The night sky over Silicon Valley buzzed with drones, a constant, artificial starlight cast down from Damian Sinclair’s floating fleet. Like his mind, they were ever watchful, scanning, analyzing, bending the shadows to reveal every hidden movement. Below, in his quiet glass tower, Damian watched the city pulse to his rhythm—a symphony of algorithms and innovations, all in his image. His reflection in the window seemed ageless, unchanging, a mere echo of his own genetic perfection. Somewhere, in cryogenic storage far beneath his feet, lay millions of embryos, each one a small monument to his genius. For Damian, this was no mere experiment. It was his greatest work—his legacy—crafted cell by cell to outlive them all.

A red button flashed on Damian’s desk. Damian strolled over and leaned into the microphone. “Yes, Tara?”

“Mr. Sinclair,” a cool voice breathed, “They’re ready for you.”

He cracked his neck and marched over to his office’s elevator. A grin slowly crept onto his face on the way down to the Keynote Arena. The doors opened to the sound of thunderous applause coming from behind the thick, silver curtain. Damian grabbed a microphone from a meek assistant, stepped through the curtain, and took in the sight of thousands of his admirers, from industry figures to reporters to the lucky few fans that had coughed up the ten grand it took to secure a seat there.

“My friends, today we are gathered to witness history in the making.” He could see a wave of spectators leaning in on the edge of their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not as a mere innovator or CEO, but as a steward of our collective future. We live in an age of incredible achievement and unparalleled fragility. Our world is more connected, more technologically advanced than ever before—and yet, we’re more vulnerable to global threats: climate catastrophes, pandemics, political instability, rampant infertility. One unfortunate crisis, one moment of oversight, and the diverse tapestry of human achievement could unravel.” He paused, letting the silence stretch as he scanned their faces, leaning in, hungry to know his next words. “And only we—yes, we here—can prevent that.”

Behind him, a giant screen showed a cell failing to undergo meiosis, shriveling in a petri dish. It was replaced by a plump infant smiling down at the audience with icy blue eyes.

“That’s why I created Project Genesis, a comprehensive repository of the human gene pool, a vault designed to secure the full spectrum of humanity’s diversity. In this vault, we will store the DNA of individuals from every background, every corner of the globe. It’s a legacy library, preserving the finest details of who we are for generations to come.

“Imagine a future—a hundred, even a thousand years from now—when unforeseen events have altered the face of the Earth, and there’s a need to restore humanity’s genetic essence. Future generations will look to Project Genesis as the beacon of their heritage, able to rebuild a diverse, vibrant human population with all of our strengths and talents intact.

“This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the survival of humanity’s best qualities. Every artist, every scientist, every teacher, every visionary—we are collecting the DNA of pioneers and everyday heroes alike so that humanity will always have a path forward, no matter what happens.” Images of Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Albert Einstein flashed on the screen. The images faded away to reveal a video feed that panned across the audience.

“Project Genesis isn’t a replacement for human life; it’s a safety net. A precaution. And as your steward, I believe it’s my duty to take this step now. Because if we don’t preserve ourselves, who will?” The crowd roared with excitement.

“You may recall providing a DNA sample with your entry here today. My gift to you all is that each one of you will be part of the first generation of this monumental archive. You will be the mothers and fathers of the future, regardless of the limitations biology may have placed on you.”

A collective gasp escaped from the audience and made way for another round of applause. Damian’s grin grew wider. The crowd didn’t know the first phase was already complete.

Damian walked back behind the curtain and took the elevator back to his office. He pressed a button on his desk and a large monitor lowered down from the ceiling. The news was already buzzing about his announcement. Headlines scrolled across the screen. “Eccentric CEO pledges to save the world.” “Sinclair Enterprises, the nexus between humanity and progress.” “Damian Sinclair champions biodiversity.”

Damian leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Savior of the world” sure had a nice ring to it. It was true, too. At least, it would feel true to the citizens of the world. They would get to feel important and useful, which is as close to a sense of purpose as any mere human could hope for in the modern age.

