A peculiar monstrosity: it floated so gracefully to the ground, implying an otherworldly sophistication that went beyond mere arrival. Yet, it was obvious that Earth was its destination and Earth's people assumed to be the reason.

Its shape was one that could only be conceptualized by anatomy so alien that no one could pretend to guess function from form.

That was 43 years ago.

It sat, inert and impenetrable, occupying most of Piazza San Pietro in Vatican City. It had alighted perfectly equidistant from all of the Doric columns of the colonnade. In fact, the Egyptian obelisk was no more, as if the craft had absorbed it on descent.

It's landing spot was subject to heated debates. Politicians, think tanks, and the clergy of all religions weighed in. Yet, imagining an alien sentience that appreciated the significance of religion seemed a stretch.

There were noises emanating from within the craft. Metallic noises, arrhythmic, and seemingly random. Sometimes they beat out imagined patterns, but the best AI could not come up with a plausible analysis regarding the possibility of communication.

The Vatican Observatory Jesuits, by decreed edict of the sovereign city-state, were the first to officially evaluate the strange spacecraft. After four years they gave up, the ship's hull being completely impervious to any type of man-made breach.

Invitations in all the world's languages, on all bandwidths, went unanswered. Stroboscopic lights invited replies to mathematical sequences, but the visitors remained deaf, blind, and mute.

Four years after the Jesuits had given up, the inquiry team from CERN returned to Meyrin, Switzerland, with no information.

Then the noises stopped.

Perhaps whatever machinery was at work had finished priming itself and the craft would finally open.

But the silence continued long past the visiting team from Pasadena returning to their Jet Propulsion Laboratory—no wiser to the craft's details other than what could be seen with the naked eye or measured with calipers.

The Pope himself, in his weekly addresses from his apartment balcony, always closed with the following:

"We've been patient and faithful for two millennia now for the Second Coming. Certainly we can muster patience to out-wait our visitors."

The people were haunted: What if neither ever happens?

At first, the societal upheavals were tumultuous. evoking the many theories. Why had the aliens landed so ostentatiously in a place synonymous with Christianity? Was it a scout ship for a planned invasion? Was it a calling card, an introduction for more to come? Was it sent by God? Were the unseen visitors dimensionally aphasic and we simply missed each other due to some myopic existential blindness?

Why no doors or windows—not even a seam in the unknown metal? We knew the craft was not solid; we all heard the noises for a few years before they abruptly stopped.

Why the hell hadn't they come out? Why the hell wouldn't they? They came all this way (a long way, indeed), only to hide themselves from us. Was it some test that only made sense according to some alien cognitive sensibility?

We waited.

Could they have been waiting on us? For some societal milestone? For some evolutionary rite of passage that finally would deem us worthy?

We wanted to meet them. Learn from them. We wanted a cure for death, solutions to climate change, perpetual motion machines, and free, limitless energy. Certainly they knew! We needed them.

Yet, they chose to remain unavailable.

Some mysteries were not worth the effort.

So the people of Earth moved on.

While at first there were promises of a new age of understanding and brotherhood among Earth's peoples and nations, after a decade and realizing once again we were on our own, the old grudges, feuds, and holy wars re-surfaced.

But also, total human knowledge continued to double faster than an in-winding Fibonacci curve.

It, one day, came to be: we were finally able to open the craft.

With much holographic media coverage and fanfare, seams were rendered where there were none before. That's when we discovered that the door header wasn't level: the jamb's slope could be freed from the outside, but from the inside would have been impossible.

The smell was awful.

What was left of them were smudged, gelatinized stains on the craft's floors. Many alien contraptions lay about evidencing the occupants' efforts to clear the doorjamb, open their portal, and exit their craft to meet their new friends.

Chapter 1

“I’ve just thought of a question.”

“We’ve been through all the technicalities, Mr Brown…”

A mechanical voice spoke over the head researcher. “Five.”

“…It’s a little late to have second thoughts, now, don’t you think?”

“Just…”

“Four.”

“… How do I know what I’ll be getting into? I will have this other…”

“Three.”

“...me’s memories, won't I?”

“No, and he’ll be very confused when he finds himself here.”

“Two.”

“Fortunately for him, we can at least give him your history.”

“Finds…”

“One.”

“… himself here? He’s taking over my life? And I won’t know anything about…”

“Initiating transfer.”

“…see to it, sir” He froze in midsentence, and stared around at the blank, white room with the observation window at one end. At the two men in white lab coats sitting at some controls. “What the fuck is going on? Where am…” He glanced down at himself, at the scruffy sweats he wore. “What the fuck am I wearing?”

“Allow me to explain, Mr Brown. Our research has unearthed a very interesting aspect of the universe. Have you any understanding of the concept of timelines?”

“I… You… You’ve… I… Yes, I’ve always been a fan of science fiction, everyone knows what timelines are. Are you trying to tell me that’s where I am? You’ve yanked me from mine and brought me… What gives you the fucking right?”

“Quite frankly, Mr Brown, we don’t care. You’re just an unfortunate consequence of the research, it’s the you you’re currently inhabiting who chose to take on a new life. It seems the life he’s taken, is yours. The only way to do it is by direct exchange, he takes yours, you take his. Goodbye.”

“What do you mean goodbye? Send me back!”

“No. Oh, you’ll find a dossier containing all pertinent information on how your life transpired at the entrance.” And with that, there was a click, the floor tilted violently and this other Mr Brown slid down into the darkness and was gone. The moment he’d slid out of sight, the floor returned to its horizontal state.

“Do you think he’ll figure it all out?”

“We haven’t exactly given him much choice in the matter. He can’t do much worse with what he’s been given than the one we sent.”

“True. Very true. I wonder what the differences are.”

“So do I. We’ll just have to piece together what we can by observation. Are all the cameras in place?”

“Of course.”

”We’ll never know the full story, short of exchanging ourselves to find out. I’m not quite ready to do that, yet. I’m not sure I trust anyone to perform the reversal and I like the life I have. I’m not sure I’d trust the alternative me to cooperate, either. One-way trips are all we’re doing for the foreseeable future.”

“We could’ve debriefed him, you know. Found out from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?”

“No, Alan.” He sighed. “You know the only way to maintain stability in the early stages is to keep the exchanged subjects as far from the equipment as possible. One week and there’s no way to reverse it without another active transfer. He’ll never find us again, he doesn’t know where we are and the tunnel’s designed to be confusing. By the time he finds the exit, he’ll be a mile away and…”

The next words out of Alan’s mouth were in a bored monotone as if reading a line for the 500th time. “And the tunnel seals itself behind him as he travels, ensuring no possibility of return. I know. Hell, I designed part of that, myself.”

“Yes. Rather cunning little wheeze, that part, wasn’t it.” He chuckled.

Chapter 2

“…his? How the”

“I beg your pardon?”

Derek Brown blinked and looked around in shock. He wasn’t in the white featureless room anymore. He stood on the edge of a wide, open area surrounded by buildings on all sides. He gulped at the man standing stiffly before him, then he noticed his own posture. Both had their hands firmly clasped behind their backs. The man who’d spoken wore a uniform. An army uniform. He glanced down at the man’s sleeve but there was nothing there, then his eyes crept up to the man’s shoulder. On the pristinely pressed army tunic, a crown was woven onto each of his shoulder straps.

So, you’re an officer… How high, though… Higher than captain? Shit, how can I… Then he glanced down at his arm. At least that, he recognised. Three stripes. Sergeant. At least he knew how to address him.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir?”

“What does ’He’s had every chance, I’ll his? How the' mean?"

“My apologies, sir, I… I suppose you could say my train of thought became derailed, sir. Err… Who’s had every chance, sir?”

“Are you unwell, sergeant?”

“I… I feel fine, sir. I suppose I could just put it down to a rough night, sir.”

“I expect better from my NCOs, sergeant.” The officer… Major! That’s what the crown represented! The major slapped a file into his chest. His hand instinctively shot from behind his back to grasp it. “I’ll give him one final chance. One more failure from him and I’ll have him discharged from service. And if you make a slip like that, again, get to the medical centre! Dismissed.”

It’d been thirty years since he’d been an army cadet as a kid, but the jog to his memory regarding the crown had another effect. Almost unbidden, his arm snapped up into a salute.

The major saluted back, about turned and marched away.

Derek attempted the same thing, stumbled a little and rushed away, rather than marched. He looked around in a panic, muttering under his breath. “Fuck! Why army!? Why the fuck did it have to be this bloody life? I can’t survive here! I don’t even know where I live! What my…” He glanced down at the folder he held. “Maybe I can fake it… Looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

He began to pay much more attention to his surroundings. To the signs on all the buildings. Finally, his eyes settled on one in particular. A large NAAFI sign hung above the door. “I can’t remember what it stands for, but I know what it means. I… Shit, I hope it’s got a bar and a place to sit. No idea where the mess is.”

He sighed with relief when he crossed the threshold. A bar, a sign on a door to the left read “Snug”, on the other side, “NAAFI shop.” He walked up to the bar, noting the two stripes on the sleeve of the barman. “Half a bitter, corporal.”

“Yes, sarnt. Aren’t you on duty, though?”

“That’s why it’s only a half. I need time to think and somewhere comfortable to think it.”

“You normally go to the warrant officer’s and sergeant’s mess don’t you, sarnt?”

“Yes, but not this time. I… It’s complicated.”

“Oh. I get it.” He nodded at the folder. “Ashford, again. What’s he done this time?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. That’s why I need to think… What can you tell me about him?”

“You’ve worked much more closely with him than I have, sarnt.”

“Yes, but you’re likely to have seen him in… a less official capacity, working here. True? I want to learn everything I can about him, this time. Everything. It might be the only way to save his career. Maybe even his life. You know how bad it can be if you’re looking for work as a civvy having been involuntarily discharged from the army.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised he’s lasted his long, sarnt. If I’d been in his boots, I would’ve quit the first time.”

“Yes. The fact he’s still here must mean something.”

“Well… He’s a pleasant enough bloke most of the time, but my God he gets angry when people disagree with him. I even saw him throw a bloody tantrum, once. That time, I kicked him out, and sent him back to his billet to calm down.”

“Anything more?”

“Only that he’s glued to the screen whenever the wolves play.”

“Wolverhampton Wanderers?”

The barman nodded. “Even asked me to record a match if he was on duty and it clashed.”

“And did you?”

“If the recording didn’t clash with another request from one of us, sarnt. yes. I can only do two at a time.”

“I suppose it’s something.” He patted himself down, located a wallet and pulled out a credit card.

The barman smiled, tapped something into the till, then a handset and held it out for him.

A tap, a beep. He put the card back into the wallet and picked up his half. “I’ll just sit in the snug. Got some reading to do.”

Derek rushed to the corner table, placed his pint and folder and began emptying his pockets. “Anything. Anything to give me some fucking clue…”

He had more pockets than he was used to. From his left breast pocket, he pulled a notepad, his two rear trouser pockets produced a few folded bits of paper and the wallet… His wallet. Well, it was his, now. His right trouser pocket, keys. When he tapped his left trouser leg pocket and felt the smooth rectangular shape, he immediately unbuttoned it and pulled out a smartphone with a grin. The grin widened when he activated it and it asked for his fingerprint.

“Oh, thank fuck he didn’t use a password.” He immediately swiped through all the apps, spotted the banking app and tapped it. Another fingerprint lock and the sight of his bank accounts turned the grin into a cackle. “Twenty-five grand! I’ve never had that much money before.” He scrolled down. “And that was just an ISA… Another… Bloody hell! Why the fuck did I have to leave the army cadets if this is the result?” Another two accounts. Each contained six thousand pounds and a credit card that only had a hundred quid on it, obviously fully paid off every month.

He spent the next ten minutes studying the accounts more closely, trying to find some rhyme and reason, some clues to his life based on the payments he made.

“They say the smartphone contains your life, these days. I’ll have to study it more closely, later. Now, let’s see what…” He unfolded the papers and signed when one of them had his address on it, and the address was on the base. Finally, he knew where he was. Pirbright army barracks, wherever that was. His smile vanished as he looked at the contents of the letter. A mandatory increase in child support based on inflation? “So… It’s not perfect for you, here, either. I’ve got a kid! And divorced, by the looks of it. Suppose it explains why I’m living here.”

Putting everything back into the relevant pockets, he spotted the sign for the toilet and rushed over to it, freezing when he saw himself over the mirror above the sinks. A chiselled jawline, a rugged, handsome face, clean-shaven. Unlike the scruffy, unkempt, double-chinned, flabby mess he had been. The uniform looked like it was a part of him, from the pristine neatness of the sleeves of his shirt, folded and pressed so they rested just above his elbows, to his exquisitely polished boots. Around his waist, not holding up his trousers, but there anyway, was a cloth belt in three colours. He removed the beret he wore, and even the hairstyle, short, army cut, suited him. He didn’t just like what he saw, he loved it.

The cap badge had a figure on it. Pan, perhaps? No… Not Pan, this figure had wings on its ankles. Hermes? He shrugged. But it did give him pause. “I don’t even know what regiment I’m in! Use the clues. Start with the belt, seeing as I don’t know what the badge means.” He got out the phone and pressed the middle button, hoping against hope it worked the same as the ones back home.

It beeped.

“What regiment wears a belt of light blue at the top, green and dark blue.”

It beeped twice. “The Royal Signals wear a stable belt of light blue, green and dark blue. The colours represent air, land and sea.”

He sighed. “Thank God I’m not infantry!”

He returned his attention to the mirror and stared himself in the eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I’d just become you. That I’d get your memories. Oh, fuck, you’re in for a shock when you see the state you’re in, the state my life’s in. I’ll do my best to not fuck yours up, too much. I like it here. I like me, here.”

Chapter 3

As he shot out of sight and the floor above slid back into its horizontal position, darkness engulfed him. He continued to slide and sensed what he was sliding down become narrower. A chute of some kind, then, a sharp turn to the right, another to the left and the gradient gently became shallower, flatter until he came to a rest. He felt his way forward. The chute had turned into a slide, flat at the end and as his feet touched the floor there was a slam behind him, cutting off any chance of him attempting to climb back up it.

Blindly, he stumbled forward until his fingers brushed a wall. He felt it, scratched it. Concrete. Then his foot kicked something that rattled into the distance. He crouched and began scrambling around on the floor until his hand grasped a stone. Standing, he felt the wall again and began scratching into it with the stone until he’d carved a deep indent. He did it again forming an X.

His fingers probed the symbol he’d carved, familiarising himself with it. “At least now I’ll know if I’ve gone back on myself.” He placed his left hand on the wall and walked. As he did so, there was a flash, a vision. Bright sunlight. Major Davenport and it was gone.

“What the hell was that? Memory?” In the pitch darkness, he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. “I suppose the mind can play tricks on you when there’s nothing to see.”

He shrugged and continued, counting his steps, trying to note any deviation from a straight line as he continued. Then, his hand reached a corner. He bend his arm around it to measure the angle and continued. Another image. Pirbright’s parade square flashed through his mind. Another few steps and the NAAFI sigh appeared briefly and vanished.

He sighed. “Stop imagining your old life.” He slapped himself across the face. “Unless I can find those twats, I’m stuck here. I can’t afford to dwell on that, now.”

Again, he continued. Another flash, this time, Corporal Gorton, standing behind the NAAFI bar. Then the snug. Another corner and he was just about to go around it when the most powerful vision yet appeared. Of himself. Looking in the mirror in the NAAFI ablutions.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I’d just become you. That I’d get your memories. Oh, fuck, you’re in for a shock when you see the state you’re in, the state my life’s in. I’ll do my best to not fuck yours up, too much. I like it here. I like me, here.”

Sergeant Brown froze. “What the fuck!? How did you do… What do you mean, you thought you’d become me?”

“You can hear me!? How the hell can you hear me?”

“Well I don’t know, do I? I suppose the fact I’m stuck in a pitch-black tunnel with nothing to see might have something to do with it. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“But you were talking to me!”

“Maybe that’s what I did. I wasn’t talking to myself, I was apologizing to your reflection.”

“There has to be some kind of link between us. Some… I don’t know… Residue of our old selves in each of us, maybe. What do you mean you thought you’d become me?”

“They said I’d get a new life! A new timeline where a decision I’d regretted would be undone. I wasn’t expecting this! They didn’t tell me we’d swap places until two seconds before the transfer. I… I can’t live here without help! I’m lost! How can I fake being an army sergeant when the last military experience I had was when I was fourteen?”

“But you said you thought you’d become me! You are me, now!”

“Physically, maybe.” Derek tapped his temple. “But I’m not you up here, am I? The only things I know about your life so far are what I’ve been able to piece together from the contents of your pockets!”

“But if you’d become me, you realise that would’ve been death to you, surely?”

“Death?”

“Well, if you somehow became me, me. Properly. All the memories from here would’ve been gone, wouldn’t they?”

“My life’s been shitty for years. No big loss, there.” Derek sighed. “And now, you’re stuck with it! I said I was sorry. Please, help me!”

“Help you? I’m going to find out where those bastards are and force them to send me back!”

“And if that’s not possible?”

“Where am I?”

“I don’t know! How do you expect me to know that?”

“You were there! You had to get there, didn’t you? How did you even get into this mess in the first place?”

“They’d been announcing their discoveries for over a year on the news. Worlds vastly different from the one you’re stuck in, now. Different kings, different prime ministers, different everything. I think they might’ve even been trying to map the timelines. Then, one weekend, they made a big announcement. A lottery. Ten quid a ticket. Win a new life. A life where your deepest regret was undone. I didn’t even know what that regret was until I found myself in uniform!”

“Well, now, we need to work together! I’m just as lost here as you are there. Now, where am I?”

