Existence Oblivion

by Kai Ellory Viola

  Shuddering, he stood, pacing the room, its confines small and narrow - he moved back and forth - a caged animal being gauged by its actions. Lacing his hands behind his head he stretched, feeling the snap, pop of his neck loosening, before dropping his hand and removing the COREPORT. There was content on that DVD that he couldn't watch while jacked - he felt it in his gut.

  So, he watched again. Closely. And blinked. Someone ran past the camera, wide eyed and familiar.

  "Harper?" he said quietly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The drive from Darkness to the set wasn't that bad. It was twilight and the stars were just coming out, the wash of sunlight below like a watery blanket evaporating as the sun sunk lower. The sky blended from deep blue, to pale pink, orange and red as the sun touched the edge of the hills at the far side horizon. Darkness spread out behind him in an inward lit blot - coffee steam streamed over the edge of the steering wheel, tickling off his gloved hands before drifting back, and pooling against his throat. Every so often, a belligerent gust of wind blew into the car interior, slipping into the edge of his poorly sealed window, and jerked the steam up on a hangman's pillow of cold air, before letting it slip back down. His cheeks tingled delicately under this deathly caress, before the cold overtook it, sandwiching it back down into the depths of the car.

  One hand juggled a cup, while the other, laced through the steering wheel, topped up the cup with the hotter liquid from the thermos, steam swirling around and spilling into the cup, an exploding orgasm of caffeine, sugar and milk.

  He resealed the thermos, then took a long, slow draft of the topped up coffee, the codicil to the older one, mixing, heating and cooling, spreading and sharing, invading his mouth with the bitter-smooth taste that brought him into his 'A' game.

  Elliot looked at his watch, then at the slowly sinking sun. His eyes were gritty, even though he'd slept till late afternoon. The slight change from coming off night shift to this 'one off' job was making his head hurt – the banded migraine that only ever settled in when he disturbed in routine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a deep vial, then carefully balanced the steering wheel against his knees, awkward and inelegant; he leaned forward slightly, resting his chest on the steering wheel. He shook out a tablet into his tongue, swallowed and dropped the vial at his side, into the open, broken compartment behind his steering wheel.

  He’d tried to get a hold of Harper before he went. After he’d reviewed the footage again, he wasn’t as sure that it was him. The video was grainy, and the second view was less compelling. His three minutes of shock slowly dropped back to an odd sensation in his stomach. Eventually, he tried to laugh it off – the stuff with Morrigan Roth and her husband had them jumping at shadows. Shadows hidden within the CORE and the city.

  The City didn't like to let go, once it had you, and Elliot felt almost nervous leaving behind all he knew, even for this one job. Like a stealthy lover, he almost felt like he was cheating on the city. And leaving Beth, and the baby there....it was just asking for trouble. He briefly considered contacting Harper, and asking if he'd wait with her, but after seeing someone that looked almost identical, no, identical, he didn’t want to. Not till he could have a chat with Morri.

  Harper was a good friend – but they’d drifted. And now it seemed like there was a reason for it. Whether there was a reason for it or not, he’d find out.

  He could have been seeing things. There could be a perfectly good explanation for it.

  Just like there was a perfectly good explanation for everything. Why he’d get up in the middle of the night and leave Beth, even when she told him to let others take the call.

  She’d accused him of having an affair with the city once.

  And it was true; he loved the city, just as he hated it. Beth had joked that he could have conceived his child with the city instead of her, he loved it more. Hurt, he'd smiled and comforted her, but now....now he could see why people would think that about him.

  He reached back for the flask, and rolling down the window, unscrewed it. The cold air took the steam and tormented him with it, blasting freshness and the surges of adrenalin into his system as the heady scent of fresh spiked coffee assailed his nostrils. Like a teasing lover, it tickled around him, his mouth watering with the perfume of it, before the wind blew it off of him. Those three seconds were all it took to wake him up. Pouring another cup of coffee, he re-corked the flask and hit the gas.

