《A Matter Of Time》


 Chapter 1: Every Man Has Two Deaths

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 Chapter 2: A Magic Trick

    En route to the second location, I get a very annoying ping in my head. It''s like a mental floater bounding around my head. Ambient but impossible to ignore.


    I reluctantly answer it, willing my body to accept the intrusion. I''m not chipped, so cranial to cranial communication like this is opt in. Whoever''s calling better have a good reason.


    There''s a syrupy-smooth voice in my head now. Clare. Just Clare. Her voice has a malice she thinks she''s clever enough to obscure. "Hello there, my favorite Exile. Has the wasteland changed? Did they finally put a spa there?"


    I''m glad she can''t see me grimacing. A spa, a private joke, as if personal hygiene is a foreign concept. I keep my thoughts neutral and expected; she can surface-level skim my thoughts, and I can do the same for her. She doesn''t hide her pity.


    "No, but we did renovate the fuck pit since you were there. Now it''s a members-only fuck pit, very fancy, very exclusive; I don''t think they''d let you in."


    Her thoughts fluctuate to disgust. She always was the squeamish type.


    " Okay, let''s stop with the taunts. Thank you for coming back, that''s all I wanted to say. I requested you personally."


    She didn''t have to tell me that. "The only reason I took this case was that it seemed interesting."


    " And is it?" Her voice has an unashamed excitement, the verbal equivalent of rubbernecking at a car crash.


    We come to a quaint little cobblestone bridge. Underneath it, the city spreads out in all directions, on the walls, at odd angles; every inch of space is occupied by architecture.


    "It doesn''t matter what I think. I''ve committed to this case. The only thing left to do is solve it."


    She chuckles. Her presence seems to fade. I think that''s the end of it; this pointless call is over. But then she says, "Do you remember when we were growing up in this city? How bright the world felt then."


    I start running faster, the adrenaline I''m getting from the memory fueling me. "I barely remember it." That''s a lie; she can definitely tell it''s a lie. Here''s something truthful, she always brings this up, and it''s always the worst.


    "You were like my shadow back then. Wherever I went, you followed." A pause, her recollection is making her nostalgic. It''s making me sick. "But like, a bright shadow. Nothing like you are now. Now you''re just¡­ a shadow''s shadow. You''re so dark it''s like a black hole. But sometimes, you know, we need that. The city needs that. Because we get black holes of our own."


    We''re coming to the house now, a grand golden mansion artfully encroached by vines. There are people here. "I can''t say it was fun reconnecting. I have to go now, got a murder to investigate. Can''t say this was fun."


    " There''s always a place for you here, Hesselti. There always was."


    She leaves my brain, and I can finally breathe again.


    .


    .


    .


    "That Automaton plays such wonderful music!" A woman wearing an Ent mask says to her companion. They''re referring to what appears to be a well-dressed robot at the center of the party, playing a jaunty tune on a player piano for the pleasure of 30 or so people.


    "Yes, it''s so charmingly retro! And it came with the place. Can you believe it?" Says a second. She''s coated in an identity perfume that smells of lilac and leadership. She must own the house.


    The three of us are cloaked up; only the light from the frosted windows betrayed our presence, and you''d have to be looking for us. None of these people are. They''re all high on Simulacrum or too focused on being the center of attention. It''s one of those Forever Parties, which have always been in style. Judging by the still unpacked crates looming on the second floor, they only recently moved in. This doesn''t bode well.


    "Past target, or future?" Kal''s smooth voice crackles in my mask. It''s not cranial communication; it''s just through my exoskeleton, way more my speed. A partygoer bumps into me and looks around, confused momentarily, before they shrug and walk it off.


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    The Automaton moves strangely. I''ve seen a lot of Automatons, different from other synthetic creatures because their movement is programmed and predetermined, perfect for roles such as a piano player. Still, there''s something different about this one: it plays far more fluidly than its robotic joints should allow. It wouldn''t surprise me if these idiots had lost the plot on the appeal of an Automaton and just hired a guy to pretend to be one, but it didn''t seem like a mistake more than a giveaway. It wears a mask not in any style familiar to me, an iron bowl with pockmarked holes. Something grey moves under it. "Past target"


    The man who bumped into me once is coming back for seconds; he brought along a friend, a bored-looking woman wearing a giant, fully functioning eyeball as a hat. "I''m telling you, it was like a force field. I just stood there and then-"


    And then I decloak. He screams and hides behind eyeball mask, who is still just as disinterested. I do a needlessly showy bow as my two friends also decloak. The focus of the party is squarely on us, and yet the Automaton keeps playing. Probably not a guy in a suit, then.


