In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Nathan Van Coops

  “I could see looking at stuff in a virtual reality, but what about actually touching and smelling things? Physical touch. Don’t people get lazy and fat, interacting by computer all day?”

  I know Tucket is trying not to be condescending, but I can’t help feeling talked down to as he slowly tries to explain himself. I can tell he’s trying to simplify his vocabulary and make things easy on me.

  “You see, all the things you smell and taste and hear are processed through your brain. Once scientists mapped the human brain in detail, they were able to trigger corresponding senses for the experience of the metaspace. So now you can smell flowers, eat dinner, even—what is it you say in your day? Get your freak on?”

  I cringe. “Tucket, I appreciate you trying to use the vernacular from my time, but you can just use regular English if you want. It’s cool how into slang phrases you are but—”

  “Did I say it wrong?” Tucket’s face falls. “I always get that one confused with just getting it on? And there’s ‘doing the nasty,’ and something about a horizontal mambo . . .”

  “Tucket! It’s fine.” I laugh. “You can just skip that bit. I get it.”

  “Okay. Right, so people don’t feel like they’re missing out by not going as many places.” The elevator doors open and we exit into a spacious lobby, teaming with citizens. “But we can still get around fast if we need to.” We follow Tucket to a turnaround for vehicles at the side of the lobby. People are coming and going from aerodynamic driverless vehicles that pull up to the curb and vanish smoothly back into traffic once they’ve dropped their passengers. A few seem designated to certain persons, but many drop off passengers only to take on different ones. I judge them to be the equivalent of cabs. I find I’m only partly correct. As we pile inside the plush interior of a shiny blue one, Tucket explains that they are actually owned by the city and are a form of free mass transit. Tucket sits facing backward and spends a brief moment with a control panel in the car, but I never see him touch anything before we speed off into the flow of other traffic.

  “How are you doing that?” I lean forward to look at the screen. “I get that you guys don’t need tablets or computers now, but how are you accessing this metaspace? You said something about a third eye?”

  “That’s just the name of one company, but the label stuck. Third Eye came up with the most common type of perceptor.”

  “What’s a perceptor?”

  “It’s the unit in here.” Tucket points to his forehead. “It’s tiny. Just a means of receiving data and transmitting it to your brain.”

  “Like some kind of chip? Everybody gets computers in their brains? How did anyone ever agree to that?” The world outside begins to whip past at increasingly rapid speed.

  “It’s not a computer. It’s hardly even hardware at all. The preceptor is just a key to access the metaspace slipped under your skin. Most kids get them put in as toddlers so they can have access to educational data. Parents can control what type of setting the perceptor uses and kids graduate to an adult version once they hit sixteen. Some parents authorize it earlier, but most wait till then. Keeps them out of trouble a little longer. Not that kids these days haven’t found ways around that.”

  Tucket smiles at me. “I can see how the idea would seem foreign to you, but here it makes perfect sense. It’s not just about work or travel. You can use your perceptor to check your health, know exactly what is going on inside your body, even optimize your diet. Since the global acceptance of the perceptor, average life expectancy has gone up to one hundred and twenty. Actually, our world’s oldest citizen is from around your time. I want to say she was born in 2006. That’s just local citizens on official record. There are time travelers who have lived longer.”

  The car rockets along the elevated highway in a chain of other vehicles all likewise driverless and moving at incredible speeds. The walls of the highway block the view almost completely, but the bit of scenery I can make out is a blur anyway. The only landscape I can see is the green of some fields and the distant hint of coastline. After a few more minutes of rocketing along, the cluster of cars we’re with shifts lanes in formation and takes an exit, dropping below the highway and plunging into a tunnel. The vehicles tighten up till we’re almost touching and the group picks up speed again. The lights on the tunnel walls blend into a solid streak as the speed indicator on the control screen creeps past 400kph. My good hand is tightly clenched to my armrest and I force myself to loosen my grip. Holding on won’t help you at this speed, Ben.

  Viznir is fiddling with his tablet. “The academy teams will have their own anchors to use here. They’ll know their way around, too. We’re not likely to catch them in this level.”