  He reached over to the seat beside him; the long straight road ahead of him was empty and he had papers to read. They fluttered and rustled whisperings beside him, and for a few brief seconds he'd wished he had picked up the PDA system that Beth had loaded up. For some reason, he felt that paper made it real. He still hadn't gotten used to the PDA's, nor the fact that anything he wrote was stored centrally, in the heart of the city. He was a secretary's worst nightmare; his notes were actual NOTES, rather than the efficient and neat stylings of a PDA'er. It wasn’t so much ‘doctor scribble’ as ‘detective scrawl’. There was something about the old ways that comforted Elliot and that was one of the 'old' ways he resurrected. His band had to pay for their secretary, but at least they got to do things the way they wanted to. His slowly diminishing band. It wasn’t even rebellion. It was safety.

  He gathered up the papers, holding them and the steering wheel as he closed the window, propping them up on the flat area within the center of the steering wheel he began to read. These were notes compiled from the DVD – and from the information about the people running the project – and of those that he suspected would be in attendance – notes that he hadn't been force-fed over the last two and a half weeks.

  His suspicions had been well and truly roused when he was told the cells would be made of fleximatter, and that they'd been 'patched' to avoid interference. There was nowhere in Darkness that could be patched against interference – the sheer amount of data that was exchanged just from someone opening their eyes and connecting to the network was immense. The general population didn't jack in, it was true – that was reserved for the police and those with CORETEX access, but smart devices made it just as bad. Nulling was different, and unless something had changed, nulling would block filming too.

  The second thing that was bothering him, and wasn't as easy to express was the fact that it was 'closed set'. CORETEX didn't know, so neither did he. He didn't have 'clearance' until the night before the show. They claimed, it would be much easier for him to share that knowledge accidentally, and then they whole show would be ruined. Ruined by sharing something as simple as the floor layouts.

  The prisoner list was something else. Everything was redacted beyond the prisoner numbers and first names. The sinking feeling in his gut when he recognized some of the numbers though was difficult to ignore.

  The final thing which chilled his blood was returning home, the last night before the project – he'd switched to nightshift to get used to the time he needed to be awake – and discovering that the prisoner count had doubled. Instead of 20 people – ten of which were 'survival experts' – there were now 30. The note on his file told him, tersely, that it had been cleared, and not to even query, and that he was to consult, go on holiday and await further assignment. He would not be reassigned, he should stop applying and that if he really wanted a job at the end of all of this, he'd do as he was told.

  Instead, he'd asked Harper and Morri to look into it for him, along with casually enquiring if they knew about the footage he’d seen. He wasn't crazy on the idea of being in the position of telling people that sorry, the prisoners he'd been watching, had escaped because the moron TV exces wouldn't listen when he tried to explain fleximatter wasn't suitable. He didn't want to be in the position of watching the 40 prisoners gang up on the 10 survival experts either – but as he hadn't seen the set, he couldn't even tell if that was a possibility.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Elliot had deliberately let his mind process everything that he'd seen the night before digesting what he saw like a
heavy, uncomfortable meal. Multiple unwanted courses, till it was polite to eat rather than speak out and say "enough". His brain was blocked up, and no amount of thinking of other things moved the heavy, dull ache at the center of his brow.

  The notes he'd read on route just made it worse - there was an uncomfortable band of pressure around his head and a tightness in his neck and across his shoulders which had only increased as he’d read the notes. The pain was enough to make him hunch and pull his shoulders forward.

  Beth frequently accused him of being too narrow. Too deliberate in his approach, but it was the easiest way to work with his own process. Some detectives took intuitive leaps, others moved through the things they needed to do, connecting things up with methodical precision. Elliot mixed both. He made the connections, but he could leap when he needed to. Now though, the platform that he needed to land on hadn't rotated around yet, and if he missed, the long drop into the water that was his other thoughts, the long swim back would exhaust and distract him. While he worked it all through - all of the facts processed in his head until he had it all straight, internal tagging like the photos on his desk.

