My wife and I had a conversation about how impossible it was for me to write mystery stories. I've been thinking for some time how important it is to delay sharing information with the audience, a key element of mystery writing. One of the cooler, and more dangerous, techniques I've seen is juggling the timeline. The audience doesn't have a clear picture, because they've missed some scenes entirely. Awesome if done right, appalling if done wrong.
I put these together, threw in some sci-fi and ecoterrorism, and came up with this story. Enjoy!
~~~
Found and Fallen Low
Sunday.
23 April, 2165. 8:03 am.
The bulb
flickered and Chase felt a mild jolt as the circuit shorted. He took his hand out of the water, and wiped
the sweat off his face. The water numbed
his legs, too deep to keep them dry anymore.
The vents, too close, panted their increasingly desperate attempt to
regulate the temperature. He shuddered,
pulled his arms close to his body, and rubbed his hands together. The nausea lurched, and he straightened
quickly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose. The urge to vomit reluctantly subsided, but
he could still feel a remnant creeping at the back of his throat.
The vents
above his head sputtered and died.
Leaving him in complete darkness,
And complete
silence.
*
Monday.
17 April, 2165. 4:15 pm.
“A year’s
pay for ten days, five years for a whole month.
You are guaranteed payment.” The man looked a bit desperate, Chase
thought. Likely paid on commission. “If injury shortens your contract, or if
anything else cuts it short – you, and your family, still get the money.”
‘Anything
else’. ‘Anything’ included: kidnapped
and killed on a live web stream; crushed, suffocated, or electrocuted by a
malfunctioning exocapsule; drowned if another bomb went off during your
shift. He sniffed and shook his head, a
small smile crossing his face. Money was
tight – but not that tight.
*
Thursday. 20 April, 2165. 6:32 pm.
“Cynthia,
you need to listen to me.”
“My god,
Chase. What were you thinking? You know
what the life expectancy is in those capsules!”
“Cynthia – ˮ
“What if
something happens to you?”
“That’s the
point!”
She looked
at him, her mouth open in shock.
“We don’t
know what will happen. If I was gone, you’d
have nothing. Not even enough to get
home. This way, we’re set.”
“We’re
already being paid,” her hand covered his, “Your next salary is just a few
months away. We can wait till then,
Chase.” Her brown eyes searched his
blue, “Does this have something to do with the doctor’s appointment? What did he say?”
He pulled
his hand away, “Pancreatitis, like your mother thought. He gave me some antibiotics. Should go away in a couple days.”
“Well,” a
pause, “That’s good, right?”
“Yeah.”
*
Sunday.
April 23, 2165. 6:00 am.
The
exocapsule stank of sweat, machine grease, and faintly of blood. He hesitated.
“There a
problem?” The mechanic snapped impatiently, “I have three others to launch.”
“What
happened to the last pilot?”
The mechanic
grimaced, “The idiot didn’t wait for the intake portal to seal before he opened
his end. The pressure of the air and
water threw the bot at him. Stove in his
skull, and took off a good chunk of his shoulder.”
“That happen
a lot?”
“Only to
idiots. Are you getting in or not?”
Chase shook
himself, and nodded as he ducked into the capsule. He flooded the intake chamber, and released
himself from the dock.
*
Friday.
21 April, 2165. 9:15 am.
“Chase?”
He turned at
the voice, vaguely familiar, “Yeah,” he saw her and blinked, “Jennifer?”
“Yeah!” She
looked pleasantly surprised, and more than a little shocked, “You have lost a lot of weight.”
“Oh,
thanks.” He shrugged, “About ten pounds
dropped off all by themselves, so I figured I’d diet to see if I could lose
anymore.”
“Wow. That’s a really good diet.”
“Heh,” he
forced a smile, the degree of her surprise was getting a bit insulting, “Coming up on fifty pounds in just
three months.”
“No! What’s the diet?”
“Lots of
veggies, a bit of fruit. Less meat and
sweets. Works like a charm.”
“I’ll have
to try that.”
He nodded,
the barest suggestion of agreement.
Jennifer had always looked good.
He didn’t need awe from a woman who was paid more for modeling than for
engineering.
“Hey,” she
looked up at his face, “You want to get some coffee after class?”
“No,” he
replied, “I have a date with my wife.”
He didn’t.
“Oh. Right.” It was her turn to force a smile, “How
long have you been married?”
“Coming up
on six years, now.”
She blinked,
“Has it been that long since we’ve seen each other?”