Damian believed in the power of predictability and perfection. He felt that entropy was an unavoidable eventuality in a chaotic world, but it was his own purpose to harness that random disorder and turn it into a force for good—his own definition of the common good, that is. Human beings were messy, flawed, dangers to themselves and others. Replacing humanity with clones was a necessary evil—and “evil” itself? Such a subjective word.

- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Damian could hardly sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the millions of new beginnings resting safely in cryogenic freezers in the sub-basement. The first trials had been massively successful. All key performance metrics had been easily met, and not a whisper of it had escaped the top-secret lab. He felt the urge to check on his little ones.

Damian had a dozen children scattered across the world, each born via a carefully chosen surrogate. Each surrogate had been handsomely paid to bring progeny into the world, though a couple had turned down the money, as they felt it was a sufficient honor to give Mr. Sinclair the gift of life. He didn’t have relationships with these children. When they came of age, they would receive access to a hefty trust set up in their names. Until then, they were of little use to him. He would bring them out for photo ops to maintain his carefully constructed image of Damian Sinclair, benefactor and father to the modern world.

But these embryos—these were all his. When the time was right to release the rest into the world, he would release his tight grasp on their cryogenic chambers and unleash them throughout the planet—and beyond. Space was the final frontier, and he had already begun populating it with various satellites and probes in anticipation of a global catastrophic event. It was only a matter of time until humans finished wrecking the great planet they had been undeservedly gifted.

Damian pulled back the black silk sheets and stepped into his gilded slippers. He stopped at the wall of windows and took in the sight of his empire. Below, skyscrapers reached up toward his tower up above, obscuring the colonies of humans marching on the drab pavement underneath. Their lives were so… inconsequential. So meaningless until the moment Damian had deigned to give them something to hope for.

He pulled a white lab coat over himself. He hadn’t checked on the babies since the big announcement. Damian padded over to the elevator and clicked the button that led him down to the sub-basement. He felt the air grow colder and his breath crystallize into the air as he descended.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He stepped into the gleaming white corridor and the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the long hall and past the row of heavy metal doors. He stopped with his right foot still hovering over a miniscule speck of dust on the white marble floor. He cursed the cleaning crew under his breath and vowed to relieve someone of their duties the next morning. Damian stepped over the impurity and toward the gold door at the end of the hall, the imperfection still fixed firmly in his mind.

He scanned his lanyard at the door and it slid open to reveal a massive laboratory. Rows of giant freezers stretched through the lab and lined every wall. He turned to a screen next to the door reading -272.5º C and frowned. This would not do. The embryos had to sit at exactly Absolute Zero to be preserved until their deployment. He angrily tapped at the screen to set it to -273.15º C.

Damian strolled through the rows of freezers and held a hand up to the frosty glass. Here laid the next step for humanity. The culmination of his decades of hard work. As he strolled past each cryogenic chamber, his gaze softened to a faint smile. Here lay the next step for humanity, his meticulously designed children, preserved at the very edge of absolute zero. And it was all his. His legacy.

During the day, few people had the privilege of access to this secret unit—only the top scientists and trusted engineers he had hand-picked. During the night, the place was empty. This was his sanctuary, where he could shout his dreams and lofty ambitions out to no one but his army of embryos.

Reaching out, he pressed a palm to the frosty glass, whispering to the embryos, “One day, little ones. One day, you’ll have the world. And when you do… it will be my world.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair leaned back in his leather chair, the faint hum of the supercomputers below vibrating through his feet. The applause from the keynote still echoed faintly in his mind, a distant roar of validation that never quite filled the void. Validation was fleeting; progress was eternal. He opened a holographic interface on his desk, scrolling through the latest updates on Project Genesis. Every metric exceeded expectations, and yet, the numbers brought him no comfort. They never did.

Sinclair’s gaze drifted to the skyline, the city below sparkling like stars on a clear night. Each light represented a piece of his empire: the research labs, the data centers, the production facilities. To the world, they were monuments to innovation. To him, they were merely tools.