    I put a razor-sharp finger on the bored eyeball woman''s neck. In response, a nervous gulp. "Everyone... get the fuck out of here."


    They know we''re Ultimatums. They know we''d kill them if we needed to. We''ve already been exiled, made lapdogs of Nusquama. What are they going to do if we killed a bunch of civilians who didn''t listen to us, send us to a patch of dirt twice as far away?


    Not that I would ever do such a thing. I wield the threat of death lightly, but I try to avoid it. I have killed only 275 people. If this sounds like a lot, you''ve led a charmed life. It''s a rounding error among my people.


    Kals killed a small country, something in the tens of thousands. As for Sweats'' number, she can''t count that high. And a majority of my kills were when I was young and reckless and on behalf of Nusquama. Those who live in Utopia never like to talk about it, but their gardens always sit atop skulls.


    Now, I''m effectively a pacifist. I haven''t killed someone for a good 167 years, around one and a half spans, and the last time I did it was a favor.


    Of course, none of these people know that. When an Ultimatum appears out of nothingness and threatens to slice your neck, you don''t take it lightly. They leave quickly, panicky but still very ordered; one guy even gets to the front of the crowd and makes it like he''s the line leader, and as terrified as the crowd is, they play along. Single file they leave, looking quite ridiculous.


    "Yeah, yeah." As soon as they leave, Sweats surveys the place up and down, her head moving exceptionally fast. "This will make a great headquarters. Good thinking, Jen!"


    "Something weird to you about¡­ that?" Kal gestures to the Automaton. He takes up attention now that all is quiet but the creaky notes of his piano. Well, not all. The absence of the partygoers makes a ruffling sound, coming from underneath the Automatons mask, quite clear.


    I flash-step over there, my bladed finger at the Automaton''s throat. Just confirmation, it''s not just a very committed human performer. It keeps with that same uncanny competency. I notice for the first time it''s foot is tapping. More than that, tiny, razor-sharp strings are attached to it and are coming out of a small crack in the piano. Putting a finger to my mouth, I slowly carve open the front of the piano; there''s a complicated but analog machine the strings are all attached to. Levers and pulleys that correspond with the movements of the Automaton. But it''s not an Automaton. That is clear now. It''s a corpse.


    I slice away all the strings at once; the body falls limp, its illusion of life put to rest. Like a magician unveiling a trick, I grab its mask with a flourish and rip it off.


    Moths come out, hundreds and hundreds of moths unleashed in a torrent that goes on for far too long, and all flutter around chaotically, going straight for the top of the cathedral-like building and picking fights with the rafters.


    I look into the body and wrinkle my nose.


    It''s been hollowed out. A body without organs. There''s no face, just a massive hole. Coated with the dead and squished bodies of moths and their cocoons alike are the sides. Peering down to the bottom of the hollowed corpse, I can see a pile of dead moths that go up to the hips.


    "Kal, carbon date this please." I take my leave from the ugly sight. Moths are still coming out intermittently, like a leaky faucet. Their flapping is far louder than the piano playing, and I grow nostalgic for a time only a few moments ago.


    His hand turns into a scanner, which reluctantly goes down the body. There''s a beep, and he can''t get his hand out of there fast enough.


    "The¡­ cocoons are all six months or so, to the date." He wipes the hand that has defiled the corpse with a piece of cloth. I don''t know where he got it, but I''m glad, for his sake, he has it. The corpse itself is harder to date, but judging by the, um, marks left from the removal of the organs, they seem to be from around the same time."


    " Seem to be?"


    "Look, I don''t know, there''s a discrepancy of around a few hours, but it''s basically the same. I just- I kind of want to move on from this." I couldn''t agree more. He looks down before responding. "I''m pretty sure they survived by feasting on the dead ones, in case you were interested."


