FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  A sense of foreboding crept over Luke as he limped through the room. He reached the final container, looked through its transparent lid, and gasped.

  A pale teenage woman lay inside. Thin wires attached to plastic circles dotted her gray latex suit. Two rubber tubes ran from a black mask covering her nose and mouth, and a cannula jutted from her wrist.

  Luke turned in disbelief toward the door. “What the hell have you done to her?”

  “I’m saving her life,” Penshaw said. “Just like I’m going to save yours.”

  The doors closed, blocking out the corridor’s natural light.

  Chapter 4

  A green pulse raced across the overhead monitor. Red digits showed a heart rate fluctuating between 33 and 34 beats-per-minute and a blood pressure reading of 90/60. Luke’s grip tightened around his stick as he tried to process his surroundings.

  A slim man lay in the opposite container, with similar readings above his him. Lynch walked to the end of the room, sat at the desk, and rested his fingers on a keyboard. All four computer screens burst to life, and he studied each one in turn.

  Adrenaline pumped around Luke’s body, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since that fateful day in Cairo. Images of the flattened embassy gates played through his mind. He stared at Penshaw and wondered how a well-respected man, who had held a senior position in the SIS, could bring him into a situation like this.

  “Block any negative reactions,” Penshaw said. “She’s perfectly safe.”

  “Seriously?” Luke asked. “Who’s in the containers?”

  Lynch swiveled around in his chair. “Torpor inducing transport systems. We call them transport systems for short.”

  Luke looked back at the grisly techno-versions of Lenin’s tomb and shuddered. On initial inspection, he realized why the former director and Meakin didn’t reveal any details; any sane person would laugh, or report them.

  Penshaw pressed his hand against the transport system’s lid. “Meet my daughter, Helen.”

  “I thought she died ten years ago?”

  “Not quite. She had her drink spiked at a nightclub. Developed locked-in syndrome. The family physician expected her to die within four months, but she’s a fighter, always has been. You can’t imagine how helpless it made me feel.”

  “So you hired Lynch to knock her out until you develop some pie-in-the-sky technology? If she ever wakes up, I’m sure she’ll love your cover story.”

  “Let me explain,” Penshaw said. “We’ve been using the system for over a decade. Helen gave her consent.”

  “How?”

  “Eye movement.”

  “Unbelievable. Is this your plan for me?”

  Neither of the men answered. Whatever part they wanted him to play, he couldn’t condone anything like this. He turned and made for the doors, unsure about where the project stood ethically, but it didn’t sit comfortably regardless.

  Then it hit Luke. Teenager. Helen would be in her late twenties today. The woman in the transport system looked far younger. He headed back to Penshaw. “Is that really who you say it is?”

  “It’d be a strange thing to lie about.” Penshaw slipped a photograph out his wallet and held it forward. “Take a look.”

  Luke plucked it from between his fingers. The photo showed the former director with his arms around his wife and daughter, sitting on a bench in front of the Taj Mahal. The image closely matched the woman in terms of body shape, blond hair, and the type of smooth young skin craved by desperate middle-aged celebrities.

  “When was it taken?”

  “2010. Our last family holiday before Miriam died. Do you think Helen looks any older?”

  Luke held the photo above the lid and compared it to the woman beneath. It was impossible to say with any confidence, partly due to the mask obscuring the lower half of her face, but she appeared to be Helen, and still in her teenage years.

  “Have a guess,” Penshaw said.

  “I’m not sure. Eighteen?”

  “Biologically, you’re correct,” Lynch said. “Chronologically, she’s twenty-seven.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Glad to see we finally have your attention,” Penshaw said. “The solution I commissioned makes it possible.”

  The former director had attracted more than Luke’s attention. He wanted to know the facts before making his next move. Unless Penshaw convinced him otherwise, he planned on carrying out his own discreet investigation into the Century Project.

  “I’ve a few questions,” Luke said. “My decision rests on your answers. Agreed?”