His mind wandered to his early years, back when humanity’s chaos still held sway over his life. He thought of the polluted skies of his childhood, the food shortages that wracked his small town, the global leaders paralyzed by inaction. He had watched his neighbors struggle, their lives consumed by forces beyond their control. They had been good people, but goodness had not saved them. Progress would have.

Damian’s ancestors believed in hard work and fairness, values he came to see as quaint and obsolete. By the time he was 20, he’d abandoned their ideals entirely and joined his father’s empire. His father was an unkind man, a man who shared his beliefs about how humanity had to be reined in and controlled for its own good. The future wasn’t for the weak, the fair, or the sentimental. It was for those willing to bend the world to their will.

Damian came from a long line of entrepreneurs, all starting with a stake in various diamond mines throughout the world. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. They were the ones responsible for the advertising campaign that led billions of women to expect their partners to get down on one knee and present them with a sparkling diamond as proof of their never-ending love. It was pure manipulation of the masses, forcing hordes of young men into debt to prop up the Sinclair Mining Company. Today, the mines were still in operation and kept running with the blood of the poor who had no other choice but to risk their lives and limbs to dig shiny rocks out of the ground.

But the Sinclairs today were more often known for their tech empire, which had been in the making since the dawn of the first computer. They were known for bringing the digital era to the public, from the personal computer to the smartphone and then artificial intelligence engines. Now, it was nearly impossible to find a corner of the world that the Sinclairs had not helped mold. They built hospitals operated by artificial intelligence, lobbied hard with governments around the world to get favorable national contracts, and gradually built the modern skyline.

Damian’s hands rested on the smooth arms of the chair as the hologram shifted to a live feed from the Genesis Vault. Rows upon rows of cryogenic chambers stood in perfect formation, bathed in the sterile glow of LED lights. Inside each chamber was an embryo, genetically optimized and meticulously crafted. His legacy, cell by cell.

A sharp pang of satisfaction coursed through him. These embryos weren’t just his children; they were his ideals incarnate. Their genes carried the essence of his intellect, his resilience, his vision. They were humanity’s next step, freed from the bonds of randomness, entropy, and inefficiency.

“Entropy,” he muttered under his breath, the word bitter on his tongue. He tapped a control, zooming in on a specific chamber. “The enemy of order. The enemy of progress.”

If the trials succeeded, this technology would accelerate humanity’s evolution exponentially. They would be freed from the shackles of natural human error and propelled into a brighter future, a future that was shaped by Sinclair’s hand. Widespread trials had been in progress for decades now, but full execution of the Sinclair Protocol was still in the works. There were still some kinks to work out to ensure that the subjects’ behavior was programmed as intended.

Sinclair opened another interface, this one displaying global headlines. Economic instability in Europe. Protests in South America. Rising infertility rates worldwide. Each headline was another reason why humanity needed him. The chaos outside reinforced the necessity of his work. Without him, the world would burn itself out in a matter of decades.

His public narrative was carefully crafted to position him as humanity’s steward. “Damian Sinclair, the savior of the species,” the headlines proclaimed. The public didn’t need to know the details, the uncomfortable truths about the calculated elimination of diversity. They couldn’t understand.

He skimmed a report on fertility clinics run by his subsidiary, LifeBridge Labs. Their recruitment program was running ahead of schedule. Thousands of couples, desperate for children, had unknowingly contributed their participation to Project Genesis. Sinclair smirked. “A simple trade: their hope for my future.”

For all his confidence in the project, Sinclair wasn’t blind to the risks. Human beings, even in their perfected forms, carried the seeds of rebellion. He’d read the reports of minor irregularities among the early clones—flashes of independence, moments of unpredictability. It was a weakness he couldn’t tolerate.

He glanced at the data on DS-A015, a clone stationed in the cognitive testing division. The logs showed subtle deviations from expected behavior. Nothing dramatic, but enough to trigger his concern. He made a note to have the subject’s parameters adjusted. “Perfection requires vigilance,” he reminded himself.

