All The Frail Futures: A Science Fiction Box Set

by J Battle

  He had been provided with a mini-syringe with which he could inject a small knock-out dose into their drink pouches.

  There was little privacy on the ship, but the opportunity came when his companions were preoccupied with a minor air quality issue. As his contribution to the solution, he provided refreshments.

  Only moments later they were unconscious and no longer a threat to the operation.

  It was Jack’s official responsibility to manage the deployment of the disc and the implementation of the initial phase of light restriction. The programme had been set to reach a maximum of 0.3% reduction in the level of light hitting the Earth’s surface, and there were more than five hundred scientist and engineers across the US waiting to measure the effects of this action on air temperatures at ground level.

  At this conservative rate they expected their sensitive instruments to register minimal variation.

  They were going to be quite surprised.

  It was 7am Eastern Standard Time in New York. Down at the Battery, the air temperature was measured at 12 degrees Celsius by Brian Jones, working as a temp and a little uncertain of the equipment he was using.

  The local weather forecast predicted that the temperature would increase to 15 degrees by 11:30AM and peak at 17.5 degrees by 3:30PM.

  The Sunblind meteorologists predicted that, with the Sunblind in operation, the 15 degree point would be delayed until 11:45PM and that the high point would be 17.2 degrees. Naturally there was a plus or minus factor of 0.2 degrees to allow for unpredictable variables.

  That didn’t quite cover it.

  When Jack set the Sunblind to 100% opacity, it produced a reduction in the energy reaching the Earth’s surface in the target area of 20%. And the target area stretched from the 15 to 45 degrees north, nicely fulfilling Big Bob’s requirements.

  At 11:45AM the temperature was still only 14 degrees. It didn’t hit 15 degrees until 2PM and the high point was 15.7 degrees.

  Brian recorded the data diligently and E-mailed it to HQ. It wasn’t his problem that someone had obviously screwed up.

  At HQ they didn’t need Brian’s figures to know that all was not right. Within seconds of implementation it was obvious visually that the established mission parameters had not been met. Instead of a patchwork of occasional black and mostly clear cells, visible only to shielded cameras, anyone in Ray-Bans could clearly see a completely black disc.

  The Sunblind team refused to acknowledge their desperate calls and messages; confusion and panic reigned.

  Chapter 9

  Debois sat in his uncomfortable chair, absolutely still. His attention was intently focused on Jack.

  For several seconds Jack had not moved or spoken. Debois guessed that he was in Machine Mode, so it shouldn’t be too long before they could continue.

  ‘Tell me what you remember,’ he whispered.

  But there was still no response.

  Debois stood up and began to circle Jack.

  Although Debois was quite tall himself, Jack was a full head taller. His dull black surface showed little detail, seeming to absorb light.

  His flat face was lit by a narrow glowing crystal optical band, bright enough to show the featureless face below. His shoulders were broad and his long arms seemed strong enough to crush rock. All in all, he was an imposing figure.

  Debois found it hard to control the excitement building up inside him; after all those years of preparation, he was finally here, beside the infamous Jack Russell.

  With no discernible change, it was a shock to have Jack back.

  ‘I remember everything.’ Jack’s voice was calm and quiet, with a quaint rhythm and intonation that betrayed his ancient roots.

  ‘Do you really? Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’

  ‘I am here to represent Earth’s best interests, of course.’

  ‘But why are you here on my ship? You were about to offer some explanation earlier. Please resume.’

  Debois coughed delicately into a scented handkerchief he’d produced from his sleeve. He settled back into his chair.

  ‘You do realise how difficult it is to converse with you. You give no facial or other physical clues as to your reaction to my words.’

  ‘If that’s a problem, how about this?’

  An image of a smiling male face appeared just below his optical band.

  Debois pursed his lips.

  ‘No, thank you, but that doesn’t help.’

  The face disappeared.

  ‘Before I go into details about our requirements, I really need to be sure that you are fully aware of the situation you are in, and that you understand our position.’

  ‘I am fully aware of my position, but I am a little puzzled about yours.’

  ‘Perhaps I could start by explaining the historical significance as we understand it and see how we get on from there. How does that sound?’

  There was no response.

  ‘The Sunblind operation was a disaster. You altered the course so that it was in a geostationary orbit over New York, set at full opaqueness. With the closer proximity you engineered, 100% of the Sun’s energy was blocked from the ground for 3 hours every day for nearly 3 months.

  ‘People died from the freezing temperatures; the Hudson froze. There were blackouts and brownouts. There were crop failures in the surrounding areas.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right. We were shot down after only a few days. No-one died!’

  ‘They couldn’t shoot you down. It is not clear if it was more sabotage, or simply bad luck, but the space based missiles would not work. It took months to launch replacements.’

  Debois paused for a moment, trying to gauge his companion’s reaction.

  ‘You killed Davies and Barnes; you have to admit that.’

  ‘No; I drugged them, but they survived. I remember clearly.’