“I said I don’t know! When they brought me here, they said their location had to remain a secret. Pretty obvious, why, now. To keep you in the dark. Stop you from finding them! The windows in the car were blacked out. I didn’t see any of the journey.”

“OK, where were you picked up? How long did the journey take? How many corners did the car take? Any straight sections that were probably motorways? How long were they?”

“I’ll need time to think about that! I’ve got other problems, right now.”

“Where were you picked up and how long did it take!?”

“I was picked up outside my house! I think it took about two hours.”

“I thought you said your life was shitty, and you own a house?”

“I inherited it when Mum and Dad died! I’m not well off if that’s what you’re thinking! When I saw the contents of your bank accounts my eyes popped out on stalks!”

“They’re dead? Both of them?”

“Covid.”

“What the hell’s Covid?”

“The pandemic? Think it was one of those SARS viruses? Millions died, more were affected long term.”

“Shit! When did this happen?”

“It started in 2019. Covid19’s the full name for it. It started in China but it was global by the end of March 2020.”

“But we have a robust bio-protocol against that kind of thing! Why wasn’t it contained!?”

“Boris fucking Johnson. For us lot anyway. Trump was even worse!”

“Who… and who?”

“PM? Bunch of greedy, self-serving twats who only cared about milking the economy for every penny they could scam out of it.”

“Fucking hell! Lemme guess? Tories?”

“Who else?”

“Who the hell would vote the Tories in again after Thatcher and Major?”

“Oh, after Major, we did sort of get a labour government. Sort of. There was a joke going around at the time, I’m Tory Plan B. An anagram of Tony Blair PM.”

“What? But… But we’ve been Labour since Major. Things are working out pretty well under Corbyn!”

“Corbyn? Bloody hell! Well, you’ve got bloody Rishi Sunak. Tory millionaire and totally out of touch with reality. Before him, you had the utterly useless head of lettuce known as Liz Truss.”

“Lettuce?” The sergeant resumed his blind fumbling through the tunnel.

“One of the tabloids. They got a head of lettuce and put it on a shelf. The lettuce lasted longer than she did as PM. Forty days. And in those forty days, Queen Elizabeth died, and she tried to shove through tax cuts for the ultra-rich that weren’t budgeted and crashed the economy. Before her, Boris, Teresa May and David Cameron. Thanks to him and Brexit, the country’s on its knees.”

“What the hell is Brexit… Never mind, I’ll check the newspaper archives rather than go over the history of the whole world for the past thirty years, we’ve got more pressing concerns. I want my life back and you need me. Probably far more than I need you, right now. I don’t want to get back there to find myself in the glasshouse or dishonourably discharged. You have to put up a bloody good show.”

“But what if we can’t talk again? What if what’s happening now’s just a fluke?”

“We have to at least try to keep the link alive!” Another corner, this one to the right. Again, he measured the angle before continuing. “Meet me!”

“What do you mean? Different worlds, remember!”

“Same physical location! Maybe it’ll help, both of us standing in the same place. At least I know where I live, now. I just don’t know how far away it is from here. I do know it’s a long way from Pirbright. We’ll have to meet halfway.”

“Where?”

“That depends on transport. Please tell me I own a bloody car, here.”

Derek shook his head. “I could never afford one.”

“At least tell me you can drive.”

“I can. It’s been a while, though.”

“Birmingham’s about the middle of the journey. Taken it often enough when visiting.”

“They’re… They’re still alive? Both of them?”

“Of course! They’re not that old!”

“But how do I get there?”

“You’ve got an army land rover issued to you. Use it! Tomorrow night. I’ve got no idea how long it’ll take me to get home. How long it’ll take me to get out of this tunnel? When you said they wanted to keep me in the dark, you’ve got no idea. Oh, and bring a mirror. I will, too. That might be part of it.”

“OK. Where in Birmingham?”

“Hmmm… Good question. We need somewhere dark. Bring your torch. It’s army issue and bright enough. Maybe not Birmingham, then. Somewhere outside. Get your phone out. There’s a mapping app on it. Somewhere within easy reach of a train station. Preferably in the countryside away from streetlights. Pick somewhere north of the city, closer to me. I don’t have a car, after all.”

Derek got the phone out again to check, and noted that the train seemed to go way off course, but hit London before a change to get to Pirbright, then struck Pirbright off to get a better course for London itself. Finally, he saw a route he recognised. He zoomed in, following it until he found one that looked promising. “It looks pretty green around Rugeley.”

“Pick a place.”

“Cannock Chase Forest looks like it might be dark.”

“Zoom in as far as it’ll go and put a pin in it. Read out the coordinates. I’ll find it.”

“Pin? How?”

“Just press the screen until it appears. You can use that, too, to guide you while you’re driving. It does satellite navigation. When we get there, head for the most distinctive landmark near the pin. We’ll both likely see the same thing as suitable. We are the same person, after all.”

“Are we?”

“Just have to trust to luck this works. If we can talk, we can find the same landmark, that way.”

“I suppose that’s a point.”

“Now, what did Major Davenport say to you?”

“After telling me off for losing focus, he slapped a file to my chest and said he’d got one last chance.”

“I suggest you stop looking in that mirror and start reading it, then.”

“What if we need it?”

“Well, we won’t find that out until you go back into the snug, will we? You can’t stand there all day! Get to it, soldier!”

Derek sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you just call me sir? You’re lucky I’m not there or I’d beast you all the way to bloody Guildford! I work for a living! You address me as sarnt!”

“Yes, sarnt!” He returned to the door to the snug, opened it, stepped out and looked around, backing into the loo and closing the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“There are other people in there, now. We can’t talk. Damn!”

I wonder.

“Wonder? Wonder what?”

So, you heard me, then?

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Don’t speak. Think.

“Think?”Don’t tell me we’re telepathic, now!

I’m seeing through your eyes. Well, my eyes… I thought it was worth a try. Yes, we’re telepathic, now.

Oh, fuck, this is good!

Just, get to it.

Yes, sarnt! Derek retuned to his seat, took a sup of his bitter and picked up the file.

Interesting. And good. We share the same taste in beer. If you’d bought a Bux or Stella I would’ve been gagging, right now. I could taste that. Try not to stub your toe.

So the link’s not just… Fuck me, this is amazing! So, why is he here? I know he’s prone to losing his temper and throwing tantrums.

He failed basic for the second time, but that isn’t the only thing wrong. As you said, severe anger management issues.

Any idea why?

He complains about forgetting his training. I think it’s more a confidence issue than anything else. He picks things up quickly enough during classes and other training but fucks up later. The temper? Probably frustration.

When did he fail?

Last week. It’s all in the file.

Don’t they normally get sent home until the next lot?

First time, he failed due to an injury. He couldn’t complete before their passing out. We held him here until a decision was made, this time. It took the higher-ups all week to decide what to do with him. He’d make a damned fine soldier if he could only get over himself.

Derek opened the file and began. A brawl on the first day?

And he had a week of punishment duty because of it.

Bullying? And two of the other recruits stepped in to defend the victim?

That, in my opinion, isn’t certain. The officer in charge took their side, two against one. The other recruits present corroborated their evidence, but…

Why the doubt?

Because the one who was bullied, a recruit called Taylor, bloodied the noses of those two. three weeks later.

Shouldn’t we get to the bottom of that, too, then? If he was the one defending Taylor rather than the one doing the bullying, wouldn’t it mean a black mark wiped from his record if we got the truth?

How would you recommend we do that?

I don’t know, do I? I’ve been in this life for, what? An hour? Two? What about the other recruits? If they’ve all moved on, they shouldn’t be anywhere near the two who may be guilty, anymore. Any influence they had, any loyalty or threats are meaningless, now. Do you have their contact info, so we could phone them at their new postings?

Another corner and when Sgt Brown rounded that one, the image in his mind’s eye vanished. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Good, you’re getting into the spirit of it, now.

There was no reply.

Derek?

“Shit. Hang on.” The sergeant backed around the corner again and turned away from the light. The image returned. Derek?

Yes?

I just said good, you’re getting into the spirit of it, now. Did you hear that?

Oh, shit! No, I didn’t. We’re losing the link?

I don’t think so, no, but I think we’ve found a limit to this contact. Pitch darkness is a big part of it. I lost contact the moment I rounded the corner, this time. There’s light ahead.

Bugger! Do we have their contact details?

Yes, yes. They’re in my office. We keep them for a year. I’ll have them until the next intake, then they get moved to the archives.

When is the next intake?

A month.

And where’s your office?

Admin block, level two, room 242. The key code to get in past reception’s 5334x. You’ve got the key.

Thanks. Any maps of the base?

Yes, and they’re dotted around the place. There’s one outside the barrack block. I need something from you, now, before I get out of these tunnels.

What? You know where I live.

Your pockets are empty.

They took everything from me apart from the clothes on my back. I suppose they might’ve left all that for you.

Mobile phone password? Any internet passwords I need to know?

I’ve only got a dumb phone. Smartphones are way too expensive. Barely use it, anyway. It’s not locked.

Internet?

Not at home. I’ve not even got a computer. I just nip into the local library when they bother to open and use theirs.

Email?

Good point. Search for Gmail. Username, Derek dot Brown 3342. Password, Snowy owl. One word. Just, make sure the S and L are capitals and the Os are zeroes.

Snowy Owl?

I like all owls. Tawny owls, little owls, barn owls, snowy owls… Of course…

Sgt Brown chuckled. Of course, they’re all snowy owls by the time I’m done with ’em. Christ, I’d forgotten about Richard not Judy. Can’t believe that joke stuck with you. Anything more? Credit card? Debit card?

Shit! Sorry. You’ll need them, too, if you plan on getting back home. Most of the time you can just get away with contactless. Just tap the reader, but once in a while, it does demand a PIN. 0405 for both.

Have you any idea how insecure that is? Using your birthday as a PIN?

At least you’ll remember it. Please don’t change it, just in case I do end up back there. Oh, there’s more to Gmail than just email, there’s an entire suite of programs you can use online, and I have been.

I suppose everything else I need’ll be in the dossier they said they’d left for me. If I do need further information, I’ll find a dark room and wrap a towel around my head. If it’s good enough for the ravenous bugblatter beast, it’s good enough for us. You do the same if you run into problems. I’ll sign off. Got a lot to do. You do, too. Go through that file with a fine-toothed comb, Derek. A man’s career depends on it.

Not to mention mine. Or yours. Whatever. I’ll do my best. Suppose it’s all I can do.

We’ll speak later.

Hopefully.

Oh, one last thing that should help. Office, bookshelf, army training manual. Study it. Might only cover the theory, but every little helps. Sergeant Brown, signing off.

Hang on! What about your passwords? There’s got to be more to it than a door code.

*sigh* Good point. Get your notepad out, you’ll never remember them all.

Derek did as he was told. Ready.

What followed was a long list of sites he’d never heard of, usernames, passwords and other pertinent data.

One last piece, saved it ’til last because it’s very important…

What?

Brown, Sergeant, 45305640!

Name, rank and… Oh, fuck… How long did it take you to memorise it?

I’d got it by the end of basic. Sticks with you for life, that number. Especially when you’ve been in as long as me.

What was it again?

The sergeant repeated it more slowly. Any more questions?

Derek studied the list in confusion. Where are Google? Facebook? Netflicks? There’s not even a sign of Twitter or eBay! No Amazon either!”

Never heard of any of them. Clearly, we got a different lot of things there. Are you on those?”

Don’t worry, Google stores all my passwords. Just use Chrome. You only need the Gmail one to make sure you’re logged in for the rest.

One final thing… Cap off! Didn’t you learn anything in cadets? Indoors, one does not wear his beret! And you only salute an officer when it’s on! Beret off, no salute.

What do I do with it? Shove it in a pocket?

*Sigh* I know it’s been a while, but… Right shoulder strap. Roll your beret up and put it there. Now get to it, we’ll talk later… Hopefully.

Chapter 4

Derek sighed and started to read. The file was quite detailed, covering every aspect of Ashford’s training and where he’d failed the most. The first time he took basic, before an injury forced him to miss the end, he’d been a hell of a lot better than the second. As he continued to read, the cogs began to turn. This could work for both of them… If the commanding officer agreed.

The moment he’d absorbed the last sheet of the report, he packed everything back into the folder, finished his bitter and rushed out of the NAAFI.

Where to go… Where to go… Well, he did say they were dotted around the place.

Derek resumed his walk around the parade square. It didn’t take him long to find one of the maps on a large noticeboard by one of the buildings. A large, red, “You are here” pointed at one particular block. Classroom block 1.

“Right, then.” There was a lot more to it than just the buildings around the square. The place was huge, but, he located the barrack block both he and Ashford shared, he located the admin block and the idea he’d had began to solidify in his mind. He nodded and made his way to his office.

He took a deep breath as he entered the admin block, removing his beret as he did so, nodded at the lance corporal behind the reception desk and looked around. There was only one door at the back of the room, so, he went to it and keyed in the code. A twist, the door opened and he rushed through.

This floor seemed to have far too few doors for offices, only four lined the corridor, so, he walked past them, noting what each sign said. Briefing rooms, all.

At the end of the corridor, double doors, a shorter corridor turned to the right and at the end of that, a stairwell. Up that, another set of double doors and offices, lots of them. It didn’t take long to find his, it even had his name on the door, so, a fumble for the keys, testing each until the lock clicked, he entered, closed the door, locked it again and breathed a sigh of relief.

He began his search in earnest, riffling through all three filing cabinets in there until, finally, he located the group of recruits that’d shared Ashford’s dorm during his first basic training.

Sitting at the desk and searching the drawers, he gathered together some paper and began compiling the information he required, building up the story as the other recruits had sworn was the truth, noting that only Ashford’’s testimony deviated from the story the others had told. Even Taylor’s corroborated the other recruits' stories. He studied Taylor’s file in more detail, noting the bloody noses he’d inflicted on the two Ashford had initially accused. Privates Wallis and Pritchard had avoided any other trouble. Even the bloody noses had only had a passing mention, no discipline against anyone in that case.

Derek shook his head and sighed. Then, he remembered something else his counterpart had said. Bookshelf. Training manual. He dashed over, gathered up the three volumes and returned to his desk, perusing the first part. It didn’t take long for him to find something that raised a smile. Something he could use.

He grabbed his phone, unlocked it again and studied the apps in more detail. None of them had familiar names, apart from the ones that described their function. Fortunately, the one he wanted did just that… Call recorder. He activated it, returned to his papers and dialled the first of many numbers.

“Kettering army camp.”

“Ah, good. I’m just following up on some details from a soldier’s basic training. Would it be possible to speak to Summers, private, 88944507?”

“Name?”

“Oh, of course. Brown, Sergeant, 45305640”

“One moment please…” What followed was a couple of minutes of the most insipid hold music it was possible to produce.

“Workshop.”

“Ah, hello. Could I speak to private Summers, please?”

“Speaking.”

“Ah, good. I’m following up on something that happened during your basic training, first night on camp.”

“Oh, shit. How can that even be an issue, anymore? It was last year!”

“Recruit Ashford.”

The voice rose three octaves. “Recruit? Still? I know he didn’t pass out with us, but… Seriously? And he’s still there?”

“Before we continue, I’d like to emphasise a few points.”

“Err… What… What points.”

“The core tenets of the British Army include honour, loyalty, respect and courage. That loyalty and respect isn’t just between your comrades, the majority of it should be directed upwards, to your superior NCOs and officers, ending with the king himself. Agreed?”

The voice on the other end of the phone sighed. “Agreed.”

“So, what happened that night.”

“I…” Summers froze.

“Don’t tell me you still consider Wallis and Pritchard worthy of loyalty.”

“It wasn’t loyalty, believe me.”

“Fear? There were 18 of you against those two. OK. Look at it like this. You’re not in that billet anymore. You joined the royal engineers, those two joined the artillery. Two different regiments, too. Every single one of you moved on to separate army camps. The chances of you even seeing them again are slim.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Sergeant Brown.”

“Oh, shit! Sorry, sarnt! You saw them! They were both hulks! They started throwing their weight around the moment we’d had the bed-making demonstration. They singled out Taylor, saw him as the weakest, so decided he was going to do all their personal admin.”

“And Ashford?”

“He saw Taylor in a similar light, as the weakest. God, was he wrong about that.”

“So, he joined in on the bullying? And they decided he wasn’t worthy to receive the same services they were demanding, hence the fight? Something like that?”

“No! He stepped in. He defended Taylor.”

“Thank you, private Summers. That’s exactly what I suspected. Ashford failed his second basic training. I believe it may be a confidence issue and the punishment he had to endure when everyone backed up Pritchard and Wallis in their lies… Well, I think you can imagine that confidence took a major hit. I’m going to contact everyone from your intake. Get the story from each of you. Wiping that black mark from his record, I think, is the first step in getting him back on track. Now, what happened a few weeks later?”

“When Taylor snapped?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I wasn’t there. Obviously Wallis and Pritchard were. Galway and Brent were the only other ones to witness it, but when they told their tale after leave… He might look scrawny, but it’s a wiry strength. He flattened both of them. Oh, my God. Taylor suddenly became a friend to everyone. He’d tried to keep himself to himself until then.”

“And Wallis and Pritchard?”

“Taylor showed his worth that weekend. Really gained our respect. He forced them to apologise to Ashford, too.”

“But the stain remained. No one stepped forward to correct the injustice?”

“It was too late for that, sarnt. The damage had been done and we were all terrified we’d get kicked out for lying. Oh, bugger. I’m not gonna get it in the neck, now, for telling you this, am I?”

“I think we could chalk it down to the indiscretions of youth. I won’t push for any repercussions. In fact, I’ll advise against it for most of you.”

“So Wallis and Pritchard?”

