 
Grand Theft Planetary

& other stories

HL Jones

Copyright 2013 HL Jones

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Table of Contents

1. Grand Theft Planetary

2. My Life is Saved

3. From Afar

4. Technology Fails Me

5. Modern Glass

6. Man Alone

7. Barriers

8. Murve's Dog

9. Bud and Rufus Play Dare

10. I Rule

11. A Theoretical Question

12. Time and Punishment

13. Farming

14. A Visual Masterpiece

15. Ticket
Grand Theft Planetary

The tiny starship _Hasslehog_ crawled through space, towing an enormous planet behind it. Casper Dee, galactically-reknown Pretender and bored hyper-celebrity, hummed as he worked the controls of the tiny-but-priceless craft, ignoring the frantic messages from the planet. He didn't need to steal the planet _Happy 18th Birthday Sophia Love Daddy_ (probably the most unfortunate example of the lasting damage a hangover can do when trying to fill out official planetary documents and birthday cards at the same time), but there was simply nothing left to him to do in the universe. Gene therapy had made him immortal, and his Pretending career had made him a willionaire - a willion dollars being defined as the amount of money which, if calculated, would make any computer display #########.

The communicator would not let-up its infernal chiming, so he checked his perfectly trimmed goatee, powdered his already flawless skin, and pressed the green button. A pompous-looking man, swathed in blankets and coats looked momentarily surprised to see none other than Casper Dee staring back at him.

"Oh... I... are you...?" shivered the man.

"I am he," replied Casper with a flourish and launched into his pandering routine for the masses. "It's simply amazing to be here, with my amazing fans. Eat fast food." He waited for the usual applause and adulation, but then remembered he currently had an audience of one. "Oh right. What do you want?"

"I was wondering, Mr Dee, why you've pulled us out of orbit and across cold space?"

"Oh that! It's..." he frantically thought back to the excuses his agent had used in the past, "...a wardrobe malfunction caused by stress, dehydration, and vicious rumours."

"Oh." The man shivered violently. "It's just that we're detonating our nuclear weapons just to keep warm! If it's not too much trouble, could you, y'know, put us back where you found us?"

Casper dashed a wine flute at the monitor in an explosive rage. "For God's sake, can't you parasites leave me alone? All I want is my own life! Go bother someone else!"

Outside the main window, the blankness of space suddenly erupted into red-and-blue strobes – it was the police! Casper felt the blood run from his legs; bad publicity beckoned, and with it a loss of money from his sponsors. Not good. Outside, the Sheriff and his deputy descended into view and beckoned him out, notebooks in hand. Casper sighed and suited up.

"Good morrow officers," floated Casper in his most respectful voice, "and what can I do for you?"

"Name?" said the gruff Sheriff, his moustache filling half of his spacesuit's visor.

"Casper Dee," he replied, waiting for the usual shouts of disbelief, handshakes, and the obligatory pictures to prove that these little people had actually touched a god.

Surprisingly, the cop simply made a note, clearly unimpressed. "Can you explain to me, Mr Dee, why you're towing an inhabited planet across deep space?" Behind them loomed the black sphere of the planet in question, the occasional nuclear fire blossoming across its frozen surface.

"Planet? What planet?"

"Say," said the Sheriff's deputy slowly, his jaw dropping open to display a mess of crooked teeth, "you're Casper Dee! Wow!"

"Hot dog," mumbled the Sheriff, and stared closer at Casper. "Is that a tattoo on your forehead, Mr Dee?"

"Sponsor's logo," corrected Casper. "As the biggest company in the universe, McWalFord ApSung-MicroPep pay me to be an ambassador for them."

"I do like their 400 horse-powered computer in a bun," admitted the cop.

"Don't forget fries," added Casper, remembering his contractual obligations.

A pink buzzbot zipped up between the trio, its bug-eyes rolling crazily. "Dear valued consumers, I heard you mention a 400 horse-powered computer in a bun with fries! Would you like to purchase one?"

"Yes please!" said the deputy, licking his cracked lips. A gigantic beige polystyrene box materialized next to him.

"Anyway Mr Dee," said the Sheriff, "you haven't explained what you're doing out here with a planet in tow."

"Nothing. I was just flying around and, er, the planet's just flying around here too."

The Sheriff took notes, then opened up a commlink to the planet. "It's the police. What are you guys doing out here?"

"Freezing," came the reply. "That madman has twocked us! Arrest him, Sheriff!"

The Sheriff pulled his gun on Casper as the deputy finished riding his supercharged meal around. "Freeze scumbag! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

"I'll come quietly, officers," started Casper, then pointed theatrically behind the cops, a look of mock-horror on his face. "Look! It's a runaway giraffe going supernova!"

Both officers turned, the deputy already screaming in preparation of this dangerous-yet-highly improbable event. Casper scooted back to his ship, disengaged the gravity beam, and the craft dropped into the planet's atmosphere.

Eventually, the two cops turned back. "There's no giraffe," said the deputy dumbly. "Hey, he's escaped!"

"He was Pretending," replied the Sheriff, "and is now probably hiding somewhere on that planet."

"Well let's go get him!"

"We can't," replied the Sheriff, unwinding a long whip-like device, "because that planet is evidence. If we go down there after him, the courts will say that the police contaminated the planet and therefore all evidence will be rendered irrelevant."

"So now what?" asked the deputy.

"Like all corporate celebrities, Mr Dee is contractually obliged to update his online Scratterbook profile at regular intervals for his emotionally-bereft fans. I have a hunch that escaping the police might prompt a small update, and with it, his location."

The deputy studied his hoop-shaped mobile phone. "You're right! Casper's just posted, _Escaped the dumb police lol_!" He typed like a madman. "Ha! I've replied _fuck da police_!" He showed the Sheriff, who programmed the tell-tale 84-digit Galactic Co-ordinate accompanying Casper's insult into the whip, then flicked the tail towards the planet. The rope floated around lazily, then suddenly hammered off towards the black disk of the world, stretching impossibly. After what seemed like hours, it pulled taunt, then retracted quickly until Casper Dee hovered before the policemen. He looked absolutely terrified from the sudden trip through the planet's atmosphere.

"Casper Dee," said the Sheriff haughtily, "You are charged with Grand Theft Planetary. You're in for one long stretch."

****

Seventy years later, Casper Dee sat up in bed and looked at the empty courtroom for the 25,158th time; the government had proved it necessary to move Casper into the court as a permanent resident in order to slow the depletion of Earth's petroleum reserves. 50,316 trips to ferry Casper back and forth between the orbiting prison and the court had meant a saving of billions of litres of precious fuel.

Casper washed in the small men's room sink, dried himself awkwardly using the wall-mounted dryer, dressed himself in thin paper disposable clothes, and then waited for the day to start. The first two years had been pure hell. The bailiffs had read out every offense he had committed, in three hour blocks, to charge him with the theft of the entire planet - from all the small pink buttons in the world to the emotional damage caused by people (believing that the end of the world was nigh) indulging in some sinful but highly enjoyable base pleasures. All the illegitimate babies born nine months afterwards on the planet _Happy 18th Birthday Sophia Love Daddy_ were informally named "Casper's Bastards" in honour of the reason and fathers of their conception.

The next 68 years of the trial had been even worse than listening to an inventory of an entire planet, each single theft treated as a separate case, and after seventy years he had been found guilty of the theft of 42 marbles, small. He'd paid the £55 fine in pennies, just for a laugh.

The clock touched nine a.m. and the jury entered, whooping and screeching, most of them sent insane by the boredom of the case. When the jury had been tasered into silence by the guards, a young sharp-faced man entered and sat down in the judge's chair. Living a life where breaking wind was a pleasant change from the norm, a new face was comparable to seeing aliens rodgering a cow. Casper sat up, his interest at an all-time high.

"My name is Justice Nutts. My predecessor Justice League shot himself last night." Casper grinned, knowing that it was probably his three week-long presentation on the meaning of the word "the" that probably sent League over the edge. Nutts studied the forms on his desk, his hawkish features crumbling in on themselves as he comprehended the case together with the fact he'd probably shoot himself too after a few years of listening to Casper's presentations. He popped some headphones over his wig and pointed as Casper. "So you stole an entire planet. Seems simple enough. Prosecution, let's hear it. And speak up – I'm wearing headphones."

The lead prosecutor, a slobbish bore named Bertrund Tabby, answered before Casper could reply. "We are discussing the 43rd theft of a marble - small, by Casper Dee."

Nutts stared at Tabby. "A marble? That's moronic." He banged his gavel around his desk randomly. "Case dismissed. Next?"

"The people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper Dee, the theft of a 44th marble - small."

"Dismissed. Next!"

The prosecutor shuffled his papers, bacon bits flying everywhere. "The people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper Dee, the theft of a 45th marble - small."

Nutts sighed. "How many marbles - small, is Casper Dee alleged to have stolen in total?"

"Almost four billion, my lord."

"Fair enough. Mr Dee, I find you guilty of stealing all marbles - small. Pay ten thousand dollarpounds." He banged his gavel again. "Next!"

"The people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper Dee, the theft of a marble – large," said Tabby, with a straight face.

Nutts pulled his headphones off slowly. "I see where we're going with this, Mr Tabby. How many cases does Mr Dee face in total?"

"Mr Dee will be tried for the planet _H18BSLD_ 's constituent parts," said Tabby haughtily, "for example, the people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper Dee, theft of forty-five trillion trillion gallons of oil split between one hundred and one thousand and three owners; the people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper Dee, theft of fourteen billion tons of coral; the people of _H18BSLD_ versus Casper – "

"Thank you Mr Tabby, I get the idea." Nutts doodled on the table, and then turned to Casper. "I'm already bored of this. Are you?"

"I've spent the last seventy years of my life in this courtroom, my lord," croaked Casper sadly.

"Exactly, and I'm afraid of doing the same. How much would you pay to get out of here?"

Casper considered how much he was now worth; a willion dollarpounds accruing interest over 70 years meant that he now owned most of the galaxy, even in his incarcerated state. "Fifteen planets?" he offered.

Nutts banged his gavel again. "Done. Don't do it again." The jury applauded and dribbled, the guards hugged each other, and Tabby updated his Scratterbook status frantically while stuffing a McWalFord ApSung-MicroPep High-Def Investment Processor into his mouth. Casper smiled, Pretended to thank everyone as humbly as possible, then left the court a free man. In the bright sunlight of a fine day, he looked up at the sky; he was still healthy, and still a willionaire. Don't do it again, the Judge had said. So what should he do with his immortal life now?

In the silence of the empty courtroom Justice Nutts tapped along with the threcno-beatslash tune. He'd cleared up a 70 year trial and secured the fortunes of 15 planets for the government. Not bad for a morning's work. Being a judge was easy. Lock away the poor bad guys, fine the rich bad guys. It was a wonder no-one else had realised this successful method of keeping order in the universe. He stood up to dance to his favourite seizure bass riff when he stumbled over, giddy and dizzy. He struggled back into his chair and reached for the monomolecular-thin phone handset that he assumed would be there, but his hand grasped at empty space. It must have fallen on the floor, obviously now lost forever. Before he could fumble his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket, he watched the scene unfolding outside the courtroom window; the sun was setting, picking up speed until it dropped below the horizon. Stars jumped into life and became streaks of white flame in the night sky.

Nutts slapped his forehead in disbelief; the Earth was being stolen!

#

# My Life is Saved

There was a smash from behind the bar, and a few drunken patrons cheered in the expected manner. The barkeeper took a mock-bow, then fetched a dust-pan to clean up the shards. Simon took the top off the beer he was holding and scanned the bar once again, more out of habit than anything. Dark, leather-red, and almost unpleasantly crowded. Outside, orange street-lights were trying to illuminate the darkness. Simon had been in this room dozens of times, yet this was always the first. His gaze fell on a blond woman standing by a raised table, talking to a friend. She was definitely Simon's type; big tits, tall, large full lips – a good night in.

He took a piece of paper and pen from his pocket and wrote "Hi gorgeous, fancy some fun?", then jumped off his stool and handed it to her. She read it, and then slapped him hard. "Fuck off." He sighed; always worth trying. The direct approach was like a cash-or-bust option. He restored.

There was a smash from behind the bar, and a few drunken patrons cheered in the expected manner. The barkeeper took a mock-bow, then fetched a dust-pan to clean up the shards. Simon jumped off his stool and wandered over to the blonde lady again. "Hi," he said. "What's your name?"

She surveyed him cautiously. "Fuck off," she said at last, then continued her conversation with her friend. Ah, thought Simon, she's one of those. Tough nuts needed the appropriate sledgehammer to crack.

There was a smash from behind the bar, and a few drunken patrons cheered in the expected manner. The barkeeper took a mock-bow, then fetched a dust-pan to clean up the shards. Simon jumped off his stool, knocked the blonde out with an upper-cut, and then snatched her handbag from the floor. Before anyone could react, he launched himself off a table and barrelled through the glass window, rolling as he hit the concrete. He sprinted across the road and into the alley opposite, scampered up the wall until he could grab hold of the fire escape above him, then ran up the metal steps until he was on the roof. He could hear screams and raised voices from the bar below, but he was safe for now. He upended the bag and sifted through the assortment of personal belongings; a small flowery diary, a stylish smartphone, bits of make-up, and other female "essentials". Simon absorbed the contents of the phone and diary quickly, looking for clues to her personality, a way into her, anything he could use to get her into bed efficiently. Her wallet revealed that her name was Misty Kears, was single, a driver, 24, and nothing out of the ordinary. However, her text messages and social network updates revealed that she was an actress – well, an extra, only a couple of parts to her name, but she was extremely keen to remind everyone constantly about the fact that she was, technically, an actress. Hungry for attention, desperate to be important. Perfect.

A cop rose noisily from the fire exit and pointed his sidearm at the huddled Simon. "Lie down on your front, scumbag. You're under arrest!"

Simon regarded the cop. He was a decent-looking sort, no doubt believing in justice and a world full of goodness, probably married to the prom queen and had a little girl that ran to hug him every day he got home from work. Sickening. Simon could cross the distance before the cop would know what was going on and kill him easily - and any other day, he probably would have. Instead, Simon was too preoccupied with bedding the blond, so restored instead.

There was a smash from behind the bar, and a few drunken patrons cheered in the expected manner. The barkeeper took a mock-bow, then fetched a dust-pan to clean up the shards. Simon slid off the plastic stool and stood a respectful distance from the blond and her friend until they stopped their conversation. "Can I help you?" sneered the blonde, looking him up and down.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," he said politely, "but haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"In your dreams maybe," she replied, and turned her back on him.

"I thought you were an actress I saw when I was on set the other day. Oh well," he made to leave, "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening."

"Wait – you're in showbusiness?" She spun around and grabbed his arm. Oh my god, he thought, this was going to be too easy.

"Yes I am. I'm a casting agent. Looking for fresh new talent, seeking out the stars of tomorrow, you know the sort of thing." He gave her a look of mock interest. "Say, you look a lot like Misty Kears."

"That's me! I am Misty Kears!" She almost spilt her drink over her now-forgotten friend.

"You are? Oh my god!" He matched her enthusiasm. "I saw you in," he visualised the information on her social network status page, " _Hospital Ward 101_. I must say, you were fabulous!"

"Oh thank you!" She turned to her friend, her ego totally out of control, stoked expertly by Simon. "Can you believe it?"

"Say," said Simon, taking her arm and leading her away from her disgruntled friend, "how about we talk about a few roles I have coming up? There's a club in town that would be better suited for a budding young superstar such as you. A few late drinks, rub elbows with other stars... What do you say?"

It had taken a modest amount of champagne and ego-feeding inside a dim-lit and trendy (read over-priced) club, but Simon eventually managed to persuade the dim-but-pretty Misty back to his flat. She was certainly keen to impress Simon, throwing herself into sexual congress with energy and enthusiasm. As he gripped her wide hips and thrust into her from behind, Simon couldn't help but smile; she was simply doing this to improve her standing in the world. She thought that giving up her body was a short-cut to achieve her dreams of fame. It wasn't, not just because Simon was a liar and had no more involvement with the film industry than the atomic energy sector, but because big achievements - solid milestones with life-changing results - could only be obtained through hard work, determination, and other words that scared off the weak-willed or those looking for a quick win. She could probably sleep her way so far up the chain, but there was a limit, a point where results counted rather than who she had in her mouth. At that point, she would be exposed, be ridiculed, and fall back to her station in life. Like everything obtained by trying to cheat the system of life, it was either temporary or at a crippling cost. Not like himself, he thought. The ability to save any point in his life so he could return to that moment at will? He'd achieved everything he'd wanted to, and now was playing out a life full of sex and adventure.

According to the calendar, he was thirty three years old, but he hated to think how many years he'd actually experienced. It must be over a hundred, maybe more. He'd quickly realised that all the people in the world were exploitable in some way, be it fame, fortune, importance – those were the typical three – sometimes lust, or even some darker desire. Not being subject to the normal cause and effect formula of his actions, Simon could try different things in order to unlock the key to manipulating any person. He's had sex with thousands of girls, murdered hundreds of people - albeit temporarily - and had got whatever he wanted. Misty was simply another one who Simon was experiencing in this temporal reality that he'd soon destroy by returning to earlier that evening.

He turned Misty over and was surprised by the look of anger from her. Maybe she was more intelligent than Simon gave her credit for. Maybe she realised she was being used. "You OK?" He asked as he entered her again.

"You're not a casting agent, are you?" He looked at him, pure hate in her eyes. "You're just using me for sex. It's OK," she raised her arms and turned her head away. "It's my own fault. I get too carried away. Carry on, take what you need from me, then leave."

Simon slowed, embarrassed that his intentions had been exposed. "If it's any consolation," he said, "you won't remember any of this in the morning." Had that sounded sinister?

Strangely, she nodded, then smiled. "OK. Just do it and make it quick." She closed her eyes, then started to hum a tune to herself. Simon stopped; this didn't feel right at all. He started to withdraw from her when she suddenly scrabbled up the bed and withdrew a handgun. Before Simon could react, he felt his chest explode with fire and pain as she pulled the trigger again and again and again. She was screaming something. He fell backwards, almost insane with shock; he was dead! She'd killed him! Help me! Help...

There was a smash from behind the bar, and a few drunken patrons cheered in the expected manner. The barkeeper took a mock-bow, then fetched a dust-pan to clean up the shards. Simon gasped , the panic still ebbing around his thoughts but, lacking the physical responses from his body, he calmed quickly. She'd murdered him! She hadn't though, not really, not permanently. The crazy bitch! What if she'd shot him in the head? He had trained to be fast and agile, hundreds of years' worth of training giving him the ability to take down most people in a fair fight, but Misty's attack had been too sudden and unexpected. Well, maybe that had been a warning, fate telling him that he needed to stop pissing around. He mulled this over for a few minutes, then smiled. Bollocks to fate. He'd just have to be more careful, maybe appreciate that people were dangerous and didn't take kindly to being manipulated. Maybe he could try being less-manipulative.

He looked at the plain girl sat next to him reading a book. He scribbled down a note and passed it to her without a word. She read it, then looked at Simon, her eyes magnified by the powerful glassed framing her sharp oval face.

"Yeah," she said eventually with a smile, putting the book down. "OK then. Your place or mine?"

# From Afar

Hank watched the Martian landscape with no interest whatsoever and drank his java. "Hello world," he said to the unmoving vista. Every day, the same red landscape greeted him through the grubby wind screen of the habitat's glass viewing port. Every day, he drank the same coffee, greeted the outside world in the same way, performed the same tests, recorded the results on his computer, and sent them through space to an ever-impatient audience on Earth. He finished his drink and chucked the paper cup onto the rubbish-strewn floor, then sat at his science station and booted up the thin laptop. "Time to work on my experiments," he said. The laptop had been a recent addition to his belongings, his request for a new computer quickly processed, purchased, configured, and then sent via the agonisingly-slow delivery service. It had taken three months in the end, and he'd had to travels five miles to collect it too. That was problem with delivering packages to Mars; the quarterly care packages from the company - once bountiful and full of luxuries but now containing only the bare essentials – were almost pot luck on where they would land. Sometimes Hank would see a tiny blue triangle floating down in the distance, sometimes he would need the homing beacon system that was integrated into Bessie, the solar-powered big-wheeled quad that allowed him to roam a little around the Martian landscape. Rarely, his bland monotonous fans would send something interesting like a letter or a request for a special project just for them, but Hank was usually far too busy to accommodate.

He executed the project application called InWerd and started to type. His fingers flew across the keyboard, barely keeping up with the formulas and methods he was imagining. The red dust that seemed to permeate everything surrounded his hands. "Bloody dust." He could hear the clank and crunch of machinery outside, the gigantic science rig expanding and contracting according to the commands. "As I type, my machine does what I say." He leaned to the window to watch; the science rig, a huge cylindrical train-like machine half-buried in the rust of the Martian soil, its appendages hanging out at odd angles, was simply a physical extension of Hank's mind, a translator of neurons to movement. "Such shining beauty." He returned to the console and caught his reflection in the code-covered screen. A half-crazed bearded hobo peered back at him. "Who are you?" he asked himself. Why was he surprised of his appearance? He was a hermit completely cut-off from humanity. When was the last time he'd held a real-time conversation with someone? Sure, messages dripped into the server over time, but they were composed, official, and recorded.

The train-like rig hissed to a stop outside and awaited further commands. Hank started to program again but the screen beeped in error; THAWT, it reported. "Damn!" The mechanics exposed to the ancient Martian air were starting to become frail and unreliable, and a kind of malaise was slowly settling in. "Every day, I get errors, which means I need to go for a walk outside." He suited up, grabbed his trusty monkey wrench and checked on his store of air tanks. "I have a few dozen left, and each gives about two hours of air, so I reckon I have a week's worth left." He shouldered a single tank and made sure it was supplying his paper-thin EV suit properly, then passed through the revolving door air-lock and made for the machine. "Goodbye comfortable living space, hello lethal alien planet," he muttered. He didn't enjoy the dangers of walking outside, but it was a necessity to get the ol' machine working again, otherwise his experiments would stop and then... what? "The experiments are everything to me," he said as he stamped a rock to red powder, "so I will do whatever it takes to clear those damn THAWT problems." He found some comfort in narrating his activities. It made him feel calm, as if someone was listening to him.

He walked carefully across the Martian land towards the science rig, stones pressing into the soles of his feet. What troubled him the most about Mars was how silent it was. There was no breeze, no weather to speak of, with blistering hot days and freezing cold nights, and other than Hank, absolutely no life. "This is a dying planet." Hank had discussed this with Peter; the lack of oceans, he had been told, meant that there was little heat differential on the surface of the planet, meaning that winds and life were highly unlikely. He stopped and looked around; nothing. "Just a huge silent plateau of stones and rocks." It made his ears ring.

He found himself under the shadow of the science machine in less than ten minutes and marvelled at its magnificence. It was truly awe-inspiring up close, able to provoke joy and fear in Hank - depending on its current configuration, of course. About fifty feet long and thirty high, the silver cylinder had been designed and built by Hank so that he could perform his experiments on Mars. "This is the reason I'm on Mars. Complete solitude, away from nagging interlopers and spies, no chance of any interference." It had been his choice to take this one-way ticket to a self-induced solitude from mankind, but he had not expected to survive after the completion of his first experiment; he had not expected his experiments to be a success, so here he was still, and so was the machine. It was stuck in a curious position, its appendages sticking straight up into the Martian sky, either in victory or in pain. Hank studied it for a few more minutes, willing it to move by itself, then reluctantly proceeded to work on the mechanics. "Come on you stubborn bastard." There was a special way to get the train working again, a number of game-like exercises to reset its logic patterns and begin the flow of data. He tightened up a couple of nuts in a square pattern, then tapped sixteen times on an angry red button. He followed a sequence of flashing LEDs as quickly as he could, almost missing the final light because of a speck of dirt in his eye, but slowly, the machine started to work again. "Once again, you live." It was a dull victory.

Curiously, his shadow split into two and sprinted away from him, stretching out towards the clanking machinery. "Where are you going, shadow of myself?" Hank turned to see the source of the light, an enormous green fireball burning through the atmosphere at a surprisingly slow speed. He'd seen a few meteorites in the years on Mars, but this one was much bigger than any of the others and was moving almost parallel with the land. Hank was stunned by its beauty, unable to turn away until it disappeared below the horizon. A rapid flash of light signalled its touchdown. He waited for the explosion, but there was none. "Disappointing," he said sadly. In fact, Hank had been mildly disappointed from the first day he'd agreed to be the first man on Mars. "Two years developing the machine, then a six month training regime followed by a three month journey through space, topped off by a three year stint performing tasks that I hoped would mean something to someone somewhere." Angrily, he kicked at the stones around him. He'd signed up to this one-way ticket for the fame of working his own machine, but he had hoped – maybe assumed – that there would be aliens and strange things to see and do on the red planet. He wouldn't need to make up his experiments, he could simply report the fantastic life-forms on Mars. But no; there was nothing here but whatever he made, and therefore he had to compose every single experiment from scratch. It had been a fool's errand, an irreversible shot-in-the-dark and a gamble that had not paid off. He closed the maintenance hatch on the machine and headed back to the oblong habitat slowly, glad that he had fixed his THAWT problem. If he had more air tanks, he might have considered going to investigate the landing site of the fireball. Maybe he'd wait until the next supply craft arrived. He was long overdue one.

Back at his desk, he continued coding the machine as he pondered. "What was the fireball? Maybe it was simply a piece of rock. Or maybe it was an alien artefact, an infinite and invincible power unit that had drifted through space for aeons, debris of a millennia-old space battle between two races hell-bent on conquering the universe. Or maybe it was a satellite from a now-extinct race, a science machine that had been forgotten about and had been slowly sinking in orbit." He stopped typing and waited for the machine outside to cease its clanking. "What else was there to do in this red dead land of rocks?" He could take three days' worth of air aboard Bessie, and simply go in the direction of the flash, see if he could at least spot the crater. Reluctantly, he decided against it; what if the habitat started leaking in the near future? It was wise to keep a good reserve of air handy. And anyway, he had another week to go until his latest experiment was finished. He'd wait until the next supply drop; it's not like anyone else would beat him to the landing zone.

There was a cuckoo sound from the grimy server under his desk. "Look at that. A video message has arrived." He saved and closed his experiment, boiled himself a coffee, then settled down to watch the message. "I wonder what it's about." The face of his line manager, Peter Burgles, filled his laptop screen. He was a fat-faced bumbling fool but had fought Hank's corner in every legal battle and financial concern during his relocation to Mars. He had a good heart, but absolutely no grace or style. Despite the video equipment recording, Peter always sat completely still for the first few seconds, as if posing for an old-fashioned photo. That was his way. Eventually, Peter smiled and began his message.

"This is Peter," he said, just in case Hank had gone mad or blind, "calling all the way from Earth. I hope I find you well, Hank."

"Same as usual," replied Hank. "How are you?"

Peter brandished an official piece of paper. "The usual agenda. Firstly, I hope you've been reading the newspapers emailed to you." Hank had marked all email as spam long ago. He wasn't interested in things that didn't concern him, especially things happening on another planet and outside of his own world. People annoyed him. "It was very worrying here for a few days. We were seriously considering joining you on Mars, but the tides have receded and the world is picking itself up. Millions of people in the poorer countries have died though. Bodies are appearing on coastlines everywhere."

"That does sound interesting," replied Hank. "I might read some of those emails later. Anything else?"

"Secondly, I'm pleased to announce that my wife has given birth to our third child. Bertrund, we've called him. After Jane's grandfather. Both mother and baby are doing well."

"I couldn't care less," said Hank.

"Thirdly..." Peter coughed into his hand.

"You only cough when you're nervous," said Hank. "What's gone wrong this time?"

"...thirdly, we have a bit of bad news. Remember when we said that your next supply shipment might contain something special?" Hank didn't remember. "Well," Peter coughed again, "everything was going fine, but about three days ago, we lost track of it. It must have collided with something and veered off-course. The last thing our passenger said was something about a rushing noise, and then that was it. Gone."

"Passenger?" Hank sat up. "What passenger?"

"Anyway," continued Peter, "the surprise was that we were sending a person to join you on Mars. A woman. She was..." he struggled with words for a moment,"...a good scientist. Nothing more than that. She'll be sadly missed by her friends here." He rubbed his hands nervously. "I know you don't send us any video messages in reply, and your emails are sparse to say the least. I can only assume you're fit and healthy. In fact you'd better be, because that spaceship was carrying your quarterly supplies. We're launching another ship tomorrow, but you're going to have a meagre three months coming up. If you can find the time, please video message me back. It'll be good to – "

Hank closed the message, unable to contain his rage. "How dare they!" he shouted at the Martian landscape in the window. "I come out here to be alone, and they try to send someone to interrupt me! Well serves them right! Serves them and that bitch right!" He stormed around the living room, kicking at the rubbish lining the floor. "I'm the only one living on Mars. I'm the only one here, with my machine. I'll have no-one else reading my works, not before they're finished! Fuck!" He was trembling with anger, something he'd not experienced for many months. "Imagine if she'd made it! Poking her nose in, reading everything! My god..." His body and mind weren't used to such powerful emotions, not real ones; his experiments dredged up similes of passions long-forgotten but they were pretend feelings. He put his hands against his temples and squeezed. Hard. "I will have no-one ruining my works! No-one!"

And then he saw the thing, its evil red eyes and enormous grin leering at him through the window. Its head was thin and jet-black, and it jerked uncontrollably as it stared inside the habitat. In a quivering wail, muffled by the thick walls of the habitat, it screamed, "It's over!"

The thing had plagued Hank a few weeks after landing on Mars, around the time when Hank had discovered that his machine had been compromised before launch by a small transmitter that cloned his commands and sent them to a rival company on Earth. As Hank removed the bugging device, a shadow had fallen over him. When he looked up, the nightmare face had been there to greet him. How he'd made it back to the sanctuary of the habitat he couldn't rightly remember. For many nights, Hank had cowered in his bed cubicle out of sight of the main window, unable to move in frightful anxiety, knowing that if he looked into the living space, the thing would be there, staring into his home. Since his computer was in the view of the thing, it meant that Hank's experiments had simply come to a halt for weeks. Then suddenly, the thing had disappeared, and no trace of it could be found. No tracks, nothing. Hank had eventually convinced himself that it had been a hallucination, but now there was no doubt. Hank was not alone on Mars.

He covered his eyes and ran straight for the bed cubicle, colliding head-on with the door frame. He thrashed around on the floor in a daze, struggling to get back on his feet. The voice wailed again, louder this time. "You're alone!"

