The Cryosleep Chapel

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum, 

Beyond the hull, the silent quasars bloom. 

The android priest recites forgotten psalms 

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum. 

Beyond the hull, the silent quasars bloom,

Their violet light bends through the fractured dome.

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum,

While orphaned satellites drift far from home.

Their violet light bends through the fractured dome,

A pilot dreams in languages of code.

While orphaned satellites drift far from home,

The ship remembers every soul it stowed.

A pilot dreams in languages of code,

The android priest recites forgotten psalms.

The ship remembers every soul it stowed

In the cryosleep chapel, the circuits hum.

A Lifetime Of Tides

When I was once young, young and free

The tide already old, tide and the sea

I carved my name on coastal stones

Compacted millennia of ancient bones

The tide rise today is not the same

The ebb flow tomorrow, different again

The tide drifts away, a whispering sigh, 

And the tide returns when the moon is high 

A callow youth, footprints at the sand

Sea salt breezes that kiss the land

Moonrise silver over Pan Haven Bay,

Beckoned waters, dance and spray.

A castle shadow, walls worn with years, 

A warrior, an Odin of the lunar spheres

Who the moon pulls with an invisible thread,

That holds the memories of the sleeping dead.

A draft of eider wings come by

Past the white cliff house on high

Gulls wheel above where breakers gleam,

Fishermen follow, darling dreams.

The tide is a song for ever more

That kisses the rocks upon the shore.

Curlews cry out at the wind-swept sand, 

Their voices entwined with nature's hand. 

At mid tide like midlife, like silver and grey

Those dreams that were written are fading away

A long rocky headlands, salt breezes roam,

Wandering seabirds, calling them home.

But tomorrow’s tide is at oh four twenty-three,

Way too early for a dying man to see.

A final tide plays its age old tricks

At the last knockings of twenty twenty-six

Fallen Twins

They lay side by side. Together probably forever. Emblems and sigils adorned the place. Steel from the bygone age glistened beneath the weak paltry sun.

When they were young, optimism was the all. Yet it was also a well understood obsequious truth that the future was decaying as quick as it was being written. They rode the wave of that rampant decay. Hip priests of the coming dawn ready to lead. Ready to conquer. And they reached far. They held an influence. They fired the torch. 

Of the two, one was called Clarity, the other persisted, unnamed. They started from nothing, dust and spittle underfoot. They rode armoured, through the seven ages of man, gaining wisdom, discarding guilt. Eventually they came to the mountain, they ascended as though it were ordained. They stared to the coast as though it were the simple step. They sucked the flowers, chewed on petals and pollen. From the sea, they sifted the salt and from the soil they counterweighted the coal. The world for them became a budded place. 

But for all else, you and me, light fell from the sky, seed lay barren. Oh yay, we cried. No more. Mortem Tyrannis. And so, they fell.

The Journey From Here To Be

Sometime when, in the pale morning light, Hamlet took Ophelia by the hand. He looked deep into her light blue eyes and spoke thus. 

“I am no longer indifferent honest, we shall take ourselves beyond the river to the diligent sea. Thus, shall we go, lest we spend too long among the dead?”

He dressed her for a journey to the day. Hand by hand they slipped past guarded doors of Elsinore. As they moved through the fields with ardent life to left and right Ophelia turned to him and smiled.

“There is rosemary, for remembrance. Pray you, Hamlet, remember. Oh, and these. These are a wild pansy. They are for thoughts. Think this of me, my love, that I am the blossoming flower”

“Aye, thou ist my deep red tulip!”

They walked on, the burdens of state close forgotten. Abreast of a hill, a wearied traveller advised them of the nearing ocean.

“There,” he said, “is the sea. Beyond that sea, who knows what kingdom waits?”

Hamlet looked at Ophelia. No ghost behind his eyes, no crown, no poisoned cup, no grave waiting. And Ophelia, gathering the wild pansies to her breast, answered,

“To be, Hamlet. Simply to be.”

From there they continued towards the lapping waters. Behind them Elsinore grew smaller in the remembering.

