Writers of the Future, Volume 29 (20 page)

Clockwork teeth bit at his fingers as he squeezed himself down through
the narrow gap. A gear ripped into his jacket cuff. He let go in order to free
himself, tumbling down. His hands latched onto the arbor and he slid down through
the gap as if it were a fireman's pole.

Neil landed next to Mr. Harrison. Beyond his body, the portal had begun
to shrink. The crowd on the platform inched slowly forward. The train engine loomed
so close that it blocked out the sun.

Neil ran, not looking at the great eye of the engine. He leapt from the
edge of the hole toward the distant platform.

The world filled with so much sound and movement that Neil screamed
louder than when the world had stopped. His knees hit the platform edge and he
rolled onto his side. The engine plowed past just as all trace of the portal
disappeared.

Neil touched his chest where he had cradled the bird. It was gone. A
hand reached down and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him up.

Miss Dutton towered above Neil, shaking with rage. His father's watch
was still looped around her fingers, the gold chain dangling against the leather
handle of his suitcase.

“The orphanage has switches for defiant little boys,” she raged.

“I am not a little boy.” He lunged for the watch. Miss Dutton yanked it
from reach and wrenched his arm till it felt close to breaking.

“It's mine now, for the trouble you've caused. I'm going to teach you to
be a proper—”

Neil drew in a breath and let out a clear high whistle that turned the
heads of the closest passengers.

“What,” said Miss Dutton, “do you think you—”

Jack flapped into her face, pecking violently at her nose. Miss Dutton
screamed. As she let go of his arm, Neil kicked her smartly in the shin and grabbed
for the watch.

For a moment they struggled, Jack flailing wildly at her head, then Miss
Dutton turned and ran screaming down the platform, chased by the black pigeon.

Neil walked outside the station with his father's watch and stood on the
steps where the earth had first stopped. For a moment, he was the only thing not in
motion as the world flowed around him.

A familiar weight landed on his shoulder and cooed softly.

Neil gazed south, toward where home used to be, and then all around at
the wide world.

He could see lines of power where he had never noticed them before.
Places where the edges of the world didn't match up quite right: A flock of geese
pushed too far west by an uncomfortable fold in the sky; an errant ley line that
made the closest hilltop unusually devoid of trees; a billowing smokestack that
would allow the wind to sweep the haze from Greenwich Park if only it was broken
down. He touched the truncheon in his pocket and wondered if he might be good at
fixing certain kinds of things after all.

He strode east along the bank of the Thames toward the rising sun, Jack
riding high on his shoulder. A growing chorus of frog song began to fill the world
around them, masking beneath it the soft, ticking heartbeat of time.

Cop for a Day

written by

Chrome Oxide

illustrated by

JON ENO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chrome Oxide was created as an internet
persona to reflect his collection of music-related books, vinyl, CDs, DVDs and
cassettes.

He started life with a normal name roaming the wilds
of Los Angeles. It didn't take long before he developed his twin passions of
listening to music and reading science fiction and fantasy.

His formal schooling ended with an accounting degree
from California State University Northridge. He then attempted to exploit his
twin passions by becoming an accountant. Twenty years passed before he realized
that seventy-hour work weeks didn't leave him much time for music or reading. At
that point he switched careers to computer consulting.

Now with more free time, he accidentally became a
recording engineer. His recordings are now available on CDs, DVDs and the
Internet.

Recently, because of inadequate discouragement, he
started writing science fiction and fantasy. For the last two and a half years
he has been torturing his writers' group by learning two bad habits for every
one he fixes. They thought he was ready to start submitting stories. He didn't.
You can now judge for yourself. This is his first fiction story published for a
wide audience. It won't be the last.

His website is
chromeoxide.com
.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Jon Eno is also the illustrator for “War Hero”
in this volume. For more about him, please see his bio
here
.

Cop for a Day

B
eep.

My modification of the comm unit worked; however, I knew I should've
disabled the call circuit when I'd disabled the streaming audio. I hadn't at the
time because I'd expected a call from my parole officer. Six months later and I
still hadn't gotten any of the required weekly calls or monthly visits. This made
sense because no sane person would live in or visit the government-provided Simple
Living Urban Modules if any other options existed. The crowded conditions proved
that sanity and other options didn't exist.

Beep.

I stared at the comm unit. The listings got updated less frequently than
the census. Ignoring a call from a government official is a crime. Disabling the
streaming audio is a crime. Some crimes are worth committing. I am sentenced to live
here. However, I refuse to listen to the government-provided version of the news,
which, much like a blind man's version of an elephant, contains elements of truth
distorted until they're worthless.

Beep.

