FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  Second, the lack of detail. He realized commercial email was about as safe as a troupe of Moulin Rouge dancers parachuted into Helmand Province, but for a man who thrived on clarity, Penshaw offered no clues about the nature of his project.

  Luke considered his limited options and only one gave a glimmer of hope. He hit the reply symbol, accepting he had nothing to lose, and confirmed his attendance.

  Chapter 3

  Penshaw’s chauffeur, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, and dark shades, smoothly navigated the silver Rolls-Royce Phantom along Hertfordshire’s sunlit narrow country lanes. Luke partially lowered a window, to ease the strong new car smell and cool winter air rushed inside the rear compartment. The hammer blow delivered yesterday by Meakin still hadn’t fully sunk in, and he hoped Clifton Hall would provide a quick solution.

  The chauffeur thumbed a button on the wheel and selected a contact on the dashboard screen. Speakers built into the cream and walnut interior crackled. Crisp electronic rings reverberated around the car.

  “Sir Henry speaking,” a voice said in cut-glass English.

  “It’s Laidler, sir. We’ll be with you in two minutes.”

  “Splendid.”

  A disconnect tone beeped three times. Luke remembered Penshaw as a man who never gravitated toward idle conversation. During his SIS briefings, he was all business and a hallmark of professionalism.

  The Phantom turned left between a pair of wrought iron gates, and entered Penshaw’s estate. A winding road led to a distant English baroque-style hall. Unlike its continental equivalent, the design didn't rely on decorative touches; it got its power from size. It metaphorically stank of old money, yet the odor of horse manure drifted through the gap in the rear window.

  A quick check last night confirmed Penshaw’s history after leaving the service. They also shared one thing in common: no family. The former director’s wife died of cancer ten years ago; his inconsolable daughter committed suicide shortly after. Luke’s parents were killed in a road accident, though he had no intention of discussing the shared similarity over a single malt.

  Solid concrete changed to gravel as they neared the open front doors of Clifton Hall. The Phantom swept around a large stone fountain and stopped outside the entrance with a gentle crunch. Luke wrestled on his dark blue jacket.

  The chauffeur, only a touch younger than him but still holding a career, opened the back door.

  “Thanks,” Luke said. He swung his legs out, grabbed his stick, and strained to a standing position in front of the fountain. Water gushed down its three tiers into a shallow pool at the bottom. A statue of a bearded man with wings lounged at the top.

  “Chronos, the Greek God of time,” a deep voice said.

  Penshaw stood at the hall’s entrance, dressed in an olive, tweed suit and open-necked white shirt that matched the color of his neatly combed hair. He’d put on weight since leaving the SIS but still appeared in good shape for a sixty-year-old. He crossed the gravel with youthful vigor and extended his left hand. “Welcome to Clifton Hall.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Sir Henry. Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s been in the family for generations. I might be the end of the line.”

  “Might be?”

  “Some things are out of our control.”

  “I'm a testament to that.”

  “Indeed,” Penshaw said and glanced down at Luke’s stick. “I'm glad you came. We’ve a lot to discuss.”

  “Your email made some big claims.”

  “I deal in facts. Let’s talk in the library. This way.”

  The Phantom’s engine purred as it headed around the side of the hall. Luke kept up with Penshaw’s sedate pace and followed him inside.

  Ten ancestral oil paintings hung on the foyer’s walls. Six of the men wore military uniforms that spanned the ages. Another, posing with his gun dog, could've been the former director’s twin.

  Penshaw headed along a short internal corridor, opened a door at the end, and gestured Luke through with a sweeping hand. “Please, take the left seat.”

  Luke edged past him and entered the library. Old books filled the shelves on two sides of the room. He sat in one of two vintage, tan colored, leather chairs in front of an oversized marble mantelpiece.

  Penshaw eased himself into the opposite chair and flipped open an antique drinks globe at his right side. “What’s your poison? Brandy, scotch, gin, or rum?”

