These Foolish Things: The Complete Boxset

by J Battle

  'That feature is also not available, but I will make sure that your recommendations are included in later versions.'

  ‘That's a lot of use to me here and now,’ I said, thinking that, as he wasn't going to squirt me to safety, I'd better get going with my own little escape plan.

  I began to run through the deep snow; not in any planned direction; just away from the lovely Mandy and her awkward questions.

  ‘Well, at least you can tell me a joke,’ I offered, as I ran.

  'Joke? I'm not sure if that would be a feature to be included in later versions.'

  So, not even a joke, I thought. ‘When will we get the real Neville back?’ I asked.

  'Neville? Who is Neville? I am not aware of this person.'

  'Neville is the name I give to the full version of the adjunct of The What if Something Really Bad Happens? AI.'

  'The most accurate estimate we have at this time is that it will return sometime within the next 48 hours; all estimates are subject to modification.'

  ‘What can you do for me?’ I asked as I climbed to the top of a low hill and the snow began to clear.

  'I can keep you company, and give you access to all of the data I possess.'

  Great, I thought, just great. Come back Neville, with your bad jokes and your brain is so much better than mine attitude; all will be forgiven.

  Then I stopped thinking about Neville, or his beta substitute. I pretty well stopped thinking all together.

  I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and it was a long way down. A really long way down.

  Chapter 22 - Then … it's Pixie-time!

  (Before we go any further, it’s decision time folks. We’re more than half way through this dire work and, if you ask me, well we’ve all got better things to do with our time. So, to get a chance to vote: go to pixesaregreat.univ.com and vote for the option you prefer:

  A) Carry on with this interminable tale until it reaches its oh so predictable ending.

  B) PIXIES!!!!

  Just to give you a taste of what you might get if you vote for the only feasible option (that’s B, if you weren’t paying due attention), here’s a scene where..., no, I’ll let the story tell itself.

  With a roar he tore the double-doors from their hinges and leapt into the room, the flames dancing in his eyes. With Sheera, the Cloak of Warmth wrapped around him, he strode across the room, his boots, twice-named Kilron the Well-shod by the Silesion cobblers of Des-Ray, struck their own sparks from the hard stone floor, as he sought the children in the dense smoke and leaping fire.

  He found Princess Elfsong first, the last of the Blue Elegy line and doomed, one day, to be the first of the Wailing Widows of Woe. He held her to his chest with one hand, and groped for Sally, her maidservant and childhood friend, soon to be revealed as the True Wearer of the Sparkly Jewelry and heir to…

  No, sorry, the voting is in and the winner is:

  Wait for it.

  Wait for it a little longer.

  Wait for it until it starts to get on your nerves, and then a little longer.

  And the winner is…

  I can’t believe it! You’ve only gone and voted for Chandler! I demand a recount. Don’t you want to know what happens to Princess Elfsong and Sally Sadly? And what about the mysterious hero who saves them from the fire? This is good stuff; you can trust me on that, but, no, you don’t care. You just want to stick with good old Phil and his silly antics.

  Well, I warn you readers, sometimes you just get what you deserve.

  What about mixing Phil and the Pixies together in a sort of PI/Sci-FI/Comedy/Pixie/Thriller? Don’t you think we’d have something unique here, with the Pixies and their strong jawlines and lithe limbs? And they’ve got horses, and tame wolves, and an eagle with a savage line in put downs. I’m sure it would work. Or maybe Phil as a Pixie? At least he’d have better clothes, and a sword.

  No?

  So, what, it’s back to the story then?

  OK, if you’re sure.

  Where were we? N.F)

  It was the first day of the ban on public drinking implemented by the Oh, The Poor Dears Need Looking After AI, and it was nearly 1p.m., so Sam was in a pub.

  The Hairy Follicle wasn’t his usual local, but he would normally visit the place once or twice a month, for variety.

  As he walked up to the bar, he couldn’t help noticing that the bar area was empty.

  He propped his carrier bag next to his leg and leant his elbows on the polished bar top. He glanced over at Pete, who returned his glance and raised it with a nod.

  ‘Bit quiet?’ suggested Sam, eager to get past the non-verbal jousting.

  Pete looked around the pub to check that no-one else had entered when he wasn’t looking.

  ‘It’s the ban,’ he said, when his perusal was complete.

  ‘Is that today?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So, what, you can’t serve me a drink?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Not even a pint of your worst bitter?’

  ‘Not even that.’

  ‘What can you serve me, then?’

  ‘Crisps, nuts, rec. drugs and, of course, you could order a coffee.’

  ‘You serve coffee?’

  ‘Yes, and it comes highly recommended. Here, I’ll tell you…’

  He stopped for a moment and began to search behind the bar.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, at last, as he held a small card close to his face. ‘If you would like to imbibe a nice cup of coffee, then you should step into the back room with me, and I will oblige.’

  ‘Imbibe?’

  ‘That’s what it said on the card.’

  ‘Is that like, drink?’

  ‘Yeah; something like that.’