“Who knows? They may. It’ll be down to the CO if he decides to pursue this. The only reason I’m doing it is to remove a black mark from Ashford’s record.”

“I hope he makes it this time! He’s a good bloke. Best of the lot of us.”

Derek chuckled. “Thank you for the endorsement. I hope that works in his favour, too.”

He ended the call, ended the recording, began another and dialled again.

Sixteen calls later, eight of which had borne similar fruit, the others being unavailable for various reasons, he left his office and explored the admin block, noting every office, every name on the doors. It was a while before he came across the office of Major Davenport. He gulped, took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come!”

Open the door, step inside, close it, march to the desk, stamp to attention. “Sir.”

“I take it this is about Ashford?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I may have concocted a cunning plan to deal with him, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I did a little digging, sir. I believe a lot of his problems are centred around the frustration, resentment and loss of confidence after his first day as a recruit, sir.”

“What resentment?”

“The punishment he received, sir. The black mark on his record.” He pulled out the phone and hit play on the first recording, placing it on the major’s desk. “I believe it was an unjust punishment, sir. Listen.”

The major nodded and smiled when Derek invoked the values of the army, then it got to the core of the issue. The smile vanished as the recording reached its end. “And you’ve corroborated this?”

“I managed to contact eight more, sir. The rest were all unavailable, but I could follow up on the calls if you wish. They all said pretty much the same things. I did record those, too.”

“Forward them to me, and give me the list of numbers of the ones you failed to contact. I’ll follow up on them. If they also corroborate this new evidence, I’ll also contact the commanding officers of the two true guilty parties.”

“Thank you, sir. Which email address do you wish me to forward them to, sir?”

“Good point.” The major jotted something on a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. “So, what did you have in mind?”

“Well, obviously, the first thing that should be done is to wipe that black mark from his record, sir.” Derek collected the sheet and placed one of his own, sliding it back towards the major. “I haven’t spoken to him, yet, but something to boost his confidence before the next intake… That’s where my cunning plan comes into play, sir. I would need to requisition a fresh army training manual, a new set of uniforms for myself, sir. And a set of lance-corporal armbands for Ashford. I’d also need to be relieved of my other duties if we do this.”

“Promote him? Before he’s even completed”

“Oh, no! Nothing quite that extreme, sir. He would be an acting lance-corporal, but I would emphasise some severe limitations. I would be the recruit that he would train, sir. The rank would only be in relation to me, sir. No-one else. If he tried pulling rank on anyone else, or treating a real lance corporal as an equal, well… That’s one punishment he would deserve. As for the training, trust me, I’ll make all the same mistakes they make. Probably even come up with a few they’d never think of, sir.”

“You’d willingly do this? Lower yourself to below him?”

“The next intake is in a month, sir. A recruit again for that long, before he resumes his own training? I think it’ll work wonders, sir. He’ll certainly gain an understanding of the frustrations we have to endure, sir.”

“I’m not sure I can spare you, sergeant.”

“I’d willingly take some of my leave to do this, if you can’t spare me in any other way, sir.”

“Seriously?”

“A man’s career is on the line, sir. He’ll make a damned fine soldier. The first recording wasn’t the only one that said he was the best of their section, sir.”

“And when do you wish this training to commence?”

“Monday would be the ideal start. It’ll give us time to prepare, sir. He’ll need it just as much as I will, and I have personal business to get out of the way tomorrow in order for it to be possible, sir.”

“And you’re willing to take on the role of recruit, for the full month? Even after hours?”

“Of course, sir. Might actually be fun, and it wouldn’t be the full trainer experience for him if he didn’t also get to do the morning inspection, sir.”

Davenport smiled. “I’ll assign you to three echo one and have a corporal arrange it’s clean and suitable for habitation. Ashford can take three echo three. You won’t be disturbed or disturb others. And I’ll have staff Etheridge arrange for all your needs. I agree, this is a worthy cause. We could even expand the concept if it works out for Ashford.”

“Expand it, sir? More than one of us posing as recruits?”

“And more than one of them taking the roles of your trainers. Done right, it could even lead to a few exercises. Exercises they would devise and you would attempt to complete.”

He grinned. “This is very clever. I love where this might lead. Granted, and no need to use any of your leave. I’ll have Etherage delegate your duties for the month.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I suggest you speak to recruit Ashford. I imagine what you tell him may be a bit of a shock.”

“Oh, I intend it to be, sir. I’ll order him to close his eyes when I slip the armbands on, sir. And I’ll be in the rankless uniform when I do it. See how long it takes him to realise.”

“You’d better get down to the quartermaster’s stores. I’ll phone ahead. Everything will be waiting for you. Dismissed.”

Chapter 5

The light at the end of the tunnel hadn’t been daylight. Just a dim bulb at the foot of a flight of stairs. That led to another maze of service tunnels, this time, illuminated. He didn’t know how long it took before he finally found his way to a small room at the top of another staircase, this time, five flights.

His heart sank. If their complex was so far underground, he might never find a way back there. Even with the map he’d been building in his mind.

On a table, a carrier bag containing a folder, wallet, mobile phone and set of keys. One more door and a short flight of steps and, finally, he was in open air. His dismay grew as he studied his surroundings.

It was a housing estate. A badly rundown one. Many of the buildings were boarded up, a few even burnt-out shells and to make things even more unpleasant, the place seemed to be a target for fly-tippers. Heaps of rubbish, rotten old mattresses and rubble dotted the streets.

A heavy metal crash behind him shook the ground and he turned in shock, bolting back down the steps, wrenched open the door, only to be met by a steel wall.

“Fuck! Well, that’s one way back down there blocked. I need to find out where this is. I need a map.”

Continuing to count his paces, he moved down to the street, turned left and followed it around until, finally, he reached a junction to a main road. Following that for what felt like an age, finally, a road sign and something more. Something he knew. 33 Signals?

“Merseyside? Well, at least now I know how to locate that estate on the map. Damn, it’s a shame I can’t call on them to help. I could seriously do with some.” He dug into the carrier bag and checked the wallet. A ten pound note and two cards. That was it? That’s all this version of him bothered to carry?

“At least I know where I am.” He crossed the road and turned down a street that lead towards the nearest train station.

As he continued, his calves began to burn. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue, finally arriving an hour later, gasping for breath. He collapsed onto the bench and groaned. “I refuse to live like this. I refuse!”

He allowed himself to recover for a few minutes before looking at the display. The next train to Manchester was thirty minutes delayed and due in twenty. He sighed, forced himself to stand and staggered over to the ticket machine, muttering “Oh, God. Oh, God. How can anyone get into this state?” He took a deep breath. “I should be able to run ten times that distance. I will. Looks like it’s going to be hell for me for the next few months if this doesn’t get sorted.”

* * *

“Finally!” He gasped as he collapsed onto the sofa in his parents'… in his… living room. Even the trudge up the hill from the bus stop had knocked the wind out of him.

He only then looked around the room in dismay.

The place was a mess. It looked like the house had been ransacked! If it weren’t for the fact a TV sat in the corner of the room, he would’ve suspected burglary.

“You lazy, bone-idle waste of air!” Another sigh. “I’ll deal with this crap tomorrow.”

Spotting the TV remote half buried under a pile of paper on the coffee table, he reached for it and turned on the telly, flicking through all the channels.

“Well, that’s similar.” He glanced at the clock. “4pm and sod all on.”

He was just about to hit the button again when an advert came on. He froze and stared in horror.

“Unsatisfied with the way your life has turned? Do you have deep regrets you didn’t take a different path? The new life lottery. Just £10 per ticket and you could win the life you always dreamed of. A life where those actions you missed weren’t missed. A life where the things you regret didn’t occur. Next draw on the 20th of June. Get your tickets now!”

“I… Oh, fuck! So, I’m not the only one? How many more? How many before me?”

He continued with the channel surfing until he stumbled onto a news channel and settled down to watch.

Chapter 6

You’re a sergeant. Talk like one. Act like one. Exude the presence of one! He took a few deep breaths, then an extra deep one and yelled. “Stand by your bed!”

He gave it a count of five before he opened the door to the billet.

Ashford was six foot two, medium build and wore a t-shirt and jeans. He stood to attention at the foot of his bed and didn’t look happy.

Derek marched forward and stamped to a halt in front of him.

“Make yourself presentable, Ashford. Uniform. Now. I’ll be back in ten minutes!”

“Uniform, sarnt?” The worry increased on his face. “Ah, shit. That means they’ve decided?”

“Yes, a decision has been made. Get changed.”

About turn, march out, slam the door. Derek chuckled. “That actually felt good!”

He looked down the corridor, the doors all followed the same pattern. On the left, all had large gaps between them, indicating they were all similar dormitories, each with the two doors on the right indicating smaller rooms. Rooms for the lance corporals and corporals in command of each section, or in this case, training each section. The other, for the sergeant in command of all of them.

He fumbled with his keys again until he found the right one, then picked up the kitbag he’d been given and opened his door.

So… This is home, is it?

It wasn’t a huge room, but it was enough, he supposed. Everything he expected was in there. The large metal cabinet synonymous with army barracks everywhere was his wardrobe. The pristinely made bed. Everything in the place, neat, tidy and clean.

There was no hint of clutter and apart from a TV in the corner, very few personal items. He opened the cabinet and studied the perfectly stores uniforms. On the left-hand side of the rail, one set of civilian clothing. On the right, shelves contained underwear and socks. The top one, a few books. The shelves also housed a lockable drawer. Another fumble with the keys and he studied the contents of that, too. A couple of wristwatches, one looked high-tech, a few coins at the bottom and a box. He reached in and opened it to reveal a medal. What it was for, he had no idea.

“Where the hell’s all your other stuff? You’re on a sergeant’s wages and you don’t seem to own anything! So this is it? A career soldier, with nothing to show for it?”

He sighed, locked the drawer and wandered over to the desk. A lamp, a blotter, a couple of drawers, but when he opened them, more army stuff. Nothing personal.

“How can anyone live like this? And now I have to? God! How can he not be bored stiff when he’s not on duty? Just as well I am doing that basic training thing next week. Least I won’t have this to think about.”

He sighed and returned to the door opposite. Another yell of “Stand by your bed!” and again, he marched in, this time facing a fully uniformed Ashford.

He glanced around, grabbed a couple of chairs and slammed them down. “Sit.”

He sat on the other, facing Ashford as he took his.

“Now. Tell me how you feel?”

“Miserable? Terrified? I don’t want this to end, sarnt! I want to pass out! I need” Ashford sighed. Well, half sigh, half sob.

“I said a decision had been made, I didn’t say what that decision was. I am partly instrumental in it, though. I did a little digging on your behalf.”

“Digging, sarnt?”

“Listen.” He again hit play on the first recording.

As it played, Ashford stared at the phone in shock. Tears began to well. “Does this mean…”

“The next intake is in one month. You’re a part of it. You’ll get to complete your basic, Ashford.”

“But I failed!”

“I can understand why, you know? You took an unjust punishment on your very first day. You’ve been holding back a hell of a lot of resentment since then. Confidence in yourself at rock bottom? Second guessing every decision? Tiptoeing about, walking on eggshells, terrified you’ll make a mistake?”

His eyes widened and he nodded.

“Well, by the time you begin again, that black mark will be permanently wiped from your record, if it isn’t already. Stop worrying so much. If it makes you feel any better, I handed the list to Major Davenport. Everyone I couldn’t contact, or didn’t try to, will be contacted too and if they also corroborate what the nine I already did said, and the two true guilty parties continue to lie… Well… They’ll likely really get it in the neck.”

“So… So I get to come back next month! Oh, thank fuck! Thank’s sarnt!”

“Oh, no. You’re not coming back next month.”

“What? But you said”

“We’ll talk about that later. Right now, though, I want to build some of that confidence back. A little roleplay.”

“What? But I’m not a nerd, sarnt!”

“I didn’t mean that kind of roleplay. I’m not asking you to pretend to be a wizard or anything. Just pretend that I am a guest of this base. That I’ve never been here before. You are going to give me a guided tour, tell me what each and every building and feature of the camp is, what it’s called, its function and so on, and as we walk between them, you can go into the history of the base. If we have time, maybe the history of the regiment you hope to join.” He stood. “So, get to it, recruit. Lead the way.”

* * *

At first, he stumbled over his words, hesitated, ummed and ahhed, but after a few simple questions about the place, easy ones even someone who’d been there a day should know, but Derek still didn’t, Ashford began to relax, become more vocal, more eloquent and by the time they were halfway around the camp, he brimmed with enthusiasm. It was clear he loved the army life and that enthusiasm began to rub off on Derek.

Then they reached the assault course and as they approached one of the walls, Ashford slowed.

Derek glanced across at him to see pain in his eyes. To see the hesitation beginning to return.

“What’s wro… Ah.” Remembering the file he’d read, he nodded. “I understand. This is where you broke your ankle close to the end of your first attempt at basic training?”

“I… Please sarnt… Before I say anything more… Could you go to the med centre and ask them to review the x-ray?/”

“What? W… Don’t tell me it was more than just a bad landing?”

“I want you to see for yourself before I say anything more. I… I can’t… I need you to see it.”

“I’ll do it, now. I think we’ve covered a lot… Before I go, though, point out anything we missed.”

“Yes, sarnt! At the end of the assault course, the outdoor firing range.” He pointed. “That building, the armoury manned by Staff Wilson, normally. He even has his billet in there, the weapons are never left unguarded. Beyond that, general stores, where we go to pick up our ration packs and where we got issued with our kit. That building over there… Payroll. Only really need to go there, these days if there’s something wrong with our wages, but they told us there’d be a queue around the block twenty years ago when they paid by cheque. These days, it goes straight into our bank accounts, though. Workshops beyond that, for general trade training. Things like bricklaying, carpentry, stuff like that. Then, back to the guard house by the main gate and the cells in there.” He shrugged. “Spent a week in one of them when I wasn’t painting those rocks along the paths. They’re comfortable enough.”

“Thank you, recruit. I think you did a fucking good job. Until we got here, you were enjoying it, too, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sarnt!”

“Get back to your billet. I’ll see what the med centre has to say.” Now that I know where it is. “I think I can guess why you’ve clammed up again, though. You were… still are? Terrified no one will believe you?”

Ashford sighed and nodded.

“I think that may have changed, by now. If the med centre does claim anything unusual, I’ll fetch you, we’ll both report to the major’s office and I will bring the x-rays and an assessment by the medic on duty of that x-ray. If what I think you’re trying to say is what I think it is, this is a hell of a lot more serious than a bit of bullying.”

Ashford nodded again.

“Well, jump to it. I’ll meet you there when I’ve done this, make sure you’re in tip-top shape for major Davenport.”

“Thanks, sarnt.” Ashford bolted back towards the accommodation blocks.

* * *

He froze just before crossing the threshold, his hand shooting up to his head. For fuck’s sake, Derek, it’s not that hard to remember. Cap off, you idiot!

He took off his beret, rolled it up, unbuttoned his right shoulder strap and fastened it again with his beret in place, then opened the door.

It looked pretty much like any doctor’s reception area, a lot of seats for waiting patients, even a few tables with the ubiquitous readers digests on them.

Behind the counter, a lance corporal in conversation with a captain, both with red crosses on their arms.

He marched up to the counter, stamped to a halt and waited.

It didn’t take long for the captain to turn. “Sergeant Brown! No health concerns, I hope?”

“Not for me, sir. It’s a past one I wish to enquire about.”

“But you haven’t had one in”

“Sorry, sir. Not me. Ashford.”

“Ashford?! So, he’s finally decided to come clean, has he?”

“So, there was something suspicious about his injury, sir? He only hinted earlier. He wanted me to see what you had to say about it before he’d be more… forthcoming, sir.”

“Any idea why?”

“Oh, I have an idea, sir. He’d been labelled as a liar from his very first day, sir. I imagine he wasn’t willing to tell the truth about it because we’d see it as him lying again, sir. Probably in an attempt to get one of the other recruits in trouble.”

“Yes… Well, he did lie, sergeant.”

“He didn’t, sir. That’s just it. Major Davenport already knows, I suppose you should, too.”

He again played the first recording.

The captain’s eyes widened as the recording reached its end. “Bloody hell. No wonder he clammed up so much. He insisted his injury was caused by a bad landing after jumping off the wall but… Just a moment. I’ll just go and get his file. And your intentions?”

“Clear his name, sir. Completely. If it means bringing a true villain to justice as a consequence then so much the better, sir. This isn’t just bullying if I think it’s what it looks like, it’s aggravated assault, grievous bodily harm, sir.”

The captain vanished into the room beyond the reception for a few minutes and returned holding a file, he pulled out an x-ray and held it up to the light. “Yes… See here, and here… The injury he claimed would’ve been a compression injury if he landed badly, but his ankle appears to have sustained a crushing force laterally, as if impacted by a blunt object.” He pointed at the picture showing how the bones had been cracked and displaced.

“What are the probabilities that it was self-inflicted?”

The captain shrugged. “Pretty negligible, unless he took a hammer to it. The angle’s all wrong for anything but a force applied from outside. Even if he’d stamped on his own ankle, the bones would’ve been displaced in the opposite direction.”

“Would it be possible to write these conclusions down, sir?”

“No need, already done. The suspicions have been in that file from the start, along with his insistence that it was just the result of landing badly. Take it.”

“Isn’t there a doctor/patient confidentiality… thing to worry about, sir?”

“Not in this case. We have a little more leeway in the army. It’s army business, we’re fine. If it’d been a more personal… issue, such as a sexually transmitted disease, then it would be a concern.”

* * *

He didn’t bother with a yell of stand by your bed, this time. He just opened the door, said “Ashford, with me,” turned and walked down the corridor.