PPPI Gets A Case

He pulled the beret from the hook and fashioned it on his head. Years of wear caused it to fall into the position that it always had. On shutting the front door behind him, he saw his neighbour opening his. Home from the Night Shift. A curt nod echoed between them. They were separated by more than walls. He let his chair free wheel down the ramp before engaging the electric motor. Another nod, this time from the bus driver, his relationship with the bus driver was way better than that with his neighbour. "Hello", he said. It was a mere twenty minute journey into the town centre. He used the time wisely, to do absolutely nothing.

By the time he had reached the office, he had cleared his mind ready to face the coming challenges. He rolled the chair through the widened entrance way. Lights came on automatically. A few moments later, his assistant rolled her way through the door. They decided that tea was the best thing. As they sipped, the Postie appeared with a small bundle. The Postie was an inveterate source of mostly local information, but not today. After tea they sorted the post into three piles; yes, no and oh no. Today the yes pile was the smallest pile. The first two envelopes from the pile turned out to be just general enquiries but the third...

The third was a largest stiff brown envelope. "Bung" said Valerie. "Well, it would pay your wages." said Peter hopefully as he tipped the contents onto the table. There were several sheets of paper two small Ziploc bags and a green labelled key."Okay!" they echoed. On the first sheet of paper was written.

'INVESTIGATE!'

The best way to get a PP philosophical investigation initiated was to shout a lot or feeling that write down an instruction in strong, black capital letters. Peter and his assistant Mary smiled broadly at each other, spread all the papers out and then said almost simultaneously, "We need to call Paul".

The Road To

Peter Plumb became a wheelchair user at the age of 10. A tragic accident, an RTA in officialese. That's what they wrote on his hospital records. He was the passenger, mum and dad in the front seats had died in the ensuing fire. A passing driver had pulled Peter clear. Peter remembered nothing of this. When he came around from the induced coma a couple of weeks later his life had changed.

 

After several further weeks of recovery Peter started to notice the differences. Small at first, he realised that somethings he had previously found difficult were now easy. Well, initially at least, easier. When he returned to school, he suddenly found that subjects that were previously baffling had become straightforward, subjects that he already had a grasp of became staggeringly simple. 

 

Despite his wheelchair complications within two years, he had been moved to a specialist school and within another year he had started a degree in Mathematics and Philosophy and then moved almost seamlessly onto his PhD.

 

Now at the age of almost 19 he sat in his own office, a new office, with PP Philosophical Investigations etched boldly into the door glass. He waits his first client. It has been a long quiet morning and now as he is tucking into a rich bowl of sardine salad, into the office walks a woman. A young woman of indeterminant origins, and without preamble asks in an accented voice, "Of course, you do investigate road traffic accidents?"

The Weevil Eaters

The little people lived in the bole of a tree. Their home is festooned with artifacts taken from everyone within striking distance. The little people have a god, he is called O’Dan. They stole him from the big people. They keep him chained high in their tree. Whenever things are bad they climb the tree to worship him. When times are good the little people ignore him. 

There was the time when the tree was almost overrun with the Greater European Wood Weevil. O’Dan, the god, suggested after a lot of worshipping that the weevil would be good roasted with some butter. The little people ate well for a month. O’Dan was just relieved that they had stopped hitting him. 

The little people understood very little but managed to get by.

DNA Trail

On every Continent Cruiser there is at least one director's carriage. It is true that even on some of the the loops minor connecting lines there are some with corresponding carriages, but they are nothing compared with the ones on the loop. They are known as Mariposa Suites. They are opulence in a society otherwise without gratuitous demonstrations of decadence. They are a widely known secret. They are on occasion the target of the so called extreme luddite faction of the NFTA.

