Eclectic essay collection from NYT bestselling author and Apex contributing editor Alethea Kontis. With a special introduction from Brian Keene. Learn more 
Short Fiction: At a Distance
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”.