The constant worker

Snow fell from the sky like leaves from the trees; heavy wet flakes that seemed too large, and that splatted onto people, melting in seconds.  The pavement had disappeared in minutes, and the roads were starting to slush up as well, slowing the traffic down and forcing the cars and buses to keep their windscreen wipers on.  Shops and businesses were still lit up and open, though a few offices had started letting their staff go home early.

Jamie paused for a moment, his long grey woollen coat pulled around him, and its felt collar stood up.  The snow still crept down his neck now and then, but mostly he was warm and dry.  He looked up into the blank greyness of the sky, watching the flakes – silhouetted black against the clouds – spin and fall to the earth.  He stepped aside to avoid one that seemed intent on his face, and heard a squeal.  He looked round, and then down; a woman had fallen over and was kicking her high heels at his ankles, her face twisted into a bitter snarl.  His hand, inside the pocket of his coat, squeezed around the grip of his gun, and he started to draw it.  Then he thought better of it, and instead opened up the coat to allow him access to his belt.  He pulled the taser from there and aimed it at her.

Her eyes widened as she realised what he was doing, and her mouth, spoiled by purplish lipstick and wine-stained teeth, formed an O-shape, probably the last syllable of a drawn-out No.  She lifted a black-gloved hand and he noticed the fur edging on its wrist.  Then he pulled the trigger and two tiny silver darts sprang from the gun and punched into the skin of her neck, just below and off to one side of her chin.  For a moment she looked stunned, as though she couldn’t believe that he’d actually pulled the trigger, and then the darts delivered their charge; short-lasting but intense.  She spasmed and her head jerked to one side.  She skidded across the snow-covered pavement like a fish flapping around freshly out of water, and she knocked into several other pedestrians.  Two of them caught their balance, and looked round, but a third, and then a fourth, toppled as well and fell on top of her.

Jamie put the taser back and buttoned his coat back up, and then tied the belt tightly around his waist.  She would no doubt tell everyone about what had happened, and she’d have the little darts as evidence, but they’d do her no good.  When the police checked the serial numbers on the darts the case would be stalled and stopped until she stopped protesting.  Or, if she was stupid enough to protest more anyway, she would get a visit from the re-education department.  The gulags had plenty of room for more dissidents.

He walked on down the Boulevard des Champignons.  The buildings around him were facades over steel and glass.  The original stonework, three hundred years old in some places, had been carefully suspended in place and down adorned thoroughly modern and strong cores, so that it might feel like he was walking through a street from three centuries ago, but in fact the cutting edge of technology was employed behind the blank windows and locked doors.  Even the street name had been deliberately kept so as not to give any clue as to what was going on here.

He stopped at number 168 and rapped on the door.  A small panel slid back, slightly lower than eye height, and he stooped to peer in.  Someone stood next to him might have spotted the blue light that caressed his eyes, but they’d have needed good vision and to know that they were supposed to be watching for it.  There was a moment’s pause and then the door clicked, and he pushed it open.

Beyond the door was a small steel hallway with two turnstiles; one for people entering and one for people departing.  The temperature inside was noticeably warm and Jamie immediately undid his belt and unbuttoned his coat.  He walked through the turnstile, his fingerprints and pulse being read by the gate as he pushed through it, and on the far side approached a glass automatic door.  He had to wait there for a few moments longer while the computer analysed his gait towards it, and then it slid open.

“Good morning,” said a metallic voice.  “You are authorised for the third, fourth and seventh floors.”  He didn’t bother looking round; the speakers were concealed, and he was reasonably certain that the ones used for the voice were randomised every time anyway.

“I tased someone,” he said.

There was another pause while the computer located a human operative and put them on the line.

“Agent?” This voice was male and didn’t sound happy.  ‘You tased someone?  Again?”  Ah, so they’d already accessed his file.

“Yes,” he said.  He considered explaining, and then decided that he wouldn’t unless asked.

“Noted.”  There was a sigh to conclude the word.  “Please remember that your weapon-carrying certification can be reviewed at any time, not just at the designated quarter-year sessions.”

“Thank-you,” said Jamie, comfortably aware that they would never take his weapons-clearance away from him.

“Report to the eighth floor,” said the voice.  “I have a message that the Tailor would like to talk to you.”

Jamie halted then, and only resumed walking a second later.  The Tailor wanted to see him?  Now that was something different.