“Guess so,”
he shrugged. The door opened, and he
stepped into the classroom. She didn’t
choose to sit near him, and he muttered a thankful prayer for small blessings.
*
Thursday.
20 April, 2165. 11:45 am.
Davis looked
across the desk, a worried frown etched heavily onto his face, “This isn’t a
good idea, Chase.”
He said
nothing for a long moment, “You have any better ideas?”
“Yes. Several actually.”
“That leave
my family well off?”
“Look,”
Davis scratched his head, then loosened his tie, “You’re in a bad way, I get
it. Things aren’t looking so rosy. But that happens to everyone. You just – you have to – press through. And.”
He sighed, “I’m making an ass of myself, aren’t I?”
“A bit.”
“I have a
day calendar with motivational quotes I can give you.”
“Tempting. But no thank you.”
Davis leaned
back in his chair. “I’ll sign you up on
one condition.”
“Which
is?” Chase looked up for the first time
in several minutes.
“You promise
not to deliberately kill yourself.”
A long
silence stretched between them. “Okay,”
Chase tried to say it confidently. It
came out as a whisper.
His friend
looked wretched, “I’ll get you on the list.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Chase,”
he said, “You have to tell Cynthia.”
Chase closed
his eyes, “I know.”
*
Sunday.
April 23, 2165. 6:24 am.
He glided
past the once glorious reef, now dead or dying, and his motion startled small
schools of damsel fish. The grand metal
supports of the population platform above him extended deep into the sea
floor. He scanned a nearby construction
bot, and checked its maintenance log. It
had been serviced recently, the bots close to shore usually were.
He moved
farther out, following the ocean floor as it sloped downward. Another twenty minutes passed before he found
his first unserviced bot. He flooded his
intake compartment, and extended the exocapsule’s nimble arms. A few basic instructions were transmitted to
the bot, and it was gathered into the compartment without any trouble.
He rotated
the guidance controls to the side and switched the capsule to maintenance
mode. Several valves hissed as air
pumped into the compartment, forcing the water out. He waited until the seal had been
verified. Then took a deep breath before
he opened his compartment.
*
Monday.
17 April, 2165. 5:30 am.
“Threat
assessment is yellow. Several
environmental groups have conventions today across Guam. None of the groups have any ties with
terrorism, but they’re bound to attract some of the crazies. As always, report any suspicious looking
packages, or unfamiliar devices. If
anything seems out of the ordinary, or if anyone is acting unduly nervous or
aggressive, let your security supervisory know immediately.” Their shift manager, a John Alcott, glanced
at his itinerary. “That’s it. Be safe, everyone.” He walked out of the room without a backwards
glance.
“Is yellow
bad?” Ron asked nervously. Ron was new.
“We get it a
lot.” Chase answered, “Usually nothing to worry about.”
“Usually?”
Chase looked
at him curiously, “The platform is targeted at least once a week. You should have been told that before you got
here.”
“I, uh,” Ron
looked uncomfortable, “Might not have been paying much attention. The guy who recruited me said everything was
fine.”
“Fine is
green.” Chase said drily. “You know how
long it’s been since we had a green?”
“How long?”
“Years.”
*
Saturday.
22 April, 2165. 7:45 pm.
Chase pushed
open the door, and sank to the floor almost before he had closed it behind him. He hunched forward, trying to keep weight off
his back and stomach, and only partially succeeding. The nausea attacked him relentlessly, he
pushed himself to his feet and to the bathroom.
He vomited into the toilet bowl, and slumped against the ceramic,
panting.
“Why are you
doing this to yourself?” Cynthia knelt
behind him, pressing her arms against his arms and shoulders, her head resting
on the back of his neck. “You should
take time off. Give the antibiotics time
to work.”
Chase didn’t
trust himself to speak, then took in a sharp breath, “I have to, honey. I can’t let anything happen to you.”
Cynthia
pulled away, “There’s really nothing I can do to make you change your mind is
there?”
He could
hear her crying. “No.”
She fled to
her bedroom. He could hear her sobs from
where he slumped on the bathroom tile, his guilt as strongly present as the
smell of his vomit.
*
Sunday.
23 April, 2165. 6:59 am.
The first
hour had been productive. Five bots
serviced, and he was making his way to the far end of the platform. Several hundred meters down, following the
steep slope even deeper. He circled
around yet another of the platform’s massive stabilizing pillars, and caught
sight of another construction bot.