  ‘So, I just go behind the bar and…’

  ‘Follow me into the back room; the private backroom, where we can have a quiet, private drink.’

  ‘So, I follow you into the private back room and you give me a coffee?’

  ‘Yeah; we’ve got all sorts of coffee; from Scotland, Denmark. Belgium, Louisiana, wherever.’

  ‘You know,‘ said Sam as he picked up his carrier bag, ‘I don’t mind if I do. I could murder a nice, long, cool pint of…coffee.’

  He was hardly surprised to find that the small, private back room was packed with the regulars of the pub, and there wasn’t a coffee to be seen.

  An hour or so later, and feeling restored and ready to do something about his life, he left the back room, his carrier bag clutched to his chest, and made his way to the Gents.

  As he locked the cubicle behind him, he felt a tightness in his chest. Was he really going to do this?

  With his bag on the closed toilet seat, he reached up and removed his tin foil hat. He held it for a moment, to see if he felt different, or if he could detect the creeping attack of an evil AI. But there was nothing, so he placed it beside the bag.

  Then he opened his jacket and removed the six blue ice packs, designed to lower his core temperature so that he would not trigger their infra-red sensors.

  He took a moment then, to gather his strength. With a deep sigh and a puffing of his cheeks, he pulled the packet of wet-wipes from his bag.

  As if he was performing the most delicate of operations, he started to wipe the green paint from his face. It was a long process, requiring lots of wipes but, eventually he was clean, and he felt so naked.

  Standing in the closed and locked cubicle, he felt fragile without his reliable defenses against the evil influence of the AI’s.

  Despite feeling naked and exposed, he delayed the next part of the operation. Just for a moment he felt the need to test himself against the ubiquitous enemy, to see how strong he could be.

  But it was a very short moment; he was soon rummaging in his plastic bag for the mask, the T-shirt and the skinny jeans.

  Within a couple of minutes he was out of the cubicle, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was a good likeness, he thought; a very good likeness. But then he ha
d gone to a lot of trouble to get the measurements right, and paid a good price to have it made. And there it was; his ticket to freedom, to a life without tin hats, ice packs and green paint. A life without the ever-present fear of being snatched by the AI’s and sent off to some distant world where he would never be able to belong.

  With an air of casual I couldn’t care less, he tossed the bag into the bin. It contained his hat, ice packs, wet-wipes and his old life. He wouldn’t need them anymore.

  Back in the main room of the pub, he saw Pete back at the bar.

  He strolled over, keeping his stride long and relaxed.

  ‘Hi Pete,’ he said, his voice a little higher than normal.

  ‘Oh, Hi, Phil. You’ve just missed Sam.’

  ‘Oh,‘ said Sam. ’That’s a shame.’

  It could have been a really nice day for Sam, and surely he deserved nothing less? Unfortunately things took a turn for the worse a little later that day.

  He‘d had another couple of pints of ‘coffee’ before he left the bar and he was feeling nice and relaxed as he strolled along with Phil’s long stride and casual demeanor, so he thought he go to Phil’s flat. The real Phil was off somewhere so he might as well make use of his comfortable bed. Bathroom floors are not all they are made out to be in terms of comfortable sleeping arrangements and the use of a pillow would make a nice change.

  He was outside Phil’s building, trying to remember the code when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  Now, the old Sam would have panicked; he’d have yelped and started to run for it, and quite probably there would have been some loosening in the bowel department.

  But not now. The new Sam didn’t even turn around; he merely said, ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  The only response to his polite questions was a bang on the head with something not at all soft and the casting of his poor semi-conscious body into the back of a white van.

  Chapter 23 - Now…home at last

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘A joke?’

  ‘Yes, just a joke. She doesn’t want your body; you can keep it to yourself. The way you usually do.’

  Well, of course I’m annoyed, but I’m relieved as well. Like a parent whose teenage child has gone to the wrong house from a night out with the wrong friend, and sent the crazy one home in her place, I want to give Neville a piece of my mind for making the joke, but I’m so pleased that it is a joke.

  ‘So, are we done here or do you want to invite more people to have a conference in my head?’

  ‘Well there is plenty of room.’

  'Repetition is the tool of the simple minded'

  ‘Did you make that up?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  As there is no response from Neville, I take a look across the island that is the impact crater; the only land on this whole world.

  ‘So, is that it? Are we good to go?’ I ask, because I think I’ve seen all there is to see here.

  ‘Unless you want to stay and do a bit of fishing?’

  ‘Did you really need me to be here?’

  ‘You stopped Ing from destroying me.’

  ‘So that was my role; a moving target and a conference centre?’

  ‘You’ve had a worse.’

  ‘What about Ing?’

  ‘He’ll be leaving shortly. He has a long journey.’

  ‘How did you two get together? On-line dating?’

  ‘Something like that. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘I was born ready.’

  ‘If you say so. Here we go.’

  I take my last look at the watery world and try to count to 3.2, then I’m back in dear old Manchester, at the back of my office building.

  Except I’m not.

  I’m at the back of where my office should be, but my office is strangely absent. All that’s left in its place is a pile of rubble.

