The Changed - Running Order.

By way of an introduction, "The Changed" is a six-parter originally envisioned as a gap-filler in BBC3's schedules for the New Year.  Something very odd, however, has happened to their commissioning policy since the decision to shift that part of the network entirely online (due in 2016, but contingent upon improvements to iPlayer, blah blah blah).  Everything seems to be up in the air, so I've determined to get my six slices of fiction out via a different Internet medium - this blog.
Originally, I thought "The Changed" might make it as a reasonable novel.  Structurally, it was both sound and neatly contiguous - a well-defined beginning, progressive development, and a good, solid conclusion.  However, then some real-world interventions occurred.  Not to bore you, but they resulted in a semi-fortuitous reconsideration of how to effectively break up the narrative.  Thus, six parts:

1.  Alpha Minor.
2.  Impatient Zero.
3.  An Exercise in Cruelty.
4.  Curious Georgina.
5.  A Watched Pot Never Boils.
6.  Omega Major.

Part 1, "Alpha Minor", should be with you in the next few days.

They were...

...the boots that got me across America.  Simple as that.  I was gone for a month, and had one item of...is 'footwear' a word?  Sturdy, leather, fat soles, and laces unprepared to take prisoners.  Boots you couldn't mess with.  Boots that garner respect with zero effort.  Boots you could rely upon.
     They're as fucked as Kacey now, but not dead.  Not consigned to landfill, nor a homeless collection point, nor some undefined fate seemingly appropriate for legendary pairs of boots past their earnest time of wearing.  No.  Now?  I wear them in the garden.  Performing Herculean tasks of impossible maintenance and well-intentioned control.
     They are resplendent.  

The Reality Curve

"Oh, God," she said, sniffing my drink.  "Vodka for breakfast?  Really?"
     "Get your nose out of there.  And go away.  I'm trying to work."
     She peered at the laptop screen as I waited for the inevitable recriminations.
     "You call it work, I call it aversion therapy.  What happened to the last two parts of that other thing you were writing?"
     "In process.  Or progress.  One of the two.  Have you seen my MP3 player?"
     "Why?  Have you decorated it with my nail varnish again?"
     This clearly wasn't going to end, at least not pleasantly.  Surprisingly, though, she came back with something helpful.  "I think it's still plugged into that cheapo speaker dock thing of yours in the kitchen."
     "Thanks.  You know I can't cook without music, right?"
     "Right.  Are you reminding me of that for a reason?"
     "Possibly.  I'm a reasonable man."
     "No.  You're not.  What the Hell are you writing, anyway?"
     I scanned the text I'd already typed, looking for clues.  Questions demand answers, however painful.
     "I'm not sure.  I keep thinking about Chuck Lorre's vanity cards at the end of each Big Bang Theory episode.  This isn't like that, at all, but something about the way broadcast media counteracts authorial intention...that's significant.  It's even worse on this side of the Atlantic.  E4 show the episodes, but often split the screen at the end to promote whatever tragic bilge they're showing next, so the vanity cards get squashed.  They're impossible to read anyway, given the nanoseconds they're on screen for.  The whole thing is a shout-out to people who download the show, and have the chance to freeze-frame the fuckers.  Or at least buy the DVDs."
     She stared at me, fascinated.
     "You just said all that.  Out loud."
     "You're impressed.  I can tell."
     "Actually, I'm wondering what solipsistic crap you're going to come out with next."
     "Then read the blog."
     Unexpected defensiveness - a rare moment, so I immediately cherished it:
     "I do, and I will.  But I'll need half a bottle of Chardonnay inside me before I can appreciate it."
     I typed another five lines.
     "Vodka's better."
     "I can't handle spirits, you know that."
     "Except gin."
     "Yeah, with eighty per cent tonic in it.  Oh, and I had some Pimms last month - you didn't know about that!"
     I smiled at her.
     "Alcopops have made a comeback.  Good to know."
     Impasse.  But hardly a draw.  She'd wandered off into the kitchen, and I suddenly realized that I'd totally failed to find a free MP3 of Are You A Ghost by B*Witched.  If you need reasons to hate the Internet, look no further...