    I wasn''t. The moths flap restlessly above us. We were dealing with someone who had taken full advantage of their invisibility. Another dead body, months dead, and just like the last unidentifiable. This time, by having their chip scooped out.


    "I''m going to make sure to ask who the fuck sold them this house, that could be a lead. Till then, let us see what else they left for us." As I leave, I make sure I keep the door open. A courtesy for the moths.

 Chapter 3: They fight a Drone in this one.

    The Pattern Drones have already found the next body when we get there. They¡¯re still in the process of cataloging all of it when we show up. This house doesn¡¯t look like the rest of Nusquama. It¡¯s got some pretentious, Gigeresque but as an office-building vibe going on. It¡¯s also trashed.


    Every piece of furniture is cut open like a biology diagram; in almost every object in the house, there is a little cubic chunk of flesh, all of which has been diligently removed. Thankfully, it all seems to be from the same guy (a woman), whom the patterns drones are dutifully reconstructing. It¡¯s the most morbid game of Jenga I¡¯ll ever see. They have the legs and lower torso so far, and the rest is organized in a sloppy pile, each piece uniform in size and shape. Ever wonder how many chunks of flesh an average person would make up? Turns out around 200.


    There aren¡¯t any Nusquamians here. The Pattern Drones serve the purpose of keeping eyes on us. As befitting Nusquama¡¯s current pastoral fantasy kick, each of the Pattern Drones has the face of a pleasant, if kind of infantilized, Elf. Think of the most generic fantasy kind variety. It¡¯s odd with its coiled barbwired body; I assume the Systemic knows from experience how short-lived these aesthetic fads are. It keeps its robot minions¡¯ alterations to the facial region; it¡¯s easy to switch once this all becomes pass¨¦.


    ¡°You¡¯ve failed to acknowledge me.¡± An all too familiar voice says. I sighed. I had a feeling we wouldn¡¯t be the only Ults assigned to this case. In the corner of the room, posed for maximum dramatic shadowing, stands The Demolished, an Exile that even among us Exiled is viewed as ¡°a little much.¡±


    The Demolished (I can¡¯t use pronouns to describe The Demolished; the Demolished utilizes a limerence field that makes it impossible to refer to The Demolished as anything but The Demolished) does not play well with others when it comes to existing. The Demolished is spectacle, performer, and director all at once. The world performs the role of an audience that will never fully appreciate true art.


    You can accuse The Demolished of insisting upon itself. But The Demolished will laugh in your face. You fool, you imbecile, the world insists upon The Demolished.


    As you probably surmise, I don¡¯t like the Demolished very much.


    ¡°This place reeks of death; decay has made a home here; it will mature into an entropy so strong as to erase existence in its crib.¡± The Demolished says in a gnarled low baritone, sounding like a drunk man reading experimental poetry. ¡°We¡¯re all just shot, the world is fucked, but we know we signed a lease we can¡¯t go back on. So there¡¯s nothing to do but go Deleuzian big time.¡± The Demolished looks like a compacted car with angry eyebrows, a brutalist sculpture made by a satirist with no love for their work.


    ¡°Uh, yeah, dummy, it stinks because there¡¯s a dead body here.¡± Says Sweats. Good one, Sweats.


    ¡°I have been here before the drones of the Systemic.¡± The Demolished continues, ¡°I have seen the autopsy of a building, it¡¯s walls and furnishings demolished, in order to bring back to life a woman long dead.¡± One of the Demolished¡¯s weird metally limbs motions at the Jenga body of our current corpse. ¡°But it¡¯s in vain. The dead are dead; no facsimile will change that. All I can do is watch and weep.¡±


    ¡°Okay cool man.¡± I say, ¡°Anything to report? ¡°I assume The Demolished must have been sent here as soon as I shared the locations we found on the body. I do a lap around the body, see if there¡¯s anything on the corpse like our last one. Doesn¡¯t look like it, through she¡¯s coated in this strange substance, almost like honey, or antifreeze, but weirdly plasticy? There wouldn¡¯t be a reason to do this to the body, it¡¯s already been preserved. I move my left hand up and down like I¡¯m shaking something, annoyed at how hard pressed I am to find a answer. One of the Drones follows my movement, rotating it¡¯s out of place Elf head while the rets of it¡¯s body continues to dutifully assemble the body.


