 
Privilege and Other Stories

HL Jones

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 HL Jones

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Contents

Privilege

Too Hot

Lend Me Your Ears

The Rise of the Mummy

Bewildered Bees

The Time Travelling Chef – Sorrow

King Charles

Privilege

The dusty shop is small, almost empty, and in need of repair and resupply. Peeling paint and dust is in abundance. The burly shopkeeper is reading a day-old paper and smoking a cigarette. He regards me warily over the headline. "What do you want, comrade?"

"Cigarettes," I say hastily. "I want cigarettes." Having never smoked before, I don't know if I like cigarettes, but I feel that I must ask for something.

The shopkeeper pulls a slim box from under the counter. "Cigarettes are a luxury, comrade. They are bad for your health." He puts the pack on the wooden counter but doesn't lift his hand. "Do you have the appropriate Privilege?"

I remember this from the brief and pull a wad of papers from my dirty jacket. His eyes widen – with greed or pleasure, I cannot tell - and I extract a single note from the tied bundle. "Is this sufficient?"

The 'keeper examines the note with blatant suspicion; such a shabbily-clothed person wouldn't normally be in possession of such a thing. "This is too much for cigarettes," he says at last, satisfied with the validity of the slip, and gives me a smaller note in return together with the cigarettes. I nod in thanks and leave the pokey shop.

It is a drab grey day. The pavement is made of cracked slabs and withered weeds that grow valiantly wherever possible. Rubbish bags and leaves whip down the road caught in the cold winter breeze. Several hungry grubby children play on a patch of ground on the other side of the empty road. I look at the rectangular slip in my hand; it is a smaller version of the note I gave to the shopkeeper. It is a mini art of work, exquisitely-designed and filled with symbolic imagery on both sides. There are some numbers on the corners and edges but I have no idea what they mean. In bold letters is the phrase I promise, and nothing more. This note is enough to give me permission to ride a bus or buy a snack from a restaurant, but it doesn't matter; I have bigger Privileges in my pocket. I let the slip fall from my hand and it flutters in the direction of the kids. I put one of the cigarettes to my lips and stop a passing man for a flame. He taps his own lips in response, so I give him a cigarette and we light them from the same flame. He nods and walks on; it amazes me how quickly a bond can be made between two people, if only for a fleeting moment. I inhale. The smoke constricts my lungs and I cough. I feel dizzy for a moment but it soon passes. Interesting. I drop the cigarette on the floor; such things can wait for now. The Privilege slip I dropped has reached the children and they have started to scuffle over it, their previous friendships forgotten in the name of quick personal gain. The largest child snatches the slip from another and begins to beat him in the head with a metal bar. It is bloody. I watch with morbid curiosity, as do the other children. Finally the victor drops the pole and the children gradually return to their play a little way from the unmoving loser. Did the possession of Privileges trump everything, including life? An idea strikes me. I turn and re-enter the shop.

"Why have you returned, comrade?" The shopkeeper says as he continues reading his paper.

"I want to hurt you," I reply.

Without looking at me, the shopkeeper brings out a firearm and slams it on the counter. "You are welcome to try." It is a threat and a promise and, from his relaxed demeanor, isn't the first time he had responded to violence. This does not surprise me considering the dilapidation and immorality of this place. However, it is the first time I have faced the possibility of being shot, so I pull out the wad of slips again and put them onto the counter as slowly as possible. The 'keeper watches the passage of the notes, mesmerised by it. I have a feeling that my idea about the power of these Privilege slips is true, but I must prove it without doubt.

"I want to hurt you," I repeat.

He glances between the wad and me, probably trying to work out how much damage I can cause him. "Close the door. Make it quick." He puts the gun away.

I push the door together with a click and then haul the surprised shopkeeper across the counter. I unleash what little rage I have against him, forcing myself to be angry against this man whom I have absolutely no feelings towards. I drop him with a devastating uppercut, stamp on his head thrice, and then toss him into the shop racking. He yells in pain but I pay no heed; I'm entitled to do this to him thanks to the Privilege slips. He raises his hands to protect himself as I approach but they cannot defend against a few powerful kicks. I beat him for another minute or so until he is laying face-down on the floor in a pool of blood. He is not dead – I'm careful to stop the beating before he is mortality wounded – but it is necessary to take him to the very brink of death. I lean over the counter and take his gun. I'm aware that this next step may prove to be a fatal mistake, but I must do it. The shopkeeper raises his head a little as I squat next to him, his eyes fearful. I point the revolver at his cracked and bleeding head; it is a fine specimen of the craft. Even in such squalor, guns are generally expensive and well-kept. I check that the chambers are loaded, cock the hammer, and then put the gun into the palm of the battered man. "Your weapon," I say.

The man stares at the gun in his hand – maybe I've beaten him too senseless – but he struggles to a sitting position and, thankfully, puts the gun on the floor. "Leave me comrade," he whispers, glancing at the thick pile of Privileges still on the shop counter. I nod and leave the shop, careful to lock the door behind me so the man can recuperate in peace. I cannot help but feel satisfied despite my aching hands. After I had seriously harmed the man, he did not retaliate, even after I armed him, simply because I showed him the appropriate Privilege. I have uncovered something of great importance.

I return to my tiny dilapidated flat and replenish my pockets with more of the Privilege slips, then venture back out. Now that it is evening, a lot of youths are walking the streets swathed in large jackets and hats with a curled ridge to them. They scowl at everyone that passes, as if looking for a fight. I cannot blame them. I would be angry too if I lived here. Eventually I see a sign in glowing lights that says "BAR". This would be a place where the local denizens gather to consume alcohol and, in their parlance, "chill out".

It is a place of threadbare comfort; warm, inviting, but in a state of slow dilapidation. Bunches of exposed wires run the walls, covered with generations of gloss paint which renders them all-but invisible to the casual observer. There are TV screens displaying sports games, and pool tables surrounded by groups of boys. There is a flashing monolithic gambling machine against one wall and a jukebox against another. Running the entire room is a long wooden bar that separates the bar tender and his multitude of colourful drinks from the customers. I seat myself on a plush stool at the bar and signal the bartender.

"I would like a beer," I say.

The bartender glances away from the nearest TV . "Any particular one?"

"No."

He rolls his eyes for some reason, grabs a glass and pours a pint of beer. "Privilege?" he asks as he places the beer in front of me. I give him one of the larger notes and the bartender pales. "This is... this is too much, my friend," he gasps. "Are you sure you wish to exchange a beer for one of these slips?"

"Well, give me as much beer as you feel the note permits."

The bartender laughs. "You would not be able to drink that much in several lifetimes! Still," he turns around and pulls a bottle out of a cupboard behind him, "if you are serious about using this note, then you will get all the drink you require. I will also give you this." It is a rare cognac according to the faded label. "Happy?"

I nod and the bartender squirrels the note into a leather purse with a slight smile. I sup the beer. It isn't as malty as I imagined beer to be but is palatable. The bartender resumes his TV watching, albeit a little closer to me. I survey the room slowly as I take another mouthful of beer. The youths talk loudly as they knock the balls around the table, mostly crude references to mating. An old suited man is staring down into his glass, unmoving and, if not for his battered plastic trainers, would have passed for a lecturer or teacher.

The only person of note is sitting at the bar no less than five metres; a bright young woman in a white blouse and grey skirt. She has her beautiful legs crossed and is handling a small wine glass as she reads a bible. She is very pretty, but she seems quite out-of-place in this dilapidated bar. I am intrigued and so decide to make contact.

"Hello," I say. She either doesn't hear me or is ignoring me, so I try again. "Hello there." She shifts away slightly from my direction without looking up. There is a stool between us so I pick up my drink and relocate next to her. "Excuse me," I say. She looks up at last with a look of exasperation.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know your name."

She points to a golden ring on her left hand. "Don't bother. I am married." She returns to her bible and I slink back to my place at the bar. The bar tender is smiling to himself, obviously amused by this hard rejection. I do not feel rejection though; rather, I am intrigued by this obviously married woman sitting alone in a bar reading a religious tome. She is married and so she does not want any contact with other men, or at least random men. The ring on her finger is an obligation to her husband, and her reaction to me indicates that she views that commitment, probably reinforced by her religious beliefs, extremely seriously.

Good.

I take my beer back to the spot next to the woman; she gives me a side-glance and then sighs. "Didn't I make myself clear? Go away, I am not interested."

"Tell me your name."

"No!"

I put a Privilege on the bar next to her wine glass. "Tell me your name."

She hesitates, then accepts the note with a shrug and puts it into a small clutch bag hanging around her waist. "My name is Barbara," she says and extends her hand; I take it.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm waiting for my husband," she says with a smile. "He finishes work in an hour."

"You love your husband?"

"Very much."

"Do you practice your religion?"

"Absolutely. In fact, that's how me and my husband first met." I can sense that she is proud of this fact.

"You would never cheat on him?" I ask.

She glowers at me. "No I would not. What a question to ask!" She grabs her book and starts to read it but I touch her hand. I am going to see how far these Privilege slips will take me.

"I want to have sex with you," I whisper loud enough for her ears only.

Barbara's mouth drops in shock; my Privilege has been exceeded by my blatant advance. "I think you've had enough to drink," she splutters, "so please go away this instant!"

I put a Privilege slip on the bar. "I want to have sex with you," I repeat, loud this time.

"That is not going to change anything," she says. I put another one down. "No," she says but it is less forceful. I place a third down; the married woman is silent. I add a fourth. Eventually, she grabs the notes, downs the rest of her wine, and walks off. "Come with me," she says, and I follow her, but not before I give the bemused bartender a wink. I also notice that she has left her bible on the bar.

Barbara leads me into an orange-lit alleyway filled with trashcans and rubbish. There is no-one in sight. Facing away from me, she wriggles her panties down and raises her grey skirt up, revealing a round pair of pale buttocks. "Please be gentle," she says and leans against the far wall. I'm instantly aroused and, within seconds, am inside of her. Her ass cheeks slap against my stomach as I thrust into her. I'm surprised by the pleasure I am obtaining from this sexual encounter, but I wish we were in more comfortable surroundings.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask the back of her head.

"You gave me Privilege," she pants.

"What about your husband?"

She moans a little and bends down further, allowing me to go deeper. "My husband will benefit," she says at last, "from the Privilege slips."

"Are Privileges the only thing you care about?" She doesn't answer me, but I know the answer; she's having sex with a stranger simply because I showed her an enormous about of Privilege. I climax and walk away from Barbara without a word.

***

I stand over the hobo and show him a Privilege slip. He reaches for it greedily but I raise it out of reach. "I want to beat you," I say. The hobo shrugs and reaches for the slip again. I let him take it this time and give him a syringe. "You can have this too. I suggest you use it immediately to numb the pain." The scruffy addict snatches the needle and performs his ceremonious act of wrapping a belt around his arm, flicking the needle, then injecting himself with the drug. His eyes roll back in his head and he falls backwards in complete bliss. It is time. I take the gun out of my pocket; several people walking the pavement notice me and start to shout in warning and disbelief. I line up the hobo's head in my sights and pull the trigger. His skull shatters into bloody pieces of shrapnel, his arteries and brain exposed to the cold wintery day. People are screaming but I don't care. I shoot again and again until I run out of bullets, then drop the gun on the body. At least he didn't suffer.

I walk down the now-empty pavement at a slow pace. I can see people peeking out from behind cars and windows like meercats, too afraid to face me down but too curious to simply run away. I can hear the screech of sirens at last, and three black and white cars hurry into view. I let the officers take me into custody under gunpoint. Through the tinted windows of a cop car I can see some people placing a blanket over the destroyed man's body, giving the hobo more care and attention than when he was alive. I feel disgusted at people's willingness to get involved after a tragedy, not before.

***

The legal process is faster than expected. It takes a day for me to appear in a court of law facing the charge of murder. The Judge is a fierce-looking mustachioed man called Justice Green; he looks absolutely disgusted with me during the entire trial. This is an excellent development for my investigations, but not a good sign for my continued freedom. The evidence against me is complete and total, with CCTV and DNA evidence placing me at the scene of the crime with the murder weapon. It is an open-and-shut case.

The sentencing is beginning. The foreman stands and announces that the jury finds me guilty – as expected. There is a hush as Judge Green begins to summarise the case. "The murder of John Hurrid (that was the addict's name according to the police report) was a pointless and callous act. You have remained silent and unremorseful during the entire case, which I find to be most chilling. Do you have anything to say?"

I stand. "All I have to offer is this." I unravel a large Privilege slip, the bottom flapping on the ground despite holding it above my head. The courtroom gasps and the judge bangs his gavel.

"Privilege is irrelevant when the law has been broken!" The courtroom is silent again. "Granted, it is a Privilege beyond anything I have seen, but Privilege is applicable when the law has nothing to say about the matter." The judge adjusts his glasses; they glint in the light as he stares as the huge slip in my hands. "Murder is illegal and therefore no amount of Privilege will allow it." The moment suddenly becomes sharply focused as I realise that this has turned against me. I have found the limit of the power of the Privileges at the expense of my liberty and maybe even my life, if these prisons are anything like the prisons from my homeland. I feel my legs wanting to run, the flight-or-fight response of my body activated, but I calm myself down. The judge scribbles on his papers before continuing. "For the cold-blooded and heartless murder of an innocent man, I sentence you to thirty years in maximum security prison." He bangs his gavel again, signalling the end of the matter. I am led away by the guards and left in a small holding room containing nothing but a cheap metal chair. I sit and watch the guards leave, then get up and try the door. It is locked; I'm not sure what I expected but I must try. I start to consider my options; this investigation of mine has been prematurely ended by my incarceration, specifically by my incorrect assumptions about the power of Privileges. These people are not the materialistic power-hungry fools I assumed them to be – not completely. Their legal system has a rigid set of rules, one that cannot be over-ridden by the all-corrupting power of the Privileges. I am humbled.

The door opens and, to my utter surprise, Justice Green enters. He smiles warmly at me and extends his hand. "My apologies for the mild inconvenience of the trial. We were unaware that you were a man of status."

