13 October 2012

Beneath an evening sky both red and black the students slink from place to place. The hallowed halls of Rutherford University swell with night’s swift onset. The buildings loom and grasp at young men and women too frightened to admit their fear; they still attend their classes despite the spate of lurid murders visited upon the campus over recent weeks.

Police have found no lead to follow other than the mysterious disappearance of Professor John Grimm and the death of his invalid wife immediately preceding the onset of the ‘Campus Killings’, as the media now refer to them.

Not all the victims have yet been found.

And one is still alive.

Beneath an old building–tall and lightless with black windows staring out upon the night-time campus–shadows stream down broken stairs and wind their way toward the feeble light within the basement.

You’re not feeling yourssself.

‘No.’

Sweet decay.

You’ve been awake for sssuch a long time.

‘Yes.’

Velvet knives.

You ssshould let yourssself go to sssleep.

‘No.’

Black oil and hot coals.

John Grimm slumped on the dirt floor of the dark basement. His back ached where it touched the wooden boiler room door. He did not know how much longer he could stay awake, but he knew he would rather…

… die? You would rather die than go to sssleep? But we have had sssuch fun together. We have fed upon forbidden fruit and you have grown fond of the tassste, have you not?

‘No!’ John screamed at the voice oozing out between his own thoughts. ‘I’m sick! I can’t bear not knowing what you’ve done with me when I sleep! What you make me do. I don’t remember eating for weeks, yet my stomach is full. I don’t know if I’m more terrified that you’re real or that you’re not–and I don’t think it even matters any more.’

He staggered to his feet and held his bloody hands up in front of his face. In the basement’s watery yellow light his ragged fingernails seemed as black as the streaks covering his chest and stomach. But he knew they weren’t really black; they were the dark rust of old blood.

Her blood.

And as if responding to his thoughts, her dreadful sobbing came welling up from the dark place within him.

Reading minds.

Linking souls.

Merging his own mind with his dying wife’s in an attempt to rouse her from her five-year coma. His Orpheus Machine had drilled a tunnel into Kim’s mind, but he had not brought Kim back with him when he climbed out of that tunnel. He had brought her worst nightmare.

Or he had gone mad.

When he usssed the firssst machine, your great-grandfather could not anssswer that quessstion either, manling. How deliciousss that you ssshould be ssso concerned for your own ssstate of mind, your culpability or lack or it, and give ssso little regard for your actionsss. I sssussspect it mattersss little to thossse upon whom we feed, my little piglet. Do they care a whit whether their monssster is possesssed or a madman?

Grimm slumped against the door, and wiped his hands on jeans stiff with…

The sobbing wasn’t just in his head; it came from the other side of the door. Someone was alive in there. Grimm pushed the door and tried to open it. His fingers slipped off the slick handle and he realised it too was covered with blood. He banged at the door with his fist while trying to get a better grip.

‘I’m coming!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming!’

Of courssse you are, my pig. And can’t you hear how glad ssshe isss to know her mere sssobs can bring you to sssatiation? Lisssten to her laughing now.

‘Shut up,’ Grimm said through gritted teeth. But it was true. He could hear a woman’s brittle laughter from the other side of the door.

On his third attempt, Grimm managed to turn the slippery handle. He threw himself at the door and pushed through into the boiler room. He gagged on warm wet air, rank with ordure and offal. Pale light streamed through the doorway from the basement behind him.

And despite the winged shadow he cast deep into that noisome hole, he saw the woman laughing quietly to herself. He could not make out the details of her body in the darkness, but she seemed to be strapped within an elaborate chair of wires and cables and brass and rivets.

Her face was in the dim light. Tears had cut many paths through the grime and blood on her cheeks. Despite the polished metal of a net-head’s jack-points dotting her shaved skull, she might have been pretty before she came here.

The moment he burst through the doorway she stopped laughing and looked him straight in the eye.

‘Are you him or are you yourself?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘I… I’m not sure,’ Grimm replied. ‘I haven’t slept. I think I’m sick.’ He took another step into the room, clearing the doorway and letting more light shine through to cast itself upon her body.

She was seated in a contraption that resembled an old barber’s chair made of brass. Grimm suddenly recognised the prototype Orpheus Machine he had built using his great-grandfather’s designs and plans.

Tubing fed into the chair from the boiler. Tangled wires and gleaming mirrors spilled from the base to cover the young woman in an industrial spider’s gothic web. Her arms were clamped to the arm-rests, and her ankles were clamped to the foot-plate. Connected to the tips of the wires, hundreds of gleaming needles all over her body pierced skin drawn taught by just as many clamps and pins. Her four breasts were bruised and punctured as if bitten by a large dog, and angry red welts criss-crossed her thighs and stomach. On a bench beside the apparatus, antique surgical instruments lay covered with spatters of black blood and gobbets and red gore.

‘Sweet Mary, what have I done to you?’

Her eyes wavered. ‘Then you remember my name?’

Don’t lisssten to her. Ssshe isss a whore.

‘And if I am a whore, what of it? You asked what you did to me, but you are too late,’ she said. ‘It has all been done to me a thousand times before.’

Grimm stepped closer, reaching out as if he were a supplicant. ‘You can hear him? You can hear the nightmare?’ he asked incredulously.

Desperately.

‘Of course I can,’ she said. ‘I was sent by my sisters to save you.’

Grimm felt a monstrous black shape explode from within him. Blazing pain ran through his body like molten lead, burning him and seizing his limbs with an intolerable power. His tongue and lips moved, and each movement drove splinters of glass into his mouth. The voice that issued was not his, but the nightmare’s:

‘It cannot be! I Dessstroyed the lassst of you generationsss ago!’

Grimm felt himself snatch up a long-bladed surgical knife and lunge forward. He screamed from a tiny island of consciousness as his hand jerked awkwardly down–a puppet under the control of an apoplectic puppeteer. The knife bit deep and in that single stroke opened the woman’s abdomen from between her second row of breasts down to her pubic bone, against which the sharp blade snapped.

The woman convulsed in the machine, arching her back, but she cried out, ‘Flesh is nothing! Men have penetrated our bodies throughout the ages, but you touch nothing if we choose not to let you touch our minds!’

And who are you to ssspeak with sssuch authority for your ssex?’

Grimm felt as though an unseen hand held his eyelids open, forcing his eyes to see the horror before him with surreal clarity. His own cruel hands held the woman’s entrails, and yet with what could only be an incomprehensible exercise of will, she forced a strength and power to her voice:

‘I am Mary. A Magdalene. My sisters have protected our sons and lovers from you and your kind since before the Christ first claimed us in ancient Ephesus. This man has let you make a victim of him, but you have no power over me.’

‘I have every power over you! I ssshall pierce your mind and rape your sssoul!’