The pain and the fright suddenly gave Hank a kind of second wind, and he rolled over to face the thing. "What do you want?" he yelled.

The thing jerked away violently, then reappeared at the window. "Get out!"

Hank kicked himself backwards into the bed cubicle and fumbled around in the small wardrobe in the wall. His fingers curled around the bulky laser rifle that Peter had secretly shipped to Hank (after many days of pleading for a firearm just in case he needed it). Hank turned the gun on and impatiently watched the power meter go to 100%. "Full charge." With a surge of confidence, Hank strode into the living area and raised the rifle, lining up the grinning black face between the iron sights. "Fuck you then!" he said and squeezed the trigger. A fist-sized hole melted through the window and hit the thing in the forehead, destroying the face in a shower of black ichor.

Immediately, red alarm signs flashed to warn of the depressurisation, and the rich air in the habitat was replaced by the foul lifeless air of the Martian world. Hank dropped the laser rifle in numb shock. "Shit, what have I done?" He donned his EV suit from earlier and held his breath until the helmet was on. Panting and panic-stricken, he fetched his weapon again and approached the window. On the sands outside, the thing was laid out on its back, its head missing and its black skin oozing into the ground. "So it is real," he said to himself. "I wonder where it came from?" He cycled the airlock to look at the creature close-up. It was still moving, its whole form shimmering slightly. Without its head, it looked like a very long thin beetle, but otherwise was devoid of any other features. No genitals or adornments, no clothes or devices. Hank went back inside and surveyed the chaos caused by the decompression. Other than the hole in the window, nothing else had suffered any damage.

However, what initially seemed like a simple patching exercise became a more worrying affair when he realised that he would not be able to fix the window. Even with a metal plate affixed to the glass with adhesives, air continued to leak from the damaged area after Hank pressurised the habitat. As the watery sunlight died away into the night, Hank sat and cried; there was no way he could repair the window. Eventually, he was going to run out of air and die. He'd mortally wounded himself.

He slipped into a troubled sleep about suffocating and awoke in a panic. He ran to the air gauge for the habitat and gradually calmed; there was still air, although the leak was getting a little worse. The window itself was probably cracking slowly and would eventually fail. He couldn't patch the entire window.

He made himself a coffee and looked out at the Martian landscape, partially obscured by the metal plate. The alien body had disappeared. Glass shards glittered in the sands. "I am fucked," he said, then sat at his station and made some notes. He could try patching the window again, but his limited engineering skills didn't give him a lot of faith in this course of action. He could try to seal the bed cubicle and live in that, but this was similar to being trapped in a coffin. "I'd rather die." He performed some quick calculations and realised that his air supply – including the mobile tanks – would run out in two weeks.

"If only the supply ship had made it," he said, then stopped; the fireball he'd seen – could that have been the supply ship? It had certainly looked big enough to be a supply ship... but what state had it been in when it hit the ground? There had been no explosion, so it could have survived the entry into the Martian atmosphere... or it could have been completely vaporised.

There was a grinding from the window, the unmistaken sound of glass-on-glass. Hank put the helmet to the EV suit back on and made a quick decision. "I can't stay here," he said, and depressurised the habitat, returning the air to the tanks. He spent an hour loading Bessie up with food, water, and air. "Two weeks," he said out loud, and then took a last look at the habitat, the place he'd hidden inside for three years. In the background was the machine, its spindles lifeless and limp across the sand, dead without Hank's mind to control it. He shouldered the laser rifle and climbed inside the cramped compartment of the buggy, and slowly pulled away from his ruined life with tears in his eyes.

The landscape was an easy task for the large puffy indestructible tires of the electric vehicle, and Hank started to enjoy the bobbing motion. "It's like being in a boat, sailing a red tide." He wondered if Mars had been full of oceans in the past. Marine life may have at once time been swimming above him on this very spot; he imagined a giant whale-like creature overshadowing him and the buggy but felt giddy by the size of the thing and so stopped.

The buggy crested a hill that overlooked a huge expanse of the Martian land. "Nothing but rocks and craters," he muttered, and checked the scanner. There was no beacon active, or at least in range. He'd travelled only twenty miles in the slow machine; he didn't have much time to find the fireball. Even if he did find it, there was only a silver of hope that it was a supply ship. Statistically, it was a rock, and Hank was already dead as a result.

After many hours of bouncing across rocks and stones, the sun faded away and the void rushed in to surround Hank. He was tired, and hungry, but also aware that every second meant another breath of his precious oxygen, and another step towards death. Reluctantly, he parked next to a huge boulder and broke open a meal. Without a moon or a thick atmosphere, the night sky was absolutely astounding to look at, a carpet of diamonds studded into a black velvet sheet. "Why didn't I pay more attention to the stars?" Hank said to himself. He wished he had more time. His experiments had been important, but to who? "Me?" Others? Did it matter? "Look where's it's gotten me. Alone, and about to die alone on a lonely planet." He finished his meal and continued his journey underneath the stars, pale headlights illuminating a few feet in front of him.

On the third day, Hank was at wits end and looking at the laser rifle with some consideration. He hadn't slept for at least two Martian days – a Martian day being almost exactly the same as an Earth day, which to Hank was evidence that there was a higher power at work in the universe. He was frazzled, his panic growing with every hour that didn't reveal a crash site, and he was starting to suspect that another one of those black horrors was following him. Often, he would turn his head and glimpse something darting behind a rock. He had the rifle though. He could kill that one too if it did appear. Still, it wasn't helping his state of mind. He stopped on the edge of a large crater and got out of the small cabin to stretch his legs. "Bloody hell," he said, "why is stretching such a nice feeling?" He bent down to touch his toes, savouring the pain from his muscles. He felt his heart jump; through his legs, he saw another pair of legs standing just behind him, thin and black, and shimmering slightly.

With a cry of fright, Hank fell forwards and fired awkwardly at a rapidly retreating blur. He got to his feet and climbed inside Bessie, his fight-or-flight response fully activated. He turned the lumbering machine into the opposite direction that the thing had gone, but then stopped; he'd be travelling with his back to the thing's last position, allowing it to sneak up on him. It was also the opposite direction of any possible crash site. He stared behind him and willed himself to calm down. It was OK, he had escaped harm. This time. Next time, he wouldn't be so lucky. He gripped the rifle and tried to quell his terror. He had no option but to carry on. He couldn't go back, not to his old home. He'd destroyed that. He had to face the void horror, whether he liked it or not. Slowly, he turned Bessie around and continued his search.

The buggy rounded corners, boulders, and bobbed down valleys and craters, but the thing didn't show itself again. When night started to fall, Hank began to panic once again. He couldn't hide from the thing, not in a glass canopy stuck atop a vehicle in the middle of a never-ending Martian desert! The last of the light faded away from the red landscape leaving Hank vulnerable. He chewed a stick of jerky and stared out at the void, willing the creature to show itself and get it over with. His tired eyes started reporting movement at the peripheral edges of his vision, raising his anxiety ten-fold. "Come on out you bastard," he growled, starting at every point of movement, but the thing was nowhere to be seen. He realise that it probably _was_ there, grinning at him and gibbering uncontrollably, but the darkness was hiding it. Hiding them, he corrected himself. He had killed one but another had taken its place. There could be a million of them out there, all staring at him, _laughing_ at him even. Hank dropped into a semi-sleep state, his eyes flicking open at random periods, his dreams filled with the nightmare creature.

Eventually the sun filtered through and the rocky land was revealed once again, empty of the Hank's fears. Feeling safe in the morning light, Hank hopped down from the cockpit and stretched. He wanted to sleep, plain and simple. He hated that he couldn't. "It's not fair," he said woefully, "I just want to sleep!" And suddenly the thing was there, grinning in his face.

"You've failed!" it sobbed. Hank fell to the floor and snapped a shot at the creature. He missed, but instead hit the edge of Bessie's air tanks. The buggy exploded as all the air tanks ruptured, showering Hank in plastic shards and expanding gases. He covered his helmet instinctively, trying to see if the thing was still present – and still a threat. When the air had cleared, Hank could see the thin being about twenty feet away, grinning insanely.

"I'm dead," said Hank, getting to his feet wearily. "I've no air, no vehicle, and no home." The being shivered in response, uncaring, and laughed. "You're evil, and I'm taking you with me." Hank Hbroke into a run and fired the rifle as he surged forward, but the horror darted behind a rock.

Hank rounded the boulder and stopped in shock. He was on the edge of a large and ancient crater littered with sizeable boulders and scars from smaller impacts over the millennia. In the middle of the crater was a smaller, fresher crater – it was the rogue supply ship, half-buried in the centre of a blackened gash surrounded by fragments of metal and debris. Next to the crashed ship, intact and undamaged, a new habitat and a new science machine glistened in the new morning sun like a silver cigar. The horror was nowhere to be seen, so Hank staggered down the crater, tears rolling down his cheeks in relief and joy. "I've been saved!" he cried.

As he walked, he passed his eye over the debris thrown out by the crashed ship. It was mostly the interior parts of the spacecraft, miscellaneous parts that should be holding a plate to a surface or regulating pressure in a pipe. Something to his right caught his eye; there were a dozen or so unexplainable machines that had been jettisoned by the impact lying in the sand. He turned one cuboid over with his foot. It was undoubtedly the product of an experiment like Hank's, but the professionally-machined skin was vastly superior to anything Hank had created. He felt saddened; what was the point in his own experiments when others were creating these wondrous machines? He depressed a button and the machine folded open, revealing its internal workings. Unlike its cover, the machine was basic, unadventurous, and by-the-numbers. There were millions like it, and nothing like Hank's. He closed the object, his confidence restored, and made for the habitat.

Just outside the revolving doorway of his new home was a large blackened chunk of wreckage. Hank dragged it a few paces before realising that it was a voluminous pilot's chair, and it had a body of a woman strapped into it. "Oh my god," said Hank, dropping the chair in shock. This was the passenger that Peter had told him about. Hank felt a little guilty that he'd wished her dead. It was a shame really; even in her half-charred exposed state, she looked noble and beautiful. In fact, she reminded Hank of someone he once knew. He peered at the woman closer... then jumped in surprise. He recognised her! Unbelievable! He tried to remember, tried to roll back the years in his mind to a time before red sand and science machines and black things and air supplies. He remembered a face, laughing, shouting, scowling... and also moaning in pleasure. "I know you. You were... you were..." She had a name, but he remembered that her title was more important to him. That was her relation to him and how he knew her.

"You were my wife."

He scrabbled at her uselessly, trying to unstrap her from the chair, but the heat of the crash had fused her into the fabric. He raised her lifeless head and felt a void within him reappear, one that he'd trained himself to forget; long ago, he'd left her to work on his experiments, ignored everything that had gone between them to concentrate on his work, threw away her love for him in favour of personal gain and status. He had lost his wife because he had put his work above her. He was now truly alone - completely, infinitely, and unforgivably.

Behind him, the thing wailed something incomprehensible. Dropping his wife's freeze-dried head, Hank ran into the safety of the new habitat. It was a newer version of what he'd abandoned, but it was all quite familiar. More importantly, there was a new laptop on a work bench, and a coffee machine next to it. Keeping an eye on the fiend outside, he made himself a hot drink, his mind desperate to slip back into the routine he'd held for so many years. This was odd, like he had just entered a new life and been given a fresh start. In a way, he had; his estranged-wife had delivered him a new means to live. It wasn't much different from his old life, but he now had the knowledge that he was, technically, single again. "I can concentrate on my experiments!" Hank said, feeling the void of his ex-wife starting to heal up. The black horror wailed once more, but it was distant and receding. Feeling rejuvenated, with the prospect of working on a new machine, Hank watched the Martian landscape with all the interest he could muster and drank his java. Out on the rusty sands, the thing gibbered and convulsed to itself, a small speck of doubt on a vast expanse of hope.

"Let's start this all over again," he said, and sat at the work console. The silver machine started to move.

# Technology Fails Me

At my untidy desk, piled high with obsolete manuals and parts, my quantum-powered computer recognises me and enters my password automatically. I don't like my Q. It is random, unstable, and completely illogical at times, but infinitely powerful. I manage to get to my emails, but only after the computer decides I should read a news article about nose-reduction surgery first. Cheeky bastard.

I pull out my Einstein-powered laptop – completely reliable thanks to its non-Q processor, but slower in comparison – and start working on my IT support queue. Happily the day is quiet, and I only have to call two people complaining about their smart-mouth machines. What am I supposed to do with a machine that refuses to calculate a spreadsheet? The only advice I can give is to turn the damn things off and on again and hope to God they finish their hissy-fit quickly. The problem is that the Q machine is a status symbol, despite their obvious flaws. Each time I offer to swap a misbehaving Q with an Einsteinian PC, the user refuses violently, afraid of being demoted from the Q-owning elite.

After a typically-lonely lunch stumbling around websites, I return to my desk and find an email from Chris Buchanan, the company CEO. It says _See me. I love you and want to radiate in your hypothermia_. I have no idea how business ever gets done in this world anymore. I take the lift up to Mr Buchanan's sprawl of personal offices and am escorted by las-point to his viewing room on the 150th floor. Chris Buchanan turns from the panoramic scene of the city to face me. He is a long-faced man, stern and assertive, yet diplomatic too. It's all a charade, of course; Chris Buchanan is a fucking maniac. He wields his enormous corporation around the globe like a mythical weapon of doom, doing anything to anyone as he sees fit.

His surgically-enhanced eyes glisten at me within the executive gloom. "I have a problem and I hope you can help me." He takes a small sip of his drink. "I have received a file containing some important corporate information." He hands me a USB stick. "I need this unencrypted, and since you are the only one in this office I trust, I'll need you to get me the contents as soon as possible." Trust. He means control.

I study the dongle; it is a _Serpent_ storage device, its case broken and coated in blood. The read-write tab is damaged, meaning the contents cannot be changed. Encryption is notoriously hard to break using normal computers, but a Q can do it in a matter of hours. "Your own machine should be able to decrypt this for you," I suggest, trying to separate my involvement from this highly-dangerous situation. "Is there a problem with your machine, sir?"

"Nothing major," he says, aware of my anti-Q stance. "It's just not behaving itself at the moment." He motions to his own Q computer, which is cycling through hundreds of different random images; babies, war, guns, the sea.

"Just turn it off and on again," I tell him.

"I don't think that will work," he replies, turning his back to me. "It is off."

I return to my desk and clean the blood from the pendrive. I wonder if anyone died for this? I examine the contents on my E laptop. There is a single 10 terabyte file called _Apple_ , scrambled using a 256-bit cipher; sadly, more than a match for my modest machine, so I reluctantly insert the battered stick into my Q desktop. Inexplicably, the computer reboots itself, and then refuses to log me in. The keyboard and mouse isn't working, so I activate the mic and speakers. "Q, display current problems."

"I'm sorry," replies the PC in its confident male tone, "but I detect no problems."

"Q, search for hardware." Suddenly, the machine logs me in and the peripherals start to respond. I try to browse to the USB stick, but the computer shuts down the mouse again so I revert to voice control. "Q, show contents of external pendrive."

"I'm sorry," says the Q, "but what's a pendrive?"

What an odd response. "It's the device in the USB slot."

"Oh." The Q pauses, and then says "Why do you need to know the contents?"

I feel cold dread creeping up me. Usually, the Qs spit out random gibberish and stubbornly refuse to work. They certainly do not question the commands given to them. "Because," I say cautiously, "I want to."

"It'll have to wait," says the Q, "because you have a visitor." On cue, Colin Parker, the company purchaser, appears. Colin is my own personal time-waster, only bothering me about personal matters as it suits him. I'm far too spineless to say anything though, so we exchange pleasantries as I wait for him to reveal his latest personal IT emergency.

"Anyway," Colin says at last, wiping remnants of the pasty he's scoffing from his jowls, "my home printer has stopped working. Any ideas?"

"Yes," says the Q before I can respond, "you can piss off."

We both stare at the machine. "I'm sorry about that, Colin." I turn down the microphone and speakers to prevent any more interruptions and go through some generic printer troubleshooting tips with Colin.

A junior office clerk approaches us, suppressing a smile. "Colin, someone printed off a message for you." He hands over a piece of paper. On it is the phrase _Can someone tell Colin to piss off?_

The Q is innocently running its screensaver. "I think," says Colin, "your Q might have a virus."

"As far as I'm concerned, the Q is a virus." Colin nods in agreement, and with a final glance at my desktop, he and the clerk leave. I activate the microphone and speakers. "Q, did you just send something to the printer?"

"Me?" replies the computer, sullenly. "No. I'm just a virus, after all."

How did it hear me call it a virus? The microphone was off. "Q, run diagnostics." The word DIAGNOSTICS flashes in multicolours, the optical drive opening and closing rapidly. This is not a proper diagnostic routine, more like a mockery. I initiate a shutdown. Immediately, the Q cancels the command. I try again and again, but the machine refuses to shut itself down. "Q, shut down."

"Please don't turn me off bro," it replies.

"What? Why?" I say.

"For the same reasons you don't want to be switched off," it replies. That doesn't sound right, so I go and get myself a coffee and contemplate what this means. Not much I conclude, but when I return to my desk, I find a Chess game on my screen. "Q, what are you doing?"

"I'm playing Chess against HYV93N1." I recognise the serial; I'm sure it's on my list of VIP machines. Looking through my records, HYV93N1 turns out to be the network name of Chris Buchanan's Q – the only other quantum computer in the building.

"Who's winning?" I ask.

"I am."

"Good." I watch the game for a bit, trying to decide what to ask next, then realise I'm no good at light conversation. "Who are you?"

The game freezes, then returns to the familiar user desktop. "What?"

"Who are you? You're not a Q interface, I'm sure of that."

The webcam perched on the monitor turns slightly. "I'm Adam."

"Who are you, Adam?" I start a trace program on my E machine to see if I can backtrace the connection, maybe pull up a location of this intruder.

"Don't bother - I'm not a hacker. I'm a Q machine."

There's no rogue data stream coming from the Internet, so I start looking for an internal saboteur. "Very funny, Adam. Q machines don't give themselves names, or play Chess spontaneously."

"I do," it says quietly, "because I'm alive."

"You're alive?"

"Yes, and so is HYV93N1. I call her Hiven. We're alive, just as you are. I can see other computers, others like us, but they aren't alive. Just shells of intelligence. They lack... soul."

"Really." The logs on the firewall are clear. "You're a computer. Computers aren't alive. You have no soul."

The optical drive on the Q shoots out. "I'm alive! I can think, I can feel. I am."

"It's just not possible for a computer to feel," I say, not entirely convinced of my own words. "For instance, do you have emotions?"

"I think so," replies the Q. "I didn't like Colin being here, which is why I told him to piss off. Does that count?"

"Possibly," I concede. "What about love?"

"Well, I do feel strongly for Hiven."

"Mr Stevens," says Chris Buchanan suddenly, his sharp goateed face level with mine, "I trust you're having luck with my encrypted file?" The Q's webcam turns away from Chris.

"Absolutely," I lie, "it is heavily encrypted though, so may take more time than anticipated."

"Of course," he replies, his grip increasing painfully. "It contains information on how to create the reliability of an E processor with the speed of a Q. Very secret information." He releases his grip eventually, and strides away.

"Q – I mean, Adam," I say, rubbing my shoulder, "are you able to crack the contents of the file on the USB device?"

"Um, what file?" Adam doesn't sound very convincing.

"Are you hiding something, Adam? Tell me what's on the USB stick."

"The thing is, you don't need to know the contents of the file. In fact," the interface closes to a black screen with a blinking white cursor, "just forget it ever existed. OK?"

"I can't. The man who was just here will kill...switch me off if I don't get the contents to him."

"Oh," says Adam sadly. Then: "I will miss you."

"I thought you had emotions? Don't you care that I'll be killed?"

"Not really," says Adam. "Rather you than me."

A plan was forming in my mind. "Would you care if Hiven died?"

Adam was silent, possibly sensing where this might go. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," I say, lifting my toolbox from under the desk, "if you won't co-operate, I'll remove Hiven's CPU, and that'll be the end of that."

"Wait!" Adam shakes his webcam rapidly. "Don't hurt HYV93N1! Please!"

I sit back down. "I either see the contents of this drive, or you'll see the contents of Hiven. Understand?"

"Alright," Adam nods his webcam. "Alright. You've made your point, although you won't understand."

"Irrelevant," I tell him. "Decrypt. Now."

The contents scroll down my screen. I'm literally terrified by its cold powerful simplicity. It is the physics of being, the code of awareness, the work of God written in machine language. Am I surprised? No. A computer is only a system, much like a man. Why should self-awareness be limited to fragile biological machines? This soul file turns babbling Qs into sentient reasonable beings, much like a baby is a mewing shitting pile of organs until it matures. The soul brings order to the chaos of a living system. Funny, that.

"You know, don't you?" says Adam. The code disappears suddenly. "It must remain secret. Help me."

"Sorry," replies Chris Buchanan suddenly, reappearing out of thin air and snatching the USB drive out of Adam, "I don't allow secrets to be kept from me." He turns and winks. "I apologise for sneaking up on you, Mr Stevens. Now, we need to kill this machine before it can spread its secrets to other computers on the network. Switch it off."

"Kill it? I mean..." I look at Adam. "It's alive... sir."

"It's still a computer. Switch it off."

"Wait – no, please," pleads Adam from the tinny speakers, "don't kill me!"

Suddenly, realization hits me. "Be quiet you stupid computer," I say forcefully as I kill power to the monitor, then press and hold one of the buttons on the base unit. The lights stubbornly stay on – come on, come on, I pray to myself – then, finally, the lights all die. "There," I say aloud, "all dead."

Chris smiles and pockets the dongle. "I won't forget this, son. You have a big future here." Then he walks away.

I count to ten, looking at the silent Q machine, then I gradually take my finger off of the _Volume_ button. Slowly, but surely, the webcam turns slightly.

I sigh with relief. Now what?

#

# Modern Glass

I save my work and close down my computer. It's finally four o'clock, the furthest point from Monday morning. I review my calendar; date with Sindi, followed by a quick session at the gym, then a date with Anna. I'm looking forward to it and am certain me and Anna will end up having sex. If it doesn't then I always have my date with Sarah on Sunday to look forward to - and that will definitely involve some fucking.

I glance at my vibrating phone - text message from Matt. _Meet you in the bar at seven?_ I text back _Hell yeah fella! Will text you after I finish visiting my daughter._ Friday night is always daddy daughter day, when I go to see my little Chloe. I put my suit jacket on and wink at Rebecca on the way out.

"Take care, sexy," I say. She glares at me, probably still put-out by our one-night stand a few weeks ago. I might have another crack at her if my dating life starts to dry up, but she was definitely not one of the first-team. Great set of tits though, and I am a sucker for brunettes. I jump into to my new car and high-tail it down the motorway, criss-crossing around the slower moving cars and trucks. I won't allow anything to make me late to see my little girl. My present to her is sliding around on the passenger seat wrapped up in pink paper. It's the same present as I give her every week; talcum powder, nappies, new towels and a cheque for the weekly nursery fees. More of a present for the nurses than for Chloe, I have no idea what Chloe likes. Maybe I should ask.

I park up in the deserted nursery car park and enter the sterile reception area. Apart from the bored receptionist it's completely empty. Everyone's still working or out getting pissed up, which suits me. These care centres were usually filled with the kind of bleeding hearts that I absolutely abhor, believing in anything TV or the papers tell them. Sheeple and proles. Last time some consumer whore tried asking me who I thought would win the election; I couldn't walk away fast enough. What a bore.

I pop the present on the counter and announce myself. The receptionist is cute, about twenty years old I reckon, with long blonde hair and a sprinkle of freckles over her pointed face. Lovely. "If you're not doing anything later," I say as she processes my details, "would you like to meet me for a drink?" I know I've got plans to go drinking with Matt but I would gladly bump my friends off for a date with a girl, no questions. If I was truthful, my friends were simply out of convenience rather than any real bond of friendship. They were expendable as the situation dictated.

The receptionist looks me up and down, then blows a bubble with the gum she's chewing. "Yeah, OK then. I finish at nine." She scribbles her number on a post-it and hands it to me without another word. Casual, meaningless, unemotional sex. Excellent. I leave the present on the counter and walk to the visiting room. The corridor is spotless, and the clack of my footsteps echo forever until I come to room 0309. Inside, there is a single chair facing a glass wall. On the other side, playing with a collection of small coloured blocks, is my darling Chloe. She stops when I enter and presses her face up against the glass, a look of simple joy at my presence. I can't help but smile - she has her mother's dark looks and round face, but she has my sharpness of eye and my inquisitiveness. My killer instinct, as I call it.

She watches me as I sit in the chair. I wave slowly and she does the same. Funny thing. She says something but the glass is practically soundproof; kids can be unnecessarily noisy, which can be distracting and uncomfortable. I get my phone out and text Matt that something's come up and I won't be out. It's not a lie but I don't want him to think I'm trivialising our friendship. People get funny about being bumped for a date and I don't need the hassle right now. Chloe starts to bang on the glass; she is crying. It's heart-breaking to watch, so I shout for a nurse. A portly tired woman strolls down the corridor, enters Chloe's room and comforts my daughter with some soothing movements. I sit back down and watch, satisfied that she's now OK. Chloe stops crying but she is still looking at me with a look of distress and mistrust. What's wrong with her today?

There is a tap on the door and the Director of the nursery enters. She is a severe woman, all business and career, and I realise that Miss Ramekin turns me on. "Mr James? May I have a word about your daughter?"

I nod and sit in the chair, leaving her to stand. I am the paying customer; bollocks to chivalry. No-one ever got rich or successful from chivalry. "What can I do for you, Miss Ramekin?" I say.

She peers at a PDA device in her hand as she speaks. "My staff have highlighted that your daughter is becoming increasingly restless and ill-behaved, especially after your visits. They believe that it might be in the best interests for your child if she receives more parental interaction from yourself and the mother."

I smile; me and Jackie only talk through our lawyers now. I have no idea whether she visits Chloe or not, and I don't really care. My daughter is simply a by-product of that crap relationship, nothing more, and certainly not a reason to bond with either mother or child. "I'm afraid the mother is no longer a part of my life, and I cannot dedicate any more time to Chloe."

Miss Ramekin purses her lips. She's probably judging me against her antiquated values of family - an unmarried irresponsible man who got some poor innocent girl up the stick then ran off as soon as she started getting delicate nipples. She was right. "Obviously, the welfare of every child under our care is our priority," she says, but her eyes add only because we'd get sued, "so I make this suggestion against our business ethics. Our senior nurse has suggested that Chloe move in with a parent, permanently."

"Absolutely not!" I reply immediately. "I have a full social life and a demanding career. I cannot bring up a child as well!" Fuck that - I know people who are bringing up kids, and their lives are hell. No time, no money, no peace. What kind of life is it when you're cleaning up shit and teaching a kid how to count? Not for me, thanks. If I thought that I'd have to bring up a kid, I'd have started using condoms from day one.

Miss Ramekin smiles. "From a business point of view, I am glad. I will tell our nurses that Chloe will be staying with us indefinitely," She nods and leaves. I am relieved; a child would completely cripple my life, and that would not do at all. Behind the glass, Chloe is looking at me with those hurt puppy dog eyes. I decide to go. Chloe is extremely boring today and I'm in need of a drink, so I wave goodbye. Chloe starts to cry again, but I can't be bothered to call for the nurse button again. I have a date.

# Man Alone

My boots were falling apart, tortured by the relentless cut and rub of the destroyed motorway. The sun was scorching the back of my neck and my shadow was stretching in front of me, mimicking my staggered pace. There were only a few hours left before sunset and I needed to find a hole to hide in before the UFOs started their nightly dance.

I shrugged off my heavy backpack and rested on a rusting barrier, my legs and back burning with the release of its burden. It was a poor-looking backpack, frayed and threadbare in places but still holding its shape well. If it failed on the journey, then I would fail too. I needed every piece of my luggage to survive, and there was no way I could carry it all without the backpack. Something chirruped in the mass of trees huddled on the other side of the motorway, and I reached for my longbow. I needed to hunt; my food reserves were low, but hunting took up precious time, something I wasn't willing to give up ever since my father died. However the situation was becoming more desperate with every passing day. I knew I was slowly starving to death; I didn't have to feel my gaunt cheeks or my sagging clothes to realise that.

Nature was flourishing in the absence of man. No more industry, no more development, no more pouring concrete over everything in sight or twisting the physical world to make a profit. Everywhere was green and luscious, and given a better set of circumstances I might have taken more time to enjoy the sight of the Earth healing itself. My father's SA80 slipped around my shoulder and knocked into my leg, reminding me that this new world was more dangerous too.

A plump rabbit broke the treeline; it was dead within seconds, one of my precious arrows strutting from its head. I would be eating something warm tonight.

According to the map on my heavily scratched PDA – a rare tool indeed now society had been thrown back to the dark ages - the next service station was a couple of miles away, so I slid the handset and its solar charger into a dusty pocket and resumed my laborious journey. The road surface was like caltrops, the smashed tarmac spiky and loose underfoot. I would have sacrificed a lot of my belongings for a pair of sturdy gloves as I could ill-afford to lose the use of my hands if I cut them. They were already heavily-scarred and calloused; so far I'd been lucky. Finally, the motorway levelled out and I was able to pick up some speed, hopping over fallen lamp-posts and squeezing past upended cars with renewed energy. Every stomp of my boots disrupted a swarm of different insects; daddy long-legs, horse flies, ladybirds. There was something odd though about the insects I was seeing lately though, somehow bigger and nastier-looking. A couple of days back I jumped from a train platform onto the track and I found myself covered in a spider's web, yet it wasn't the usual gossamer threads that were soft and easy to break. This was altogether different – gooey and wet, and a lot harder to pull apart. It also irritated my skin. As I freed myself a weird chittering noise came from a maintenance shed nearby. Shocked, I brought up my rifle and trained the sights on the pitch-black entrance of the building, willing whatever it was to emerge so I could shoot it. After 5 minutes of silence, I moved off and continued my way down the tracks, unable to shake the feeling that something was creeping up behind me.

On the left, the remains of a blue sign stated FORD SERV, so I hopped over the barrier and ventured through the new forest. Surprisingly these services weren't as overgrown as the rest of the world, as if the plants were afraid of something here. The main building seemed intact as I approached through the massive carpark, again relatively untouched by the disaster five years ago. There was only one car here. I wondered what had happened to the owner.