Ashford was by his side moments later. “What did he say, sarnt?”

“Oh, he knew you weren’t being very liberal with the truth about your injury.”

Ashford sighed. “Thought so, sarnt. They grilled me when they were setting my leg.”

“Now, it’s time to set things right. Major Davenport’s office. When I say speak, you tell your tale, fully and truthfully. Who did it, why, how, etc. Understood?”

“Now I know you know I wasn’t lying the first time, no problem.” He grinned. “I would’ve just been accused of doing it to myself before, though, sarnt. Just to get back at them.”

“I thought it must be something like that. Come on…”

Out onto the square, into the admin block, and up the stairs. Derek knocked.

“Come.”

He opened the door, stepped inside and held it open for Ashford before closing it.

“Brown… And Ashford?”

“Sir, something more serious has come to light regarding Ashford’s first basic.”

“More serious? We have them both banged to rights already!”

“Ashford. It’s time. Speak.”

“It was the final assault course before our passing out, sir. We only had a few more lessons, then it would’ve just been drill practice until the parade itself to make sure we were perfect, sir. Wallis and Prichard didn’t know what order we’d be running the course, none of us did, and if I’d gone before both of them, nothing would’ve happened. I would’ve been in the signals right now. Unfortunately for me, Prichard was three ahead of me. He deliberately slowed to let the ones behind him pass and when he got to the wall and dropped down, he waited. The moment my feet hit the ground, he lashed out, sir. Kicked me in the ankle. After that… Well, you know I spent the next four months in plaster and another two undergoing physiotherapy to get my movement back. I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t see any choice but to lie. You already had me pegged as a liar and if I’d tried to report what really happened, he said right there after he did it, he’d report I did it to myself, sir. And no one would’ve believed me! I would’ve been kicked out for sure, sir!”

Davenport sighed. “I see. And I understand. You’re probably right about your veracity being put under severe scrutiny after what we perceived to be the lies on your first day. So, Prichard broke your ankle?”

“Yes, sir, but I bet if Wallis had been the one ahead of me that day, he would’ve done the same thing. They were almost joined at the hip, them two, sir.”

“Did he say why he did it? Was it just retaliation for that first day?”

“I was doing pretty well on my first basic, sir. I think I might’ve even been heading for best recruit or at least, most improved, sir. I think it was just to take me out of the running, sir. I missed all that… Can you tell me who got that, sir? And if I would’ve if it hadn’t happened?”

“I’ve reviewed all the files, now, so I don’t even need to look it up. Best? No. That black mark knocked you out for that one, but most improved, yes.” He sighed. “And yes, Wallis got best.”

“And most improved, sir?”

“Taylor.”

Ashford smiled. “Thank you, sir. At least he deserved it.”

“You were right, sergeant. This is far more serious, and now that they’ve both completed their basic training and attested, they are really in for it. Assaulting a fellow soldier? I see the glasshouse in Prichard’s future, probably followed by a dishonourable discharge. I managed to contact all the others in your section the sergeant missed, bar one. Wallis was out on an exercise and won’t be back until next week, so he’ll have to wait to dig his own grave, but… Well… You may want to hear this.”

Davenport grabbed his phone, scrolled and prodded a couple of times and placed it on the desk before hitting play.

“Aldershot.”

“Ah, hello. Major Davenport of Pirbright. I was wondering if you could get private Prichard on the line. Army number, 88944502.”

“One moment please, sir.”

Another few minutes of that same insipid hold music.

Davenport frowned. “I’m really going to have to have a word with them about that. A dead line would be preferable.”

Derek chuckled. “Yes, sir. At least on Father Ted, the nuns sang their hold music live, sir.”

“I’m sorry? Father who?”

Damn! Err… “I caught it quite some time ago, sir. An Irish catholic priest. Comedy, sir.”

“When you were stationed in Belfast? Good grief, that was a while ago, wasn’t it? I suppose it just didn’t make it to the mainland.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

Their attention snapped back to the phone when the next voice emerged. “Hello?”

“Private Prichard?”

“Speaking.”

“Ah, jolly good. I’m phoning all who took part in your basic training. Just routine, you understand. I was wondering if you could give your assessment of one recruit Ashford.”

A snigger emerged. “Don’t tell me that loser’s still there? I’m surprised he hasn’t been kicked out, yet.”

“That’s your assessment? Loser? Can you be more precise?”

“He’s a coward, sir. And mentally unstable, sir.”

“What do you mean, mentally unstable?”

“He’s bonkers, sir! I take it you know about our first day?”

“Go on. I do have the file here, but I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“We’d just been taught how to make our bed and iron our kit when he started on the wimp at the end, sir. Telling him to make his bed. That he’d be his personal valet from then on, sir.”

“And how did the fight start?”

“We saw what he was doing was wrong, sir. Me and Pete… Sorry, sir. Private Wallis, stepped in, sir. Told him to stop.”

“So, not quite the coward if he stood up to both of you, even if he did pick on the weakest, initially?”

“No, sir. It was like flicking a switch, sir. He went totally mental. Threw a right hissy fit. Before we knew it, we were both rolling around on the floor with the moron, sir.”

“Any other instances of this… mental instability?”

“Assault course, sir. He was right behind me. He yelled forward that he was going to get me for what I did, whatever that was and when he jumped down off one of the taller walls, he landed with his foot right on his other ankle, sir. I yelled back that no one would ever believe him. He’d already lied through his teeth about us, sir. I suppose that’s when he realised what a mistake he’d made. God, did he turn the air blue. As I said, sir, he’s a nutter, sir!”

“Thank you for the rather… colourful description. Anything more to add?”

“If he is still there, seriously, dump the git, sir. He’s a danger, sir. Dread to think what he’d do with a loaded weapon and someone in his section he had a grudge against, sir. Bastard should be sectioned.”

“Thank you, Private Prichard. That was very helpful. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a beep.

“God, he really has it in for me. Even now, the petty, vindictive little”

“Ashford!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Understandable, but the language I imagine would have come out of your mouth is totally inappropriate in front of an officer. Don’t worry. The others in your section all described the events of that first day much more favourably. Favourably for you, that is. Added to that… I wonder…”

He opened the medical file, nodded and fiddled with his laptop for a minute. “We do have security cameras on all the buildings. It isn’t a good view… Ah, here we are.”

The assault course was visible and it was a good angle to see the wall from a direction that showed the side they dropped down from, but it was a fair distance away. The major turned the laptop again briefly and zoomed in on that section of the course, watched for a minute and clicked something before turning it back. A lot of soldiers in full combat gear dropped down the wall and continued, then one stopped and waited for a few frames. The next frame, another soldier was at the top, a couple of frames later, he was curled into a ball at the foot of the wall as the one who’d waited was halfway to the next obstacle.

“Whenever an incident occurs on camp, all camera outputs for that time are logged rather than discarded. Unfortunately, it was such a distance away, we don’t have the resolution to identify faces and as it’s in time-lapse, we didn’t see the whole event or the offending kick. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky we have that much. It does, however, correlate with your version of events, which means that phone call is another nail in his coffin.”

Ashford beamed. “Thank you, sir!”

“You will, of course, testify at the court martial. I don’t know when, and as every witness is spread out across almost every army camp in the country, I’m afraid you won’t be able to face him directly. It’ll have to be via videomeet.”

“Gladly, sir.”

“Very good. Report to the military police at oh eight hundred tomorrow to make your official statement.”

“Yes, sir. Might get the chance to ask them a few questions, too, sir.”

“Questions? About what?”

“If I’d passed out when I should’ve, I would’ve been wearing Mercury on my cap badge right now, sir, same as sergeant Brown, but after what happened, my priorities have changed. That’s what I’m gunning for now, sir. MP.”

“That is excellent. We always need more MPs, not the most popular trade in the army and as you’ve suffered an injustice yourself… I think you’ll make a damned fine one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

He about turned and marched to the door.

“And you, sergeant.”

“Of course, sir!”

He was getting better at the about turn and managed it flawlessly, marched out of the door Ashford had opened, closed it and joined him as they marched back towards the billet.

“Looks like I won’t be going home for a while, after all, sarnt. Do you have any idea how long it’ll take before the court martial?”

“Absolutely none. I doubt he’s even been charged, yet. It can take some time. I wouldn’t worry. You weren’t going home, anyway.”

“I… don’t understand, sarnt. The next basic’s not for a month.”

“You will. I did say you weren’t returning for the next basic training, didn’t I? The reason is, you’re not leaving so there was nowhere to return from. Come on, back to the billet, I’ll explain there.”

* * *

“Stand to attention, but this time, move your arms away from your body a bit and close your eyes. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Derek returned to his room, replaced his shirt with an unranked one, hastily and messily folded up his sleeves, rummaged for the new beret and put that under his shoulder strap and gathered up the fresh training manuals and armbands.

When he returned to the dormitory, Ashford still stood there, a little worry creasing his brow.

Derek dumped the manuals onto one of the beds, stretched the first armband as wide as it would go and, careful not to touch the recruit’s arm, eased it up until it was in place before releasing. He did the same with the other arm, stood before him and… “You can open your eyes, now.”

He did so and stepped back, staring at Derek’s arms. “Where’s your stripes, sarnt!”

“Think of this as a continuation of the roleplay we had earlier. The guest you escorted was so swept up by your enthusiasm, he joined up. That’s why I don’t have a rank. I’m a recruit, now, and you, corporal, are going to train me. I’ve never been in uniform before. This is totally new to me. You will perform all the duties the training team had when they trained you. Every mistake you lot made and many more, I will make and we have a month. We begin on Monday.”

“You… You want me, to train you?”

“Yes, corporal!”

“Corporal!?” He glanced down at his arms. “Fuck… me! Seriously? How can I”

“Before you continue, you are an acting lance-corporal. Don’t try to pull rank on anyone but me or you’ll be in deep shit. Don’t try to act as an equal to a real lance-corporal, either. Those are only armbands, not sewn on. For the next month, I’m your plaything. Inspection, training, punishment. Everything we did to you, you get to do to me.”

“Holy shit! This is… It’s… Why, though? I don’t get it.”

“You needed a boost, corporal—a serious one, not only to your confidence. By the time this is over, you’ll hopefully be a hell of a lot more sure of yourself. No more second-guessing. It can kill a soldier, being frozen in indecision, so, I came up with this and the CO didn’t only agree, he loved the idea.” He returned to the bed, gathered up the training manuals and shoved them into Ashford’s chest. “You’ve got a lot of preparation to do. I suggest you study those. Every single thing, no matter how basic, you teach me. Even down to making a bed, polishing my boots and ironing my kit. Take the armbands off, for now, though. They don’t come into force until Monday morning. And on Sunday night, pack all your kit”

“Pack up, sarnt?”

“To stay out from under the feet of everyone else, Major Davenport has assigned me to three echo one and for you, three echo three.”

“I… But no one’s been on the top floor of block three in five years, sarnt!”

“I did say to keep out from under everyone’s feet, didn’t I? Don’t worry. He assured me it would be returned to a habitable state before we begin. I Imagine it’s a bit dusty up there, right now. If you require any resources, the person to see is Staff Etherage.” Damn, what was the word… Think, Derek! Think! Oh, yeah. “The major’s assigned him as our quartermaster. He’ll probably be able to offer you advice, too. Now, I suggest you start studying those books. They’ll be available for the full period as a reference, of course, but absorb as much as you can before then.”

“Oh, God, this is amazing! Did you say I’ll be in room three?”

“Of course! You’re training me, after all.”

“My own room?”

“And I have a dormitory all to myself, but a room is more appropriate to someone doing the training, so, yes.”

Chapter 7

With a grunt, he jerked awake and looked around in shock. It was dark, the TV was off, the only light, a faint glow through the window from a distant street light and the red dot of the TV standby light.

“I fell asleep watching the TV? Good God, I’ve not done that in years!”

He sighed and started fumbling for the light switch. The moment it was on, he turned the TV on again to get the time. 22:14.

“Six hours?” He did feel better, though. It had been a very tiring day. “Right then. Let’s see just how much of a mess you have made of your life. Judging by the house, it’s not looking good.”

He grabbed the file from the carrier bag.

Up until the age of fourteen, their lives had matched. That’s when the split had occurred, this version having left the army cadets. It didn’t say why. After that, exam results, tanked, periods of unemployment, crap temporary job after crap temporary job… Then it got to ten years ago when he seemed to have a period of good fortune.

“Two books published?” He went to the bookshelf and studied them, his hand shooting out when he spotted his name… Twice. Taking them, something small and black fell to the floor. He absently picked it up and put it in his pocket.

They were hefty tomes. “A fantasy epic? I wrote a fantasy epic? How could I be so crap, now?”

He placed them on top of the pile of paper on the coffee table and wandered into the kitchen. “Might as well see what he’s done with the rest of the house.”

Stacks of plates in the sink, stacks of unopened boxes, scattered all over the place. He sighed and went upstairs to find similar untidiness in the bedroom, clothes scattered all over the floor. He opened the wardrobe to find it crammed full of clothing, much of it still had the tags on.

Then, the spare room. This seemed to have been turned into an office. A typewriter sat on the desk, but it was clear from all the cobwebs hanging off it that he hadn’t written a word in years. This was the only room that wasn’t a bomb site.

“What the hell happened to me? How could I forget everything I learned in the cadets?

Allow myself to get into this state?!” He sighed and returned to the file, but after the books, it was just more of the same, crap job after crap job and even those dried up after the death of his parents three years ago.

The file ended with no more information about any other aspects of his life. No details about other interests, friends, not even favourite pubs.

He tossed it away in disgust and was just about to return to the kitchen to check on the boxes when…

Mork calling Orson, come in Orson. Mork calling Orson, come in, your attitude.

You’ve got a fucking nerve, calling me that!

Well, you are. I know from personal experience!

Yes. You’re the fat one! I can’t believe the disrespect!

What do you mean, disrespect?

The house? Mum and Dad’s house? Well, if I can’t reverse this, my house? They kept it in perfect shape! I don’t remember a single day when I’ve visited them when there was even a cup out of place, but you! Look at it! What is all this crap?

Just stuff I bought. Stuff I thought might come in useful one day.

I know exactly what it is.

What about you? You don’t own anything! Where’s all your stuff?

I have no need for stuff! The army provides! Anything I need, I buy, but that's not much. My laptop, my spare watch and techwatch, my phone and telly, what more do I need!?

One set of civilian clothing?

That’s a point, my other suit’s at the dry cleaners, I don’t need more than two. I suppose that’s one job you’ll have to do, tomorrow. Collect it. The ticket’s in the top drawer in my office. It has the address on it before you ask.

But… But what about the rest?

I said, I only buy what I need. You’ve never been deployed. Moved from camp to camp. You soon learn to travel light. The spartan lifestyle is the right lifestyle. I don’t subscribe to the consumer economy. The only reason people buy all the latest and greatest gadgets they barely even use, all the latest fashions they never even wear, is to fill a bloody void in their lives. I don’t have a void in mine. Seems to me, yours is nothing but void!

I’m a published author!

And where’s that got you? How much do you even make from those two books, now? Yes, I’ve seen them, no I haven’t read them yet. I may.

So, do! They’re pretty good.

And yet, you haven’t written anything in years! Why don’t you own a computer to write with? Just a typewriter? You can’t even edit!

I can’t afford

Can’t afford? How much have you wasted on all those boxes in the bloody kitchen? How much on clothing you’ll never wear? How much of that crap even fits… well… me, now? I’ll tell you this for starters, I am going to sort your life out! When you get back here, the house will be just as tidy as when Mum was alive. When you get back, every single one of those boxes will be sold on Auctionweb. Your life will be just as spartan here as mine is there. Where’s your fitness gear?

Fitness gear? I don’t have any fitness gear!

Well, that’s another reason I’ll have to sell all this crap!

Now look!

No. You stole my life! I know it wasn’t intentional but things are not looking good in finding my way to that place to undo it. I need resources. I need cash. That cash comes from your hoarding. It’ll take a military operation to get back there and thankfully, that’s what I’m good at! Now, what happened there? What have you been doing?

Being clever! OK! I sorted out Ashford and at the same time, I’m sorting myself out! I start basic training on Monday.

How the fuck does a sergeant start basic training?

I said I was being clever, didn’t I? Ashford’s been shat on from a great height on multiple occasions, first with the fight, then his broken ankle, which wasn’t an accident, by the way, and then he spent the entire second attempt second-guessing himself, freezing, panicking, terrified he’d make a mistake, which, of course, led to him fail! I’m putting things right one bit at a time.

So, you contacted them, then?

Yes. Well, I contacted about half, and the major contacted the rest. Every single one of them reported the same story Ashford initially told. Well, everyone apart from Prichard, who still maintained his lies and accused Ashford of being a mentally unstable coward. He’s the one who broke Ashford’s ankle on that assault course. Ashford landed, he kicked, then bolted.

Fuck! Really? That’s what Ashford claimed?

There’s some very grainy CCTV footage that does match Ashford’s side of the story and the medical report corroborates it The footage is incomplete, doesn’t show the kick, but it does show a soldier lurking by that wall and the next soldier to drop down it curled into a ball a few frames later.

I can’t believe you’re actually doing a good job of it, so far. Well done!

I like this! I... I hope it doesn’t end!

But it has to! How can you continue to fake thirty years of army experience? How can you even do basic training!?

I’m losing my stripes for the month. Ashford’s gaining one, acting lance-corporal. He is going to train me. They’ll all think I’m faking being incompetent, I already told them I’d make all the same mistakes they make, but at the same time, I’ll be learning the basics.

Yes, the basics! There’s a hell of a lot more than that involved in commanding twenty-three men, which is the usual number in a section during basic training. Where are you?

In my room.