    ¡°So, anything to report?¡± I say again. The Demolished is distracted, printing something out from a massive slot in The Demolished¡¯s front that I assumed was a mouth. The Demolished holds it up proudly, it states ¡°What if the smoking gun vaped instead?¡±. I have no idea what this means.


    After my lack of reaction, the Demolished finally explain ¡°Only my own experience, a provocative journey of automatons mindlessly playing out a faux revival to the poor cadaver you see before you.¡± The Demolished¡¯s use of the term automatons pings my radar. I assume it¡¯s just a coincidence, just The Demolished being The Demolished, but maybe there¡¯s something there, though I¡¯m not sure what. ¡°But that one,¡± The Demolished is approximating, pointing, the target is the strange Drone, head still staring right at me. ¡°That one was here before I had arrived, and it sings songs to me that none of the others can transmit.¡±


    Attention turns to the strange Drone. It waves at us, and then goes back to its work of making a human tower.


    Kal chuckles. ¡°They probably just got a nearby drone to stand guard while The Demolished was hauling ass over here.¡± The Demolished having an issue with it did make me feel like it was harmless.


    ¡± Yeah, sure.¡± It wasn¡¯t that hard to believe the Systemic had sent over a drone before The Demolished arrived. I cross my arms and stare at the Drone, maybe it¡¯s a little petty, me giving it a taste of its own medicine, but I don¡¯t like to be fucked with. And this isn¡¯t just them keeping an eye on us, this is something else, other things don¡¯t add up.


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    For instance, the suspicious Pattern Drone is far larger than the others and feels ill-suited for this type of work. Every so often, one of its hands bumps into another piece and sends a portion of the corpse tumbling. The other Pattern Drones calmly pick and replace them, covering for it¡¯s mistakes without any annoyance.


    I file away the Drones strangeness. I¡¯ll just get it¡¯s serial number and report it. After a short talk with The Demolished that doesn¡¯t elicit much outside of what we already know (The Demolished is annoying), the body has finally been reconstructed outside of the very top of her head, which is missing. Being far bigger than the others, the suspicious Drone does the honor of turning it to face us. We¡¯re greeted with a grin.


    ¡°She¡¯s smiling, why the hell is she smiling.¡± Kal is right, it¡¯s fucking weird. Most she has a massive, rictus grin. Sweats is playing around with her inhibitor chip. Believe it or not, she¡¯s the most technically literate of the three of us.


    ¡°This one is different from the others; it doesn¡¯t look like the chip was disabled manually; it looks like they were blown out.¡± She thinks for a moment. ¡°You know, if thats the case, other enhancements wouldn¡¯t be able to be activated.¡± That could explain the strange substance on her, a way to avoid the smell attracting attention.


    ¡°Any idea what caused it?¡± I ask. The large Drone leans forward, mimicking my interests.


    She gives me a look like it¡¯s not her problem, ¡°Uh¡­ no? It could be anything, some digital hack that fried her brain, a random malfunction.¡±


    The body¡¯s teeth are gripped so tight it feels like they¡¯ll shatter any second. ¡°Maybe an emotional overload.¡±


    We change the topic at hand to where to go next.


    ¡°The farthest, farthest, far away place!¡± Sweats says, now hanging from the wooden chandelier. No idea when she got there, but she¡¯s there now.


    ¡± Yeah doubtful.¡± I eye the large Drone again. It has moved away from the body and is now standing guard with the other drones, waiting for further instructions. Well, at least that¡¯s usual. Let¡¯s hit the place that¡¯s on Chrono Street.¡± We know it as Chrono Street; according to the mini map I have up in my display, its current name was The Curio Alley of the wounded Chimera. More of this twee fantasy bullshit. I hoped whatever aesthetic fad struck the citizenry next would be; I don¡¯t know, ¡°normcore chic,¡± something that didn¡¯t insist upon itself visually. ¡°It will still be a walk, but it¡¯s the closest place to us now.¡±


    I wave my hand in front of the large Drone, but it doesn¡¯t respond and stays on standby. That dumb looking dead Elf face can¡¯t help but make it seem sinister.