  Penshaw nodded. “Agreed.”

  “How does a transport system work?”

  “Targeted temperature management isn’t new. Long-term benefits haven’t been tested yet because of the usual barrier—the pursuit of perfection before human trials. How do you ask a dead pig about their experiences?”

  “No idea. How do you ask a dead human?”

  “Sometimes even science requires a leap of faith,” Lynch said. He crouched by the side of the metallic casing and flipped open a panel. One of the tubes ran to a half-full transparent bag of liquid, the other to a pressure valve. “We use a non-invasive catheter to spray rapidly evaporating coolant into the nasopharynx. It reduces the temperature of blood flowing to the brain, leading to a therapeutic state of hypothermia within a couple of hours.”

  Helen’s arms and legs twitched in turn and her shoulders jerked. Stimulation cycle 25 flashed across the monitor. Luke leaned closer, and in his mind’s eye he imagined himself in the same position. The idea struck him as ridiculous, but he couldn’t deny the evidence beneath him.

  “Do you think I’d expose my daughter to danger?” Penshaw asked. “She’s fed nutritional formulae, a sedative to stop the shiver reflex, and a prototype senolytic drug intravenously. Gideon’s team change the cannula’s location every five days to mitigate infection.”

  “Rewind a second,” Luke said. “What’s the drug?”

  “It selects and kills senescent cells. In other words, ones that have stopped dividing. They accumulate and contribute to the aging process.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You wouldn’t. It’s only been tested on mice.”

  Luke motioned his head to the lid. “She doesn’t look like a mouse.”

  Lynch's face twisted into a grimace, and he slammed the panel shut. “Are you questioning my ethics? It’ll be commercially available soon.”

  “Be under no illusion,” Penshaw said. “I pull the strings and sanction everything. Gideon, continue explaining.”

  “The wires attached to the suit electrically stimulate key muscle groups,” Lynch said with less enthusiasm. “It helps maintain mass during each two-week cycle. We regularly take Helen and David out of the state for organ functionality checks and stretches, although we keep them sedated. It’s better mentally if they see it as a single journey.”

  “They both agreed to stay like this indefinitely?” Luke asked.

  “We’re giving them back the best years of their lives,” Penshaw said. “If medical science discovers a cure for Helen’s condition in ten years, she’ll have the body of a nineteen-year-old, rather than thirty-seven.”

  Luke carried out a quick arithmetical check in his head. “You’ve managed to slow her biological clock by ninety percent?”

  “Precisely,” Lynch said. “We weren’t sure if it was a one-off set of circumstances until David joined the project, and we gathered more empirical biomarker evidence.”

  “So the new wonder drug works?”

  “It’s part of the overall process. The body goes into slow motion once in a hypothermic state. The heart slows; metabolism decreases by seventy percent. No outside influences are polluting the body or stressing organs. If you spend ten chronological years inside, you’ll come out only one biological year older.”

  Visually, everything matched Penshaw and Lynch’s claims. Luke scanned the empty transport systems before retur
ning his focus back to former director. “Has Meakin visited the barn?”

  “I suspected you’d put two and two together. The man in the other transport system is David Meakin.”

  Compared to milk-skinned Helen, the prone body of Meakin junior still had a hint of a tan, so he hadn’t spent as long a time in a transport system.

  “He’s Richard Meakin’s son?”

  “Grandson,” Penshaw said. “Injured his spine playing rugby and demanded a trip to Dignitas to end it. Assisted Suicide. Taking the old poison chocolate from a velvet pillow. I talked young David off the ledge and offered him a chance to live again.”

  “Easy to see how you got Meakin’s agreement,” Luke said. “Did either of you consider the fact that I’m still walking and talking?”

  “He’s approved our project and your participation with full SIS consent. Think about the big picture. In a decade or so, you could have advanced cybernetic limb replacements, and be faceless again. In a world where everyone increasingly knows each other’s business, you’d be the perfect agent of the future.”