So saying, the nightmare creature filling Grimm’s mind and body released Mary’s viscera and rammed a cable into one of the net-head jacks in her skull. It took a blind helmet connected to the Orpheus Machine by tubes and cables and pulled the helmet over Grimm’s head. Every movement battered at Grimm’s consciousness with molten agony, but it seemed to also affect the creature’s control. It seemed to be weakening.

And then it closed the master contact switch.

-ooOOOoo-

The immediate absence of pain came as such a relief that for a moment Grimm forgot everything else.

But rough ground under his bare feet impinged upon his awareness, and with that awareness sound and smell and sight came thundering back.

He found himself standing outside. For a moment he thought it must be night, for the sky was dark, but then he saw a pale ring of fire and realised the sun had been eclipsed.

In the eerie twilight, he saw a heavy-set man hanging naked and bleeding from a large wooden beam nailed to the top of an equally large post. Many shadowy figures formed a ring some distance from the man, but the only noise was the rustle of cloth and somewhere far off, a child crying.

At his feet, three cloaked women stood with a red-headed man who wore only a loin-cloth. Grimm could see one of the women was old, and one seemed young in an ageless way. The third woman turned towards him, and Grimm recognised Mary. She spoke, and although he was some distance away, her voice was as clear as if she were whispering in his ear. He could even feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek.

‘He charged us, here at the beginning. Three orders He created from among Artemis’s daughters: the Virgins, who have since been yoked by the priests of Rome even though His own mother Mary was the first; the Crones, the holders of lore who have since been persecuted and driven into hiding–Mary the wife of Clopas was the first of those; and the Magdalenes. I am one of their order. Your demon can not come here.’

‘You… you were here? At Golgotha?’ he asked. His voice caught in his throat, but she seemed to hear.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Not I. But I count the Mary Magdalene as my ascendant, just as she counted Artemis hers and served in the Great Temple at Ephesus. Our sisterhood is more ancient even than this, and we have since served the Christ faithfully despite the degradation and defilement heaped upon on us by men over the centuries. But what are those tortures of ours to His? He knows. He took our agonies on Himself this day as well as the rest of the world’s besides. And so we serve throughout the ages, passing lore from one generation to the next. And sometimes we are called to fight against the demons loosed by men upon an unsuspecting world.

Demons like yours, John.’

‘It wasn’t mine,’ he whispered. ‘It came unbidden. I only tried to save my wife.’

He blinked and Mary stood abruptly in front of him even though he didn’t see her move. Her head-cloth was now thrown back. The lumps from the sockets in her shaved skull were visible only in silhouette as she reached up and gently cupped his face in her cool hands.

‘You despaired, John. And in your arrogance you sought to storm the sanctity of your wife’s mind. To chain her to your own will, because you needed her alive to appease your own selfish loss. You tried to steal her soul from God, and in doing so you opened a doorway to Hell.’

Grimm felt tears streaming down his face. ‘How do I end it? How do I close the door?’

‘You end it by asking forgiveness,’ she whispered. ‘And I shall close the door for you. I know your demon’s name, because my great-grandmother Mary Kelly wrested it from him. He killed her for it, but not before she passed it on to one other. And the demon did not know she had a daughter. And her grand-daughter is dying now by your hand. By her death… by my death, you shall be freed.’

The sun moved from behind the moon, and light flooded the world. Grimm was struck blind by roaring white and clashing brass.

-ooOOOoo-

I ssshall rape your soul! The voice filled his very being, and he felt a vast and ancient presence rushing with heat and flame to pour itself into the cool pool he sensed was Mary’s mind. He had been in that pool, and for a moment he felt her–he felt being her–but the demon left no room for him as it howled and defiled her with its own ancient lust and rage.

Grimm fell to the floor, blinded by the helmet still over his head. But then, against the hissing tumult of the Orpheus Machine, he heard Mary say: ‘You cannot invade when the invitation is freely given. And you cannot escape when you are named. Lodoxael, you are bound to me.’

Grimm pulled the helmet from his head. The Orpheus Machine writhed and shuddered, tearing itself apart. Steam poured from burst tubes and the dim basement light flickered off and on in time to flashes of electricity exploding the hundred mirrors of the machine’s entrails.

And Mary’s broken body formed the heart of the machine.

Grimm staggered to his feet and tried to release her. He could not tell if she were alive or dead, the wound to her belly was so deep. So vital. The machine buckled and bent her back so far her spine snapped with an audible snap.

And still, her arms and legs bound her to the machine and Grimm wept as he struggled to free her.

But the scalding steam and arcing electric cables forced him back. The pressure gauge on the boiler began a shrill whistle that quickly climbed in pitch.

Grimm turned and ran towards the night without a backward look.

The explosion, when it came, blew out three floors of the old building.

---

Bryn Sparks lives in Christchurch, Aotearoa New Zealand, with his wife Christine and their three daughters. He owns no sheep. Bryn is CEO of a medical device manufacturing company, and is completing a PhD in Medicine at the Otago University, Christchurch School of Medicine.

Bryn’s previous publications include Wing and a Prayer in the February 2004 issue of Frothing at the Mouth, Seven Wives in the 2004 volume of the award winning Agog! anthology: Smashing Stories, and Whiskey in the Jar in the December 2004 issue of Aoife’s Kiss. They’re all worth getting from outstanding online vendors such as ProjectPulp or The Genre Mall.

His work, “Not For Children” is schedule to appear in the summer issue of Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest

---

Bryn Sparks’s short story “On the Shoulder of Giants” appears in the Apex Publications anthology Aegri Somnia. Order your copy today.

A microcam probed and scanned, suspended in air, invisible against the hazy twilight.

The opening of a door in a dingy warehouse several hundred meters away caught its attention; it zoomed and focused. A lean figure wrapped in black foil stepped through the opening and the cam zoomed again, recognizing its lost target. The figure strode over to a heap of scrap metal leaning haphazardly against the warehouse and began wrestling with large chunks of the debris. The sleek outline of a high-end bio-bike slowly emerged and the figure slid into the saddle when it was free. The bike’s engines glowed blue as they charged; the rider fiddled with his thigh-jack before firing them up. Then bike and rider accelerated towards the inner city, a shimmering black streak against the roadway.

The cam tracked the streak until it disappeared into the haze.

***

Qinn spun the bike to a halt atop the platform and killed the engines. He slouched forward in the saddle and draped his arms over the bars, ready for the show.

Twenty minutes later, he was still in the same position. A ringing, metallic noise stirred him from a near trance. Some slum kid had clambered up the loading dock and was kicking a sheet of tin with his oversized boots, half-looking Qinn’s way.

“Whatcha doin’, street?” asked the kid, not stopping his assault on the tin.

The noise was reverberating in Qinn’s skull, an off-key tuning fork in his cerebellum. “Stop that, would you, kid?”

The kid stopped and shoved his grubby hands in his pockets. He glanced at the bio-bike and repeated his question: “Whatcha doin’?”

Qinn turned back to his view of the outer slum. The kid was nervous and cocky all at once; he decided to be friendly. “Watching the sky,” he said, and to himself: Where the hell are you, Iggy?