"Not at all," I reply, confused by the sudden change in the Judge's demeanor.

"Of course," he says as he circles around me, "we cannot waive the charges or the punishment for your crime. Society must feel like justice has been served, regardless of status or... Privilege." His eyes flit towards my bulging pocket. "Publicly you will go to jail for murder. However, I think that we can arrange for you to be released early, and most importantly, quietly."

"That's extremely good of you," I reply as I pull the enormous Privilege slip from my pocket and hand it to the Judge. The field agent in me is reactivated, the investigation back on by this turn of events, therefore I must investigate. "However, will the family of the person I murdered object to my quick release?"

The Judge folds the Privilege over his arm like a waiter. I wonder if that note is destined for the state or the Judge's own coffer. "Most problems like this can be soothed by reparations to the relatives. You will be surprised by the effect Privilege can have on people."

The irony isn't lost on me.

I am taken in an unmarked police car to a nearby hotel, where I spend the night in the best room they have – at my expense of course. However, I am aware that felons are not usually given the freedom to spend their first night of their incarceration eating roast pheasant on a four-poster bed watching a sports game on a 60" screen. I'm being given an easy ride because of my social status in this world, despite being a proven psychotic murderer. I rip the flesh from the prize bird's bones and contemplate the enormity of that statement. What makes me different from other criminals? Am I "worth" more? Is my worth directly proportional to the amount of Privilege I can muster at any time, or is it my contribution and impact on the world? I'm too sleepy to think about this further so I curl up in silk sheets and dream of my home land, a place where things make more sense.

***

"Welcome to rich camp!" The chubby man extends his fat hand to me. He is dressed in a boater hat, white suit and a red cravat, and is sitting in a chair reading a book with a small glass of wine. He seems very jolly and I take his hand. "Franklin Marks, at your service." Franklin is my cell mate, although it looks more like a hospital ward than a jail. There is large windows overlooking the minimum security grounds, a couple of wardrobes, and two double beds with white floral patterns. A porter has my luggage and I motion for him to put them on the bed.

"Hello Franklin. What crime have you committed to be here?"

"Oh you know, this and that," he closes the book and waits for the porter to leave. "Counterfeiting. You?"

"Murder." I watch Franklin's reaction as he subconsciously closes his body language; the crossed leg, the shift away from me, the narrowing eyes. "Don't concern yourself," I lie, "I am not a murderer. I was framed because I owe a debt to an important man."

"Oh, that is good news," he replies, opening up again. "You don't look like a murderer, old chap."

I unzip the first of my bags and start hanging my clothes in my wardrobe. "So what were you counterfeiting, Franklin?"

"Prestige, mostly. Some luxury goods, designer clothes, jewellery."

"You fabricated Prestige slips?" This was interesting, considering the dubious source of my own slips. "How were you caught?"

"Quite simply, my boy, I wasn't careful enough." He sips his wine wistfully. "One piece of advice. Never trust anyone, even if you're madly and hopelessly in love with them."

"Oh." Love is an alien concept to me. "Will you tell me what happened later on?"

"Absolutely, dear chap!" He looks delighted that I'm paying an interest in him. It is a simple trick, but one that pays dividends. The biggest compliment you can give people is to take an interest in them – and they will tell you their secrets.

The prison is similar to a sanatorium. There is a health spa, a gym, a couple of recreation rooms, even a bar and restaurant. There are a couple of guards but the majority of the staff are there to serve the inmates with food and drink. There are about twenty guests in total, all socially important in their particular areas; there are a couple of politicians, some sports stars, and a few businessmen. We have one thing in common; we are all Privileged, therefore we're allowed to ride out our wave of shame away from the common man. Franklin becomes my unofficial guide, introducing me to everyone and showing me the facilities. The Privilege slips are accepted here, although my handlers have given me a Privilege Card so that I don't have to safeguard or deal with the paper slips while incarcerated. The metal chit works the same way as the slips, but I have a balance of Privilege that is transferred out of the card's account when I make a transaction. Initially, I thought that the card would wield less influence than the slips, but it has an even stronger effect on the populace, even before I've initiated a transaction. The metallic black card has its own power; the potential of promise.

Me and Franklin are in our cell, enjoying a red wine and watching the setting sun. It is lights-out, although that simply means that the door is locked and we are unable to roam the grounds. The cells have an en-suite bathroom and a small kitchen so that we aren't truly inconvenienced by being held in our rooms.

"I love a good Merlot," says Franklin, holding the wine up to the sunset. "However, this is not a good Merlot."

I nod and taste the red beverage. A lot of people seem to hold their wine tasting skills in high regard. However, I cannot differentiate between a good wine and a poor one. They all taste like sweet juice to me. The effect of alcohol is quite pleasing though. "Tell me about your counterfeiting operation."

"Of course. What would you like to know, old chap?"

"I guess the most immediate question is: why?"

Franklin laughs. "Why, I did it for the same reason anyone does anything! Power, mostly."

"So it is illegal to make your own Privilege slips?"

Franklin nods, a little mystified. "Of course it is! Imagine if anyone could make their own P bills. Why, there'd be anarchy! The slips would mean nothing and lose their value."

"Do you understand the power of Privilege, er, P bills?" This man might be able to answer a lot of my questions about Privilege. He nods, so I continue. "Please tell me why I can make a man do my bidding just purely based on my ownership of lot of Privilege slips. Tell me why I can do practically anything because of Privilege."

"Where to begin?" He sighs and runs his fingers through his greying hair. "In a nutshell, Privilege ensures social structure is maintained. Everyone needs a minimum amount of Privilege to obtain food, heat, warmth, a home, transportation. That's the base Privilege everyone requires. It's known as the living wage." He pours himself another glass of Merlot. "Take for example this wine. It's not an essential, it's a luxury. A man doesn't need this wine – sure, he'd like this wine, but he needs to prove to society that he's entitled to enjoy the luxury of the wine. That's where Privilege comes in, old chap. If he has a good job, works hard, is intelligent and is useful to society, he'll have an excess of Privilege slips above the living wage and therefore is entitled to have luxuries such as this wine." He looks triumphant. "However, if a man is dumb and useless, he will have a more menial job that gives a man just enough P bills to meet living wage, or thereabouts. He won't have enough Privilege left for luxuries and frivolous items, but he knows of them. He may have tasted something akin to this wine at a party, or seen an endorsement for it in a magazine, so he strives to attain enough P bills to get the wine." Franklin sighs. "And so begins the forever struggle of the working man. He works because he has a dream. He's never given enough P bills to realise his dream but continues working regardless. It's a sad tale to be sure but is required to exert an invisible control over the masses."

It is as if someone has explained the answer to a very simple sum. "So Privilege gives the elite a hungry and desperate work force in which to act out their machinations and plans."

"I couldn't have put it better myself." Franklin smiles.

"That is amazing, and yet I can't help feeling like your plan to counterfeit spoils the system somewhat."

"How's that, dear man?"

"Your fake slips will allow less-Privileged people to become more Privileged without working for it."

Franklin smiles again. "I believe that I was giving the less fortunate a better life. The system is unfair, after all."

"Really? It seems extremely fair to me." I realise I sound conceited. "Although, I don't know too much about the system."

"The problem is that we speak about Privilege from an elevated position. We are at the top of the pyramid." He swills the wine about his mouth. "Jesus wept, this is awful. If I knew I'd have to drink this rubbish I'd have reconsidered my life of crime."

"Who controls the Privilege system then?" I ask, although I think I know the answer; no-one. It is de-centralised, completely unemotional, and yet totally and utterly ruthless in its operation and scope. Privilege is an automated tyranny.

Franklin finishes the drink and pulls another bottle from under his bed. "I save this for the special occasions, such as having really awful wine." He uncorks it and fills both our glasses. "The law states what an individual is allowed to do without permission. These can be viewed as pre-authorised actions that a man can do without needing Privilege. However, anything you wish to do that isn't covered by law requires Privilege. Owning a house, for example. The law doesn't allow or forbid the owning of land, so if you want a house, you pay Privilege and therefore you own the house. Now assume that a man bypasses the Privilege step in the process and goes from wanting the house to owning the house."

"In other words, he's stolen it?"

"Exactly. He is in a negative Privilege situation. He's taken a house but does not have the Privilege to prove his entitlement to own the house. In the eyes of the law he moves into a Restricted status of living and is locked up until the law deems his debt paid in the way of his lost freedom."

"Much like we are right now?"

Franklin shakes his head. "Be sensible. How many P bills did you give the judge for your crime?"

"Just one."

"And I bet he could wallpaper his entire house with it. We can pay for our crimes without the need to sacrifice much liberty, and that is the main power the P bill gives a man. Anyway," Franklin downs his wine and stretches, "it is time for bed. Goodnight my boy."

I look forward to our chats during lights-out, and find myself disappointed that I've been sentenced for only a week. Franklin's sentence is five months, of which he has spent only a few days. From his confidence around the prison I assumed he'd been there for years. He tells me more about the Privilege system and of the other control systems in place; religion, military, consumerism, media, medical. Each one enslaves the population by fear, greed, or belief, but every system in turn requires Privilege to operate.

My last day in prison comes way too quickly, and I accept a hug from Franklin as the porter takes my luggage out of my cell. "Take care my friend," he says, "and watch who you trust."

"Thank you for all your help," I say. We stare at each other, his wrinkled eyes wet with tears, before I turn and leave without another word. Relationships are complicated. Best to ignore those feelings, although Franklin's been the closest to a companion I've ever had. I should feel grateful.

***

I step out of the limo and click my fingers for my hat; a huge monstrosity made from a variety of objects that I picked out at random. An empty tin can smeared in cat food. The shin-bone of a donkey. An extremely rare gem. It is a piece of insanity and yet those around me compliment me as if it was art. Morons. A concierge opens the hotel door for me as my security guards prevent commoners from crossing my path. I enter the lobby with some difficulty due to the hat, and order that the door be widened for my departure.

The hotel is very austere and tasteful. "Welcome to the Andromeda Hotel," says the manager, a simpering weasel of a man. He is already annoying me. "I hope your stay will be a pleasant one."

"Get this fucker out of my face," I say to one of my bodyguards. The man is pushed away. "I want to hire out the entire hotel," I tell the concierge. "I don't want to see or hear anyone during my visit."

"That is an unacceptable request, sir," says the concierge. I bring out the black metal chit and stick it in his face. "I think we will be able to work something out." The concierge strides away and commands the staff to begin evacuating the other guests. It's ridiculous that I can act like a complete asshole and get away with it. In my home land, social standing is based on respect, civilised behaviour and expertise rather than any form of Privilege-type system. Still, the rewards that can be gained from Privilege were beyond anything I could expect at home. I pass a porter who is standing to attention, so I punch him in the face. He falls over and I repeatedly kick his head until he is unconscious. "He looked at me oddly," I say to the shocked spectators before tucking a bunch of P bills into the injured guy's pocket. I am starting to enjoy this.

I pick the biggest room out of the entire hotel and order room service. I ask for a chicken roasted in plums and chocolate, and sprinkled with gold leaf. To my surprise it arrives within the hour, a red-faced chef explaining the problems with preparing such a dish on short notice. I compliment him on his excellent work, then open the window next to me and throw the meal out. I watch his face barely contain his anger, but he nods respectfully and leaves.

After a great night's sleep, I walk around the hotel naked until midday, defecate onto the manager's ornate mahogany table, and then start a small fire in the honeymoon suite. I setup a chair with some snacks just outside the burning room to watch the fire brigade extinguish the blaze. The men work efficiently to control the blaze; it is very entertaining so I set a reminder to do the same tomorrow. Despite my bizarre behaviour the hotel staff continue to treat me like the world's best guest, which I find disappointing. After ordering the concierge to source me an ape costume ("God help you if it's an orang-utan costume" I tell them. I don't know the difference between the two but they are similar enough to create extra pressure on the suffering staff), I spend the rest of the day dancing on the roof, watched by my Privilege-enslaved employees. They applaud at my amateur pirouettes and cheer my idiotic flailing-around. In honesty my dancing is complete shit, but I do it to see if my staff will comply. Deep inside, I am aching for one of them to tell me the truth; I want one of them to step forward and tell me I'm acting like an idiot. Again, I think back to the words Franklin the counterfeiter told me – trust no-one. How can I trust anyone when the promise of P bills can sway personal opinion?

I give each of my attentive audience a gift - a small vial containing my piss - then return to my room, bored. The problem is that my lavish and eccentric lifestyle is coming to its natural conclusion. There's little else to do to prove that any behaviour is acceptable if the person has Privilege. The difference between eccentric and madman is Privilege, and only one is socially-accepted. I watch one of the many TVs I've stacked up against the far wall; a mushroom cloud appears, the shockwave blowing houses down in grainy black and white film. I smile. That might be worth pursuing.

I use a computer given to me as a gift by the hotel to investigate nuclear weapons. I discover that an individual cannot own a nuclear weapon under any circumstances, which hints that the military can trump Privilege in the name of security. I am intrigued by this. The power to destroy entire countries is something that appeals to my inquisitive nature. The only way I'd ever control a nuclear arsenal is to control a military force, and to do that I would need to control a country with a nuclear-capable military force. This appears to be possible with the P bills. I just have to wait until election time. I prop open the 10th floor window next to me and urinate through the opening, no doubt hitting the shoppers and commuters passing below. Will one of them complain? Possibly, but the hotel staff will definitely not bother me about it. Take control of a country. My handlers will go mad if I became a ruler.

***

The run-up to the election is a chaotic whirlwind of canvassing people and businesses, the latter usually the key to a successful campaign. I do not need the blessing of business though; I have more than enough Privilege to fund my own campaign, an advantage which I publicise to the electorate. Why trust my adversaries, I say, when they are funded by the very companies that threaten your well-being with poisonous goods and deceptive services? How can you trust them to work in your interests when they value Privilege above you? I did contemplate joining an existing party to run for Prime Minister, to take advantage of their well-established infrastructure and political experience, yet I quickly vetoed that idea; the internal wars waging within the parties were hugely distracting and almost always deep-rooted in Privilege. Most ministers were vault-rolled by businesses that wanted certain laws and legislations to go ahead or be repelled according to their business strategy. The country was fooling itself as a democracy. It was a corpocracy, ruled by corporations and their interests. I wanted to break that bond. Me and my party, the NeoUK Party, win by a landslide majority.