  “Do they have perceptors in their heads?” I ask.

  “Definitely,” Viznir replies. “Most of the racers from this century do.”

  I consider this new information. “Does that mean you have one? You’re from this century, aren’t you?”

  Viznir looks me in the eye, then drops his gaze back to his tablet. “It’s a requirement for new guides.”

  Since no more information seems forthcoming, I drop the topic and watch the blur of tunnel outside. I can’t help but wonder where Mym is at this moment. How long did it take her to make it to the 2150s? Days? Weeks? The thought of Traus Gillian hunting her makes me fidget in my seat.

  “How long till we reach this lab?”

  Just as I finish speaking, the car emerges into sunlight. The cars ahead of us pull away and our car shears off to an exit, decelerating as we round a bend into another densely urban landscape.

  “Have you ever been to Northern France?” Tucket asks.

  “Actually, yeah. A couple days ago, but it looked a bit different.”

  The car stops in a central square bustling with pedestrians. The air is warm and the locals are dressed in light fabrics that suit the heat. A hundred and thirty years has had its effect on fashion. While I still see a few men and women in business suits, ties seem to have gone out of style and most of the passersby are minimal in their clothing and accessories, though sun hats seem to have revived in popularity. A few women are carrying small bags, but most people seem entirely unencumbered. Many don’t even seem to have pockets. It makes me wonder how out of touch I must look, standing on the sidewalk in my suit from the 1930s. I shrug out of my jacket and roll it up, squatting to stuff it into my pack, and roll my sleeves up to my elbows. In the sunlight, my left hand looks decidedly red. I flex my fingers and attempt to make a fist. The skin of my palm is tender, but the damage doesn’t appear to be deep, more in the nature of a sunburn. As I straighten up and turn around, I almost collide with a man in a blue skin-tight uniform. He dodges me deftly and steps around me without pausing.

  “Whoa, sorr—”

  I watch the man breeze along his way with a liquid gait that seems to emphasize that he doesn’t have a care in the world. Then I notice the back of his bald skull has a logo stamped on it. I nudge Tucket and point toward the man’s retreating form. “Was that—”

  “A synthetic person? You bet.” Tucket grins.

  “We need access to that building.” Viznir points across the plaza to another lofty structure that’s sparkling with colored glass built on the edge of some type of channel or river. He leads the way and I hurry to catch up, looking side to side to try to spot more of the ‘synthetic people.’

  “So they’re what? Like A.I. or robots?”

  Tucket raises a finger. “They actually prefer to be called synthetic persons. The name ‘Artificial Intelligence’ has a negative connotation suggesting that it is of less quality as non-artificial things. The synths prefer to be treated as equals.”

  “So they’re obviously self-aware. That didn’t create problems? There was no robot uprising or anything like people worried about?” My mind is full of images from The Terminator, but this immaculate environment with its well-dressed citizens couldn’t be farther from the skull-crushing tanks rolling rampant in that film.r />
  “There actually has been quite a fight, socially speaking. Lots of organics had trouble recognizing synths as people. The trans-humans have a bit easier of a time because they are mostly organic, but there is a fair amount of tension there also, especially in less urban areas of the world.”

  “What’s a trans-human?” I keep my voice low, not sure if any of the people walking by can hear me.

  “Humans who have had their natural functions augmented with synthetic parts.”

  “Like cyborgs?”

  Tucket titters a little at this and wags his finger again. “That’s another word you don’t really want to use these days.”

  I study more of the pedestrians. The bald one with the logo on his skull had been fairly obvious, but I now notice more subtle variation in certain people’s skin textures and it makes me wonder if they are also synths. To my surprise, a pair of completely chrome-bodied figures cuts through the crowd ahead of me, holding hands and laughing. Despite the human gesture of affection, they are otherwise not making any attempts to disguise themselves.

  “Do you have synthetic friends, Tucket?”

  “Most of my coworkers in the Academy Acclimation Division are synthetic. I’m friends with lots of them. My girlfriend is synthetic, too.”