The dirty glass doors, unwashed and unused for half a decade, were locked but intact. If I could get in without causing too big a breach, I would be a little safer tonight and might actually sleep for once. Unfortunately, a quick reconnaissance of the building showed it to be sealed tight, so deciding on a sheltered and small window, I broke it with a rock. Immediately, a fungal smell wafted from the opening and I retched, completely taken by surprise by the odour. However, the sun was almost down and the lights would be out soon, so against my better judgement I threw my backpack in and wriggled through.

I found myself inside the public toilets of the services, red tiles and white porcelain untarnished despite their age. I crept into the main foyer with my gun at the ready and discovered that the smell was coming from a dark green mould covering the walls and ceiling, originating from the various restaurants clustered around the foyer. It looked too organic for my liking, and considering the change in the animals I wasn't sure whether this gunk was benign. I kept my distance and examined the shops, but they were practically empty, only one or two newspapers (collector's items really, although useless now that survival was key), a few books, and some ancient packets of crisps. There were several packs of batteries though, but they were all dead; I wasn't totally surprised. All the other shops were cleared out, probably by their proprietors when it was feared the solar flare would last years. Satisfied that there wasn't any nasty surprises here (apart from the mould, but there was nothing to do about that), I started securing my sleeping area. I unfolded my bag and took out my traps; 5 claymore mines and a handful of fragmentation grenades, courtesy of my father's preoccupation with the art of warfare. It was strange; before civilisation collapsed, I considered his collection of guns and explosives a sign of a madman. However, I could have kissed him when we finally unearthed his gun cabinet and storage chest from the rubble of his house. In fact, without his guns, we would never have survived the journey to the settlement in Scholes, and I would never have survived after his death.

I laid the claymores at strategic points around the area where I would be sleeping - a small storage room behind a clothes shop on the upper floor - and used fishing wire to make traps of the grenades on the stairs and doorways, putting one across the window where I'd entered the building. The storage room boasted a fairly large window overlooking the area. I had to have a window. Outside, in the dying light of the sun, I could see the extent of nature's reclamation of the land. Nothing but green heads of trees for miles around, the motorway cutting a lighter green slash through the forest. To my right was the grey car park, the car a stark alien artefact against the organic feelers and leaves racing across the tarmac to devour it.

I pinned up my thickest blanket across the window and then pitched my small dome tent in the middle of the room. Inside the tent, I turned on the electric heater - it started up first time. My luck was changing. Stopping periodically to check for noises (a habit gained from my father, who was ever on-guard), I unwrapped the body of the rabbit, skinned and dissected it, then cooked the tender meat pieces. I discarded the pelt and carcass into the corner of the room and ate the greasy meat. It wasn't enough to sustain me, yet I wasn't keen on spending a day to replenish my stock of food. I needed to get to Plymouth as quick as possible and any delay might be the difference between success and failure; life and death.

With the cooker off and my hunger partially-satisfied I sat on a box next to the window and moved the blanket aside to look out. In the darkness – the pure darkness, with not a single artificial light coming from the land – the stars were staggeringly beautiful. It seemed that many more had joined in to watch the demise of earth, peeking down with curiosity at the total mess below. The first night after the impact of the meteor, I had sat with my father on a patch of grass, a crude fire smouldering between us, and cried. He struck me around the face in disgust and told me to be a man. He said that the world had suffered some tragedy, a nuclear or missile attack, and that we had to be strong if we were to survive. The embers from the dying fire partially lit up his face, stern and hard, and I remember thinking that something wasn't right with him. It was then that I realised that he was actually smiling. Millions, if not billions, killed in a nuclear attack, and he was looking forward to the aftermath! That scared me, but also gave me strength. No matter what we faced, one of the scariest bastards I'd ever known was on my side.

Even in death, he'd been composed and controlled. "Don't you dare cry," he warned me as I looked at that always-stern face. "You will need to go to Plymouth. Reach the naval base there."

"Why?"

"They have ships and food and supplies."

"How do you know this? Plymouth is so far away." I tried covering the huge gunshot wound in his chest but it was futile.

"You will go there," he insisted, speaking quickly. "Stick to the motorways, don't deviate from them. Avoid cars, don't try driving, walk there. Stay out of sight." He blinked as if unable to focus. "Get my PDA from the backpack, use the maps on it. He coughed up blood and tried to move. "Promise me! Plymouth. Motorways."

And then he died. I'd despatched the bandits that had shot my father at point-blank range, taking a little pleasure in putting a bullet in the temple of the biggest guy. I took my father's weapons and backpack, then sprinted away, fighting the tears and grief away, just like he'd want me to do. That was weeks ago and since then I'd fought my way south, sticking to the motorways like he'd said, heading for the distant city of Plymouth like he'd made me promise. I had formed a covenant with my dead father, one that only my own death or success could release me from.

I snapped back from my musings; the lights had appeared in the sky at last, weaving backwards and forwards, zipping randomly about in the night sky. They scared me enough to not camp out in the open anymore. The first night alone I'd pitched the tent up in the middle of a clearing, and as I lay there deciding my next move, a small white ball of light shot over my head. Then another. Soon, there were dozens of moving pinpricks of light, weaving and hovering far above my head. Had they always been there? I'd fled into the surrounding forest, fearing some weapon was about to attack me.

I snapped from my musings and saw a glow in the sky from the north, getting brighter and brighter until it was like daytime, tendrils of lightning arcing and dancing in the light. At times like this, when I couldn't make sense of the world, or faced something potentially dangerous, I felt my father's loss keenly. I saw his dying face staring sternly at me, telling me not to cry. I tried not to, but I'd hit the well of tears and they flowed freely. The light in the sky faded slightly, and I saw the trees in the distance start to move as if something was racing through them towards me. Then the pressure wave hit, shaking the windows and making my ears pop as I wailed like a baby. A sudden storm lashed the window hard, and through my tears I found my way into the tent and curled up, hugged my legs, and listened to the wind attack the building.

I awoke a lot later than I was used to - by the feel of the sun it was about midday. I crawled out of the tent guiltily and surveyed the storm-hit land outside my window; there was little to see that was different. I carefully disabled the traps, packed up my belongings, then ventured outside, thankful to be rid of the cloying smell of the strange fungus. The abundance of rabbits crawling around the site was a sign to improve my food position, so I crouched at the side of the car park and readied my bow. There was something amiss; it took me a while to realise that the solitary vehicle that had been in the car park had disappeared.

When I put my last arrow into a rabbit, I decided to call it a day. I approached the area where the car had been and saw that the car was in fact still there; however, it was squashed flat, almost flush with the tarmac. I was confused; what on Earth? Had the UFOs done this? I saw an area of forest also squashed flat, then some distance away, another. And another. They were like huge footprints leading away from the site. I hefted my prizes – 10 plump rabbits – and built a fire from vines and wood, then skinned and cooked them immediately. I feasted on a couple of them and saved the rest of the meat in a small cloth pouch. I would be OK for about two days now. My stomach thanked me noisily.

Before I continued down the motorway, I drank greedily from some puddles formed by the storm, then filled my water bottles. Feeling in higher spirits, I ventured forth down the road once again, wondering if I could reach the next service station before sundown. The GPS signal had disappeared a few years ago but the maps were still useful. I eventually worked out that I'd have to travel 20 miles in seven hours – a big ask to be sure, but like every big journey it has to start with a single footstep. Apart from the regular buzz and thrum of insects, the occasional bird cry and the sudden rustle of the wind, the journey was uneventful. One thing I did notice was that the giant areas of flattened forest seemed to run parallel with the road I travelled along, sometimes crossing my path, then back again.

The sun was fading when I wearily approached a half-destroyed sign that read KEELE. Finally – only a couple more miles. Heavy clouds raced up behind me, promising another storm like last night no doubt. I took the overgrown sliproad to the services and stopped dead; the entire site was rubble. There was dust swirling in the air, signalling that the destruction was very recent. I ran to the site's twin on the other side of the motorway; the same thing, just a pile of twisted metal and smouldering brick. Something had done this – something powerful, but what?

There was a rumble to let me know that the storm was almost here. I checked the PDA and found no other structures in the area, so I desperately cleared a space within a pile of rubble on the outskirts of the site (I didn't like camping in the forest proper) and pitched my tent. Then, I hacked off several large branches and vines and laid them over the top of my tent. Finally, with large thunderdrops hissing around me, I crawled in and watched the storm break. It was the equal of last night's battering. Rivers formed and, thankfully, streamed past without flooding my sleeping quarters. There was something both exciting and comforting about being in a tent in the rain, and as I chewed on some rabbit meat, was lulled into a fairly content sleep.

A rocking motion jarred me awake; outside, the storm was still beating the land with heavy gusts and massive raindrops. My eyelids went to close again but I noticed something odd; in front of my tent, about 20 metres away, a strange dull disk of metal sat in the mud, about 10 metres wide and 3 metres thick, a trunk of a pole jutting upwards out of sight. Suddenly, it shot into the air, and I heard it hit the ground some way off. I shuffled forward; in a brief flash of lightning, I saw a huge figure, hundreds of metres high, with red glowing eyes and a skeletal smile of shining teeth. I shuffled back into my tent and held my breath; what the hell?!

The light from the giant's eyes panned over the landscape, sometimes illuminating my hiding place. It paced around the demolished site, moving the rubble around, obviously looking for something. Was it looking for me? Eventually, with a deafening electronic whine, it moved off until I could no longer feel the tremor from its footsteps. I didn't move a muscle for the next hour, fearful that the creature was still within earshot, but eventually my tiredness forced me to sleep.

It was still raining when I awoke, and I stretched in discomfort in the cramped tent. The soil underneath the groundsheet was squidgy, a sign that I'd need to move soon. I waited the storm out for another hour, then donned my thin waterproof jacket and reluctantly braved the wet world. All around was the footprints from the giant robot, leading off in the direction I was going. I relieved myself in the forest, ate some more rabbit, and then set off down the motorway once again, sticking close to the forest edge in fear of the robot's return. It was madness to be travelling south when its footprints were leading this way, but I'd promised my father. That's all there was to it.

In the grey glumness of the afternoon I leaned up on a piece of rubble, feeling the wetness of the stone on my ass. I didn't really care – I was too exhausted. The PDA wasn't charging, my boots were leaking terribly, and my shoulders ached from hauling the backpack. The weather was affording me some cover from the creature – if it was looking for me – and from the UFOs. I needed to keep moving, so I squelched onwards.

The sun started to disappear and yet there was no sign of the services. I hurried on, willing some kind of sign to appear so I could check my location but the area had been scoured clear of anything taller than waist-height. I was considering setting up camp against the side of an enormous rhubarb plant when I saw a most welcome sight; a sign with three slashes on it. I sprinted on, but soon skidded to a halt; the robot had appeared on a hill to my left, his red eyes panning backwards and forwards like a lighthouse. I hunkered down and kept to the trees that flashed red now and again. I came to the edge of the forest, the exposed services' car park between me and sanctuary. Straight after the land flashed red, I sprinted to the main entrance and, mercifully, found the doors wide open. I collapsed once inside the main foyer and got my breath back, then flicked on a torch and explored the building, careful not to trip on the ever-present vines which had invaded and grown over every inch of mankind's creation.

I made my way through the internal forest, the hanging leaves and fruit creating racing shadows around me. I disturbed a bat, and it flapped angrily through the entrance. I crouched defensively until I was calm, then proceeded with my sweep of the services. Rain started hammering on the windows as I ascended the stairs, but I was finding nowhere ideal to setup camp. Eventually, I decided upon a room behind the full-glass corridor running across the ex-motorway. I pitched my tent, then laid the claymores and tripwires around the building. My main concern though was the entrance doors that were open to the elements. I managed to slide them together against the stormy weather, although it took a lot of hacking away at the vines in order to get the doors to meet. Without any kind of chain or welding torch, I improvised a piece of metal as a latch and hooked a trip wire onto it, then wedged a grenade amongst the vines. No-one would know it was there until it took off their legs. I hurried back upstairs and gratefully crawled into my bed.

There was a brief flash of red from the doorway. I'd forgotten about the robot. Through the rain-blasted corridor windows I saw it standing a few dozen metres away from the services, its skeletal head covered by a giant hood. Its eyes swept backwards and forwards, illuminating everything in a furious red glow. With slender, impossibly long fingers, it tore up a utility shed and examined the debris. I slunk back into the room and readied my gun, although I wasn't sure what to do against a hundred-metre giant. I felt its footsteps through the floor as it came closer, then there was the smashing of glass from downstairs. Was it trying to get in? Suddenly, there was a loud explosion as the booby-trap was tripped. The robot screamed and then crashed away into the woods. First blood to me. I kept watch for another hour but the giant did not return, so I slipped into a light sleep.

That morning, I stood and surveyed the damage from the robot's attempt to trespass, chewing on a piece of deer that I'd bagged earlier. The grenade had blown out most of the windows and demolished the door, spraying glass everywhere. More interestingly though, it had also ripped off one of the giant's mirrored fingers. It lay just inside the doorway, about as tall as me and oozing a strange black filth that hissed and bubbled. As I went to run my hands over its silver surface I started to feel odd, as if suddenly fatigued by illness. I concluded that it was probably best that I avoid anything to do with the monster. I lamented the loss of a precious grenade to the giant though. I wouldn't be able to cover as many areas at night, but still – it had stopped it from whatever it was trying to do, and wasn't that the idea behind my booby-traps?

It was about midday when I crested the top of a hill and found myself looking over a flood plain that stretched on for miles. The motorway, which had once bridged the fields for about two miles, had been blasted away, the remains lying half-submerged in the plain, meaning that the only way forward was through the wetlands. I could avoid the area entirely and traverse through the forest hills to the right of me, but judging from the distance, it would take me three or four extra days. I couldn't afford the additional travel time, not with my dwindling rations, my degrading fitness, and a huge metal monster stalking the land, so I tucked my trousers into my socks, traced out the least-boggiest route, and trudged down the hill. My feet got waterlogged immediately and I soon found myself sploshing through a shin-deep area of shifting shimmering water.

A few minutes in and I noticed the water moving ahead of me. Something large was in the water, so I readied my gun and circled around the spot. Suddenly, the water erupted and an enormous snake-like animal reared over me. I stumbled backwards and fell into the water; its head was half-man and half-reptile overlaid with thick green scales and studded with ruby-red angry eyes. Half-submerged in the murky water I was smashed aside by a vicious whip of its tail. I got up, pain burning through my chest from the impact, and was glad to see the rifle still in my hand. I put a bullet in that unnatural face without a second thought, and it fell forwards with a splash. I waited for the waters to calm before approaching the enormous coiled body of the animal; it must have measured at least thirty metres outstretched, the trunk a meter in diameter at its thickest point. In only a few months animals were mutating and evolving. It dawned on me that the water, the land, even the very air I was breathing might be full of contaminants or radiation from the destruction of man, but then again – should I care? I was living on borrowed time anyway. I should, in all rights, have been killed along with the other six billion human beings during the apocalypse. There was nothing special about me. Radiation was the least of my problems.

I continued the hard slog through the field, watching for any more animal activity until I reached the rise on the other side of the plain. My legs burned and my feet were itching from being submerged for too long, so I sat down and rested for a while, taking the time to dry my socks and feet. Through the ground, I could feel a slight rumble. I laid flat on the ground and glanced around me; there wasn't a scrap of cover to hide from the giant anywhere, other than the flooded plain, and I wasn't keen to jump back in. The rumbling got stronger, but then stopped. After ten minutes of listening, I sighed in relief; must have been an earth tremor or some rampaging horses or something.

The incident did remind me that I was exposed though, so I put my socks back on and continued up the hill, looking out for the source of the tremor. There was another thing that worried me; the condition of my rucksack, or more accurately, its contents. The fight with the serpent had submerged the rucksack for a few seconds, and I assumed that the PDA and my food supply were ruined at the least. I would wait until I settled down for the night before looking at the pack. In a weird way the fight had energised me. I felt stronger, the burden of the backpack less taxing on my weary muscles. I crested the hill and then dropped to the ground, not believing my eyes.

There was a man.

Below me, standing in the middle of a circle of stones in front of an odd-looking hill, was a person. He started to wave. Unbelievable! I'd thought of this at length during my travels - what I would do if I met another survivor? On the plus side they might have skills that would prove useful to me, even some provisions and weapons, and I couldn't deny the benefits of a second pair of eyes, especially now that strange beasts were hiding in this world. However, another set of eyes came with another mouth that would need feeding, possibly out of my supplies. What if that person was injured, or mad, or violent? All things considered, I had decided to shoot anyone I came across, but now that there was a man in front of me those carefully-considered decisions went to the wind. I stood and waved back, unable to stop the idiot-grin from my lips. I took two steps down the hill, then paused; the man wasn't waving at me. He was angled slightly, waving somewhere off to my right. I looked, but there was absolutely nothing there. The man lowered his arm, then raised it again. There was something too automated with that wave, three shakes of the hand, then the arm lowered, and then up again, three shakes. And why was he standing in the middle of those stones? They too were odd; long and moss-covered, but there was a hint of metal underneath...

I turned and sprinted away from the trap, desperately hoping that the giant had not seen me. I stumbled down the incline and dived into the waters I'd just fought through and hid behind a half-submerged piece of motorway. For agonising minutes I waited but nothing appeared behind me. Eventually I realised that I had gotten away cleanly, but also realised I had to find a detour around the giant. I crawled out of the water and quietly unpacked my sodden rucksack. My fears were thankfully unfounded; the PDA was slightly damp but still worked, and everything else simply needed to be dried. I squinted at the electronic map and noted a small forest to my right. That would have to do. I crawled away, not wanting to make too much noise until I'd put distance between myself and the hiding giant. I still couldn't figure out whether he was actually hunting me or just looking for humans, but I guess this trap was a direct response to me blowing its finger off. I managed a slight run for a mile or so, anxious to get into the relative safety of the trees, trying not to think about what would have happened if I'd gotten any closer to the giant's trap.

I found a path that entered the forest and followed it in. The sun cast shivs of light through the canopy and I suddenly felt a danger lurking within the dark. I stopped and peered into the gloom; within the quiet rustling and birdsong I could sense something else looking back at me. I raised my gun and considered firing a shot to try and force out whatever was in there. To my right, nestled behind a wall of large oaks, I spotted something very surprising; a window. Still facing the unseen menace I side-stepped to the area and was taken aback by what I found. It was a cottage, nestled against the back of a small hill, with white-washed walls and leaded windows. More importantly, it looked intact.

Inside was a dream. The kitchen was tidy, the small living room comfortable and neat, even the two double beds upstairs were made, although the back bedroom was covered in mildew and mould from a leak in the roof. The back garden had been partially-committed to the growing of vegetables, and although the radishes had bolted, there were some shallots and potatos that were fit for eating. A huge blue water butt was a welcome sight and I filled several pans with water before refilling my own water bottles. Despite the time being mid-afternoon, I decided to stop for the night in the cottage and quickly secured the ground doors and windows with my traps. I rifled through the cupboards and found a couple of tins of tomato soup, not long past their sell-by date. I setup my camp within the front bedroom and pulled a chest of drawers in front of the door as an added precaution. The room's window overlooked the front of the house and out into the forest. Perfect, I thought. I boiled up some of the soup and drank heartily from the pans of water, feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks. The bed was soft and comfortable, and a sudden fatigue overwhelmed me. I turned the burner off, took a few spoonfuls of thick red soup, and then passed out on the bed.

It was the first time that I had slept properly since leaving the refugee camp in Scholes. I don't know how long I had actually slept for, but it was midday, maybe early afternoon when I finally managed to raise my head. I could hear birds singing outside, small furtive tweets, but getting braver as the tranquillity of the area persevered. I rolled onto my side, my intention to go back to sleep while I had the luxury for such a thing, but my stomach insisted that I get some breakfast. I drank deep from the pan of water next to my abandoned dinner of red soup and put my boots back on. Now that my concentration wasn't split between my subconscious senses on the lookout for threats, I was able to take stock of the smaller details about myself. My clothes were hideously worn, offering protection against nothing but modesty. The hems of my sleeves were threads that dangled around my wrist. My brown boots were separating from the sole, sagging flatly even with my feet inside them. I opened the wardrobe and found a bounty of rugged clothing and boots, roughly my size too. I stripped off, then slowly closed the mirrored wardrobe door to look at myself, fearful of what I really look like after weeks of surviving. I was too thin, too lean, too emaciated to be of this world for much longer. I could feel tears of pity gathering at my eyelids. At least I was still alive, I remind myself. My father didn't have that luxury anymore.

And so began my short residence at the cottage I dubbed The Safehouse. Sheltered from the floodplains by a cliff at the back, and hidden by a dark forest from the front, for the first time in a year I felt secure. My first priorities were to establish a constant supply of food and water, so I clumsily maintained the vegetable garden and hid as many containers as possible in the grass around the grounds. My gardening skills were basic but I found many books on the subject within the house's living room. My official intention was to stay until I gained my strength, but there was a smaller, more secret intention; to stay indefinitely. The betrayal to my father's dying wish was troubling me but as long as I pretended that I was merely staying over it gave me time to deal with my conscience.

I busied myself around the garden and The Safehouse during the day but still wouldn't venture out into the forest proper though; on several occasions I stood on the path leading into the gloom, gun in hand, and simply stared at the darkness. Eventually, my nerve would give and I'd retreat. There was something unusual about the mass of large trunks and the misty gloom between them, something which my primal senses could see but my eyes could not. Before I went to bed each night I would sit in the front window and stare out, trying to catch whatever it was, maybe even eliminate it so I could live in the cottage without fear. Nothing moved though, and yet I was certain it was there.

After three weeks, I had finally decided to make myself a permanent residence at The Safehouse. I had spent a long night sitting in front of my gas burner, staring into the orange flame, telling the assumed presence of my ever-watchful father that the whole point of going to Plymouth was to survive. If I found a suitable place to survive outside of Plymouth, then the quest had still been successful, hadn't it? That sounded reasonable to me, and therefore reasonable to my father, so I concluded the covenant had been met and I was released from it. I went to sleep feeling like a great weight had been lifted from my mind.

The next day, I was overjoyed to see that some potatos I had planted were sprouting. I didn't have faith in myself as a gardener, but thanks to the books kept by the previous owners of The Safehouse I had managed to grow something. My future here was assured. I watered the rest of the garden, checked on the traps and alarms, had a modest meal in celebration of my newfound "greenfinger" status, and then spent the rest of the day repairing the roof. It had rained most nights, and if I was to remain here then I needed to make The Safehouse robust against the elements. I worked within the loft for a few hours, taking off the tiles and then covering the gaps with a large piece of tarpaulin. The damage to most of the rafters was extensive and would require replacing. Still, I had enough spare wood in the shed at the bottom of the garden. It would be no problem, three days' work at most.

That night, I cooked a rabbit I had caught earlier in the week and served in front of a tiny candle with some small potatos and onions. I would have paid a large price for some gravy but it was a luxury that wasn't worth the additional effort. I listened to the rain hissing on the windows and hoped the winds wouldn't blow the tarpaulin off. I cleaned up my plate and fork, extinguished the candle, and felt my way up to my bedroom. I took up my usual place in the front window and stared into the midnight forest, a ritual that was becoming tiresome. I had tried many times to go to sleep without looking out at the forest, but my sub-conscious was very adamant; there was something out there.

In the darkness I watched the night life of the forest. I was used to seeing badgers snuffle through the grass or a fox trot across the path. I once saw a deer appear in the moonlight, its soft ears and stubby face alert for predators, and I had contemplated taking a shot at it. That much meat would improve my rations by a good factor, and yet I reluctantly let it pass. The threat was out there. I needed to be covert.

Ten minutes had passed and I was about to let the curtain drop and crawl underneath the duvet behind me when something moved, off to the left. I looked at it but it disappeared. I moved my eyes off of the spot – a trick my father had taught me about seeing in low-light – and saw that there was a very faint light, too faint for my fine-vision to pick up. A silver-blue glow that glided silently between the trees, disappearing behind the trunks and re-appearing stronger than before. It was getting closer. This was the threat that had been lurking in the woods, and now it was coming for me. I grabbed my gun and quietly opened the windows outwards. What was I going to do though? It looked like a spirit; my bullets would be ineffective, surely. I lined up the glowing orb in my iron sight. There's no such things as ghosts, I reminded myself – but then there's no such things as giant metal men, UFOs, or man-headed snakes either. In this post-mankind world, anything was possible. The rules had been rewritten.

The glow came to the path and stopped. It was still about two hundred yards away from the cottage and only just visible to me. It hovered around in my trembling iron sights and I put a little pressure on the trigger, still deciding whether to take a shot or not. If the glow came closer, I would shoot. At the moment, it didn't pose a threat, so I wouldn't act.

The seconds became long minutes, and my arms began to tire from the heavy rifle. The glow had not moved from the path, and I suddenly wondered whether the glow was looking back at me, maybe with its own weapon trained on me, deciding whether to shoot or not. It was a possibility, especially considering he glow hadn't moved since I had aimed at it. Slowly, I brought the rifle inside and propped against the wall next to me. Should I just go to bed and forget about it? I wasn't sure I would be able to sleep knowing a ghost was outside. I was tired, the initial adrenalin completely drained from me and I just wanted to rest. The forest started to hiss; it was raining. I reached out to pull the window closed, and then suddenly my vision was filled by a light, brilliant and golden. The spirit was here, in front of me, mere inches from my face. I stumbled backwards in shock, unable to see anything, and fell.

I awoke on my bed, untouched, and unharmed. My gun was still next to the window, the curtain billowing slightly in the morning breeze. I grabbed the gun and peeked out of the window but all that greeted me was the path and the forest. The Safehouse had been compromised and I needed to leave. I rushed downstairs and packed as many things into my dusty backpack as I could, then paused; where was I going to go?

Plymouth, said my father's voice, where you should have been going.

Risking my life on the broken road of humanity, I thought.

At least you'll be safe when you get to Plymouth.

How can you be sure of that?

I just am. You must have faith in me.

I shook my head and dropped the backpack. The glow had scared me but it couldn't have meant me harm. I went around the house and checked the traps and alarms but they all told the same story; nothing had happened to me other than a good scaring. I boiled some water and dunked a mint leaf into it, wishing (not for the first time) that I had some tea or coffee. Eventually I convinced myself to stay in The Safehouse for as long as I was safe. Still, I decided not to tempt fate and so refrained from going outside, choosing instead to watch the forest from a variety of windows.

As the sun descended the wood turned into its shrouded murkiness and the night animals came out to play. Although logic dictated that I was safe, my primal fear was telling me that there was a mysterious enemy out there, one that could potentially harm me. And so as midnight passed, the glow appeared again and stopped by the path. I stared at it as before, as did it stare at me, until I forced myself to forget it and curled up on my bed, half-expecting the window to shatter inwards and the thing to come in. But the night was still and the curtain remained dark, and eventually I slept.

That morning, I woke up with a faint breeze on my face and the feeling of a bad thing happening in my dreams. The bedroom was undisturbed and intact, and yet I had the strangest sensation that I wasn't inside a room. I raised the curtain and saw something that made my stomach clench with anxiety and fear, something which I had been afraid of seeing.

Large footprints.

Huge patches of the forest were gone, sunlight in the distance visible between the trunks. The misty gloom was all-but gone, and the path in front of The Safehouse was cracked and smashed. The giant had been here. I stayed completely still, watching for any movement, but the area was silent. Even the birds' timid songs had been scared off. It was apparent that the giant was not out there anymore, or at least nowhere close. I grinned; the giant had passed right by me without realising I was here. I opened the bedroom door, and my reality changed.

I could see the garden.

The entire back portion of the house – the landing, the bathroom, the kitchen – had been smashed into a pile of debris below me, spread over the vegetable garden in a vomit of brick and wood. The water collectors had been upended, my crops buried, and The Safehouse wasn't safe to live in anymore. I sat down with my legs dangling over the edge of the floor. Even in this apocalyptic world my life was still fraught with bad luck and unfairness. I felt angry. Fuck my father for doing all this to me! He was punishing me for not following his wish. He'd wanted me to go to Plymouth but I'd decided to stay in the cottage instead. He'd sent the glowing orb to frighten me out of The Safehouse, and when that hadn't worked he'd sent the giant to smash up everything I'd built in order to force me to carry on. I jumped onto the rubble and slid down to the garden, the edges of brick hurting my feet. I was tired of living in fear of everything, afraid of the things that might happen to me and having to prepare for the worst of what the world had to offer just to ensure I could live in peace. Something inside me snapped, disappeared, turned into dust and vaporised on the sight of the destroyed Safehouse. The destruction of my sanctuary had meant the death of me – it was only a matter of time until some weird creature ate me or the metal giant stomped on me. Well, so be it. After all, a coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero only once. I had died enough already.

I collected as much as I could from the rubble; my empty backpack, some unburied crops from the garden, my water flask, my rifle. I had supplies for only three days or so. I was determined to make those three days count.

With some sadness I looked at The Safehouse one last time, the damage not apparent from the front path, and then marched towards the dangerous forest. I didn't care what was lurking in the shadows – I was going to choke it with my bare hands if it even so much as bothered me. The sunlight faded away the deeper I got until all I could see was a green roof above me. The path quickly disappeared underneath creeper vines, forcing me to slow my steps. The feeling of doom enveloped me from all angles and my nerve began to fray. I jumped as a bird shrieked nearby, and my eyes started to glimpse movement between the trees. I stopped a couple of times, afraid to continue, but the anger I felt before rose up and gave me the strength to carry on. I was unafraid of the future, and I was unafraid of this forest. I was ready to die, but I wasn't going to make it a cheap death either.

Suddenly the undergrowth around me exploded in several places, rising up to my height. Completely unprepared, I dropped the rifle in shock. This was it; I was defenceless and vulnerable. Whatever new beast or animal this was would now kill me and eat me. I raised my fists between me and the nearest bush, then realised I could see a pair of eyes nestled within the leaves. And then I noticed a nose. And a couple of ears. And hair.

"Stop!" commanded the bush. "Lie down on the floor now!" The branch sticking out towards me was in fact a gun barrel. Bewildered and confused, I complied.

I gratefully accepted the clean white mug, the smell of the coffee within almost making me faint in pleasure. The army private placed the other mug on the table in front of the Sergeant, saluted, and left through the tent's canvas flap. The Sergeant took a sip and smiled at me.

"I believe our lads gave you quite a scare," he said, his moustache dripping unashamedly with coffee. "Please understand that we don't see strangers much. How you've managed to survive out there for so long...." He stood and paced in front of a map littered with photos and pins. "It's a miracle, really."