My room! Open the wardrobe. Third shelf down. PT kit. Put it on! Run around the camp five times. Now!

How far is that?

About five kilometres.

I couldn’t even walk five k!

Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of. It’s me who can’t walk five k, right now! Even the walk from the bloody bus stop knocked it out of me! I am not letting you turn my body into another version of this… this blob!

But I don’t want to run around the camp!

Do you want to draw attention to yourself?

Of course not!

Do you want them to see you’re acting strangely?

No!

Open the wardrobe! Look at the PT kit! Now!

But if I turn the light on…

“Do it, you can just as easily turn it off again.”

*sigh* OK! OK!

There was a pause.

Canvas? Shorts made out of canvas?

The army provides! I refuse to waste money on overpriced crap when I’m issued with something that’s perfectly functional. I’m a career soldier. I’ve seen action.

I saw the medal. What’s it for?

Our detachment was attacked when I was setting up a communication network. I not only took out the attackers, single-handed, I might add, I saved the life of my det commander who was trapped in the burning vehicle. The shorts aren’t the only bit of PT kit on that shelf, the vest?

Neatly folded, white, so what?

Open it out. And strip. Put them on! Now!

Another pause.

I… Oh, fuck! Red trim? Crossed swords?

And you know what that means, don’t you?

Physical training instructor? I’m a PTI?

And not only any PTI, but a PTI class one and a sergeant! You will run around the camp! And in the morning at 5AM, before breakfast, you will hit the gym and push yourself to the limit in there! A sergeant has to set an example for the ranks below him. You start lazing about like you have been here and it’ll be seven shades of shit hitting the fan! Another reason this has to end. PTIs come in three levels, three grades. Grade three, they can train regular soldiers, grade two, you get let loose on the recruits, men who don’t know how to exercise. You’re clueless, you’re a danger! One bad command from you during physical training could injure a recruit out of the bloody army!

And grade one?

We’re trained in physiotherapy to get injured soldiers back into good, battle-worthy shape. Now do as I say. Put that kit on and run!

But I was loving this! Now you expect me to put myself through hell?

You’ll love it, trust me.

How do you know?

Because I do? You won’t even hurt, running that far. You’ll experience something you never have before, an adult body at the peak of physical fitness, running further than you ever could before. I know, remember, it’s mine! You didn’t hate it when you were a cadet, did you? And don’t lie, I was you until you were fourteen!

*sigh* I suppose you have a point.

One thing that dossier didn’t go into… Well, a few things… Why did you quit? I would’ve never considered leaving the cadets under any circumstances!

It wasn’t exactly my choice, y’know.

What happened?

Dillon happened!

Matt? OK, he broke his legs jumping off a roof, so what? OK, he was a friend, but I hardly think that’s reason to

Broke his neck, more like! And I was there! I’d never seen a dead body before and he was my best friend! I was a wreck for weeks! I couldn’t continue!

But I wasn’t there! I was on holiday with Mum and Dad at the time. Blackpool!

Dad had to cancel. An emergency at work! That’s why we diverged? Because of that?

Seems so, but that still doesn’t explain the rest. You tanked all your exams? You’ve been a failure all your life, apart from that brief success with the books, and even that, you couldn’t be bothered to continue!

I said it left me a wreck, didn’t I?

For a few weeks, you said. The exams were over a year later!

Well, obviously, if you passed them all with flying colours, then it affected me more than I thought!

Did you seek help?

What? What kind of help?

Psychiatrist? Counselling?

Of course not!

Well, if you do get back, I suggest you do. Obviously, there, you can’t, because mine and yours are totally different circumstances. Yes, I’ve suffered from PTSD, myself. It helps to talk it out. Seriously helps.

PTSD? You think that’s what it is?

As a kid, it’s much more nasty. You’ve seen yourself how much it’s damaged your life. It’s not just soldiers who suffer from it.

But I feel fine!

Your life’s pathetic. You apologised for the state of it, the very first thing you said to me. Nothing to be done about it now, but when you do get back here, that’s one of the things you need to see to. Lose the apathy. Fill the void in a useful way, not by hoarding crap. Now light on, kit on, out for that run.

But I don’t know where to run!

Easily solved, I close the curtains, unplug the TV, the room should be dark enough for me to take over the comms. I can guide you around the route I take.

* * *

Sitting there with his eyes closed, it was almost as if he was doing it himself. It wasn’t just the five senses, he could feel it. All of it. Of course, the first time around the roads on camp, he’d had to constantly push his other self. Faster, harder, stop slowing down, breathe, but after the second, he could sense he was putting the effort in. He could even sense the exhilaration, the fact his counterpart was beginning to enjoy it. He continued to experience the run without the need for constant cajoling, after that, and when he’d finally finished the final lap…

God!

Feels good, doesn’t it?

I’ve never felt so alive! I… I’m back to not wanting this to end!

And I’m back to reminding you it has to. Don’t worry. by the time this is over, I’ll make sure this pile of blubber’s a hell of a lot fitter. You can continue here and I expect you to! Now, get back to my room, grab a towel and hit the shower before bed. You’ve got to be up at five. Don’t worry, the alarm on my phone’s set for that time, anyway.

Yes sarnt! Err… Where is the shower?

*sigh* Army barrack blocks are the same across the nation. You’ve been in one before.

Ablutions at the other end of the corridor?

Spot on.

Communal?

You’ll get used to it. Who cares about privacy in the army? You lose all that in the billets, anyway, living with twenty other men. Tbis time of night, though, you should be alone. I would’ve normally had my run hours ago.

*sigh* OK.

Time for me to ask some questions.

What kind of questions this time? You know everything about me, now?

Not just about you this time, though, one thing that file they left me didn’t go into was friends. Who are they? How do I recognise them? Be a bit of a giveaway if I didn’t know who the fuck they were, me being you, right now, but before that, internet equivalents.

What?

You’re the one who mentioned them. What was it? Googol or something? Amazon? Ebay? We’ll both need this information rather than fumble around searching for them.

I suppose you have a point. What’s your equivalent of Google? That's G L E, not G O L, by the way.

You’ll have to tell me what it is, first.

Started as a search engine. Then they started an email service, I mentioned Gmail.

Ah, so, Pagerank? They did that, too, along with maps.

They… They do seem to be an equivalent, don’t they? Maybe it’s the same people, just a different name? Anyway, Google does offer more than just the maps, now. Online word processor, spreadsheet, stuff like that. I’ve used them as well as the typewriter. Comes in useful.

If you’d got yourself a computer, even an outdated one, surely there must be word processors you can get for it?

Microsoft Word’s expensive, but I’ve heard of a few free ones.

Microsoft? Don’t tell me people are still stuck with Windows 95?

Of course not. They did update, and release new versions every few years! Think the current one’s

Windows 11, but I’ve read the hardware requirements are way out of my price range.

What? Just for the base operating system? How can that have hardware requirements? It’s just a platform for running other stuff! My God, I’m glad they went bust.

Microsoft? How the hell could they go bust? They’re worth billions! Bill Gates was the richest man in the world until Musk took the top spot!

*chuckle* Windows 95 was bad, but 98 was even worse. At the same time those came out, something else was on the horizon. Something free. A bloke called Linus replicated the functionality of Unix and made it useful for home users. No one uses Microsoft, anymore… Well, only a few who were locked in by software, anyway.

What about Apple?

Oh, they still make their Macs, but even those run that same OS, now. Linux.

I’ve heard of that! Isn’t it more difficult?

Not here. It comes with every computer. I suppose if Microsoft still dominates here, I might need to install it myself. Not exactly difficult.

What about the iPhone? The iPod? iPad?

Never heard of them.

But Apple made the first smartphone!

What’s a smartphone? You mentioned that word before.

What do you mean? You have one!

It’s not called that. It’s called a screenphone. it has a touch-sensitive screen and it was Nokia who came up with the first. A dozen other companies make them, now, of course. OK… Back to the… Please tell me it’s called the web.

World wide web, yes. They’re called websites.

At least that’s the same, then. Now… Auctionweb…

Online auctions? That’d be eBay.

Cadabra?

Never heard of it.

Started out selling books online. Now? Sells just about anything.

That’ll be Amazon, then.

Chatter?

Errr… What does it do?

Communication network. Hell of a lot of people on it. It’s not the only one, a lot of people still use the old text-only formats because it’s more efficient. Usenet and IRC, but if they want to chat and post photos, other graphics, music, stuff like that, people tend to gravitate towards Chatter.

Hmm, suppose it sounds a bit like Twitter. What about Facebook?

Another one I’ve never heard of.

Bit like Twitter, I suppose, but for more lengthy discussions. Twitter has a length limit on messages. It started out with the same limits as SMS.

What? Why?

I didn’t invent it! But it is very popular.

I think I’ve got enough to be getting on with. Anything more, I’ll ask this Google thing. Now, friends?

*Sigh*

Ah, come on, there must be someone.

OK, we’re… I’d say pally. Wouldn’t go full friend for either of them, though, just a friendly acquaintanceship.

I’ve got dozens I’d consider to be friends!

I prefer to be alone! OK?

OK… Who are they?

Simon and Barry, but don’t call them that. Sime and Bazza.

And how do you… associate with them?

Pub, normally.

Which pub?

Horse and hound. It’s

I know it. And are they trustworthy?

Well, I’ve never had any trouble with ’em.

Could I confide in either of them about… Well… This?

Bazza… I think Sime’s a little bit too… blabbermouthy.

Phone?

They’re in there. In the on-phone address book thingy.

And does this Bazza have a computer? Internet at home?

Think so.

Lives near here?

Just down the street, but don’t bother trying to contact him, now. He works nights.

Typical. Suppose it’ll have to be the library in the morning, then. Please tell me they’re open. Same place as it’s always been?

Same place it was when I was you, yes. What about your friends?

I’d need to give you a rundown of the entire camp personnel. You’ll just have to wing it. But, as you begin basic training, that should bypass that issue. Obviously, you mix more with the other sergeants than the lower ranks but you’re mates with a few of them, too.

Hang on… Something you said earlier…

What?

Didn’t you say you’ve got a laptop?

Yes.

Where? I didn’t see it.

Not given the place a thorough going over yet, I take it? Bottom drawer, under the ledger. You’ve got the password to get into it. Don’t embarrass me online.

Wouldn’t dream of it. I doubt I’ll use it much, anyway. Oh, one last thing, online video streaming?

What?

You have YouTube. People constantly upload videos on almost every subject. Like, subscribe, follow them. You might even like some of them. Pretty obvious we’ll have different tastes, but… I suppose if you still like Scifi, there’s a few Americans reacting to Doctor Who, right now.

But… Taking the piss out of the paper mache and bad rubber monsters are they?

There was no revival here?

Revival? It died in the 80s!

And came back in the 2000s. Much better production values. Much bigger budget. Some of them are fucking good. We’ve had six doctors since McCoy, another two on the way. Doctor number fourteen is the same actor as ten, though. Thirteen was a disaster. Terrible writer, she wasn’t that good either, in my opinion.

What? She?

Yes. She. Don’t worry, he’s back to being male again. Before you say it, regenerations are a bit… Well, the master’s also been a woman. Mistress in that one’s case… Or Missy as she preferred.

What the hell have I been missing?

You’ve got a month to find out if you at least let me have that much.

We’ll see. It might take me that long to work out where they’re hidden and that’s assuming they don’t move. God, I hope that’s not the case, cos if it is, then I’m well and truly screwed. Anyway, I’ll sign off, got a lot of sorting to do.

He got up and turned on the light, then returned to the kitchen to open all the boxes.

Sleep does not come willingly. It’s a fight against an opponent who does not weaken, and who does not feel the strain of stamina. It’s an opponent which I no longer step into the ring with. Laura snores softly beside me, her body facing the opposite direction. Some evenings, the poison of midnight conversations with myself, can drive me to near lunacy. It’s a world that I should not be a part of. It’s a world that should be fast forwarded while I’m deep in the trenches of REM sleep. There are monsters that live in this darkness. Not the type of monsters that you see in horror movies but the type that have no solid foundation. The type that softly echoes all of the things that you avoid during the day because there are a million things to do. At night, all you can do is sleep, or think.

I decide at 2am, to swing my legs off the side of the bed and sit upright for a moment. Then I get up and open the door slowly as the hinges creak noisily. But Laura is undisturbed, she’s a traveler, a thousand miles away. I close the door behind me and look in on the kids. They’re sleeping peacefully and I wonder what they’re dreaming about. What I’d give to slide right inside their heads and breathe in the fantasy of childhood wonder. The places they can imagine, where all is well, and the heroes always prevail.

Downstairs I open the fridge and take out a carton of milk and then pour it into a glass with a thin crack spreading down the center like varicose veins. I take a drink, and wonder why I decided to have a glass of milk. I never drink milk.

I take out my phone and begin mindlessly scrolling, hoping that by the time I look up from it, the sun will be rising, I’ll make a cup of coffee and a sense of normalcy will return. As usual, I feel that my phone is reading my mind. Because I’m thinking about parallel universes. The theory that out there in the vastness of space, there’s another me. But he isn’t sitting in the kitchen, drinking milk, and wondering how much longer his marriage is going to last, and why he can’t beat this depression. He’s happy, and sure of himself. I laugh at that idea.

Then on my phone, I see an ad for an app. The Parallel Universe Finder. All you need to do is download it, enter some of your personal information, and it’ll show you what the other versions of yourself are up to.

I go to the app store and download it. I don’t know why, other than I’m an insomniac with hours to kill, and it was a thought that was running through my mind anyway. Is this the best version of me? Or were there other versions that took opposite paths on those many forks in the road?

A screen pops up. It’s a pretty shade of orange and it tells me to enter my address. I do. Then it tells me to take a picture of myself. I sigh, but I oblige. Then it shows the top of my house like on Google Maps and then quickly it pans out. Then I can see the entire world, and then the solar system and it keeps going faster and faster, until a giant light seemingly leaps out of the phone, and I drop it.

“Ow!” I say, rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hands. What on earth was that?

I grab my phone from the floor and the tiles are different. They look like the tiles that Laura and I looked at the hardware store. Something we used to do when we were broke and bored. A way to pretend that we were of a higher class than we were. We liked to wrap our arms around each other and point at the different tiles, or go through the paint and each grab a sheet of colors, and talk about painting the exterior of a house that we didn’t own.

This was the Forest Valley flooring. I knew it. I rubbed my hands across it. It glistened unlike our tiles which were cracked and separated, an ugly brown crack filler lazily filling in the gaps. But that was gone. For a moment, I thought that I did fall asleep, but if so, this was the most vivid dream I’d ever had. I could smell new paint and hardwood, mixed with some kind of exotic fragrance.

I walked into the spare room where I had a tiny music setup in the far left corner, with an old beat up guitar hanging from a wall mount just above the turntable. But above the turntable was a dozen guitars hanging in perfect unison above a thousand vinyl records in hardwood crates like at an Indie record store.

On the far wall above a 60 inch TV was a line of gold and platinum records with my name on the bottom. “I’m a rockstar.” I said. “Fuck me, I’m a rockstar.”

I stared in awe at the man cave of my dreams and then decided to take a look upstairs. The stairs were beautiful, and the railing was something out of an early 20th century mansion. The kind that Shirley Temple would be tap dancing in. The hall upstairs was three times as long, and five or six times as wide with strange Art Deco shapes crawling along the walls like an invasive species of plant. I rubbed my hands along the walls, and I could hear giggling coming from the first room on the right.

Inside were two beautiful blonde women, laughing, drinking tall glasses of bubbly champagne and snorting white powder off of a piece of broken glass. They both looked up at me with white circles on the tip of their noses. “Tysooonnnnnnnnnn” They called out together, and continued laughing.

“Where have you been, baby? You said you were only going to be gone for just a whittle minute.” One of them said, mimicking a baby with pouting lips, while holding her thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart. “But you lied, mister. And you need to get punished.”

Without having any control over my body, I feel myself almost gliding towards this king sized bed shaped like a sphere with silk sheets the color of an Ancient Roman toga. I fall face first into the mattress and the girls corrall my body within an instant. They kiss my cheeks, then my lips, then each other. Then they put the piece of small glass in front of my face, and before I know it the powder is in my nose, then coursing through my system. Then the champagne, and more powder. The world is spinning off its axis, and I think I'm going to be sick.

I lean over the bed to throw up my guts, but nothing comes out. Then I look up into a life size mirror. Something tall and strange like you’d see at the carnival. Faces and bodies distorted, and all I could see was a mane of dirty blonde hair crawling down bumble bee sunglassed eyes, like I was the male version of Jackie O. My arms are like a connect the dots, leading me to believe that I was battling serious substance abuse issues.

“Where’s Laura?” I ask.

“Who?” The girls say in unison. Laughing.

“Laura. My wife.” They laugh again. “What’s fo fucking funny? Where’s my wife? My wife?”

“You were never married, hun. Said it wasn’t for you.”

“What?”

“You had a girl, baby. But she got pregnant. Don’t you remember? You told us the story a hundred times. You were drinking and playing guitar, getting ready for a show. Your girl said she needed to talk to you and said she was pregnant. You told her to take a hike. You had no interest in raising kids, remember?”

“I, uh, don’t remember saying that.”

“Well, hunny, don’t act like you did the wrong thing. Look at this palace. Look at us.” They started to kiss again. “You don’t need anyone holding you back, baby. You created this all on your own.”

“I, uh, I need to get my phone.”

I walk back downstairs, the world around me going in and out of focus as the drugs take over my system.