  I stop walking at this one, but Tucket breezes onward without noticing and I have to trot to catch up again. My mind is still trying to process the concept of dating a robot when Viznir brings us to a halt. He leans back and points toward the sky. “This whole building is it.”

  The glittering spire of the Academy Physical Sciences Lab has only one visible entrance. A spacious multi-story lobby can be viewed through the plate glass wall. From there it climbs hundreds of feet past the scattered clouds and terminates in a peak I can’t make out.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance they keep this machine in the lobby?”

  Viznir starts walking toward the entrance while I retrieve the tablet I was given and look for more details on my objective. The entrance doors open automatically for us, and we cross a textured metallic floor that’s broken up by four live trees in sunlit patches of earth. We pass between the trees to a bank of elevators. Just before the doors, a woman is seated at a guard stand. She’s wearing a uniform with a badge but doesn’t appear to be armed.

  As we approach the guard stand, the woman rises to greet us. She smiles and addresses Tucket. “Good afternoon, Tucket Morris. Good afternoon, Viznir Najjar. Welcome to the Academy of Temporal Sciences Physical Science Center. Access to this building requires authorization from the ATS physical sciences faculty.” Her white teeth and porcelain skin are flawless. She beams at the other guys but doesn’t look in my direction.

  “We’re looking to visit the particle physics department,” Viznir says.

  “Access to the particle physics department requires authorization from the ATS physical sciences faculty. Visitors are permitted to enjoy the lobby and may schedule tours of approved lab spaces via our metaspace facility.”

  Noting that the woman still has not addressed my presence, I take a casual step to the side and ease toward the elevator. The guard doesn’t make any move to stop me.

  “How does a visitor view the physical lab space?” Viznir asks.

  “Access to the particle physics department requires authorization from the ATS physical sciences faculty . . .” I tune her out and continue to the elevators. The doors of the center elevator stand open, so I poke my head inside and look around. Checking the walls, I notice a distinct lack of buttons. I can’t locate a way to activate the elevator, so I wander back out and look around. There are entrances to a men’s, ladies’, and some other option’s restrooms, and a ring of couches around a fountain. Otherwise, the lobby is lacking in features. I meander back to Tucket and nudge Viznir, who is still attempting to get information from the guard.

  I jerk my head toward the door and they follow me back outside. Viznir is scowling, but Tucket seems pleased with the whole process, or possibly just life in general.

  “So what was that all about in there?” I ask, when we’re clear of the automatic doors and I’m fairly certain the guard can no longer hear us. “No access available.”

  Tucket is still smiling. “Oh no. They don’t allow visitors into the facility. It’s for faculty and scientists and a few select students who earn access through their studies.”

  “And you’re not far enough along in your studies by chance—”

  “No. I’m part of the temporal sciences department. They do control some floors in this building, but I won’t get access. Maybe someday if I decide to come back to teach or do a doctorate . . .”

  “So you have any idea how we’re supposed to get in?”

  Tucket’s smile fades a little. “Don’t you guys have a plan? I figured you would have a strategy since you’re chronothon racers and everything.”

  He waits expectantly as I scan the outside of the building and then look back into the lobby at the lady guard. She’s gone back to her desk and is staring off beyond the pair of trees to her left.

  “I do have a plan, actually.”

  “Which is?” Viznir asks.

  “She was a synthetic, right?”

  Tucket nods.

  “Did you notice how she only spoke to the two of you? What was that about? What do I look like to a synth? Do I look different in the metaspace?”

  Tucket blinks once and his eyes take on a slightly distant stare. “Oh. You’re right. You show up as a living entity, but you’re not highlighted as a person. You could be a pet or a tree.”

  “If the security guard is constantly viewing the world through the metaspace, does that mean I may be able to bypass other security measures as well?”

  Viznir frowns. “But without you having a perceptor to view the metaspace, they don’t even need security to keep you out. All they need to do is shut the door and hide the handle in the digital ether. You’re about the same threat as a tree or a dog at that point anyway.”