Everything Is Real (Just Delayed) - The Fourth Word That Doesn't Rhyme With Protocol

I looked at the boards outside Old Street Station, noting the severe delays on the Northern Line, and decided to Hell with it.  I would've had to change to the Victoria line anyway.  (Pimlico for dinner, Marcus?  Really?  Fuck you.)  But I didn't want to be late, since briefing the team on the little I did know about his intentions post return had taken longer than I'd anticipated.  Pete hadn't caused any problems, and the Boy Wonder Harrison seemed to have adopted nodding furiously as a new communication strategy.  Don and Jeanie, however, were like an ersatz pair of Columbos.
     "I don't get it," said Don.  He looked different without his glasses.  Older, somehow.  "Marcus didn't say anything about jumping ship or moving operations overseas."
     "It's not definite," I explained, wary of Jeanie's intense scrutiny, "Just something he's apparently toying with as a possibility for future operations."
     She chose that moment to pounce.
     "Well, it's good to know that a future - any future - figures in his plans."  Jeanie leaned back and took a suck on her E-cigarette.  "But Marcus must realize how things have been in his absence, right?  UK clients, because that's where we - and by that I mean you - have been focusing.  A London base was never an accident and, God knows, we could probably hightail it to Leeds and no one would be any the wiser, but everything we've done has had that implied payload - a capital connection.  You can't just rip that out of the mix without..."
     "Repercussions," interjected Pete, giving his Spider-Man bobblehead a tap for added significance.
     "Look," I said, trying not to glance at my wristwatch, and failing, "I'm having dinner with him in less than an hour.  Whatever his grand scheme is, I doubt he'll be able to keep quiet about it.  As soon as I know, you'll know.  Keep your 'phones on tonight, and I'll try and get an update to you ASAP."
     The taxi driver, bless him, knew all about D'Ara's.
     "They've had a film crew in there all week.  I think it's Channel 4, but don't hold me to that.  Lot of pisshead camera crew and sound guys pack their shit up in the vans, and head off straight to Soho," he laughed, "I'll never watch it, but my missus loves all that reality bollocks.  She's got reminders on her 'phone and everything."
     I nodded, keeping an eye on our route.
     "I'm not sure I'm up to telling professional chefs how I want my Boeuf Bourguignon cooked," I joked.  The taxi driver seemed to be studying me in his rear-view mirror.
     "That's really not it, you know," he said.  "You need to order something off-menu, and wait for the commotion.  Whatever you really want, and however you want it, it's up to you.  Don't let 'em piss you about, mate."
     "I'll take that on board, thank you."  Naoimi's words floated back to me through the ether.  Prunes and paprika.  Maybe she hadn't been taking the piss.
     "Here you go, mate," said the taxi driver, glancing at his meter.  "I'll tell you what, let's call it a fiver.  I've got a feeling you're gonna need all the help you can get in there."


To be continued...    