My first act as the Prime Minister is to hire Franklin as my adviser. He is enthusiastically grateful, pumping my hand and thanking me at every private opportunity. My faith in him is three-fold. One, he understands Privilege and its power. Two, he trusts no-one. Three (which is an uncharacteristic trait of me and my race), I feel quite close to him. He is the only person that I have enjoyed the company of during my field assignment. I miss the nights talking about the world and its flaws. My political rise is the perfect opportunity to draw him into close proximity. It is a selfish act.

I give out orders to my political party; lower P-bill tax and amend the law to give everyone the right to free water, electricity, and a baseline of food. The masses rejoice, but businesses start to scheme against me. This is not unexpected, but I do not care. I threaten the industries operating in the country with huge taxes and fines for any slight misdemeanor against the country. Franklin suggests that I call it the Patriotism Bill to give it a good "spin" in public.

However, my ulterior motive for all of this has yet to be initiated. In secret (everything has to be in secret now that the public focus, spearheaded by the thousands of media reporters and paparazzi, are watching my every action), I go to my small bedsit and make contact with my handlers. They rage for a full ten minutes. Undercover, they scream, means under cover! You are now the leader of an entire country! How is that an effective position for an undercover field agent? I argue my case; not one of our order has ever ascended the ranks of this society. I am learning things that we have never even considered. I forward everything about my experiences with the Privilege system and the notes drawn up about the other control systems and their purpose. The handlers are silent for hours, and then they reluctantly congratulate me on my progress so far. They ask what my intention is as the leader of millions. I tell them and they do not reply at all. I am certain they will assist me, and I give them detailed instructions. I hope they assign a skilled agent to the task.

***

It is a beautiful sunny day. I am doing a quick tour of the country, meeting and greeting the people I supposedly serve. I feel ill, mainly because I spent the entire night fucking prostitutes and taking drugs. I'm not particularly interested in either but am more interested in how my activities will leak out to the public and what the impact will be on my current reputation. I step out of the small book-store and wave to the gathered crowds. They all cheer and wave flags. According to the media I am a hero to the barely-Privileged masses, and a villain to the greedy Vaulters and businessmen who's powerbase I am rapidly eroding through nationalising business. Defense and the military are now mine, as well as water, gas, coal, oil, and nuclear. Renewables are still private but they are next on my list. The common man has never lived so well. Privilege is still maintaining the social hierarchy by establishing "Gods and Clods", but the Clods are no longer suffering. As a whole the country is better off. The military is blossoming too. Franklin has been briefing me on rumours of an assassination attempt on my life, organised by some of the more powerful business leaders that I've affected. I give the reports to the media, delighted that these people are going to make my plans extremely easy.

A woman in gaudy make-up ensnares me in her grip of perfume and bosom, and kisses me on the lips, much to the delight of the crowds. I laugh it off and walk down the crowd, shaking hands and receiving more kisses. Suddenly, I am flying backwards, my left shoulder a mess of pain and wetness. I pass through the shop window and watch the shards around me with a numb fascination. Then my head is turned upwards and I am still. My ears are filled with a rushing noise, my vision peppered with sparkling stars. A face appears and yells something. I glance at my shoulder; my arm has disappeared somewhere. My ears start to clear. There is screaming and yelling. I smile a little. It is a strange experience. Then I pass into darkness.

I am in a hospital bed, Franklin and others watching me with concern. I look at my shoulder. An arm is there again but mummified in bandages and ensnared in a metal lattice. "What happened?" I ask.

"You've been shot, old boy," says Franklin, dabbing his eye with a handkerchief. "I honestly thought you were done-for!" He waves the doctors away until it's only me and him left. "You gave me quite a scare," says Franklin, and sits at the foot of my bed. "A sniper hit you from the roof of the shop opposite. The police and military are quite perplexed by the affair. They can't identify what kind of weapon the assassin used."

Alarm bells start to ring. "Did they catch the sniper?"

"Yes, but he was killed in a firefight with the police." Franklin opens up the file in his hand. "The man has no name, a complete ghost that popped into existence to try and kill you. A known terrorist cell in the Middle East claims responsibility for the assassination, although the secret service are looking into all leads, including those business ones I've been warning you about." He seems almost angry. "I told you to be careful!"

"I can't hide away because of a supposed threat, Franklin." I raise myself up in bed as best I can. "I'm a public servant."

"Yes, well be that as it may, there is a lot of call for military action against the country that the terrorists call home. Their government is denying any involvement, but the defense department reckon that they picked up some interesting transmissions just prior to the attack."

Just as planned. "Do they have any resources to speak of? Anything that we can use to pay for a military assault?"

Franklin shrugged. "Oil, diamonds, gas. Luxuries that we're always in need of." He drops the file onto my lap. "It's all in there if you want to read about it. Get some rest, old man."

***

The key to going to war is positive public opinion; after all, it is the masses' fathers and children who will be killed in it. Thanks to my enormous popularity amongst the public, I had to do very little to provoke an armed conflict with the small Arabian country. On the map it was a tiny barely-significant country, yet was one of the new nuclear powers on the world, making it the perfect victim for my false-flag event – and one with huge natural reserves of gas and oil. My handlers had delivered the precise near-fatal shot to me, as stipulated in my instructions, but had quickly sent their apologies for removing my limb. Like everything it was a unique experience, although one I didn't wish to experience ever again.

On the eve of battle I land at a small military station under the cover of darkness, accompanied by a couple of advisers and a squad of elite infantry. We march down the ramp of the transport plane, my arm in a sling but camouflaged to match my khaki uniform. Franklin is next to me, extremely nervous about this escapade. "I don't see why we need to be here," he stammers. "It is an unnecessary risk!"

"There is no risk," I say. Our foes are barely a threat to our military might. Isn't that right, men?"

"Oorah!" shout our guards.

"What if they decide to go nuclear? They are a nuclear nation, after all."

"They wouldn't dare escalate this conflict," I reply. They don't need to; I will do that for them. "I want to merely follow our brave men and women into battle. I wouldn't ask anything of them that I myself wouldn't do." It is a phrase that makes me seem like I am one of them, a commoner. According to my aides, my presence here has skyrocket morale amongst the troops. It is a genius move.

The attack commences, transport helicopters and tanks racing into the Arabian night to attack their assigned targets. Tracer fire stitches the night sky. It is an awesome sight and exhilarating to think that people are fighting for their lives in the darkness. Our transporter moves forward once the armoured division secures its target. The ride disagrees with Franklin's sensitive nature and he is sick over the side of the vehicle. "Remind me to hand my notice in if we get back," he says between retches. The men laugh.

The APC pulls up alongside a row of bristling tanks, their diesel engines growling for action. I nudge the nearest soldier. "Are we winning?"

"Of course, sir." He points to a barely distinguishable building in front. "We're going to take that position."

"Excellent!" I pat his shoulder and settle back. Any minute now.

The radio starts to chatter frantically. "What's happening?" I ask the soldier as the darkness moves frantically around us.

"We're retreating!" shouts the soldier, still looking down his gun. "The enemy are using chemical weapons!"

"What's that you said? Chemical weapons?" Franklin looks wide-eyed with fear as the tanks start their retreat. "I don't want to die like that!"

I give Franklin a gas mask from my kit bag. "Just in case," I say. He doesn't seem to notice that I came prepared for this.

"Let's get the fuck out of here now!" screams my bodyguard into the driver's ear. He complies immediately.

It is a quick decision; the enemy state has breached international law on the use of Weapons of Mass Destruction. Since they also have nuclear weapons, the decision to conduct a pre-emptive strike is authorised, despite the continuous denial by the enemy that they didn't deploy any chemical weapons. The media take the story and run overly-emotional headlines focusing on the human cost: Hundreds of our boys gassed to death by terrorist state is my particular favourite. Still, as the printing presses roll, the bigger story is happening.

***

I am sitting on the top of a Leviathan 3 tank, the biggest piece of military hardware at my disposal, with Franklin and my security staff chatting on the ground below. The machine is obscenely huge, 500 tons of armour and advanced weaponry that is designed to roll over the enemy and take out its biggest tanks. I pat the gun at my hip to check it is still there, then unclip the latches on the metal case next to me. My radio crackles, "five minutes to zero." I feel excited that my field assignment is coming to the most spectacular finale that I could have wished for. Months of lying, scheming, beating people, acting insane, fucking, killing, destroying property, and simply doing whatever I wanted will conclude this very night. What did I learn from it all? Privilege is an evil force. When I changed a whole country's laws to give the under-Privileged a better life, those with Privilege wanted me dead, and when I used Privilege to oppress and harm, I was applauded and encouraged by the ones I was oppressing. Now I am about to kill 10 million people, wipe them off the face of the Earth, simply because I am Privileged. The radio crackles again. "Two minutes to zero." I open the metal box and pull out a bottle of wine, two glasses and two big fat cigars. I call for Franklin to join me atop the magnificent war machine, and hand him a glass. "Merlot," I say, "the very best Merlot I could find."

"Cheers." We clink glasses in a toast. He accepts one of the cigars and puffs it to life. "Why are we sat on top of a tank in the middle of the night, old man? Things on your mind?" He is unaware of the imminent explosion, not that it really matters, not anymore.

"A nuclear bomb is about to go off in about a minute. Don't worry," I add due to his frightened expression, "we're quite safe at this distance. You may want to put these on though." I hand him some eye protectors. "We're going to sit here, drink a wine, and enjoy the show."

"This nuclear explosion... is it retaliation for the chemical attack?" he asks.

"Nope," I reply, "it's because I want to kill millions of people in a gigantic fireball."

"Fair enough." He thinks I am being flippant. The radio crackles to life again and begins a countdown from ten. We put on the eye protectors and stare forwards obediently. "So then old man," says Franklin, raising his glass in front of him, "what happens afterwards?"

"I have no idea," I reply just as the night gives birth to an artificial day; a star is brought to life in the sky before us. It is silently terrifying as it grows brighter and brighter, then slowly turns an angry hell-born red. The city is vaporised instantly, ten million thoughts and dreams silenced by the fires of physics unleashed upon the Earth. We watch the mushroom cloud grow into a flame monster that towers over the land, ballooning to fill the entire sky with its smoke. I am awe-struck by the sheer scale of the weapon, its ferocity, and its magnificence. The sound finally hits us and I am caught off-balance, even at this distance.

"Jesus wept," whispers Franklin, his glass still outstretched before him. "That was terrifying."

Soldiers below us are celebrating at the destruction of their enemy, but I know that they are actually celebrating my criminal killing of millions. There is no enemy to these people other than the systems they live in. These systems make men take arms against each other, to hate and fight and bicker and make sure that no man can rise above his station in life. This is a poisonous race, one that doesn't deserve life or liberty. I've finished my work here.

"Franklin," I say as I throw the glass and cigar away, "thank you for your company. I will miss you." I take my hand gun out of its holster.

"Where are you going, dear chap?" He looks at me with confusion, and then his eyes fix on the gun. "You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

"Of course not," I reply, then put the barrel against my temple and pull the trigger. My body slumps over and I am released from its inhibiting shell of flesh. I watch a pale shadowy Franklin silently scrabble at my corpse and sense the movement of others coming to help try to resuscitate me, but it is futile. I am returning to my people and my land, where the greatest force is the one that we are made of. Privilege is a self-inflicted curse. I pray for mankind.

Too Hot

I glance at wrists as people pass through. Rolex, Cartier, Rolex - an F.P.Journe, in the wild! I try to get a better look at the timepiece but the gentleman disappears into the mass of the privileged. I rub my bare wrist; keep them guessing.

"A flute, sir?"

"Um? Oh, thank you." I take a glass from the tray and the waiter glides to the next patron. I scan the room but am not being regarded, so I turn my back to the ballroom and down the champagne in one. Disgusting. I hate fundraisers, not because of the "in-crowd" trying to further their careers through charity, but because of the false humanity that attended these things. Smiles, and measured laughter, and actively listening to whatever embellished nonsense one decided to tell another. It was a verbal prostrating and it sickened me. And yet, I knew it was a necessary survival trait for these people - and for me, truth be told. I quickly switch glasses with a passing waiter and down it.

"Jacque! How the devil are you?"

I turn to greet the man who was fast-becoming my shadow. "Sir Richard. I trust you are having fun?"

"I guess." He brandishes a glass. Rolex, an uninspired choice. Probably a retirement present. "The champagne tastes like piss."

"I was thinking the same. Have you contributed to the cause this evening?"

"Oh. Not yet no." He leans in. "What is it again?"

I smile. "The fund is to help reverse coral bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef."

"Right, right. What's coral bleaching again?"

"It's when the coral polyps expel the zooxanthellae algae that live within their cells, which turns the coral white." I know this process intimately, but not because of the fundraiser.

"Is that bad?"

"Yes. The coral will eventually die and the ecosystem in those areas will collapse."

"Well!" Sir Richard took a sip from his glass. "The answer is obvious, isn't it?"

"It is?"

"Yes my lad! We need to stop using bleach if it's doing that to the poor coral!"

"Well quite. Would you excuse me please?" I give Sir Richard a light grab of his elbow and move away towards the main reception area. The ignorance was not surprising. In fact I relied on it. I mouth hello to a few people as I thread through the crowds until I reach the reception. The organiser, some desperate attention-hound who I forget the name of, is wide-eyed and over-the-top friendly to those still entering the event. Take away the borrowed designer dress and on-loan jewelry, forget that she was the daughter of some big fish in a piddling pond, and she was just a hobo that was shamelessly using charity to gain respect in her social circles. I would be abhorred if I cared more.