I have never been in one. Until now. A few weeks ago, it was early in the morning before my work day began. My wrist wrap started buzzing wildly. Wildly was a little of an understatement, overwhelming understatement. In fact I hadn't, and no one else I asked had, known they could do that. It scared the shit out of me. Then it started flashing. Wrist wraps are difficult to get off even when you're calm and relaxed. The skin insertions make it difficult. But that's what I tried to do and then when I realised it wasn't doing any harm, I did the relaxing thing. I took deep breaths karma really deep breaths. As I relaxed the buzzing and flashing eased. I realised that a message I was scrolling across the face of the wrap. The message said that I should go to an office in downtown two days later. I did, and now I'm here, about to enter and Mariposa suite.

As I approach the stationery cruiser my wrist wrap glows blue, I've been warned that this would happen. Then as I walk towards the rear carriages the blue changes to a sort of gold colour and the entrance ramp to the sweet folds down. A large, muscled security operative occupies the doorway. He looks intently at my wrist wrap, his eyes change colour to match my wrap. He may not be human. I haven't been warned about that but so many things have happened in the last few days that I wouldn't be beyond surprised. He moves aside, it is my invite inside. I walk cautiously up the ramp, its surface has a gentle give that absorbs my weight I am told that I am to meet with Brendon. Moving into the carriage away from the entrance, interior lighting increases. I realise then why they are called Mariposa, the colours, purples, yellows, pinks and oranges. Contrast with this, the character sat in all white robes. He's overweight and speaks in similar tones. Is Brendon and he is offering me a job. Not a job, so much as work, private work for Brendon. The obvious question and he just smiled, explaining in his flowery manner. DNA trial. My father, I never knew him, carried out similar work for Brendon and others of his like. Successfully, very successfully. I clearly looked bemused because he said, it's in your DNA. We can see it. But I was a simple production line worker, contributing what I could. You will be good at it. Go home and wait. And that is it. 

I'm heading down the ramp when my wrist wrap starts doing the buzzing thing. I take a deep breath and look down. My credit account is increasing rapidly. I have never seen it do that before. I have a feeling I might find that these wrist wraps can do an awful lot more than I ever knew.

No Appeal

Crayford Burns had spent the last 20 years working in the Department for Undelivered Mail, popularly known as the dump. He will not work there for much longer. They, the management, are making redundancies. Crayford and his two fellow dumpsters are to go. Subsequent to their departure the undelivered mail will be held in a holding pen for the obligatory wait time and then automatically incinerated. The policy is known as postal synergy. 

For the last month Crayford has been secretly taking as much mail as he can possibly fit into his daily knapsack without arousing suspicion home with him. His home is at the top, 15th floor, of tower block number z37 in suburb i7. The z indicates that the tower is occupied by unmarried, mostly, men - i suburb is for unqualified workers. From the single large window Crayford can see across the east of the city towards the mountains. In the summer months he often gets up early and watches the sunrise, occasionally glimpsing a purple light cast upon the city's armoured border posts. The view is slowly being consumed by the growing piles of undelivered mail from the dump. Crayford has persuaded his to coworkers, to at least assist him, with the absconding of the seemingly unloved, unwanted mail.

Why did Crayford care? He didn't. It was just something he felt the urge to do. After 20 years he couldn't stop. On the last day of the dump he was giving his reassignment. He was to be repurposed at the Transport Allocation Department but he wasn't required for three weeks. So, a holiday but nowhere to go. No matter, he never went anywhere anyway. He would use his time sorting and analysing the undelivered mail that had rapidly grown to a small mountain. He would start first thing tomorrow. 

First thing tomorrow there was a loud banging at the door to Crayford's accommodation. Surprised, as he never got any visitors, he opened the door wide. On reflection he wasn't sure who he was expecting, but the six upright armed militia that marched straight in were not on the list. The obvious leader handed over a sheet of closely printed paper while the other five started stuffing the piled but unsorted mail into large green postal sacks. When he looked at the paper the lead militia man had given him it seemed that his reassignment had been reassessed. He was to be dispatched with immediate effect to the farthest most border post where he would spend three years on solitary watch. Watching, but no one ever came to the border. Crayford was handed a large pair of binoculars and a one way travel warrant. 

He was reassigned, no argument, no appeal.