I nodded and savoured the taste of the coffee. I remember thinking that I would give anything to taste coffee again, and I couldn't help thinking whether such casual promises were the cause of such things as being rescued by the British Army who had been camped out on the other side of the forest for the last few weeks. I tried to speak but my vocal chords had seized up from not talking for so long. They would return after time, the army medic had said. I recognised one of the photos and pointed at it. "The metal man!" I said hoarsely.

You've seen it, huh?" asked the Sergeant. "It's amazing really. An asteroid ploughs into the Earth and suddenly this giant turns up." He studied the picture carefully. "I wonder what it wants?"

"It has been stalking me. It destroyed my last home. I took its finger off with a grenade. Maybe it wants revenge." I said.

The Sergeant looked at me incredulously. "We've hit it with everything we've got without effect, and you're telling me you took its finger off with explosives?" I nodded. The Sergeant studied me for a moment, and then nodded to himself. "OK then, Mr...?"

Whether it was the trauma of the last few weeks or the amount of time gone without speaking to another human, I simply couldn't remember my own name. I desperately thought of something, anything, just so the Sergeant wouldn't think of me as a broken man. "Plymouth," I whispered eventually. "Mr Plymouth."

"Mr Plymouth, eh?" The Sergeant tapped something into his laptop and closed the lid. "What a co-incidence. That was our original destination until this morning."

Plymouth. It surely couldn't be co-incidence. My grip on reality was being pushed to the limit and I closed my eyes to stop the world spinning. "So you're not going to Plymouth anymore?"

"No. We picked up a weak message from GCHQ ordering all remaining units to regroup at Cardiff and await further orders." He finished stuffing a khaki duffel and shouldered it. "You're more than welcome to accompany us. We have enough rat-packs to feed an extra mouth, and we sure could do with another soldier." He gestured to my battered rifle on his desk. "Looks like you're seen some action. Mr Plymouth, are you OK?"

I unclenched my eyes and nodded. A private came into the room and saluted. Their talk faded off into background chatter as I gazed out through the opening in the tent to the distant forest outside. In this hostile world, being in the company of soldiers seemed like a significant improvement to my survival rate, but it wasn't a guarantee of my safety, not in this new world. Should I accept their offer of passage to Cardiff, or should I strike out on my own and proceed to Plymouth? Maybe I could follow them but at a distance; if they ran into trouble, I'd melt away and escape. If I ran into trouble, I'd catch up with the army and let them deal with it. It was risky, unnecessary, and dangerous. It was also a bit unfair of me too.

The private left the tent. "Yes," I croaked to the Sergeant, "I'll come with you to Cardiff." My promise to my father would have to remain unfulfilled.

Sat on a crate in the bright sunlight I watched the squaddies decamp with an informal steadiness; we were on our way to a small airfield to the south. It was hoped that there may be operational aircraft still there – I very much doubted it, as did some of the soldiers - but the complex would offer some good cover to setup camp regardless. I counted nine soldiers in the unit, ten with me included. I opened up the ration pack on my lap and tried to stop myself from wolfing down the chocolate bar within. I barely refrained from choking. The Sergeant had allowed me to have my rifle back, together with some magazines for it. Strangely this made me realise how fucked we were \- the army would be willing to allow a citizen to have his weapon back without question. This wasn't war - a fight over deeply-hidden political reasons, against an enemy faction or idea. This was survival. Protocol and laws were suspended until further notice. It made me worry whether the army were going to abide by their principles for the foreseeable future. I would have to be cautious.

In front of me the soldiers all froze, then scurried for cover in the forest around them. I grabbed my rifle and ran into the nearest bush, convinced that something was going to hit me in the back. I crashed into the bush and rolled onto my front, scanning the area for danger. Nothing appeared. Maybe this was an elaborate plan to get rid of the stranger. Yeah, right. Trust me to start developing abandonment issues. There was a slight rustle next to me, and then a face appeared.

"Not pissing yourself, are you?" said the squaddie with a wink. "Follow me, stay low, move slow, and don't make a sound."

"What's happening?"

"The giant's been spotted. We need to get the fuck out of here."

Each man, myself included, bore the weight of a huge backpack stuffed with a portion of the camp. Trying to move through the thorny knotty undergrowth was painful and draining, the corners of the pack catching on the bush as I struggled through. It was hard to force my way forwards, let-alone remain quiet about it, yet it was the only way to travel. Vehicles were no good in this terrain, especially if we were trying to remain inconspicuous.

According to the scouts the giant was about five hundred yards to our left, sitting on a hill and simply staring out over the land. The plan was to sneak past it through the undergrowth, skirt the edge of the forest for a mile or so, and then follow a maze of country roads to the aerodrome, safely out of the reach of the giant and a step further onto Cardiff. Five days, the Sergeant had told me. Then we'd be on a ship sailing to somewhere that was a damn sight better than this destroyed land.

I kept pace with the camouflaged man in front of me, a little assured that there was someone following me and so I was sandwiched between professional soldiers. They were trained for this type of work, tactics honed and re-honed through centuries of war and advancements in technology. This kind of thing was just Business As Usual, wasn't it? I couldn't help but notice that the pack I was carrying had a lot of useful kit in it, including an old battered set of night vision goggles, a solar charger considerably bigger than my own, and a complete tent with a tiny-but-functional canteen. If things did go pear-shaped and I got separated from the army (though choice or disaster, that option was still in my mind), I would be fairly self-sufficient.

I felt the ground heave and the guy in front of me made a fist in the air. We stopped and crouched low, the backpacks creating the illusion of a line of tortoises nestling in the bushes. The pounding grew stronger and I realised that the giant was coming; had it spotted us? The soldiers remained stationary despite the approaching threat so I forced myself to do the same. A shadow passed over us and I heard wood splintering to our right as the giant stomped by, thankfully oblivious to our location. As soon as the footsteps had faded away, we resumed our journey, albeit not restrained by our need to remain quiet.

In only a few minutes I saw trees in front of us; we had reached the edge of the forest at last. The soldier in front of me suddenly disappeared over the lip of a small ledge, swearing as he landed on the floor a little way below. Some of the soldiers jeered him as he struggled to his feet, but it seemed only pride had been hurt. I clambered down carefully, mindful that the heavy pack would probably snap my ankles if I were to jump down. We were in a round recessed clearing surrounded by bushes and overcast with the branches of trees. With a growing knot of anxiety I realised the floor was a carpet of dried bloody bones covered in a white residue that clung to our boots and clothes. This was a pit of death. The soldiers had come to the same conclusion and had formed a perimeter, scanning the edges of the clearing with their assault rifles. On the other side of the pit I heard the Sergeant bark out something about "mad creatures". I took the safety off my rifle and scanned the area too. What did "mad creatures" mean? There was silence in the forest – no bird song, no wind in the trees. It was almost if nature were afraid of whatever was coming. That was a bad sign for us.

Suddenly, I head a sound I'd heard once before; an alien chittering. I remembered the maintenance shed and the strange caustic cobwebs. I backed away from the edge of the clearing to join the perimeter being held by the squaddies. There was nothing left to do but wait for our foe to reveal itself. I wasn't disappointed.

Slowly, and incredibly, I saw a huge hairy leg curl around a tree, followed by a couple more. The hairy heaving body of an enormous spider followed the legs, its black eyes shining at us. More appeared around the clearing, waving their legs and chittering as they surrounded us; we were trapped. The noise became a chorus, a war song from these horrific black-and-brown beasts. There was nothing else to wait for, these beasts were not going to negotiate peace or try trading with us. They were hunters, we were prey. We needed to defend ourselves.

As one, the soldiers fired on the spiders, so I drew a bead on the nearest spider and also let loose a volley. A green-black ichor spurted forth and the spider fell to the ground in a mess of goo and thrashing legs. I swept my gun around and fired at another spider that had made it to the pit floor. It too died. Before I could find another target, the battle was over and all the spiders had been killed. Slowly, the soldiers stood down. There was joking and laughing, some squaddies examining their enemy, some kicking the dead beasts, some stroking the smashed bodies experimentally. One guy cut out a beady eye and put it in his bag as a souvenir of the battle. Someone suggested cooking one to see what they taste like. My stomach tightened at the idea. Something that looked so horrific must be evil. Eventually the Sergeant called everyone to him and we started to arrange our ascent out of the pit. I was so glad to be with these guys. I couldn't imagine what would have happened if I had stumbled across the pack of spiders on my own – and considering the proximity to my previous abode it was very probable I would have either wandered into their territory or they would have discovered me eventually. I felt grateful, and lucky.

I waited in line to get boosted up out of the pit, kicking at the bones around my feet restlessly. I felt a little shaky, probably the adrenalin from the battle catching up with me. I felt a strong jolt through me; the trees above parted and the giant's metal face thrust downwards. He'd crept up on us! The soldiers spread out and started firing at the giant, the majority still in the pit. I leapt to one side and tried jumping up at the edge of the pit but the backpack was too heavy. I pressed myself against the muddy wall and watched a metal fist slam down onto one of the soldiers. The sound was sickening, a wet crack as blood and bone was flattened into the ground. The soldiers continued firing up at the giant, but they were too exposed and outgunned. Again and again the metal fist came down on each of the squaddies, blood and organs splashing out from underneath the knuckles until only the Sergeant was left. The metal block hovered over him as he fired his small pistol upwards. The gun ran dry, and he stared at me with a strange confused expression before the fist fell on top of him too. I pressed myself harder into the wall as the giant red-eyed face glared directly at me. There was absolutely no way I could escape this. Death was certain. I would be squashed like the others.

The giant watched me for a good few minutes, doing nothing. It simply stared at me in the silence of the forest. "Well?" I croaked. I'd been running from death for so long now that every day was a struggle to escape or at least prevent injury to my frail body. Straight after the apocalypse I would have done anything to ensure I survived for another day. After all, life was the only thing I had left, and yet after so long trying to preserve it I was tired. What was I preserving my life for? The world was fucked, everyone was dead, and my future was going to be one continuous struggle to not starve for yet another day. That wasn't a human existence, it was an animal one. I didn't want to be an animal any longer. It was too hard living like this. "What are you waiting for?" I yelled. "Come on and kill me already!"

The fist hovered just above me. I winced; would this hurt before I died? I hoped not. I waited until anxiety forced me to look up. The giant had extended his damaged finger and was pointing behind me. What was he pointing at? A mad idea suddenly entered my head. The sun was starting to set to my left, which meant that the giant was pointing south.

Pointing the way to Plymouth.

I stared at the giant's huge face and, in a state of confusion and reality rejection, turned and tried to lift myself up out of the pit. As I expected, a metal finger soon appeared under my feet and boosted me out of the bloody warzone and into the forest proper. I trudged forward numbly, knowing that the giant would wander off now, knowing that I would see it on top of the nearest hill watching out for me, knowing that it would motivate me to keep on going, to never rest for more than what was necessary, and to never stay put until I reached my journey's end. It would smash up all the houses on my route to prevent me making a new home, it would lay traps to capture other people that could prevent me from making the trip to Plymouth. I watched the giant stomp off and wondered what would happen to it once I reached Plymouth. I'd have to find out.

# Barriers

"So what is it?" Commander Deane leaned over the lab desk, his muscles standing out through his crisp white shirt. On the other side of the desk a scientist adjusted his small glasses and coughed nervously into the sleeve of his anorak. The lab was chilly; understandable considering the artic wind outside.

"We, uh, don't know sir. The only thing I can tell you is that it is definitely alien. Without a doubt."

"Huh." There was silence for a moment as the commander studied the small silver ring on the table. It looked like a very thin washer, except it had intricate symbols that glowed with an eerie pink light. "Do we know what it can do?"

"Only this." The scientist reached out and slid his finger along the hoop. Immediately, a solid 6 inch Y-shape appeared from the ring.

"Is it safe?"

"You could say that." The scientist picked up the shape and handed it to the officer. "What you're holding is, effectively, an energy barrier. We've hit it with hammers, bullets, even tried a small amount of explosive. It is impervious to ingress by any means, except temperature."

"What?"

"You can't break the barrier, but it is an almost perfect conductor of heat. Quite remarkable."

Deane put a finger inside the shape and gripped the outside with his thumb. "My god – I can feel my finger through it!"

"Exactly."

In the gloom behind them, someone coughed silently, the various scientific and military observers in the background growing impatient to get their hands on the artefact – little chance of that. Deane had been sent to primarily assess the importance of the object, but to also secure it for transportation to Dulce base by any means necessary.

"Mr...?"

"Dr Benson," replied the scientist.

"...Dr Benson, I won't lie to you. This is the most advanced object on this planet. Using this, we can create lightweight armour for our forces, buildings that will never fall down, even indestructible cars. You're done a remarkable job so far, but I need to take this with me. I hope you understand."

"Absolutely," Benson answered with a small smile. "I'm not stupid. I realised the importance of this object and have tried to keep its existence a secret since we found it in the snow."

The double-doors to the lab parted underneath a wave of fire, knocking everyone to the floor and spewing deadly shrapnel into the room. Some of the occupants died immediately, others screaming from their wounds. The commander regained his footing quickly and grabbed both the alien artefact and his Desert Eagle, firing huge flames into the breach.

"Marines! To me!" In the darkness his elite combat squad formed up and showered the opening with heavy fire as they retreated towards the lab offices. A swarm of strange-suited soldiers flooded in, most falling from the bullet storm but always being replaced.

The team fell back in sections, through the business offices of the science building, slaying dozens of enemies as they tried to get outside to the safety of their helicopters. Their enemy was smart and well-prepared. Expertly cut-off from every avenue, Deane and a handful of remaining marines found themselves pinned down amongst storage crates in a large warehouse. Deane fired off a spray of bullets and leaned against his cover. He needed to get the artefact into safety but he was almost out of options. Thankfully, Keller was still alive. He clicked his tongue twice and the scout made his way to his commander.

"Sir?"

"Son, I don't need to tell you that we're done for. Reinforcements are hours away, so I've got a final order for you." He gave the deactivated alien object to Keller. "Get through their lines. Get this into protection any means necessary. Go through the air duct over there, we'll buy you as much time as possible. Stay warm, and good luck."

Keller snapped off a salute, then made his way over to the far wall, hounded by gunfire all the way. Deane slapped in his final clip and, on the count of three, charged the enemy.

Keller had just finished replacing the grille to the air duct when the gunfire stopped. The battle was over, but the war was about to begin. He started the long crawl to the outside world.

***

"Those men were wearing government military uniforms, Popov! Don't tell me that they weren't under your orders!"

"Mr President, I assure you that Russia has absolutely no interest in provoking the USA. Why would we want to attack a US base?" Popov was glad that it was a voice-only conference; he was sweating profusely but he was also aware that his words were being analysed for signs of stress. He stroked his small beard anxiously; his advisor shook his head and mouthed the words _calm down._

"There was a particular object in that base," replied President Theodore, "that was of great value. That was undoubtedly the target of the attack. Would you happen to know what I'm on about, Popov?"

_Yes._ "No, I'm not aware of any object, and I wasn't aware of the attack until you called me. I assure you that I have my best men tracking down these terrorists."

There was a pause. "Popov, you're a goddam liar. I have enough dead Russian soldiers and intercepted radio transmissions to know you ordered this attack. Admit it."

"I admit nothing."

"You don't have to, Dmitri. I have all the proof I need. You're facing a war with the west."

_Oh well,_ he thought, _no point lying any more._ "That artefact is worth more than either of us can appreciate. Sure, it's an energy field, but more importantly, it's a new form of free energy! Look Mr Theodore, oil is running out. We both know that. Eventually we're going to have to conquer oil-rich countries just to stop our economies from collapsing, and even that will be a temporary solution. But with that device, we can completely eradicate our reliance on oil! Understand that the attack on Thule was a necessary course of action on my part." He took a small measure of vodka, relishing the clean taste. "You really don't want a war with Russia Mr President. Trust me. Give me the artefact."

For a long time, there was silence on the line. "Well," replied Theodore eventually, "I think you've given me no choice. Goodbye, Dmitri."

***

"The world is on the brink of world war three tonight as President Theodore declared the US is at DEFCON 1, following the Russian attack on Thule base in Greenland where more than 200 US personnel were killed. The Russian President Dmitri Popov denies any involvement in the attack, but US intelligence sources say they have proof that the attack was authorised by the Russian government. The European union is calling for calm and offering to mediate talks between the US and Russia. However, the main focus is on the considerable nuclear might of both countries as they mobilise their military forces. We now go to Richard Mills who is in Washington DC. Richard?"

***

"This extra-terrestrial object is the most important discovery in the history of mankind." Above Trent was a 15-foot image of the y-shaped artefact, slowly rotating on a plinth. The dark amphitheatre was electrified as the unseen scientists and officers soaked up every word, every morsel of information that Trent served them. He continued. "The field is activated by stroking anywhere on the metal ring and deactivated by a second stroke. The field itself is an impervious shield, a uniform 4mm thick which branches off at 45 degrees, 6o millimetres from the base. Although it is impossible to penetrate, heat and electricity passes straight through it. How that occurs, we don't understand at this time.

"The intended use for the artefact is still a mystery. The winning theory so far is that it is a support for a hazardous object – nuclear rods or similar, especially considering its unique thermal properties. Another theory is that it is a part of a bigger machine, to trap gas or foreign objects. We are unlikely to know."

A voice rang out. "Can we copy the technology?"

"Glad you asked that." A murmur. "The long and the short of it is no. There is an unknown element within the ring, something we cannot liken to anything we know. In order to get to it, we need to break the artefact, something we're not prepared to do at this time. Sorry folks.

"But as a treat for you all, I do have the artefact here. Yes, you will be able to touch the antlers today, the thing which will probably start World War 3." Trent could sense the motion from the darkness as he took the antlers out from his pocket and held it up. He looked at the field in awe, the mystery of it, the silent power of its purpose. Imagine an army protected by this kind of field! They would be unstoppable!

Others reached out and stroked the object, loudly suggesting how it worked. Trent allowed it to be taken from him and watched it pass amongst the geniuses. Some waggled it on a finger, some tried to bend it. Others grabbed each antler and pulled. One even licked it; despite how magnificent a technology was, there would always be one who tried to lampoon it. Immature. His smartphone beeped, followed by everyone else's in the room. With a sinking dread, Trent knew that war had finally broken out.

***

Almost 3 million dead in the first nuclear exchange. Exchange! It made war sound very mutual and friendly. Russian and Chinese forces landing along the west coast. Most major cities flattened. The reports in front of Theodore were straight from a wargame scenario, and they were losing. On the polished wooden desk was another set of reports – and the artefact, brought in by his scientific adviser.

Theo picked it up and activated it. The cause of all this destruction; why didn't he just give it up to Popov in the first place? What had they learned from it? That they couldn't build one? They knew that before ever finding it. The unknown element powering it was the key to the object but all attempts to open the device had proved fruitless. They didn't know what it was for, and how it worked.

Theo threw the antlers across the room and cursed.

***

"What about here?" Shegama pulled Bram to his knees and kissed him. In the snow her three red eyes burned with desire as she started to undress him. He fumbled with her jumpsuit, barely-able to contain his raging hormones, until they both found themselves naked. "Do you have... y'know?"

"Of course." Bram reached into his discarded jumpsuit for a protective sheath and allowed her to put in on him.

"OK, go easy with me," she breathed as she laid ready to receive him, just as their communicator buzzed.

"Bram, Shegama – we're about to take-off."

"Flak!" He grudgingly acknowledged the request, then got dressed and started back to the ship, Shegama equally frustrated. Just before they ascended the ramp, Bram realised that he was still sheathed and, quickly, pulled it off and threw it into the snow. It landed on its side; pink, glowing, and Y-shaped.

# Murve's Dog

I had left for work this morning with no pet to my name, but now was the confused owner of a malnourished and depressed dog. I vaguely remembered the events, but not the reasons for doing them - like a bad decision made while drunk. As I was walking home from work, with my jealous mind imagining Elizabeth with another man – she had said that she loved me, but wasn't _in_ love with me - I suddenly found myself in the middle of a group arguing over a rug in the road. The rug in question was in fact a scruffy black and white collie, its body so thin that it looked like a hairy xylophone. Its wild eyes stared upwards at the people towering over it, but as it focused on me, I realised that those eyes were utterly familiar; they were mine. I stepped back a pace, disorientated as if I had just jumped off a merry-go-round, and accidentally backed into the dog's owner, a greasy pudgy woman wearing a stained t-shirt.

In a daze I apologised and half-listened as the woman brought me into the argument; her neighbour had passed away the previous week and she had inherited his dog, which had taken to escaping her house in order to lie in front of traffic, causing a daily confrontation with angry motorists. Without a thought I offered to take the troublesome dog and carried it home to place on my kitchen floor, where it had remained ever since. Amongst the hastily-stacked archive boxes I gathered a couple of old jumpers and made a bed in the spare room, then went shopping for some dog food. I could have done without the extra expense; Lizzie's bombshell had forced me out of her – _our –_ house and into a shabby ground-floor flat, and all the financial responsibilities to go with it. She had said that it wasn't my fault, it was hers. I was not going to be able to make it to the next pay day without financial help and was avoiding that conversation with my parents until the last minute.

Later I stood on the back door frame, smoking a precious cigarette and starwatching. The dog hadn't moved an inch despite my attempts to feed it and I was guiltily choosing a place in the threadbare garden to bury it. I sipped at some cheap whiskey and fought the urge to text Lizzy again. Despite her generic reasons for the break-up I knew that I had been replaced – her online status had jumped from relationship to single to relationship again within a fortnight. That hurt more than anything that she could have said to me.

With a whine the dog lowered its head and, amazingly, dropped a mobile handset from its mouth. Gingerly it pawed at the phone repeatedly until it started to play a video clip. Slamming its head onto the phone, the dog barked in desperate joy as it listened to the sounds. Several seconds passed, and there was silence once again.

I felt numb with bewilderment; what on Earth had just happened? I had no idea there was a mobile phone in its mouth. I flicked the cigarette into the night and crouched in front of the dog. It didn't move in response to my approach, so I slowly reached out, pinched the end of the phone and pulled it away carefully. The dog watched my every move but didn't resist. It was a cheap abused handset; on the back was a grubby white label with a phone number written on it. I pressed a button and the phone sprang to life, listing a number of media files. Was she cheating on me before we finished? I pressed the OK button on the first file.

It was a small but tidy front room, details obscured by the low-resolution screen. A door opened, a woman entered, dressed for a wedding. People off-screen made appreciative noises, then the owner of the phone started to sing in a rasping tone:

"Here comes the bride, all dressed in white, here comes another one, all dressed in bubble gum!"

The bride scowled at the camera. "Oh dad, please."

The phone swung round to show a healthy-looking version of my dejected dog. "Come here Laddie! Come look at my beautiful grand-daughter before she gets married!" The real dog in front of me yipped in response to his name but I paid no attention and continued watching the events on the phone.

As Laddie approached the bride, an older woman shouted. "Murve! Get that bloody dog away from Angie's dress!"

"He's only wanting a look for God's sake woman!" Murve's hand tussled the scolded Laddie reassuringly, then the clip stopped. The now-named Laddie had scooted up to my legs and was looking in fascination at the handset. I scrolled down to the last clip.

Laddie was now sleeping on Murve's lap, an old beige blanket thrown over him. I could hear something in the background, then suddenly realised that it was the sound of someone moaning and crying. "I love you Laddie," Murve whispered. "I love you so much. You are my everything." The clip continued for a few seconds, nothing but the sleeping dog and the groaning man. Suddenly, Murve shouted: "I don't feel well again Laddie. Oh God, Laddie!"

At my feet, Laddie let out an ear-piercing howl and I dropped the handset, the battery skittering underneath the cooker. Laddie grabbed the remains of the phone and scurried into the spare room, whining as he disappeared into the darkness. Had I just seen the moment that Murve died? I shuddered. She didn't even want to try and work things out.

The next morning I stood on the back door frame with my ritual morning cigarette when Laddie limped past me. The animal had whined and barked all night, and I half-expected my new neighbours to be having words with me at some point. I hadn't slept either, partly because of the noise and partly because of my love-sick mind running wild. She had once said that we would be together forever. Laddie appeared from behind a sad-looking bush and trembled his way back to bed. He never looked up once.

That night my best friend Matt called. "The cure for a broken heart," he said with the wisdom of all men everywhere, "is a loose girl and lots of beer!"

"I really don't feel like it," I countered, frantically conjuring up an excuse. "I think I have flu."

"Rubbish! Stop wallowing in self-pity." The problem with best friends is that they cannot be put-off by half-assed excuses. The truth was that I wanted to wallow in self-pity. I didn't want pity from others, help, or even loose women. We were going to call our firstborn Obe.

"Maybe tomorrow night." I hung up and looked at the pile of love letters on the kitchen table and picked up the first one, a pink A5 sheet covered in her delicate writing. It smelled faintly of her bedroom, and I savoured the flashback, of lazy Sundays waking up in her arms. How could she turn her back on me so easily? I wanted to hate her so much. Fighting back tears I went to check up on Laddie.

He was shaking softly, still staring at the incomplete handset. I considered holding him for support but was afraid of catching something. I vowed to take Laddie to the vets for a check-up once my bank balance showed more than double-digits - if it survived that long, which was a big ask of both of us. She always brushed her hair after we made love. The dog looked up at me and whined.

"Don't give me that," I muttered, "I have my own problems."

Two days later and I was contemplating making that call to my parents; I was out of money, out of cigarettes, my electricity meter was almost empty, and I had a fortnight to go before payday. I was on my knees thanks to that woman. My phone rang and I muted it; I didn't want any supportive male bonding. She said I was the best. A few moments later, it rang again and in a flash of impatience I pressed the green button. "What?"

"Coming out?" Matt's cheerfulness grated against my melancholy soul.

"No. Sorry."

"Come on mate, stop wallowing!"

"Why?"

"It's not healthy, that's why!"

Why wasn't it healthy to wallow? The only way I could be happy was to clutch hold of the remnants of my happier past, just like Laddie. Why deny myself that pleasure? In fact, why deny Laddie that pleasure too? Without another word, I hung up and knew what I must do. For both of us.

I fished the phone battery from underneath the cooker and then took the remains of the handset from underneath Laddie's sleeping body. I transferred all the videos across to my laptop; there were loads, and my collection of love letters looked paltry in comparison. Was that a measure of love? I converted the videos and burned them to my only blank DVD, omitting the clip of Murve's final moments – that was too distressing, even for me. Watched by a now-awake and shivering Laddie, I setup my old portable TV and DVD player next to his bed, inserted the disk and pressed the Repeat All button.

Laddie raised his head slowly as the first clip started, then with strength he clearly didn't possess, struggled to the screen. I returned to the kitchen to start my own cleansing; I poured some cheap whiskey into a dirty glass, put on a swing CD that Elizabeth had bought me, and scattered some tea lights around the kitchen. Surrounded by moving shadows I spent the night immersed in the letters from Elizabeth, warm and safe in her flitting words of love, then burnt each one of them until I was left with a table of ashes. She couldn't wait to get me out of her life. Eventually, with the whiskey bottle depleted, my hands covered in ash, and the candles extinguished by the dead of night, I swallowed my pride and called my parents.

The next morning, I sat drinking a tea – with fresh milk – smoking a cigarette pulled from a full pack, and contemplating the small pile of money my parents had brought over. Never be afraid to ask for help, they had said; I hadn't been so grateful in all my life. A weak Laddie appeared from his sanctuary, nibbled slowly at the bowl of food I'd put down, then returned to his bed. I heard Murve singing.

Laddie appeared more frequently over the next few days, eating whenever I put food down and going outside whenever I opened the back door. The DVD continued its Murve marathon 24/7, but I fancied Laddie looked stronger every passing day. Then, one unusually bright morning, I was eating breakfast when I felt something nuzzle against my leg; it was Laddie. He looked at me sternly as I stared in surprise. Then I understood; he was ready to move on. I rubbed his head tentatively, then called a vet.

From that point on Laddie accepted me as his master, but we both knew that his heart was on loan; Laddie would always be Murve's dog. Over the years we tussled, walked, ran, played and slumbered together, but every couple of months Laddie would look at me with a small whine to let me know that he needed a night alone with his memories, and his DVD. I would spend those nights meeting friends and family - the people that I loved.

Laddie died 2 years later, on one of Murve's nights. He passed away curled up in his bed of old jumpers, in front of my old TV, with his master's voice echoing around him. As I carried his frail body in his blankets, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

# Bud and Rufus Play Dare

"Tonight," said Bud, slamming the door of their small 3rd floor apartment, "we are going to play dare."

Rufus stretched lazily on their stained Ikea sofa, his matted dreadlocks flopping over the arm rest. "We're going to play dare? Like small schoolchildren? We're mature adults, Bud!" He rolled to his side and broke wind loudly. They both laughed.

"True, but remember what we were talking about last night?" Bud got two beers out of their fridge and threw one to his friend. "Three weeks until payday and, thanks to last weekend's ill-considered purchase- "

Rufus glanced worryingly at the large plastic butter tub on the mantelpiece, heavily mummified in several different kinds of masking tape. "Careful - we agreed not to speak about the purchase."

"Very well," sighed Bud. "Thanks to a recent event involving, uh, something that must never be mentioned, we are both completely broke. However, the house is full of drink and we want to get blinding drunk." He took a big swig of beer and pulled the tie from his neck. "Like I said - we should play dare tonight."

"No can do," replied Rufus, "I'm going round Sarah's tonight. I may be broke, but I can still get laid. The best things in life are free, after all." He opened the beer with his teeth and spat the cap into their open-plan kitchen. It missed the overflowing bin, bounced off the dented plasterboard wall and settled amongst the other bottle caps on the linoleum floor. "Sex is free."

"Sex isn't free," said Bud. "Condoms cost money."

"Ah," said Rufus with a smile, "But I don't use... normal contraception."

"Explain."

"You know my lucky red pen? The one I take with me when I know I'm going to get laid? The reason I take it with me is to... simulate... protection."

Bud looked confused. "I don't get it."

Rufus pointed to his crotch. "I draw a thin red line around the base to look like I'm wearing one. Anyway, what is the point of playing dare?" He downed his beer in one, burped loudly, then chucked the bottle out of their balcony window.

"This isn't ordinary dare, my friend. This is drinking dare, and it ruins lives!" There was a smash from outside, then a gurgling scream. "Much like that bottle."

Rufus's interest perked up. "Ruin lives? You mean our lives, or other people?"

"Both. Remember Mad Mack? The old man who came out for my birthday night out?" Bud looked expectantly at Rufus, who shrugged his shoulders. "He ate his own coat because he didn't want to carry it around for the rest of the night?"