  The former director’s statement reminded Luke of a clown’s shoe: big, bold and silly. He guessed Meakin and Penshaw had their judgment clouded by personal attachment. His injuries were nowhere near as severe as Helen or David’s, but he reminded himself of his personal status. He had no firm roots in the world and he came here in the hope finding an alternative path. If grains of truth existed in the claims, and visually it seemed the case, the technology fulfilled the promise in Penshaw’s email.

  “You’re sure about the SIS’s consent?” Luke asked.

  “Positive. For a return to the field, this is your best and only route.”

  “We’re not talking decades,” Lynch said. He returned to the desk, tapped the keyboard, and an image displayed on the central monitor. “If it’s health you’re concerned about, watch this recording.”

  Black and white footage showed Lynch walking through the room in a latex suit, flanked by a man and woman in casual clothing. They stood near the computers and clinked bottles of beer together. A date-stamp read 8/8/2012. Lynch gulped down his drink, climbed into a transport system next to Helen’s, attached wires to the white discs around his suit, and placed the mask over his face.

  “I’ll speed it up.” Lynch clicked the mouse a few times. The day changed every three seconds. On the 22nd of the month he disappeared from the transport system. On the 23rd, he was back inside. The same process repeated several times.

  “How long did you spend in there?” Luke asked.

  “Two years. Sir Henry was scared about Helen losing her mind, so as soon as I got our two techs trained, I wanted to show him my trust in the system.” Lynch spun his chair to face Luke. “With the rate cybernetics are advancing, we’ll have you out in no time, and I’ll make your blackouts my focus. Take a minute to think about it.”

  The two chilled bodies on either side of the room had stripped away any chance of a positive emotion, though Luke found himself wanting to believe he had found an answer to his problems. He didn’t know if it was desperation overriding his common sense, but after having his career stripped away less than twenty-four hours ago, a small chance existed to regain his active status. One thing was certain, which he finally admitted it to himself, turning down this proposal ended his hopes of return to the field.

  “Gideon’s team monitor the systems from my gamekeeper’s house,” Penshaw said. “My offer is a trial. A demonstration of the solution’s effectiveness, to show how you can become one of Britain’s finest assets again.”

  “I want Meakin’s personal guarantee,” Luke said. “After that, we talk.”

  “I’ll organize a conference call this afternoon. Do I have your agreement in principle?”

  “In principle?” Luke took a deep breath, and looked around the transport zone. “I’ll give it a try.”

  Penshaw smiled and gestured toward the corridor. “Excellent. Let’s discuss your brighter future over lunch.”

  Luke followed both men out of the barn into the winter sunshine. He still hadn’t decided to commit despite his verbal agreement. But if everything checked out, and it was a big if, he knew he had nothing to lose.

  Chapter 5

  Penshaw remained silent during the return journey, keeping the accelerator pedal fully depressed as the buggy bumped across the grass toward Clifton Hall. Lynch followed on his Segway, with buds in his ears, staring directly ahead. No matter how much Luke attempted to picture himself joining the project, and it working out, he couldn’t justify participation until he was given certain guarantees.

  Richard Meakin had questions to answer back at HQ. With Luke’s official career over, the Chief’s lofty rank didn’t faze him, and he wanted to know the depth of the SIS’s official involvement. He decided the only way to consider a trial was a signed written statement confirming the organization’s approval, and his return to the field if he agreed to Penshaw’s proposal. Anything less wasn’t worth the risk.

  The buggy’s wheels squeaked to a halt underneath the stable’s archway. Penshaw led Luke back through the conservatory, along a wood-paneled corridor, and into a large period dining room, dominated by a long banquet table.

  “Take a seat,” Penshaw said. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Thanks. Sir Henry, about your daughter—”

  “All I want is one final conversation with Helen before I die, in a real or virtual environment. Consider yourself a beneficiary of my sole desire.”

