Life In The Fastlane - Brave New World Read online

  Life in the Fastlane

  Part One: Brave New World

  By Philip Norris

  All material contained within © Philip Norris, April 2014.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Philip Norris and Susan Omand of Omand Original

  You can find me on Facebook, Twitter (@pnorris14) and on my blog philnorris63.wordpress.com

  Acknowledgements

  As the song goes it’s been a long and winding road. I first knew I wanted to be a writer when I was still at school, it’s took me from then to now to actually get something into print. OK, that might be a slight exaggeration, there is a lot of what I’ve wrote in print. Stuffed into files and A4 envelopes around and about, but none of it in proper print what like what this is.

  Anyway, this isn’t the place for rambling. So, who to thank? Well first off Miles Boothe, editor of Legends Of The Monster Hunter series for giving my first short story a chance, and then for giving the next the same. Matt Dillon, Dave Probert, Gillian Coyle and everyone else at www.geekplanetonline.com for putting a couple of my short stories up on their site. For inspiration and treading the path I’m now on before me, Matt Dillon (author of The Traveller series) and Jennifer Williams (author of The Copper Promise).To everyone who’s ever been onto the SFX forum and into the Creative Writing thread and given advice, encouragement and general chit-chat. To my beta readers, Paul Starkey, Jodie Portugal and Marty Perrett for taking the raw thing I gave them and each giving it a polish.

  And last but not least I’d like to thank my wife for all those evenings I was there but not there because I was buried in my laptop writing.

  Table of Contents

  One Giant Leap

  The Manhattan Project

  Something Is Rotten In The State Of Denmark

  Every Man Is Guilty Of All The Good He Did Not Do

  OUR GLORIOUS AIR ARMADA STRIKE’S A BLOW AGAINST THE CAPATILIST AGGRESSOR

  Socialist New York Times: January 3rd 1947

  The Air Ministry has released reports of the strikes carried out by our Glorious Air Armada on the Capitalist city of Houston. After repeated incursions by craft from the Western aggressor the ruling committee, with the full backing of the Supreme Soviet, have decided direct action was the only course left open after months of fruitless diplomatic discourse. Of the thirteen ships to embark on the mission all returned safely. Great damage was reported on the target, with the industrial and commercial districts left in flames. Air Chief Marshall Gregory C. Darwin has hailed our brave airmen as heroes of the American Socialist States and a proud symbol to all Soviet citizens on both sides of the Atlantic. In his speech from the Oval Office he declared January 2nd as Air Day, and hence forth celebrations will mark this historic victory.

  One Giant Leap

  The light rain had persisted all day, the grimy streets of Whitechapel were sodden, each with little streams running down the clogged gutters and overflowing onto pavements. But no amount of rain could ever wash the filth that permeated the district away. The stench from blocked sewers assailed John Deeks’ nose as he walked quickly with his coat pulled tight around his neck in an attempt to keep dry, even with the thick protection he could feel the nights chill creeping into his bones. Overhead a Police Floater droned its spotlights sweeping the streets, Deeks stepped into a doorway that smelled of human waste and disappeared in the gloom.

  Even in these so-called ‘enlightened times’ it was unwise for a black man to be found on the streets after dark, invariably it led to arrest and painful questioning. The low hum passed away and Deeks stepped out, checking the sky was clear, and carried on his way.

  He crossed the road and headed past several shops and houses with all the windows on the ground floor smashed and boarded up. The Great Regeneration proclaimed by the King two years before had yet to reach this part of Capital, and he very much doubted it ever would. Whitechapel had always been the poor relation to all the other boroughs, the powers that be preferred to pretend it did not exist, in the hope that one day someone else would have to deal with the problem. As he neared a junction several loud bangs made him stop short, his eyes darting up and down the road, his hand reached for the weapon he no longer wore.

  Years spent in the Imperial Army had seen him in many a warzone, his reaction to simple firecrackers was instinctive and if another soldier had been present understandable.

  In fact thinking on it he’d spent most of his life fighting one battle or other. If not against prejudice growing up on the streets of Bristol because of the colour of his skin, then it was the Bolsheviks on the Eastern front, a battle that even now fifteen years later still rages. The army had given him a home he never really had, a sense of purpose that he didn’t realize he was lacking. Also if not for his time in the army he’d never have met the Professor, not have been able to buy himself out of his contract and leave uniform with some prospects. Not many NCO rank soldiers had anything to leave for. The only prospect they had was growing old in uniform and finally a bullet somewhere in some godforsaken hole with your name on.

  Laughter drifted on the wind and he saw a group of well dressed men and women stagger across a junction further down the road, some were carrying lit sparklers and waving them drunkenly around. Deeks shook his head and carried on his way. It had been a week since New Year, yet still the celebrations carried on for some. He doubted many who called Whitechapel home had much cause to celebrate still, for them life had returned to normal the day after January 1st, for them the daily grind carried on no matter what the date was.