It wouldn't be good news, but delaying bad news wouldn't help. I hit my
kill switch to enable the streaming audio before answering. “…employment reached
256.3%, up 15.7% from last week. In an effort to boost morale of the hard-working
public servants, the legislature gave raises to all elected and salaried officials.
In the spirit of fiscal conservatism and balancing the budget, safety and fire units
will only respond if victims can pay in advance…” The streaming audio automatically
muted as I answered the comm unit.

“Yo, Mark Rollins? In future, answer phone quicker?”

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Who are you?”

“Me Sergeant Sam Frank. Today your lucky day. You selected for work
detail. Come to Amalgamated Security Services unit at corner Winston Street and
Smith Avenue.”

“I'll get there as soon as I can; however, public transportation is
running slow this time of day.” Not that it ever runs fast.

“Be here on time today. Blame government no excuse. Penalty for not show
up.”

“I know. Everything is a crime. I'll be there.”

“Yo, Mr. Bad Attitude. That get you trouble.”

The only guarantee in life is that government will make your life worse.
Since my life was bad enough already, I didn't want to find out how much worse it
could be, so I shut up and disconnected.

A chill ran down my spine. This could be my only chance to get out of
here. Ever since the government had performed “asset forfeiture,” stealing
everything they thought I owned, I'd been stagnating from fear that the government
was waiting to arrest me the moment I started working again. However, if the
government was offering a convicted felon a job, then it was time to stop worrying
and restart my life. I wanted more than to live on a government handout and obey
rules designed to keep everyone subservient and grateful.

No matter what happened, I'd start my business again. Asset forfeiture
had missed some of my gear and supplies among the multiple caches, so the loss of
any, or even
most
of them, wouldn't stop me from
restarting my business.

The news feed started up again, “…the hoarding of goods will be
punishable by…” The comm unit continued babbling as I walked down the
graffiti-covered hall, tiptoeing through piles of trash that people had been too
lazy to throw out their windows or dump into the empty elevator shafts. The weekly
trash recyclers were only a few years behind in their pickups.

The government soup kitchen, located in the first floor of my building,
provided something to chew on for the ride to the Amalgamated Security Services
fortress. The government claimed their specially prepared Government Regulated
Uniform Edible Lumps contained the minimum daily requirements of calories and
vitamins, but it looked and tasted like what came out of the composting end of a
person. Yet another quality product created to government specifications and
provided free of charge to everyone who couldn't afford anything better.

I walked to the street corner and enjoyed the sunshine and the small
breeze. The government hadn't figured out a way to tax them. Yet.

It didn't take long before a fleet of multiseat bicycles came down the
street. The most recent version of government-provided, environmentally safe, mass
transit and employment opportunities. Of course, this temporary alternative to
polluting fuels had only been in place for twenty years, but the government assured
us they were making progress on alternative-fuel development.

I located a three-seater heading in my direction so I climbed on and
started pedaling. As the government cracked down on technology usage among the
Sovereign Laborers And Valued Employees, I wondered what form of transportation
would replace bicycles when they couldn't be repaired anymore.

The ride took a couple of hours and sent pain up and down my back and
legs. No matter what happened, I needed to exercise more. We weren't attacked on the
trip because everybody knows that people using mass transit have nothing valuable
left to share.

The sight of the Amalgamated Security Services fortress—with its gun
ports, security doors and barred windows—caused me to flash back to my prior
encounter. Would this be the end of that nightmare?

After ringing the doorbell, I glanced around and shifted from one foot
to the other. The crackle of distant gunfire provided a lullaby, ensuring me that I
was safe for the moment.

Much like in
The Wizard of Oz,
a porthole
opened and a face spoke. “Dude. You bumming me out. Go home.”

“I'm Mark Rollins. Sergeant Frank told me to report in.”

“Dude. Me Sergeant Beach. Sergeant Frank took lunch break. He back
tomorrow, maybe next week. Go home.”

“What jobs are available? I'm required to register today. Please give me
something, anything.”

“Dude, not my problem. Amalgamated Security Services job only one me
know open. You not qualified. Currently hiring minorities. You Eskimo?”

“No. But I'm here. You have to give me a chance.”

“You sure you not Eskimo? Well, you Eskimo now.”

Which crime is worse, not registering for work when called or making a
false claim of minority status? I don't know, but I'd rather find out later than
sooner.

Sergeant Beach let me into the fortress. The thick concrete walls and
the steel doors kept everyone inside fairly safe from snipers.

“Thanks. What forms do I need to fill out?”

“Dude. You bumming me out again. Writing repressive and discriminatory.
No need forms or read write. Do work, stay. Not do work, go. Need get started. What
your name?”

I told him again while we walked into the armory room.

“Here you guns: pump-action shotgun for crazies, and stun gun for
harmless. No machine gun until qualify.”

While I'd never used a machine gun before, the Church of the Second
Right provided me with the training for all the other available weapons. Yet another
one of my many skills which made me overqualified for this or any government
job.