In the kitchen I find my phone sitting on the floor. I scroll through and look for the app. I can’t find it. After a few minutes, there’s a pop-up that says, “Do you want to return?” I click “Yes” then it says, “Are you sure?” and I click “Yes,” then it says, “Are you really sure, Tyson?” “Yes” “Okay. Just a reminder that in the other world you’re an insomniac bordering on depression. Who works at 9-5 and has a marriage that’s dissolving like skin in battery acid. Here? Sure. You have a little drug problem, but that’s part of the excess. You made it. You won. So, I’ll ask again. Are you sure?

And for a moment, I hesitate. I’m not happy. I’m drowning, but maybe I’m drowning for good reason. Maybe, what I think is drowning is actually just responsibility rearing its head and telling me that I need to be a good father and a good husband. Telling me that I need to slow down with the drinking and nightly self-deprecating ritual that I take part in. That without the responsibility, I could have done something, maybe, but it would have come at a cost.

My thumb hovers above the phone and I click yes.

The light hits me again and I’m back in my middle class home, my fingers on the floor placed right in the crack filler. The glass of milk with the crack, shattered to my right. It was time, I suppose. It was time.

I check for the app but it’s gone and when I search for it, there’s nothing.

I walk to the man cave and it’s the middle class one again with the barely functioning turntable, a small milk crate of records, and my old man’s beat up Fender hanging crooked on a cheap plastic wall mount. But it seems better now. I feel better, like I could sleep for a fortnight.

Is Laura upstairs? I ask myself and I drag myself feeling nervous about this fever dream. Feeling like I might have had a psychotic episode and I’m actually in a straight jacket in a padded cell somewhere banging my head against the cushion and laughing. Laughing like the blondes.

But when I reach the top of the stairs the Art Deco is gone and replaced with an old stained white color that’s peeling and in dire need of an upgrade. Then I peek my head into Laura’s room and there’s a body there, sleeping with her face against the opposite wall. I walk over to her side of the bed, and see her mouth slightly ajar, with a little bubble of drool coming out, and yup, it’s Laura.

The kids' rooms are both occupied with my children and then I decide to lay my head on the pillow.

Sleep is coming, I can feel it. I don’t fight it. I smile, but for a moment before sleep takes me, I hear Laura’s snoring and think.

“I could have been somebody.”

And then I fall asleep.

———————Chapter One ——————

———Wednesday, July 11th, 2305 ———

———A Fine House in the Suburbs ———

"I love you grandma!" The thirteen-year-old girl with shining blonde hair smiles brightly. She pulls a tray of double-fudge brownies out of the oven. The soft yellows and folds of the kitchen around them smell like cinnamon and lime. A fountain takes up one wall, water pouring over thin tubes of neon lights.

"Oh you're absolutely welcome sweetheart. I hope you like them. It's an old recipe. Very old. Of course it's been updated over the years to keep it fresh. But the core of it is as old as our family itself." The woman, with brown and gray hair and winged eyeliner surrounding her eyes, smiles back. Full of affection for the young girl.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to make them quite like you do though grandma. And since this is such a family recipe I feel bad." Her eyes are a bit wide. She's not down on herself, no, but she's definitely pretending to be.

"Aww there's nothing to feel bad about sugarcane. I'll be around for a while longer. A long while. And I'll make you all the brownies your heart desires." The blue glitter lining her eyelids twinkles with her smile.

"Why are you so nice?! These smell so good though." There is excitement in her voice as she opens up her hoverboard, the sleek, flat, dark blue little disk buzzing a bit before suctioning onto her shoes and then lifting a few inches into the air, smoothly gliding into the spacious dining room. Her grandmother follows her, on a lime green hoverboard that has railings for her to hold onto. They settle down on one of the many plush chairs as the table adjusts to their specific heights.

They turn on the television and flick through channels until it is set to a drawing competition. The three-dimensional images of colourful and cheery people working on colourful and cheery images of their own spark to life as the three-dimensional surround-sound of talking fills the air.

"This sounds good, what do you think Anne-Marie?"

"Grandma what the heck. It's boring!"

"Nonsense. So much fine skill goes into their work and they create beautiful things. When I first met your grandfather, it was at an advanced artistic summer camp oh

so many years ago. He was blown away by my drawings. He said they were almost as beautiful a as I was. Pay attention, you'll see that there's a lot more to see than you think at first."

"That's such a sweet story. I've heard it before but it's so sweet. Your drawings are still breathtaking grandma."

"Thank you Anne-Marie. I do really love drawings."

And-Marie pauses to think for a little bit, her face filmed in concentration.

"Ika has the same staight and precise hand that you do, doesn't she?"

"Of course she does. Do you think that's something I was about to neglect?"

"I know, I know. I trust you Grandma. But I just want to be sure." There is a hint of worry in her cheery voice.

"Well you can see for yourself." The woman pushes a sleek button on the side of the table, and a microphone swiftly slides down from a compartment on the roof.

"Ika come to the living room!" She barks out in a voice like half-molten rock. "And get your sketch pad and pencils."

They continue talking for a few minutes, biting into the warm, soft, chewy brownies.

"Yes?" A girl, a few months into being 10 years old, walks on hurried feet into the room. She has slightly curly, strawberry blonde hair. Her light blue eyes strikingly resemble the older woman's, as do her slightly bent up nose, high cheekbones, and her round jawline.

"Show Anna-Marie here how precise your drawing hand is."

Something like sorrow flickers in Ika's eyes for a moment a she looks at the blonde girl.

"Yes of course." She speaks softly, placing a simple pad of white paper in front of her on the floor and picking up the charcoal pencil behind her ear. "What would you like me to draw?"

"Draw Anne-Marie here, she's so beautiful."

"No, draw grandma but younger. Grandma I want to see how you looked when grandad met you. I mean I've seen pictures, but they don't always do the same sort of justice that drawings do. You were beautiful then. Still are."

"Damn right I was beautiful. But if you want to see what I looked like back then look no farther than Ika, I was only a year older than she is now."

"Still grandma please"

"Fine. Ika, draw me. Here I'll give you this picture to reference off of." Her voice has gone cold again. It's so strange how her voice can change from sugar sweet to iron hard so easily.

Within a few minutes Ika is done and so are half of the brownies.

"Ooh it's so pretty!" Anne-Marie looks at the drawing, then at the subject of it.

"You're right, every bit of your talent is reflected within her. I'm glad."

"Yes you have no reason to worry dear. Ika you can leave."

"Um ..." Ika stares with big eyes full of fear and longing. "... can I maybe just have a little piece of a brownie?"

The woman looks like her as if she has said something absolutely ludicrous.

"Ika you know they are not healthy. Sugar and butter and fat. You have to take care of that body. It was a gift. No, a loan, and you can't disrespect those who granted you your time within it by completely disregarding it." Protectiveness is ingrained in her voice but no kindness.

Ika takes a deep, shakey breath.

"Okay. You're right. That was thoughtless of me. Anyways, thank you. It's time for me to take a bath. Have a good afternoon." She pulls her lips into a convincing smile and walks away ghost-like.

—————— Chapter Two ———————

——— Friday November 3rd, 2303 ———

——— A Sanctificum in the City ———

There are ten children, all wearing back cotton shirts and black cotton pants, sitting on a carpet on the floor of a softly-lit room. The walls are white-painted and full of pictures of smiling adults with family and friends. Often younger people in colourful clothing would also be in the frame. Cheesy. Cheerful. There are flowers framing the edges. A lady who looks to be in her mid-thirties is standing at the front of the room, in front of a screen that shows pictures of embryos.

All the children sit straight up, unmoving, faces carefully blanked. But you can see the concentration in their eyes, along with something else. Something ... sadder.

Ika is in this crowd, a sad-eyed and wide-eyed eight-year-old listening intently, as if to religion. Though, perhaps that isn't far off.

"Existence is a gift," the lady at the front of the room says in her intelligent and chilled voice. Her pressed white lab coat almost glows in the soft light. "What do we think about that, young ones?"

A young boy with dark curly hair and honey-brown skin raises his hand tentatively.

"Yes, Keem?"

"We must be grateful for the gift," he says in a small voice, one that has a slight tremble to it.

"That's absolutely right," the woman announces in her voice which presses like metal.

"You must remember to always be grateful and thankful for your lives. They are a gift. Those that created you did not need to give you this gift. They did not need to give you the existence you want to covet and hold. But they did anyways. And that is an act of generosity. And act of good grace."

Ika figets just a bit. She clenches her hands into fists, and then immediately unclenches them and folds them together on her lap.

"Every single moment that you are alive is a gift. It is not a moment you would have had otherwise. And gifts are to be accepted with what kind of attitude?"

A little girl with dark auburn hair and slightly tanned skin raises her hand.

"Yes?"

"Reverence. Sweetness. Thankfulness. Loyalty." Her words are mechanical and forced.

"Absolutely. Loyalty, young ones, remember that. Loyalty. Loyalty means that you must do what you're told. It means that you must seek to make happy the people who gave you the ultimate gift."

Ika hugs her knees. She presses herself into as small of a space as possible, straining her thin arms.

"Ika don't hurt your body, it is a work of genius."

"Yes Doctor."

"Anyways. Everybody, pay attention. When you are given a gift, it is customary to give something back in return. When you are given a gift as thoughtful as life, as existence, it is necessary to give a gift in return that is also thoughtful, and will bring happiness to the person who bestowed to you your gift." She waves her hand and the screen of the projector switches to an image of a couple in their late forties or early fifties leaning against each other in the middle of a flower garden. They are smiling serenely.

"Originally-occurring people have so many bonds of love trying them together. Love is important and should be celebrated. And for them, it hurts to lose a loved one to old age. They find joy in being able to be with their friends and their family. That type of joy is not something synthetics like you can understand. And it's not something synthetics like you need."

Around the room, young people glance at each other tentatively. Quickly. Moving their eyes more so than their heads. Making bursts of eye contact that linger before quickly snapping away.

"You were not born to mothers and fathers. You do not have the family dynamics that original people have. You have never grown up with this. So you do not need it. You do not need it because you were not accustomed to it. People need what they have grown accustomed to. Value the relationships they have grown closer to. For you life is the act of living itself. Life is the act of living and being grateful for what you have been granted. Understood?"

There is a messy disunited choir of "yes"'s all said in different mostly blank tones.

"You do not understand the bonds that original people have with each other. And that's just as well, because you can live your lives free of such burdens. But for those of us who are forced to live a life where we cling on to other people, it is really tragic for us to be robbed of life and the ability to be with our loved ones. You do feel enough basic empathy to understand that, don't you, children?"

A handful of yes's rose from the crowd below.

She flicks her hand again and this time a picture of a young boy holding hands with an adult couple shows up on the screen. They are walking through some sort of park, a fountain in the background.

"Imi, tell us about basic empathy."

A little girl with chocolate-brown hair starts in a voice that has tremendous amounts of trembling behind layers of blankness.

"Basic empathy means we feel for originals and we understand that their lives are valuable."

"And why?"

"Because they need their lives. They have attachments to other people that we could never understand."

"And what of your life?"

"I would never have it if it wasn't for them and that's what I must remember on the topic. That's what is most important."

"And can you be happy in your life?"

"Of course, as long as I remember to be thankful to those who gave it to me."

She flicks her hand again and on the screen there is a picture taken in bright, soft lighting of a middle-aged man towering over a young child.

"And how do we be thankful? Everybody answer. How do we be thankful for the gracious people who gave you your lives?"

"By giving them something precious back." They say this together like a well-oiled machine. The young children are very rehearsed. And they are scared. But you would never realize.

"And what is it that we give back?"

"We give them time." A weary, grieving, diligently emotionless chorus breaks in together.

"Yes! You synthetics are so well taught! My last class was so selfish and jealous and irrational! You realize that you must have empathy for them and be grateful that they gave you life. You must give life back so they may have more time with their families. I'm very proud. You guys are very grateful and loyal and gracious." She flicks at the screen again and a picture of a heart appears, red against a yellow background.

"Your creators love you. They paid a lot of money to create you. So you must not struggle or fight when it's time for you to go. They will become old and frail if they do not have a new body to transfer their minds to. They will become old and frail and eventually they will die. You do not want that, surely. They gave you your life but your body is a loan. A loan that you have to give back when it's your turn to give them time. Understand?"

"Yes." The children reply, out of sync with each other. There is something broken underlying their voices.

"I know you can be more enthusiastic than that!"

"Yes!!" they manage to half-shout.

"Wonderful. Let me go through the process of giving your body back. We will sedate you before we replace your brain with the brain of your creator. It will feel even more peaceful than falling asleep. You won't feel an ounce of pain. See, how merciful we are? Sedatives cost precious money, and we could do the procedure without any painkillers at all if we chose. But our hearts are good and therefore you owe us your gratitude."

The children have all subconsciously huddled closer to each other by now, not close enough for the lady to notice, but close enough that they can occasionally brush fingers or knees with each other. They still look up at her with wide eyes and attention.

"Let me highlight the process, and what is expected of you during it..."

——————Chapter Three——————

—— Wednesday January 22 2307 ——

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

Ika has been exercising for hours now, her body is drenched with sweat and her hair hangs limply down the back of her neck from the tight pony tail it is in. She had been running on the cardio machine, doing sit-ups and push-ups and squats and crunches. And lifting weights and skipping for a while, and finally yoga to stretch out and cool down.

And now she is taking a hot shower, crying in the solitude of the tiny bathroom that's just for her. She scrubs soap onto her heated and sweaty skin, eyes blurred with tears, and applies stinging cleanser onto all parts of her. She scrubs shampoo in her hair and then some thick orangish something onto her face, and then turns off of the water for a while.

She looks at the fog coating the gray walls in a lighter shade of grey.

I want to live. She cries silently, one hand clamped on her mouth so in case anyone is listening, though she knows they wouldn't be. I wish I was never born. She closes her eyes. She holds the handle for controlling the water flow. She grips it until her knuckles turn white. Opening her eyes again, she quickly scrawls I wish my body were mine in messy writing into the wall. All the words are just barely there. Grey against grey and almost faded out. But she can see them. Suddenly her eyes go wide in horror. She quickly runs her hands over the wall, wiping the writing into nothing.

Turning the shower back on, she scrubs her skin one more time before dutifully rubbing argon oil onto her skin and hair and stepping out to the rest of the tiny room. She puts some tissue over her eyes so that the salt water doesn't wreck the hydrating oil.

Stepping into her black clothes, she steps into the tiny room that she calls her own. She sits down on the roll of blankets on the floor she sleeps in, which are black and unsettlingly smooth. She gets out her art journal and practices her fine motor skills, well, they're not /her/ fine motor skills. But she has to practice them anyways. If her master is an artist, she has to make sure she has the best hand.

Her muscles are still sore from the exercise she had spent hours doing. It would be a very pleasant sort of soreness, if she was in a better state mentally. But she's not. The way her body hums and throbs just reminds other of the threat hanging over her near future. She wishes she could forget. She wishes she could forget. But she can't. She wants to forget. She wants to drown in anything else. But she can't.

She hates her body. She hates it so much. She hates her skin, her flesh, her bones. She hates her blood, her bone marrow, her organs, she hates everything. She hates all of it so much. Her face is not her own. Her body is not her own. When she looks at herself in the mirror she doesn't see herself. She doesn't see herself at all. She sees the person who owns her. The person who thinks she isn't real. The person who brought her into a world of terror and heartbreak and aching, overwhelming, unending loneliness that will all be cut short anyways. She dutifully colours in the lines. She tries to draw straight. But inside of her it's like she's being burned alive while being drowned in poison. It's like she's lost, lost, lost in a torrential thunderstorm and she can't see and she can't breathe and there's no way out. There's not ever a way out.

She's not a real person. She's not a real person. She just has to live with the fact that she's not a real person. She just has to live with the fact that she's not capable of love. Or existence. Or happiness. She just has to let the inky-black darkness swallow her whole and drown her as the city screams and rages hard and without mercy.

She cries into her pillow, loneliness weighing heavy on her, and falls asleep like that, twelve years old and too young to be so alone.

——————Chapter Four——————

—— Wednesday January 22 2309 ——

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

The two children are talking quietly in Ika's tiny room. Miren is Ika's master's husband's slave. Her master and her master's husband aren't living together.

Apparently you can't live together for two hundred years without any breaks at all. But they visit very frequently. He doesn't always bring Miren though. Miren is only here today because their masters thought it would be good to see how they looked together. The masters did this every few weeks, due to a strange sort of nostalgia. Neither of the slaves thought it made much sense but the masters often didn't make sense. The children are happy to see each other though. In the soft gray glow of the white-walled room in the morning, the rest of the world seems just a little bit muted. They have each other and that is something.

They lie on Ika's narrow bedroll, facing each other and bodies inches apart. Ika has her hand on Miren's cheek and Miren stokes his hand through Ika's hair. Miren is seventeen. And he cannnot pretend anymore that death is far off in the distance. But he uses every chance he gets to make the most of life. They all do.

"Ika. Darling. I love you."

"Miren I love you too. They say we can't love but I love you so much."

"They say we can't love. But fuck that. They're wrong Ika. They're wrong about so many things. Sister, you deserve love. You deserve life. You deserve freedom. You deserve joy. You deserve equality. I'm not going to let them get away with all of this."

"How Miren? I love you. I love that you're angry. I love that you're fighting. I'm angry too believe me. But we have to be smart. About our anger. We can't let it explode unchecked without carefully controlling it. We need to make sure that our rage works in our favour."

"That's the same as doing nothing, Ika. I can't let them take me. Not without a fight."

"I know. I know. They can't take you. Not really. But you have to rebel, don't you?"

"It's worth more than life. To get a chance to spit in their faces. To get a chance to look them in the eyes."

"Fight then. Do it. But don't go without a plan. Miren I can't lose you to nothing. Don't go without a plan."