I signal the staff to fetch my jacket and my car but take advantage of a break in the arrivals to give the organiser a folded cheque. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

"Thank you Mr Reynolds." She opens the cheque and her eyebrows almost jump off her forehead. "Oh thank you Mr Reynolds!"

"Please." I wave the appreciation away with false modesty. "It is such a worthy cause that I want to do what I can."

She holds the cheque to her chest like a teddy. "You have my greatest thanks."

"Of course." Officially I've legitimised her cause, but unofficially I've given her the means to humble-brag her amazing life for a few years. If shallowness makes her happy then so be it, as long as she tells everyone that Jacque Reynolds is pro-environment. I take my jacket and keys, receive some more fake praise for my generosity, then get into my car.

The night is clear and there is no traffic, so I let my mind wander. People already knew of my... work, but no-one cared, not really. They would once it was too late, but while there were mortgages to pay, and neighbours to hate, and terrorism to fear, then pollution and air quality and coral bleaching was so far down on the list for the common person that it was barely a footnote. These fundraisers and concern groups look counterproductive to my business, but in reality they were too little too late, so in order to muddy the waters a bit I donate and attend and make it appear that I am actively trying to prevent the very damage I am causing. Sure it was as transparent as hell, and the more woke journalists call me out on social media, but it is easily countered by PR and lobbyists, and I am seen as somewhat of a philanthropist because of it. I laugh out loud and give the car some more gas.

***

I listen to the regulator drone on about their report and stifle a yawn. There's a pause. "I'm not boring you am I?" snaps the EPA rep.

"Yes, in fact you are. Me and my company have done nothing wrong, and yet you are here, once again, wasting my very valuable time." How dare you cause money to be wasted!

Her eyes flare. "Mr Reynolds, I have evidence that you yourself authorised the dumping of ten million gallons of chemical X41598EA, colloquially known as light mercury, which is suspected to be a carcinogenic- "

"Suspected, Miss...?"

"James."

"Miss James, light mercury is suspected but not proven to be a cancer-causing chemical. It is not illegal at the moment, is it?"

She shuffles her papers. "The Federal Board is about to publish a paper on the findings of light mercury's effect on biological materials. There are thousands of documented cases of light mercury contact causing birth defects, cancers, and ill-health on people living near factories that use light mercury."

"Maybe, but until that report comes out, then we have no restrictions on how we dispose of light mercury, is that correct?"

"It should be banned Mr Reynolds!"

I suppress a smile. "That is for neither of us to decide. Let us see what the FDA says."

Miss James and the rest of the EPA stand without another word, and leave the boardroom. Once the door closes I allow myself a grin. "That went well."

My CFO, an unfortunately-honest chap called Charles Vynne, shakes his head. "That is until the FDA release their report. We could be looking at huge lawsuits from everyone affected by our dumping operation once it's declared illegal."

He has too much heart for this position. "I can assure you that their report will not see the light of day."

"How?"

Because I've tied it up in legal procedures. I shrug. "Because the report says that light mercury is safe, and so will cause the EPA a lot of embarrassment. No, I assure you that the FDA will sit on it until everyone has forgotten about it."

"Well, that is good news. I don't like the thought of causing cancers in people." Charles glances up at me. "Maybe we should consider voluntarily disposal in an industrial facility anyway?"

"No way," I respond. "That will be unnecessary expenditure, and the shareholders will not like it at all. No, we are operating within the limits of the law, and disposing of light mercury in the most economical way." I pause. "Did I ever tell you that I once killed a family, Charles?"

Charles freezes for a split-second, then continues packing his papers. "No Mr Reynolds, you did not."

"It's not a story I tell willingly, as you can appreciate." I pace across the table from him, my gaze never leaving his face, watching for those tell-tale changes as I tell my story. "I was driving at speed down Main Street a little before eight in the morning. I was late for a meeting, a big money meeting. Billions of dollars in fact. A man, his wife and their two kids were crossing the road, and the traffic lights turned red." Charles' head is lowered, staring at the table. I continue. "I was going to be late if I stopped, and like I said, it was billions of dollars. So I ran the red light."

"You hit them." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"They died?"

I smile. "Yes. At the scene, apparently."

"Apparently? You didn't stop?"

I fake confusion. "Stop? Why would I stop for them if I wouldn't stop for the signals? Billions of dollars, Mr Vynne. Billions."

He feels revulsion, I can see it. "Were you ever caught for their deaths?" asks Charles.

"Their deaths were unfortunate accidents, so I was not to blame."

"You were driving the car that killed them!" Bingo! There's the real you, Charles Vynne. Still, I need to push further.

"They were jay-walking Charles, and the signals were not red but amber. In any case, all the witnesses were given monetary assistance to help them," I purposely emphasise the next words, "remember the real events of the day, which proved that I was not even in the car on the day in question." I finish off by leaning across the table until I am in Charles' face. "Billions of dollars, Charles. Their lives were worthless. Do the math."

He nods, collects his things and leaves, obviously eager to go. I am now eager to see him leave.

***

The chief designer points to a schematic on the projector. "Here we have the proposed sea defenses that include a 20-foot protective concrete barrier."

I spot an angle. "20-foot? Isn't that a little excessive?"

"Not at all. In the event of an earthquake, it is very possible that a tsunami could reach the coastline where this nuclear station sits. 20-foot will be a prudent measure considering the history of tsunami heights in this region.

Interesting. "So what would happen if a tsunami wave hit the power station?"

The designer looks awkwardly at his notes. "It is hard to say, but it would not be good."

"Make it easy to say, and then say it. What would happen if a tsunami hit the nuclear power station?"

"It could disrupt all control over the rector rods, and the cooling. If the rods are left unsupervised then they could cause a meltdown."

Great! "We definitely do not want that. However, we do need to limit cost where appropriate, and I do not see the need to put such a high wall in place." I get some statistics on-screen, ignore unwanted ones, and choose the ones that serve my needs. "According to these stats, the average wave height for all recorded tsunamis in that region is only 5 foot."

"I know that the most recent tsunami was a seven-foot wave-"

"Still not 20-foot, is it?" Gotcha. "Redesign the wall to be 10-foot high. That should be more than enough." I cut off any counter-argument and dismiss the designer who looks like he's about to choke.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" says Charles once we're alone. "If the designer is right, and the wall isn't high enough, then we'll be culpable if a disaster ever occurs."

"Act of God, Charles. We can't be responsible if Atlas ever decides to shrug, can we?"

Charles looks uncomfortable, possibly because of my clumsy metaphor, but probably because I was playing with the safety of the world. "Is it really necessary though? We could leave it at 20-foot just in case? It is a nuclear station we're talking about."

I hold up a calculator displaying the numbers I've randomly punched into it. "We save three million dollars by having a 10-foot high wall Charles. Is that a good-enough reason for you?"

Charles sighs, then nods. Anything can be justified by profit and money, even preventable catastrophes. It was like having free reign to do anything. All I needed was a large earthquake.

***

I run my finger down the list of agenda items and mentally tick them off. Reduce carbon footprint – no chance. Reduction in micro plastics – again, no. Lawsuits, lawsuits, lawsuits... I am not concerned and drop the tablet onto the table. "Why are we having this conversation again, gentlemen?"

Vince the vice exec clears his throat. "We are under extreme public pressure to align our manufacturing strategy with environmental policies."

"Fancy words from a bunch of tree-huggers." I pick up the tablet again. "All of these policy changes will impact our profits, and therefore our shareholders. It would be nice to save the world," a few smirk with me, "but we are here to make money. That is it." I notice a new item on the agenda. "What's this last item? Antidote contamination?"

One of the no-face managers stands up, looking extremely amped. Probably had a line or two before coming in. "Mr Reynolds, our entire stock of vaccines has tested positive for a particularly dangerous virus and so we're going to have to destroy the lot."

I don't care, but I need to play the part in full. "Our entire stock? How much is the stock worth? Charles?"

The CFO quickly gets the information. "Eight hundred million on the US market."

I drum my fingers on the table, pleased that the assembled are concentrating on my every move. "So we need to destroy eight hundred million dollars of stock because it would be illegal to sell it. Is that what you are all telling me?"

"Exactly, Mr Reynolds. The FDA- "

"Quiet. The FDA is American, correct?"

"Yes."

"What about other countries? What are their laws and regulations about contaminated vaccines?"

The execs are now agitated more than I've ever seen them. "I... don't know Mr Reynolds..."

I bring up some research about medical regulations and am pleased to read that vaccines are exempt from screening in many third world countries. "Sell the contaminated stock overseas," I command, "and get a good price for them. If they don't screen for contamination then that is not our fault. Understand?" They all nod. "Good. Now get out of here. All of you." They know better than to say anything more.

***

I return to my house to find that my front door is open. I have been expecting this, and have prepared accordingly, so stroll in and drop my keys into the bowl by the door. "Honey I'm home!" No answer, so I go to the kitchen to make a coffee. Eventually, there is a heavy metallic click behind me and I turn. "Hello Charles. It's not our poker night tonight is it?" Charles pulls the trigger twice more, then releases the magazine and peers inside. "All inert, I'm afraid."

"How?"

"Remember Charles," my hired guard takes him down from behind and ties his arms behind his back, "proper planning prevents piss poor performance, and my planning is exemplary." Charles is silent, and I motion for him to be carried into the conservatory. I wave the guard away and close the door, leaving me and Charles alone. I notice the first signs of panic in his face, probably because he's noticed the plastic sheets lining the inside of the conservatory. "I would ask what this is about, but I already know."

"You're a monster!"

I nod. "What's your point?"

"You need to be stopped. All you think of is money! You're killing the planet because of greed."

I shake my head and pick up the machete propped against the wall. "No Charles. Money is your reason, and it's my excuse." I do not stop until I'm sure he's dead, then roll him up in the plastic. I go outside and stare at the empty grave in the gloom, knowing that Charles is just one of millions I've killed, and yet the pit will show just one corpse. My hands are covered in blood.

***

The fire crackles and I roll the stick in my hands. "I hate smores," I say to the others.

"Lighten up Jacque, it's tradition." George holds his own stick in the fire, marshmallow dripping off in globules. "I used to go camping with my grand pappy and we'd eat smores until I was sick!"

William, still wearing a suit from the meetings earlier in the day, throws a twig into the fire. "That would explain the waistline!" We all laugh. These nights were one of the rare treats in my life. I had all the luxuries that money could afford, and yet these nights sitting in a forest drinking cheap beer were priceless. The trees above us rustle gently and I consider going for the blanket in my tent. "But I guess we need to talk business before we crash out for the night."

"I guess." I throw my smores into the fire and reach for a beer. "How are your interests coming along?"

George checks about him. "You sure we're alone? It's hard to see anyone through this forest."

"George, this is The Sanctuary. If anyone can get near us without getting shot then they deserve to hear what we've got to say!"

I shrug. The Sanctuary was the ultimate secret meeting place, a fifty square mile forest surrounded by miles of perimeter fencing, protected and patrolled by black berets. "Exactly. We're secure, so how are we progressing with our plans?"

"The economy is growing as predicted, foreign policy is providing the reasons to grow the military and tighten homeland security." George took a bite of smores. "It's all good."

"From my side," said William, "we're still maintaining a knife-edge balance between financial stability and collapse. The world bank and EU are starting to wake up though, so I reckon I have another year before any action we take will be nullified by foreign banks."

I nod. I wasn't the leader, we ran our affairs as a committee, but I was the more extroverted and so usually assumed chair. "My companies are poisoning mankind quite efficiently, but everyone is too concerned with money to do much about it." William nods in acknowledgement. "The poisoning of the Earth is too slow and subtle to draw attention. I'm making a fortune in asthma inhalers and proton pump inhibitors alone." People were happy if they could breath the air comfortably and could eat the crap served up in fast food restaurants without suffering from acid reflux.

We sit in silence, staring into the fire. "We're almost there then?" asks George eventually. "We're destroying the world?"

"It seems so," I reply.

"This is too easy," says William. "I was expecting someone to come stop us. Do-gooders, bleeding hearts. Hell, superheroes even."

"Superheroes?" I poke the fire with a stick, and the flames leap higher. I poke and poke and the flames grow and grow until they seem to reach the treetops. I see George and William watching the flames, their faces ablaze with pure malice in the firelight. I grin, knowing that their inner demons demanded the same as mine. Agony, pain, death. We were delivering mankind's death through what they wanted. "Remember, we're simply providing a service. The world doesn't need heroes, because there's no-one to fight."

We all nod. The flames dance.

Lend Me Your Ears

Dermot ran his hand across his chest and almost orgasmed from the pleasure. How great it was to be alive again! The cold metal table hurt his butt, but even pain was a welcome experience to him. He traced the huge scar that ran along his right arm, a permanent reminder that care was always required. Funnily, he hadn't been responsible for that particular wound, but had to bear it all the same.

"Twaine!" He winced at his own voice; he would have to get used to that throaty rasp for the next six months. "Twaine, come here!" His shipmate was probably sulking around in the bridge, watching the star charts and analysing the radio frequencies. In six months their situation would be reversed again and Dermot would be the one sulking. He settled back onto the slab for a nap.

A few hours later Dermot felt strong enough to walk and so left the medical bay and made his way through the cramped corridors towards the bridge. It was a lot harder moving now that he was meat, but it was a minor disadvantage considering. "Twaine you bastard, where are you?" Still nothing. He pulled himself up through the hatch into the bridge with some difficulty – Twaine had a lot to answer for – and peered into the gloom. The large tactical table in the middle of the bridge displayed the local star system, meaning that someone had been here recently. Against the far side of the room was the pilot's chair, empty of course, and then there were the metre-thick glassteel windows, useless for navigating the GSS Kundalini other than giving the bridge crew a stunning view of space. Somewhere to his right, Dermot saw a whisp move. "Twaine."

"Go away," said Twaine in the dark, "I wish to be alone."

"Technically, I'm the one that's alone, because there's nobody else here. No body else here. Get it?"

Twaine glided towards the tac-table. "Every time we swap, you make the same joke. It is tedious."