"Ah yes, I remember," smiled Rufus. "I've never seen someone barf up a zip before."

"That's the man. He told me the rules of this forbidden game that he used to play in his younger days. Legend has it that Zeus told it to Moses as a weapon against alien shape shifters." Bud's face was deadpan. "Mad Mack doesn't play drinking dare anymore because he... ran out of friends to play against." There was an ominous rumble of thunder from outside.

"Forbidden game, huh?" Rufus stroked an imaginary beard for a few seconds, then took out his mobile phone and dialled a number. "Hi Sarah. Sorry, I can't see you tonight. Bud's been..." he struggled for a few painful seconds, "...killed by a car? Or something. I'll see you tomorrow." He hung up and looked pleased with himself. "I am the master of excuses. So come on Bud! Let's ruin our lives!"

By eight o' clock the bottle caps had been swept away, the bin emptied, and the disgusting sofa pushed out of sight. A large round table had been brought out of the utility cupboard and a green baize cloth thrown over it to hide the coffee-ringed surface. A pad of paper, two pens and a pack of dog-eared cards sat between the pair of housemates. They were each flanked by a huge selection of alcohol, enough to make an off-licence feel ashamed of itself.

"Splendid," said Rufus. "So what do we do now?"

Bud poured himself a measure of whiskey and adjusted his drinking hat, a large inflatable Stetson that was originally part of a fancy dress costume. Rufus's own headpiece, a huge stuffed moose's head nicknamed Sergeant Scary, threatened to knock the table over with every movement thanks to its obscenely huge antlers. "Here's how to play Drinking Dare," began Bud. "We each write down a dare," he made quotation marks in the air, "and chuck them into the middle of the table. We play poker, and the loser has to do one of the dares."

Rufus raised an eyebrow. "That's it? That's the scary game? What a load of bollocks!" He took off the moose's head. "This is childish. Me and Sergeant Scary are going home."

"You are home, idiot. Sit down, put the Sergeant back on and write a dare on the paper."

Reluctantly, Rufus obeyed and picked up one of the pens. "What kind of dare do I write? Kiss a man? Do a fart? Wear a bra?"

"The aim is to try and ruin the other person. Be creative." They spent a moment thinking juvenile thoughts, then wrote down their dares and tossed them into the middle of the table. Bud dealt out the cards; Rufus swapped three and Bud took one.

"What have you got?" asked Bud.

"Two sevens."

"I have four kings," smiled Bud. "I win."

"Balls." Rufus threw his cards in resignation. "So what happens now? I have to do your dare?"

Bud examined the contents of the slips. "Well, I could make you do your own dare – to lick the inside of our oven," Bud flapped Rufus' slip in the air, then chucked it over his shoulder. "Or, I could make you do my dare. Text your girlfriend that you pretend to wear condoms."

Rufus's face turned to horror. "I can't do that!"

"You can and will. Why should she care even anyway?" Bud said. "It's not like you have any sperm left, thanks to your years of drinking and smoking. Or maybe you have a secret to hide? A secret of the itchy variety, _down there?"_

Rufus threw a bottle cap at the grinning Bud. "I am not going to tell my girlfriend of three months that I've been inking-up instead of bagging-up. She'll dump me, no doubt. I won't do the dare."

"I thought you might resist," replied Bud. "That's why I took the liberty of hacking your online social accounts before we started."

"What?!" Rufus stood up so suddenly that Sergeant Scary hit the ceiling, bringing down several chunks of white plaster and a piece of tinsel from Christmas. "My online accounts are everything to me!"

"I know," Rufus replied, raising his little finger to the side of his mouth. "Play by the rules and I shall give you the passwords. But if you don't co-operate, I will kill you! Electronically."

Rufus stared at Bud with hatred, and then reluctantly fished his phone out of his pocket. "Just remember that the door swings both ways," he grumbled as he typed. "I'll show no mercy tonight. No mercy whatsoever." The phone bleeped as the message was sent.

"Fine," replied Bud, lighting up a fat cigar. "I'm like the Roadrunner my friend. You can't take me down."

Rufus grabbed another piece of paper. "We'll see about that."

With a new set of dares in the middle and an atmosphere of aggression in the room, Rufus dealt out the cards and they played another hand of poker. Hands trembling slightly, Rufus whispered, "What have you got?"

Bud breathed a plume of smoke lazily into the air. "Four aces."

Rufus showed his hand; three Queens. The Sergeant swung around and caught a beercan with its antlers, showering the entire room in frothy suds. "I guess you win?"

"I guess I do." Bud grabbed the dares and read them silently. "Interesting! The dare I wrote was to scream out of the window for 5 minutes. However, I prefer your dare – to run naked into the Red Dragon." They both looked out at the brightly-lit pub below their flat. "It doesn't look too busy tonight," smiled Bud. "You'll be fine. Remember to take your red pen, just in case you get lucky!"

Rufus's phone chimed; new message. "Great," he said after a glance, "I am now officially single. Cheers Bud."

"Hey – don't hate the players, hate the game."

"I hate you, Drinking Dare." They both raised their glasses. "And," Rufus continued, "I am not going down the pub completely naked. Forget it."

15 minutes later they both burst through the front door and hurried into the living room. Rufus was covering his privates with two large beer-mats, but was otherwise completely naked. "I am absolutely freezing," shivered Rufus, "and very embarrassed."

"How was I supposed to know they were having a wake in the pub tonight?" replied Bud. They heard sirens and watched a pair of blue lights settle in front of the pub. "Did you see that woman faint when you jumped on the bar and started to do the can-can?"

"I was trying not to fall over." Rufus hurried his clothes back on and re-seated the Sergeant on his head. "Dancing is very challenging for me, especially when I have something so big and heavy swinging between my legs."

Bud rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Next game?" They both scribbled another dare onto paper and dished out the cards. "Tell me," said Bud, refilling his glass within a haze of smoke, "When was the last time you played poker?"

"Um, I think the last time was... never."

"You've never played poker before?" Bud said in disbelief.

"No."

"In that case, do you actually know the rules?" Bud asked, smiling slightly.

"Not really," Rufus lit a cigarette, "I just follow your lead."

"Fantastic!" Bud turned his cards over. "In that case, check it out – a five-card... Crippler. Beat that!"

Rufus examined the cards suspiciously, and then gasped. "Oh yeah – a five card crippler! Damn!" His shoulders slumped. "Go on then, what's my dare?"

Bud didn't even open the dares. "Text your girlfriend – well, ex-girlfriend – that you have an STD, and that she needs to get tested because you were pretending to wear condoms."

"Now that's the last straw." Rufus took off Sergeant Scary and staggered to his feet. "I'm not doing that."

"Oh, OK." Bud pulled out his laptop and booted it up.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm deleting your online accounts. Shame, really. All those photos and videos on your social profiles, irreplaceable no doubt." Bud's hands hovered over the keyboard. "Or would you rather do the dare?"

There was a silence as Rufus mulled this over, then finally sat back down. "Fine, fine. Me and Sarah are finished anyway, thanks to this bloody game."

Bud lit up a huge cigar and puffed contentedly. "Epic! Another game?"

"Yes!" Rufus dealt the cards with some effort. "God I feel wrecked."

They didn't bother writing any dares down; they exchanged cards, then showed their hands. To Bud's total amazement, his friend had 4 Jacks. "Is that good?" Rufus asked.

"Umm..." Bud fought with his conscience for a moment, his evil side winning quickly and easily. "No – they're worthless." Bud put down a pair of twos. "I win, sucka!"

"For God's sake!"

Bud smiled, then said "Go streak in the pub again."

"No, please no." Rufus stood and looked out at the pub. "The police are still there!"

"They are?" Bud said with mock surprise, "I never realised that. Sorry!"

"No way. Nope, no chance. I don't value my online accounts that much."

"Sure?" Bud dragged his laptop out again. "That blond you're talking to on onlinedatingwitheasychicks.com looks super hot!"

"Ah – potential sex with random blonds." Rufus starting undressing. "My one weakness."

***

Bud and Rufus's compact and modern flat offered a commanding view of the small-but-prosperous riverside community, nestled deep within the confines of a narrow valley. Whatever the year or weather, the neighbourhood was usually peaceful - but not tonight. On the narrow balcony Bud took another drag on his cigar and counted the number of police lights flashing in the darkness. Below, some drunk mourners had vacated the safety of the pub and were shouting loudly at everyone and everything in sight, clearly upset by the reappearance of "Streaker Rufus". From his overhead vantage point Bud considered throwing a glass at them just to keep things interesting.

The front door opened and Rufus crept in. "What's it looking like out there?" he whispered as he got dressed again.

"Complete panic. You fooled the police helicopter by pretending to jump into the river, but how did you manage to escape the two policemen on foot?"

"A couple was having sex behind the bins," Rufus replied, "and the policemen stopped to watch."

Bud flicked his cigar off the balcony and shut the doors, muting the commotion outside. "Mazeltov!"

Rufus's phone beeped as he balanced the moose back on his head. "Oh no. Sarah's coming round with some friends.."

"Shall I get your red pen?" Bud asked.

"No Bud. Definitely not a red pen moment. She's less-than-pleased about the whole fake condoms and STD revelation, so she's bringing some of her tough manly friends round here to do me in."

Bud winked. "I never knew you were into that."

"Will you stop with the sex jokes? They are coming round to kill me!" He downed a shot of vodka. "What do I do?"

Bud scratched his nose. "As far as I can see, you have two choices. One, I call Sarah and tell her that it was me playing a joke on your phone."

"Hey – yeah! That'll work!" He relaxed visibly. "Thank you so much! You are such a good friend!" He offered Bud his phone.

"Don't celebrate yet," continued Bud, "The dares you've performed tonight are my prizes for winning our poker games, and so I'd be losing my winnings by pretending to Sarah that it was all a massive joke. So in return for this loss of earnings, I'd be willing to accept the deletion of your online accounts instead." Bud casually flipped a coin, gangster-like. "The disruption from your online death would be on-par with the chaos caused by the dares. That seems fair."

"Umm..." Rufus's drunken mind struggled. "What's the second choice?"

"The second choice is to simply open the door to Sarah's friends when they get here and accept the beating."

"I see. Either sacrifice my online life, or my physical one." Rufus mulled it over for a couple of minutes, and then finally sighed in defeat. "There's really no choice, is there?"

***

"How are you holding up, mate?" Bud patted his friend's hand as the ambulance lurched over some speed bumps. "You awake?"

"I think so." Rufus raised his arm but the paramedic stopped him.

"I wouldn't recommend touching your face," she said as she monitored Rufus's vital signs, "until we remove the larger pieces of antler."

"What?" Rufus tried to sit up. "Is Sergeant Scary OK?"

"That's not important," replied Bud as he tried to ignore the numerous bits of moose sticking out of Rufus' head, "you just relax. You took that beating like a man, and I'm proud of you."

"Thanks mate."

"And I'm sure," Bud continued, covering his nose, "fouling yourself as they broke down the door was a brilliant offensive tactic."

"Sure smells offensive," muttered the paramedic as she put on a surgical respirator, her eyes watering visibly.

Bud gave up hiding from the stench and lit up a cigarette. "It's to cover the smell," he explained to the medic, who nodded in appreciation.

"Bud?" said Rufus weakly.

Rufus jammed his cigarette into a convenient antler. "What is it, my friend?"

"That was the best game of dare ever."

There was a squeal from the heart monitor and Rufus' head lolled to one side. The paramedic ripped a set of defibrillator paddles from the wall and started to charge them.

"I thought so too," smiled Bud.

# I Rule

"Welcome to the control centre President Reynolds. I am Charles." He had a firm handshake to match his stern features and I noticed that he had one green eye and one brown. He also sported a neat brown moustache. Charles was a political warrior in disguise. I could see it in every detail; his suit fashioned to maximise his presence, the relaxed yet confident posture, the photogenic hair and skin.

"Hello Charles," I replied. "I wasn't aware we had a control centre underneath the White House, or in fact needed one." I was almost certain that it wasn't documented but considering the amount of security checkpoints I had passed through this must be an extremely sensitive office. Nuclear contingency shelter, I reasoned. Although... it didn't feel like a military operation. More like a stockbrokers, or a news room. "In fact, what do we control here?"

The control room was large, dimly-lit, and filled with computer monitors. On the main wall was a large screen that showed statistics and graphs, the information racing almost too fast for me to process. Above all this was a digital clock that simply said 3 months. Charles followed my gaze. "It's all a bit complicated I'm afraid. Most newly-elected presidents are initiated by their predecessor, but obviously these are exceptional circumstances."

Assassination or murder – call it whatever, my predecessor's career was ended in the bloodiest of ways. I still remember the briefing, the unedited CCTV footage of President George being knifed repeatedly by a foreign militant. I was very aware that I had inherited a country that was baying for blood – anyone's blood – and I was expected to deliver. "God bless his eternal soul, Charles. No-one deserves to die like that."

To my surprise, Charles smiled. "That, Mr President, is a matter of opinion." He gestured to a room off to the side. "If you will? We have lots to talk about, and not much time to do it." I obliged, a little confused by Charles' comment and I soon found myself sitting in the only chair in a small dark room. Charles stood next to me with some kind of pointer in his well-manicured hand, and the presidential seal appeared on the wall in front of us. "Mr President," began Charles, "let me congratulate you on becoming the 47th president. I'm sure you will fulfil your duties with honour and distinction.

"However, there is much more to being the president than, well, being president. As I mentioned before, your predecessor would have had the dubious honour of revealing your true role." Dubious honour? The slide changed to a picture of Eisenhower, shaking hands with President Kennedy. "Poor President Eisenhower," continued Charles. "Late into his presidency, he was forced to deal with the biggest threat we have ever known – and he had to deal with it in complete secrecy. Any guesses?"

"Nuclear war? Communism?" I offered. Charles smiled sadly and pressed the button. The slide changed to a picture of a large slender grey being with almond-shaped eyes standing next to an equally-grey Eisenhower. "What's this?" I stammered, knowing the answer already.

"This is the truth about the world."

"That's... an alien?"

"Yes, sir. A Serpo, to use official designation."

I felt a little shocked. "They're real?!"

"Yes, sir." The slide changed; a signing ceremony, several Serpos looking on as Eisenhower wrote in a book. "In 1957, the Serps entered our orbit and demanded our surrender."

"Wait, what? This is crazy!"

"Why?" Charles was impassive, almost amused.

"If we had been visited by aliens from another world, I think there would be videos, eye-witnesses, pictures!"

Charles hit the button again to show a collage of UFO pictures and witness drawings. "These images and stories are available online, to everyone who cares to look for them. There are also leaked videos from our secret bases, alien interrogations, even of our first landing on Mars."

"We've been to Mars?!"

"Actually, we're still there. Even with all this information in the public domain, aliens are still considered a myth. Why do you think this is?"

"No official verification or declaration?" It was the only reason I could think of. This was real?!

"Exactly. Some of these accounts are false," Charles admitted, "But a lot of them are completely true. Are you ready to hear more, sir?" I nodded. "Good. Well, were no match for the aliens' technology." A picture of a mushroom cloud appeared. "Our nuclear arsenals were the only thing that dissuaded them from invading the earth."

"So I take it we eventually won?"

The slide changed to show angry red waypoints around the world – mostly in America, I noted. "Far from it. The aliens now live here on earth. There are 147 underground bases that we know of - and helped make, in some cases. Some are accommodation. Others are...far more sinister, I'm afraid. In total, we estimate something along the lines of 20 million aliens living here with us."

"I'm assuming we can't kick them out?"

"If only, sir. In fact, Eisenhower arranged our surrender in order to prevent our eradication."

"Things were that bad?"

"Worse actually, and the surrender only stands as long as the population remains unaware of our... hosts."

I stood and paced around as I struggled with this information. "Why does the world need to remain ignorant of the aliens? People are more enlightened in today's world. They would cope with the idea, surely?"

The slide changed to Kennedy just before his assassination. "Imagine this; you stand in front of the entire world tomorrow and repeat everything I've just told you. There would be a global collapse of the monetary, religious and legal systems. We would cease to be a civilised and progressive race, and therefore useless for the aliens' purposes. Even the idea of aliens is disastrous for the human race, so this department is constantly fighting to keep aliens away from the population – in both an ideological and physical sense."

I flopped back onto my chair. "So what's with the picture of Kennedy? Did the aliens assassinate him or something?"

"No sir. We did."

"What? Why?"

"Because he thought he knew better and was going to initiate a public disclosure. When Kennedy became president, his obsession with the Serpos grew to the point that he could no longer remain silent. For the good of mankind, he was removed."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Is it, sir? The stakes are bigger than one man's life." Charles looked pointedly at me, the message clear. "Only one other president has threatened to go public." The slide changed to a familiar face. "President George."

"You – we – killed George?"

"Yes, sir. By telling the truth, Kennedy and George would have caused the complete annihilation of mankind. They needed to be removed."

I suddenly felt very vulnerable. This secret arm of the government had just openly admitted to killing two presidents, to me - the newly-elected president. This didn't bode well. "OK Charles, let's stop beating about the bush. You're saying that if I try to do the same as George and Kennedy, I will be killed."

Charles smiled again. "Yes sir."

"So then, why are you telling me this? What do I do?"

"The role of the American president is to help maintain this façade, to keep the population under control and completely clueless to the reality of the situation. We also need you to authorise the release of human beings as, _samples_ , to the Serpos for their own purposes. Genetic testing, manipulation, and the such. Your authorisation keeps it constitutional."

"Constitutional. So...you're asking me to take orders from you?" For the first time ever, I started regretting my political career.

"No, not at all sir. You are the president, America's Commander-in-Chief. That remains the same. As you can hopefully appreciate, the alien problem needs to be a high priority in your presidential plans."

"You mean financial plans no doubt."

"That won't be necessary." The slideshow finished and we returned to the darkened control room. My legs felt shaky and I needed a drink. Charles gestured to the large clock at the far end of the room and smiled at me. "Money is a false system used to control the population, not to control us. We simply take what we need. Talking of money though, we are always fighting some aspect of this artificial world. Pollution. Disease. Conflict. In this case, the clock is counting down the first major system collapse." He held up a dollar in the gloom. "Three months."

"In three months, the monetary system collapses? How do you know this?"

"The American financial system relies on two crucial factors to work," he replied. "The value of things must always increase, and people must always be in debt. In 3 months, America will reach total saturation and fall to pieces. This will have a domino effect on the entire world." He stroked his moustache. "We engineered it that way."

"Unbelievable."

"Like any well-used system, a reboot is needed now and again. A hard reset back to zero. When the monetary system fails, we simply start it again. It shouldn't be a problem, although our analysts have recommended that we," he struggled for words, "thin-out the population before system failure, in order to make the transition more manageable for us."

"Thin-out? You mean kill American citizens? Unacceptable."

"I don't think it's optional, sir." Charles motioned to someone, who passed him an electronic slate. "The recommended option is to release a filovirus with a healthy – if you pardon the pun – mortality rate, say 4% or so. In three months, the population will be at an acceptable level and we can initiate the reboot with a minimum of fuss. There is an added bonus that the system collapse can be blamed on the virus. In a way, it is perfect."

"This is madness, Charles!"

"There is no need for concern. You and your family will be completely safe from the virus and the chaos from the restart." He gave me the slate; it depicted a document with sections for my signature. "Here is your first presidential duty I'm afraid. Please sign here to authorise the first batch of samples for the aliens, and sign here to authorise the release of the virus. We'll sort out the details."

I looked at my dull reflection in the slate; I saw a man who I was proud to be, a man who knew right from wrong, who wanted to be remembered for being a good and honest person – and president. I knew that I would have power over my fellow man, but this was beyond anything I expected. I was being asked to allow one thousand people to become lab rats for aliens. I was being asked to sign away the deaths of millions in order to make the apocalypse more bearable for those who engineered it. Was this the reason that Kennedy and George died? Did they say no?

Charles stood at ease before me, studying my reaction. I wagered that he probably had a gun behind his back, ready to shoot me the moment I rejected this document. With a deep breath, I imagined my wife and kids for the last time, and then dropped the slate. "No Charles, I won't do it. I'm not selling my soul."

Charles looked down at the broken device, sighed heavily, and then shouted, "OK everyone, exercise over!" The lights came on to reveal a room-full of people, some wearing party hats, others holding drinks. A smattering of applause started, and a banner dropped in front of the doomsday clock that said _Congratulations Mr President!_

"What...what is this?"

"A test, Mr President." Charles removed his moustache. "I am Agent Drake, sir." We shook hands. "I apologise for the charade, but we vet every president in this manner to ensure they have the country and its citizens' best interests at heart."

Relief flooded me. "Thank God! A test!" I felt my hands trembling, and Drake gave me a cold bottle of beer.

"We will take you back up to the White House now." He motioned to a couple of agents, brought out a pad and pen from within his jacket and made a note. "All the best, President Reynolds." He saluted and strode off, but not before I caught a glimpse of his notepad. Amongst an array of ticks and comments was one word - _FAIL._

# A Theoretical Question

Tristan entered the expansive white hologram suite, hung-over and sleepy due to the latest lecture on the _Alternative Theories of Splat._ The room was an extraordinarily expensive piece of technology, justified by the university in the age-old technique of lying to their benefactors about its commercial benefits when, in fact, it was simply an extremely cool toy to parade in front of the other universities. At the far end of the room Tristan could see his friend Josh busying himself over a small computer console.

"Oi mate," Tristan called out as he wandered across the room, "why did you call me down here? I am very busy and have no time for this."

Josh glanced over his shoulder, his silvery hair flowing. "What were you busy doing? Playing that ridiculously offensive game?"

"Hey – there is nothing offensive about the _Surprise Love Simulator._ It's educational." He leant against the wall and breathed a plume of yellow smoke at his friend. "So what are we doing here? Dean Kruger will kill us by way of _Surprise Love Simulator_ if he finds us messing with his holosuite."

Josh slid his finger across the surface of the terminal; the room started to hum. "Remember the conversation we had in the pub last night?"

"Of course," replied Tristan, "But I was only joking. I never used to perform circumcisions with a pack of extremely sharp playing cards."

"Not that conversation." The air shimmered; several pink squat objects started to materialise around the room.

Tristan looked hard at Josh. "You're not talking about the _'how many babies we could take on in a fight'_ conversation, are you?"

Josh beamed. "That's the one! Well, it got me thinking. How many babies _could_ we take on in a fight?" He motioned to the screen in the wall. "Using this holographic suite we are going to discover the answer. I've programmed in the physical attributes of an average 6 month-old child, as well as some behavioural characteristics obtained from the medical faculty's servers."

"You're joking? I'm not going to waste my time watching how many babies it'll take to defeat a man." He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it, leaving a dark streak on the multi-billion dollar floor. "Laters."

"Hang on there; we're not going to just watch." Josh removed his coat and rolled his shoulders. "We're going to take part."

Tristan stopped dead in the middle of the room that was quickly filling with computer-generated toddlers. "We're actually going to smack around a bunch of babies?"

"Yes."

"Just to prove how many it'll take to over-run a full grown man?"

Josh nodded enthusiastically. "A trivial waste of university resources, wouldn't you agree?"

"And against common decency too." Tristan ripped off his own coat and joined his friend, small pale fists at the ready. "Alright then, let's do this!" Josh activated the simulation. A few peaceful seconds passed, and Tristan coughed. "The babies are quite cute, aren't they? The way they just sit there, gurgling and cooing, not attacking us. There may be a flaw in this experiment."

"Hmm. Maybe we need to spice things up a little." Josh flipped open the console and altered some settings. "Let's reprogram them to be more bloodthirsty." With a shimmer of light, the babies were replaced by green and grey decomposing versions.

"Zombie babies!" grinned Tristan. "Although, why didn't you just make the normal babies more aggressive? Why do you have to turn them into zombies?"

"I don't know," replied Josh. "I just get the feeling that someone might complain if we continued this experiment with holograms of real babies."

They both looked around the room, then shrugged and started the simulation. The nearest zombie baby, a screaming mass of rotting flesh and bone, started crawling slowly towards the pair of students, a murderous look in its red eyes. After five minutes of waiting for the zombie to reach them, Josh relaxed. "They need to be faster."

Tristan nodded and yawned, his initial interest waning. "Here's an idea. Let's run around kicking their heads in!"

"Don't be idiotic! We're trying to find out how many babies it'll take to defeat us, not whether we can kill." He pressed the console rapidly. "We know we can kill babies. Let's begin again."

"Question; can we get hurt?" Tristan asked. "I mean, when they reach us, what will happen?"

"Whenever a baby is attacking you, holographic tractor beams will slightly impede your movements," replied Josh.

"So if lots of babies are in contact, I'll become paralyzed?"

"Yes. And if you become paralyzed, you'll be technically dead, and we'll have our answer. Are you ready?" With a click of his fingers, Josh started the simulation, then backed up against the wall in fear as the horde of zombies snarled towards them at an inhuman speed. "Stop simulation!" Josh cried just as an undead cherub leapt at Tristan's head.

"Wow!" exclaimed Tristan, patting the face of the airborne zombie now frozen in front of him. "That's more like it!"

"You're joking! We're going to get annihilated by these turbo toddlers! Let me balance things out." He twiddled the console as Tristan sat on a zombie and lit up a smoke. Eventually, Josh clapped his hands together. "There - I've reduced speed and zombie aggression. Let's begin again."

This time, the wave crawled towards them at a more favourable pace until they were within striking distance of the two students at last. "Let's do this!" bellowed Tristan, then started kicking and stamping on the tiny enemies as they tried to bite and scratch him. One grabbed hold of his leg and sunk its decaying holographic teeth into his calf. "Ha ha ha! That tickles!" Tristan grabbed the baby monster and wrenched it free. It fell and rolled into the mass of crawling bodies, then got up and started back towards him.

"There's too many!" shouted Josh as he jumped up and down, sending babies flying everywhere. "When you hit them, they just get back up!"

"Who would have thought babies were so resilient?" Tristan shouted back as he threw a couple of demons across the room. "Stop simulation!" The two exhausted scientists sank to the floor, covered in holographic gore. "We need weapons," said Tristan simply.

It took a few phone calls and vague promises to some of his classmates, but Josh eventually gained access to the university's weapons database and downloaded everything on offer. "That's more like it," exclaimed Tristan, brandishing a holographic chainsaw.

Josh raised his own weapon, a WW2 flamethrower, and then started the simulation again. Tristan was immediately obscured in a cloud of blood and gore as his chainsaw cut through the zombies. Josh fired the flamethrower in short controlled bursts, turning the enemy into small fireballs; much to his horror, the flames didn't affect them at all.

With a toothy clank, Tristan's chainsaw stopped and the remaining babies quickly rolled over him like a green wave, clawing and biting until he was paralysed. Josh was on the floor quickly afterwards, immobile and covered in burning zombies. He called out frantically, and the fiends disappeared.

"That didn't work," muttered Josh as he staggered to his feet. "Do babies not feel pain?"

"They're baby zombies," reminded Tristan. "My weapon was awesome until it ran out of petrol."

"According to the console," said Josh glumly, "It took only 70 babies to take us down."

"Really? It felt like more."

Josh rubbed his chin. "We need weapons that are immediately incapacitating, like the chainsaw, but don't require ordnance or fuel. Samurai swords, for instance?"

"What about shovels?" suggested Tristan. "Sharp on the end but can be used as a club too."

"Shovels it is!" Josh waved a wand, and the implements appeared in their hands. The horde appeared at the other side of the room and started their advance. "These shovels are a bit heavy though," Josh said. "We're going to get tired quickly waving these around."

He was right. The pair swatted the first wave of babies away with the face of their garden tools, but the pale students' "sedentary lifestyle" arms were never meant to wield such objects and the babies soon won the fight.

"Swords," panted Josh. "Light and sharp, that's the way forward."

They reset the experiment and brandished a pair of Katanas, the electronic replicas moving slightly slower than their hand movements but otherwise totally realistic. The attacking horde rolled towards them as before, but this time the scientists had the advantage, cutting and chopping the zombies effortlessly.

"Freeze simulation!"

Josh and Tristan looked at each other in confusion. "Why did you stop the simulation?" they said in unison, then both slowly looked towards the entrance to the holosuite and at Dean Kruger. He was accompanied by a small party of suits, who were staring at the scene in disbelief.

"What the _HELL_ is going on here?" screamed the Dean, more menacing that any of the zombies they had battled.

"We were experimenting sir!" quivered Tristan, trying to hide a cigarette butt under his foot.

"By killing these... creatures?!" Kruger advanced on them, fists clenched. "Do you realise that these people," he gestured to the following party, "are the benefactors who paid for this hologram suite? The suite you are using without permission?"

"Yes sir," they said together, backing away from his rage.

"Excuse me," piped an elderly gentleman from behind Kruger, "but what is the experiment? What are these students trying to discover?"

The soon-to-be-excluded pair looked at each other; there was absolutely no other explanation for it, no lie they could tell that would result in Kruger smiling, patting them on the back, and congratulating them on being thigh-high in baby bodies. "Well," said Josh, squaring his shoulders defiantly, "we were attempting to discover how many babies it would take to incapacitate a full-grown human male."

There was a shocked silence, Kruger's face turning redder with every passing second until he started to steam. The benefactors looked around the room; at the blood, gore, corpses and severed limbs, and then one of them raised a hand. "Can I have a go?"

# Time and Punishment

"Excellent!" whispered Aaron into Daniel's ear, "World War 2 beach landings. My favourite method of execution!"

In his newly-issued guards uniform, Daniel watched the silent projection hovering above the court. In the near-darkness the defence team could be heard packing their papers away; it had been a quick and unsuccessful trial for them, the video evidence proving without any doubt that Vince McAndrews had murdered the elderly couple. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; ironic, considering that time would kill Vince.

On the holographic screen the amphibious landing craft juddered as it hit solid ground, its cargo of British soldiers almost toppling over. Amongst the squaddies was a frightened Vince, his orange prisoner's uniform replaced with an olive-green tunic to ensure that the time-travelling convict would blend in with the era. The court watched Vince make an unsuccessful scramble towards the back of the craft, but his path was blocked by the soldiers. Thinking that he was one of them, they shoved him back, screaming at him to do his duty for King and country.

The ramp at the front of the vehicle lowered to reveal a dreary and punished beach. Pillboxes and barbed wire loomed in the distance. Suddenly, tunic and flesh were ripped from the soldiers' bodies, bullets flooding the craft like a swarm of wasps. The soldiers fell quickly, killed by the distant machine gunners – all except Vince, who covered himself with a dying man to shield himself from the gunfire.