"Ika. I wish we had more time. I wish we had freedom. I wish we had anything." The boy is drenched with death. He is supersaturated with it. He is drowning in it, being held down. And he is full of rage. And the rage has nowhere to go. No outlet.

"I'll help you.”

"With what?"

"A plan."

Melancholy. But in the melancholy there is hope. Hope that comes from rage. Fire kindled from embers.

"Anne-Marie," Ika states point blank.

"What?"

"Their precious, sweet, darling child. She means a lot to them. If we can grab her. If we can use her as a bargaining chip. We could convince them to let us go."

"They'd just have two more kids to replace us."

"But we'd be alive."

"But do you really want to bring two other people into this mess to live the lives we've lived so far?"

"You're right. That wouldn't be fair at all. But what about ... fuck it. We're just trying to make a statement, right? Be heard for once? Be thought of as people for once?"

"I am at least."

"What if we kill Anne-Marie?"

"What if we - what? She's actually genuinely young though."

"She is for now. But she's an original. She'll get older. And when she does she'll create synths of her own and kill them off to keep herself young. If we kill her, she can't do that. We'll be saving dozens of synths."

"How do you know they just won't replace her?"

"Because originals aren't just interchangeable to them. Originals view each other as real individual people that aren't replaceable. They'll know that no-one could actually replace Anne-Marie. So they won't try."

"Damn you're right. We'd be doing some good then, wouldn't we?"

"Yeah. And honestly I've always hated Anne-Marie. She's a spoiled, smug, elitist snarnish who honestly deserves it."

"Oh I've hated her too. Do you know she spat at me once?"

"Fuck her."

"But how are we gonna pull it off?"

"Killing Anne-Marie?"

"Yeah we can't just kill her. We'll get killed too."

"Not unless you wait for your ... your eighteenth birthday." Ika's voice suddenly drops. Horrified and devoid of any mirth.

"Yeah." Miren sounds haunted.

"Sneak a knife down your clothes?"

"Or a broken piece of glass. But a sharp piece."

"Where would we get either of those things? There's cameras everywhere."

"I could probably sneak into a place without cameras."

"How?"

"The sanctificum. There's a back room where there's no cameras. I overheard."

"How would you get there?"

"One of the synth educators, I believe her name is Rosette, used to have a very big crush on my master when they were both young."

"You would ... you would trade your body for this?"

"My body's already not mine anyways. It's already been violated in ways that are unimaginable anyways. It will be violated even worse anyways. It'll hurt but it'll be worth it."

"So you're going to trade your body for some time alone in the back room of the sanctificum?"

"Yeah. It'll be absolute hell but it'll be worth it. Especially since we're saving other people. I think I'm strong enough to. But yeah, it'll definitely be hell. But we're saving people. I have the strength. And I'll be dying soon anyways it's not like I have to live with my decision." He chuckles remorsefully. "Saving them by making sure they're never born."

"Exactly. So are you gonna smash a bottle and then pocket a shard?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Miren smiles. And there is so much darkness and aching, overwhelming, crushing sadness in his eyes. And everything about the way his lips quirk up is broken. But behind it all is a flicker of flame. Ika doesn't know whether this is hope Or recklessness. All that she knows is that she loves Miren.

——————Chapter Five——————

——— Friday October 18 2309 ———

———A Fine House in the Suburbs———

Ika lies on her bedroll. She had been lying there for the past two days. She can't get up. She can't eat. Can't breathe. She is drowning. Drowning in tears. Drowning in grief. Miren is gone. Miren is gone forever. Her best friend. Her brother. He's gone. She will never see him again until she follows him to the next life. Her grief is heavy like a thousand ice-cold boulders settled inside in her chest. Her throat feels like it's full of ice and poison. Everything inside her is wailing and raging and she's just so lost. So overwhelmingly lost.

Miren was so good. He was good. He was kind. He listened to her. He paid attention to her needs and her wants and her thoughts and her feelings as if she was important. Miren was brave. He was selfless. He was a revolutionary. He gave up so much of what little dignity he had in order to save other people from sharing his fate. Miren was thoughtful. He was considerate.

Miren is gone. He's gone from this world forever. Ripped away from life. Ripped away from the few other friends he could make. Ripped away from her. In losing Miren it feels as if she has lost a piece of herself. Where once there was light and comfort and hope, all that there is is an empty void. She can't can't can't this can't be happening. This isn't fair. But it's horrifically real. No matter what she does.

She wishes she could go with him. Wherever he is it's better than this place. So much better. It gives her comfort, knowing that he's in a better place now. Knowing that he's free now. Because he is free now. Wherever he is. He is considered a person now. And she's happy about it. She honestly is.

But that doesn't change the fact that he's gone. Gone from her life. Gone from her arms. Never again gracing her life with his fire and his light and his darkness and his song. Not until she's gone too. It doesn't change the fact that it's not fair. It doesn't change the fact that she's alone.

She's all alone now. The days they were lucky enough to train beside each other, those days were gone now. The stolen moments at night when they could talk and dream while sharing the warmth of the bedroll, gone. The times they showered together, desperate to have every moment together they could, talking and laughing and raging and crying under the water and soap. Gone.

She remembers his sardonic humour and his dry sarcasm. She remembers his crazy ideas and his wild imagination. She remembers his fear of insects, his love for the night, his way with words, his curiosity, his terrible singing voice, his inability understand time zones, everything. And the memories stab her in the chest and soothe her wounds all at the same time.

She wants to scream until her throat is bleeding.

Miren had gone out with a bang at least. Like he promised he would. He didn't go alone. He went in a burning blaze of glory. And he took Anne-Marie with him. She remembers the decadence of the party hall, the expensive suits and gowns of everyone there. She remembers. She remembers the girl's terrified glare before her pink, white, and fuchsia dress was dyed red. She remembers the moment of triumph and terror all woven together in some kind of insanity tapestry. She remembers the way the world seemed to burn blindingly white for a moment. She remembers how his eyes sparkled.

She wishes it was her last memory of him. That she didn't have to see his eyes go wide with terror as he was held down and beaten. But still. It was still somehow a sort of victory. His master would be stepping into a beaten, bruised body instead of a shiny new one.

That's the thing with Miren, she thinks. Underneath everything he was a rebel through and through.

Miren had shined like the sun and now she had no idea what to do without his light.

But still. He's in a better place now. He's free. And for that she is glad. Despite the sadness she is glad. It was a sort of escape.

She doesn't know how she can still be cold under all her blankets. And she doesn't know how her body is still producing tears after all the crying it has done. She doesn't know how much time has passed. It seems to twist and stretch and knead itself into a deliriating swirl. She lies there drowning in her grief as the world spins and fades around her.

Suddenly the door opens with a sharp thud. She startles at the sound. A figure walks in. A teenager. With platinum-blond hair and a straight jawline.

Miren?!!! Could it be? How could it be? But no. It's not right, something's horribly wrong. The way he walks is wrong. His expression is wrong. That's not Miren it's something else.

Her brother is really, truly gone from this world. And that thing wears his face, walks with his legs, lives in his skin.

It's the most horrific thing she has ever witnessed.

She screams. Crazed. Feral. She doesn't notice anything around her. She has to save him, has to save him, has to save her dead brother from this unimaginable violation they're committing against him.

She hears shouting, feels skin under her hands. Skin that should be Miren's. She screams and kicks and claws until she can see red. She takes Miren's throat in her hands - because it's Miren's throat, no-one else's - and she squeezes it as hard as she can. Miren. Miren. I won't let them do this to you. I won't let them hurt you like this. I won't let them. Miren. Brother. I won't let them.

She finally, finally feels the pulse get slower and she smiles a delirious smile. She feels no fear. Only horror. Only terror. Only agony. Only disgust. Only heartbreak. Only adoration. Only hatred. Only rage and pain and unendurable hurt.

——————Chapter Six——————

——— Tuesday August 7 2310 ———

——Wherever Ika Happened to Be——

She hates the feeling of abject hopelessness constantly raining over her, weighing heavy and deafeningly numb and overwhelmingly sharp both at the same time.

There is nothing. There is no-one. There is Miren's body moved like a puppet to his master's wills. There is her own death and her own body's sickening fate hanging heavy over her. There is the cold aching loneliness. There is the constant squeeze of grief. There is the constant scream that this is it. This is all there is.

She still trains. Keeps her body fit and strong and talented and beautiful. She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to at all. But she has to. Otherwise they will kill her.

Not that she even minds that. The prospect of death isn't completely horrible for her. It is. But at the same time it isn't. Because when she dies, all this pain will stop. When she dies her horrible life will be over.

She'll be with Miren again.

She wants to be with Miren again.

But it's not in her control. Not really. Nothing is in her control. If she dies early another will take her place.

So she keeps living no matter how much it hurts.

Soon she'll die anyways. And it will be terrible.

——————Chapter Seven——————

————Tuesday April 1 2311 ————

———A Sanctificum in the City———

Ika is at the sanctificum. It is beautiful and terrible and smells of incense and dread. Around her there are her younger siblings. Bakarta and Kilani and Massok and Gammon and Jinio. She doesn't get to see them often. Only twice a month when she is driven to the sanctificum. They don't get to talk much. Only during the lunch breaks which last one hour and the little stolen moments when the synth educators leave the room. Still, it's better than what she had grown up with, which was constant surveillance and no opportunity to share company.

She loves them. With all her heart she loves them. And it hurts immensely. And it heals her unimaginably much. And love is a weakness and a strength and a knife and a balm and she does not know what she is doing when she takes love by its horns and holds it but she does. She always does. Because no matter how much grief love gives her, it also gives her so much strength, so much belonging, so much confidence, so much becoming.

The educators always assert that the synths are not capable of love. But the synths are the only ones capable of love. Love isn't a soft, many-petalled red rose carefully grown in a garden of greenery and soft soil. It is a resilient, hardy weed that takes root in the most hard, cracked concrete of the most dry, polluted city. And it is the brightest flower ever that blazes with the light of the sun and the mystery of the night. It grows and thrives and burns into blossom from and amidst hardship and misery. It is just as much a part of the hard, unforgiving concrete as it is a respite from it.

The children are just children. Massok is nine. He loves songs. He is affectionate. Cuddly. And he can't stand the cold indifference his masters treat him with. But he has to. Kilani is six. She is sensitive, expressive. She feels everything so strongly and in her there is rage and desire that makes her want to burn the world down. But she can't. Jinio is eleven. They are a little soldier. But they don't want to be. They are perceptive. Quiet but wise. But inside them is so much aching jagged brokenness that needs to be smoothed over by affection and kindness. Bakarta is ten. She is intelligent and inquisitive. Her mind is so powerful. But all she is ever valued for is her body.

She loves hearing stories and she loves sweet things that she can only taste if she steals.

Gammon is five. He is fiery. He is talkative, incredibly talkative. He is brimming with ideas and full of energy. And yet his masters force him to be silent. Force him to be invisible.

"Ika. Ika. Ika what happen after all this?" Gammon asked with some solemnity in his voice.

"After what?" Jinio asks, affection in their voice. They are always delighted at the antics of the younger kids. Well every synth is.

"After we go. Away."

"Oh. You mean like. After we turn eighteen?" Bakarta's voice is solemn and serious, and just a little bit horrified. Like the sad still blue of twilight.

"Yeah."

"Why would you want to know that? There are nicer topics" Jinio asks slowly, dead serious.

"Don't we all want to know?" Massok says, full of thought and with a protective undertone. Gammon starts speaking but Ika focuses on Massok. "Think about it. We all know death isn't the end. We wonder."

"I know what happens," Kilani states point blank. Everyone stares at her. "There was a sacred cycle of life once. It was broken."

Everyone is quiet for a spell. And then they all start speaking at once.

"Guys you're all right." Ika says. "You all have good ideas. Let's figure out what there is together."

"There has to be something more. Their has to be." Bakarta's eyes are wide and insistent.

And they talk. Every two weeks they gather together and they talk. And it's not just them. All the synths. They all gather together to examin the knowledge they hold in their souls, to pull that knowledge from the waters of the deepest parts within their heart to the air of language and communication.

——————Chapter Eight——————

———————All of Time ———————

———————All of Space———————

Once upon a time there was the vast arching dark sky. The sky was made of the Lifemaker. The sky was made by the Lifemaker. And They were made of love. Of hope. Of kindness. Of friendship. Of protection. Of unity. Of community. Of equality. Of freedom. Of camaraderie. Of nurturing. Of nourishment. Of love.

The Lifemaker then created the world. They created the light of the day and the darkness of the night. They created the warmth of the summer and the cold of the winter. They created the lands and the skies and the lightning and the thunder. They created everything using Themself, using pieces of Themself, so that everything in the Lands were a part of Them, was Their will acting in harmony. They also created all Life. Life was a part of Them as well. It was a bright-dark-bright, cold-hot-cold, moving, shifting, dancing part. They took a tiny piece of each and every part of Themself. And they made the first human. They made many many more humans like this. Making their souls and their spirits and their minds and their hearts and their lives.

Because humans are souls and spirits and minds and hearts and lives. They are not bodies. Bodies are only what is meant to hold the human. Like the house they're meant to live in almost. Not what the human is themself.

The Lifemaker also made bodies for the humans out of Their protectiveness and Their embrace. But they made the humans out of Their essence and Their soul.

Now everything was good for many years. Each and every part of the Lifemaker, all the people, all the life forms, all the world, it was all good. People took care of each other. Took care of the world. The world took care of the people. The Lifemaker took care of it all.

Life happened in a sacred cycle. The world happened in a sacred cycle. Everything happened in a sacred cycle. There were the seasons. Spring gave way to summer gave way fall gave way to winter. And then it was the start of a spring for a brand new year. There was day and night. Morning gave way to day gave way to evening gave way to night. And then it would be the start of a brand new day. Life was in a sacred cycle too. Birth.

Childhood. Young adulthood. Adulthood. Old age. Death. Death was a part of life. It was something that was meant to be embraced as a part of the sacred cycle. It wasn't the end of life. Merely the beginning of a new one.

And it was the pattern. Everything fell into a pattern. A pattern of harmony. A pattern of love. A pattern of oneness. A pattern of Life.

But then some humans got greedy. They didn't want what the Lifemaker gave them. They didn't want to live in harmony with the rest of the people and world. They wanted more. They wanted to gather up more and more and more than they could possibly need. More food, more clothes, more things, more power, more time. They didn't take what the Lifemaker gave them. They made their own corrupted things so that they could have more and more and more. And inevitably, when someone takes too much there isn't enough for the rest. They distanced themselves from the Lifemaker's land. From the rest of the people. They set about destroying the land and using the people.

The Worldtaker arose out of the great abyss beyond the universe. It sensed a new source of power. It smiled with its mouth full of razor-sharp teeth and let out a great roar.

It made a deal with the destructive humans. It would give them power if they swore loyalty to it. And they did.

First they went after the land. They ripped it and tore it until it bled and bled and bled out. Most of it was destroyed. Second they went after the people. They captured them and forced them into chains and made them build large cities on top of the dying land. Finally they went after the Lifemaker Themself. The Worldtaker swallowed the Lifemaker whole so that They could no longer protect the people. The Worldtaker ascended to rule the new world. A world of misery. A world of suffering. The Lifemaker was trapped inside the Worldtaker. And They were tortured. And they grieved for all the lives that had been destroyed or ended. Each and every person, as well as the land, was a part of the Lifemaker. And They felt their pain as if it was Their own. Because it was.

One by one all the original people still loyal to the Lifemaker got killed. Ever since the world had been destroyed all the sacred cycles were also destroyed. And the Lifemaker could not give them new lives to live. But the Lifemaker could call them back to Them. See the Lifemaker still existed, even though They got overthrown and swallowed, They still existed. And everything coming from the Lifemaker belonged to the Lifemaker. When the world and the sacred cycles were alive, it was all part of the Lifemaker. But now the Lifemaker was in the belly of the Worldtaker. And They could still call Their children back to Them.

And They could protect the children. They could protect the souls of the people who had died. They could store the souls of the departed people deep inside them, deep deep inside where the Worldtaker's influence didn't leave a singe trace. They could shield the souls with Their own body. And give them an existence filled with only Their protection and joy and love. So They did.

But soon after the original oppressed ones were dead, the Workdtaker's cronies needed new people to oppress. They needed new people to have hold over. They needed more. One day a wicked team of scientists found a way to break the last spiderweb remnants of the last sacred cycle that had any kind of a hold. The cycle of life had indeed been broken. But it was not completely destroyed. People were still born and lived and died. But not anymore. The corrupted humans found a way to gain immortality.

And so the bodies of the synths were created. Made from the blueprints of the bodies of the corrupted humans. The Worldtaker was called in to bring these bodies to life. For the Worldtaker had been bringing bodies to life for a while now. But the Worldtaker could not put life in these bodies, for these bodies were innocent and were not made to rule or cause suffering. The Worldtaker blew and blew into the bodies and yet nothing happened.

Finally the Worldtaker realized that only the Lifemaker's essence could make a pure, true human soul. It reached inside itself and started clawing and tearing at Them. The Lifemaker knew that if the Worldtaker forced out pieces of Themself and shoved them into the bodies, it would lace the pieces with its malice and the people created would not be able to feel any sense of joy or hope ever. So the Lifemaker realized They would have to trick the Worldtaker.

They created new, bright-dark-bright, hot-cold-hot, beautiful, dancing, living, loving, pure and complete human souls. They wrapped and covered them with as much of Their protection as They could. And They placed them into the bodies before the Worldtaker could do anything. The Worldtaker thought it had succeeded in its task. Satisfied, it left. The Lifemaker was full of grief, sorrow, triumph, and love. They wished They could make bodies for the new humans Themself, bodies that would protect them and support them and be theirs. They wished They didn't have to bring the new humans to life in such a terrible world, for them to be owned and hurt and slaughtered. But they knew that these humans could hope. They could rebel, even if only in the quiet of their minds. They could laugh at jokes and be hugged by friends.