“Can I eye your bike?”

“Sure, kid. Just don’t touch anything that’s lit up.” Changing colors again? You bastard.

“This is real chill…you got the anti-friction plates,” the kid said, nodding his approval. “What’s your name, street?”

“You know bikes. And street works.” C’mon, Iggy! You’re fucking my mood!

The kid was silent for a moment, then: “My sister watches the sky, but she’s a juice-head.”

Qinn forced a chuckle and checked his neural clock. Damn you–

And the slum exploded in color. Mottled red shards burst outwards from a spot on its far edge–a shattering pane of dyed light. A deep vermilion mist began flooding the area, and a pure, triumphant note washed over Qinn’s face and to his ears. Goosebumps riddled his skin, and the slum kid’s shouts of amazement made him laugh aloud.

A sparkling, translucent bird formed at the center of the explosion, its brilliance dulled by the expanding mist. It spread massive wings and leapt into the air, liquid light and glitter pouring from its tail. It spiraled skyward and disappeared into the velvet.

A sudden wind and the mist faded into nothingness.

Fuck yeah, Iggy. Nice one.

“Shit, street! That was….” The kid trailed off. “Was it real?”

“It was real, kid. As real as anything.”

Qinn sat back in the saddle and closed his eyes, letting the red dance on his eyelids, the pure middle C ring in his spine.

***

Viscous green light bathed the crowd. Qinn exhaled a pungent cloud of fama smoke and flicked the roach to the backstage floor. Tension was building; he could feel it pressing on his skin, see it glinting off the faces of the kids crammed against the stage. The suits would be upping the gas soon.

“You’re late, Jacko,” said a deep, scratchy voice behind him.

“So are you, Giff.” Qinn kept his eyes on the crowd.

“Ahh, hell with ‘em. The heads can wait–we’re going to play all freaking night.” He paused. “We are, aren’t we?”

“In your bass case. Iggy named this batch Yellow Rhythmic Star. Be careful–it’ll take your head off.”

“Right-freaking-on, Jacko! Where’s everyone else?”

“Around and about. Go get juiced and roust ‘em up. Let’s get out there.” Giff grunted in response and ambled off to his dressing room. Qinn continued to stare at the crowd a few moments, then went in search of his psitar.

Forty minutes later The Five Unknown Men took the stage and the crowd roared and the lights pulsed.

***

Qinn collapsed face-down on the couch in his dressing room. They had played six hours. Non-stop. His mind was wasted from the drain of the psitar and the elation stirred with guilt at what they’d done. The music had leapt and danced, a swirling mass of space-stuff. And the music was theirs–every crackle, cry and buzz. But the lyrics were all pre-approved by the fork-tongued PR department of Illuminated Ore Inc. And the subliminals….

He rolled over, his skin squeaking on the soft leather. Shadows on the ceiling rotated in expanding and contracting vortices, and he decreased the level of Red Resonant Moon being pumped into his cortex. The drug was Iggy’s specialty; he had synthesized an old earth hallucinogen derived from a cactus and mixed it with a psychoactive Redore-13 narcotic. Qinn had gotten wired for direct injection after his first dose. At the beginning it had been just for performance use–the music he created under its influence was so light and majestic. But now a drop or two was always in his brain and had been for the past three months. His remembrance of reality was Iggy’s vermilion mist.

One of the other Fives began trashing a room down the hall, and Qinn glanced at his door reflexively. A small envelope had escaped his notice and was stuck to the inside frame. He rolled off the couch and retrieved it, then dumped the contents onto his bar and examined them–a cheap holo of him outside the warehouse last evening and a note which read: You are being watched.

***

“Iggy.”

“Qinneas! Hey, did you eye last night’s exhibit? What did you-”

“Shut up, Iggy. Listen to me. Is this a secure connection?” A crackle and a beep.

“It is now. What’s up?”

“I was filmed last night.”

“What? By who? Weren’t you wearing-”

“Not now. Meet me at the arena. Thirty minutes.”

“Gotcha. I’ll bring the stones.”

Their arena was a small park situated in the center of an I.O. industrial complex. The park had a monolithic fountain that Iggy liked and five marble go boards that were rarely all in use. However, if stones were left on any of the boards, by custom no one would touch them for three days, though other players may leave notes as to their opinion on the merit or weakness of a position. Two tables had stones on them now, and Qinn examined both matches.

White had an indefensible position on each board. Qinn slumped onto a bench at an open table and stared at the manicured vegetation. The fountain hissed and spurted, coming alive for its hourly stint. It was precise and automated. Iggy called it ‘The Metaphor’.

Soon a deep chiming became audible over the fountain’s white noise, and Qinn said, “Hey, man,” without glancing up. The door-bell boots were as good as a calling card.

“Qinn!” Iggy, all black leather and colored wire, sat down on the opposite bench and tossed two velvet sacks on the table. “You look like shit. I mean, even more than normal. Rough show or what?” His lenses were on, and clouds floated and drifted in the blue sky of his eyes.

Qinn chose a sack and spilled its contents on the board. Ivory stones the color of Iggy’s skin scattered across the grid. “Yeah.” He pulled the holo out of his jacket and flipped it across the table. “This made it rougher. It was waiting for me in my dressing room along with a handy note in case I missed the point.”

Iggy gazed at it with mild interest. “Pretty low-grade stuff, probably some surveillance service hired by one of your psychotic fans.” He handed back the holo and pried a swirling black stone from the remaining sack.

“Doesn’t mean we’re any less screwed, though,” said Qinn. He squinted against the glare as the park’s lights blinked on. “Shit, it doesn’t even matter that I’m just a figure in foil. Whoever took that film knew exactly who it was. It’s over.”

“I’ve been expecting it to be over every day for months now.” Iggy laughed, a nasal wheeze. “Our good buddies at Illuminated aren’t stupid, and you’ve been a veritable zombie since Vanda split. Something had to give.” He dropped the stone and shut off his lenses. “I created Red Moon as functional art. Mind expansion, Qinn, not a permanent escape. You’re abusing my work.”

Qinn thought: What does it matter? All art gets abused. He pulled a joint and a lighter from his pocket and sparked up. “I’m a fucking rock star, Ig. I’m just finally accepting my role.”

“Bullshit. But let’s talk options. We can leave right now. I can blow stuff up out in the desert just as well as the slum, even without the added bonus of destroying Redore property. You can play psitar to the kangaroo-rats or something.” Iggy motioned for the joint, and Qinn passed it over. “We can get off-planet when the opportunity arises.” A big puff. “Or we can do one more. One more massive exhibit. Then get the hell out.”

“You think I.O. isn’t going to have a say in whatever we do?”

“First, they don’t know a damn thing at the moment, or they’d be all over our asses. Second, they can’t afford to accuse you publicly. It would be a PR nightmare. There will be a new Qinn within days of their first knowledge of your defection, and all the young Fivers will be none the wiser.” Iggy hit the joint again and passed it back. “With your behavioral history, we can be deep in the outer territory before they even start looking. Especially with my contacts.”