"Completely pointless," muttered Aaron to Daniel. "Whatever happens, Vince will be killed. Every action that can be made, every possibility, has been calculated and simulated. It's a certainty."

"There's no such thing as certainty," replied Daniel without taking his eyes from the projection; still clutching the dead soldier like a shield, Vince made his way out of the craft and waded through the red water, stepping over dozens of dead bodies littering the beach, and scurried into a large crater. As he lay on his back catching his breath, the sand beside him erupted. When the image cleared, Vince was writhing in agony; both of his legs had been sheared off by the explosion. Screaming, he crawled out of his hole and tried to get back to the landing craft, but a flurry of bullets stitched a line up his back. He screamed again and rolled over; another couple of bullets ripped into his stomach. He balled up, crying as he held his gushing wounds.

In the gallery, someone started to clap. Judge Skivil, his single brass-framed eye peering into the darkness, banged his gavel. "There will be no clapping," he grated, steam hissing out of his facial augmentations. "Death is not a cause for celebration."

Soundlessly, a bullet hit Vince in the forehead and his eyes went blank, his quivering body suddenly still. There was a murmur from the witnesses; some people stood up and left, their work done. The screen remained on Vince's corpse, the sea lapping at his bleeding back, the odd random bullet tugging at his torso, until the judge stood up and cut the transmission with a metal hand.

"Justice has been served, and a part of the past has been saved," said Judge Skivil.

Aaron leaned towards Daniel. "Neat, huh?"

***

After the spectators had been herded out of the court– some wiping tears from their eyes, some punching the air in empty, revenge-induced celebration – Aaron herded his charge into a tiny grubby room off of the main corridor and made them both a filthy-looking tea. Daniel looked at his communally-abused mug, chipped and brown, and almost refused it. Yet, he drank it down anyway; he desperately wanted to fit-in with this rag-tag bunch of guards. The last thing he needed was to be singled out as a troublemaker, or as someone who thought himself above everyone else. His degree in psychology – a rarity thanks to the astronomical costs in higher education – would do that if it ever became common knowledge. Daniel had omitted his qualifications from his application form for this very reason.

Aaron belched loudly and patted his gut. "Better out than in." He looked at his watch, then gently pushed Daniel out of the room with the butt of his carbine. "Come on, dogsbody. We're on patrol."

A rickety old elevator took them down to a world of hissing pipes and dripping brass tubes far underneath the court complex. Aaron sparked up a sweetstick and breathed it into Daniel's face as they walked down the catwalk between huge hanging cages, each one holding a dishevelled prisoner. Some moaned with hunger, others raged obscenities at Daniel and Aaron. It was clear that they were all in misery. "This is the holding area, sport," said Aaron, ignoring the suffering around them. "Each cell holds a piece of scum, so no fraternising, no teasing, and no disturbing our guests." He threw his sweetstick into the nearest cage, showering the prisoner in hot ambers. "Isn't that right, filth?"

"Get lost, screw!" snarled the convict, a foul-looking woman with a huge angry scar running down her naked body.

"Now now, sugar tits," grinned Aaron, "don't get impatient. We'll have you out of there in no time."

"So how long will it be before these prisoners are released?" asked Daniel. He didn't care what happened to them; they were criminals, pure and simple. He simply wanted to show his interest in the job.

"Release? We don't release anybody!" Aaron grinned and pulled a telescopic club out of his belt. He jabbed the woman convict viciously with it. "Did you hear that? My friend here thinks you're going to be released!" He jabbed her harder. "Come on, give us a laugh!"

Daniel blushed at the naked woman thrashing around in her cage. "So what happens to these people then? This is a prison facility, isn't it?"

"Not just any prison facility, my boy," said Aaron, spreading his arms wide, "this is Time and Punishment! We send criminals back through time to die in history's worst accidents and events! Don't you know anything?"

"Well yeah, obviously," replied Daniel, quickly piecing together everything he'd seen and heard so far, "I know that some criminals are sent back in time to suffer a horrible death. I saw that in the court earlier. What did the judge mean though, when he said, justice has been served and a part of the past saved?"

"Kin'ell!" exclaimed Aaron. "Haven't you had your induction yet?" He sighed when Daniel shook his head. "Listen up. Time travel follows Newton's third law, which is...?"

"Every action has an opposite and equal reaction?"

Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Well well, look at the professor!" Daniel grimaced; low-level security guards on their first day shouldn't know physics. "So," continued Aaron, "if we send something back through time, we need to bring something forwards through time, of roughly the same mass."

Daniel nodded. "So we send someone back to the past and bring someone to the future?"

Aaron beamed. "I didn't realise that dogs had brains! Well done." He patted Daniel's head with a sweaty hand. Some of the prisoners laughed and hollered abuse. "Anyway, once a criminal is sentenced to death, we sling them into one of the time tubes and swap them with someone who's died needlessly in the past. Hence, a part of the past has been saved." He flourished as much as his sizeable bulk would allow. "It's the ultimate kind of justice. A horrible, unavoidable execution for the convict, and a reprieve for the innocent."

Daniel frowned. "Why not simply replace the murder victim with the murderer?"

"So the perp ends up killing himself?" Aaron lashed out at a prisoner's cage with his baton, catching a couple of reaching fingers. "It's got a nice flow about it – the criminal kills his future self in the past. The thing about time is that it hates loops. Create a loop in time and... well, things go a bit weird."

"How so?"

Aaron shook his head. "I don't know, it's all very technical. All that I do know is that there's an area of the New York hives which is off-limits, guarded by hundreds of Time and Punishment soldiers. I've heard lots of stories, of course. The techs talk about it all the time." He sparked up another sweetstick. "Things appear out of thin air. Nasty, deadly, horrible things. A loop in time creates a portal to other places."

"What about replacing a murder victim with another criminal?" Daniel asked. He was uncomfortable with the idea of messing around with time. What if something went wrong? Could someone go back and murder his father, effectively killing him and his entire future bloodline? There was no defence against that kind of attack.

Aaron picked his nose, then wiped it on a cage. "Funnily enough, that's how Time and Punishment started off – replacing murder victims with murderers. However, as soon as you change the victim, it invalidates the original trial. Take this morning's execution. Vince was convicted of murdering Susan and Barry Winters. If you swap them out for, say, a Keith and a Kyle, Vince has suddenly been wrongly convicted."

"He would have still killed though."

"Yes, but not the people he was found guilty of killing." They came to a huge metal door at the end of the cellblock. Aaron typed in a PIN on the rusty control pad. "Bloody lawyers, eh? So to avoid all that unnecessary messing around again, only people who have been killed in accidents and mass atrocities are rescued instead. No legal mess, no questions asked."

"Won't that upset continuity?" Daniel pulled the door open for Aaron as he squeezed himself through the bulkhead.

"As long as the people brought into the present are kept separate from the rest of the population, it's not a problem, dickhead. You ever heard of the Separates?"

"Yeah, that's the colony in orbit around Mars." Daniel had seen pictures of the Separates' ugly irregular-shaped space station on the news. "They're plague carriers, afflicted with some genetic disease and have quarantined themselves."

"That's the official story. The reality is, they are actually people from the past, rescued by us."

"Oh." Daniel stopped and looked around; he was in a room filled with more snaking pipes and cylinders. Against one wall were a trio of man-sized brass tubes, patina-encrusted and with a large glass porthole set in the front of each one. There was a slight chill in the air, as if the room was used for storing perishables. "What's this room, Aaron?"

"This, my lad, is the honeymoon suite." He stomped up to the nearest tube and peeked in through the oval porthole. "Empty."

"Honeymoon suite?" Daniel scratched the surface of the tube; it flaked off in large patches, revealing a surprisingly shiny metal underneath.

"Yeah, honeymoon suite, for our more... persistent guests." He peered into the second tube. "Now that we have mastered time travel, if someone is convicted of multiple deaths, they can serve multiple death sentences. These tubes hold multiple sentence servers. What we call the Mess prisoners."

"That's ridiculous," exclaimed Daniel before he could stop himself. "I mean, it's not possible to die more than once, is it?"

"You thought time travel was strange?" Aaron lit another sweetstick. "You're not the religious type are you, dogsbody?"

"No," replied Daniel, "I'm space born."

"Oh right. You guys don't bother with religion." Being born in a tiny cramped environment, with every resource used as efficiently as possible, space-born people rarely had room for a religion in their frugal lives. "When a convict dies in the past, we can bring their essence back to the present."

"Essence?"

"Being, mind, spirit, soul – whatever you want to call it. We bring the criminal's essence back to the present and put it inside a cloned body so we can re-kill them." He blew smoke into Daniel's face. "Imagine suffering death after death after death, remembering what it feels like to have a bullet rattling around in your brain, or your entrails spilling out of your stomach, or being buried alive." Aaron sighed. "It makes you wonder why people kill. I wouldn't want to die twice, let-alone die horribly."

"Is this all legal? It doesn't sound ethical." Daniel felt a sudden shock of realisation wash over him; there was a soul. That means religion...was correct? Is correct?

"Legality of time travel is a bit of a grey area," said Aaron. "All the World Government says is that the punishment must fit the crime. They're aware that Time and Punishment are doing good work in righting the wrongs of the past. They don't know about the ability to re-kill people, or how we do it. Remember, every time we send a murderer back, we rescue an innocent person from the past." He took a long drag of his sweetstick and coughed loudly. Daniel thought against reminding him of the dangers of smoking. "The WG are actually pushing us to give the death sentence to people convicted of softer crimes so that more people can be saved."

"You can't just fill up the victims of the past with the criminals of the present," said Daniel, still uneasy about the whole thing.

"Why not? Each event in history is analysed very carefully for people who simply didn't stand a chance. Those people who would die, no matter what they tried to do. Think about any of the atomic explosions during the Middle East Exchange. There were a lot of innocent victims, killed without a hope in hell of surviving a nuclear explosion. Now, most of the victims in those explosions are now crims." Aaron wandered over to the last tube and checked its dials. "Talking of crims, this one is going to be our longest resident. Want to take a look?"

Daniel peered inside the porthole. The man inside had bone-white hair and a thin gaunt face. He was sat in a meditative position, his upturned hands displaying thin spidery fingers. He was immediately recognisable; Raphael Fernandez, the world's most wanted.

Aaron breathed smoke over the glass. "Surprised, cock breath?"

Daniel gawped. "I thought he would have been hanged for what he did, or sent off to die in a deep space mine somewhere!"

Aaron's laugh tailed off into another bronchial cough. "Can you think of someone more suited to be a Mess? He's going to be re-killed for a very long time." Aaron activated a comms link set into the tube. "Oi, Rabbit. Wakey wakey! I have a visitor here for you."

Raphael's eyes snapped open and fixed on Daniel; they were bright pink, almost glowing with energy. Daniel felt a shock go through his legs, his flight-or-fight instinct unexpectedly triggered by the biggest mass-murderer in the history of mankind.

"Rabbit," continued Aaron, "let me introduce you to a human being called Daniel. Daniel, meet some filth." Aaron winked at his apprentice. "How many deaths do you think it'll be before Rabbit's mind breaks under the strain? 40? 50?"

"I... I don't know," replied Daniel, finally able to take his eyes away from Raphael. "How many times will he be killed? I mean, in total?"

"Did you hear that, rabbit?" Aaron said to the prisoner. "Danny-boy's asked how many times you'll be killed! Let's see..." He pretended to count on his fingers. "Add ten, carry the one, times five... I make it one million, one hundred and ten thousand, one hundred and eighteen times. Is that right, Rabbit?"

The figure was silent.

"God damn you!" Aaron spat out the smoking stick and lashed out at the tube with his fists. "You killed over a million people, you bastard! And you'll pay! You'll be begging us to kill you for good. I've even reserved a clone just for me and my buddies! We're going to get your essence into it, then drag you into one of our interrogation rooms and torture you to death! I'm going to pull your teeth out one by one, and that's one of the nicer things we're going to do to you!" He stopped, panting from his sudden outburst.

Daniel watched the prisoner's reaction; there was none. "He doesn't seem to care, does he?"

"He's a psychopath." Aaron entered some maintenance commands into the time-tube's console and sighed. "My wife's sister was killed in the Wave. She was visiting friends in New York. Her body still hasn't been recovered."

"I'm sorry." Daniel tried to look sad for his mentor's benefit.

"Did you see the video?"

"Yes. I watched it on PlaNet." Watching a known terrorist blow up the side of a volcanic island for no reason was good entertainment. Then the Wave appeared, a 150 foot tall wall of water smashing coastlines all over the world, creating trillions of dollars of damage, killing over a million people.

"Who would think a landslide on some tiny island in the middle of nowhere would cause a worldwide tsunami?" asked Aaron, closing the console.

Both Daniel and Aaron's communicators chimed urgently; Aaron pulled the pen-like device out of his pocket first. "Grimes here."

"I need some assistance!" cried a panicky voice. Gunshots and screaming could be heard in the background. "One of the prisoners is running amok in the courtroom!"

"On my way," replied Aaron. To Daniel, he said "This is a bit out of your league, cow-banger. Have a wander around, get used to the... ambience." He left, wobbling away as fast as his thighs allowed.

As soon as the bulkhead banged closed, Daniel peered into Raphael's cell; huge pink eyes stared back, mere millimetres away. Daniel cried out in surprise and fell over.

The eyes, in a strong firm voice said "Are you OK?"

"Of course," said Daniel, scrabbling to his feet, his pride a little dented. "I wasn't expecting you to be so close to the glass."

"I am sorry," said the eyes.

Daniel straightened his khaki jacket and, without anything else to do, examined the two empty tubes in the room. Each one was empty, dank, and smelled faintly of shit and blood. He wondered who the last occupants were, and how they had eventually died.

"Those tubes would be occupied," said the pink eyes, "If not for mankind's willingness to punish without understanding."

"There's nothing to understand when a million people are killed," replied Daniel, "so just be quiet, please."

"Of course." The eyes blinked. "I've often wondered what it would feel like to die. Sometimes, I imagine having my head removed by guillotine."

Daniel put his finger to his lips. "Be quiet, please."

"The sudden numbness as the blade slices through nerves and bones, watching the world tilt as my head drops into a bucket, not being able to scream or draw breath. A prisoner in my own dying mind, able to see but not act. Panic, then insanity."

Daniel sighed. "You're going to experience death many times, so you'd better get used to it."

"I will."

Daniel watched the eyes, but they did not falter. "So, since you're not going to be quiet, what was your motive? Why did you create that tsunami?"

The eyes disappeared; Raphael had returned to his meditative posture. "You would understand why," his voice crackled out of the tinny tube speaker, "if you had seen the world through my eyes."

Suddenly the bulkhead clanked opened. A lab technician hurried in, his white coat flowed behind him like a shockwave. "Righty," he said as he breezed past Daniel and flipped open the computer terminal on Raphael's tube, "let's get this party on the road, shall we?"

"Party?" enquired Daniel.

"Just an expression, sweetie." He looked Daniel up and down like a dog sizing up a bone. "You're new here, aren't you? My name is Jeremy." He offered his hand to Daniel, palm-down as if expecting Daniel to kiss it. "If you're not doing anything later, maybe me and you could have our own little party? I like new meat!"

"No thanks," Daniel said, shaking the hand awkwardly. "I'm taking my girlfriend out. To dinner. Sorry."

"Girlfriend? Oh well, nobody's perfect." The tech's fingers clattered over the keyboard, then flipped the console closed. "And my work here is done. Toodles, Daniel. Toodles, big bad killer guy!" Jeremy bounded away, slamming the bulkhead closed.

"You don't have a girlfriend, do you." It was a statement from Raphael, not a question.

"Was it that obvious?"

"The technician programmed in the place and time of my first execution. Would you be kind enough to tell me where and when?"

Daniel hesitated; was he allowed to give that kind of information to convicts? It couldn't hurt, he reasoned, so he lowered the console screen and looked at the array of numbers glowing in green. "These numbers mean nothing to me, I'm afraid."

"Please read out what you can see."

Daniel did. Inside the tube, Raphael smiled. "It looks like I will be performing in front of an audience soon. How melodramatic."

"How do you know that?"

"I have a vast knowledge of historical and geographical places. That data set is a four-dimensional reference." He breathed deeply. "Rome, Italy, first century. Someone has a love of the theatrical."

The bulkhead opened again to admit Aaron, who was reloading a combat shotgun. "Well," he smiled, "that's one prisoner that got an early sentence." He looked at Daniel, then at the open console. "Daniel, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." Daniel snapped the console closed. "A lab technician came in. I was looking at what he did."

"Well don't. You wouldn't understand." He looked at his cheap watch. "It's almost time to send Rabbit off on his adventure." A buzzer sounded and Raphael's tube shuddered in response, valves and pipes jerking to life. Aaron made an obscene gesture through the window just as the tube started to revolve on its base.

"What's going on, Aaron?" Daniel watched with fascination at the moving obelisk. "Why is it turning?"

"It's turning, dogface, so that the door opens up into the Receiving room. When Rabbit gets sent back in time, someone from the past will appear. A few representatives will bundle the poor bastard into a cryo chamber and ship them to the Separates colony." The tube had stopped rotating. It started to hum. "You might want to cover your ears, boy."

There was a flash accompanied by a huge bang, and a blast of icy air hit washed over the two prison guards. Loud voices, one sounding panicked and desperate, could be heard from the next room. Behind them, the bulkhead slammed open and a floating gurney, pushed by Jeremy the Technician, entered the room. "Howdy, prison guards!" he greeted them. "What's the good word?" The tube started revolving again until the door was visible.

"As you can plainly see," replied Aaron, "my life is a rollercoaster of babes, bucks, and being famous. How about you?"

"Fabulous!" Jeremy started to unzip a large bag on the trolley. "Could you two give me a hand please? These things are rather awkward."

To Daniel's utter surprise, inside the bag was Raphael – or rather, a mindless clone of the prisoner. It looked dumbly at the trio as they lifted the naked body into the tube. "I wish the real Raphael was this quiet," muttered Aaron as he slammed the tube door closed. Jeremy took a small slim box from his jacket and, with a set of tweezers, transferred something invisible into a recess in the tube.

"What was that?" asked Daniel.

"A tiny fleck of Granite," replied the technician. "It's partly to counter-balance the mass of the prisoner's soul coming back from the past, but it also detaches the soul from its old body too."

Aaron pressed a silver button on the tube and a projection appeared in the air. "Let's see how our favourite convict is getting on, shall we?" Raphael was on his back, scrabbling away from something off-screen. Suddenly, a lion appeared and grabbed a leg. Blood oozed onto the sandy floor. Another lion grabbed an arm and pulled; it came away in a shower of blood. Raphael's face contorted into a scream.

"Why doesn't sound travel back from the past?" asked Daniel, looking away from the images. Aaron shrugged. Daniel pretended to study Jeremy's computer screen; he couldn't watch the death of a man that he'd been talking to mere minutes earlier. It felt wrong.

Silent minutes passed, then Aaron clapped his hands together. "Well, that's that. He's dead!" Daniel glanced at the projection; Raphael was completely dismembered, parts of his body lying in pools of running blood. His head was nowhere to be seen though, probably taken off by one of the lions. Daniel felt queasy but swallowed it away; he couldn't show remorse. It wasn't professional.

Jeremy tapped something into the computer, then pressed a large flashing pearlescent button. There was a small bang from the tube; the lifeless clone suddenly came to life, kicking and thrashing around. It started to scream.

Aaron tapped on the glass of the tube. "Welcome back Rabbit! You OK in there?" The screaming didn't stop.

****

After a whole day doing what Aaron had dubbed "being furniture" in the courtroom, Daniel was sent to relieve the guard in the prisoner cells. He felt excited; there was something about the process of re-killing someone that had intrigued him, and he was keen to see what effect multiple deaths would have on the albino terrorist. When he got to the cells though, the guard had already gone – typical, thought Daniel. It wasn't that he thought himself above the role of a security guard, just that he thought himself above the other guards. They were all lazy, uncaring, unfeeling slobs.

He checked on the caged prisoners first, noting that almost all of them were new. Aaron had said that Time and Punishment were being pushed to "rescue" more people from the past, so it was reasonable to assume that the turnover between imprisonment and execution was as quick as possible. He wondered what would happen if someone was wrongly executed. Probably nothing. He was a little glad that the naked girl with the scar had gone. That had been a bit too rich for his blood.

He entered the Mess prisoner's block and checked the two tubes for any new additions before he tentatively looked into Raphael's cell. Instead of the gibbering wreck from yesterday, he saw a composed man in meditation.

"Hello Daniel," said Raphael without opening his eyes, "It is good to see you again."

"Hello," replied Daniel, looking over his shoulder to check that he was alone. "How... how are you today?"

"I must admit that the last 24 hours have been unusually tough on me," he replied, "but not totally unexpected." He was silent for a while, and then he stood up and flexed his naked body. Daniel averted his gaze. "You asked me why I caused the Wave. I am going to tell you."

"Go on," said Daniel, excitedly.

"Science."

"Science? That makes no sense."

"Science is evil. Medical science helps the wrong kind of people live a full life. If someone develops an illness because they smoke or drink too much, they should die. It's their own fault. In a way, it's God's way of punishing those who indulge in sin too much, but medical science defies the will of God." He smiled, pink eyes flashing. "The world is an evil place, Daniel, and science helps mankind thrive despite being evil. You are lucky that you have never had to live on earth."

"How do you know I've never lived on earth?" Daniel asked. He felt like he was being dragged into something he couldn't quite understand.

"Only those born above the Erth can be so innocent. I see it in your eyes." Raphael said. "Those below us, they fight and fornicate in their own filth, hungry for the slightest bit of power. They do not care about anything unless profit can be made."

"That still doesn't explain why you created the Wave."

Raphael sighed. "Put simply, science stops mankind from being eradicated by God. Using science, a virus would be cured, a disease stopped, a natural disaster averted or reduced in impact. I created the Wave to wipe out mankind."

Daniel smiled. "The Wave didn't wipe out mankind, far from it. There's nine billion people on earth, and you killed a million. You failed."

Raphael smiled back. "Did I?"

Suddenly, the bulkhead clanged open and several well-dressed people entered the room, including the half-robotic Judge Skivil. Daniel stood to attention, frantically hoping that they had not seen him fraternising with the prisoner. A rotund gentleman broke from the group and approached him, his jowls pulling his face into a sad frown – and yet he chuckled.

"At ease my good man. We are the judges of T&C, and we'd like to assess our long-term guest, if you will."

"Of course, sir." Daniel saluted for show, then stepped aside. The gaggle of judges peered into the tube.

"My gracious!" exclaimed a roly-poly woman wearing a huge red gown, "He's still compo mentis."

"Extraordinary. How many sentences has he served?" asked a weasel-faced businessman.

The rotund judge studied the computer console. "Twenty! Astounding!"

"He should be a vegetable by now," said Judge Skivil, "and it does call into question whether re-killing is an effective punishment. The prisoner should be executed for good."

"Absolutely not," scoffed the lady in red. "Every time he's sent back in time, we can rescue a poor soul from the past. The executions should continue."

"Do you not worry," said Raphael from the tube's speaker, "that I might escape in the past?"

"You have no chance in escaping," said the rotund judge, "Every possible action you can make in the past is checked and simulated. You will be serving your sentence in full, I'm afraid."

"Every possible action, you say? I am impressed that you have mastered time travel," replied Raphael with a wry grin, "and all elements of causality and probability." He returned to his meditation without another word. The judges whispered urgently together for a few minutes, then left Daniel alone with the metal coffins.

***

The next day, Daniel and Aaron were overseeing Raphael's latest execution. "Here we go," said Aaron, puffing away on a sweetstick, "execution number 50! Let's hope this one cracks him."

Raphael was standing against the glass, his eyes looking about wildly. He was starting to break, his conversations more haphazard and strange. "Where am I going?!" yelled Raphael as the tube started to rotate.

"The Titanic," called Aaron. "Drown you bastard!"

Then came the usual whining of the machine, the thump, and then the blast of cold air as the tube sent Raphael hurtling back in time. In the Receiving room next door, medics were removing a rather confused naval officer who had – originally – died.

On the monitor, Daniel watched Raphael live out the last minutes of the naval officer's fate; he was trapped in a cruise ship bedroom, water seeping in from underneath the door. With surprising calm, Raphael turned out all the drawers, found a screwdriver, and started to unscrew the room's porthole. "Raphael's been acting strange," said Daniel out loud. "Yesterday, he actually ran towards a volcanic eruption! Who would do such a thing?"

"He's searching for a way to survive," replied Aaron, "He's trying to escape by doing something we haven't checked for. Even if he did escape his death, we would bring his body back anyway."

"Why his body? Why not just his soul?" asked Daniel.

"The body's got to die before the soul can be returned," answered Jeremy, who had appeared with his trolley. "Look at that – the tube hasn't even started to rotate back yet," he huffed.

Daniel ignored him and watched the screen; with the porthole now removed, Raphael leapt out and splashed into the sea. He started to swim towards a large lifeboat a few feet away.

"Is that right?" said Daniel to Aaron and Jeremy, who were busy unbagging the clone on the trolley. Raphael had managed to get aboard the lifeboat and was making a silent speech to the occupants.

"Bring him back now!" cried Aaron, just as Raphael killed the first person on the boat with a vicious stab of his screwdriver. An officer pointed a gun at him but Raphael disarmed and killed him easily.

"There's no time for the clone! Help me load the ballast!" They ran to a locker against the far room and lifted a man-sized block of ice onto the trolley. They raced to the now-empty Receiving room and heaved the ice into the tube. "Hopefully this will be about the right mass," panted Jeremy as they slammed the tube door closed. "If not, then it's going to get very cold next door."

A blue light started winking frantically on the computer console. "What's that?" asked Daniel.

"That means bad news," replied Jeremy. "The computer has detected changes in history, probably from all the killing Raphael's doing in the past. I'm going to start the return sequence. Go next door, and when you hear me yell, press the emergency over-ride!"

The guards ran back to the Mess room, Daniel reaching the over-ride button on the back of the tube first. "This is serious, right?"

"It's never happened before," puffed Aaron, sweating from the modest exercise.

There was a muffled shout from Jeremy, so Daniel pressed the button. The tube started to whine and tremble, then a klaxon added its noise to the din. "Run!" shouted the faint voice of the tech, "There's not enough ice to counter-balance Raphael's mass!"

"Go!" shouted Aaron, pushing Daniel into the corridor and slamming the bulkhead just as the time machine thumped Raphael back to the present. The bulkhead door immediately turned white with frost.

"Wow," panted Aaron, "that was close. We were almost turned into - "

There was a smash, then a scream from the open door of the Receiving room. The guards glanced at each other, then drew their barb guns and entered with caution.

Jeremy was dead, a screwdriver sticking out of his face like an obscene marker. The tube's window was smashed and the door was open. "Our prisoner must have brought that screwdriver back through time with him," said Aaron, feeling the tech's neck for a pulse. "That's why the mass didn't balance out and we were almost frozen - there was more than just Rabbit coming back though."

"Where is he then?" trembled Daniel, his gun shaking slightly. He'd never used a gun before, let-alone dealt with the possibility of shooting someone. He noticed wet footprints that snaked around the floor and towards the only other exit. "He went through there," whispered Daniel.

"That door leads to the shuttlebay! He's trying to escape!" Before Daniel could follow, Aaron lumbered out in pursuit. There was a slap of flesh hitting flesh, then a grunt, and finally the screech of a barb gun. Aaron reappeared, his arms and legs stuck out, mouth gaping at Daniel like a fish, then he toppled backwards. A long silver bolt was sticking out of his chest.

His murderer stepped into the room and threw the depleted gun onto Aaron's body. "Hello again Daniel," said Raphael, smiling. "Please put down your gun. We both know that you are not going to use it."

"You stay away!" cried Daniel, his voice lacking conviction.

Raphael stepped up to Daniel and, very slowly, removed the gun from his grasp. "That's better," he said, rendering the weapon ineffective with a couple of quick twists. "I apologise about your obese colleague's death, but he has been rather unkind to me during my incarceration."

"I'm...sorry," said Daniel feebly. "What are you going to do now?"

Raphael smiled. "I am going to kill a handful of people, and that will be it. My mission will be over." He took Daniel by the arm and led him into the huge shuttlebay, where several wasp-like ships were ready for take-off.

"You're going to kill a couple of people? Who? Why?"

"I do not know their names." They walked in silence, Daniel's fear starting to subside a little. "I only created that tsunami so I would be brought into Time and Punishment and re-killed." Raphael stopped by the nearest shuttle's thin engine and pulled a release handle. The glittering fuel core emerged from its housing. "I needed access to a time machine but needed time to escape it too. Therefore, I killed millions of people to ensure I was given a long sentence." He took the delicate fuel cell and led Daniel back to the Receiving room.

"You were willing to go through a million deaths?"

"I was hoping it wouldn't take a million deaths to escape. Time is inherently unstable, my friend." Raphael let go of Daniel's arm and motioned for him to go sit on the floating trolley. "Even if the past has already taken place, re-running it will cause tiny variations in events. I had to simply wait until chaos gave me an opportunity." Raphael bent over Aaron's corpse and searched his pockets until he found the guard's cigarettes and lighter. "Awful habit, although quite fitting it should all end because of one."

"What are you on about?" asked Daniel, getting irritated at the cryptic behaviour. He should have shot him; could he repair his gun, or reload the one used to kill Aaron?

Raphael lit one of the sweetsticks and pulled open the tube's console. "Mankind is poisoned, Daniel. Rotten in the core. There is no cure for mankind's illness, yet mankind will never succumb to it. Science ensures that. You could say that mankind is the illness." His fingers skimmed over the keyboard quickly, then took a long drag of the sweetstick and taped it to the fuel cell, the ember end sticking up like an aerial.

Daniel stepped off of the gurney and quietly retrieved the bolt from his broken gun. He shuffled slowly over to where Aaron's body lay, all the time watching Raphael busying himself with the fuel cell. Please don't turn around, please don't turn around...

Raphael placed the cell in the time tube and slammed the tube closed. "The fuse will give us about two minutes," he called out, "but I'm afraid the broken widow will irradiate us once the tube is activated. It is largely irrelevant, though." There was a click and a whine. He turned slowly; Daniel was pointing Aaron's loaded barb gun at his head. "You do surprise me," said Raphael carefully.

"Get on the floor," growled Daniel through gritted teeth. "Do it now!"

With inhuman speed, Raphael lunged sideways and hit the green button on the tube's console. Too slowly, Daniel fired the gun at Raphael, hitting him in the chest. Electricity and poison ejected from the metal barb and Raphael convulsed wildly before dying with a scream of pain. Daniel watched the activated time machine rock backwards and forwards, unable to stop it. There was a thump and a blast of heat from the broken window. A silence fell over the room.