Paying The Black Tax

From the roughhewn parapet of our bastle I could see them. A ramshackle band of about fifteen. At their vantage, despite the cold autumn mist, they must see the black sack hanging from our boundary post. 

One of the band pulled away and slow trotted his hobbler down from Spotters Rise and across the bog. Reaching the boundary mark he hoisted the sack across his sturdy pony and headed away, raising his fist in salute. 

I hollered down through the trapdoor. ‘They’ve taken it, they are heading off.’ There was a palpable sense of relief. We could relax until spring.

A Lunchtime Session

Bradford was half way through his pint when he felt it coming. It built slowly, eventually he could no longer contain it. The fart ripped between his cheeks, bounced off the chair and echoed loudly around the oak lined bar. Colin, the barman, and the few other lunchtime customers turned their heads sharply. Bradford, who had a mouthful of beer, attempted to apologise. What actually happened was a decibel shattering belch. The air was rich with multiple unctuous odours. Bradford flushed. The lunchtime drinkers as one, got up leaving Bradford alone to his miasma. Colin, the now reluctant barman, vomited.

Relief

‘There is much worse in the bible’ he said as he hefted the jawbone high into the air. His victim didn’t wholly appreciate the irony. 

The wielder, perpetrator was in fact the fallen angel himself. The cause of many of the greatest atrocities in the bible. 

He, sometimes he was a she, had always been told he would learn, come to a state of regret. But never did. He understood the why of it, but… 

He smiled as he rained down further blows. He found the release of such wanton violence warmly satisfying. So much so, he cried with relief.

The Universal Science

It was the first time I had ever truly understood science. The science that had been taught at school by boring leather patched teachers. Teachers who lacked care or sympathy. I had ignored it all then. Yet here it was happening before me. 

I had seen the explosion but I had not yet heard it. Light travels faster than sound. I could see the shrapnel exploding outward. A projectile in motion will describe a perfect parabola due to gravity. Then the pain. A complex brain processes, caused by overlapping physical, psychological and environmental factors. 

But. They never taught dying.

Unholy Island

The slums of Lindisfarne had been growing since before the great collapse. Initially the crowds came slowly, building homes with whatever they could scavenge, whatever washed up. Now the slums are the Island. Where the unwashed thrive. 

Cubby is one. An unholy. As it happens, he is the most unholy. Which is why he is face to face with the dwindling authorities. Across the incoming tide they shout, he shouts back. 

Help us rebuild.

Rebuild what, we had nothing.

This time it’ll be different.

Equal you mean?

Silence.

We had nothing, you had it all. Your equality is the collapse.

The Untouched

Stolen dreams were becoming an issue to the guardians of the wyrd. It appeared to the guardians that the dreams were being stolen to order and shipped to senior, willing clients. The guardians had determined it to be certain types of dreams and certain types of dreamers that were being targeted. They had set their finest dreamcatcher on the case. He had not lasted very long before being brainwiped by the unknown perpetrator or perpetrators. 

Quickly the lead guardian deemed it necessary for him to take personal charge of the matter. First business, he gathered all the experts. There weren’t many. He questioned each one closely. They were mostly of a similar view. Most, except for one. A newly graduated magician, whose apprentice master had bestowed on him the working sobriquet of El Ness the Untouched. It was a suitable moniker as he was an orphan who lived without guile. 

El Ness was of the opinion that the dreams were being taken by a cult for the purposes of advancing the cult itself. The cult had remained hidden, so El Ness, believed for at least three centuries and were now just starting rise to a new prominence. But how, the prime guardian wanted to know, would the dreams help them achieve this. The dreams, El Ness held, would enable them to understand those they wished to recruit. The cult is, he said, an amalgamation of two much older cults. One was known as Mafia and the other Triad, the new combined cult is now known as Fyst. Members are identified by delicate tattoos on the upper arm. After the collapse of the world financial markets and the abandoning of money the two joined forces and reassessed their future. They decided on patience and purpose. Until now they had only recruited through family. Employing dreams would mean they would be able to identify suitable recruits quickly and with a confidence previously lacking. 