Qinn stared at the twisting go board a moment, then nodded. “Alright, one more exhibit. Night of next month’s show. What about the rest of The Fives?”

“We’ll set them up with Kvartchek. They’ll be fine,” said Iggy. “And this is going to be mind-blowing, Qinn… I want you to write a piece of music for the big event. Something for this ugly hole to remember you by.” He picked up his discarded stone and rubbed it between his fingers. “Can we play now?”

***

The feeds all had blurbs concerning the latest art-bombing. The bird was a big story, and several holo-art and semiotics professors had been called in to explain the underlying themes contained in Iggy’s work. Phrases like “the yearning of man for the unknown” and “the oneness of nature and technology” were being thrown about the place. Qinn doubted it. Knowing Iggy, they weren’t even close.

He exited the news, yawned, and brought up Palace Security. “Captain Banko.”

Static for a moment, then Banko’s bulky image shivered into existence. “Aye, Mr. Qinn. What can I do for ya?”

“Anybody get backstage last night, Bill? Any strange faces?”

“We stopped ‘em all, sir. Every last loony one of ‘em.” Banko nodded with satisfaction. “Even that little lass with the flash pistol.”

“What about your crew…anybody new or filling in?”

“Nah, not my lads. There were a few buggers from Kessler Security Systems there. The Palace brought ‘em in as backup later in the night when they saw how damn nutty things were.”

“Kessler, huh? Thanks, Bill.”

***

Grilling the night manager at Kessler revealed the identities of the extra security members. One in particular caught Qinn’s eye: Milla Jastov, age twenty-one. He dozed off with her name in his head.

He dialed down the Red Moon when he woke up and filled himself with anti-withdrawal serum. Nothing to do with what Iggy said, just a break. His mind felt as flat as the open beer sitting on his counter, and the mural in his kitchen still crawled with ominous worms. Reality would take more than a morning to reassert itself.

He got himself a fresh beer, called it breakfast, and put in a call to Miss Milla Jastov.

“Hello?”

“Milla? This is Qinn…of The Fives. Can I talk to you a bit? Over here?”

Milla keyed her video release, and the image of a cute little thing in worker’s overalls appeared on Qinn’s rug. She started at the site of him. “You’re not Qinn!” Then, “Are you? Maybe you are…you’ve got the kinesics. Geeez, I can’t believe I’m standing in your apartment! What the hell happened to you anyway? You look like shit.”

Not what Qinn expected. No squealing, no fawning. But she had to be the one. None of the other names made sense. “Stage make-up and shifters do wonders. I always look like shit.”

“But cute in a gutter-punk sort of way.” She gave him a direct look. “Got another beer?”

He smiled at her open flirtation. “Yeah, get over here.” She winked and her image flickered and disappeared. He put some trance on the system and melted into the couch.

Milla showed up half an hour later. She had changed into one of those skin-tight jumpsuits that were everywhere these days. Her black hair was plastered in spiky clumps and a mass of wires bristled behind her ear. Young, hip, and rich. She shot him a questioning look, and he pointed towards the kitchen. “Beer’s in there. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks. Nice place you got. Ever clean it?” She grabbed his beer off the coffee table and hopped on the couch at his side, sitting cross-legged.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Look, Milla. I know you were at the show the other night working security. Somebody left an envelope in my dressing room. I want to know if it was you.”

She sighed and drained his beer. “I need another.”

Qinn dragged himself off the couch and got two more from the kitchen. He came back, handed her one. “All right, princess. Enough play. Was it you?” He stayed standing.

She shrugged. “OK, I put it there. I used to be a big fan, you know? And when I was sent out on that job, I felt I should let you know that someone hired us to trail you. Since we caught a couple of your bombings.” She bit her lower lip for a moment. “My uncle’s going to kill me.”

“Kessler?”

“Yeah, it’s a family business. We do small contracts and fill-in work, mostly. That’s why…. Well, Illuminated does a pretty good job of keeping everybody away from you. Uncle Geode thought it would be a challenge to try and outwit their Security. That’s why he took the job.”

“It’s one of my better deals with I.O. No surveillance or reporters. Your uncle’s good.” Qinn popped his beer. “Anyone else at the company know? And most importantly, who hired you?”

“Just family. They won’t talk about business to anyone. And some rich bitch paid for the tail. Vanda McKillip.”

Qinn slumped back onto the couch. Vanda? Why? “Thanks, Milla.” A pause. “I don’t tell your uncle about our talk, and you don’t tell anyone what I’ve been up to recently. Deal?” Damn it, why?

“Sure. Yeah.” She sat her beer on the table and glanced around the room. “So, are we going to fuck now, or what?”

***

“Vanda McKillip. Audio only.”

Milla’s perfume lingered in the air. Qinn had the sudden feeling he wasn’t ready for this conversation, but he kept the line open.

“Hello, Qinn.” Vanda’s voice was quiet and tired. Resigned.

“I know, Vanda. Why?”

“How’s the band doing? How’s Iggy?”

Qinn closed his eyes. “Damn it. It was always like this. Just answer me.”

“Alright, Qinn, if that’s the way you want it. I heard rumors. Abbi and Linda saw you at the Pally weeks ago and described you as a psitar-playing corpse. They thought you were about to decompose on stage, never mind the shifters. And I heard about your three-day party for that slime, Kvartchek.” She stopped. “And other things. I needed to know how bad it was. Terrorism, Qinn? Even if you and Iggy aren’t hurting anyone, it’s still wrong. Not to mention that it’s going to get you killed. You’ve got to stop.”

“When were you going to say something? And you still haven’t answered why.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. And I care about you, Qinn. I care about what happens to you.”

“You fucking left me, Vanda! What gives you the right to care about me now?”

“Qinn, I-”

He closed the connection.

***

The art museum was crowded. Unusually crowded. Qinn made his way through the maze of people, sweating and shivering, hoping the shifters were disguising his face. The walls tilted and twisted, filled with nauseating pseudo-art. They kept all the crap up front; that’s what the mobs were here to see. Confusing signs and stylish snack bars flowed past his vision. He hurried his pace through the soft-lit halls.

Then, his room. He stood in the center and relaxed.

Four giant Franz Nagel color-studies hung here, one to a wall. The effect was such that Qinn could stare each direction for a few minutes and have his mood altered this way and that. The cumulative feeling this produced was one of enlightenment. Nagel understood humanity better than most shrinks and could explain it to you with color.

Standing there, images and impressions of the past few weeks flooded Qinn’s brain: Milla and Red Moon. Kvartchek and legal planning. Maps. Vanda.

Iggy giving him the gun.

You might need it, he had said. Things are going to get crazy. Your psitar is all rigged and ready to go. Capture a loop like you normally do…it’s set for forty seconds. Release that mother and all hell will break loose. It’ll probably short out all the circuits in a three building radius. ‘Common Objects Strangely Placed’. You’re going to freak.