  He walked across the courtyard to the main gates. Two guards flanked the grey bulk, blocking the entrance and were already examining him as he stepped out of his car. He smiled softly at them, nodding his head and pulling his ID out of his pocket as he approached. The fall air was crisp on his skin, its touch clean and delicate.

  "Good afternoon sir, I'll need to see your papers and a valid class 1 ID before I can let you through the gate," the first guard said, looking him up and down with liquid, neutral eyes.

  Elliot handed over his ID, watching the second guard. Both were looking at him intently up and down, eyes flaring as they passed across his shoulder and waist.

  "I have two guns, one in a shoulder holster and the other at my back. Both are organic based metallics, I don't know if you can scan for them,"

  The guard shrugged. "Hand them over sir," his voice was closer to robot. Elliot gazed past them and up a bit, flashing his badge at the camera, almost casually. Flicking his wrist, he snapped it flat, tilting it so that the internal hologram exposed itself to the light.

  After a second it pinged, and a voice floated across the courtyard.

  "CORETEX 1, how can I help you Mr Peters?"

  "I'm being asked to leave my weapons with these units." The camera tilted slightly and soundlessly, the light changing as it bounced off the lens.

  "Yes sir, you are. They'll give you a chit."

  Elliot waited till the camera appeared to be tilted back to his face. "I don't part with either of my weapons without an EO." There was a pause.

  "You're a consultant outside of your A and B jurisdiction; you don't GET an Event Order."

  Elliot sighed. Event Orders were issued to most policemen, for eventualities such as this and were the 'license' to carry whilst on official business. Insurance and human rights had changed policing for the worst. Criminals could carry – that's what made them criminal in the first instance – but the police had to fill in paperwork in triplicate to even carry an unloaded gun. More forms for the ammo.

  "I can turn round and come back." His voice, though neutral, was pouring with contempt.

  "That's your choice. Good night Mr Peters." The badge thrummed, disengaging the call. Elliot's attention turned to the people flanking either side of the doorway, and looked them up and down. With a sigh, he removed his primary holster and then reached down and disengaged his second, holding them both patiently. His attention turned back to the guards.

  "Mark 2 and Mark 3?" Elliot said and the guards shrugged, and then gestured for his ID. "Why are there androids guarding this place?" By now, the first unit was turning towards a discreet scanner behind him. They passed it through and the hologram flared into life, and then shimmered out. The deactivation protocol was for the protection of the city and its systems alone - PD badges got the holder into any CORE-enabled building. It also meant though that Elliot couldn't 'call back' to the secure lines in CORETEX.

  "We work under orders sir. We cannot answer your questions, nor give you autographs. Hand over your guns please sir" the first droid said, offering back his ID. With exaggerated care, Elliot pulled them out of their holsters and handed them over, the loss of the warm comforting weight at his back and chest making him feel almost exposed.

  The second droid nodded to the first and the gates opened.

  "Head straight for the main doors, and there will be someone there to meet you." the slightly grating, synthesized voice said. Elliot nodded his thanks, and walked through the gates, onto the courtyard.

  The prison itself was glass, steel and stone; elegant, menacing. It rose in front of him, towering gracelessly over him as he crossed the courtyard. As he approached the outer doors, he saw two vans, parked just out of sight, passing coils of black wires through the windows. Occasionally, one technician slipped between the two vans, grabbing something from a third. Hunching his shoulders slightly, tucking his hands in his pocket against the sudden bite of cold, Elliot walked over to the doors.

  The smell that greeted him was pleasant, the wave of warmer air carrying welcome to his face, and momentarily blasting his hair in a familiar ruffle. Clean, fresh… until he caught the smell of something darker underneath. Coppery, like a mouthful of tinfoil, the smell made his stomach clench and his face scrunched briefly. His senses kicked up, examining the walls - freshly painted. He wondered how bright they'd shine, what guilt they'd highlight in luminol tattoo, and briefly, his stomach turned. Blood, feces, urine - all those smells crept up on him and pounced. He pushed it down, mentally running through the thought patterns he'd been taught as a rookie in the morgue that first night. Breathing carefully through his nose, thinking of something else, it soon faded. But the tinge of blood was still there. Soon the smell didn't bother him, but his mind was still worrying its implications.