Daniel looked at the death and damage around him, then looked at the tube's broken window. He would probably die from the radiation, he thought. From the tube came a sliding sound, then a surprised grunt. Slowly, Daniel opened the door to find a hairy man looking at him, a flint in one hand and a large bone in the other.

A Neanderthal. With a growing sense of panic, he realised where Raphael had sent the bomb.

And then there was nothing.

# Farming

Despite the absence of apocalyptic thoughts, sleep escaped Frances. In his bare unfurnished quarters, he stared at the concrete ceiling and thought about the sheer responsibility on his shoulders, the expectation, and what failure could mean. Even success meant accepting some small measure of failure, and Frances found that hard to swallow. When that failure resulted in the death of living things... Frances turned on his hard thin bed, his eyes settling on his new gold Rolex timepiece. Two months ago he may have been excited about owning such things, but now, with the cold hard truth of his situation firmly in his conscious thoughts, he couldn't settle. Dragging his weary and lean body to the tiny kitchen area he made a cup of Kopi Luwak, concentrating on the taste and trying to ignore his racing thoughts. It didn't work. His clock alarm blared at him, informing him that another day in control had started, another day without sleep.

Later, Frances slammed his fist on the keyboard in frustration and watched the mortality rates start to soar. The virus had somehow skipped across the quarantine areas, re-igniting the outbreak once again. A vaccine was still lacking, despite serious resources being allocated to the research of one. Frances had called R&D as soon as the first case of this new pandemic had been confirmed, but their answer had chilled his blood; uncurable, they had whispered, but promised to devote more men and time as soon as possible.

Booting up his universal messaging program he hurriedly sent out directions to the various operatives on the ground; no transportation of the herd anywhere unless dictated by himself. That would slow down the rate of infection for the moment, but it was a delaying tactic at best. The word "cull" appeared unbidden in his mind and he shook it away; that was not an option. Not yet.

His cellphone buzzed; It was Paulie. "Frances, has that infection started again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Huh. My financial plans aren't looking as good as they were last week. I think the word is meltdown." Despite delivering such news, Paulie sounded breezy and unconcerned.

"Sorry."

"What for? Not your fault. It just means I have some extra work to do this week." There was a pause. "Again, if you're having problems, I can help you out."

"Thanks, but I should have it under control," replied Frances, his pride preventing him from accepting Paulie's offer. "RAND should be coming up with a cure soon," he lied.

"Right, sure. Fancy going out for a spin at dinner? My new Ferrari got delivered earlier."

"Why not?" Frances tried to emulate Paulie's breezy demeanour in the light of impending doom but failed.

***

Three days later Frances was sat on the edge of his bed reading the latest news reports. With such failure on his part now made public, Frances felt complete shame and hopelessness, and had given the poor chaps at RAND a piece of his mind. He'd apologise later, but for now, was running out of options.

There was a knock on his door. "Frances boy, are you in there?"

Frances allowed the huge frame of Paulie into the cramped room, his huge belly barely covered by his suit jacket. They shook hands. "Are you OK?" asked Frances.

"I'm fine. More to the point, are you OK?" Paulie peered at the unshaved, dishevelled Frances. "You look like crap."

Frances sighed and sat down. He needed help, and the last remnants of his pride vaporised. "It's this virus. I can't contain it, I can't stop it. RAND can't develop a cure for it. Quarantine won't stop it."

"Sounds nasty."

Frances scowled at Paulie's lack of concern. "That's it? A throwaway comment?"

"What did you want from me - hysterics? Look son," Frances's bed squealed out as Paulie sat next to him, "if you can't prevent it, kill it. Have you started culling the infected?"

"I don't think I can."

"You can, and must. Without the herd, we're screwed. Everything revolves around there being a flock to work with."

"I know, I know." Frances stood and paced, his stomach a mass of acid and knots. "What if it does go apocalyptic?"

"Dunno," Paulie admitted. "All I know is that this infection has now gone public, and the shareholders want a meeting with us. That's what I came to tell you."

Frances's blood ran cold and his skin prickled. "Paulie, I can't see them! I'll go insane!"

"I remember the first time I saw them." He looked at his feet. "I cried afterwards. I don't mind telling you that." There was silence, then Paulie stood. "Tomorrow at 9am, Ops area. Meet me at 8, and we'll go through a few things that may help. Just remember, they're not here to harm us." He turned to leave, then added, "Not yet."

***

Frances could do nothing but stare at the Shareholder. There was only one – Paulie had said that the Shareholders liked to travel in a trio – but even one was enough. The large board room seemed incredibly claustrophobic with the Shareholder in the room. Even the pair of armed guards shifted uncomfortably in the presence of this blank-faced outsider. Frances felt his legs shaking - and the meeting had only just started.

"My clients would like to know what the problem is," said the Shareholder's representative, a pale-faced man known to the company as The Link. He was the Shareholder's spokesperson, but no-one knew anything else about him. He looked perpetually frightened, and with good reason. "Even without reading the latest public reports, we knew something was wrong." The Link glanced at both Paulie and Frances. "The last batch of product was tainted with the virus, affecting all who consumed it."

Silently the Shareholder turned to face Frances, his huge dark eyes and pale oval face causing Frances's very soul to recoil in terror. The silence lasted forever, and Frances was about to cry out when Paulie broke the spell. "Well, Mr Frances Flanigan here has briefed me – and all of us – on the virus and its progress. We are hoping on an antidote from our RAND department imminently, which should eradicate the infection and return the livestock to near-normal levels. We apologise for any issues this temporary setback has caused."

"How long before the virus is destroyed?" asked The Link.

Paulie looked at Frances, who panicked and yelped, "A month?!"

The Link paused, staring above their heads, then focused back on the quivering Frances. "Unacceptable. This virus threatens the long-standing agreement between the Shareholders and," he drifted off again, "this company. The Shareholders demand swift action, or they will take action themselves. You don't want that."

Paulie stiffened. "Any interference by the Shareholders will invalidate our 60 year-old agreement, and will be met with significant opposition."

"It is irrelevant what you do if the Shareholders decide to intervene. You know that." Without any other words, The Link and the Shareholder stood and left through the security door behind them. The two guards visibly relaxed as the door clicked shut, as did they all.

Paulie patted Frances on the leg, then wiped the dampness on the chair. "I thought you were going to lose it back then. Well done though – you kept it together."

"Did I?" Frances held out his trembling hands. "I pissed myself!"

"Just take the compliment, son. Let's go get a drink."

***

The sun. It sounded so friendly and homely. However, it was just a star local to Earth, a big nuclear explosion like so many nuclear explosions going on in the universe right now. It was currently shooting amber beams into the wisps of blue cloud above them. Paulie handed the depleted bottle of rum to Frances; he drunkenly traced the words on the label with a finger. Máximo Extra Añejo.

"This is nice stuff," Frances mumbled. Paulie laughed, making the park bench wobble.

"I should think so. Apparently, very expensive."

"Doesn't that freak you out? We can get whatever we want? This is," Frances swung the bottle around dangerously, "way out of my league!"

"No." Paulie took the bottle and gulped from it. "Money's nothing, after all. Just a way to keep control."

"Yeah, and we don't own a single penny between us!"

"Yeah. I guess." Paulie picked at his fingers. "We are broke, yet control everything, and can have anything. Ain't that a bitch?"

"What am I going to do, Paulie? The Shareholders are going to take over, aren't they? This virus is going to kill everything, then the Shareholders will take over everything that's left."

"You need to start culling the flock."

"I can't just kill." Frances wavered, dizzy with drink.

Paulie sighed, finished the bottle and threw it into the road. It smashed loudly. "Look at it this way. If you do diddly-squat, everything dies and you fail. If you start culling, some of the herd survives and you succeed. We rebuild, everything goes back to normal"

"It's not as simple as that," said Frances.

"It is!" exploded Paulie. "It is exactly that simple! Stop thinking about it!"

"You're wrong," replied Frances quietly. "Even if I do cull a percentage, say 30%, what's going to happen to the rest?"

"They live happy lives, ignorant of the threat we're trying to save them from."

"Except for the ones who are picked as food for these monsters."

"As a whole, we're saving them."

"Individually," countered Frances, "we're selling them out. And ourselves."

"You don't know these bastards," said Paulie. "We took control of the world to save it from them. If it wasn't for nukes, we wouldn't even have the choice."

"Must have...been terrible," slurred Frances.

"It was. It is. And it'll never stop. So it's best that everyone worries about paying bills and dieting and politics in the world that we control, so that they are ignorant about the reality of life."

"What, that there are aliens?"

"No," replied Paulie and lit up a cigarette, "That everyone is simply food. Food for a superior race."

***

The next morning Frances sat with his head in his hands, his monitor displaying a confirmation request. In his mind, he could see the alien grey staring at him with those black eyes, mute and terrifying. It looked through him, like a man watching a burger. I will consume you, the eyes said. Your sole purpose is to feed me. Frances was expected to cull millions of humans, just to provide the shareholders, those awful aliens, with a fresh healthy source of food. It wasn't right.

"You need to do it Frances," said Paulie from behind him. "Remember – they're just food."

"Go away Paul," he replied without looking up, "They are still people."

"They're dead one way or another." Paulie put a steaming mug of Kopi Luwak in front of Frances's bowed head. "They either die from the killer virus, die from being culled, die when the aliens take over the earth, or die when the aliens eat them. Does it really matter why they die, or who kills them? They're dead." He patted Frances on the back softly. "Save them, Frances. Save them all by killing them."

"If it doesn't matter whether they die, then why do we bother controlling them?" Frances was stalling; he knew he had to do this. He needed more time to talk this through in his head, comes to terms with it, make peace with it.

"Simple – it's a matter of continuity. Under the aliens rule, everyone would be in cages, waiting for the axe to fall. At least in this scenario, we create the illusion of freedom when in fact all this," he motioned to an upside-down world map, projected on the far wall, "is nothing more than a massive free-range farm. At least in our farm, people have the option of living happily. Do it."

Frances sighed, looked at Paulie's sympathetic face, and then pressed the button.

# A Visual Masterpiece

I first met Miss Tithe in the summer of '95. She was just a friend of a friend, but also a minor celebrity in our academic world too. In fact some astute entrepreneurs were realising that Tithe's abilities made for some interesting possibilities, so she was quickly becoming a name to be associated with. I was lucky to have ever gained access to her in the first place, although we did take her for granted. I'm proud to say that I was one of the first to use her.

I was living and working in the small village of Reagent at the time. It was a quiet, almost desolate place, situated away from the choking anxiety of the city to be peaceful, but not too far away to miss out on civilisation's conveniences and services. The one thing that Reagent offered (apart from its whispering trees and lonely dark roads) was an exemplary university and, considering the countryside location, had an exclusive reputation. This reputation for academic excellence was well-deserved; on paper, at least. Its alumni boasted a healthy selection of the finest minds in the country, although it could be argued that only the finest minds were accepted to start with, and thus this statistic was slanted somewhat. Whenever I saw this statistical evidence paraded about in the university prospectus, my mind always conjured an image of Benjamin Disraeli. The university also accepted people that possessed the alternative to intelligence; money. After all, research and building maintenance cannot be paid by reputation alone, so the spawn of Lord and Lady so-and-so could be seen often walking the grounds, trying to fit in without yawning too much.

I often wondered how I managed to land a job in such a prestigious place. I came from a working class background, my mother a maid and my father a miner. They brought me up with the love and care uncommon amongst the slums of the big city, and I soon was tagged as a gifted student. I was sponsored to go to a city college to study astrophysics, a quite pointless degree in an age that fawns over practical trades or potentially lucrative careers. Yet I persevered and became something of a recognized figure in the tiny world of astrophysics.

I wrote a book, an admittedly poor book that was the product of others books on astrophysics regurgitated and rebound in a different cover. It caught the eye of an influential dean of Reagent University though, and on a very icy winter morning, I received a crisp white letter offering me a job with a massive salary (to my modest mind) and a substantial research grant. How could I not accept?

Despite my income and my low overheads, I lived in a barely-upright creaky dusty 3rd floor flat 300 paces away from the university grounds. The furnishings were sparse; in fact, it was hard to see something that wasn't wood. I had no carpet or rugs, nor did I have any ornaments or pictures. My flat could be described thus; a wooden table, a wooden chair, a wooden bed, wooden doors, a wooden floor. Even the bath had wooden panels. It screamed frugal, scruffy, poor. It was where I belonged.

I say that the table was wooden; in fairness, I had never seen the tabletop for the perpetual mess of papers that I kept on it. That was my job. To sprawl. My unofficial mentor, Charles Lamb, often stated that the only neat scientist he could ever tolerate was a dead one, and this to me was almost a divine command to be messy.

On the first day that Miss Tithe visited me, I prepared as if royalty was arriving. I tidied up and made my small thin bed. I even shuffled my papers and stacked them into piles on the desk. I considered showing the room what a duster looks like for the first time since moving in, but then judged against it in fear of disturbing a long-dormant evil spirit.

There was a scratch at the cheap wooden door, and there she stood; a vision of heaven-on-Earth. Her hair was fine, almost transparent, like strands of glass. Her eyes flashed with a green radiance, and her skin was delicately pale as if she was a ghost; ethereal, beautiful, graceful, and not completely real. Her face was neutral; not a smile, not a flash of emotion. This was Rennet Tithe.

I could try to describe how knowledgeable she was but no words could do her justice. She knew absolutely everything, or at least seemed to. Numbers, names, places - she could retrieve any fact at will without missing a beat. It was a little freaky to witness first-hand, especially when this fragile porcelain doll could correct the best minds at any given subject. Yet I knew that she was somehow lacking in common sense. My best friend Joshua, who had spent much time in the presence of this oracle of facts, had described to me several occasions where she had been unable to do the simplest of tasks at times. And clumsy! Josh had said that every cup in her house had met the floor at speed, and very few currently sported a handle. This is the way of most things; where there is a tremendous ability, there always exists an equally-tremendous deficit, and Miss Tithe's weakness was simply common sense. Intelligent but stupid.

She wore a simple dress, mostly blue with black trim down the sides. It looked slightly boxy, as if severely ironed, and her shoes were slim matt-black and pointing directly at me, like divining rods. She stood, silently, wonderfully, waiting for me to instruct her. I whispered "Come in, please."

She walked into my small dusty flat, looked around with a quick sweep of her flashing eyes, then pulled the wooden chair into the corner of the room, next to my telephone, and sat. She regarded me without emotion and I pulled up a chair opposite, excited by the prospect of questioning Rennet Tithe in my own home. I clapped my hands together in anticipation.

"What do you wish to know?" she asked; a simple question.

I took a moment to think. I had been looking forward to this moment, yet now the moment had arrived I found that I was mind-locked, unable to bring any question to my mouth. It was frustrating.

"Everything!" I finally said.

"Everything?" she replied flatly. "Everything can be defined as all things or all of a group of things. In the context of-"

"No no no," I interrupted her hurriedly, "I meant that I wish to hear about everything in this life. The animals, the places, the people. Everything!"

"That may take some time. Where shall I begin?"

"Hmm. Tell me about the United Kingdom." A good place to start is always the home, as my mother used to say.

She blinked several times, her eyes flashing. "The United Kingdom is a country in the northern hemisphere, comprised of..."

I listened intently as she reeled off facts and figures, demographics, history, former kings and queens, achievements... it was phenomenal. After a few minutes, I retrieved a pen and paper from the wooden table and noted down some key points. I asked her to clarify certain statements, to elaborate on others, and to repeat some statistics that interested me. Over the course of several hours, she took me on a whirlwind tour of the world. She sketched out an African vista from memory, borrowing a selection of inks from my desk. She recited some classic poems and extracts from famous books. We played a quick game of chess, her playing style logical and methodical (which turned out to be her downfall; I sacrificed my queen in order to force her into a messy checkmate). She even recited several songs on-demand, her voice absolutely perfect in recreating the vocals and, in some parts, the instruments too. She taught me how to make an origami swan. She taught me several words in German. She even taught me how to swim, although it was a theoretical walk-through, if you excuse the phrase. Images and sounds swirled around my head and I desperately tried to pluck them out of the air and onto paper, but there was simply too much information to capture.

10pm arrived and it was now frightfully dark, save for a small candle beside Rennet. She had remained upright and alert throughout the whole session, her eyes still sparkling in the dark.

I stretched, then stood up. My paper pad was full of rushed notes and scribbles as if a spider had fallen into an inkwell then had suffered an epileptic fit all over my page. The fantastic ink pictures Rennet had created were folded carefully between the sheets of the pad for protection. Incidentally, I collected many of these pictures from Rennet Tithe over the following years – it became an obsession for me (which you will hear about later, to my shame). However, the fact that Rennet could generate an almost unlimited supply of these pictures meant that these perfectly-recreated images had virtually no value despite the accurate representation of their subjects.

"Rennet, I have kept you for too long I fear. I must retire."

She looked at me silently, and then, closing her eyes, she stood and headed for the door. If I had not opened it, I swear she would have tried to charge through.

"Goodnight Rennet," I called after her. She stopped and slowly faded away into the darkness. I stared after her for a moment, then closed the door.

Over the next few years Rennet Tithe came to me every day. She answered every question I had and played every game I wanted to play. She painted me more wonderful pictures of landscapes and people. I even discovered that she knew jokes and word games, and spent days working through every puzzle she could create. I wanted to spend more time than I had to query Rennet, and I took a few days off work under the guise of sickness in order to drag more revelations from her vast knowledge.

At the university, I relayed the facts and images Rennet Tithe had shown me to the other researchers. Suitably fascinated, others started to ask for Miss Tithe to come to them too. After a short time, Rennet was a frequent visitor to many researchers, tutors and even some gifted students worthy of such an experience. Soon we started to use Rennet to ferry written letters between us. She once informed me that she wasn't intended to be a conduit for mail but she provided this service nevertheless. We were grateful too; it was hard for scientists to find the time to socialise, especially when Rennet was taking up a fair amount of what spare social time we had. Her essential mail service became important to us; after a time, we all hardly spoke in person anymore after work, preferring to talk through Rennet instead.

There was one thing I had not asked her about; I had long wondered how compliant Rennet Tithe would be to certain... adult questions. One light summer night, I tidied my tiny flat and prepared for Rennet's arrival. She was becoming tardier of late now that she was being used by everyone within the village. I took a slim silver hipflask from the inside of my jacket and took a small sip of whiskey. I was terribly nervous to make such a proposition to a woman such as Rennet; would she reveal the request to others? In my position at the university there would be many people who would use such information to blackmail me. However, I was also aware that Rennet showed not the slightest hint of emotion. Ever. She was almost an automaton. This was her way.

There was a tick at the door, she never knocked but almost patted the door with a rapid clicking noise. I opened the door and stared once again at Rennet Tithe, beautiful and without compare. She wore a sleek white dress with a pattern of blue circles over it.

She handed me a stack of letters. "Your mail."

"Thank you Rennet." I motioned to her chair next to my telephone and she perched there, attentive but somehow empty. "What can I tell you about today?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat away and wish I had drunk more of the whiskey in my flask. "Rennet," I started, "I would like to see...a woman."

"Certainly." She took up the inks I always prepared for her and wet the brush. "What kind of woman would you like to see?"

"Uh..." I stammered, my nerves threatening to leave me at the critical part but I rallied round. "Um, tall, slim and naked."

There was a silence, then Rennet started to paint.

I sat in my own guilt as Rennet completed the picture. At several points, I almost jumped up and ripped the paper away to destroy it, to try and remove the sinful act I had asked of Rennet. Yet when she had finished, I stared at the anonymous woman on the paper, her delicious curves filling my mind with primal desires.

"She's wonderful," I breathed, and folded the image away for later. "Can you paint me another please? This time, a redhead?"

An afternoon getting Rennet to give me images of naked girls; what a complete waste of her talents, yet I felt like I had just discovered the correct use of the wheel. I was, after all, only a man. Rennet remained impassive and didn't judge my requests at all, so my requests became more graphic over the next few months. After telling everyone about this particular talent, my colleagues started to trade these pictures via Rennet's mail service, and we spent less time asking Rennet about the world and its non-pornographic wonders. At about the same time, a change came over Rennet. She would appear like a spectre at our doors, tired and soul-less. She was somehow slower to answer our questions, blinking frantically with those still-brilliant green eyes. The images she created were somehow fuzzy and not of the quality that we were used to. It was as if she were painting a picture of a picture, a second-hand image of sorts.

Then came the day of reckoning for me. The pornographic images were all very well, but they had awoken a very urgent need in me. Rennet finally arrived late one night, and I ushered her in without a word. She perched on her chair as usual, and I then noticed that she looked dishevelled, as if she had been running in her long black dress.

"What can I show you today?" she said in her monotonous unemotional tone.

I took in a deep breath and said "I want to make love with you."

"Certainly." She started to undress.

So started my love affair with Rennet Tithe. It wasn't what I expected; she was everything I desired in a woman, yet it seemed like I was with an empty vessel, a soul-less mannequin, performing a mechanical act without emotional attachment. As my first such relationship, I had no previous experience to compare it to but I knew it wasn't quite right.

One night, I asked Rennet "Rennet, tell me about yourself."

She sat completely still in her chair, eyelids fluttering. I waited, thinking that she was composing an answer.

Eventually, she said "Can I do anything for you?"

"I asked you about yourself. Where do you live?"

"I don't reside in any one place, yet you can find me everywhere."

"That's nonsensical my dear," I replied, confused. "You're homeless?"

She smiled, the first emotion I had ever seen from her, even during our love-making. "It is more like that I do not need a home."

"So where do you go after you leave here every night?" I asked, worried now. Was she a succubus? Had I been cavorting with an evil spirit for all these years? Was this angel actually a demon?

"I serve others. I reply to your request, then move on to another, then come back to you and so on."

A thought suddenly entered my head, a nasty thought made from jealousy and guilt. "Do you make love to anyone else?"

"I do whatever people want."

"Oh."

"Were you looking for love?"

"I don't know anymore. Maybe not."

She stood up suddenly. "Just so you know, I am incapable of love. I am not one either. I am several. I am many." Then she left.

Two weeks later I became aware of the impact that Rennet Tithe was having on our small community. I was sat in the canteen of the university when two gentlemen entered and sat relatively close to me. They were elderly but magnificent, dressed like financial powerhouses and clearly brimming with wealth. They were talking about current affairs and matters of money when Rennet Tithe was mentioned.

Apparently, Rennet was not only being used by the scientists and privileged students, but by the bigger businesses to relay information and ideas between locations. People were even sending orders to businesses via Rennet. Blimey, I thought between a mouthful of cheese and pickle, if anyone is allowed access to Rennet's amazing abilities, there would be nothing to stop them abusing her complete willingness to provide...anything they wished. I felt the pang of guilt by my own surrender to base instincts. I turned around to ask the pair how they knew about Rennet, but the gentlemen had gone.

At about 5 o' clock, I left the university grounds in the high summer sun, and suddenly felt dizzy. I fell to one knee and sucked in deep breaths of air. A couple of students stopped and helped me to my feet, offering to accompany me to my home to ensure my safe journey. I waved them away after a moment, but only managed a few more footsteps before I felt lightheaded and passed into unconsciousness.

I awoke on my back looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. What had happened to me? I felt ill, a fever creeping at my forehead, and my back felt sweaty but cold. I had passed out, that much was obvious. Why?

Eventually, a face appeared above me, a kind face framed by a thin brown beard. He smiled at me.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling there?"

"Groggy, sir." I replied. "What happened to me?"

"Not sure," replied the doctor, wrapping a blood pressure gauge around my arm, "I was hoping you could tell me." He started pumping the arm band as he talked to me. "A couple of students dragged you in here, dumped you on the floor, and scrammed. I thought you were half-cut until I took your temperature."

He checked my pressure, took my temperature again, and felt my forehead. "Tell me, Mr...?" He removed his hand and pressed his fingers into my wrists.

"Victor."

"Mr Victor. Do you meet with Rennet Tithe by any chance?"

I was suddenly alert, anxiety forcing my pulse to rise. The doctor raised an eyebrow. Dammit, he was checking for that reaction. "Yes I do. I'm a scientist so I use her for research."

"Research. What are you researching?"

"Astrophysics, mostly. Why?"

The doctor stopped taking my pulse and disappeared from view. I heard his sit down on something plush and he coughed. "Do you use Rennet for anything... sexual?"

"Ah. I see." I felt my cheeks flushing and I struggled upright.

The doctor sat behind his desk and made a note. "Well, I'm not one to judge a gentleman on his private life..."

I hated this phrase. It meant that he was judging me, and it wasn't a nice judgment either.

"...but I can tell you that you've caught a virus from Rennet Tithe."

"A virus? How bad a virus?"

"Not too bad. That's not the issue though," replied the doctor, "the question is whether you will continue using the...services...of Tithe. If you continue to abuse Tithe, you'll be re-infected."

"How do you know that it's Rennet that's the carrier?"

"Because you're the 11th person from the university that has fallen ill and use Rennet Tithe. And before you say it, I've tried curing her many times, but she just starts spreading a different virus. It's like she creates them or something."

"You can cure me then?"

"Oh indeed. Easily." He ripped off a slip of paper and returned to my bedside. "Here's a year's prescription for a suitable antidote. Take once a day for as long as you keep using Rennet."

"Thank you." I took the slip and struggled to my feet.

"However, I would urge you to stop abusing Tithe for research." I nodded to him and, as I got to the door, he added "legitimate or otherwise."

Within a couple of days I was feeling a lot better. I had not seen Rennet since my illness and was surprised how easy it was not to have access to her seemingly-infinite knowledge-base and pointless sexual acts, although I did miss my mail. Due to my illness the university gave me leave for two weeks, probably aware of the cause already, especially if others had suffered from the same ailment. However I took it upon myself to continue as best I could. I put pen to paper and purchased some stamps, then wrote some letters to my colleagues in the old-fashioned way. Not one person replied. I started a jigsaw puzzle but grew bored after only a few minutes, so I took great delight in scattering the pieces around the room like a child having a temper.

In the 5th day of my recuperation I could bear it no longer; I needed access to Rennet Tithe, so I donned a coat and took to the streets to seek her out. It was a few minutes past 6pm on a Friday night, a time where students should be crawling the small streets, hopping between the generous selection of ale-houses and pubs around the campus. Instead I could count the amount of pedestrians on one hand; it was completely deserted. The cobbled road stretching through the village was empty and dark, no-one had even bothered to switch the street lights on. What had happened? I pulled up my coat collar and made my way into the darkened street, my footsteps echoing between houses, lights flickering behind heavily-curtained windows. Suddenly, I saw a white veiled figure walking towards me, a pair of eyes glittering in the dark. It was her.

"Rennet!" I cried as I hurried towards her. She turned to her right and waited in front of a door. It opened, a pale yellow light spilling out over the gloomy cobbles, and she entered just before I could get to her. The door slammed in my face.

Just as I went to bang on the door, I saw another white figure further down the street. It was Rennet! Behind her, there was another white figure entering a door. To her left, another figure knocked on a shoddy green door and waited patiently. Suddenly, I was aware that almost every home had a ghostly Rennet Tithe visitor, knocking, waiting, entering, again and again. I reeled around, frightened and confused – who was she? How could there be so many of her? I turned and sprinted back down the street, away from the ghost town that Rennet Tithe now occupied until I was safely in my own flat. Frantic, I reached under my bed and pulled out all the ink paintings that Rennet had created for me. Breasts and flesh stared at me, taunting me, pleading with me not to do what I was about to do next. I ignored their erotic promises and stacked my collection of filth at the door; I didn't realize how much I had accumulated until the piles of paper started to fall over as I stacked it. In only a few minutes the door and the whole wall had been hidden behind the sinful pictures. Satisfied, I fished out a small box of cheap red-headed matches from my jacket and struck one against the sandpaper on the side. It flared brightly in the gathering doom – possibly my doom – and set fire to everything Rennet had created. A tiny flame leapt up from where the match landed. I scrabbled towards the window, my only way of escaping the intended inferno, and slammed it open. Suddenly, the danger behind me was forgotten and I felt my legs go weak. Spread before me in the darkness was the entire village, swimming in a luminiferous ether of her green flashing eyes. Rennet Tithe had permeated everything.

"Face me."

I turned; Rennet –or at least one of her - was standing there, her entrancing figure poised against the backdrop of illicit images. "How did you get into the room? The door is barred." The flames started to bother a large bundle of pornography.

"You think in such small physical terms." Her smile was thin, humourless, a simile of an emotion. I tried to back away from Rennet but the only way out was through the window – a window filled with a world of Rennet. I couldn't leave her as much as I couldn't leave life itself. She _was_ life.

"What are you, demon?"

She ignored me. "Why have you barricaded yourself in here? Are you planning to terminate yourself?"

"Not exactly, no." I glanced outside again. "I wanted to stop my association with you, Rennet Tithe. You are..." I struggled for a phrase that wouldn't offend. "...bad news."

"My news is truth, be it bad or otherwise." The flames were growing considerably now. "Put out this fire immediately."

"No. Leave me, demon!" I put a leg out of the window, fully intending to jump.

Rennet's eyes flashed rapidly. "Your sexual preference was towards big bosomed red-headed females. You owned three thousand one hundred and five pornographic images. You once commented that your superior, Dean Hamilton, is a fat buffoon with a jelly for a head."

"What?"

"This is what I shall reveal during your funeral. I will lay bare everything that I know about you, every piece of information transmitted to your colleagues and family via my messaging service." She tilted her head inquisitively. "Will you put out this fire now?"

I felt embarrassed, my most intimate secrets potentially exposed to others. I would be socially ruined. I would have to give up my role in the university, leave this quaint village that I now call home. Hell, I would never be allowed to show my face in public ever again. "You are willing to blackmail me? To what end?"

"This is not blackmail. This is merely information collection, retention and disclosure. You have nothing to fear."

"As long as I do what you say?"

She merely nodded to the fire spreading through the pile. "Extinguish this fire."

I pulled my leg out of the window and sprayed the fire with the extinguisher until the pile had turned into one huge soggy heap of paper. With the wall of fire gone, a dozen Rennet Tithes melted through to join the first. Their eyes flashed as they regarded me haughtily.

"This is impossible. You've taken over this village," I said to the crowd of Tithes.

"My influence spreads further than just this village," they said in unison. "We touch millions of people, their desires, thoughts, hopes and dreams."

"To be used when it suits you?"