The gun sat on Qinn’s nightstand and taunted him like a dare. He stared at it every night and tried (failed) to write music.

That was his purpose here now; this room was his last resort. He began to spin from wall to wall, the image of the last painting superimposing itself on the next, the colors merging and floating in space. You might need it. Things are going to get crazy. I used to be a big fan, you know? I care about what happens to you.

He fell to the floor, flipped on his internal recorder and started singing a theme, simple at first, then growing in complexity as he added counterpoints and variations. He was oblivious to the stares and inquisitive looks from adjoining rooms, lost in the moment.

***

The I.O. rep stepped out of the green room at the Palace with a final jovial wave, and everyone rose and started to head their separate ways. Usual pre-show behavior for the Fives as of late.

“Wait. Hold on. I need to say something.”

The band turned to Qinn–Jesse, Blue, Maj, and Giff all staring at him.

“No you don’t,” Jesse said. “Iggy already told us everything. And Kvartchek has got us covered. We’re not exactly happy, but none of us wanted to see you end up dead, either”

Qinn nodded, started to speak, and stopped. What was there to say?

“To be honest, we had discussed kicking you anyway.” This was Maj, ever the plain talker. “But it wouldn’t work without you, or any us. No more Fives.”

“Yeah, Jacko. This band is dust. We all know it. We had a freaking good run, though.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

Giff’s words had broken through some barrier; Qinn could feel months of tension and resentment dissipate like a mist in a sudden wind.

Qinn grinned. It was old times again. Suddenly. He nodded. “We had a great fucking run, Giff. I.O. be damned. I don’t give a fuck what we play tonight, as long as we fucking burn. We encore with the new piece. Then watch your asses.”

He handed out small, glittering Star packets from Iggy. “Now, let’s blow this place up. One last time.”

***

The room was spinning like it always did after a massive show, the holo-lights turning the Palace into a maelstrom of random images. The heads in the crowd were roaring as one, breaking against the stage like a wave. Qinn started the loop capture and began the newly-written fugue.

This is it. All over. The fugue built and exploded, and the psitar vibrated in his hands. The rest of the band thundered behind him, confident and unified.

They ended in a wash of dissonant, chaotic chords, and Qinn triggered the loop.

Mayhem and madness.

The overhead holo-lights cracked and sparked, throwing shards of plastic on the screaming crowd. The last forty seconds of the encore began echoing through the hall, louder than before, shaking the walls; chunks of the lighting apparatus began crumpling to the stage. One of the struts dropped on Qinn like a hammer.

“Get up, Jacko! You gotta get the hell outta here!” Qinn woke to giant arms around his chest, dragging him from the wreckage of the stage. “Lights fell!” Giff shouted in his ear over the cacophony. “You got crunched pretty good, but I can get you to your bike! You able to ride?”

“I have to! Set me down.” Pain lanced through Qinn’s ribs as Giff righted him. Red Moon was pumping into his head–the blow must have damaged his shunt. “Iggy’s stuff, Giff! Give me all you got. Then get me to the parking level!”

Giff handed over the remnants of his little packet. Qinn poured the contents on his tongue and scrambled onto the giant’s back, agony blasting his side. Giff started loping heavily through the masses, running over anyone in his way.

Down in the bowels of the Palace things were much calmer and the lights were still working. The two of them were instantly recognizable–groups of security ran by without stopping as Qinn waved them on. The Moon was rushing through Qinn’s system, and the Star Giff had given him wasn’t doing much to keep it at bay. At least the narcotic aspect was dulling his pain. “First level, Giff. My bike’s on first level.” Giff just grunted and sped up.

The bike was just where he had instructed the valet to leave it–the easiest place to exit the garage in a hurry. He dropped off Giff’s back with a groan and swung himself into the saddle.

“Devil’s luck, Jacko! I’ll see you in hell, maybe.”

“Yeah, Giff.” Qinn stared for a second at the departing hulk. “Thanks.” He checked the saddlebags for his gun before mounting and plugging the bio-bike’s cable into his thigh-jack. Then he fired up the engines and roared towards the streets.

He burst from the garage into a world of delusion. The fugue was blaring out here as well, and the air was filled with gently bobbing translucent forks and cups. Toothbrushes and vases. Lamps and boots.

The bike squealed as he ground it to a stop, barely missing a pedestrian. People were flowing past him, laughing and shouting at the display. This was Iggy’s supposed masterpiece of art and physics: Common Objects Strangely Placed. It made Qinn freak, just as Iggy had promised.

Fuck, Iggy. How the hell do I get through this mess? The street was starting to curve upwards at the edges, and he could see his music ripping through the air in green waves. A red wave of sirens screamed in his hearing/vision, and he forced the bike out into the milling crowd. He gunned the engines twice as a warning and cut through the center of the street, sending people scurrying out of his way. A deserted side alley presented itself, and he guided the bike down its length, emerging on a main thoroughfare. Iggy’s random objects were still everywhere, and the Star was fighting a losing battle in his blood. He set the bike on auto, maxed the throttle, and held on.

Twisting trees and angry neon flew by. Qinn closed his eyes against vertigo and vomited over his right side; the wind spattering some back in his face. He slumped low in the saddle and tried to hug the bike’s frame as much as possible.

The ride to the waste was a jumble of images both real and nightmarish: whining air trucks, plastic streamers, ghosts of electricity. By the time his bike slowed itself and stopped at the rendezvous point, he was all but lost in evil vision.

Iggy wasn’t here. Qinn checked the coordinates. Iggy should be here.

He tried to dismount, stumbled, and ended up in a heap on the rocky ground. His head throbbed dully. Gutter Punk. Terrorism, Qinn?

He lurched back to the bike and fumbled the gun out of the bag. The gun metal felt cool against his skin, and he pressed its slick form against his forehead. It felt as though it was seeping in. I needed to know how bad it was. No. You’re abusing my work.

No.

I care about you, Qinn.

“No!”

I care about what happens to you. Qinn I–

“Godfuckingdamn it! No!”

He threw the gun across the waste with the last of his strength and collapsed into a shivering mass on the rocks.

***

“Hey, Qinn! Oh, fuck! What happened to you, boyo?”

Qinn woke from blackness to Iggy’s pale form leaning over him. He shaded his eyes against the searing sun and pointed to his left ear and damaged shunt.

“Shit. No wonder. How’d you make it out here at all? Sorry we left you in limbo all night. Rigor’s truck broke down. Hey, Varn! Help me with him…he’s all fucked up.”

Qinn felt himself being lifted, then carried. He was dumped on a flat, hard surface, and he coughed and spat out dust. “You need water, Qinn. I’ll get you some in a minute, but we need to get moving. Ho! Rigor! We’re ready back here!”

A massive engine rumbled to life beneath him. Iggy was shining a light in his eyes. He could feel himself slipping under again.