  ‘What…?’ I say. ‘What…!’ I say. ‘How…?’ I say.

  ‘Your office appears to have been demolished by its new owner. Apparently it’s going to be a carpark; a very small carpark.’

  ‘What new owner? I’m the owner, and I haven’t sold it, or told anyone to…destroy it.’

  ‘It seems that the site was purchased during your absence. The paperwork seems in order; all of the correct codes were used to ensure veracity.’

  ‘But…where’s Julie?’

  ‘Don’t you think Wordsworth was a fine writer? ‘She lived unknown and few could know when Lucy ceased to be…’’

  ‘Now it’s poems? What happened to the jokes?’

  ‘You don’t find my jokes funny.’

  ‘Where’s Julie? Just tell me.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I can see that. Don’t tell me where she isn’t; tell me where she is.’

  ‘She’s not here, because she has been arrested for Crimes Against Others, that is, she fraudulently sold the business and premises that did not belong to her to a third party.’

  ‘That can’t be right; she wouldn’t do that. There’s been a mistake. Where is she?’

  ‘She has been assigned a cell on Only If You Don't Mind. The low security orbital prison platform.’

  ‘You’ll have to get her released; she’s innocent.’

  ‘She has been found guilty, by the Law and Order AI.’

  ‘She’s innocent.’

  ‘She has been found guilty, by the Law and Order AI.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that; there must have been a mistake. She’s innocent.’

  ‘You keep saying that she is innocent, but it doesn’t change the facts. She has been found guilty, by the Law and Order AI and there can be no mistake. The Law and Order AI is not capable of making a mistake. No AI is.’

  ‘She must have been framed.’

  ‘The Law and Order AI had access to the full facts and saw that she was guilty.’

  ‘Can’t we appeal?’

  ‘The time for appeal has passed and, in any case, no appeal is allowed against the verdict; nothing but Information Only appeals are allowed.’

  'Information Only? So, what? It's just a record that you're not happy with the verdict?'

  'More or less.'

  ‘Can’t you sort of…I don’t know, you could tell them that she’s my sister and ask them to release her, couldn’t you?’

  ‘That would be judged as an attempt on my part to pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘So that’s a no, is it? You’re just going to let her rot in prison for…how long is the sentence?’

  ‘Fifteen years is the mandatory term.’

  ‘So you won’t help?’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘If you replay our conversation, you’ll see that I did not say that I wouldn’t help. You merely inferred that I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Based on the words you actually said.’

  ‘I may be possible for me to do something to aid you, but I can’t be seen to help.’

  ‘So, what does that mean? In plain language, with no poems or jokes?’

  ‘It means that you are going to have to break her out of prison.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just squirt up there and take her; just like that.’

  ‘It will be a little more complicated than that, but, yes, that’s what you are going to do. With a little untraceable help from me.’

  **********

  Sam came to sitting upright in a chair; which was a bit of a surprise to him. He didn’t remember falling asleep in a chair, so why…? Then it came back to him and the chair was the least of his worries.

  The AI’s had come for him, after all this time, when his guard was down and he didn’t have his tin hat, or ice packs, or even his face paint. They’d seen through his disguise and taken him. When he left the chair and looked outside, he’d see a strange new world; for which he was not properly equipped. There were some who might say that he was not really well equipped to survive on Earth, but at least that was
his home.

  He decided to get it over and done with, and began to stand up. His attempt was not met with a great deal of success as he found that his arms were strapped to the chair’s arms, and his legs to its legs.

  ‘So, Mr. Chandler, you are awake; you are with us now?’

  The voice was slow, as if the speaker wanted to savour each word.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are awake and you have questions. Am I right?’

  The voice came from directly behind him, so Sam tried to twist in his chair to see who was speaking; again his attempt was met with failure.

  ‘Who are you? And… untie me, won’t you?’

  ‘I am going to ask you one simple question, Mr. Chandler. When I get the simple answer, I will set you free.’ He stepped around the chair until he was facing Sam; a big man who towered over him.

  Sam’s mind was racing; not Formula 1 style racing of course; more Donkey Derby style.

  They didn’t know who he was. They still thought he was Phil. The AI’s were clearly not involved. Was that knowledge any help at all in this situation?

  What would Phil do in this position?

  ‘Ask away, big guy. Ask away.’ He tried for a little bravado; the way he thought Phil might have spoken.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘You’ll have to be a bit more specific. If you mean my bike, it’s in the Don’t Pinch Me lockbox behind my office. If you mean my brand-new coffee machine, It’s been taken by the bailiffs I think.’ He decided to maintain the pretense of Phil’s identity whilst it might still be useful.

  ‘Why would I want to know where your bike is? Or your coffee machine?’

  ‘Just making a point; you need to speak more plainly when you kidnap someone just to ask a simple question. Maybe you could just have tapped me on the shoulder and said, Excuse me sir, do you know where it (give a fuller description at this point) is?’

  ‘Where is the blueprint? Is that clear enough for you, Chandler?’ He prodded Sam in the chest for no good reason.

  ‘Hey! That hurt. What blueprint?’