The door to his office slid open, and Tara, his chief strategist, stepped inside. She carried a sleek tablet, her professional demeanor failing to mask the underlying adoration. At this point, Sinclair practically expected to see it on his underlings’ faces. After all, why wouldn’t they revere their fearless leader? They should be thanking him for all he did for the planet.

“The Vault expansion is ahead of schedule,” she reported. “And the AI deployment in South Asia is complete. We’ve seen a 22% reduction in energy consumption since the rollout.”

“Good,” Sinclair replied, his voice measured. “And the behavioral imprint trials?”

Tara hesitated. “We’re seeing… some anomalies. Minor deviations in cognitive patterns. Nothing to suggest instability, but enough to warrant further observation.”

Sinclair leaned forward. “Define ‘anomalies.’”

“Certain subjects are exhibiting faint traces of independent decision-making. It’s likely just noise in the data, but we’re running diagnostics to be sure.”

“Run them again,” he ordered. “There’s no margin for error.”

Tara lowered her eyes and nodded at the floor. After she left, Sinclair activated the wall screen, filling his office with projections of the future. The simulations depicted sprawling cities powered by clean energy, genetically engineered crops thriving in barren soils, and a society free from war and poverty. Many of the human figures in these images shared his cold blue gaze, like staring into a glacier.

He watched the simulations with a mixture of pride and melancholy. The final stage of the world he was building would never be his to inhabit. It wasn’t about him, not really. At least that’s what he told himself. It was about the legacy he would leave behind—a humanity perfected, freed from the chaos of its origins.

Sinclair poured himself a glass of whiskey, staring at the glowing city below. He thought of the sacrifices he’d made, the lies he’d told, the lives he’d manipulated. “History will judge me,” he said aloud, raising the glass. “But history doesn’t build itself. Progress demands a price.”

His android assistant stepped stiffly forward from its position against the wall. “Right you are, sir. And we thank you for your courage.”

As midnight approached, Sinclair received a notification on his wrist terminal. The Vault expansion team required his approval to proceed to Phase Two. He descended into the sub-basement, where the cold air nipped at his face. The sight of the Vault always filled him with quiet awe—a tangible representation of his life’s work.

He stopped in front of one of the Vault’s chambers, placing a hand on the glass. “You’ll finish what I started,” he whispered. “When the world is ready, you’ll show them the way.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair entered the executive elevator at precisely 7:00 a.m., as he did every morning. The elevator, a custom-built capsule of glass and steel, provided an uninterrupted view of the city below. For most, the sight would have been a moment of inspiration or serenity. For Sinclair, it was a daily reminder of his dominion.

He tapped his wrist terminal, bringing up the morning’s agenda in a holographic display. Every second of his day had been meticulously planned by his assistant, Tara, under his explicit instructions. Nothing was left to chance. Efficiency wasn’t just a goal—it was the foundation of his empire.

The boardroom at Sinclair Enterprises was a cathedral of innovation. Its walls were embedded with dynamic displays showcasing real-time data from every department: production metrics, R&D updates, and global market trends. Sinclair strode into the room, his tailored, deep blue suit a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the room.

“Good morning,” he began, his tone curt. The team of department heads nodded in unison, their laptops glowing in front of them. Tara stood at his side, tablet in hand, ready to support his every command.

“Let’s begin with the Vault expansion,” he said, eyes scanning the room.

A man with thinning hair and nervous hands stood to present. “The expansion is progressing as scheduled. However, we encountered a minor delay in—”

“Stop,” Sinclair interrupted, his voice slicing through the air. “Delays are unacceptable. Define ‘minor.’”

The man fumbled with his words. “A… shipment of cryogenic units was delayed due to a logistics error. We’ve already—”

“An error,” Sinclair repeated, his gaze narrowing. “Do you understand what this project represents? What’s at stake? Logistics errors are not ‘minor.’ They’re cracks in the foundation.”