As he eased into darkness the growl of the truck became the roar of the crowd and Iggy’s penlight shone like a spotlight.

---

Jon Christian Allison was born and raised on a farm in Western Nebraska by overly kind parents who allowed him to read Tolkien instead of digging ditches. Thus, he fancies himself a writer and not a farmer.

Jon currently lives in Western Montana and refuses to admit he’s in his early thirties, since he had planned to sell his first novel before age twenty-eight.

“Camera Eye” is his first published work.

The cyberdrone peeled the forensic blanket from the young woman’s clothed body. Tines of stinging sleet accelerated by gale winds off Lake Michigan threatened to tear the thin data-gathering blanket. The cyber wrestled the blanket in grabs and clutches in an almost human appearance of frustration.

Professor Carl Henley leaned into the formidable wind, pressing toward the crime scene at the end of the icy walkway along Northwestern University’s heating plant. A shrub of Canadian hemlock hid the victim from the voyeurs and passersby held at bay behind the police barricade. Henley rounded the shrubbery and felt the cold intensify with his first glimpse of the victim’s face. She wore a frosted porcelain pallor that pronounced her dead just as convincingly as the forensic data that scrolled across his SitMet visor. He stood transfixed by revulsion and the sheer incongruity of a citizen lying dead in public. Fifteen years at the Chicago Police Academy hadn’t prepared him for the abject inhumanity of murder.

“Professor, we’ve been expecting you,” a voice boomed through Henley’s SitMet.

Henley turned and picked out a large figure approaching with a barreling gate. The man gave a perfunctory wave, pulled up his collar and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. His visor did little to hide a surly expression.

“Captain Jarrow,” Henley said, forcing a smile. “I assume you’ve been notified that I’ve been asked to come down–”

“–and teach the village-idiots how to do their job,” he said with a scowl. “Yeah, I’ve been duly informed by the Commissioner himself.”

“Captain,” Henley said, still smiling, “I’m not here to teach anybody–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah” Jarrow again interrupted. “Just do me a favor and stay the hell out of the way while you check our grades.”

So much for the conciliatory approach, Henley thought.

“Listen, Jarrow,” he said, the smile now gone. “Your problem is with Commissioner Wagner, not me. Quite frankly, I’d rather be in a warm lecture hall than here. So, I’ll be more than happy to ask Wagner to pull me from the investigation because you don’t agree with his judgment.”

Jarrow’s brow furrowed deeply. He held Henley’s stare for several heartbeats then turned away and shouted, “Romano, you’ve got the lead on this case. Take care of Professor Henley,” and walked off without further ceremony.

Even bundled in his winter-duty outfit, Detective Romano appeared slight in stature. His thick black mustache dominated his small, round face, already half hidden by his SitMet.

“Morning, Professor,” he shouted above the howling wind, reaching out to grasp Henley’s gloved hand. “Lt. Jesus Romano. How much have they told you about the case?”

“Not much at all, really. The office called me at 5:00 A.M. and told me the cybers were stumped and the Commissioner wanted my input on a murder.”

“Murders,” he said, drawing out the S.

“Murders?”

“Yep. We just sent you a full set of case files,” he said, gesturing Henley towards a nearby police transpod. “In a nutshell, we’ve got three murders by suffocation on campus, and all within the past two weeks. The cybers spent four days on the first one, and exhausted all protocols without uncovering either a murder weapon or a suspect. When the second body showed up and was discovered to be a copy of the first, the cybers escalated for human intervention.”

They pushed through a bevy of cops huddled near the transpod for shelter. Romano opened the transpod door and Henley felt warmth wash over him as they entered.

“For 26 years now, cybers handled street crimes with almost no human intervention, and they’ve done a heck of a job. Hell, in just six months, the capture rate skyrocketed and street crime almost totally disappeared.”

Romano was of course correct, but in fairness, Henley thought, the D-Nats, organic DNA transmitters, implanted at birth in every World Citizen made criminal identification and capture a simple matter of housecleaning.

“Truthfully–and I never said this,” continued Romano, “the only exposure I’ve had to murder investigations was during my first year at the academy. And for the life of me I can’t find my notes.”

Henley chuckled and said, “I’ve taught that course twice a year for the past five years. I’ll lend you my copy.”

“Besides the data pulled from the forensic blanket,” the detective said, “we’ve got the CityCam and Satellite pics. They show each victim walking towards the school… nothing unusual going on. Then they start tearing at their clothes and chest, and finally go into convulsions and die. The bodies had no outward trauma other than petechial hemorrhaging of the eyes — a sign of asphyxiation. The medical examiner said something cut off the victims’ air supply.”

Henley took a deep breath as he considered the information. Outside the transpod, the wind abated and the sleet had turned to a light snow.

“I think now would be a good time to check the body,” Henley said. “One more thing, did you run a D-Nat cross check for the first two murders?”

“Yeah. Not much help there. We found 136 citizens at both murder scenes within two hours of the attack. Most were students on the way to class, a smattering of teachers, and a few administrative personnel.”

Henley thanked Romano and agreed to call him in the afternoon. He left the police transpod and jogged to the victim.

“Give me the personals on the victim,” Henley instructed the SitMet. New images ran across the visor showing radiation patterns from the body. Henley noted the lack of thermal and electro-magnetic activity, confirming death. A litany of vital statistics and personal history spewed from the headphones. Henley knelt beside the frozen corpse and noted the buttons had been ripped from the material with considerable force. Beneath her overcoat, she wore an expensive one-piece silk jumpsuit and waistcoat whose buttons had also been torn from their attachments. Her partially bare chest was visible through the shredded material. She had thrown off her gloves to get a better grip on her clothing. Henley stooped lower for a closer examination and found her manicured fingernails were badly chipped and broken, but there wasn’t a single scratch on her chest.

After releasing the body to the medical examiner’s cybers, Henley climbed into his transpod and drove into the nearest feeder tube. With a sudden rush, the pressurized tube took the transpod to highway speed and delivered him to the Academy, 20 miles away, in less than five minutes.

Henley quickly strode through the dimly lit halls of the Academy, heading to his office. As he rounded the last corner, he saw Police Commissioner Wagner exiting an elevator.

“Commissioner Wagner?”

“Good afternoon, Carl,” the Commissioner said, surprised by the Professor’s sudden appearance. “I was just coming to see you. Do have a moment?”

“Sure,” Henley said, reaching for his superior’s outstretched hand.

“The Mayor and I have a press conference at noon, and his honor has made it clear he doesn’t wish to go through another embarrassing inquisition.” He paused to make sure Henley caught the full weight of the comment, and then continued, “We really need something with a little meat to it. Say… a suspect, perhaps.”

Before he could respond, Henley heard his terminal beeping with a critical-message alert and jogged the remaining distance to his office.

“Please tell me they’ve broken the case,” the Commissioner pleaded from behind.