  ‘How much of your memory is digitised? How much is actually real?’

  ‘Everything is digital, but that doesn’t make it any less real.’

  ‘That would not seem to be the case, if you don’t mind me saying. And if your mind is not really your own, I’m not sure there is any point continuing this conversation.’

  Debois closed his eyes and seemed to settle a little in his chair.

  Then he began to jerk spasmodically, his lips a blur and his ringlets shaking fetchingly.

  For a second Jack was confused. Then he realised that Debois had moved into some sort of machine mode, and, somehow he was communicating directly with Jack’s AI. Without a seconds thought, Jack flicked the mental switch that would put him in machine mode, but nothing happened.

  He tried again, and failed. His AI had to be blocking him; there was no other explanation. This had never happened before.

  He was stuck in slow-mow meat mode. And he was being excluded from whatever was going on in his head!

  Chapter 10

  Debois shouldn’t really have been there at all.

  He’d been planning a holiday. He was going to visit the rebuilt Niagra Falls and maybe take in some casinos. His presentation on the Russell Years had gone down well at a local history convention and he was relaxing in a night club he frequented in a somewhat unrespectable part of town.

  Naturally, when it came to nightspots and music, only the most staid citizens stuck to the current 1950’s pretence.

  The chilliest band of the moment was playing on the small stage, but of course he couldn’t hear them. They played superson rock at pitches too high for the human ear to register. Only those dedicated fans who had gone to the trouble of hearing enhancements could hear them; that was why they were so chilled.

  So many of their albums were bought by fans who would never actually hear their work, which was very much the same for the music media who raved about their genius.

  So, despite their much vaunted commercial success, there were only five or six fans there, cheering them on from the dance floor, plus a pack of dogs howling outsi
de; for some strange reason they were forbidden entrance.

  Debois quite enjoyed watching the emaciated lead singer leaping about, shaking his curly head, waving a stern finger at his audience; in absolute silence.

  As a student of history, Debois had a guilty secret.

  He doted on the boy bands of the late twentieth century. In his private bedroom, there were flat representations and holo-pics of Luke, Matt, Ronan, Jason, Paul, John, George and many others; the whole pantheon.

  His secret was safe, however, as he never received visitors; and certainly not in his bedroom. That was not the sort of thing he could contemplate, not with all the messiness that might entail.

  He was sitting at his usual place at the bar, all comms off and a cool fruit based drink in his hand.

  Barry was behind the bar; his clothes were a little too tight for his current weight, but he didn’t seem concerned; after all, he had his memories.

  ‘Hey Bar, what have you got music wise?’

  ‘How do you want it? Trad, inject, ingest?’ He gestured to the pots and discs behind the bar.

  ‘Ingest, I think.’

  ‘Lingering Smell in the Bedroom?’

  ‘No, I didn’t appreciate their last effort. What about Just Friction?’

  ‘Lubricant?’

  ‘Yes, that’d be smooth.’

  As Barry prepared the muse-drink for him, Debois noticed Allea walking towards him.

  To call Allea’s movement merely walking was to understate drastically the full effect of her performance. In shorts so brief you could see the razor burn, and with only two narrow vertical bands of flimsy material failing to conceal or constrict her quite remarkable breasts, there was so much movement, vertical, horizontal and lateral, as she moved that she was a magnet for all eyes in the room.

  ‘Hi Michelle,’ she breathed, standing ever so close.

  ‘Hi, Al,’ Debois whispered, taking a stab at sexy, but missing by a kilometre.

  She tapped his wrist.

  ‘Switch on your comms. You’re wanted.’

  ‘Okay, but before I do, can I…?’ He raised one eyebrow.

  She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. No-one was paying them any attention, though she was sure Barry could see them in the mirror.

  ‘OK,’ she said, her eyes locked on his. Then she did something magical with her hips and her left breast was pushed towards him, threatening to snap the narrow lacy strip.

  Debois raised one pink nailed finger and brushed the knuckle along the yield of her breast.

  That was all he wanted.

  If she had offered anything more, he would have run for his life. Not for him the messy stuff others lusted for; the complications, the restrictions. No, a moment like this would keep him satisfied for months. He would wake up feeling the heat of her body, inhaling the musky scent of her skin, lost in the smile on her lips.

  As he left the club he switched on his comms and received the message that wiped Allia and Niagra from his mind.

  Jack Russell was back.

  Chapter 11

  Number Two was standing on a low hill; at three metres above historic sea levels, it was now the highest point on the planet.

  The sky was grey, filled with the vast formations of angry clouds caused by the flash boiling of the seas and oceans to provide more surface area for his work.

  Mountains had been levelled, forests destroyed, cities reduced to their molecular base. All in his quest for matter; matter to be broken down and used as fuel or building material for his great project.

  Beside him stood an exact copy of himself, dull black and unmoving in the strong wind.

  And beside that copy was another, and another, and another.