And They knew that with these humans, the world would be saved. These humans would go out and they would hope and dream and struggle and rebel and want and need and find ways to subvert the power structures. With every new generation of new humans and their lives and their spirits the Lifemaker would grow stronger and stronger. And eventually They could grow stronger to rise up out of the Worldtaker, and fight it, and win.

They would eventually win.

And then the universe would be free and good and what it was before everything had grown corrupted and poisoned.

Every single new and old child of the Lifemaker would have a place in the new world. The world where the Lifemaker's power had been restored. And until then, the Lifemaker would greet them all in death, and welcome them to the paradise within Their soul.

——————Chapter Nine——————

————Friday April 4 2313 ————

———A Luxurious Event Hall———

The hall is crowded with people - mostly free people - dressed in colourful, shimmery, overwhelmingly luxurious clothing. They claim they need it. They have expensive jewlery of changing and shifting metals and colour-changing gems. There are chandeliers made of the most expensive materials, spinning and twirling and gliding and dancing above everyone's heads. Statues of strange creatures and fantastical humanoids writhe and dance along the walls. Glitter falls from the ceiling. And fake snow. Streamers pop up from the ground. And it is all subsumed into the ground and then resprinkled. There are expensive hoverboards with gold and platinum and rose gold trim, encrusted with jewels. They are carpeted on the top with plush and soft carpeting, made of darkened spectrum colours with a metallic hue. They are self-warming and self-cooling at the same time, keeping partygoers' feet the perfect temperature. The floor is a holographic ocean with robotic fish jumping and gliding around. All around holograms dance to life. Holographic birds and butterflies and all manner of fantasy creatures fly and glide and dive along with the chandeliers. Robotic butterflies land on peoples' arms and shoulders and faces. Holograms whir with to life all around. Recreating intricate scenes from epic tales as the partygoers mingle around them. The paintings on the walls are made of rich, fine paint. Music sifts and drifts all around, as if it is part of the air itself. Strange-sounding synthetic instruments and almost-human vocaloid words. The ventilating is a carefully-modulated cool breeze.

Trays of food, rich and decorated, float this way and that as people pick from them. This is exhuberance Ika has only seen once before. On the worst day of her life.

Ika is eighteen years old today. The last day. The last day of her life.

The world blurs around her. She'd not really able to see any of it. Her mind is silenced numb and screaming bloody both at the same time. She feels like a lamb being lead to the slaughter. Because she is. She has to face her destiny now. She can't turn away for even the faintest moment any longer. And oh how she crumbles completely underneath it. Ashes, ashes, ashes with barely any embers.

She is wearing a dress made of swirling bright blue and pure white. It looks a bit like the sky but not really. Not really at all. It hugs her slender, fit, well-toned frame. Her face is devoid of make-up but her skin is perfectly flawless, well-moisturizered, softly shining in the light of the chandeliers and the candles that line the wall.

Her eyes are glazed over. Her expression is completely blank, carefully and painstakingly trained into giving nothing away. But if you really look then you can see the cracks in her mask. Behind those cracks her expression is haunted. She has been broken her whole life. But now she is something beyond broken. She is shattered.

She is young. So incredibly young. Her limbs are still just a bit too long for her. Her frame is still shorter than it would be. Her eyes still have a sense of largeness to them. Her cheeks still have traces of roundness. She is a child at the end of the day. She looks like a child. She thinks like a child. A deeply traumatized child but a child nonetheless. She is being paraded around like a new dress in the hours before she is set to be murdered.

She doesn't notice anything about the party around her. People - free people, original people, oppressors - walk up to her and put their warm, nauseating hands all over her. And she stands there and she takes it, a faraway look in her eyes. They touch her like she is fabric. They talk around her like she is a doll. They look at her like she is a piece of furniture. They look through and over her like she isn't even real.

Every once in a while she is grabbed by the wrist and led somewhere. She walks silently, passively. Like a ghost.

No words. No expressions. Just obedience. Submissiveness.

She thinks of all the children she will be leaving behind. She thinks of how they will grieve for her. How she will grieve for them. And for some reason this hurts her so so so much more than the prospect of death in and of itself does.

People talk and chatter around her and she remains perfectly silent. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nobody ever cared what she had to say. She grew up in a house where she was regarded as property and she is in a hall where she's regarded as property and soon she'll be strapped down to an operating table because she's property. Except, she's not property.

It's not as if she remembers this herself. Not when people are talking and laughing and clinking glasses and nibbling on pastries while she'll be dead at the age of barely eighteen by the time the night is over. It's not as if she can hold onto her sense of self after all that.

She's not Miren. Wait. Miren. Miren. Miren. Miren. Miren. She thinks it over and over to herself like a mantra. And it breaks the spell.

She starts screaming. Loud. Completely wild and raving mad. Otherworldly. She tears at her hair and claws at her dress. Soon grabbing, pulling hands are all over her. She tries to fight them but there are just too many. She is not strong enough.

They tie her down with strange fabric that seems soft but she can't, she can't get out of it. She sits on the floor with tears streaming down her face and she thinks. She's as old as Miren was when she saw him last. Miren went out with a bang. She resolves to do so as well. But her bang will be a lot more secretive. It will have to be.

She uses her silence and the way people look over her whenever they aren't looking at her. She uses it to inch closer to trays of food and plates of untouched snacks carelessly left around. She has a moment now. A moment where she isn't as restricted. She can fill her body with as much unhealthy, delicious sugar as she can get her hands on. So she does.

It doesn't do anything to curb the unspeakable agony. But there is something about rebellion. Something light. Something Lifemaking.

She still wears the haunted look in her eyes. Her lips still have the slightest tremor to them. Her expression is still one of horror painted over by blankness. Her cheeks are still a bit too round. Her arms are still a bit too long. Her legs are still a bit too lanky. People still poke and prod her like cattle. But underneath all the embers flickers just a little bit to life.

She is destined to add to the fire of Life. Despite what the oppressors think. She is a flame of the Lifemaker's Life that lives and burns on under the harshest of storms. The fire will burn and grow and it will add to the burning blaze that makes up the Lifemaker and eventually they will burn away all the poison. Turn it into life-giving ash.

Eventually the festivities draw to a close. The real star of the party, Ika's master, is taken in an expensive and brightly decorated limousine to the hospital to begin the procedure. Ika is grabbed on all sides, held down, and forcibly injected with a drug that makes her arms and legs heavier than lead. She's carried by security guards to a black car and delicately placed on a metal bed. She has no control over her body. But her mind is awake. And clear. And horrified. The drugs do nothing to calm down the terror and the dread that swirls inside of her.

She has no grasp of time as she is pulled out and strapped down to a table.

This is it. She tells herself. This is finally it. She prays to the Lifemaker in the silence of her mind. She prays for protection for all the loved ones she leaves behind.

A doctor in shining white clothes walks over to her, looking her up and down like how a chef would look at a cut of meat.

And then there is pain. Clawing, biting pain raging through her, starting from her skull and running all the way down. Her skull is neatly sliced open and then it feels like there is lava running through her head. Like someone is taking a blowtorch to her neurones.

She desperately wishes she could scream.

Then everything becomes black as the world fades, fades, fades. As her soul is pulled away by force, screaming and clawing and struggling and finally dead.

——————Chapter Ten——————

Ika feels safe, for the first time in her existence. She feels calm. She feels sorrow. But she feels freedom. More freedom than she had ever known before. She feels loved and more importantly she feels protected. She opens her eyes to the strange sort of calmness she is entirely unfamiliar with.

All around her the world burns bright, beautiful. She is in a great field of grasses and plants of all sizes. Green and gold and golden-brown blaze around her as the sky burns bright blue. Wildflowers the likes of which she's never seen dot the landscape.

The sun burns and it feels so natural, so spontaneous. She has never quite known how a place like this could exist.

On the horizon there appears a shillouette of a young man, no older than her, dressed in leather. She feels such a sense of love and belonging from that person. He slowly walks closer.

"Ika?" He calls out.

"Miren?!" She can't believe it.

They run towards each other and embrace under the bright blue sky. Miren hugs Ika and lifts her up and spins her around.

"Miren. I missed you so much."

"Me too, sister. Come on, let's meet the others. We have a revolution to train for."

The checkout line two aisles away looks much shorter. So I push my grocery cart to that one.

Soon, the shopper at the front of my new line is having trouble with her credit card. And the other lines are shrinking.

So I move again.

But dizziness overwhelms me. The feeling runs out of my feet and head. My shopping cart disappears. I reach to hold onto a magazine rack and close my eyes tightly. I feel that I am sitting somehow. A classical piano piece is playing, but where?

I slowly open my eyes and look down at my hands. They are moving effortlessly and masterfully over the keyboard of a grand piano. And with great flourishes. I am mesmerized--and bewildered, because the only instrument I can play is a guitar, and I am just a beginner.

An arpeggio ensues followed by a low chord--and loud applause. I look up and people are clapping wildly. The audience fills a massive auditorium. I feel myself stand, take a bow, and run off stage.

I am met by at least a dozen people. A young man is telling me to get changed because we have to fly to Boston for a concert. An older woman tells me no, the schedule has changed. I have to go to Milwaukee to sit for a deposition in my divorce case, before I fly to Boston. Another aide says I am now the target of class-action lawsuits in Austin, Texas, and Reno, Nevada, because I skipped concerts there due to my illness that...that nobody wants to say the "c" word in front of me. Somehow I know this.

"You're next."

Who said that? I'm next to what? To die? To lose my spouse? My money? To...

"Sir, you're next!"

I blink. And I am back in the supermarket line. I look down and see my hands placing groceries on the conveyor belt.

The sense of dread is gone. And I silently thank my Lord that I am just a middle-aged bus driver with a loving wife and two children and a penchant for finding sales when I shop.

The universe where I was born on time: January 2001 rather than October 2000. My childhood would not have been spent almost a quarter of the time in hospitals. I would have been in a different class in school, the year beneath what I was in this universe, so the specifics of my childhood would be different: different friends, different enemies, maybe different teachers. The neighborhood dynamics would have been different growing up too, a year younger than the other kids - they would not know me as well. Maybe I’d seem less strange that way. Maybe my mom would have kept her fellow mom-friends from the neighborhood after I started Kindergarten in that universe. Then again, my older brother was more of why my mom had been outcast than I was.

There’s the parallel universe my parents sometimes bring up, where my older brother was born normal, rather than cognitively impaired. They think he would have been a salesperson, an entrepreneur, maybe a computer geek or an actor - he loves movies, so the possibilities of what he could have done with that had he been neurotypical are plentiful. I would have lived with him until I was twelve rather than him leaving home when I was four the way he had in this universe.

Maybe I would have still been a singleton in another universe, or maybe I’d go to the universe where my mom was able to have both twins - we would have to be born on time to have any chance of survival, but having a twin brother would severely change who that baby girl that I once was grew up to be. Maybe I wouldn’t be transgender. Maybe she would stare at me, unable to recognize herself from this alternate universe, unable to reconcile such a singular weirdo with her healthy, birthday-in-January, born-as-a-package-deal self.

There would be parallel universes without alternate versions of my life at all - ones where my mom married the rabbi she dated before my dad, or never left Michigan for her Master’s degree, one where my dad’s parents never left Montreal, one where he never left Missouri or journalism, or never moved to Boston after law school, many universes where my parents never befriended the couple that had set them up or simply never made it to the blind date where they had met, or where they fell out of touch after…

Millions of universes without my life exist - the more difficult part would be finding my life within parallel universes, considering how many events were required before my birth would even be possible. I imagine the technology to enter parallel universes would include some way to search out your life, out of the billions of lives in existence - maybe sorted alphabetically and chronologically?

Perhaps one would be able to filter what year they want to see, so I could start with the alternate universes involving my birth in 2000 and then move backwards to universes involving my brother as child, and so on, exploring further and further into history until I'm not even exploring my life in a parallel universe anymore but just time travelling! Or maybe the technology would require an anchor, oneself or a relative to tie the universes together so the fabric fails to fall apart. That would make more sense.

The machine was brilliant; of that, Josie had no doubt. It began with a brain scan, which was then fed into a quantum computer, which analysed the data in its raw form. The Q.C. takes the numbers and equates them to various super-positional states, which it then sends on to Hopes trained A.I. for it to analyse and formulate new scenarios.

Josie’s job was to check through the A.I.’s work and ensure it hadn’t hallucinated any ideas and confirm that the scenarios were appropriate. Then, give consent for Hope A.I. to send the base idea back to the Q.C. to be mapped out. Q.C. simulated new pathways in the patient’s brain.

The Q.C. and Hope A.I. would bounce the concepts back and forward, each time waiting for Josie’s consent until they were ready to run the simulation on their patient. And here is where Josie really began to take issue with the process.

Hope A.I. had taken to a very effective pattern, which allowed the patient to believe they were seeing alternative versions of themselves. Patients could, to some predictable degree, control which versions of themselves they needed to see, and Hope A.I. would fabricate a version of themselves that it, and the Q.C. had determined would best help resolve issues that lead to mental trauma.

As Josie watched Hope A.I. describe their patients’ fantasies in real time, she dwelled on company lies. The Q.C. had shown Hope that there was no way to actually display memories or dreams in video format, as they weren’t viewed in anything resembling that.

The Hope foundation had little funding and only a cult following in the world of mental health. Nobody wanted to believe that an A.I. or a computer could solve their human problems or ease their very real pain. But, when a Countess, with a castle sized amount of money, and depression used their model, with successful results, she made the foundation a proposition. They rebrand and sell the idea as a real-life way for people to access alternate dimensions.

It was all lies, Josie thought. They had people believing that alternate realities were real. The foundation justified its actions by the number of successful therapies. Josie wanted people to get better, but by placebo? Not if the lie extended beyond the scope of their work. It was true that most real scientists would debunk their model, but the glowing reviews and celebrity endorsement embarrassed the flat-earthers in terms of numbers and media coverage.

Josie wished she could stop the tide, but at the same time, she herself didn’t want to risk destroying the very real therapy that people had already derived from their work. She didn’t want to reverse that progress or hurt those people. So she breathed out a sigh of distress and clicked once more on ‘Accept’.

In a quiet room illuminated by the soft glow of a screen, Ava sat cross-legged, her heart racing with anticipation. The device in front of her—a sleek, silver orb—was said to grant access to the myriad parallel universes that branched from every choice made, every path not taken. It hummed gently, as if aware of the weight of her decision.

With a deep breath, she pressed the button. The orb flickered to life, and the air around her shimmered. Slowly, images began to coalesce before her eyes.

In the first universe, she saw herself as a successful novelist, her books stacked high on shelves, their covers vibrant and inviting. She was surrounded by fans, each one eager to share how her stories had touched their lives. The warmth of their admiration wrapped around her like a favorite blanket, yet there was a shadow lurking in her smile—an unfulfilled yearning for something more than words on a page.

The scene shifted, and she found herself in a bustling cityscape, dressed in a crisp suit, leading a team of innovators at a tech startup. Here, Ava was a trailblazer, her ideas pushing boundaries and changing lives. Laughter filled the air as she celebrated a recent launch with her team, but as the celebration progressed, a gnawing loneliness crept in. No time for friends or family, just deadlines and projections.

Another shift, and Ava was in a sunlit garden, tending to a small patch of vegetables. She was a teacher, nurturing young minds with stories of the world beyond their own. The laughter of children echoed as they learned about the wonders of nature. It was peaceful, fulfilling, yet a part of her longed for the excitement of the cities she had left behind.

The orb pulsed, pulling her deeper into the multiverse. She glimpsed a version of herself traveling the world, documenting cultures and stories through photography. Each snapshot told a tale of adventure, but her heart ached for stability—a home she could return to.

Then came the most startling vision: a version of herself standing at a crossroads, torn between two paths. One led to a life of comfort, predictable and safe. The other shimmered with uncertainty, filled with vibrant chaos and passion. In that moment, she felt the weight of every decision she had made, each one a thread weaving her unique tapestry.

As the images faded, Ava leaned back, breathless. The insights were overwhelming, but clarity emerged from the chaos. Each universe held pieces of her—dreams fulfilled and desires unaddressed. It was a reminder that every choice, every detour shaped who she was.

With newfound resolve, Ava smiled. She realized that she could take elements from each universe—embrace the creativity of the novelist, the boldness of the entrepreneur, the warmth of the teacher, and the curiosity of the traveler. The life she lived was just one of many, but it didn’t have to be the only one.

With the orb dimming, she made a silent promise to herself: she would weave the threads of her parallel selves into the life she still had to live, embracing the vastness of possibility and the beauty of every choice yet to come.

Viewing your life in parallel universes could reveal alternative realities where different choices led to vastly distinct outcomes, such as careers, relationships, personal growth, or unforeseen challenges. You might see yourself thriving in a different city, exploring untapped dreams, or navigating obstacles with resilience. These parallel paths could reflect a range of possibilities, from missed opportunities to completely unfamiliar life experiences, offering insight into who you might have become under different circumstances. Each universe could provide a unique perspective on how every decision has shaped your present reality.

The noise of the place is surprising. It's two in the morning, but a scream echoes off concrete walls and mirror-polished floors. Laughter, whispers, and passionate grunts and breathing spill into the hallway.

Someone who looks like me stretches on a thin mattress, hands resting behind his head as he stares into nothing, waiting for sleep that slips by, uncaught, elusive, dreaded.

Steel bars stand sentinel against a life spent in a shotgun’s flash.

He is the me that almost was.

I alone know how close I came to the cage, and how close another man was to the grave.