  Penshaw turned and walked out, leaving the hollow clicks of a grandfather clock as Luke’s only company. The emotion in the former director’s eyes and voice saddened him, and he estimated the chances of a virtual family reunion as slim. He selected a chair facing four large bay windows, overlooking sun-drenched countryside, and waited for the food to arrive.

  The dining room door swung open and crashed against its stopper. Lynch entered, went out of his way to brush past Luke, and slouched on the opposite chair. He opened a plastic tobacco pouch and picked out a booklet of cigarette papers. “Want a roll-up?”

  “No thanks. Bit unusual for a doctor to smoke, isn’t it?”

  “We all have our vices.” Lynch dropped a pinch of tobacco on the paper, licked the edge, and rolled it between his fingers. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Sir Henry’s bringing lunch. I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Lynch poked the cigarette in his mouth, flicked open a metal lighter, and sparked a flame. He sucked on the end, taking a deep drag, and a wisp of smoke curled into the air.

  “I said I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Sir Henry lets me spark-up in the hall. Weren’t you impressed in the barn?”

  “Impressed isn’t a word I’d use. Was it your idea?”

  “Ideas. We aren’t talking about a single concept.”

  “Strange career choice, though. Switching the European Space Agency for a small private venture.”

  “Not really. It’s almost impossible to make a difference in a large organization. I was an ID badge. Headcount on the payroll and confined by bureaucratic chains. I can shape destiny with Sir Henry’s backing.”

  “I suppose that’s a good reason to change.”

  Lynch snorted and took another drag. “Most people don’t know what change is. They get a new job and think they’re doing something different. In reality, they’re jumping from one corporate structure to another. Same bullshit, different logo.”

  “That’s a sweeping statement; you’re still working on transport systems.”

  “And you came running here.”

  Luke groaned and broke eye contact. Sir Henry’s minion appeared to obnoxious streak, but he wasn’t the first lab-rat to display one. SIS nerds acted in a similar way, snapping at anyone who toyed with their research.

  “Transport systems are a side show,” Lynch said in a more conciliatory tone. “Nobody will throw resources at commercial uses for brain-computer interfaces or claytronics
like the Century Project. Fifty years ago kids played board games. Today they fry their brains on consoles. Tomorrow, well, the possibilities of our global collaboration are endless.”

  “Aren’t transport systems the main reason for the project?”

  “At first, yes. I got bored watching measurements and branched out. It might not look like it now, but we’re doing something special here.”

  “It’s different; I’ll give you that.”

  “We’re from separate worlds. I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend my visionary ideas—”

  The door bumped open. Penshaw wheeled a serving trolley laden with plates of mini sausage rolls, sandwiches cut into triangles, and a pot of tea into the dining room. He steered it to the head of the table and sat between Luke and Lynch.

  “You’re both quiet,” Penshaw said. “Anyone for tea?”

  “No thanks,” Lynch said. “I was telling Mister Porterfield about our long-term goals.”

  Penshaw grabbed a pair of silver tongs from the trolley’s lower shelf, placed a selection of food on a plate, and slid it over Luke. “Once you learn more about our expansion plans you’ll tingle with excitement.”

  Luke popped a sausage roll in his mouth and sunk his teeth into its buttery puff pastry shell. Each chew became tougher until his mouth hung open. A light-headed sensation swamped him and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The blackouts usually took him faster, without paralyzing him beforehand, but he knew the warning signs and could do nothing to stop it. His vision blurred, and he swayed forward.

  Lynch sprung from his seat. “Are you okay?”

  Luke’s face crashed into his plate of food.

  Chapter 6

  A reintegration order flashed on Maria Casola’s electric-blue holographic screen. The first she had ever received during a graveyard shift. People were usually brought out of transport systems during the day, at a previously specified time, when a dedicated support team supervised the process.

  The rare exception was hypothermia since they upgraded the hardware, but making that call was her job in the operations room. A monitoring platform checked the three thousand systems in the facility, and reported any change to an occupant’s vital measurements. She acted on any incoming alarms.