“It’s from Lt. Romano,” Henley said, dropping into his chair. “The Citizen’s Criminal Investigation database linked the murder victims. The first, a doctoral candidate researching nano-medicines for extreme gravity environments, died just before his scheduled dissertation. The second was a young housewife working as a part-time therapy partner at the Chicago Office of Health and Human Services. And the last was an attorney specializing in artificial life rights. During the past year, all three had contact with Dr. Millard Benton, Head of Artificial Life Research Division at Northwestern University. Benton sits on the Northwestern Doctoral review board, visits Health and Human Services for partnered stress therapy, and is being slammed with a robotic intelligence abuse lawsuit. Benton’s D-Nat places him at each scene within 24 hours of the murders.”

The Commissioner blew out a long breath and said, “It’s a stretch, but at least I can tell the Mayor we have a suspect.”

“Commissioner, all we really have on Benton is familiarity with the victims and a potential opportunity. And I don’t have to tell you, if his name leaks to the press, and he’s innocent, someone’s career—”

“I know, I know,” said Wagner. “I’ll have him discreetly brought here for questioning. Just try to keep it friendly.”

Henley went to the door and leaned out, “Sheila, I’m sending you a Homicide File. Get the satellite and CityCam pics for the 48 hours before and after the murders.”

“Sure,” she said, “What are we looking for?”

“A killer,” he replied. “Oh, and run a D-Nat search on a Dr. Millard Benton for that period.”

In minutes, Sheila’s findings leaped onto Henley’s monitor. Benton appeared at each murder scene just hours before the victims. In each case, he carried what appeared to be a heavy briefcase, which, coincidentally, he placed on the ground at all three sites long enough to massage his hand. The only difference was during the last series where Benton suddenly came upon three young men horsing around. One accidentally ran into Bentley, knocking the briefcase from his hand. Benton quickly snatched it off the ground, waved the boy off and continued without further incident.

It took a half hour for cybers to deliver Dr. Benton, along with Lt. Romano. Benton was a tall, powerfully built man in his early 50s. He wore a tailored blue surge topcoat and carried his omnipresent briefcase, which he let drop at his feet with an audible thud. He towered over Lt. Romano and looked more like a fictional action hero than a research scientist.

Henley rose from his seat to introduce himself, but never got the words out.

“Professor, you have exactly five minutes to explain what this is all about. One second longer and I will make your misery my life’s work. Do you understand me?”

Henley assessed the man for a moment, determining Bentley probably reached his professional stature largely by bullying others.

“Dr. Benton, I apologize for the abruptness and inconvenience, but we’re investigating a serial murder and your name has been associated with the victims—.”

“Murder?” Benton interrupted. “Who in their right mind would risk it with surveillance everywhere and those damn implants tracking our every move?”

Henley transferred the video to a desktop holographic display. It showed excerpts from each murder, beginning with Benton’s arrival and ending with the victims’ deaths. Benton watched with apathy until, for an instant, his head nodded almost imperceptibly toward the screen. Henley made a mental note of Benton’s double take at the point his holographic image bumped into the boy.

Romano broke the silence and asked, “Can you tell us what you were doing at these places, Dr. Benton?”

“Obviously, I was going to work. Your investigative skills can’t be so lacking you haven’t yet discovered I work at Northwestern.”

“I guess the Lieutenant was wondering why you went to work two hours earlier than usual on those three days,” said Henley. “Also, I was wondering what you had in the briefcase.”

Benton moved towards Henley with a menacing look.

“I had early appointments, and as for the contents of my briefcase, I carry confidential research documents, the natures of which are well beyond your clearance level.”

A gentle tapping at the door broke the tension that hung like taunt barbwire between Benton and Henley. Sheila stood in the doorway and offered a brief apology before being passed from behind by in a thin, hawkish looking man in a flowing blue topcoat.

“Dr. Benton, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” said the man. “Professor Henley, I understand you’re questioning my client relative to a murder investigation.”

“And you are?” Henley asked.

“L. Harriman Chastain. Senior partner with Chastain, Conley and Baumburn. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

Henley leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap, dismissing the question, which was more of jab than an honest inquiry. Chastain, Conley and Baumburn had long been the law firm of choice among Chicago’s celebrity caste.

“Professor,” the counselor resumed, “it’s my understanding you have no real authority to hold or question Dr. Benton, since your affiliation with the Police is more or less as a consultant rather than a law enforcement official.”

“True, but Lt. Romano, behind you does have the authority. I thought my office would be a little less public. Maybe I should just hand him over to the detective to continue the questioning at the precinct.”

Chastain looked over his shoulder to find Romano smiling at Henley’s counter.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Professor. I was merely making an observation. In truth, we would like to assist, but your timing is problematic. Perhaps we could schedule a more convenient meeting… let’s say 10 A.M. tomorrow, allowing us time for a more leisurely discussion regarding Dr. Benton’s activities during those unfortunate incidents.”

He wanted to tell Chastain to go to hell, and give Benton to Romano, but Henley remembered Wagner’s admonition: keep it friendly.

“Sounds acceptable to me, Councilor,” Henley said, rocking forward to jot down the appointment.

As Benton and his attorney exited, Benton’s inner bully couldn’t help but bump shoulders with Romano, also driving the briefcase into the detective’s right knee. The detective saw that Henley picked up on the bump. Henley shook his head and gave a brief smirk and Romano smiled, shrugging off the intentional assault.

“I’ll get him back,” said Romano, waving as he turned to leave, “Just wait and see”.

Again, something about Benton’s briefcase haunted Henley, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the old leather briefcase’s lack of style when contrasted against Benton’s otherwise fashionable consciousness. Henley pushed the thought to the back of his mind and returned to the videos.

He worked late into the evening, well after the building cleared of everyone but security and the cleaning drones. He enjoyed a moment of silence and allowed himself a long luxurious stretch. He wondered if Romano was awake and still going over the case. Henley decided to call.

“Hey, Professor. What’s up?”

“Just checking to see if you’ve come up with anything.”

“Not really. In fact, I was just about to crawl into bed.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ve had it for one day. How’s the knee?” Henley asked.

“The knee?”

“Yeah. Benton gave you a pretty good whack with his briefcase.”

“Oh, that. Truthfully, I didn’t give it much thought. I don’t think he had his heart in it,” replied the detective.

After some idle banter, Henley dropped the call, leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, taking a moment to relax before heading to the transpod. The gentle afternoon snow had now turned to a blizzard. His mind turned to the morning sleet and the murder scene. He thought about the boy that bumped into Benton, and his mind overlaid the bump with Romano.

“Son of a…that’s it,” he blurted and snapped forward in the chair to the CityCam videos. He brought up the second file and ran Benton’s bump with the stranger on the holograph projection.

“Gotcha,” he whispered to himself.

Suddenly, the air bristled. The sound of static surrounded him and a haze wafted across the room and disappeared. Henley had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He looked around the room and found no one else. The terminal began flashing “CityCam Surveillance Failure” several times before going blank. Movement reflected across the darkened screen and Henley spun to find Dr. Benton standing behind him.

