on your sales contracts. You know, like in the olden days. Buyer Beware!”

  He shakes his head. I notice he’s breathing faster. “My father started this company. He was a good man. He’d heard the reports at the beginning of the millennium about heart transplant patients taking on some of the personality traits and abilities of the organ donors, so he began experiments.” He smiles at the portrait near
the door. “Took him years to perfect the technique, taking cells from a donor’s heart, treating them with growth enhancers...”

  “And transplanting them into mugs like me. Quicker results than a full heart transplant. Yeah, I know the process. The brochure, remember?”

  “It’s an efficient system. We approach only the most talented people and offer them a fee for letting us have a cell sample.” There’s what looks like a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “We improve people’s lives. You did become a good artist?”

  “Oh, yes. That happened. I have a habi-unit full of both liquiplast and traditional paintings – citiscapes with the most beautiful skies you’ve ever seen, by the way – and holoportraits, anti-grav sculptures…” In my pocket, I finger the smooth steel blade of the knife I use for sharpening pencils. “But I also acquired some other characteristics, which must have come from the donor. Bad stuff.”

  “R-r-really?” stammers Barlow. “M-most unfortunate.”

  I lean closer to him. “It started with irritability. Then aggression and paranoia. I even started carrying a knife with me, for protection. My friends soon started avoiding me. And then, this evening, I found myself following a man I’d met in a bar. He’d said something. I can’t remember what, but I felt annoyed. No, furious. Dragged him somewhere dark and slit his throat.” Barlow pales. “Then I – I had a bottle with me – I…”

  Barlow vomits, and I wait while he cleans himself up.

  “I collected the blood,” I whisper. “Had a few sips – don’t know why – and took the rest back to my habi and painted with it. Nothing recognisable. Just splashed it on and brushed it over the wall. I think it was going to be a line drawing, a sketch of some sort.”

  Barlow gasps. “That’s what he used to do.”

  “Next thing I know, the police storm in, say they’ve been watching me…”

  He backs away from me, shaking. Judging by the smell, I think he’ll be needing new underwear. His voice is croaky. “You killed them, didn’t you?”

  “To get away. I think one of them survived.”

  Looking towards the door, he appears to relax a little. “So they’ll be after you then.”

  “That’s why I came here. I’m as good as dead. But I want everyone to know it’s not my fault. It’s your product, I’m sure of it.” I pause. “What did you mean, that’s what he used to do?”

  “I…”

  I stare at him. Now it’s my turn to feel nauseous. “You knew about this?” I feel that hot, dark fury rising within me again and try to keep it under control. For now. “And you sold the product knowing what it would do to me?”

  He removes my hand from his neck. “L-look, the police came here. They explained what they needed...”

  My chest feels as tight as a stretched canvas covered in rapid-drying liquiplast. In Ivory White, perhaps. I try to slow my breathing. “Go on.”

  “The police, they’re under pressure, you know, performance targets,” he gabbles. “Anyway, there was this chap they suspected of killing dozens of people. He was pretty smart, so they could never catch him.”

  Remembering the news reports, I put a hand to my head, feeling dizzy. “The Diver?”

  “Yes, Kyle, The Diver. The worst serial killer this decade. He used to leave a cartoon-like sketch – in the victim’s blood – on the nearest wall. His signature, if you like. They say he probably wears all-in-one plasfibre, as he never leaves any DNA. And he can disable CCTV from a block away, they reckon.”

  “I heard about it. They almost caught him once, but he dived out of the window of some residential tower in Sector A. Landed on the roof of a fast-food stall hovering twenty feet below, didn’t he?”

  “He was lucky.”

  “So?”

  “Their chief suspect died in an accident earlier this year. His habi was clean – plenty of ordinary artwork, of course, but no clues or DNA from any of his victims – so they had absolutely no evidence.” He shrugs. “And the public have been clamouring for results. Threatened to withhold their taxes.”

  “Ah. Money.”

  “So their only chance of being able to declare the case closed was to…”

  “See if someone would commit exactly the same sort of crime, if they received his cells.”

  “It’s a good thing we got the right suspect,” he says. “Otherwise we’d have had to start again. And none of my surgeons was in agreement. The trouble I had. But now, the police are happy and the public will know The Diver is dead.”

  “Why me?”

  “You were the perfect candidate, a blank canvas. Young, with no history of violence, and a failed artist too. We needed someone to choose the Artist Option.” He looks at the screen. “The police will just say they found some DNA linking the suspect with the crimes. We don’t really need to send this to the TV people, do we?”

  “Yes. The public should be warned. You will send it.”