  “That’s true, but I can find my way past a few doors. It worked on the pirate ship, right?”

  “How will you even get past the elevator?”

  “There have to be fire stairs somewhere. Building this size ought to have multiple, unless your fire safety measures are massively different this century.”

  Tucket tilts his head. “Our fire protection devices are nearly flawless, but you’re right. We do still have stairs.” He leans back and looks up the massive building. “I don’t know many people who use them though.”

  “Good. Probably less security then.” I root through my pack to find my sneakers and a change of clothes. “You guys stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  I breeze through the lobby toward the men’s room and the guard never looks up. I ditch my suit in one of the bathroom stalls to lighten my pack and unroll the smaller shoulder bag Abraham gave me. I stuff it with Quickly’s journal and Abe’s tools, followed by Mym’s anchor and degravitizer. Milo’s power supply and my charger make the cut, and I place the tablet with my objective info inside also. I bundle the stuff I don’t need back into my pack and heft it onto my shoulder.

  I reemerge into the heat of the outdoors more comfortably outfitted in jeans and a t-shirt and hand my pack to Viznir. “Hold onto that for me.” I bend down and tighten the laces on my sneakers.

  Tucket seems genuinely in awe of the plan. “You’re really going to try to take the stairs? I looked it up. The particle physics lab is on the 118th floor.”

  “Unless you’ve got some jet-pack available that you haven’t told me about yet. Do you guys have any better options right now?”

  Viznir stares up the side of the building. “That’s going to take a while. What do you want us to do while we’re waiting for you?”

  “If I can, I’ll travel back to a little after now once I get to where the objective is, that way you won’t have to wait as long. See if you can figure out which side of the building I’ll be on. The objective won’t have any gr
avitites in it so I won’t be able to jump it out by anchor, but maybe I can drop it out to you somehow. We’ll have to figure that part out.” I pull the tablet out of my satchel and hand it to Tucket. “Show me how to work this thing. With all this fancy stuff on here, it has to have a phone somewhere, right?”

  Tucket walks me through how to access the tablet’s different functions. He locates his own I.D. and Viznir’s and puts them in the corner of the screen so I only have to tap them, then shows me the camera and the 3D map. He is about to go into more advanced functions, but I stop him. “That should be enough to get me through.”

  I reach for the device, but he pulls away. “Wait. This is different . . . I wonder . . .” He gestures to something on the screen and grins. “It is! It’s a metaspace window.” He turns the tablet back to me and holds it up so I can see it. “They did give you a way to view the metaspace. You’ll just have to look through this.”

  I take the tablet and scan it around the plaza. People and synths are highlighted with tags above their heads like a video game. I use the zoom functions at the side of the screen and can navigate in and out of the three dimensional space. Messages and art adorn the ground and walls. Even the sky is full of information. I play with some of the symbols and one de-clutters the screen, eliminating ads and highlighting new objects. Another symbol causes velocities and trajectories to appear around all the moving objects and people, predicting their paths and even recommending a route for me to take if I should like to navigate the plaza.

  A child flings a toy into the air and it sprays a fan of light, whirling in brilliant colors through the sky. The spinning disk leaves a rainbow in its wake as it arcs away from the child, but the item is suddenly highlighted in orange and then red as it nears me. The disk skips off the ground a few yards away and skids to a stop at my feet. I stoop to pick it up. In reality, it’s merely a flat, blue ring made of plastic or nylon, nearly identical to the long range Frisbees of the twenty-first century.

  I study the disk briefly before tossing it back to the little girl, who shrieks joyfully and catches it. Her mother waves to me and guides her daughter back toward a less populated area of the plaza. Beyond the mother and daughter, I spot the vendor selling more of the Frisbees as well as dozens of other toys and doodads. The cart looks tame to the naked eye, even boring, but when I hold the tablet up I see the full onslaught of the man’s marketing. The air above his cart is flashing different colors like the Frisbee and his name hovers over him. Firell’s Fireworks and Toys. Every few seconds a colorful firework launches out of his stand and explodes. I lower the tablet and observe the undisturbed sky above him.