  A corner doglegged him towards a small reception desk, its pine and ash luminous and heartening against the darker blue carpet and walls. A silver logo above the head of the woman behind the desk declared 'UCPS channel Alpha' - the newly formed TV subsidy that centered on the new programming.

  Behind it, a blond woman sat, quietly examining the edge of the corner he'd just came around. Still and unmoving, she didn't blink or acknowledge his presence. He took a few cautious steps towards her, and she suddenly raised a hand, the flat of her palm showing a red light. Scanner lazes sprung from it, sweeping him left to right, and up and down. His badge thrummed once, beeped and then fell silent again. His phone also rang twice, beeped and vibrated - the network logging his indents to ensure it could track him in multiple ways. There were two 'silent' chips too, one in his shoulder, one in his chest, that pinged back - the two silver flashes identifying their acceptance and logging into the system.

  The rest of her was as still as it had been when he entered the room. Her hand dropped onto the desk, a smooth, even motion that was more like a piston lowering a bridge than the lowering of an arm. His phone rang again, and this time, he reached in to answer it.

  "Yes?" he asked, not recognizing the information flashing on the screen.

  "This is an automated call from UCPS. You are positioned in front of a clone, who is sanctioned. She will now escort you to your designated meeting point and allow you to continue with your job. UCPS wishes to assure you that no sensitive or personal data has been taken from your device or devices and in accordance with CORETEX monitoring, all logs will be returned within 45 minutes of retrieval, should they be required. We'd like to take the opportunity to welcome you..." Elliot hung up.

  "Elliot Peters." the woman said softly, her voice a honeyed purr against the hum of the words pouring out. Elliot blinked as she rose. Slowly, he put away his phone, watching the woman move towards him. "May I welcome you to the complex, and in which manner do you prefer?"

  "Uh...sorry?"

  "I am furnished with greeting protocols from various groups and se
ctions. I can salute, hug, shake hands, stand awkwardly and look at my feet, or do nothing," she said. Her eyes and the rest of her face as still as frozen water at the center of the lake in Central. It was disquieting.

  Elliot offered a hand, and she stepped forward to shake it, her face suddenly animated and interested in him. Exactly as someone coming in to shake hands with a new acquaintance would be, right down to the slight shyness and protective tilt of moving her body slightly away from him.

  "If you'll follow me, Mr Peters," she said, pausing to give him a chance to correct her, "I'll take you to the room where you'll be situated."

  She reached behind the desk and pressed a button - a whole glass panel just off to one side of the desk, which Elliot had taken to be a solid wall, slid back, revealing another corridor, with snaking black cables leading to and from the door at the other end, which was open. A small foot seemed to be pinning it there. The wires and cables terminated oddly, into a furrow of boxes, before appearing above ground again, to run along the corridor twisted masses, before terminating at the door, headless and impotent. The box on this side was being examined by a man sitting in the stairwell - he quickly rose and opened the door wider to let them in.

  He glanced over at the woman taking him up to the control room; she seemed unfazed by his attention to her, or the way the worker shrunk and shirked back from her. Her steps were even, measured, almost neurotic, each leg coming up the precise distance required before dropping again. And that made Elliot uncomfortable for some reason. The precise movements were supposed to be deprogrammed from the clone/android blends in all but a few very specific cases.

  "I can see you watching me Detective," she said, softly. "I am a c-droid, and I can see you calculating that. I'm also Medicae staff. I'm precisely wired for Neurosurgery as well as Nano implants. I am here in case something goes wrong, and you would do well not to fear me for that." Elliot nodded, smiling cautiously. His mind was still stuck on the coppery smell. Unmistakable, he was chewing it like a dog with a bone. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll verify your vaccinations and clearances before releasing you into the unit,” she continued and gestured towards a side alley, off the main corridor.