  “Brandy, please.”

  Alcohol had been off Luke’s menu since Cairo. He didn’t want to compromise his rehabilitation program, but after yesterday's events at Highgate cemetery, now seemed like a good time to indulge again.

  Penshaw poured two generous measures and handed him a glass. “Horrible affair out in Egypt. How’s things with you?”

  Luke shrugged. “I think you already know the answer.”

  “Quite right. I won’t insult your intelligence and pretend I don’t know your circumstances. I heard about the decision three days ago. Men like you aren’t designed to shuffle papers.”

  “I belong in the field. What did the chief expect me to say?”

  “Exactly what you did. The passion still burns inside me. It never leaves.”

  “I’m still good for field operations. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Your reputation agrees.”

  “Is that why you contacted me? My reputation?” Luke asked.

  “Partly. Your profile also fits. People wouldn’t notice if you dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  “Nice of you say. I’ve got friends.”

  “Oh, come now. In our line of work, we have acquaintances, not friends.”

  It was hard to disagree. Constant overseas assignments and the nature of the job saw to that. The SIS forgot to mention in their benefits package they’d kill any chance of a meaningful relationship. Luke swallowed a mouthful of brandy and exhaled. “Your email said you’d give me back what I lost?”

  “Correct. And possibly more.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Penshaw leaned forward. “Do you want the chance to see things few of your generation will witness, and make a complete recovery with fully functioning limbs? I can help you be the officer you were before the mortar attack.”

  “How…” Luke trailed off, confused at the boldness of the claims, although he could see the excitement in the old man's eyes. “How’s that even possible?”

  “It’s easier to show you. Are you interested?”

  The offer sounded absurd, but throughout the conversation, Penshaw had not betrayed a single micro-expression or any body language to suggest he was being liberal with the truth. Luke had no idea how the former director could deliver on his promises, but he wanted to find out. “I’m more than interested,” he said.

  “Can I rely on your discretion?”

  “It’s part of my… sorry, was part of my job.”

  “Excellent. Finish your drink. I’ll introduce you to the Century Project.” Penshaw slipped a phone out of his trouser pocket, thumbed the screen, and planted it against his ear. He kept his focus on Luke and gave a reassuring nod. “I’m bringing Mr. Porterfield over for a tour. Be ready in five minutes.”

  Luke followed Penshaw into an ornate Georgian conservatory at the side of Clifton Hall. Cobwebs spread across the filthy panes of glass, unlike the gleaming foyer and library windows. A faded pink coat dangled from a hat-stand next to a wicker chair.

  “She loved reading in here,” Penshaw said.

  “Your wife?”

  “My daughter, Helen.”

  The former director gazed at the chair before closing his eyes.

  Selecting the right thing to say in these type of situation never came easily to Luke. Rather than being trite, he allowed Penshaw a quiet moment of reflection before returning to the business at hand. “Where’s the project based?”

  “A converted barn near the southern wall. It’s a half mile ride.”

  “I meant which country?�
��

  “It’s better if I explain the technical details when we meet the project lead.”

  Luke didn’t see what might be considered technical about the question and tapped his left shoe with the end of his walking stick. “Does he deal with fully functioning limbs?”

  “All will be revealed. Wait here.”

  Penshaw opened a pair of external doors. He headed left, toward a set of red brick stables, and disappeared underneath a dark central archway. The high-level promises in the library held Luke’s impatience at bay, but he wanted to delve into the details and wondered what waited at the barn that couldn’t be described in the hall.

  A low whine echoed from inside the archway. Penshaw reversed out a royal blue golf buggy, turned it, and pulled level with the conservatory’s entrance. He patted its leather upholstery. “Sit yourself down. We’ll be there in no time.”

  Luke hopped on and dropped his stick in an empty golf bag behind the seat. Penshaw punched the accelerator with his loafer and the buggy jerked forward.