"Lighten up you twat, if you can't laugh then what can you do?"

"What is there to laugh about, Mr Dermot?" Twaine moved into the light, an exact-replica of Dermot but a ghostly apparition. "I am now dead. I am not laughing."

"Give over, Twaine! In six months we swap back, and I'll be back as a ghost and you'll be back in your body. Talking of which," Dermot grabbed a large roll of 'his' stomach flab, "what the hell? You agreed to look after yourself, especially after that night." He raised his scarred arm as evidence. "Minimal risk activities, exercise, and a balanced diet. Remember?"

"Please leave me to perform my duties," answered Twaine bitterly. "What I choose to do with my own body, when I'm custodian of it, is my own business."

"It's not your body though, is it? Not completely. I have a part-ownership in it. I have a say."

"By my choice," Twaine shot back. "After your death, I felt it unfair for you to remain as an essence for the remainder of our journey."

"Bullshit," replied Dermot, "it's just a coincidence that the engines and life support system need extensive servicing every six months, and that I'm an engineer?"

Twaine was silent for a while. "I did not think that our journey would be so extensive," he muttered at last.

"Extensive? Fifty years we've spent flying in space." Dermot sat on the tac-table and swung his legs. "We don't know if we're flying towards or away from the rest of the human race, and considering the distances involved, even a micro degree can be the difference between getting back to Earth and flying into a completely different galaxy."

Twaine raised his eyebrow. "Someone's been learning about astro navigation, haven't they."

"There's not much to do as a ghost, other than listening to audio books."

Twaine nodded. "We have three choices. One, we continue flying in random directions and hope to the Gods that the navigation computer eventually recognises a star formation. Two, we search for a planet that we can colonise. Three, we detonate the Kundalini."

Dermot shrugged. "Option three isn't good. You don't get ghosts in space, remember. We need to get inside a planetary magnetic field rather than the Kundalini's artificial one before we can even consider death."

"So that leaves options one and two. What do you prefer?"

"I don't know," Dermot jumped off the table, "but here's what I am going to do. I am going to drink a bottle of wine, eat several hamburgers, and watch some porn. Unless you want things to get weird, I wouldn't interrupt."

"Mr Dermot, you will not do such a thing to my body! Mr Dermot! Mr..." Twaine watched the back of his own head disappear down the hatch. Admittedly, Twaine couldn't deny his dead shipmate the pleasure of an orgasm after six months of death, but it was very unnerving to think that it was his own body providing the means to do so. As a ghost, he could only dream of such things for now.

***

The disk-shaped Kundalini had decelerated from near-light speed to a dead stop for the first time in decades to allow an analysis of the stars around it. The decision to look for a suitable planet for them to live – and die - had been made easily, because they could be at the very edge of the universe or on the doorstep of a human colony. It was very probable that mankind had wiped itself out, which was partly the reason for their original journey, and if this were the case, the God Particle could be the very last chance to bring the human race back to life. They needed to find a suitable planet as soon as possible so that they could at least die in peace, if not secure the continuation of their species.

Dermot crunched into an apple and studied the video feed on the tac-table. "Say we find a planet, do you know how we actually deploy the Particle?"

"No, but it should not be too hard. I assume that it is completely automated," replied Twaine. "There are some potential candidates in a nearby star cluster. Not many, but it looks promising." There were some bangs and ticks from the hull. "What is that noise?"

"The sensors are still booting up," answered Dermot. "but the backups aren't detecting anything large. Must be dust."

"I will be more relieved once we're in transit again, with the hull's energy shield to protect us from such hazards. I feel very vulnerable when stationary."

"They're just rocks, and the Kundalini has a very thick hull. Stop wetting." Dermot ran his finger over the video image. "We're not a science ship, we're a tug. I would assume that some egghead may have built in some kind of control so that a ship full of hairy-assed fitters can't set off their precious planet-sized toy. Did you consider that?"

Twaine stopped his screen watching. "I'd concur with that evaluation," he said quietly, "so we need to ensure that we can activate the Particle or find a way of jury-rigging the deployment mechanism. I will begin researching the device immediately." He began to disappear into the floor.

"What shall I do?" Dermot threw apple through Twaine's half-torso.

"Monitor the nav-computer and inform me of any alerts or messages. I will be at the umbilical clamp, looking for answers." His head dropped through the floor.

Twaine glided through the corridors like a breeze, and reached the huge mile-long glass-steel corridor that held the God Particle against the Kundalini. The Particle looked like a glass moon filled with a shifting smog, and represented the absolute pinnacle of human technology. It contained all the elements required to transform any inert planetary body into another Earth. Twaine had tugged a dozen of the devices across the galaxy but had never seen one in action. That was about to change, hopefully. He glided down the corridor and reached a screen on a pedestal. "Activate," he said, and the screen came to life. "Deploy man." The screen filled with a wall of text detailing the requirements to deploy the colony starter kit. Happily, the designers had thought about the possibility of a capsule being detached from a science ship, and had inserted a jump-starter device within the Particle itself. "Sleep." The computer screen dulled and Twaine turned to leave. The glass umbilical was sufficiently far from the ship to give Twaine a good view of the massive rent that had killed most of the original crew. It ran from port to starboard above him, conduit and girders splayed out like a metallic forest growing out of the ship. Despite the huge size of the Kundalini, the air had vented into space too quickly to save anyone. Twaine remembered the exact moment of the breach, all those years back. He had been working on the bridge trying to work out where the ship had drifted to. He had summoned Dermot to argue over the reason why the ship had drifted when the alarm had sounded. Because of deep space regulations, the bridge's hatch was always sealed, and so they had been spared the decompression. This had also resulted in the pair being trapped on the bridge. Dermot, being the Chief Engineer, had left the quivering Twaine on the bridge, had suited up and re-entered the airless ship to isolate the damage. He'd manually closed enough bulkheads to free Twaine from the bridge, but had been speared in the chest by shrapnel from a small explosion during the 18-hour ordeal. Neither Twaine or Dermot had the medical skills to treat such a wound, and so they had been resigned to the inevitable. Twaine had placed Dermot inside the holo-essence machine before he'd died and, in the absence of a planetary magnetic field, his 'soul' or life-force had been brought back as an artificial spirit, sustained by the Kundalini's own magnetic field. Dermot had been a hero without question. He had saved the ship, the God Particle, and Twaine, and had sacrificed himself to do so. Twaine's upbringing had fostered a resentment to those who were not as educated or refined as himself, but he classed himself as honourable. Dermot was "working class" and therefore a subordinate to Twaine, but he had saved his life, and so Twaine had agreed to give him his physical body for half a standard year so he could enjoy life again. It was the least he could do. They had never found out what had caused the damage, but Twaine had assumed it had been some kind of asteroid, or even a stray molecule of dark matter.

Something bounced against the umbilical. It had looked like a rock, except it had left a wet mark on the glass. Another drifted between the Kundalini and the capsule, then another. Twaine turned back to the computer console. "Activate. Comms, bridge." He waited for Dermot to answer. "Are you seeing this?"

"Sure am. What do you think they are?"

"I have no idea, Mr Dermot, but they look biological. Can you switch the external lights on?"

Powerful spotlights pierced the void around the Kundalini, revealing a few miles around the ship. Twaine couldn't help but gasp; they were surrounded by these mysterious objects, some the size of trucks, others hardly significant, but all were going in the same direction. "Mr Dermot," called Twaine again, "can you confirm that we are still stationary?"

"According to your nav computer Twaine, our velocity is triple-zero."

"So these objects have v, not us?"

"Sure looks like it. Hang on." Dermot left the comm for a moment. "I'm reading an air pressure drop in the aft engine room. Just a small one."

"That's one of the areas adjacent to the damaged hull." Twaine scanned above him but could see nothing unusual through the cloud of floating objects. A klaxon blared; hull breach! Twaine raced the couple of miles back to the bridge in a panic and popped up behind Dermot just as he silenced the klaxon for the second time. "Report!"

"I'm not sure," replied Dermot, scanning several video feeds displayed on the tac-table. "There was a pressure drop, then the engine room's bulkhead blew. We're venting."

Twaine tried to calm himself. On the plus side, he was technically safe from any air-related issues as he was not physical. However, he needed to ensure the safety of Dermot's body, because it was his. Any deadly harm to Dermot meant that Twaine would forever remain a ghost. "Can we seal more bulkheads and isolate the aft engine room?"

"Already doing it." Dermot consulted a blueprint of the Kundalini, identified the bulkheads to isolate the affected area, then sent out commands from the tac-table. "There. Pressure returning to normal. Good thing I re-routed bulkhead control to the bridge after the initial accident. I really don't feel like dying a second time, especially in your body!"

"How can you be so flippant over such a serious issue, Mr Dermot?"

"Twaine, it's better than – wait, I'm showing yet another air pressure drop." Dermot ran his fingers over the table. The klaxon for a hull breach blared again and Dermot cut it off. "I don't believe it! What is going on?" He sent commands to seal the area again, then reached for his toolbox. "I'm going to check it out."

"Let me investigate, Mr Dermot. If the bulkheads are failing, then the best place for you to be is here on the bridge. Being an essence, I am immune to any explosive decompression that may occur."

Dermot shrugged reluctantly. "Your funeral."

Twaine memorised a route to the aft engine area, then ghosted through the floor and flew through the ship until he came to a sealed bulkhead glowing with a red warning light. The door was six feet of solid steel, and was meant to prevent harm to the crew. Unfortunately, budget cuts and colourful interpretation of space maritime law meant that the bulkheads did not seal themselves automatically, which in the case of the Kundalini, had meant the loss of a hundred lives. Twaine drifted next to a comms panel. "Activate, comms, bridge. Mr Dermot, I am at aft maintenance bulkhead two-two. It is sealed, and I can see no ingress or damage so far."

"Good. Can you go through the bulkhead and see what the aft engine bulkhead looks like?"

"I will." Twaine passed through the door and into the area beyond. Other than the lack of noise, the corridor was as it should be. He drifted to the comms unit and tried to activate it, but his voice was silent in the vacuum. Damn, he thought, he would have to go back through the bulkhead if he needed to talk to Dermot. No matter. He ghosted down the corridor looking for any anomalies in the walls, and then found himself in a silent whirlwind of parts and pieces. Before him was one of the brown lumps he had seen floating about outside, except it was covered with dozens of talons that sliced through everything as if it were butter. It stopped moving and its blades retracted, then rolled towards Twaine. His flight-or-fight instinct took over and he fled back towards the bulkhead. He saw metal and then was in the undamaged area of the ship again. "Activate, comms, bridge!"

"What did you find, Mr Twaine? A leaking pipe?"

"It's an... alien! A monster! It looks like one of those brown meteors from outside!" There was a soft thump from the bulkhead. "It's able to cut through the hull!"

"I am starting the engines and moving us to point one of light speed. The energy shield will prevent any more of them from coming aboard." The walls around Twaine thrummed.

"What do we do about the one that is aboard already? I think it's coming through!"

"I do not know. Get back to the bridge. We can monitor its progress from here."

And they did, although their monitor was the HVAC system rather than any cameras. They watched the reports of decompression events as the creature tore through the internal structure with little difficulty. Dermot silenced the alarm yet again and marked the path of the monster with a grease pencil. "It's going through the ship."

"I realise that Mr Dermot. What do we do about it?"

Dermot scratched his head. "Evacuate?"

"Evacuate! To where? We are in the depths of space Mr Dermot!"

"Really."

Twaine drifted around his colleague. "You seem extremely blasé about the situation. Why?"

Dermot shrugged and silenced the alarm. "No reason."

Twaine stared at his subordinate until Dermot moved away. "If you die then I die too, in a physical sense. We both lose the use of my body and the ability to fly the ship. We won't be able to deploy the God Particle and our souls will be trapped as artificial spirits until the power is depleted, at which point our souls will be lost forever. Agreed?"

"Aye."

"So why are you not concerned?"

Dermot breathed out hard. "OK, I was going to wait until the scans had completed fully, but I've found a planet. An Earth-analogue sans an atmosphere, orbiting a binary star system."

Despite being a ghost Twaine felt a wave of hope flow through him. "What? How far away?"

"About 200 AUs." The lights flickered.

"Can we survive long enough to reach it?" asked Twaine.

"Maybe, maybe not," replied Dermot. He tapped in some commands into the main bridge computer and the room started to thrum. "The ship will reach far orbit in 22 hours, so we need to survive for that long." The alarms sounded again.

"Incorrect Mr Dermot. You have to survive for 22 hours. I am a spirit and cannot be harmed."

"Incorrect Mr Twaine. If that bastard manages to destroy the ship's generator, then the power will fail, the computer system and magnetic field will fail, and you will cease to exist."

"Ah." They went back to the map of the ship, and Dermot marked the latest breach with his pencil. "It is heading here?"

"I don't think it is." Dermot drew a line through the damaged areas with a ruler. "If it continues on its current course, it will enter the infirmary, and then exit the ship somewhere on the portside."

Twaine's head drifted through the ceiling. "Excellent! No major systems at threat, and all we will need to do is secure the hull when the monster breaches it. Make preparations Mr Dermot."

"I'm not sure, Mr Twaine." He dropped the pencil. "What is it after?"

"Does it need to be after anything, Mr Jenkin? It is randomly tearing through our ship. In fact, it may be an opportunity to study it now that we are no longer in mortal danger."

"If you want. Personally, I'm going to seal myself in the starboard quarters to keep as far away from that thing as possible. Wake me in 20 hours."

Twaine nodded. "If you so wish. I think it will be necessary to gain access to my body before we make planetfall though. I may be needed to make manual adjustments to our descent."

Dermot looked long and hard at Bertrand. "We'll see about that. I am due my time using your body still. Nothing changes."

"Of course." The air dropped in temperature until Dermot popped the hatch and jumped into the access corridor. Twaine realised that there would be another fight once they deployed the Particle, and whoever was in control of the body would be the winner. The body would be able to enjoy the planet, whereas the spirit would be confined to the ship, maybe forever. Twaine did not want to haunt this ship any longer than he had to.