The prime guardian looked deep into El Ness’s eyes and reached far down into his soul. El Ness, he determined, was at one with the truth. He took a slow deep breath and put his hand on the magician’s head and said in a regal tone, ‘Young magician, you shall now, from this moment forward, be the chief magister of the wyrd. You will now take charge of the curtailing of the actions of the cult known as Fyst. Ask for who you wish to assist in enabling that outcome. Failure does not exist’. 

El Ness sat open mouthed, still full with the rationale of his thoughts and explanation. The prime guardian of the wyrd stared at him harder than anyone had ever done. He felt an urge rise in him and in reply he now shouted a loud and emphatic , ‘Yes’.

An Incident In The Small City Of Wales

The Continent Cruiser pulls almost silently into the small city of Wales. 

The city has grown, like many on the cruiser route, quite speedily since the initial creation of The Loop, as the route was known. Wales had long been a small, little frequented, first nation town. But because of its location at the shortest crossing of the Bering Strait it had been chosen as a stop site. As soon as the tunnel plans were announced the town of Wales started growing from a backwater to a city with a notional population of 30,000 souls with the cruiser station at its heart. Officially known as Kingkinkgin Stop both it and the area around it have become known as Kinky by both cruisers and locals alike. 

As the massive cruiser pulls to its halting, the doors slide apart and ramps fold down. Passengers, popularly known as cruisers, disgorge. It will sit for a standard loop hour, recharging, restocking and recycling. The mass of the disgorged, are mostly recruits for the industries growing up around the new city. The sign above the main exit doors read 'Welcome to Wales, where your heart grows!' No one has ever read it, but most of Wales work for the organ replacement industry. Outside the station cruisers can hire two or three wheeled power cycles or simply take a travelator to their destination.

Like any halt on the loop, outside the station, there are plenty of places to eat and sleep. It is in one of these places, a seemingly respectable restaurant that Akna Aklaq works. She works there not because she needs, or wants, to but because it is an ideal venue to oversee the comings and goings, and overhear discarded bites of gossip. Akna's job is to manage the eaterie, it isn't at all necessary as it is all fully automated. The punters though, like it, especially when they realise she is first nation, a natie. They all sympathise with the crushing weight of all the incomers brought by The Loop, but they keep coming. The information she gathers whilst playing the put upon first nation local is passed along to the leadership of the NFTA. Occasionally she is asked to make an info drop. Today was one of those occasions She is alert from first signing in for her shift. She regularly feels for her wrist wrap. It is always there, always quietly flicking through its data load. 

When the doors slide open for the umpteenth time that morning, she knows that this is her contact. The opening of the doors causes a breeze to flutter the ethnic items on the walls of the eaterie. Management thought they added to the littering authenticity. Akna carefully makes herself as scarce as possible and when the contact calls her over to rectify some manufactured issue she deliberately avoids responding immediately. As she approaches his table she deftly touches the load pad of the wrist wrap, she knows the contact will have done the same. The contact waves his hand in a practical manner and Akna, seemingly accidentally, almost casually knocks her wrap against his. When the phoney issue is supposedly resolved she turns, ready to retreat to the quietest area of the eaterie. It is then that she realises that all the other punters in the place have stopped what they are doing and are turning towards her and the contact. They, there are five of them, are all producing stun weapons. Akna briefly thinks of running and she is sure that her contact does too, but neither do. Both surrender.

Days Of Then, Days Of Now

It was in days like these that the followers of Hella, Hella of the golden age, laid their mark on the world. They were creatures of great maturity and wisdom. They were long lived and made the most of the time available. It is thought that their speech was, if it was speech at all, came out like song. A modulated baritone, extremely rounded and flowing. 

They made their mark by laying on the world, a grid of power, etched deep into the land. They moved along these lays gathering knowledge. Eventually the world was righted and those followers of Hella rested. 