  They headed back past the stables, turned off the road, and gently bumped over open parkland toward a small wood. In the far distance, a cluster of twenty deer relaxed on the ground. Luke buttoned up his jacket and raised his collar to protect his neck from the biting wind.

  “It’s just beyond the trees,” Penshaw shouted over the noise of the engine.

  “Anything I need to know before we arrive?”

  “Prepare to throw yourself into something amazing. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Luke’s sense of anticipation rose as they rounded the wood. A single-story limestone structure came into view, roughly half the length of a football field. Mirrored windows ran along its side, and four satellite dishes and two whip antennas extended from its roof.

  Penshaw steered toward the nearest end and stopped the buggy outside a pair of glass doors. Luke turned to grab his walking stick.

  A bearded man riding a Segway approached the barn from the opposite side of the estate. He leaned to his left, the two-wheeled electric vehicle swayed off the dirt track and powered across the grass toward the grazing deer.

  All twenty animals stood in unison and scattered in different directions.

  Luke raised his eyebrows. “Who’s the nature lover?”

  “Gideon Lynch, our project lead. He thinks deer are lazy. It's his way of exercising them.”

  “That’s a bit … different.”

  “Gideon’s a little quirky, but he’s talented.”

  Lynch’s brown ponytail flapped in the wind. He rejoined the dirt track and gave a casual salute. He wore blue skinny jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and a brown chunky scarf. Luke had never understood the recently popular, yet impractical, scarf and t-shirt mix for winter dress, but cool kids seemed to love it.

  “What’s his background?” Luke asked.

  “He’s a neurologist, from the European Space Agency.”

  “A doctor working at a space agency?”

  “He helped design a prototype torpor-inducing transport system. Damned impressive work.”

  “A torpor what?”

  “Hibernation for long distance space travel. The proof of concept worked.”

  “Is that why you hired him?”

  “I ran him as an agent when ESA first floated the idea of partnering with Russia. To be honest, that line of work wasn’t his forte, but it connected us. He approached me with a proposal ten years ago, and the rest is history.”

  Lynch pulled level with the buggy and thrust his handlebars to the right. The Segway’s wheels spun 270º in the dirt, bringing it to an abrupt halt. He stepped back off the footplate and pulled buds from his ears. Tinny music drifted through the air.

  “Allow me to introduce Luke Porterfield,” Penshaw said.

  “So this is your man,” Lynch said and turned to Luke. “I read your file. Quite an impressive history.”

  “My file?” Luke asked.

  “Service and medical records,” Penshaw replied. “We had to carry out due diligence before sending an invite. I’m sure you understand.”

  Both men looked at Luke as if Penshaw had just said something run-of-the-mill.

  Checking him out came as no surprise, but having copies of his records did. He decided to switch to interrogation mode and keep his questions and answers short. More often than not, criminals would talk themselves into a hole or overelaborate. He didn’t suspect Penshaw of anything untoward, considering Meakin’s involvement, but the revelation set off an alarm bell in his head.

  “How much does he know?” Lynch said.

  “Apart from where I recruited you, nothing.”

  Lynch grabbed the glass door’s chrome handle and pushed it open. “Sir Henry never talks shop outside these four walls. I’m guessing you want to know more. Follow me; we’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Luke hobbled after Lynch, who had an odd grumpy teenager-style walk, keeping his arms locked against the side of his body and his head lowered. A white corridor, flooded with natural light, ran the full length of the barn’s internal left side. Two transparent doors, complete with security pads, separated it into three equal areas.

  “We only use the back two sections at the moment,” Lynch said and swiped a card across the first door’s security pad. It let out an electronic beep then a red pinhead light changed to green. He stopped in front of two opaque glass doors and they automatically parted with a hiss, revealing a laboratory. To the left, six laptops, several circuit boards, and various pieces of electronic test equipment littered the surface of a pine workbench. On the opposite side, lights in a stack of mounted servers winked on and off. A glass case in the center of the room held a small model Ferrari.