***

He found the monster dragging its bulk along corridor 1B 12 which provided a direct link to the infirmary. It wasn't trying to rip through the walls any longer, but its claws gouged out great gashes as it shambled along. It paid no attention to Twaine, who gained the courage to examine it up close. The claws were obviously very sharp and gathered in small ovals all over the creature's fleshy body. Twaine realised that each oval was in fact an orifice – not exactly a mouth but a close approximation to one – and the talons had tiny holes running through them. Twaine queried the computer on any lifeforms similar to the monster but none had ever been reported in fifteen centuries of space exploration. He ran a query on cryptozoology entries and was presented with the nuppeppō, a Frankenstein of rotting flesh that supposedly wandered the streets of Japan. Physically somewhat similar, it did not account for the blades, and so Twaine made his own notes on the visitor.

The creature reached the door to the infirmary and tore it to pieces. It slowed its spin and seemed to look about the hospital ward, then made for the storage area. "What are you looking for?" asked Twaine. "Maybe Dermot was correct about you." He watched the creature rake another door to shreds, then realised that it was the area where they had stored the hundred or so bodies of the crew. He watched the beast shuffle up to a corpse. "Stop! Stop it at once!" The creature paid no attention and began to ingest the body. Twaine glided back into the infirmary and activated the comms panel. "Query location of Dermot."

Dermot is deceased.

Twaine felt panic, but then realised his mistake. "Query location of Twaine."

Twaine is in section 4A11 – Starboard Crew Quarters

"Patch me though." The panel chimed. "Dermot! Dermot respond!"

Eventually a sleepy voice came through. "Are we there already?"

"Dermot, the monster is in the infirmary, feasting on the dead crew!"

"Oh. OK."

"OK? Is that all you can say?" Twaine's voice was thin. "We have to do something!"

"We don't need those dead bodies, Twaine. By the time it finishes eating a hundred corpses we should be at our destination. At least it's not causing any further damage or coming after me."

"It is not right. Those people deserve better. However, I admit that you are correct."

"Good. Now if you excuse me, bed calls." The panel switched off. Through the doorway the creature gorged messily on the victims of the Kundalini. Driven by curiosity, Twaine perched himself just inside the doorway and watched.

***

Dermot woke up to a mirror image of his own temporary face. "Dammit Twaine, can't a man wake up in peace?"

"I've been trying to wake you for almost an hour," replied Twaine.

"Good!" Dermot swung his legs off the bunk and stretched. "What news on our guest?"

"It has changed."

"In what way?"

Twaine went as white as a ghost, which was an admirable feat considering. "It has become a monster."

"So what's new? Is there any coffee?"

"Mr Dermot! Please be serious for a moment! The creature has grown arms, legs, wings, and is immensely powerful. It has grown into..." He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but it's a vampire."

Dermot laughed. "Yeah nice one Mr Twaine. A good joke is just what we need to keep morale up. So then, how much longer before we reach planetary orbit?"

Twaine went to thump the bedside table and passed through it. "Listen to me! I've watched that thing suck one hundred corpses dry. It's changed into a vampire, I tell you! I would ask you to come see for yourself, but it would kill you, I am sure."

Dermot jumped to his feet. "You're serious?"

"Very. Now that it's eaten the crew, there's only one blood-filled body left on this ship." It didn't need clarification, but Twaine pointed at Dermot anyway.

"How long until we can deploy the God Particle?"

"An hour. We need to get to the Particle console to deploy it, which means going through the ship. I can prepare it using voice commands, but the launch mechanism is a physical lever in order to save against computer failure or error."

"Naturally." Dermot visualised the map they'd been working from in the bridge. "OK, so I make for the stern and try to avoid this creature-thing. You can keep track of the creature and let me know where it is." There was a distant hammering from somewhere in the ship. "Do we have any weapons?"

"No firearms, but we could get one of the arc welders. They should be useful in close quarter combat."

"Do I look like I know anything about close quarter combat?" There was a rumble from somewhere. "We'd better get moving."

***

Dermot hurried along the aorta, a three-mile-long conduit that connected the nose of the ship with the umbilical. Its diameter was just big enough to walk straight, and Dermot hurried as quickly as he could without hitting his head. They had chosen the conduit as it provided the most direct route to their destination, plus it was hoped that it may allow them to sneak past the creature. Dermot's torch illuminated no more than a few feet in front of him, which meant that he would get no warning if the vampire found him. Twaine suddenly appeared through the pipe; Dermot fell backwards in fright. "Can you stop doing that please?!"

"My apologies." Twaine reached out a hand to help him up, then realised the futility of it. "Sorry."

"Any sign of it?"

"No, but it has left a trail of destruction through the ship. It should be easy to track."

"So why don't you?"

Twaine looked surprised. "It would mean leaving you alone."

Dermot crouched down. "Go ahead, I'll stay here. Don't take too long."

Twaine nodded, then drifted through the pipe.

Dermot allowed the silence to envelope him. He tried to forget that he was in a tube that he couldn't get out of. He tried to forget that he was alone. He tried to forget that there was a murderous creature waiting for him somewhere ahead. And he tried to forget that he was dead and riding about in the body of an obnoxious officer too. He repressed the urge to scream and run headlong into the darkness, and instead concentrated on the silence.

Twaine appeared in one of the main corridors that connected the upper levels to the starboard stores. It was disemboweled, with cables and pipes splayed out of the walls. Great rips could be seen down the corridor, and so Twaine followed the destruction until he found himself in one of the maintenance bays. Huddled over one of the maintenance hatches was the creature, its leathery wings folded around itself and its knobbly head staring into the floor. Twaine remained perfectly still until he was sure that the vampire either didn't know he was there or didn't care – and since he was a ghost without blood or bodily fluids he suspected the latter – and approached. Drool pooled about the monster's thick legs but it did not stir. It continued to stare down. Twaine drifted through the floor and found himself in complete darkness, save for a small pinprick of light waving in the distance.

It was the conduit.

Twaine raced towards Dermot's torch. "It's waiting for you!"

Dermot almost fainted from the shock of Twaine jumping out of the darkness. "What did I tell you about doing that?!"

"Sorry. It's just that the vampire is waiting for you up ahead. It knows that you're here."

"Great. What do we do?" Dermot flicked the torch off.

"We can't continue," said the darkness, "so we'll have to go back."

"And then what? Won't it simply wait for me somewhere else, or decide to charge at me?"

"Maybe."

"How long before we can activate the God Particle?"

Twaine ghosted through the ship into the bridge, then back. "We're above the planet already. It's not much to look at, but it will do."

Dermot gritted his teeth, his nerves frayed from being left alone in the darkness for too long. "How long will it take you to get to the Particle from here?"

"Twenty minutes? Maybe less?"

There was a beep as Dermot's watch lit up his face momentarily. "Go ahead and start the Particle activation sequence."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I said to go and start the sequence!" hissed Dermot. Twaine nodded, not that he could be seen doing so, and floated down the conduit. He passed the point where the vampire was hiding and could see that the hatch had been opened a crack. Dermot would be seen if he passed below. He exited the conduit after an eternity and approached the edge of the Particle. "Run activation exec," he said. The screen responded. "Confirm." The console registered consent, and the ship began its descent into the planet's atmosphere and the safety of its magnetic field. A small lever appeared at the top of the console. PRESS LEVER TO CONTINUE read the screen. It was all down to Dermot now.

***

Dermot's watch beeped, and he started to run down the conduit. A few hundred metres and there was a roar from above him, and then behind him. He shot a look over his shoulder, but it was too dark to see anything. There was a fleshly rhythmic thumping though; the vampire was running after him. If he had his original body then he'd have more confidence in outpacing the vampire, but in Twaine's sedentary underworked body... he just hoped that he could keep up a good pace. He focused on a dim fuzz in front of him, felt his lungs start to hurt after a kilometre, felt his legs burn after two, and his body ache after three. He could see the light from the God Particle now, but it was still too far away for him to increase his pace. The vampire's footsteps had steadily gotten louder, but he still had some time before he'd be caught. He stared at the floor and wished the distance away... and then he was surrounded by starscape and glass corridor. In front of him was the Particle, swirling angrily and silently above a dull brown planet. And there was Twaine, his face horrified by the nightmare plodding behind Dermot.

"The lever! Press the lever!"

Dermot felt wet hot air against his neck, could hear the gurgle of the beast's breath, and yet there was still a few hundred metres to go. He ignored the pain and increased his pace, and the monster was less evident for a moment. Suddenly there was pain across his back; the vampire had slashed him, and he faltered in front of the console. Huge wet hands grabbed his throat and turned him around to face his fate. Dermot saw the console pass by his right leg and kicked out.

SEQUENCE INITIATED said the screen, and the God Particle dropped away from the ship.

"You did it!" shouted Twaine, then watched the monster tear its teeth into Dermot's neck – no, his neck – and suck the spurting blood from the wound. Twaine was helpless and also mesmerised by the death of his body, and the pitiful look on his own face as Dermot died. The monster finished quickly and threw the body away like a used towel, then plodded back towards the ship. Twaine watched the vampire, and then looked down at the approaching landscape. The whole planet was glowing green as the God Particle terraformed the landscape, adding all the elements needed to create a home for humanity. The ship levelled out and entered a terrible storm that was filling the oceans. Lightning struck primordial soup. Grass was sown. Swamps steamed. The ship struck a mountain and spiralled out of control, then impacted hard on a rocky plain. The power plant exploded and vaporised the ship in an instant. Twaine spread out his arms and allowed the end to claim him.

Dermot. Dermot.

Yes. The sun was shining through billowing clouds as two invisible essences stirred in the new planet's magnetic field. Twaine.

We made it.

We died!

We made it, repeated Twaine. We wait.

We wait, agreed Dermot.

And so they waited.

The Rise of the Mummy

For five thousand years did the cursed remains of King Hupatamen lay undiscovered and alone. The human civilisations of old discovered his kingdom in ruins and plundered it for gold and trinkets, studied its lore, but despite their inquisitive and invasive nature not a single eye passed across Hupatamen's hate-filled form for millennia.

So it was with some surprise that Hupatamen heard voices. He raised himself off of the alter that had been his bed for too long, dust falling about him like water, and prepared himself.

"Let's not go too far," said a thin frail voice, "the guide said to go straight on and turn left. It didn't mention any loose bricks and hidden passages!"

"Where's your sense of adventure?" said a deeper voice. "It's not like we're going to bump into anyone!"

"That's true I guess," said the first, "the last one died out ages ago."

"Ah yes," said Deep Voice, "choked on their own fumes, then nuked to oblivion. Typical Class 16 species."

Hupatamen staggered towards the entrance and roared as two interlopers strode into his chamber.

"Bleedin' hell!" cried Frail Voice. "What's that?"

"Beats me!" The pair ducked a swipe from Hupatamen and flattened themselves against the furthest wall. "According to the guide," said Deep, who waved a data slate in the direction of their attacker, "it's a mummy!"

"What's one of them?"

"According to this here guide, the Egyptian civilisation used to mummify its dead, and it's been said that some of those who had done great wrongs were cursed before being laid to rest." They kept a few metres away from Hupatamen, who lumbered towards them. "This must be an undead human, and an evil one at that!"

"Oh." They watched the mummy for a few moments. "What else does it do?"

"That's it," replied Deep Voice, "it walks, and tries to kill anything in sight."

"That's a bit boring, isn't it? I tell you what, let's go back to the main corridor. I want to see the burial chamber before it closes."

"Right you are." The two tourists ducked under a lunge from Hupatamen and sauntered back down the corridor. Hupatamen, fuelled with murderous hatred, shuffled after them. Eventually it came to the wall that had been partially-breached by the tourists, and used its enormous strength to finish the job. The remains of Hupatamen recognised the corridor and roared in despair at the damage that time and entropy had done to his once-marvellous home. He heard faint voices and decided to exact his revenge on them. He staggered into a large amphitheater and saw the two tourists huddled around the data slate.

"So this was the place where they would accept dignitaries – oh look out, you friend's back." They faced the mummy, who roared at them again.

Deep waved his arms at Hupatamen. "Alright fella, a joke's a joke, but we've travelled across the universe and paid a lot for this tour, and we can't have mythical undead Egyptians interrupting us all the time. Go kill someone else." Hupatamen swung at Deep, but a blue shield stopped the punch from connecting. "Go easy there pal," said Deep, "these force fields aren't cheap, or safe. Look, you've singed your bandages!" Hupatamen roared and grabbed Deep. "Oi! Now you're gone and done it!" Deep broke the mummy's grip and went to hit Hupatamen but Frail pushed him back.

"He's not worth it, mate!"

"He's asking for it though! Let me at him!"

Hupatamen grabbed Frail, who broke the grip as easily as Deep had and turned to face his assailant. "You starting pal? I'm only trying to help, but you're really pushing your luck." Frail put his hand on Hupatamen's head and kept the mummy out of reach. "He's really agitated about something. Do we go tell someone?"

Deep waved the data slate in the air. "Mate, it's all part of the tour!"

"You what?"

"Look here. It says, Visit Hupatamen's Ceremonial Palace! See how the royalty of Egypt lived in luxury, with its exceptional architecture and mysterious secrets." He pointed at Huapatamen. "I reckon he's the mysterious secret! He works for the tour guide!"

"What? Ah yeah, I reckon you're right!" Frail let the mummy go and put an arm around its shoulders. "You really had us going there mate! Murderous undead indeed. Oi, get a photo of me getting attacked by a mummy!" Frail allowed the mummy to put its hands around his neck and struck a pose as Deep took a photo. "Blimey, he's still keeping up the act!"

"Ha ha ha! Good work there pal." Deep forced one of Hupatamen's arms away from Frail's neck and gave him a handshake. "Here's a tip. We've gotta go, so you keep on the murdering, yeah? Ha ha ha!" Hupatamen was surprised to find a flat platinum shape in his hand. He watched the tourists go, then looked at his bandaged reflection in the shape. Despite being five millennia old, he still recognised a coin when he saw it, alien or otherwise. He contemplated his situation for a few dusty moments, then slipped the money into his bandages and slumped into a corner to await the next tourists.