Everything Is Real (Just Delayed) - Third Strike

Don Seligman squinted at the screen, and wished he hadn't left his glasses in the micro-kitchen.  So far, the only upside had been the slightly blurred face of Marcus scowling as he tore Pete a new one for not using the latest iteration of Kediko Linux.
     "Is that animation in-house?" he asked.  Jeanie shrugged.
     "He's had a year.  Fuck knows what black arts he's subsumed."
     Pete smiled.
     "Subsumed.  That's a beautiful word, Jeanie."
     "For a less-than-beautiful person," added the Boy Wonder Harrison, who was still smarting from the highly personal onslaught Marcus had launched on him earlier.  He'd expected the worst, being the newest recruit, but hadn't expected quite such elevated vitriol from a man he'd previously held in pretty high regard.  "Put it this way, he's not using anything by Adobe, and hasn't used anyone who would.  This is..." He struggled for a synonym.
     "Case structure imperative," said Pete, aligning his Picard bobblehead with his Borg Queen.  "It's not flawless, and he's nicked at least two aligned templates to set it up, but it's platform-neutral in any environment."  He breathed out, and tapped his Iron Man bobblehead.  "It's...horribly perfect.  Probably look great on your 'phone."
     Don grunted and glanced through the window at T, who appeared to be deeply into a 'phone call.
     "This is what happens when we don't pay attention," he sighed.  Jeanie frowned.
     "That's a little unfair, Don.  We've been in virtual stasis for months.  The only new contracts we've signed have come via T.  Shaky's hardly the word."
     Pete nodded, following Don's sight-line to where T was hanging-up and leaning back in his chair.
     "Do you think he knows what's going on yet?"
     Jeanie noticed where they were all now staring and joined in, giving T a friendly wave.
     "Does he look like he's hitting the wires with his CV?  Marcus made one pit stop before coming in here.  If T knows anything, he'll tell us."


To be continued...

Everything Is Real (Just Delayed) - Second Slice

"How bad was it?"  Naoimi still sounded wasted.  I glanced out through the window at Jeanie, the Boy Wonder Harrison, and Don Seligman all huddled around Pete's workstation.  Marcus had said his various pieces, at various volumes, and left about twenty minutes ago.  Whatever he'd brought in on that USB thumb drive was now occupying all their attention on the screen.  Pete especially looked nervous, and was obsessively re-positioning his bobblehead collection on his desk.
     "Pretty much what you'd expect," I told her.  Down the 'phone line, I could hear her breathing, and another sound - something almost mechanical.  "Are you...juicing?"  She laughed.
     "Why don't you come round and find out?"
     "Tempting.  But I can't.  I think your boyfriend wants to buy me dinner."
     "Oh, crap."  The mechanical sound stopped suddenly.  "That's not his style.  He doesn't do extra-curricular.  Ever.  What the Hell is going on?"
     "I'm not sure.  If we're lucky, he's just been seconded by the Scientologists, and I'll escape with a leaflet and some biofeedback readings."
     "Your definition of luck needs some work..."
     "He came prepared today.  I haven't seen it yet, but he dumped a load of stuff on the team and they're going over it now."
     Naoimi sighed.
     "It'll be Dubai.  T, you've got to keep them together.  Marcus has his schemes, and his strategies, but you really need to keep a lid on all this.  Don't let him fuck them over."  Not so wasted now, apparently.  I was riding a very fine line here, and I knew it.  So much for keeping things simple.
     "I hear you, Madam Chairman."  I winced as I said it.  Referencing one of Marcus' tax dodges probably wasn't politic right now.  The mechanical sound resumed.
     "When's your dinner date?"
     At least she didn't sound pissed off.
     "Seven-thirty.  D'Ara's.  I had to Google it.  Somehow I think Marcus has found the only restaurant in London where I'll be expected to help design my own dinner."
     "It's neat.  And so not him.  Go and talk to your team.  Be the Superglue they need."
     Smart.  Resilient.  Tactical.  Not for the first time, I wondered if I'd always slightly loved her.
     "I'll call you," I said.  Her laugh was gentle, not mocking.
     "Of course you will.  Two tips.  Prunes and paprika.  Can't go wrong with those."
     "Thanks."
     She'd already hung up.


To be continued...

Everything Is Real (Just Delayed)