  1947, Deeks smiled to himself as he turned another corner and pulled a key from his pocket. 1947, both he and the century were only three years away from their fifth decade. He felt old, a hard life had battered and broken his body many times, but since meeting the Professor he had come to appreciate a life where comfort and stability were the norm. That didn’t mean that he didn’t feel the weight of that hard life still pressing down on him. He stopped in front of a house on Dorset Street. Despite the state of the door before him, and the house it led into, the lock was new well oiled and shiny. Deeks knew it was the best money could buy as he had installed it himself a few days before. The last thing he’d wanted was for the experiment to be interrupted by squatters. Looking up and down the street he checked he was alone and slid the key home, he smiled and the mechanism clicked within. The door swung in on new hinges. Another new addition only fitted days before, and Deeks stepped in closing and locked the door behind him. Taking a torch from his pocket he clicked it on and walked down the narrow hallway towards the stairs.

  The smell of rats was nearly overpowering, a problem no matter where you went in the district, to be honest they were a problem in the whole city. But as well as rat there were other smells, sweet, cloying smells associated with a long vacant space frequented by degenerates and undesirables. The stairs creaked under his weight as he went up, at the top he stopped facing the only door. Deeks pushed into the room and went over to the small window. Outside the street was quiet, the revelers now moved on to some party or other no doubt. Deeks glanced up at the sky and was pleased to see it was empty, he reached up and pulled the curtains across, like the lock and hinges on the front door, these were new as well. With the room now even darker Deeks crossed to an oil lamp and primed the wick.

  A warming yellow glow filling the room Deeks shook his coat off and stood in front of the lamp warming his hands. He glanced at his pocket watch and went over to the small black satchel he’d been carrying, undoing the clasp he opened it pulling out a small leather-clad box, as he sat on the room’s only chair and stared at the wall in front of him.

  #
>
  He knew he’d been staring at the same patch of wall for a long time because his eyes were starting to itch. He glanced at his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, he knew it was the time but really had no idea if where he was looking was even the place the Professor would appear, or if he even would appear. The Vortex was still not a perfect science, even though the technology had been in use for nearly thirty years even so called experts had no real knowledge of the exact workings. There were too many un-known’s, even the Professor’s father had once said his creation was down to luck as much as his brilliance. And what the Professor was now attempting was akin to trying to direct a hurricane with a funnel made out of paper.

  The risks were incalculable, but for Deeks these were minimal, at least so the Professor had said. Unless of course there was some power surge that destroyed the point of arrival as well as departure. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes then looked down at the Box-Brownie Motioncorder, he was tempted to flip it open to check the disk was in there but thought better of it. He knew if he was fussing with the machine when the Professor came through, and he missed the moment, his employer would not be pleased.

  Looking up he saw a roach making its way up the stained wallpaper that had been all the fashion when Queen Victoria was still sat on the throne. He’d grown up in a place like this, six of them crammed on top of each other. He’d always dreamed of escaping the oppressive filth and making a better life for his family. He’d made it, got out, thanks to the army but his family had not fared so well, at least that was his assumption. When he’d returned home with a chest full of medals and promising future in the Professors employ, the house he’d called home had been empty.

  Something caught his eye, a movement in the air. Looking at the spot he’d been staring at for what felt like forever he saw the stained wallpaper fade, the fabric of reality around the null spot seemed to go thin. It shimmered making the wall behind look like it would if it was underwater. Quickly he brought the Brownie up and pressed the record button, the area bulged and twisted then taking on a nearly human shape reality moved and a figure appeared.

  Professor Horatio Sykes was a striking figure, but with the wild energies around him creating a halo about his head for a second he looked almost angelic. Six feet tall, he had a slender, some would say effeminate figure; his long black hair would have fell down over his shoulders, but he had it held in place with knotted cloth in the fashion of Arabian Sheiks. Like the rest of him his face was thin, the nose pointed, nostril’s flared. His class shone from within announcing to the world here stood an English gentleman. In another setting, dressed as he was, he’d have been called a dandy, with his styled pinstriped morning suit, velvet waistcoat and cream ruffled shirt. All he needed was a cane, monocle and top hat to make the image complete. Professor Sykes was the quintessential English gentleman; and Deeks was proud to say he counted him as a friend.

  He smiled at Deeks and touched one finger to his forehead in the lazy approximation of a salute more usually seen in the America’s. Behind him reality writhed, Deeks thought he could hear a hissing noise but knew the Vortex made no sound, at least not what people thought of as sound. This was more felt than heard, invading the body, making your innards dance. Deeks became uncomfortable as the familiar wrenching twist he felt in his gut. Reaching into his pocket the Professor took out a small box, about the size of a cigarette case, flipped open the top and pressed the top of two buttons. It was all very theatrical, Deeks smiled at the memory of a dozen dry runs of this performance before the Professor was happy. The hole in reality behind him seemed to collapse in on itself and the room behind him returned to normal. With a flick he closed the top and put the box back in his pocket, then looked straight at the lens of the Brownie.