Bewildered Bees

"Christian my boy, check this out," said Peter, double-clicking a video file on his laptop. Christian watched the clip over his boss' shoulder, recognising the sultry pop star but, naturally, not the song it belonged to.

"The inverted cross, numerous references to the single eye, the pyramid.... we've certainly dropped a bollock," said Christian.

"One of us has," corrected Peter. "She even gave an interview that mentioned dreams of a ritual that sounded a lot like one of ours. Would you believe it?" He finished off the last of his donuts, sugar powder falling on his gut. "I can imagine Sebastian's not going to be best pleased."

"Isn't he ever? Still. It might not be anyone's fault. Her programming's just gone a little haywire. It's rare, but it does happen."

Peter rubbed his hands together, showering himself with more sugar. "That twat Cain complained that his herd wasn't responding to the subliminals. I reckon he might have dialled it up to eleven. Y'know, unleashed the supraliminal weapons." He waved his fingers in the air.

Christian checked the emails on his phone; if a whole shit-storm was coming down, the 33rds would be sending out meeting invites to the department heads. Nothing so far, but the day was still young. Each department had an amount of autonomy in their particular area, but potentially-damaging changes needed authorisation from someone up the chain. Sebastian Krul, as a 33rder, would have had to personally authorise the use of any powerful mental weapons. If someone was responsible for the pop star's sudden knowledge of them, heads would roll.

"Anyway," said Peter, "how's your policy changes coming along? Are your flocks responding?"

"Better than expected, if I was honest," replied Christian. "I'm using bad things as the driver behind an initiative to snoop all Internet communication in sectors 1 and 2. We released a couple of TV dramas about terrorism just to desensitise the herd, then prepped a couple of journalists to write a piece in the newpapers stating that these fictional attacks are possible."

"Loving your style," said Peter with a wink, "and I can always arrange another false flag attack if there's too much public resistance. Y'know, man with a rucksack, somewhere public."

Christian willed his imagination to be still; it didn't help to dwell on the details. "I'm also trying to use the recent riots to pressurise mobile phone providers to release information on instant messages. If we were to stage another incident, we could use the same false flag for both purposes. A terrorist attack that was co-ordinated using instant messaging and emails." Again, he stopped the pictures in his mind from happening, concentrating on the words only. There was a time, long ago, when Christian would lay awake at night worrying about killing innocent lives just to further the agenda - it wasn't right. Except it was, in a strange way. During Christian's first orientation session, he was told that the population was a dumb herd, and, just like every other kind of livestock, they would die swimming in their own filth and ignorance if left on their own. Without rules and justice - and, yes, oppression – they would continue to rob and kill and fornicate, but on a grand scale that would eventually devolve the race. Control was necessary and essential in order to grow, even if it meant the sacrifice of a few alcohol-dependent, immoral proles once in a while.

Christian returned to his office and called a meeting with his team. In the plush conference room, they performed a quick greeting ritual, muttering "my right hand resting thereon", and then sat. Out of Christian's eight team members, Lamech was the only one who displayed any kind of humanity. The rest were snakes, hailing from greedy families who were only interested in money, making money, and boasting about money. They were also power-mad, constantly trying to out-do each other - and usurp Christian too. They were kings in their own kingdom, but Christian was their king, and then Peter, and then Sebastian. Heaven-knows who the 33rds served. Ever-increasing circles of influence, power, and responsibility.

Christian gave his team a quick summary, with Lamech the only one making notes. "Gentlemen, we have a task from the 33rds." The team picked up interest at this. "We need to introduce a positive mind worm into the cattle, and so need to work out which of our available weapons will be best suited to the task."

"Cool!" said Archie, a thin wiry nerd of a man with a large nose and watery eyes. "What is it this time? Nuclear power? Arms deal?"

"No," replied Christian, feeling sure that this was a test of his team's abilities, nothing more. "Bees."

"Bees?" Lamech's young scarred face stared, as did they all. "The flying black-and-yellow insect? Why?"

"I do not know."

"I smell a test," said Patrick Ford, not looking up from his phone.

"Regardless, we need to accomplish this subliminally, with little chance of anyone picking up the delivery, but saturating as many people as possible."

"What kind of penetration percentage are we trying to achieve?" asked Lamech.

"As close to total as possible, within the western areas, for a period of a few weeks." The team muttered incredulously to themselves. Total saturation was usually reserved for preparation events, such as going to war or amendments to a law. But a saturation event lasting only a few weeks - about an insect - and in a positive light?

'What about warning the herd about a new and deadly virus transmitted by bees?" said McDonald, an arrogant bear of a man. "The media would jump all over it, bees would become the top searchable term, everyone would be talking about it." He spread his arms theatrically. "Mission accomplished. Ensure that I'm given full credit on your report, Christian."

"No," said Christian, "that method is not subtle nor positive. Just saying the word bee repeatedly is not the mission profile. We need to implant bee without the herd knowing it." He smiled. "Listen next time, McDonald. Or maybe you need the mission delivered to you subliminally?"

"What I meant was," said McDonald, clearly embarrassed, "is that we release a drug called bee. Make it super addictive and super deadly."

Christian sighed. "Nothing with lasting effects, for God's sake! It has to be subtle and very temporary."

"Temporary, but with huge saturation..." Lamech said quietly, "...it has all the hallmarks of a musical delivery system."

"A song about a bee?" said Ford, blowing into a hanky.

"Not quite," said Christian slowly, picking up the idea. "We do a bit of word substitution, something like 'Be mine', have someone really trendy and popular sing it, should be in and out of the music charts over the course of the required time period." He turned to Simon, unofficially known as the pop guru. "What do you think?"

"No problem whatsoever." The dark-haired army vet turned his laptop around and gestured to a list of artists. Christian recognised a few, but he didn't know how their songs went; the Orientation team warned against listening to music from pop bands because they frequently contained mind worms and subliminals. It was music for the masses only. "These three artists are very popular right now, but if you wanted immediate and unquestioning popularity, then this group," he brought up an image, "is the one which will fulfil our requirements. Their music is completely computer-generated, so priming it with a weaponised worm is simple."

"Splendid!" Christian nodded to Simon. "I'm assigning this task to you. Can you get it done in a week?"

"Sure thing," he replied. The group finished up and left Christian alone in the meeting room. Why a bee? He looked at his phone, but there were no messages. There was no-one from the external world to message him anyway, which in his profession was an advantage as far as the department was concerned. How did the others cope? How could they carry on forging friendships and romantic entanglements, knowing what they knew – or did they? Christian dealt with it the only way he could; complete disconnection with everyone. Still, there were some nights, sitting in his fantastic mansion surrounded by priceless paintings and rare artefacts, when he could feel the loneliness.

***

It was a dingy bar, created to let the herd relax after a hard day's work, to let them smoke or play pool, to chat about whatever was currently interesting to them, which was whatever the agency told them to be interested in. When Christian had become an initiate, he expected to be denied all access to the normal world as a security precaution. Yet, surprisingly, there were no restrictions, other than disclosure. He could drink in bars, or go on holiday, or screw anyone if he wanted. Anyway, it was surprisingly easy for the agency to trace an information breach back to the source, and it wasn't uncommon for a work colleague to suddenly disappear. Christian ignored the looks from the locals and found Peter sitting alone at a booth, drinking a tall beer. Christian ordered a drink, sat opposite Peter and exchanged the handshake – completely unnecessary but borne out of habit. "What's up, boss?"

"Not much," replied Peter. His eyes were half-lidded and his shirt creased and grubby. He'd been drinking for most of the day. Peter had suffered three near-breakdowns since Christian has known him, and they had all started like this; the invite for a beer, a smattering of small-talk, then a leading question about the validity of controlling the world, followed by a rant about doing full disclosure. Each time, Christian had always talked Peter off the ledge so to speak, but Christian had felt compelled to report the last incident to Sebastian. In response, Sebastian had given Christian some extremely clear instructions if it ever happened again, which was the reason Christian had gone home briefly after receiving Peter's invitation.

Christian took a long draw of his drink, wanting to cut to the chase as quick as possible. "Having a crisis of faith again, dear brother?"

Peter sighed. "Do you know what the maximum capacity of the Earth is? Y'know, living without harming the Earth?"

"Well, I've heard thirteen billion, but I doubt that's true." Christian supped his beer again. "The Georgia Stones state a total population of five hundred million in order to live in harmony with nature. I agree with that figure."

"Which means that six billion people would need to be killed for mankind to be at harmony with the Earth." They sat in silence, a tune tinkling merrily from the TV. "You hear that? More shit from us no doubt." said Peter.

"Of course it is," smiled Christian. "It's called 'Emma B Mine'. It's the tune my team released last week. Number one in all the charts. God knows why the 33rds wanted that particular worm out there."

"And we'll never know. Sometimes, I think these ignorants are better off than us." Peter waved an arm in the general direction of the drunks. "At least they don't know that something's going on." Christian watched a couple arguing at the bar, clearly full of drink. "Are we any better off? We know that something's going on, but we don't know what! Are we in a better position than these proles?" He downed a shot of whiskey that was hiding behind the numerous empty beer glasses around him. "Ignorance is bliss."

"Would you be happier not knowing?" said Christian, checking to make sure their conversation wasn't being overheard. "Would you be happier not knowing about the false flags, and wars, and pandemics, and what news is true and what's bullshit? Do you really want to live in ignorance, wondering whether the latest headline has been made up by dumb shits like McDonald?"

"That's just my point," said Peter. "What gives McDonald the right to tell these people false information anyway? He couldn't find his own ass with both hands, and yet his stories are spread throughout the world as gospel truths. That ain't right."

"It's just the way shit has to be," replied Christian. "We all have a job to do in this life. This is our job." Christian tried to inject some venom into his voice, hoping that Peter was sober enough to pick up on it. "You shouldn't question your job. Bad things happen to people who do."

"Like Cain," replied Peter sadly. "Christian, something huge is about to happen. Sebs is giving out some odd orders lately. Procurement purchased two million airtight containers last week, each big enough to hold a man. I saw an order for two billion hollow-tips and ten thousand assault rifles, destined for a base in Alaska."

"So? It's probably business as usual stuff, or gearing up for a large training exercise." It would have to be a huge training drive – two billion bullets?

"We don't have a base in Alaska, Christian." He took a long drink of his beer, his gaze never leaving Christian's neutral face. "But the most frightening thing I've seen lately is Sebastian requesting a report on epidemics and viruses. Infection rates, cures, collateral damage to the environment, and so on."

"So?" It was time to see where Peter was going with this.

"I can't order the deaths of millions of people, Christian."

"You already have, Peter. Me and you both. People we haven't met, innocent people, if such a thing exists. However, remember that these are people that will kill us for the paper in our wallets. Don't think of them as people, Peter. We are people. Not them. They are too numerous to be classed as people. They are not unique. We are."

"Do you really believe that, or is that the departmental training talking?"

"Of course I believe that." There was a time when Christian didn't believe, but in the absence of God, The Mother or any religion, logic became a salvation. It gave him belief, with the added comfort of proof. Christian liked logic. "Take pigeons for example. Simply because there's far too many of them, they're classed as a pest and exterminated as such. What about rats, and weeds? Once something becomes too numerous, it is classed as a pest and needs to be controlled and culled to prevent it killing itself and everything around it. Mankind is too numerous, is now a pest, and we do what is necessary."

"I don't believe that," replied Peter.

"You only feel empathy because you recognize the similarities between us and them. It's a trick. They sound like humans – pure humans - therefore you're fooled into assuming that they're human. Cats meow to sound like a human baby crying, sparking the maternal instinct and therefore tricking humans into looking after them." Peter grasped his friend's hand on the table. He wasn't trying to persuade Peter for the sake of his life, but for Christian's too; if Peter did persist in becoming a whistleblower, then Christian would have to kill him, because if he didn't then Sebastian would kill Christian – or worse. All the Agents knew about the black projects in Dulce.

"You cannot be serious," muttered Peter. "You're a monster. I need to disclose the agency to the herd. Maybe they can solve their own issues without us killing them. Maybe." And that was that; the tipping point, the last signal that Peter was serious about coming out. It couldn't happen. Christian felt his heart pounding, a remnant of the man he used to be complaining that he couldn't go ahead with this, but his conditioning won over.

"Well, we'll agree to disagree for now, eh?" said Peter as breezily as possible and pushed his beer aside. He stood and patted his pockets theatrically. "Dammit. I'm going to the store for some smokes. You coming?"

"You smoke?" Peter narrowed his eyes briefly. "I thought you were aware about smoking?"

"Old habits die hard. Anyway, we can go to another bar. This place has a biker-about-to-rape-me vibe to it," replied Christian. Peter processed this, and then shrugged and downed his drink. He staggered to his feet and followed Christian through the pool area. "So how's Sandra and the kids?" asked Christian, holding the back door open for Peter, allowing him to go outside in front of him.

"Not too bad. Kids grow up so fast these days," said Peter. Christian let the door slam shut, plunging the alley into complete darkness, and pulled his Glock out of his jacket. He'd killed before, but not a friend, and not so close-up. Peter wasn't a friend anymore though. He was a threat. He was one of the herd. Christian raised the gun, forgot about his friend, and thought about his enemy.

"Goodbye Peter," said Christian softly.

"What for? No, wait!" Peter realised at last that he had been setup and tried to back away from him, but Christian's aim was true, even in the blackness of the alley. Three shots and Peter was dead, gone from the world, removed from the privilege of the ruling class in the only way that ensured secrets stayed secret. Privileged power was a double-edged sword that could cut both ways, mercilessly, all in the name of limitless power. Christian quickly retrieved Peter's wallet from his pocket before sprinting away from the crime scene and back to the real world, just as the bar door opened. Emma B Mine could be heard droning through the midnight air, a tribute to Peter and the work he had done.