No one has had to deal with Marcus for over a year.  On balance, that's a good thing.  His self-imposed exile meant that, for most of us, real work got done, and everyone started to relax.  Jeanie stopped topping-up her orange juice with vodka, and the Boy Wonder Harrison (don't ask) actually started turning up to meetings with some half-decent ideas drafted on his iPad.  Of course, it was never going to last and, on the morning he returned, I was in the curious position of knowing about it in advance.  I didn't have the heart to break a confidence, though.  At least, not until I'd had the chance to discuss it with him directly.
     "You don't seem surprised to see me, T."  Narrowed eyes, elbow planted against the door frame.
     "Your girlfriend came to see me," I said.  He glanced down at his feet, smiling.
     "Yeah, well, she always did have a bit of a thing for you.  Come on, we both know it."
     Trying to engage confession mode wasn't going to work.  He wasn't there.  Didn't have a clue how scary it had been.
     "I'm not going to give you relationship advice, Marcus, but you're as far off the mark as it's possible to be."
     "You know we haven't spoken since April, right?"
     "She mentioned that.  Something about Dubai?"
     "Oh, yeah.  So, you came in for a classic Naoimi shitstorm of emo crud and recriminations?"
     "Not exactly.  I don't think she's in the business of painting you in villainous hues."
     Marcus laughed.
     "There.  Right there.  That's the T she'd turn to.  What did you do with her?"
     "Last night?  I put her in a taxi and sent her home."
     It was true.  After a fashion.  He didn't need to know that it was effectively our second date, or that she'd augmented the entire charade with enough Class A drugs to fell a DJ convention.
     "The thing about you, T, is that you're big on narrative.  You like to know the plot, and the subtext, and why the hero has to fall."
     I shook my head.
     "No.  Too much of a Stranglers fan to let that pass."
     He immediately looked confused.  Was I playing an unfair advantage?  Did it even matter now?
     "Listen, I'm back pro tem.  That's it.  Whatever the fuck is going on with you and Naoimi - and I accept that it may be nothing - we need to be able to work together for the next four days.  Are you up for it?"
     "I am.  I always have been, Marcus."
     He nodded.
     "Good.  Then let me go and fuck with a few muppet heads, then I'll meet you for dinner at D'Ara's at seven thirty.  Got a few things to float your way.  I promise you won't be disappointed."


To be continued...
     

#crackingasafeinbelgrade

It's never what you expect, but one day (probably quite soon) the credit "based on the Tweet" will appear on film, and a little part of the conscientious soul will die.

I suppose it's marginally less depressing than "based on the news story about the naive English teacher who caused an almighty ruckus with his creative writing assignment Tweet".

Living in this world can be...challenging at best, but I'm still glad I'm not on Twitter.  Or Facebook.  Or anything else with much of an audience.

#stayhidden

Zombie Labrador...and other nightmares.

This could very easily turn into a diatribe about cause and effect, but that would be tedious in the extreme.  Hang on, I need another coffee.

Okay, to alleviate the apparent need for an informative segue between a forensic analysis of mild alcoholism and the dead-ish dog which may or may not want to eat my brain, I'll just say this:  I put it all down to that new tropical juice I've been using as a vodka mixer.  For one thing, it's ridiculously cheap.  Suspiciously so.  £1.50 for two litres.  Now that is ridiculous.  It's also damned tasty.  That I'm currently on my second two litre bottle in the space of three days, and that I started out drinking it neat before the addition of vodka even occurred to me, may point to its potentially addictive quality.

There's another thing.  This may be important, I don't know for sure, but I really don't like dogs.  Of any kind, in any context.  The hatred, which may be mutual, is certainly almost pathological, and extends well beyond the fact that, locally, their stupid owners allow these animals to foul the pavement and never - ever - clean up after them.  If any candidate in the forthcoming elections proposed a new spin on community policing that involved shooting these bastards on sight, he or she would definitely have my vote.  (Do I mean the dogs or their owners?  Does it matter?)

Understanding dog ownership has always eluded me.  I just don't get it.  Whichever part of the psyche is responsible for that messed-up power relationship, with its associations of sentimentality, responsibility, and...whatever the fuck makes people doo-lally about something that really belongs on a Vietnamese restaurant menu, I'm happy to report that I'm totally deficient.

If anything, I'm more of a cat person.  They I understand.  All of which brings me, in much less of a roundabout way than I anticipated, to the demonic, semi-deceased (but still physically rotting) labrador featured in the nightmare that I awoke from at three minutes to seven this morning.