After a millennia of millennia those same followers were much forgotten and a new tribe arose. The new tribe, who were followers of none, misunderstood the lays of power and trampled them deep underfoot. They communicated with no one but themselves and they spoke of naught but the future. Eventually they conquered the future. In taming the future they accidently exposed the past. They found the followers of Hella. They found the grids enmeshed in the planet and understood themselves for fools. They learned a better way.

An Unexpected Silence

In the second heroic age Lars Nansen perceived himself as something of a failure. He had the right education, he had all the training and all the necessary connections. As yet though, he had not managed to attach himself to any successful expedition. He had been part of two failed expeditions and a third that he refused to ever discuss. So, as he faced the new day, he felt less than enthused for his coming interview as second in command on a trip expected to last at least five years. It seemed more like an internment than something anyone would agree to, but. But his uncle, his self appointed promoter and himself a onetime glorious expedition leader, had readily agreed to the interview on his behalf. 

As he arrived at the launch site organising staff were busying themselves with obscure activities. The interview was merely perfunctory considering the expedition commander’s opening remarks were ‘welcome aboard’. Within forty eight Lars was fully accredited and strapped into a deep sleep tube ready for the fifty five light year journey to Iota Horologii. Fifty five light years that would be forced into a one year flight. He would be full familiarised with every detail of the ship and mission while he slept deeply. 

As he fell off the edge into the chemically induced torpor he thought of how his or more correctly, his families reputation had strongarmed him into this claustrophobic tube. Then there was black, until there wasn’t. It was like being pulled through a briar patch face first with the scratching forcing wakefulness. Lars emerged from this trauma still thinking about this enforced expedition. He cursed aloud. His throat like the curse was dry and bitter. His eyes would still not open, but nevertheless he held out his hand for the rehydration drink. Nothing. He cursed again. He waited. Slowly he started to regain feeling in his limbs. His eyes opened jarringly. As his senses slowly gained ground, he noted the silence. An unexpected silence. The lack of crew. The scent of decay. The taste at the back of his throat. All the data he had processed during his deep sleep said this couldn’t happen. 

Steadily and very carefully he unclipped and disconnected all the tubes and monitors. Normally this would be done by a specialist, but he also had the knowledge. He took his time to acclimatise. He called out, he knew the names of all the crew. His calls fell dead in the protected environment of the ship. He patiently sat motionless until he believed his body functions had returned to near normal. When he did stand and move about the first requirement was to find some clothing. He was also noting an unexpected chill. 

Dressed and rehydrated he explored the dead, deserted ship. First he checked the deep sleep tubes, most were empty but just a few contained rotting, gloopy corpses. As he was making his way around the empty ship his overriding thought was ‘Lars Nansen, yet another fail’. He eventually found five bodies in the sleep tubes but no evidence of the other twenty odd crew members. He located the rehydration store backup power and got it online and working. He was able to eat and drink his fill. After a few days he got some of the ship systems operational. After searching through the least corrupt of the systems the revelation that floored him the most was that he had been in the sleep tube just over twenty five years, a quarter of a century! 

After a few weeks of struggling with decaying circuitry he managed to get the exit doors ready to open. As he couldn’t get any external readings, although he intuitively knew the ship must be on solid ground, he fully suited up. The multi-layered door slid reluctantly, gratingly aside. The readings in the suit helmet showed the temperature remaining steady. A red, orange view greeted him. A deep yellow ball of what must be Iota Horologii dominated the sky. He could make out what appeared to be ruined buildings, but then again, they could be just rock formations. The helmet readings suggested that the air was breathable. He stood contemplating for as long as it took for his heart rate to reach something approaching normal. He twisted the fittings and gently raised the visor. He let a long breath out and then took a full breath in. The first breath on… Nansen’s World.

Downfall, The Citiopolis Of Perm

You step down from the Continent Cruiser. The busy city is stretched out before you like a wonderland. On the arrival platform there are a multitude of traders, ready, willing, and able to serve most travellers, almost anything. But not you. Not today. The Sun has just risen behind you and is glinting off the mass of the city’s recently constructed buildings. Hefting the weight of your travelling bag against your shoulder, you make your way to the nearest exit. You are here to work.