Hundreds of miles away, Sebastian leaned back on the plush chair and laughed at Chan's shitty joke. It was a false laugh, yet expertly timed for appropriateness, to convey camaraderie and friendship. Personally, Sebastian wanted to kill the little Japanese pervert, but the man was vital at this moment in time. Music tinkled in the background, cheap popular music. Even though Sebastian didn't know the tune, he recognised the mindworm almost immediately and knew it was the one crafted for this exact moment. He hoped it would work.

They were in one of Chan's many penthouse suites, all panoramic windows and backlit red drapes. Water features and small pools were dotted throughout the surprisingly large place. On Chan's lap, a young prostitute wriggled and giggled. Her silken body had been hired by Sebastian to make sure Chan remained in a receptive state. She was very good, if the small bump in the businessman's trousers was anything to go by. Sebastian casually looked behind his shoulder at one of Chan's armed bodyguards, who raised his gun slightly to remind Sebastian who was in charge here. Sebastian nodded in response; it never paid to antagonize hired goons, although the serpent within him writhed in fury at being oppressed. Sebastian would exact a terrible revenge upon Chan and everyone connected to him once the businessman had fulfilled his use. Hell, Sebastian would probably do it in person.

He calmed his passions and concentrated on the task at hand. "I see you appreciate the finer things in life, my friend," said Sebastian, "for example, my gift that is currently entertaining you. Her name is Emma."

"Emma, Emma, Emma," replied the man dreamily, looking into the whore's pretty face. "She is truly special!"

"If I may trouble you for a moment," said Sebastian, "my client requires you to sign one of these forms in order to authorise a course of action." He pointed to the seven contracts on the table. All but the second one would mean disaster for many of the secret department's current machinations. They needed Chan to not only go ahead with their plan, but to see it through to the very end. They had analysed the usual courses of actions; assassination, financial attack on Chan's company – until they discovered his huge criminal network – and even replacing him with a clone, but they all involved some degree of risk and possible compromise. A mass mindworm ensured that Chan would at some point hear the song and be subverted.

The man glanced over at the contracts, speed-reading the summary of each whilst keeping a hand on each of Emma's breasts. The prostitute wiggled some more on Sebastian's unseen command.

"Emma be mine." The businessman focused on the second contract suddenly. "The second one is my choice." He scrawled his signature on the bottom, and a lawyer appeared from behind him to witness it. "Now make it so, Mr Krul, and leave me to enjoy this fantastic girl."

"Absolutely, Mr Chan. I wish you good health." Sebastian rose and allowed himself to be escorted out of the complex, again reminding himself to obliterate this building and everyone in it. In his limousine, he fired instructions to his subordinates via email and waited for their responses. His phone rang; it was Christian Player, one of Peter's more able acolytes.

"Krul."

"Peter has resigned."

Sebastian couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You accepted his resignation yourself?"

"I was instructed to, if he ever called in sick again."

Sebastian nodded to himself. "I am impressed. See me tomorrow in my office. You are to take Peter's place." Sebastian cut the call and mulled this over; Christian was one to watch.

The Time Travelling Chef – Sorrow

Rocco awoke to the ringing of the dinner bell. It was a multi-purpose bell in that it was also used for breakfast, snacks, brunch, and the occasional gorge, but now, with a half-moon grinning through the stony window, he knew that it was going to be a Master's Meal. He kicked the blanket off and hopped across the floor to his shoes. The castle stone had an ability to hoard the winter weather and bleed it into his bedroom all year round. No amount of rugs or blankets could prevent his feet from being punished. He hoped that this Master's Meal would take him where he could get a decent pair of shoes that didn't disintegrate at the first suggestion of winter. He put on his hat, picked up his notepad, and left his room.

Three hundred and five metres later, Rocco reached the bottom of his tower, took fifteen steps, then began the three hundred and five metres' ascent of the Master's tower. They were less than twenty metres apart as the crow flies, but Rocco's servitude required him to take eighteen thousand steps every time he was summoned from his quarters - half-that if he was already in the kitchen. He stopped on the very first step and sipped from a juice pouch. His life was literally full of ups and downs, except he preferred the downs than the ups. He tucked away his pouch and started to climb the stairs.

"The moon! Did you see the moon?" The Master was, as usual, hanging from her swing-bar in the middle of the room. Although their towers were the same height and diameter, the Master's room seemed huge. She performed a flip and dismounted perfectly. "The dish ran away with the spoon."

"Yes Master."

Her giant blue eyes locked onto Rocco. "And then the cow jumped over the moon I am led to believe."

"Yes Master." It did not pay to get into conversation with the Master. It was trying to navigate through an ever-shifting maze made of pillows and knives.

"It is the time for splendour. The moon and the spoon are aligned." She patted her golden locks and spun once, her gingham dress billowing out like a red and white plate. "I desire a meal that would make the sun cry. Sorrow beyond sorrow." She began to weep. "A meal to break the heart and wish for death."

"Yes Master." He wrote it all down, word-for-word, so that there could be no misunderstanding. "A meal to break the heart. Certainly."

She was suddenly in front of him, her enormous face staring into his. She was beautiful in every sense of the word, lips plump and red, her skin clear without any trace of concealer, and not a single blood-vessel in the whites of her eyes. Just like a riptide though, the gentleness of the surface masked great danger. She took his pencil and inserted it into her nose, then gave Rocco a photo. "This must be one of the ingredients. The place and time are on the back. Do you understand me, Le Rocco?"

"Yes Master."

With a snort the pencil disappeared completely. "Something sweet I think."

He tucked the photo into the book. "Yes Master."

She mounted the swing bar again and waved him away. "Goodbye, spoon!"

He trudged down the tower, snuffing the candles as he went. He wanted to look at the picture but he did not want to fall down nine thousand steps, and so he waited until he was safely in the bowels of the kitchen. The entire castle bar the towers were one huge dining preparation area, two square miles of cookers and cauldrons and kilns and spits and pans and microwaves and every conceivable cooking appliance and tool used throughout history's culinary experiences. He lit two candles on the table that was his study area and brought out the book. The picture was a glossy print of a garden implement resting against a wooden wall, possibly a fence. Its blade was curved to a cruel point and reminded Rocco of the mask of a plague doctor. He flipped the photo. "Cut Your Own Throat, Purveyor of Scythes and Other Bladed Implements," he said out loud. So that was a scythe, and the main ingredient in the Master's meal. No doubt tasty, and much better than a pineapple or some custard. He noted the location and time on in his pad, then went to the small cubby hole he used for storing personal effects. He shouldered his backpack that contained everything he could possibly need for his journey, put on a hard-wearing coat, and grasped his ivory staff that was more grey than white thanks to its decades of use. Finally he opened up a cupboard and selected a good amount of money suitable for his destination (five thousands Fruggles), folded them neatly into his coat pocket, then walked to the doorway next to his desk. He used the complex array of beads and wires to program in the destination, then with a sigh common to the work-weary, stepped through.

He found himself in a neon-lit shop surrounded by blades of every size, shape, and metal. Glass counters ran parallel each side of him, displaying smaller blades obviously designed for combat. Behind him was a glass doorway showing a busy highstreet, yet the people did not walk but instead drifted an inch from the ground, their clothes flowing behind them like vapour. A red sky housed a pair of red suns, overlapped with blue clouds. He returned his gaze to the shop and walked slowly down the avenue of blades until he came to a wooden counter that had a single bell on it. Behind the counter was a very threadbare carpet-tiled area that showed the many areas of activity like a heatmap. Rocco dropped his backpack onto his feet and tapped the bell with the palm of his hand. He landed halfway down the aisle, half-deafened from the sound that had erupted from the bell. "OK, it's going to be one of those adventures," he muttered, returned to the bell and rummaged in his backpack. It was only when he heard a loud cough that he realised that there was a person standing the other side of the counter. He squinted at the face but it seemed to be forever in motion, different visages flashing rapidly in and out of existence. "Hi?"

"Good evening sir. How may I help?" The person's voice was many, both female and male, high-pitched and bassy, adult and child. It was disorientating but Rocco had heard worse. At least it was a language he understood.

He brandished the photo. "I require this instrument."

The shopkeeper took the photo, studied it up close, then suddenly flew backwards and disappeared through a doorway. The door slammed shut.

"Yeah I thought as much." He dug deep into his backpack and brought out a large blunderbuss, then put the pack on and vaulted over the counter. The shopkeeper was going to be a nuisance but he knew there was someone else here, and that person knew where he could get his ingredient. He tried the door and wasn't surprised to find that it was unlocked, so he closed it and instead started up the staircase to the side. At the top he saw a small corridor with two doors on each side. He held his breath and listened. Footsteps. He stopped outside the far right door, then kicked it in. "Hello," he said through gritted teeth – he really needed better shoes – and wandered into a seemingly-empty bedroom. "Please come out and save us both some time." The room held its breath, and so Rocco unloaded a blast into the far wall.

"OK! OK!" A man scuttled out from under the bed, his hands held to his side. "Don't shoot!"

"That depends on you," replied Rocco, "and whether you can give me a scythe."

"Oh." The man looked startled. "We have a wide range downstairs, the shopkeeper should have been able to help you."

"The shopkeeper decided to run away," said Rocco, "because it's not any old scythe I am after." The shopkeeper was silent. "I need the other scythe please."

The shopkeeper went to act dumb and then thought better of it. "It won't be cheap." A wad of Fruggles slapped him in the face. "That felt heavy enough," added the man, then went to the wardrobe and pulled out the scythe from the photo.

Rocco took it and bowed a little. "Think about changing your carpet tiles once in a while. They gave you away." The man nodded and Rocco returned to the shop, took a small dirk for his trouble, and then opened the shop door and returned to his dark and friendly kitchen. He dropped his backpack and gun off in their cubby hole, then set about preparing the Master's Meal.

***

He set the plate down on the table and removed the cloche, then took two paces backwards. The Master skipped to the meal and peered at it. Success and failure battled each-other in the silence, the Master viewing the plate from every angle for many minutes. She eventually made a content noise and walked to Rocco. "It is perfectly sorrowful," she said and held out her hand.

Rocco took it, licked each knuckle, and then slapped the back of her hand as was customary. "Thank you."

"It hurts the heart to look at."

"Indeed."

"I have never seen a cake in the shape of a pile of dead puppies."

Rocco blinked. "It was not easy Master."

"I appreciate that, Rocco." She sneezed, gave Rocco his pencil back, then backflipped until she was on her perch again. "The scythe's presence is evident within the meal. I thank you. Until next time."

Rocco bowed. "Would you entertain a boon of mine?"

"Somewhat familiar but I will allow it."

"May I ask what the meal is in aid of? Will you be entertaining soon?"

The Master barked a single laugh. "You are a curious creature! Yes Rocco, I will be organising a feast of singular uniqueness. These meals will form the foundation of the party, each one tailored for my guests."

Rocco nodded. "I would assume that the first guest is Death itself?"

The Master started to swing on her perch and said no more. Rocco left her and descended to his kitchen. He threw the pencil onto the perpetual fire, washed his hands thoroughly, and wondered who else would be attending the feast. He'd definitely need better shoes.

King Charles

I love pubs because they are shameless. No matter your walk of life, your salary, your breeding, you are in a pub to get pissed. Sure, some pubs go down the gastro route and try to hide their real function as a vendor of drugs, but everyone is in the same place to be someone different for a few hours. I sip my pint and watch tattooed parents ignore their kids, and old people read books, and a few reasonable-looking couples enjoy conversation. I watch as I always do, and know that he is watching me. I met King Charles' gaze and nod in greeting. His scowl is unchanged, sword in one hand and a shield in the other. The horse behind him is looking away, as if embarrassed. I raise my pint, then take another sip. They know why I'm here, and I know they are judging me.

I stay until last orders, the staff showing their fatigue and impatience as they unlock the door for me to leave. I say farewell, walk around the corner, and sit in the narrow alley that runs along the garden. Two overflowing wheelie bins stand guard over me and I close my eyes, listening to the slam and slide of doors. Eventually there is silence, and I count to 100 before vaulting the wall and creeping through the pub garden's benches. I bump the back door lock and hurry to the alarm panel behind the bar. The code is the default for this type of alarm – straight down the middle – and I wonder why they haven't changed it yet. Every morning I watch through my telescope as the morning shift unset the alarm. I wonder whether this is the reason why the King's horse looks embarrassed.

My first target is the till; float money, but still an easy £100. Next is the fruit machines, a more satisfying haul since they started taking notes. Carrying a grand in pound coins was always inconvenient to say the least. I use some forged keys to open the front of the machines and empty the note handler, and then take a handful of squids for old time's sake. I make sure that the machines are closed properly and then go for the safe. A harder prospect since it is an older model that takes a custom key, but my skills in lock picking get me in within five minutes. Easily £20K in there, but I take only five bundles and close the safe up again. Stealing everything points to a burglary. Stealing a fraction points to embezzlement or incompetence. It must be driving the landlord crazy.

I hear a noise and spin around, but it's only King Charles. I wiggle a finger at him and tell him to be quiet. He's jealous, as always, but he is going nowhere. At least, not tonight. He encourages me to have a drink. A million, he says, and you're stealing five grand?

I shake my head and remind him that it's not about value, it's about money.

What's the difference?

I consider leaving but decide to indulge the King for a while. I pull a half and sit on a stool facing him. I can spend money, I can't spend value.

A million though! He grips his shield and sword harder. A million pounds, right there.

It's trouble.

Charles regards me coldly. Pot and kettle.

It can be tracked back to me. It's poison.

The horse is faint in the gloom and looks agitated. Careful! You'll upset Reginald.

A car speeds by outside, a boy racer taking advantage of night traffic. Dumb name for a horse.

Take it with you this instant!

Goodnight my leige. I down my half and put the glass back, then go to the panel and set the alarm. I leave through the back door and back over the wall, then appear on the lit main road and saunter away from the crime scene. Maybe it's a manifestation of my guilt, but that ghost is driving me crazy.