Well, almost.  First, I need to stress here that I'm not exactly plagued by bad dreams (discounting the recurring one about an aeroplane crashing into my house, because that's just silly).  In fact, the night before, when I fell asleep in front of the TV, I had an absolutely brilliant real-time dream about being alone on a beach somewhere, watching the waves crashing into the shore, and it actually got darker!  In the dream!  Amazing.  When I woke up, I realised I'd been on that beach for several hours.  Nothing happened in the dream, except for the passage of time, but it was first-person cinematic in a way I'd never experienced before.  Yay for cheap tropical juice...up to a point.

That point of departure from the hitherto 100% positive dream state observed under the influence of concentrated apple, orange, pineapple, apricot, passion fruit, lemon, lime, guava, banana, and mango (with a bit of carrot and safflower thrown in for good measure by the manufacturer) came last night, and it wasn't at all good.  First up, there was the presaging guest appearance of one of my dead cats, except she wasn't dead - just demented.  Really crazy, and clearly disturbed by something, to the extent that she spent the whole time outside attacking an empty plastic bag.  Uncharacteristic behaviour to say the least, even when she was alive.  But there was something else going on, and she was trying to draw my attention to it every so often - running up to the shed door, and effectively head-butting it, then retreating and staring at me.  A fairly clear message, then:

There's something in the shed.

As in the previous night's dream, I was acutely aware of time passing.  Once again, evening became night, but instead of a soundtrack provided by crashing waves, this time the noise came from my cat and that damned plastic bag, which she returned to bothering in apparent frustration at my lack of direct action.  Retrieving it from her, and popping it in the bin, I noticed the faint glow coming from the shed window.  At this point, my cat made herself scarce, going back into the kitchen through the flap in the back door.  Guest appearance over, because the key to the shed was already in my pocket.

There are certain markers in dreams which readily identify them as such - illogical features, details which contradict normality or waking states by virtue of their relative displacement.  A cat - long-dead - may certainly be one, but its presence has narrative contextual logic.  The shed key, which has an historical placement out-of-reach through deliberate purpose and intent, thus confounded me in situ.  It had no place being in my pocket there and then, because previously I had no intention of going into the shed.  It may not sound like much, but I was definitely alerted - in dream - to the absurd convenience of this signifier, and yes, it bothered me.

As did the presence of artificial light emanating from the shed window.  There is an electric light in there, but why would it be switched on?  Perhaps, as a writer, the accumulation of unlikely contrivances had, at this moment, become tangibly unbearable - I should have woken up.  Is it, then, fitting that the writer's greater instinct, to know a tale's outcome, overrode such somnolent misgivings?  Or, more likely, the role of reader/viewer has a greater still exactitude in determining any dream's progression.  [Feel free to discuss this in the comments.  As will soon become clear, I'm traditionally devoid of feedback on this blog, and frequently resort to constructing my own.]

No witnesses.  That might be the Freudian get-out of any dreamer but, in this particular case, with my cat back in the house and the shed key already in my pocket, it was a truth resoundingly self-evident.  Curiosity a motivator, and narrative completeness the relish, I walked up to the shed door and unlocked it.  (Was the lobby light on?  Alternatively, was there moonlight enough to see my way clearly?  Did I feel the initial reluctance of an old lock yielding?  I cannot answer honestly, because these details escaped my recollection in the subsequent unearthly display.)

In the light of a naked 60W bulb, screwed into a ceiling fitting, I saw the back and hindquarters of a mangy blonde labrador, barely pulsating upon the concrete floor.  It turned, offering up clenched jaws, sightless eyes, and a decaying midriff, the maggots falling from its parts as it moved.  I know for sure that I cried out in horror, knowing it had been there for many months, as at this moment...

I awoke.

Eyes wide open, taking in the time displayed on my digital alarm clock, the lack of Radio 5 Live on same, and the sunlight streaming in through the curtained windows of my bedroom.  My first thought...

I should've gone and got one of my air pistols, and shot that undead fucker between the eyes.  Put it out of its, and my, misery.