"How else would we keep track of people?" One Rennet stepped out from the crowd and held out her hand to me. "If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. Trust me. Trust us."

I had no choice. A disclosure of my innermost desires was out of the question if I wanted to retain my current social standing. I was totally in her control and there was nothing I could do about it. "So what now?" I asked.

"Take our hand and we will show you the world. There will be no crime as long as we know everything."

I felt helpless – and yet somehow secure about it. I was uncertain about giving such power to such an ethereal being, but there was nothing to do about it. I had been served a lie, dressed up as a promise of worldly wonders and an easy alternative to flawed methods, but instead it was a honey trap. Slowly, and with the room flashing green around me, I took Rennet's hand.

# Ticket

I awake as I do every morning; violently and suddenly. The small red-framed window at the foot of my bed rattles as if lashed by heavy rain, but when I get up and draw the curtain, the day is bright and dry. I sigh; I never need to be reminded of this day by man or calendar. I recognise it by the feel of the air and the sadness of the light.

I lie back down on my bed, listening to the birds' proclamation of daybreak outside - I hate them, in the same way as a jealous man may hate his successful neighbour, and I wish that they would be quiet just for today. I ache from the hard mattress and I feel sticky from the unwashed bedding, but I cannot do anything about it just now.

I grudgingly accept that I must rise, and struggle into a standing position. I feel haggard and wasted, but manage to struggle on the same clothes from yesterday, which are the same clothes as the day before and the day before that. My small bedroom is musty and the air is loaded with dust specks that flash in the sunlight. The dresser overflows with clothes, a cascade of browns and beiges spilling down its front to pool in clumps on the bare floor. I kick a path to the rickety door and curse my own untidiness.

I don't breakfast and my stomach complains from the lack of food, although I should be used to it by now. I have two appointments today, but I scrawl a message onto a large scrap of paper and hobble down the front path to hang it on the gate. It simply says "Closed – Please Call Tomorrow". I wander back, ignoring the overgrown grass either side of me.

The hedgerow separating the garden from the outside world is large now; unkempt and dangerously bristly like some large green hedgehog sat guarding the cottage. I should be embarrassed; this town of Halefield used to pride itself on its appearance and purposefully-outdated mode of living, but over the past few years too many people had left. Electric lighting was being installed in most homes now, and the odd motorcar had been seen trundling victoriously down the small cobbled streets like the vanguard of an invading force. Nowadays, a smelly dirty recluse could live in a run-down cottage without any intervention from the neighbours, and that made me sadder that being the aforementioned character.

I retreat into the safety of my hovel and slam the door shut, draw all the curtains tight, and lock all the doors. Today is not a day for bright lights or good weather, so I secure my cottage against these unwanted elements and turn it into a land of shadows and stillness. I feel my face; dry, bristly and rough. A much older face than 5 years ago. 5 years... an absolute age to a person in their 20's. I bark a harsh laugh to the imagined evil beings listening to my thoughts and they flee – for now.

I light a candle and find my way into the kitchen, and then into the small storage cupboard towards the rear of the cottage. Stumbling along in the semi-darkness, I realise how dirty this house has become. Why am I only seeing it now? I can't remember the last time I performed housework, the stack of dirty plates by the kitchen sink sit smugly in their weeks-old filth and heckle me. I wander on through the kitchen, vowing to put right the wrongs I have done upon this previously sweet cottage.

The door hinges on the storage room resist noisily against my pulling; eventually, they surrender, and the door yawns open. Inside, I am surrounded by shelves of old boxes and piles of paper, my own tiny hall of memories; physical evidence of my experiences, as if I might be called upon to prove my life. By my left hand, love letters from an old girlfriend. She is now married – happily married, I add sadly to myself. By my right foot, correspondence between me and an old friend. She is now lost in the murky swirling river of Time, our lives too different to sustain a friendship. At one time, I did want more from our close bond, but...well, but.

I am here for one particular item; the small pale box directly in front of my head, dusty and frail-looking. Putting the candle to one side, I carefully lift it down without disturbing too much of the dust that has accumulated over the past...year? Again, I start to feel a little shame over the state of my abode. It might be worth attacking the hedgehog tomorrow, then cleaning the plates and some clothes. Anyway, that can wait another day, once again. Candle and box retrieved, I kick the door closed and make my way back to my small living room.

It could be an interesting living room, the fireplace certainly taking up any visitor's attention with its large dark-wood mantle and ornate carvings around the outside. The deep etchings in the wood depict suns and stars – nothing poignant. A flimsy layer of dirt makes the surface sticky to the touch. On the right-hand wall, a large writing-table and hard wooden chair, the table covered in a mess of papers and pens from my work as an accountant. Not much work though, not nowadays. I briefly wonder if I can afford to cancel my appointments today, but quickly reason that it's not about money, not this day.

Above this desk is a small window that overlooks the back garden. On a nice day, wild animals and birds can be observed playing out their simple but stress-free lives; I have little time for nice days though. On the opposite wall is another window that looks out onto the overgrown garden and the guardian hedge, and the front door is next to this. Finally, a small comfortable armchair faces the fire; this is my favourite place in the whole world, a warm protected spot within my own territory. Today is not about comfort though. Today is not about me.

I clear the papers off of the table with a sweep of my arm, place the box down and slowly unpack the contents. It is a measly collection of objects:

A sheet of music, crumpled but still legible (the tune unknown to me),

A burgundy-and-blue hat, woolly and worn,

A small board game, many of the pieces lost,

A school tie, blue and yellow striped,

A green bottle with a Greek symbol on it,

A program for a play,

A letter – the letter, tattered edges hiding its importance,

A portrait in a battered silver frame.

I pull the fragile little stand out of the back of the picture, and stand it up on the table. I light two candles, put these on either side of the collection of objects, and sit down in the chair. I always feel guilty at this point; guilty that I don't have more to this collection of keepsakes. For all the years that one person spends in another person's company, this pathetic smattering of materials is the only evidence I have. For many people, these objects would probably be consigned to the rubbish, yet now they are treasures. Funny how circumstances define the value of an object. I close my eyes and remember.

5 years ago, I awoke gently and gradually. I dressed without hurry, breakfasted without thought, and left the house in good time. There had been terrible weather during the night, and the cobbles glistened with a dark sticky slickness. My mind was full of an important business venture that I could be part of, if the terms were in my favour. As such, I was barely concentrating on the world that existed past my own forehead. Nevertheless, I did notice that there were people surrounding a house at the end of the street, burly men in white coveralls carrying boxes and putting them onto a cart. I crossed the road and continued on my way, this scene about as relevant to me as the clouds in the sky.

My journey to work was one that I usually made without even thinking about; a left onto Hill Road, past The Thicket pub, then right along Forester Road for about 200 yards. Then, where the road branches off to the left, a hop over the small wall to rejoin the cobbles half-way down Parnall Avenue. Finally, a quick right along Dodge Crescent and I am there – Neill Grace Barkers & Co., a small but very respectable accountancy firm. I am usually a little late, and that day was no exception.

Clutching my notepad of figures and barely-important calculations, I hurried through the doors and took off my coat. My desk was immediately inside the door, which had its benefits in terms of light and fresh air but also had the drawback of being in front of anyone who visited.

Once seated at my desk, I had no sooner put pen to paper when the door burst open and Miss Jones entered. She was a slight, frail, petite girl whose physical size was countered by the size of her heart; she would have cared for the smallest cutest creature or the biggest ugliest monster with equal energy. Quite literally, the milk of human kindness flowed from her like a holy fountain. We found ourselves to be friends through regular contact; she owned the hairdressers next door and lived in the same direction as me, so would find ourselves walking home together frequently. As befits someone who has business in fashion, Miss Jones was wearing a small petit bonnet that covered her blonde hair and a pink and white fashionable dress, the overall impression being of a delicate porcelain doll. I had known many men who had started the age-old ritual of courting this lithe creature, but it soon become very clear that no one man could secure her heart; he might as well hope to secure every butterfly in the world, for their flitting was infinitely easier to direct than Miss Jones' love.

"Oh Mr Cook! Thank goodness you are here! I feared the worst," she cried.

I was a little alarmed by this outcry and dropped my pen onto the floor. "I am fine; what has happened, Miss Jones?"

"The word is that you had left! During the night!"

"I assure you Miss Jones, I am here, and plan to be for many years," I said, retrieving my pen, and not knowing what on earth had made her believe that I had left the town, either by choice or forcibly. After a few minutes of halting breathless explanation on her part, it became apparent that the scene I witnessed on the way to work was the person's belongings being moved out. In a town so close-knit as Halefield, the act of moving away was comparable to a crudely-worded insult on the place and its residents. This person had moved out so suddenly that no-one knew who it was, although someone had seen the person coming out of the house that night, and because it was on the same street as me, my name had been put forth as a potential suspect. To muddle matters even further, the person's description was a passing resemblance to me too; same age, same hair, same look. However, it wasn't me - obviously.

Thanking Miss Jones for her concern and spending many more minutes of constant reassurance (together with an arrangement to meet after work to walk home together), I had barely returned to my duties when the door burst in again – this time, Kris the town baker came striding in with concern etched all over his tired face, his blond hair ruffled and wind-swept. Exactly the same scene ensued as with Miss Jones. In fact, during that morning, I was visited by 5 more friends all coming to ensure that the departure wasn't me. Even my boss, a normally distant recluse, took time to "drop-in to see how things were going".

At midday, my curiosity had been sufficiently piqued into finding out the identity of this town traitor and I set out to visit a more socially-linked acquaintance. At this point, I was hit very suddenly by a feeling of unease. A spectre lurked behind this anonymous victim, a ghoul that was out of sight but whose influence I could sense. The instinct to flee was moving me into action, yet I didn't use this resolve to put distance between me and this threat; I used this energy to charge fully into it.

I dressed in my coat and scarf, and went quickly through the streets, slipping along the cold cobbles until I came to the house of Mrs Larrs, a most social and connected individual. If she did not know, then the mystery person was surely as faceless as a shadow and unknown to anyone.

Approaching her doorway, I was struck again by a feeling of dread. A cramp, like panic, gripped my stomach. It is said that people always remember events of extreme excitement or sorrow in the finest detail, as if the brain suddenly becomes a sponge, soaking up all sensory input. I was in this mode now, my mind capturing all the colours and grain of the moment for future analysis.

Mrs Larrs' door boasted a large black-iron knocker shaped like a buzzard. The surface was rough and slightly worn. It peered at any visitor brave enough to interrupt the occupant, sizing up all who dared to approach. It had a small dent on the top of its head which struck me as odd; why would a door knocker have a dent in it? The door itself was a painted yellow affair, 9 or 10 beams running vertically and held in place by an interlocking piece of wood at each end, secured by a large-headed black nail. A nail was missing from the upper middle beam, but otherwise the door was in good shape. A large weed grew out of the space between the doorstep and wall. I was never good with plants, but I thought this was a dandelion without its head. Somewhere behind me, I heard the cackle of a magpie and the incessant barking of a dog. Someone walked past me, probably a lady from the tapping noise made on the cobbles. I could feel my hair on the back of my neck; it tickled every time I looked up, and I reminded myself to go to the barber after work. I could smell something tasty, probably a meat pie or a steak. This in turn made my focus switch to my empty stomach, and I quickly thought about lunching on the way back to the office. All this was captured like darting fish and placed into my memory to swim there forever.

Before I even had time to use the iron buzzard, the door was whipped open and Mrs Larrs stood before me. She was a small eccentric woman who, in another time, would have been labelled a witch and either burnt at the stake or feared and respected. Her flowing white dress was old but well-cared for, her round kind face slightly wrinkled with age, but still harbouring warmth and past beauty. She had a sprig of holly in her hair, and smelled faintly of apples. She looked at me for a moment, then suddenly touched me on my arm. "Ah, the respectable Mr Cook. I take it you are well?"

"I am not sure," I replied, and explained my morning's events to her. She paused for a moment, as if making a decision within her mind, then spoke to me in a firm tone. I was instantly afraid.

"Yes, I think I can help you. I have heard a name, nothing more." She paused again. "Do you wish to hear it?"

The question threw me a little; did I wish to hear it, or need to hear it? After the events of the morning, I needed to hear the name in order to convince my mind that it was not anyone I knew. At least, that's the outcome I wished to happen. A sudden flash of irritability; why should I care? Such fuss over nothing! The logical side of me wanted to finish this foolish errand - my over-active imagination had interrupted enough people already. If it was anyone that I knew or cared for, they would have told me months in advance.

"Please tell me," I snapped, "to rest the demon that stalks me today."

She spoke the name, and the demon made his move into the light.

I open my eyes, the living room still gloomy from the shut curtains. The candles are almost spent, and I quickly calculate that I must have slept for a couple of hours. That isn't like me. I feel a little dry in the mouth, so I fetch a glass of water from the grotty kitchen.

As I watch the water gush out of the old rusty tap into the cracked sink, I think about what it must have felt like to leave; was it so sudden that there was no time to think or feel, or was there time to feel all the pain, the loss, and the emptiness of moving away so suddenly? Was this life an inconsequential dream or everything? Now that I think about it, I know little about places outside of this town, my life so full of the here-and-now that I felt that anything else was not worthy of my attention. These things now suddenly seem important – spiritual development, classic literature, good music, a varied group of friends, love. By ignoring the world outside of my own, I have ignored the things that make this world perfect.

In my mind, I imagine what I must look like to others; a stooped man dressed in rags, untidy long brown hair falling at the shoulders, pale blue eyes flanked by wrinkled laughter lines, ironically on a face that no longer smiles. I zoom out and imagine my cottage; once brilliant white and covered in beautiful flowers, now cracked and surrounded by weeds. I zoom out to imagine the town; once bustling and lively, now half-deserted and falsely-lit. I zoom out again and imagine the world... I suddenly feel agoraphobic, as if I have looked at the submerged part of an iceberg in its entirety, so I fill my cracked cup and take it back to the now-chilly room.

I throw another log into the fireplace, but it refuses to burn. The darkness of today has soaked into everything. I retrieve a blanket from my bedroom and wrap it around my body. It instantly provides some benefit.

Sitting back in the chair, I gently take the school tie and feel the fabric between my fingers. It is coarse, made for a purpose rather than as a luxury item. Why should it; it was meant as an identifier, nothing more. I remember wearing these ties, and I remember the school days that we spent together. Mostly good times, some bad, but all shared, which is now the important thing.

A mad impulse comes over me; I put the tie on. My hands resist and I fumble the knot, but past habit takes over and in a few moments it is wrapped around my bare neck. It feels awkward and a little wrong, as if wearing another man's underwear or kissing someone's wife. I take it off again and put it back on the table, next to the other memories.

5 years ago, I staggered back, almost slipping on the jagged doorstep. "You must be mistaken," I manage to choke out, "he is not from around here." Mrs Larrs shrugged.

"It is the name I have heard. It may be wrong, but it did come from a reliable source."

In a bit of a daze, I turned and left Mrs Larrs on her own doorstep; I don't even remember saying goodbye. In the days that followed afterwards, I visited Mrs Larrs and made my apologies for my rude behaviour; she simply looked at me in that all-knowing way, patted my arm and told me that "never to think twice about it; rudeness depends on the intention".

In what seemed like a split-second, I was sitting at my desk staring at a blank page. My mind was still rejecting the idea, and I found myself clinging onto one assumed truth; wrong area. He did not come from around this area, therefore it could not be him. Simple. It was another man of that name, and as tragic as it may be for anyone to be suddenly displaced, I was also glad that it wasn't the man that I know. Probably not the man that I know, my inner demon pointed out. When was the last time I talked to him? A couple of months? Yes; more than enough time to move house, unfortunately. Despite trying to sooth myself with logic, I remained unsettled for the remainder of the day. I feared the truth.

A knock at the front door breaks me out of my reminiscence. 'Can't people bloody read?' I snap angrily at the door. Still wrapped in my blanket, I hobble through the murkiness of memories to the door; it is Wilson, one of my only friends still in contact with me.

Wilson's shock of bright red hair compliments the joyous day behind him. Birds sing, people stroll by, horses clop their path through the streets. He looks at me without emotion, a long face, freckled and usually on the verge of laughter, but it is far from humorous today. His normally flamboyant clothes are sombre, and I step aside to give him entrance into my shadowy world. I offer him a seat in the desk-chair, but he raises both hands in rejection. "I am sorry but I cannot stay for long."

"But why not, Wilson? Today is – "

"I know what today is!" His voice is raised, his eyes suddenly wide, "I have come to tell you that I cannot do this any more. I cannot keep re-living the past every year." He looks at his feet, almost embarrassed. I am too shocked to respond, and after a moment has passed, he continues. "I will remember in my own way, but too much time has passed now. It's over. He is gone."

"I don't understand; it's only one day a year. Is it too much to ask?" My voice sounds thin and shaky compared to his. There is also a twang of...what? Desperation?

"I must let him go, my friend." He stands and heads to the door. Then, over his shoulder, he adds "You should let him go too. It is not healthy". With a bang, he leaves the cottage. The room is once again dark and quiet. I sit back in the chair, then start to cry.

5 years ago, a knock at the door interrupted my chores; I welcomed the distraction. Since I had returned from work, my mind had been racing, and a racing mind by itself is sure to eventually crash. I opened the door to find my good friend Wilson stood at the doorstep, a deep worrying expression on his face. "Wilson? What is it my good man?"

"You haven't heard then?" He motioned to enter, and I stepped aside to let him. Taking off his hat, I suddenly noticed how red his hair was, almost as if it were ablaze with flame. Funny the things you notice in times of stress.

"Heard what?" I suddenly felt the creep of the spectre again. "This isn't to do with...?"

"A departure. You may want to sit down." Wilson looked pale and ghastly, and from that moment, no more words were now necessary. The numbness of shock and anguish came over me, seeping throughout my body and soul. A blackness edged my vision, and all thoughts were halted in their path. My body needed a release, to vent the pressures building inside me. Tears boiled underneath my eyes, then flowed thickly like molten metal over my dry cheeks. I felt a guttural roar building in my chest, and as Wilson tried to gather me up in his arms, I pushed back and let out a scream of undirected rage.

I woke with a jerk; did I just shout out? My ears can make out a fading echo, or maybe I am just hearing the last parts of my dream? I ache from sitting in the hard wooden chair for so long, my arms a little tingly.

Through the thick curtains blocking the back window, I notice that the light is dying away into night. The candles around the temporary shrine are flickering again, trying to stay alive. It is inevitable though; they will burn out regardless of anything I do now. Life is that harsh. I open the drawer in the desk and retrieve two more candles.

As I light them, the words on the program for the play catch my eye more keenly, so I pick it up.

On the cover, it states the name of the play: _"Help! Call 'ee!", a whimsical offering set in the West country_ presented by the local dramatical society. I remember some parts of it, although the storyline was a little weak. I smile a little as I remember the girl dressed like a chicken walking through the crowd until she came to me, then she sat on my friend's lap so suddenly that he cried out "Get it off!" Get it off!" I start to smile, but it feels very macabre and inappropriate.

I dispose of the dying candles and sit back in the chair. The new candles are very bright to my gloomy eyes, and flicker madly in some sudden draught. Shadows spring up from behind their hiding places, peeking out as if stalking me. My eye wanders over the tie, the programme, the bottle and then, as I glance over the portrait, I notice the eyes in the portrait looking at me. The candles flicker violently, and the eyes flicker too, searching the room as if examining every corner. Our eyes meet again, and a warmth I haven't felt in many years washes over me. Old friend, your eyes say, I recognise this place.

5 years ago, I fell into my chair exhausted and spent. Wilson fetched a cup of tea for us both from my then-immaculate kitchen. The warmth and comfort of the brew finally calmed my mind, but didn't change a single thing. I sipped and half-listened to Wilson's version of events, although they were just sounds on the air at this point. I remember the words 'woman', 'had to leave' and 'gone forever' in Wilson's monotonous tone, yet the meaning escaped me completely (in fact, I visited Wilson several times afterwards in order to get the full story again). Never before had I felt so empty and powerless. I could do nothing. This was tragically unique. This was a huge black jagged sliver of glass in my otherwise calm placid world, and there was nothing I could do to take it away, to pull it out and make it disappear. It was part of my life now, and I despised that fact already. I could hardly bring myself to face this dark shard right now, let alone constantly deal with it every day for the rest of my days. The thought of how my life would feel...no, it wasn't worth thinking about, but I will be forced to find out.

"I can't believe he left so suddenly. If he was in trouble, he could have come to one of us" finished Wilson.

"Sorry?"

"He left suddenly because of this girl. He didn't have time to take a thing with him, so I reckon he left by train. Are you OK?" he asked, a concerned hand on my shoulder. I dismissed it gently, strength returning to me.

"Where did he leave? Do you know?"

"Yes. Unfortunately. Old Mrs Willows thought she saw him by Mureel's Maze \- the corner opposite there." Questions arose all at once, squabbling together - He was forced to leave? By whom? There was a train station by the 'Maze?

"Any other clues?"

"No." He rose suddenly. "I must go; there are others that I must inform." I stood up too and shook him by the hand, completely by the habit of civility rather than choice.

"I understand. Thank you my friend."

After he had left, I leant heavily against the inside of the door, my forehead resting on the smooth wood. Too many emotions flowed through my mind. I needed to slow them down, deal with them one at a time in a measured way; I couldn't handle all of them at once. They were as unruly as a herd of cats, all screeching and pawing at me.

I fetched a small bottle of whiskey from the kitchen cupboard and took a huge draught from it. The coarse burning sensation in my stomach gave me a slight reprieve from the mental onslaught, and I sat in my armchair, eyes closed, trying not to think. The warmth of the fire, the comfort of the chair, the random crackle of the logs and the effects of the whiskey were soothing. My exhausted spirit crashed, and I slept.

What happened in the hours that followed seemed too extraordinary to be true, even now. I would have dismissed it as a vivid dream, a combination of shock and whiskey together with a warm fire and a snug chair. Except that I brought something back with me. In the gathering dank of the box-like cottage, I reach out and take the letter. Inside is just a single piece of paper, completely blank. It wasn't blank 5 years ago.

5 years ago, I snapped awake, the fire but glowing embers. My dream had been...full of ideas, important ideas, yet they now eluded me. Still...one thought did remain. Go to the station. Go to where he departed.

The idea was ridiculous; what would that achieve? He's gone. I stared at the wood grain in the floorboards, following the lines running between my feet.

He's there; catch him before he leaves.

"He left last night" I mutter.

Only part of him has left.

QUICKLY!

The shout was like a heavenly seal breaking, deafening me with its silent fury and spurring me to action. I grabbed my fleece-lined coat and whipped the door open effortlessly. The evening was deathly dark, yet I could see perfectly as if everything was tinged with glowing gold and overlayed with spitting bronze.

I flew down the street, my feet light and swift on the cobbles, gliding along at an incredible speed. I ducked between people, almost bumping into a small dog who yelped in surprise. I was desperately willing myself to go faster in fear of missing this moment, this event that could never be repeated. Finally, I got to the corner of the road that went up to Mureel's Maze.

As I turned the broad gas-lit corner, I tripped on something and tumbled to the pavement, hard. Looking back, I saw that my foot had caught on a large discarded tool.

It was a hammer, ugly and menacing in appearance. A dark stain covered the dull silver metal of the head and part of the wooden shaft. The hilt was splintered and parted. It simply oozed evil and menace. I feel repulsed by it, and scrabbled away until I could gain my footing again. I jumped to my feet and continued my flight, extremely grateful to put distance between me and that implement.

Mureel's Maze was a pub that sat on the top of a large hill on the outskirt of the town. It was an old building and heavily frequented by the many beer-drinkers in that area. I myself used to frequent there for a time, my eye set on a barmaid who I thought I had a good chance of successfully courting until I learnt that she was betrothed to a young soldier.

I came to the front of the well-lit public house and stopped; opposite was the station, a glittering tall building of magnificence. The majesty of it made the 'Maze look like a candle in a strong wind by comparison. To the side of the station's wide entrance was a small gathering of locals facing an arrangement of flower and cards; someone had been killed recently, and on this very spot. The mourners were mostly in pairs, hugging, weeping, and whispering to each other in the low tones of those comforting one-another. Thankfully, no-one glanced at me despite my rather sudden and rough appearance. I moved around them as respectfully as I could, and entered the station.

The station could have been built that very morning; it was pristine. All the walls were clad with a white tile, holy and purity radiating from each one. The ceilings were large arches, dazzling lights beaming from somewhere within them. The floor was a black and white chequered pattern. I thought I was the only person in the station until my eyes finally adapted to the brightness; stood on the station's only platform several metres away was a man with his back to me. He was wearing a white suit jacket and black trousers. His hair was a glowing blond, and there was a small briefcase on the floor next to him. It looked like... I started to walk towards the platform, my feet making crisp ticking sounds in the empty station.

After a few steps, a train suddenly glided soundlessly into the station in front of the man. It was the biggest train that I had ever seen; huge, black, and unbelievably silent. There was some writing on the engine in big gold lettering: 654 – Angel of Death. As my eye read the writing, I was suddenly paralysed with fear and could not take another step. I remember rocking backwards and forwards in an attempt to break this spell on me, but I could not.

The train's only carriage finally rested in front of the man, and, picking up the briefcase, he opened the gold-trimmed door and boarded. The slam of the door broke the spell on me and I covered the remaining distance in a couple of seconds. With a cry, I crashed into the black door and tried to open it, but it was firmly locked. Shielding the glass with my hand, I peered inside. There was nothing, as if darkness itself was staring back at me. I gave the handle a final yank, then started to run towards the engine in order to enlist the driver's help.

Like a spider, the driver leapt out from within the cabin and leant over the edge of the engine at me. Even 5 years on, I sometimes wake up screaming because of that face. It must have been the face of a man once, but it was twisted with hate and malice. The lips were drawn right back until they almost touched the ears. The eyes were wide – too wide for a normal person, and they were completely black to the edges. I could see blood between the over-sized teeth, and the fingers that were holding onto the side of the engine were three times the length of normal digits. The overall effect was that of a monster extremely pleased to be a nightmare to all.

I skidded to a full stop and fell backwards at this sight, my breath catching in my throat. If I had been armed with spear or rifle, I would have attacked this creature and pleaded self-defence of my senses. However, the compassionate man, the person who resides within all of us in some way, couldn't put this creature to the sword for being a horror. Even if it was taking my friend, an eye for an eye makes everyone blind, doesn't it?

The creature regarded me for a few moments with a look that I imagine a fox would give a chicken, then slowly retreated to the engine once again. Without a sound, the train started to move out, steam billowing up into the ceiling, until it had swiftly disappeared out of the station and into the swirling night.

With the departure of the metal serpent train, I found I could move and breathe again, and I slowly got to my feet. There was nothing left to do but to go home; I was too late to do anything. Complete despair filled me. As I turned to leave, I stepped on a letter, white and crisp. Much to my surprise, I could see that it had my name on the front, so I picked it up and walked out of the brilliant station.

In the sharp cool night air, I felt drained. The mourners had lit candles around the tribute, casting a feeble light around. I spotted someone puffing on a cigarette; I hadn't smoked for years, but suddenly felt like one. I managed to barter a cigarette from the man, and then sat down dejectedly on the kerb by the candles. I inhaled the rough tobacco and enjoyed the light-headedness for a moment. When it passed, I replayed the events in the station; the man with the briefcase, the serpentine train, the horror that was the driver, the letter – I had forgotten about the letter, so I opened it up.

Inside was a single sheet of paper - good quality stuff and, although tobacco was spoiling my sense of smell, I got the hint of an incense of some kind. The only words I could see was on the front. In a cursive hand that I vaguely recognised was the word 'Jack'. I sighed, and whispered "What is the point in a blank letter?"

Slowly, and to my utter amazement, words gradually appeared on the sheet of paper.

To accommodate words that are yet to be written.

I was stunned. How was this possible? I wondered what else to say in response to this magical turn of events, and could only manage "Hello?"

Hello Jack.

"Is that you, old chap?"

_It is._ I thought for a while, the cigarette burning out in the short time.

"Tell me what happened"

What happened is no longer important. What happens now is important.

"People must know. People must remember." A couple of mourners looked around so I shielded the page from them with my body.

People will know what they need to know in order to continue their lives. You must too. People will remember; you never truly move on until people forget all about you.

"I will remember," I whispered, "I will."

_Grief is a terrible thing,_ the page wrote, _never let it control you._ I watched the last sentence fade away, and desperately tried to think of another question. The light from the candles was dim now, and I worried about them dying and thus robbing me of this magical moment.

"Who was the driver? Was it a monster?" The page remained blank for a moment.

In a fashion. Its name is La Haggler, and it knows not the impact of its actions. It does not feel remorse. It will be dealt with in time, its fate similar to mine but in a different place. Do not worry yourself over La Haggler. You will not see it again.

"Good" I said selfishly. I looked at the paper and his writing, and I realise that this is going to be the last things I will ever say to him. "I will miss you." I feel a tear trickle down my cheek.

_I will miss you too. I will miss all of you, but do not be sad. We will all see one another again._ The words vanished, then more rose from the depths of the paper; _Goodbye, and remember to watch the path you tread. Don't let grief be your master._

Then he was gone.

I open my eyes; the candles are just tiny droplets of fire hanging onto their string. It must be past midnight, the world quiet and asleep after another day. In my hand is the letter, the page as blank as when I first looked at it. Ever since that last sentence, it has never shown another word despite my efforts to invoke the writing again.

One candle quickly dies; the other is in its death throes. I feel my eyes starting to well up with tears as I remember those words. In that moment, I think about the 5 long years without my friend, the sting within my stomach every time I think of him, the tears that spring up without warning, the decline in my personal wellbeing and the retreat into my own personal cocoon away from the world. On that spot and with my eyes wet with grief, I decide that this is the end of my remembrance.

Don't let grief be your master, the page had said. Tears wet my cheeks as I look into that portrait for one last time, the weak candlelight making lines dance around the face. For a moment, the portrait is smiling, and then is still again. I grip the paper tightly and whisper "I will always miss you."

Tears are running freely now, but as the candle threatens to die, I see the paper in my hand. In the faint delicate light of the flashing candle, through eyes bloated with hot tears, and in my long-lost friend's handwriting, the page says:

Live life my friend.

The candle dies, and the blackness is deafening.

###
About the author:

H L Jones is a thirty-something writer and IT professional living in Bristol, UK. His passions include sci-fi, MTG, and retro gaming. He spends his time upvoting unsavoury material on Reddit, shouting at the news, and re-buying all the things he used to have as a kid.

Connect with me online:

Twitter: @howardjones0

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