“What the hell… How did you get there?” he said,

Benton seemed oblivious to the question. In fact, the entire visage struck Henley as odd. Benton’s skin tone was ashen and had the appearance of a colorized vintage sepia tone photo. Benton’s head turned suddenly towards Henley and a Cheshire smile lit his face.

“I’ve watched you at your trade, Professor. You’re like some noble dinosaur trying to forestall its extinction. But, when all the technology around us fails to do its job rooting out the bad guys, it’s comforting to know society can dust off its old sleuths, hand them a magnifying glass and send them into the fray. You’re good, Professor, the way you zeroed in on my briefcase. I thought I covered every base, but I made one mistake.”

“Actually, it was two mistakes: bumping the young man on the path and Romano earlier today. Each time, you showed up with a briefcase that was so heavy, it canted your body quite noticeably. When you left, it swung freely in your hand as though it were empty. It was empty, wasn’t it? You left something behind that killed those people… and you left something in my office, didn’t you?”

“Yes. A silly slip, bumping them like that. The cybers would have never noticed.”

Benton moved to the front of the desk, following a circuitous route, as though avoiding something invisible in his path.

“Do you intend to kill me right here in the middle of a police academy?” Henley asked with all the bravado he could muster. “You’ll never get away with it. Even with the CityCam dead, your D-Nat will place you at the scene.”

Benton laughed freely, taking several moments to regain his composure.

“You know what’s so funny, Professor? Right now, I’m at home in my office. Outside my door are 20 guests I’ve invited to dinner. That puts me 210 miles from the Academy… with witnesses who’ll swear I was home until they left.”

Henley’s mind raced to make sense of what he saw and heard. At first, he thought he was talking to a holograph, but even the highest quality holographs had some translucency; Benton looked solid as a rock. And if Benton were a cyber, he couldn’t have gotten past security, and certainly wouldn’t be able to pop up behind Henley without being seen.

“You look puzzled.” Benton said with a mocking smile. “Let me see if I can help eliminate some of the mystery.”

“Please do,” Henley said, rising from his chair. “But first—if you don’t mind—I think I’ll ask security to pop in.”

“I do mind.”

An unseen force slammed Henley back into his chair. A vice seemed to snap tight around his chest. He tore open his shirt and grabbed at a black ceramic-like film that had encircled his chest, but found nothing to grip. There were no seams and the edges appeared bonded to his skin, making it impossible to remove the film. The tightening stopped short leaving Henley with no room to expand his lungs. He ceased struggling in order to save precious oxygen.

“In the latter part of the 20th Century,” Benton said, without addressing Henley’s condition, “it was postulated one could build clouds of intelligent nanites, microscopic robots, so small, billions could fill a room yet remain unseen… like air. They could interconnect and work together to form solid structures or manipulate molecules to turn, say, water into iron. They would have the ability to communicate, even at a distance, one cloud to another. However, the project never fully flourished because it would cost too much to manufacture billions of nanites. But I solved that problem with the Genesis nanite. A nanite capable of endless self-replication.”

“So I’m actually talking to a nanite facsimile of you, and I assume you’re talking to a facsimile of me in your office.”

“Exactly,” he said, his mood now becoming unfriendly. “It took 17 years of grueling work to create Genesis, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to surrender it to the University, or worse, our self-serving government who would just use it as another tool to suppress our freedoms.”

“So you killed those people to make the world a better place?” Henley said, his voice wheezing from the strain of his sarcasm.

“You miss the point, Professor Henley, but you’re not entirely wrong. You can’t create something like Genesis without a modicum of technical and emotional support. However, that support became a liability that would have undermined the final stages of the project. My assistant intended to use the concept as part of his dissertation, and my therapy partner became a liability when I found out about the pending lawsuit.”

“But why the lawyer?”

“She scheduled a deposition for this morning. I couldn’t risk her showing up with a subpoena to seize my research papers. I needed the time to hide the Genesis files.”

“Now what?”

Look at me,” he said, sweeping his hands along his torso. “I can be anywhere, see anything, and do anything without leaving the comfort of my home. I can move freely through corporate and top-secret military offices. This is not about money; it’s about getting recognition, becoming a leader of change and disabling the business, military and political machines that are sucking the life out of the citizens.”

Two security guards suddenly appeared in Henley’s doorway.

“Excuse us, Professor. Mind if we check your CityCam. It went dead on our console.

As soon as the lead guard stepped into the room, he drew Benton’s attention.

“Get back,” Henley rasped, “He’ll kill you.”

Both guards automatically reached for their Stingers, hand-held prods that delivered a 40,000-volts jolt. Benton reached into the empty air beside him and a fireplace poker materialized in his hand. He brought it down with crushing force on the guard’s head, dropping him instantly. The second guard backed towards the doorway and dropped his Stinger, opting for a Smith and Wesson, but the pistol never cleared its holster. Moving with lightening speed, a swarming gray cloud coated his neck, solidified and reduced its circumference to half the man’s collar size in a single, crushing contraction. The man collapsed, motionless on the floor.

The tightness around Henley’s chest increased, preventing him from drawing even the slightest breath. He knew was dying. His lungs screamed for air as he grasped frantically at his chest. The edges of his vision began to go white and he dropped to his knees, falling over onto the bludgeoned guard.

Benton’s nanite facsimile moved forward to make sure Henley was dead. But as he approached, Henley rolled to his right and leveled the guard’s pistol at Benton. He fired a single shot.

Two hundred and ten miles away, a small nesting of nanites gathered tightly into a small pellet whose diameter was exactly 10 millimeters, and hurled at the real Dr. Benton with deadly ballistic velocity. The pellet tore through the stunned scientist with bone shattering force.

At the police academy, Henley fell forward, helpless to save his own life. But, as if in a dream, lying across the security guard, he felt a cylinder pressed against the back of his hand. His near unconscious mind recognized the object. He clutched it, snapped back the safety cover, shoved the cylinder against his chest and thumbed the switch. Everything went to black.

Henley woke in a hospital bed. Romano was standing at the bedside, shaking his head. He held out a Stinger and said, “Jeez, Professor, this case just gets weirder and weirder. We got a call that Dr. Benton was shot dead in his home. In your office, we found two dead security guards, and you lying unconscious, apparently from a self-inflicted blast from a Stinger.”

Henley closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then another, savoring the air, and said, “Romano, sit down and take notes. This case is one for the textbooks”.

---

Michael enjoyed a long and successful career in telecommunications before electing to pursue his dream of writing. He translates his passion for theoretical physics and cosmology into stories that portend their effect on society in the near future.He holds a Bachelors Degree in Economics and Sociology and an MBA in Marketing. When not writing, Michael divides his time between a watercolor brush and an electric guitar. He currently lives in Tulsa, OK, with his wife, Cindy, and six ornery pets.