The man paled. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’ll ensure it’s fixed,” Sinclair said coldly. “Today.”

“Today? Y-yes, of course, sir,” the man stuttered.

After the meeting, Sinclair returned to his office, a sprawling glass enclosure at the top of the tower. He stood by the window, watching the city pulse with life. The faint sound of drones patrolling the skies provided a constant reminder of the control he’d imposed on this world—his world. His desk lit up with a notification: a coding anomaly detected in one of the AI systems overseeing the Vault. Sinclair’s jaw tightened. He pressed a button on his desk, summoning the engineer responsible to his office.

Within minutes, a young man in his early twenties arrived, his face flushed with anxiety. He carried a tablet, clutching it like a shield. “Mr. Sinclair,” the engineer stammered, “you wanted to see me?”

Sinclair didn’t look up from the holographic display in front of him. “Your name.”

“Adrian Stevens, sir.”

“Adrian,” Sinclair said, testing the name as if deciding its worth. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I—I believe it’s about the anomaly in the AI system, sir.” Of course, Adrian didn’t know what exactly the AI system was meant to govern. He was fed a story about it controlling general company operations.

Sinclair finally looked at him, his piercing gaze enough to make Adrian shift uncomfortably. “Not ‘anomaly.’ Say the word.”

“Error, sir.”

“Correct.” Sinclair leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Errors are unacceptable. Do you know why?”

Adrian swallowed hard. “Because they disrupt progress.”

“Disrupt?” Sinclair’s voice was a low growl. “They sabotage it. They undermine the vision, the future. This ‘error’—this lapse in your oversight—could jeopardize the integrity of the entire company.”

Adrian’s face turned crimson. “I—I understand, sir. I’ve already started debugging the system and—”

“Stop,” Sinclair snapped. He stood, towering over Adrian. “I don’t want excuses. I want results. You have two hours to fix this. If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, sir.” Adrian nodded rapidly, clutching his tablet as if it were a lifeline.

“Dismissed.”

As Adrian hurried out of the office, Sinclair sat down, his jaw tightening. He despised inefficiency, but what he hated even more was incompetence. He made a mental note to monitor Adrian’s progress closely.

Later that morning, Sinclair descended to the primary laboratory floor. The lab buzzed with activity, a symphony of whirring machines and hushed conversations. Engineers in white coats moved like clockwork, their movements precise and synchronized. As Sinclair entered, the room fell silent. Conversations stopped and heads turned. His presence was a force field of authority, demanding attention without words.

“Dr. Mendez,” Sinclair called.

A middle-aged scientist with graying hair approached, his expression laced with caution. “Mr. Sinclair, welcome.”

“Walk me through the imprint trials,” Sinclair ordered.

Dr. Mendez led him to a workstation where rows of data scrolled across a holographic display. “The latest batch of memory-echo testing shows promising results. The imprints are integrating seamlessly into the subjects’ neural pathways, with a 94% retention rate of targeted experiences.”

“Six percent failure,” Sinclair muttered as he turned up his nose. “Unacceptable.”

“It’s a vast improvement over previous iterations,” Mendez offered, his voice hinting at fear.

“‘Improvement’ is not perfection,” Sinclair said. “Every failure is a liability. Identify the outliers and eliminate the variables.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sinclair continued his tour of the lab, inspecting every detail. He paused at a station where a junior engineer was calibrating a device. The engineer’s hands trembled slightly under Sinclair’s watchful eye.

“Steady hands,” Sinclair said sharply. “Precision is everything.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineer murmured, focusing intently on her task.

Back in his office, Sinclair reviewed the day’s reports. Every department was a cog in the vast machine he had built, and he monitored each one relentlessly. His assistants knew better than to bring him anything less than complete transparency. A notification appeared on his desk interface: Adrian Stevens had resolved the coding error in the Vault’s AI. Sinclair reluctantly allowed himself a brief nod of approval before noting the next task. Adrian would not receive praise—results were expected, not celebrated.