The
retrieval went smoothly. After the seal,
he opened his portal then froze. Several
additions had been made to the main body of the bot. And the parts that it connected would create
a large scale chemical reaction. One of
the more straightforward, albeit technically complex, improvised explosives he
had been taught to recognize.
He slammed
his portal shut, and flooded the chamber.
He punched his radio, “Delta Actual, I have discovered a bomb on a construction
bot.”
The response
came immediately, “Send us the serial number.”
He
transmitted.
“Standby.”
Several long
moments passed, and his sweat steadily soaked through his uniform.
“Delta
Thirteen, this is Delta Actual. Describe
your posture, over.”
He
swallowed, a vain attempt to moisten his mouth.
“The bot is in my intake compartment, I flooded, but I’m not sure how to
proceed.”
“Deploy the
bot, but don’t reactivate. We’ll try to
power it down on our end. Do everything
slowly, and describe you progress.”
“I am
opening the intake compartment. Taken
control of the capsule arms. Gripping
the bot’s fins.”
“Wait!”
He froze,
his heart stumbling over itself in panic.
“Very well,
go ahead.”
A gasp
escaped him, “Gripping the bot’s fins.”
He waited a moment before he actually did, but no further protest was
made. “Deploying.” His hands felt slick. “The bot is out of my compartment. I have released it. Stowed the arms, and – ˮ He let out a trembling
breath, “Secured the compartment.”
“Excellent.” Delta Actual sounded relieved. “Good work.
Move two hundred meters away, and we’ll deactivate it.”
“Yes,
sir.” He flipped the engine on, and the
bot exploded.
*
Wednesday.
19 April, 2165. 11:45 am.
“Chase,” Dr.
Sanjana scratched his jaw, “I don’t know how to say this.”
“Please
don’t let it be pancreatitis,” Chase smiled, “That’s what Cynthia’s mother
thinks it is. I’d never hear the end of
it.”
“It’s
cancer.”
Silence.
“Pancreatic
cancer,” Dr. Sanjana continued, his voice soft, but with a certain professional
detachment. “And you have early stage
lymphoma. And it’s spread to both your
liver and both lungs.”
Chase walked
to the window. “So…” He had trouble thinking, “I’m dead?”
“Chase – ˮ
“I mean, uh,” he tried to clear
his head, “Is it terminal?”
Sanjana paused, “At the most
you’ll have three months. At the least,”
he clasped his hands together, “A week.”
*
Sunday. 23 April, 2165. 7:04 am.
There’s not much fire in an
underwater explosion. Just the white of
steam, froth, and incredible outward force.
Force which threw Chase’s capsule clear as the platform’s pillar buckled
and several thousand tons of prefabricated metals and plastics pounded into the
ocean far above.
The engines shorted out almost
immediately, and Chase tried in vain to strap himself in as he tumbled end over
end further out to sea. A small leak on
one of the seals of the intake portal let in a spray of water that covered
everything in a moist, saline film.
His capsule spun more and more
reluctantly, until at last the ballast righted the vessel.
A tentative touch to the
controls and they immediately died. The
radio offered nothing but static. The
light bulb shone brightly, but he had no idea how long that would last. At least he still had air.
*
Sunday. 23 April, 2165. 8:13 am.
The rescue team found his
capsule at a depth of 13,000 meters.
Right on the edge of the Mariana Trench.
He was unconscious, but alive. He
was transferred immediately to the platform’s hospital.
*
Monday. 17 April, 2165. 6:30 pm.
Chase walked in his apartment,
and smiled as Cynthia walked out of the study to greet him. He swept her into his arms and kissed
her. “How did the office treat you
today?”
“It was mind-numbingly
dull. But the engineering department
will receive five hundred tons of titanium rivets. And that order’s success can be laid squarely
at the feet of yours truly.”
He smiled, “I knew I could count
on you.”
“Of course you did.”
They laughed, and Cynthia led
him to the study where she had shower invitations laid across her desk. “Now I know we don’t for sure, but I’m almost
positive the baby’s a boy. Maybe we
could order blue in advance.”
“We could just wait and see.”
“But what about the
invitations?”
He shrugged, “White’s a good
color.”
“It’s not a color!”
“A prism would disagree rather
strongly.”
“We have to plan for the future,
Chase.” She looked away from him
loftily, “When the baby comes we can’t just choose colors on the fly. We’ll need to be sure weeks in advance.”
“Or months in advance?”
“That too.” She kissed him, and they turned back to the
invitations.
“I think blue will do nicely,”
he put his arm around her shoulder and smiled.
~~~