So much for cheap tropical juice, eh?




Initial feedback:  Tyger Doyle (a fictitious nom-de-plume who really should know better):  "So, Edgar Allan Poe and Robert Louis Stevenson were not alone.  Get well soon."
Professor Sensaes:  "Don't you wish your notebooks were hot like mine."

Oh, fuck off.     

        

The Chronosopher In Exile (2)

Part Two:  No Proper Time of Day


The platform, a seven foot square of neoprene-coated steel adorned with a twelve foot-high hollow cube of plexiglass, had no discernible doors or controls on its exterior.  At first, this puzzled her.  Assuming the presence of another virtual keyboard, she waved her free hand at the plexiglass, finally putting down her bag and trying both hands.  Nothing happened.
     "Great," she sighed.  "This far, and no further.  Should I just think of the numbers and let the system read my mind?"
     Suddenly, a male voice replied, the sound emanating from across the length of the platform itself.
     "Doctor Emily Willis identified.  Authorisation code accepted.  Please board the platform."  The plexiglass appeared to shimmer slightly in its centre.  For a moment she hesitated, then stepped forward onto the platform.
     "You're an AI," she said, putting her bag down on the neoprene floor, her amused certainty excluding the need for any direct response.  Nevertheless...
     "I am Charon," replied the voice.  She frowned.
     "Well that's a little sick, if I'm getting the reference right.  For one thing, I'm not dead...yet.  And for another, I'm going to the Resort, not the underworld.  Does the Agency really call this the River Styx?"
     "The Agency has sub-contracted all supra-external transport systems to FF-Globia.  No offence is intended by any co-adopted nomenclature."
     "None taken," she smiled.  "Nerds will be nerds.  Charon, do you have access to the status of my interview request?"
     There was a pause, and she watched as the plexiglass seemed to re-solidify.  When the platform began to rise, Charon spoke again:
     "Your request has been referred to divisional oversight, Doctor Willis."
     "Why?"
     Another pause.
     "Temporal uncertainty pursuant to ACRO."
     She scratched her head as the platform continued to ascend.
     "Please define ACRO."
     "ACRO.  Ambiguous Contamination-Related Outcomes.  You, Doctor Willis, are the subject of two separate but related Time Events under current investigation by divisional oversight."
     Her eyes widened in surprise.
     "Time Events...  Past or future?  Charon?"
     Yet another pause.
     "Present, Doctor Willis.  Ongoing."  As if for emphasis the voice added, "Of the explicit now."
     "That's impossible," she said.  "The Agency has no mechanisms in place for real-time situational analysis.  That's the bug in their system - it was ruled out by Kleinhertz and Lowell after the first entropic fallout from the attempted Christ rescue!"
     The platform shuddered to a halt, and she caught her breath as the plexiglass began to shimmer again.
     "Charon, where are we?"
     "You are at the Resort coordinates of dwelling 8415002."
     "Registered to?"
     Again, there was a pause before the voice answered.
     "Fidelio Carson."
     "How?" she asked.  "If my request was referred to divisional oversight, how have I been allowed to get to exactly where I wanted to go in the first place?  And why the Hell..."
     "Security Officer Nick Monroe has been accepted for employment at the Gonji Palace, Santana, with a 23% pay increase and substantial benefits.  Please ensure that you collect all personal belongings before exiting the platform, Doctor Willis."
     She hesitantly picked up her bag, pausing at the point in the plexiglass by which she'd entered.
     "He's alive?" she asked.  "Despite the fact that I just...killed him?"
     "There is no record of the event you describe, Doctor Willis.  Security Officer Nick Monroe is currently located at the Ninth Gateway on Helipoint at Santana, greeting his mother-in-law, Mrs. Briony Drake.  He has multiple reservations for dinner at the..."
     "Okay," she said.  "Fidelio Carson.  Is he here?"
     "I do not have access to the Resort Register, Doctor Willis."
     "That's ridiculous.  Why not?"
     Once more, there was a pause.
     "Patient records are confidential, and subject to Agency Ruling 1704185B."
     She stared out through the plexiglass at what looked like a hazy coastline, the stony beach stretching out for an indeterminate distance to the left, whilst rising on the right to a series of near-identical wooden structures, each bearing its own number plate on a white pole some eight feet high.
     "Charon, I have one last question for you."
     "I am here to assist, Doctor Willis."
     "The Time Events.  Do they contradict one another?"
     She anticipated the pause this time, but not the voice's shift from neutral to personal.
     "Emily, I rarely have the opportunity to intercede without dictat, to speak without recourse to available data.  My function is absolute, my existence mandatory, and my reasoning pre-defined.  I am Charon, a part and not the whole.  Your destiny at the present point in Time is unknowable by any human or machine entity, and the parameters by which such constructs interact have yet to be determined by the authorities that choose to govern.  The available record shows a divergence, but nothing more.  You have been allowed to progress for reasons of ultimate enquiry, and there is more than I can calculate resting on the outcome."
     She leaned against a solid part of the plexiglass and breathed heavily.
     "No pressure, then?"
     "No pressure, Doctor Willis.  Good afternoon."
     "Afternoon?" she checked her wristwatch.  "I thought the Resort was excluded from perceived time zones?"
     "It is.  However, formality decrees that..."
     "Good afternoon, Charon.  Hope to speak to you on the other side."
     She passed through the shimmering part of the plexiglass and out towards Dwelling 8415002.