We walked down the hall to the armory.

“Dude, here body armor. But only for wimps.”

“Consider me a wimp.” Browsing the body armor, I found something I
liked. “I'll go with the type 3A model, which gives me a good balance between weight
and protection.”

“Dude, you freak me out with talk like that. Time to get threads.”

When we entered the next room, I asked “Why are the uniforms red? I
thought they were tan?”

“Dude. Newbie uniform red. It easy clean blood.”

It also made me a more visible target, but I had no choice. I found a
uniform in my size without too many bullet holes. I reluctantly put it on.
Government employees are universally hated. They are too important to fail, so they
can't be prosecuted for any actions performed while on the job. “This one fits. I'm
as ready as I'll ever be.”

“Dude, listen up, rules. Collect $500,000 today, work tomorrow. Not
collect, not work. Here manual. It say enforce asset forfeiture. Only arrest
wealthy. Not waste time when no assets around. Observe and record suspicious
behavior. Understand?”

“Yes.” Actually no. I understood what they asked for, but I didn't
understand why they assigned me to the street instead of a desk job.

We continued walking down the hall and out the back door of the fortress
into the parking compound.

“Dude, here car, here keys. Don't wreck. Full charge. Come back
sundown.”

“Thanks.” Sundown? Was the average college graduate no longer capable of
telling time? Or had the supply of wristwatches diminished to the point where only
politicians rated having them?

“Dude, you don't look like Eskimo. What your name?”

I told him my name again and took the key. My assigned car wasn't the
most beat-up one in the lot. A couple of cars sat on jacks because of missing wheels
and other parts. At least the car I'd been assigned still had some tread on the
tires and some unbroken solar panels on the hood and roof. I hoped it worked well
enough to survive one more day of patrol. Some tagger had changed the motto to read
“To Collect and Observe.” Nobody had bothered removing the change. Sigh. At least I
wasn't assigned to a bicycle or foot patrol.

ILLUSTRATION BY JON ENO

I cleaned the windows and disconnected the power cord before climbing
into the front seat. All the instrument displays on the dashboard were broken. The
floor, roof, and seats were slashed and stained. How had bloody footprints ended up
on the ceiling? The car stank of too many unwashed bodies and other less
identifiable but more disgusting smells. Why hadn't they at least left the windows
open to air out? Although to be fair, asking about any government procedure or
policy never returned an understandable answer.

The car started with a whine and a hum. I drove a reasonable distance
between myself and the fortress before looking for a place with an open field of
fire so I could park and assess my situation.

My weapons were poorly maintained. However, a few minutes work assured
me of their functionality.

The manual, which made no sense, had ten pages of pictures with fewer
words than the comic books I'd read when growing up. The ninety pages of footnotes
explaining the words and pictures didn't help. I even found song lyrics for “Anarchy
in the UK” and “California Über Alles” buried in the footnotes.

Neither the instructions nor footnotes matched the briefing by Sergeant
Beach. Was this plausible deniability or general government incompetence? I decided
to stick with the briefing and hope for the best.

After replacing the manual in the glove compartment, which contained a
functioning camera and a can of black spray paint, I examined the dashboard more
closely. The broken displays I didn't recognize could only belong to the Smart Cars
I'd heard about a few years ago. Considering the rumored intelligence level of the
Smart Car and the lack of intelligence of the typical user, it made sense that
someone had disabled the Smart Car brains. If I could fix it, maybe it would give me
an edge.

Since repairing electronics is what had led to my conviction, maybe it
would lead out of this mess. Yes, a brief examination showed that damage consisted
of cut wires. I drove to one of my caches and grabbed a toolkit. In less than half
an hour, I had the brains of the car functioning again. If I'd had more time and
money I could've even replaced the display, but today was not the day. I had to hit
the road and make up for lost time.

I got in and asked, “Car, what's your name or identification code?”

“The official project name was Security Conscious Animated Machinery,”
the car replied, “but when their bosses were not around, my programmers called me
the Crime Reduction And Prevention unit.”

“With a response like that, you must be an Educational Device of Great
Endurance, so I'll call you EDGE. Can you run a self-test and tell me your current
status?”

After a few moments, EDGE reported, “Self-test results: All offensive
and defensive armament disabled or removed. All internal sensors and communications
functioning. All external data links still functional, but all the passwords have
changed. Some of the back doors are still open, but it will take a few milliseconds
to link up. External-device testing results: The radio is damaged; it is stuck on a
channel that is no longer in use. The GPS is functional and reporting our current
location.”

“Damn. I'd better move this cache after my shift is over. Time to return
to our patrol.” Back on the road, I asked “What is your main function?”

“Tactical support, communication and driving. Who are you, and what
organization do you represent?”