As the day wound down, Sinclair poured himself a glass of scotch. The skyline was painted in shades of gold and crimson, the city below bathed in the glow of the setting sun. He thought of the embryos in the Vault, suspended in a state of perfect preservation. They were his legacy, his solution to the chaos of humanity. And yet, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts. Was perfection truly attainable? Could he ever trust the system he had created to function without him? Sinclair dismissed the thoughts, taking a long sip of his drink. Doubt was a weakness he could not afford.

---------------------

Note—This is a full novel I've written that I'm working on getting a literary agent for. Please message me if you're interested.

"Our people made that choice, the choice to go to Sameness. Before my time, before the previous time, back and back and back. We relinquished color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences."__Lois Lowry, The Giver

The small single-person capsule sliced it's way across the cold, soundless, vacume of space. Inside its cockpit a young man of about 24, Scott Hughes was boiling over with excitement. He was approaching the goal of his starry excursion!

It was designated XP3609 in the boring scientific manner; to everybody else including Hughes it was called Neo Terra. The planet appeared Earth-like so someone was needed to explore it. Scott Hughes jumped at the chance.

Neo Terra, like Earth, was the third planet from its sun. This fascinated the Earthling who wondered if The Almighty made every habbital planet the third from its sun. This train of thought of course assumed the planet was indeed inhabited. He certainly believed it could be.

There were those who believed it might not be. Heck there were still those who believed space was fake and that the Earth was flat. At this moment there were people sitting on the couch at home who were utterly convinced that Scott's entire profession was a sham cooked up in a movie studio by shadowy forces.

The sudden wailing of a sensor brought the space man's attention to a small screen to his left. Three boggies became visible. "Hot Dog!" he exclaimed as he ran a hand through his blond feuxhawk.

He looked out of the metallic cigar's bubble canopy and saw triangular, black objects speeding toward him from near the planet's atmosphere. From the nose of each there was a yellowish flash and then the poor spacecraft was buffeted.

The astronaut realized with a sense of dread that he'd been fired upon! The spaceship became a missile as it dipped downward and plummeted through the planet's atmosphere turning into a scorching hot projectile. Hughes made the sign of the Cross and blacked out.

Hughes regained consciousness to the sound of a dozen beeping, wailing, alarms. He shut them off so he could think. Right now he felt like Fred Flintstone after a long day at the quarry. His hand retrieved a cellphone looking device from a pouch on his spacesuit. He pressed a button and was enveloped in blue beam of light.

He looked down at the read out and was relieved. He'd be sore for a while but had suffered no serious external or internal injuries. The next phase would have been to launch a probe and see if he could breath this world's air but the ship was so mangled the hatch wouldn't open and it took great effort for Scott to open the ship's canopy and when he did tiny fractures formed a network in the glass.

The radio was shot too so no phoning home. With a great sigh the spaceman exited his derelict ship and threw on his heat resistant, orange poncho. Only now did he discover something amiss with his vision that the med-scan didn't register. He could see just fine except there was no color. He felt like he was in a sci-fi movie serial from the 1940's. Everything was in black and white. He'd have to wait until later to figure out what happened to his peepers. He saw a civilization of some sort in the distance. He'd have to make his way there.

He didn't get the chance, for a skiff of some sort zoomed to the crash site and he was grabbed by armored humanoids. He was shocked by this and also that he could understand them. "Farbo-1547 reporting in. We have the shades bearer."

"The what now?" A big beefy hand smacked him to the metallic floor the skiff. He took it as signal to shut up.

Many of his hours later Scott sat alone in a darkened prison cell within the Ministry of Planetary Unity, this world's religious order & governing body. He'd been taken prisoner and was hauled before the beaurcratic clergy. He learned then that his vision was perfectly fine. The words of that hooded council still boomed in his ears.

"Your eyes do not decive you. We rid this world of color long ago, Outworlder. Colors made things look desirable to others and this caused wars and strife.