  Penshaw stepped inside the room and spread his arms. “Welcome to the research and development zone. Our future won’t be dictated by the single steps forward in technology, but rather how we successfully integrate them. Once a platform exists, it’s how you utilize it.”

  “Example being?” Luke asked.

  “Most things in life, if you think about it,” Lynch said. “Your platform was the SIS, and you applied yourself according to their principles to get results. Tech-wise, infrastructure provides a standardized base for networks. The killer apps, sites, and devices are what drive revenue and advancement.”

  “Where do you fit? You’re a neurologist.”

  “The future of neuroscience isn't exclusively medical. You've probably guessed I'm not a surgeon?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  Lynch grinned, flashing a set of crooked teeth. “Exponential growth in processing power and a deeper understanding of the brain will facilitate a merger between man and machine. An immersive simulated reality.”

  “Or reality based tech,” Penshaw added. “Think of clothes changing on command, self-constructing buildings, wirelessly communicating instructions through your thoughts to control household appliances. Dare to dream, Luke. Dare to dream.”

  “Okay…” Luke said. “Explain on a high-level what you're trying to achieve, and why you invited me.”

  “In basic terms, and Gideon, please correct me if I’m wrong, we won’t be the ones to make a breakthrough in suppressing and transferring movement and senses with micro machines. But if we extrapolate on the basis of such a platform existing and the kind of converted neuron signals we’ll be handling, we can start creating applications. Imagine sitting in comfort of your own home while experiencing the surroundings of a Caribbean beach, or eating a can of beans but seeing and tasting caviar?”

  “You’re creating programs based on brain signals?”

  “Exactly. I can’t do it as a lone wolf, though; we’re setting up a virtual global network of top professionals and commissioning a corporate sized lab. Have you heard of claytronics?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “Programmable matter,” Lynch said and moved over to a laptop, fingered its pressure pad, and the screen blinked to life. “Interacting nano-scale machines that assem
ble into tangible objects on command. If we channel brain signals into a wireless claytronic version of yourself, it isn't a stretch to imagine carrying out work from the safety of your home.”

  “It’s a stretch for me,” Luke said. “It’ll take you decades to develop.”

  “Time isn’t a problem,” Penshaw said. “What you’re about to see was acquired from an American scientific institute.”

  “You want me for industrial espionage jobs?”

  “No, something a lot more ambitious. Watch the Ferrari.”

  The car shimmered and radiated a pink glow on the walls of its glass case. After a few seconds, the shell changed to green, and the light dimmed.

  “Impressed?” Penshaw asked.

  “Am I supposed to be?”

  “You’ve just witnessed hardware manipulating itself. Not many in the world can say that.”

  The way things stood, Luke needed clarity. Penshaw had an optimistic twinkle in his eye, and though the technology sounded good, it also sounded a long way off and did nothing to explain where he played a part. The underwhelming demonstration and abstract concepts had pushed his patience to breaking point. “Again, why did you invite me?” he said. “In plain English.”

  “I realize you’re confused,” Penshaw said. “You’ll understand once we show you the transport zone.”

  Lynch led them out of the lab, swiped his way through to the final section of the corridor, and stood in front of two darker opaque doors.

  “Where’s your employees?” Luke asked.

  “Sir Henry gave them a day off,” Lynch said. “He drives us hard, but everyone needs downtime.”

  The doors parted.

  A long blue fluorescent strip on the ceiling bathed the basketball court-sized room in an eerie glow. Eight metallic containers lined the left and right walls; four on each side, spaced at equal intervals. A bank of computers sat on a desk in the far corner.

  Shafts of bright light radiated from the two farthest containers while measurements streamed across flat screen monitors above both. Luke leaned on his stick and eased himself forward. Lynch went to follow. Penshaw put an arm across his chest and stopped him.