Futureproofing your prison

"This is by nature of a test," said the little man on the television screen.  His face was rosy-cheeked and slightly too plump, he looked like an idealised child from an Enid Blyton novel.  "The key to your manacles has been fed to your sleeping companion.  They are comatose and will remain so unless fed an antidote, which is just outside the door to this room.  The ceiling, which you will have observed, is decorated with art deco spikes, is descending at the rate of fourteen yoctometres every nanosecond and will not stop descending.  You may choose whether to save yourself, by extracting the key from your companion, or to die together in a companionable death that will be rather more agonising for you that your anaesthetised friend."
Max produced a gun from the waistband of his jeans and shot the companion in its head.  It exploded like a rotten melon, scattering seeds everywhere.  The man-child on the television started screaming, its hands thrown up own its face with only its eyes peeking through its fingers.
"Key, huh," grunted Max, forcing his hand down the companion's neck.  The companion's body split rapidly apart, confirming that it had never been human and was, in fact, mostly deoderised pork with lumps of plaster-of-paris here and there, plus two hands and two feet for realism.
"Where did you get that gun?" screamed the man-child on the television?  "You're not supposed to have a gun!  You're supposed to be caught in an ethical quandary!"
Max's questing fingers found a key and pulled it free from the meat-sack with a sucking sound.  He looked at the television screen, a little flat-screen set into a concrete wall above a prison bunk.
"A tickle quarry?" he said, his brow creasing.  His eyebrows were the black, bushy kind that looked ready to walk off his face by themselves if you stopped looking at them for long enough.
"An ethical quandary!" screamed the man-child.  "You're supposed to care for your companion!"
"Never cared for nuffin', right?" said Max.  "Nuffin never cared noffin' for me."
"...what?"
"Anyway, that's not Jamie," said Max.  "Jamie snores when he's asleep, right?  And Jamie's not dumb enuff to eat keys.  That's Dave.  Dave eats keys."
"Dave eats keys?" said the man-child weakly, pulling its hands away from its face.  The ruddiness of its cheeks had gone splotchy and little white spots had appeared.  "Who is Dave?"
"Dave's my other friend," said Max. "But Jamie's my real friend.  He lets me stick it in him when he's sad."
The man-child stared at the screen, its oversized eyes somehow managing to grow a little bigger still.  Pink veins appeared in the whites, close to the corners of its eyes.  Finally it seemed to get hold of itself.
"Hah!  Well, you might have the key but that's only the key to your manacles.  You still don't have... wait, where are your manacles?  Why aren't you wearing any manacles?"
"Big fish, ain't they?" said Max inspecting the key, and wiping pieces of sticky melon from it.  "Can't wear fish, not on a Friday."
"Bu–whu–muh." said the man-child, its mouth moving like a goldfish while its voice tried to syncopate.  "Fish?  Fish?  You're supposed to be locked up, so that I can tell you that unlocking one off the cuffs will set off a charge inside the manacle that will sever your wrist and cause you to bleed to death unless treated."
"Right," said Max.  "What cuff's that then?"
"That's the problem!"  The little man-child was visibly raging.  "You're not wearing the chains!  You're not doing it right!"
"Chains?  I've got some of them down here," said Max, picking up a length of heavy chain with a metal wristcuff at either end.
"Oh... foodstuff!"  The little man made it sound like swearing.  "Fine, well, you still can't get out of the door because you've not got a key to it!  Haha!  You'll just have to sit there until the ceiling impales you, knowing that you killed your only friend to satisfy your own selfish urges!"
"Weren't my friend," said Max stolidly.  "Which end of this chain is the explodey one then?"
"I'm not telling you," said the man-child.  "It would do you no good anywa– wait, what are you doing?"
Max clicked both cuffs around the door handle and stuck the key in the lock of one of the cuffs.  Then he picked up a hand from the mess on the floor and bent its fingers around the key, ignoring the screams of rage from the television screen.  Then, standing to one size, he jiggled the hand until the key turned a little, igniting the explosive charge and blowing the handle and lock off the door.
While the man-child screamed and Max opened the door, two more people were sat in front of another television screen watching the interaction.
"But haven't you let the prisoner out now?" asked the person on the left, making a note on a piece of paper on a clipboard.
"No," said the other, picking at a freckle.  "The prisoner is the man-child."
"Ah," said the first, nodding and making another note.  "Perpetual frustration."
"And a never-ending sense of futility," said the second.  "The escaping prisoner has many more hoops to jump through, but the man-child believes he will be punished for every trap the faux-prisoner evades."
"You'd say you've succeeding in futureproofing your prison then?"
"In the sense that no-one in it has a future, yes."