"If all looks the same then nothing is more desirable than another, thus no one covets what he cannot have. No man is ostracized because he looks different than another man. In this we've eliminated racial division and greed."

So appreance was not the only thing he had in common with the denizens of Neo Terra. They had similar issues throughout their history and were just as eager to make everyone forget them.

"But how did you erase color from this world?"

"We did not erase it! We simply made it unseeable. Our Wisemen constructed a great platform just outside the boundaries of our world's sky it allows our master star to beam upon our world without it creating color.

"Such was the Will of The Cosmic Master."

"Was it his will or the will of a political hierarchy of religious zealots?"

That was the question that had caused him to be dragged down here and beaten until his bones nearly broke. He was a heretic and blasphemer. He was the Shades bearer. This was a universal label given to anyone from "the color worlds."

Scott Hughes got the uneasy feeling that these beings didn't last long. It was plain the Ministry was corrupted or at least sorely misguided. Colors were the devil & anyone who might introduce the concept back into play were demons. Not even the workers at the station above were aloud to see color; they wore lenses that prevented them from doing so.

Scott recalled reading a story one time, HP Lovecraft's The Color Out of Space. it was about a purple fog that corrupted all it touched. That is what he was to these people.

Foot steps on the hard Rock floor ended his contemplation. "Who's there?"

"Chribissa, Daughter of Holy Jailer Gruvod. I come bearing your evening meal, OffWorlder."

She slid it through a slot in the door. He was happy he couldn't see what color it was. "Is it true you are from a world of color?" she asked, her voice inquisitive.

"Yes."

"It must be dreadful."

"No. Color is wonderful. It's so wonderful that we named a fruit after it's color, Orange."

"How can something wicked be so wonderful?"

Yikes. That was a question that cut deep. Scott saw in his mind the first ever woman on Earth sinking her teeth into a piece of fruit that was off limits.

"Color is not wicked, Chribissa. It was created by God to be enjoyed! He even used a prism of colors to seal a pact with an ancient man on my World."

"Who is God? He must be truly evil if he created colors."

"I think your people call him the Cosmic Master."

She grew indignant,"Cease this blasphemy at once. The Cosmic Master willed for colors to be taken away that all might be unified! He wouldn't will it gone if he created it!"

"Haven't you at least wondered what you look like? In color I mean. What complexion is your skin? What hair shade do you possess. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No! That is vanity. I'll not be swayed from my faith by a shades bearer!"

She stormed off and Scott tasted his food and discovered it was agreeable.

That night he thought about the irony of his surname, Hughes which sound like hues. Yes! Surely this was no accident. He knew what he must do. He also knew it would mean him giving up his life. His Savior had dine that for him centuries ago so could he be expected to do less?

Days later he managed to escape on his way to final sentencing and he hijacked one of the military craft. He was piloting the alien tech on pure instinct. He wondered as the craft lifted up if was one of the trio that shot him down.

The ship soared into the sky like a raptor bird in flight. It didn't take long for others to pursue but he out paced them. His face was grim and his teeth were gritted. He pierced the stratosphere and saw the space platform he had come to destroy! It was a marvel. It was basically the galactic equivalent to a black and white camera. He rushed forward and crashed into the platform. It exploded into oblivion carrying him and the Ministry's blind devotees into the Afterlife.

Down below color returned to Neo Terra for the first time in centuries. It nearly blinded the inhabitants but their eyes soon adjusted. For 23 Earth minutes the entire planet was silent.

It is the nature of things that when you give someone something they've been deprived of for so long they usually lash out at those who deprived them of it in the first place. Such was the fate Benito Mussolini and such was the fate of the Ministry of Planetary Unity. Their followers turned on them like starving junk yard dogs and red was reintroduced to that planet via blood. Away from the chaos of the burning temple a certain jailer's daughter saw herself reflected in blue pool of water surrounded by green gras s. Her skin was milky and her hair the color of the night sky and she cried out, "I'M BEAUTIFUL! I AM BEAUTIFUL!"

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.

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.

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.

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.