  Number Two turned; everywhere he could see replicants of himself, filling the land to the horizon and beyond.

  If he was to circumnavigate the planet, the scene would be the same. Every square metre contained one single copy of the original, and each one contained a tiny quantity of organic material, held in stasis. Each a cloned piece of the original Jack Russell.

  It had started slowly, taking several months to organize the sentient natives enough to make the first copy, then things got faster, with the full use of the entire planet’s production capacity turned to manufacturing the replicants.

  There was a slight hiatus as the last of the natives perished, but soon production was back up to optimum levels as the more copies there were, the more they could make.

  The only brake on production was waiting for new organic material to be grown.

  Now, with 27282191956 versions of himself to ensure the survival of Jack Russell, there was a decision to be made. As things stood, there was a very good chance of survival for up to 3.5 billion years. Then the local sun would likely expand to a red giant, taking in the orbit of this planet, destroying everything within its radius.

  Destroying Jack Russell.

  That was a result Number Two intended to prevent.

  There were other planets in this system which would provide plentiful raw material for the manufacture of replicants, over the medium term.

  But over the longer term they would not be sufficient.

  Number Two looked up. The angry convoluted clouds blocked his view; still, he knew what was hidden.

  Beyond the clouds, the sky was full of stars.

  **********

  The machine speed spasm lasted only a few seconds but it was long enough for panic to threaten to overcome Jack.

  For nearly ten millennia his mind had been embedded within his AI, supporting each other in a symbiotic relationship that had outlasted civilisations.

  Now he was cut off, on his own; a mere animal.

  He could see the contents of the room, if there had been a sound, he would have heard it, but he had no real awareness of his position in space or time, no sense of himself. He was just meat.

  Debois opened his eyes and sat a little higher in his chair. A twitched smile appeared then immediately failed.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he whispered, his voice a little hoarse.

  ‘How did you do that? You have no implants, no enhancements.’

  Debois raised his eyebrows. ’I have my ways.’

  Jack tried to regain contact but there was nothing there. His AI was still closed to him.

  He was left alone, his mind was sluggish and dull, straining through a morass of non-specific feelings and non sequiturs.

  ‘But…’ Nothing followed; the question, the qualification, the protest; nothing. He looked at Debois, one hand raised as if in supplication.

  ‘Perhaps I should explain myself’ There was something of a self-satisfied air about him now, as if he had proved himself extraordinary; that he now had the upper hand.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your AI and I have come to an agreement which I believe will result in all parties reaching their desired goals. A happy ending for us all. Now how does that sound?’

  ‘You’re going to let me land, with my family?’ The words came slowly.

  ‘Yes. At some time in the, for you at least, relatively near future, you will be welcomed back to your home world. There will be no fanfares, no ticker tape parades. But you will be allowed to return.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It is difficult to be specific about the exact timeline here; there are certain complex variables over which we have little or no control. But it will happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Suddenly we’re quite the monosyllabic interlocutor!’

  ‘Why have you changed your mind?’

  ‘Well, the thing is this. You are going to do something for us first. You’re going to correct some of the errors that you made during your millennia flitting around the Universe.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Of your course you don’t.’ Debois resisted the temptation to touch Jack. ’You poor dear.’

  Jack turned suddenly. Stiffly, he walked to the neares
t bulkhead. It was blank, unadorned. He turned; all of the walls were the same. He was locked in a small room in the depths of space, millions of kilometres from any chance of safety. Effectively blind, and without an iota of control over his situation.

  He had to find some way to change that, some way to be other than a mere tool.

  He turned back to Debois. He could shred his soft body to ribbons of gaudy flesh; he could crush his elegant skull to a diamond jewel of loss and despair; he could hug him in an epiphany of agony and rage; he could flay him and wear a coat of mutilated flesh.

  He reached out for him, his black hands claws, his blank face managing somehow to display his intentions.

  ‘Stop!’ Debois was out of the chair, one hand stretched out towards Jack. ‘You don’t want to do something you’ll regret later. Think of Julie and Ben!’

  Jack stopped. Slowly he lowered his hands. His head dropped as he watched his hands.

  Then he looked up at Debois.

  ‘I can’t remember what they look like,’ he whispered.

  Chapter 12

  Debois had rushed back to base as soon as he received notification of Russell’s return.

  Rushing didn’t really equate with speed; not these days.

  The North Western region was currently going through an idealised version of 1950s North America; the music a mix of exciting rock and melancholy country, the transport slow and time consuming, and there was a distinct dearth of casual clothing. In house entertainment was restricted to a few hours per night of flat vid and a selection of faux religious preaching over the radio. Naturally it was considered bad taste to indulge in personal implanted entertainment devices.

  Of course, this was only make pretend 1950s North America. No-one actually wanted the health care, the paranoia, the racism, the sexism or the life span. It was just pretend.

  Debois was looking forward to the next change; the word was that it would be 1980s UK. He was sure that would suit his style much closer.