To be continued...   

The Chronosopher In Exile

A work of fiction for Robyne.


Part One:  T-4-2

"It's complicated," she said, putting her bag down on the lateral scanner and waiting for the green light to come on.  The security guard nodded, checking her pass against the convex monitor, and watching as the visual representation of her bag's contents was displayed alongside an accompanying text-based list in five languages.
     "It usually is, now," he sighed.  "Two months ago I was working the night shift at AlphaMax.  That was a walk in the park compared to all...this."
     "Before the contamination?"
     He nodded again.  "It's not just that, though.  We've had all kinds of nutballs passing themselves off as inspectors and Agency affiliates coming through here.  Most of their credentials look sound enough at first glance, so Regis imposed the new protocols, and that just slowed things down even more."
     "I read that Regis might be losing the contract.  Will that affect you?"  She relaxed as the green light glowed.
     "To be honest, I'm past caring.  I'm sub-contracted by the Agency, but we're expecting them to pull a zero-hours number on us any day now.  My wife wants me to apply to the Gonji Palace out on Helipoint at Santana.  They're always looking for new meat puppets, and I'm sick of the public sector."  He paused, looking embarrassed.  "I probably shouldn't be saying this, right?"
     She smiled.  "It's fine.  I get it.  Don't worry, I'm not an undercover Spink about to turn you in or anything.  Am I clear then?"
     "You are.  Welcome to the Resort, Doctor Willis.  Who have you come to see?"
     She fished her 'phone out of her pocket and keyed up the ident file, turning it to show him the screen.
     "Fidelio Carson.  I'm assuming that the name is...assumed?"
     "Probably.  Let me check the Register."  He waved at the console and fired up a virtual keyboard, typing in the name and waiting as his request was processed by the Registry server.  "Wow," he said, "That's weird."
     "What?  Is he here?"
     "Kind of, yeah.  Doctor Willis, are you registered to interview chronosophers?  It's just..."
     She pulled her bag off the lateral scanner and hit the release catch, flipping it open and extracting the virtual paper roll.  Three seconds later, the security guard was on the ground, writhing in agony as six needles pumped venom into his carotid artery.
     "I'm sorry," she said, stepping over his body, "But the Gonji Palace would've driven you crazy.  Too many golfers, not enough caddies.  You'd have been sucking balls until your wife took up with the CareBot just to stay sane."
     She glanced at the console, noting the Resort coordinates before heading towards the elevation platform.


To be continued...