 

Having come down several floors on the exit travelators you can no longer see the city, but the leaving Continent Cruiser is making its departure felt. It's klaxons and announcements making up for the modern silent running. At the main exit doors, two simian like security goons scan the moving crowd. You feel a drip of sweat at the nape of your neck and pull your pack strap tighter. The goons look right through you. Heading through the exit doors you don't stop moving until you are away in toward the vast city. City transport is either walking, travelator, or cycling, two or three wheeled. The authorities use hover units which can be seen regularly sweeping down close to street level. You choose the travelator. As the sun rises, the temperature rises steadily above freezing. Your bag seems lighter in the sharp sun, and you decide to stop to break your fast. The smell of baking coming from a khleb shop tempts your tastebuds. Jumping to the walk level you notice a small figure some two hundred metres behind do exactly the same. The drip of sweat reappears. You slip into the bakery and take an empty seat by the window. The automated ordering service responds to your request, promptly a large thick bread and spread as well as a rich chocolate breakfast drink arrive. By now you have noticed the figure that also left the walkway has taken a table outside with his back toward you. A slight bulge beneath his armpit reveals his authority. You are convinced that your arrival has been noted. You slowly, casually finish your breakfast, pick up your bag, exit the little khleb shop taking an effort to deafly nudge the shoulder of the suspected tracker. No reaction, it is as you suspected. 

Instead of making your way back to the travelator you drop into a hire lot and pick up a three wheeler. The power pack is fully charged and within minutes you are dashing at full speed along the newly surface narrowways between tall city scrapers. Occasionally you glance up, no hover units can be seen but you remain cautious and double back regularly. After about thirty minutes you reach the edge of the massive, central city square known as Popov Platz. The far side of the square is dominated by the Ivanov building, The administrative capital of all land east of the Urals. The small drip of sweat reappears. You park the three wheeler and set its homing option. It'll be traceable. If all goes well, it'll be no problem. 

Walking across the square in the growing sunshine towards the Ivanov building is the most exposed you've been since you stepped down from the Continent Cruiser. As you approach the building you slip the pack from your shoulder and head towards a small almost hidden door. The last furtive look around, no trackers, no hover units. From the pack you pull a transkey. You shake the device quickly and the door springs open. You duck inside, the door closes behind you. Sunshine disappears, silence creeps. You pause, adjusting your vision. On the wristwrap you pull up a blueprint of the building. Heading for the nerve hub you retrieve a box of bots from your pack. It is a simple exercise to drop the bots at key system junctions. After half a dozen junctions the box is empty and you are heading for the nearest exit. As you leave the building, failure sirens are sounding. You start walking west. Very soon walking will be the only option. You notice a hover unit falter and fall. The chaos cascades east. The downfall begins.

The Secret Life Of Doctor Blood

He had been sat on the cold, cold ground for a long, long time. He had been waiting. He was good, extremely good at waiting. He had been told early on, as a child, that he was patience, patience personified. He often used this to his advantage. 

The sun had started falling behind the taller buildings when Doctor Blood first appeared. He stepped, tall from the hidden shadows. In the folds of his hood covered face it was clear to see the years of determination. If you knew what to look for it was just about possible to make out the tattoo covering a long forgotten scar. As he lifted his head he spotted the patient man rising from the cold ground. 

The two met in the middle of the now deserted street. Patience meets determination on a litter strewn nowhere. They exchange curt muffled greetings. Some where a car guns it’s engine. Doctor Blood hands over a small package. There is no thanks. The patient man turns on his well worn heel and disappears in to the welcoming shadows. Doctor Blood’s determination relaxes a shade and he retreats in to the doors of the non-descript buildings just as the searchlight of the patrol car illuminates the doorway. Doctor Blood pauses, takes a deep and edges as far into a corner recess as is feasible. The patrol and it’s searchlight, satisfied, moves on. Doctor Blood, like the patient man, is determined to see this thing to the end.