  “Gentlemen” Sykes half turned so he was side profile on and still looking at the lens he waved his hand at the now plain drab wall behind him. “I give you the next stage in the development of the Spatial Transit Vortex. By my arrival here I have just proved it is possible to manipulate the energies within and create a stable vortex without the use of a Slave Station. With further development I am convinced no longer will there be a need for the vortex to be anchored, be restricted, in its use between two locked locations. The days of the Master and Slave are numbered and with the right investment in both time and hardware now the Vortex can become truly unlimited.”

  He beamed a smile that looked even more false than the last time he’d performed this speech for Deeks. Striking a pose he grasped the lapels of his jacket and thrust his chin out so he was looking down his nose at the Brownie. He then hesitantly raised one hand and pointed at a spot somewhere above and behind Deeks’ head.

  “The future is ours, the future is limitless.” On cue Deeks pressed the stop button and Sykes relaxed. “I do hate public relations, I so wished you’d have agreed to do that part.” Deeks was checking the Brownie making sure it had caught everything the Professor had said, he glanced up at Sykes a smile forming on his face.

  “Are you serious Professor? Look at you, then look at me, who would you prefer to see on screen?” Deeks passed the Brownie over and watched as a slight frown formed on the Professors face at the image in the small screen on the back of the device.

  “I look fat.”

  Deeks snorted a laugh and shook his head; then turned for the door, Sykes looked up from the screen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I assumed we were done here and were heading back, I was going to see if I could hail a cab.” Deeks had a hand on the door knob and watched with a sinking feeling as Sykes fished in his pocket and brought out the box he’d just used to turn the Vortex off. He shook it as you would a box of matches and flipped the lid open pressing the second button. Behind him reality became fluid again. Deeks looked at it then back at the Professor.

  “Do I have to sir? Last time I was sick for days.”

  “Nonsense John, time is of the essence we have things to do and people to see. History is waiting and the clock is ticking.” He looked back as the vortex solidified. “Why trudge along when you can, as the colonials say, take the Fastlane.”

  #

  Deeks felt out of place sitting in the elegance that was the Reform Club. This was not his world. This was a world of wealth and privilege, a world where the hardships of growing up in a slum were unknown. It was also a white man’s world. Looking around the room at the well fed faces Deeks knew the hardest thing anyone here ever had to face was where they should dine in the evening. And he could see by the looks he was getting that they felt his presence here was an affront to their sensibilities. Instead of sitting in their midst he should be stood in the shadows awaiting a summons or order for drinks with a click from their fingers.

  He fidgeted in the plush seat unaccustomed to such comfort, the air was rich with the smell of expensive cigars and spirits, an overpowering concoction that made his nose twitch. He pulled at the collar of his shirt away from his neck as sweat trickled down the small of his back, the whole experience was making him feel dizzy and he was having trouble breathing. He knew shouldn’t be here, this was the Professors world. These were his people. He looked around the room at the waiters and batmen. They were his people, here to serve silently passing amongst the tables like ghosts never being noticed. His eyes dropped to overweight man with a massive walrus moustache sat at the table next to him. His face was red, his eyes glared with anger. Deeks wondered how he’d ever got into the chair let alone get out. He’d managed to wedge himself in and it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. But despite the obvious rage he displayed at the insult caused by Deeks’ presence he was silent. And Deeks couldn’t help but notice how his eyes occasionally darting sideways to the man who shared the table with Deeks.

  Sir Peter Gilliam ignored the looks and mumbled comments from the tables around him, he was a man who had no need to conform to what society considered was right and proper. He sat comfortably in his chair and looked across the top of
his pince-nez with blank eyes that showed neither interest or resentment at being here with Deeks, in fact he looked like a scientist Deeks had once seen about to perform an experiment, his face was quizzical.

  He’d already been seated when Deeks had been shown in and had not said a word the entire time they’d been sat there. As Deeks sweated and fidgeted Gilliam had sat, his eyes fixed on Deeks obvious discomfort. This was the first time Deeks had met the man in person, he’d been in the lab when he’d visited the Professor but never been introduced. Deeks didn’t feel like he’d been left out, the Professor knew he preferred to be in the background working with his machines. And Deeks knew it was better for the Professor not to be seen treating him as an equal, despite his liberal views many in the upper classes still viewed people of Deeks’ colour as a lower breed and treated them as such.

  The head of His Majesties Special Operations Executive didn’t look like the Empires spymaster, Deeks had met spies whilst serving in the army, had even been on missions with one, he thought he knew what they should look like, if a spy could be said to have a look. Gilliam looked like a clerk, with a pallid complexion and receding hair in any other setting he would have most probably gone un-noticed. He looked so neutral.

  It was hard to judge his age but Deeks knew Gilliam had held his position for at least the last twenty years. But no matter his age the years sat well on him, even if he did have the complexion of a day old corpse. As they’d sat there Deeks suspected Gilliam was well aware of the sideways glances their table got. He wondered if the spymaster took some perverse pleasure at the outrage evident in the room, outrage that would never be openly expressed because of who he was. Whenever some muttered comment was heard above the general mummer of the room all Gilliam did was turn his head to look at the talker, and the conversation died.