    ¡°Hey, come on Jen, it¡¯s not gonna do anything.¡±


    I take a deep breath and pretend to agree with him. ¡°Of course, you¡¯re right.¡±


    There¡¯s a sensor in the back of my skull; think of it like a rearview mirror, always giving me info about my blind spots. At the moment, it¡¯s letting me know that the large Drone is no longer on standby and has turned its two long hands into blades that are on a direct flight to my neck.


    Kal and Sweats offer a variation of ¡°look out¡± a moment later, but it¡¯s unnecessary. I am already in motion, turning, and parrying the attack with my blades. My carapace is made of a malleable quicksilver that can morph at will; what used to be hands are now two bladed katanas I hold up in an X shape in front of my face.


    The Drone is a Drone; it can¡¯t show any emotion, but I swear its mask goes a bit slackjawed.


    ¡°Should I fire?¡± Kal has his particle gun out¡ªthe telltale sound of sparking and smell of something burning.


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer it if you didn¡¯t!¡± I¡¯m in a death grip with this guy; we¡¯re both trying to overpower the other. It¡¯s able to keep up with me so far, which means it¡¯s fucking strong.


    Keeping the pressure up, I check with my sensors to see where everyone else is. The other drones are still standing guard, Kal is standing with his gun pointed, Sweats is on the ceiling, climbing towards us with claws out, and The Demolished-


    The Demolished isn¡¯t here.


    But I don¡¯t have time to think about what that means or why The Demolished left because the Drone is pressing its height advantage. I feel my arms forcefully come closer and closer to my chest. It¡¯s like tug of war, arm wrestling, or any game of strength. Once you start losing, it¡¯s hard to recover.


    So I don¡¯t try to. ¡°Now!¡± I open my arms and scrape my sword hands against its before rolling out of the way. Sweats lands on it and types in a skeleton key on its dome. This should stop it, but it doesn¡¯t. The Drone¡¯s elf face just swivels around to Sweats. She¡¯s on the floor now, wave knife in hand.


    I do her a favor and cut the Drones neck off. Scratch that, I try to. One of it¡¯s arms catches me by stabbing me. The knife hand goes through, but I repay violence with violence. My quicksilver body fills in the wound until it¡¯s the Drone who is stuck, not me. Helped by a perfectly timed leap from Sweats, I yank my arm away from it, the Drone¡¯s submerged arm comes with it.


    It doesn¡¯t have time to react; Sweats is already on it again, making up for lost time by feverishly thrusting her knife into the now-exposed shoulder socket. That bright red oil I always hated seeing is coming out of the Drone fast. It¡¯s making jabs at Sweats with it¡¯s other hand but it¡¯s running on fumes.


    ¡±  I¡¯ve had a shot lined up for the last five minutes¡± Kal says, no longer concerned, now just annoyed.


    I whistle to Sweats, who reluctantly gets off it like one would a Ferris wheel, leaving a nasty scar in its midsection as a parting gift. Its gaze turns to me, the plastic mouth unhinges like a snake, and an unearthly rattle comes out of it. I don¡¯t care. I point my middle finger at the Drone. Fuck him up big shot.


    Kal does indeed fuck him up. He fucks up the wall, the other drones on standby, the shrubbery outside, and a good fifty square feet of landscape and trees outside. There is nothing left of the big Drone, just a small black smudge that stains the floor where it once stood.


    ¡± Hell yeah¡± Sweats yells. ¡°No one fucks with us¡± She does a victory lap around the house. Outside, a top hatted man driving a giant bullfrog carriage looks at us quizzically. ¡°Nobody!!¡± The man turns his carriage around and hurriedly leaves in the other direction. We really shouldn¡¯t be causing a scene.


    We don¡¯t walk out the front door, we walk out the giant still burning hole. Might as well use it.


    A few moments later we get a call from a Systemic representative. Something about collateral damage. We all share a good laugh over that.