  As I step forward, Barlow squeals, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself lunging at him. “There’s no way of reversing this procedure, so I’ll keep on killing. They’ll say I’m just a copycat killer and want me executed. People should know what’s going on, and I’ll make sure they do. Your business is finished.”

  “No. Using our unique procedures to solve crime – it’s my chance to go down in history. There are plenty more unsolved murders out there, you know. And the suspects don’t have to be dead before I get the cells. Not once I get the go-ahead. In a few years it’ll be standard evidence-gathering. Absolute proof of guilt, to satisfy the execution-going masses. People will accept it. But for now, I want it kept secret. We need a few more experiments.”

  “But the innocent recipient will be killed too.”

  “Yes, that is inconvenient.” Barlow glances at the portrait again. “But Father would be so proud. And I get a substantial reward for my troubles. Think of the potential earnings.”

  His voice tails off as I propel him towards the screen. “Mum, Dad,” I say. “Don’t think bad of me for what I’ve done. And what I’m about to do.” Barlow squirms in my grasp. “There’s no hope for me, but this has to stop. And there’s only one way.”

  My voice starts to break so I just blurt out, “I love you guys,” then holding the business end of my knife near Barlow’s eyes, I growl, “Send it.”

  “Will you let me go then?” he asks. “I’ve helped you, haven’t I? I’ll call the police off, if you do. Tell you what, we’ll split the reward. What do you say?”

  “You’ve destroyed my life, Barlow. I can’t let you destroy others.”

  “So you’re all noble now? Can’t be bought?” he sneers, struggling to free himself. “It’s only losers who buy our product. The ones who want to impress, but can’t be bothered to actually learn a new skill.”

  “Got that, people?” I yell at the screen. “You bastard. Send it.”

  Shutting his eyes tight, he nods. He’s obviously thinking the right thoughts, because there’s a beep from the screen and “Message sent” flashes up. He opens his eyes and tries to push my knife away, inching towards the door at the same time. I hear muffled shouts.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” he says. “In here! Quickly. What took you so…”

  He stops talking, clutching his throat and making gurgling noises. Watching him, I wipe the blade on my jeans and can’t help thinking about line drawings.

  A knock. “Sir, is everything all right in there?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I use Barlow’s blood to write with letters a metre high – two words on the wall behind his desk.

  I climb onto the window ledge – grateful for the breeze on my face – and my stomach cramps as I peer down at the dots of light far beneath me. Damn, it’s not natural for humans to be this high up. Your choice, Kyle. Public execution or... More voices outside the door, then, as armed police rush into the room I launch myself from the building. Trying to breathe against the uprush of air, I imagine tomorrow morning’s NewsFast covering the investigation of
Barlow Implants after the shocking confession of its owner shortly before his murder. And on giant TV screens across the globe, my painted words “Caveat Emptor!” for everyone to see. Written in what? Haemorrhage Scarlet, I suppose they’d call it. Mercenary Red, I’d say. Either way, it’ll probably turn out to be my masterpiece. Something to remember me by.

  There’s not much traffic up here this time of night. Will there be a fast-food stall hovering below, serving the late-shifters, I wonder? Will I be as lucky as the original Diver?

  I hope not.

  I manage to turn over so I’m facing upwards. The late evening sky has been my favourite painting subject over the last few months. Tonight it’s Indigo with streaks of Winsor Violet. It could do with a touch of Deepest Cobalt, I think, and for the first time in months, I smile.

  First Class

  Barbara Krasnoff

  Naomi dreamed that she was sitting in the lobby of a hotel. Naomi always liked hotels. She enjoyed sleeping in a clean, well-furnished room that was straightened each day by invisible hands. She preferred choosing her breakfast from a selection of fresh foods at a well-decorated side table in a quiet restaurant. She often envisioned herself sitting in a cozy lobby bar with a glass of white wine and an old mystery, listening to a gentle piano melody under the buzz of civilized conversation. Even after she retired from working, and no longer had the excuse of a business trip, she would occasionally travel to savor the joys of staying in a reasonably good hotel.

  In this dream, she sipped her wine, and watched people walk past. After a while, she became aware that the piano had become somewhat shrill. She reached for her check, and found that she couldn't move her arms. A waiter, no doubt wondering why she didn't sign her bill, came over, and asked in a solicitous but unpleasantly rough voice, “Do you require.... Please respond.”

  Naomi suddenly realized her eyes were closed. She opened them. She was sitting in a small room - no, in a small emergency lifeship - in a padded chair, with her arms strapped to the armrests. As she looked around the straps withdrew.