Clocks Read online

  Clocks

  S.J. Holmes

  Text copyright © 2019 S.J. Holmes

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places and organisations is purely coincidental

  All Rights Reserved

  For Carrie

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  Growing up, I always loved science fiction. I loved stories set in the future, stories about robots, stories about killer robots, books about AI, books about friendly robots – you name it, if it had a cyborg or replicant, I was there. I gobbled up any young adult science fiction, any adult sci-fi and any tech thriller I could find. I was fascinated by what could be lying in wait for humanity. I couldn’t get enough of dystopian futures, and tales of heroes emerging from humble beginnings to get the girl, kill the baddies and save the entire planet.

  In writing Clocks, inspiration for my own YA dystopia came from many places. An incomplete list would include nods to Star Wars (including the old EU), Blade Runner, 2000AD and Judge Dredd, Alien(s), Battlestar Galactica (old and new), Planet of the Apes, The Day Of The Triffids and the Chrysalids, Mad Max, Red Dwarf, Marvel and DC, Logan’s Run, the golden age of Schwarzenegger (bookended by The Terminator and True Lies), the Back to the Future trilogy, and more recently the Hunger Games, Maze Runner and Divergent series. And don’t get me started on Harry Potter.

  Someone once said to me that we are a collage of everyone we’ve ever met. So it follows that any art we create takes something from everything we’ve ever seen, read or listened to. And with that in mind, I owe a massive debt of gratitude to the following visionaries: George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, Ridley Scott, Stan Lee, Robert Zemeckis, Joseph Campbell, Christopher Vogler, Philip K Dick, Stephen King, AC Crispin, Matthew Stover, James Luceno, Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, John Wyndham, Arthur C Clarke, Jules Verne, Ursula Le Guin, Veronica Roth, James Dashner, Suzanne Collins and JK Rowling. All world class writers and storytellers, who created hard science fiction, as well as young adult sci-fi, that mesmerised, terrified and enthralled me. Their books included teenage heroes, strong female characters, flawed protagonists who come good, and a plethora of relatable people that I cared about and wanted to emulate, either in the real world with my actions (I still use the Force to open automatic doors) or in my imagination as a writer. Without these great artists, I’d probably still be sitting on my brains in a dead-end office job, without any daydreams to make the hours pass. Instead, I find myself now creating my own young adult stories and sci-fi for teens, hoping one day to find Clocks in the shops next to books like Star Wars. It’s a nice daydream to have. And I have all these guys to thank for that.

  (And while I’m listing all the people I’ve been inspired by for this book, I feel it would be remiss not to mention some of the panoply of amazing musicians who sound-tracked my all-night writing shifts: Apollo 440, Manuel Gottsching, Vangelis, Jean Michel Jarre, Gary Numan, Giorgio Moroder, the soundtrack of PS1’s WipeOut, Neuropolitique, Kraftwerk, Paul Oakenfold, Sasha and old school proto-techno like Cybotron, Model 500, Juan Atkins, Kevin Saunderson and Derrick May – for me the world of Clocks sounds an awful lot like late ‘80s Detroit.)

  It was all of these wonderful artists, and many more, that influenced me when creating the world and story for Clocks, and the adventures of Geo Palmer. But they were not the only sources of ideas for me – the rapidly changing world around us also provided more than a few pointers. I wanted to create a world that might actually happen, so I followed the paths the world is taking through to one of their likely conclusions. Today’s society is obsessed with hi-tech toys and convenience, where AI can beat chess masters, where self-drive cars and drone-delivery are just becoming a reality. The environment is taking a battering, but solutions could lie in the minds of yet-to-be-designed AI entities.

  But what’s the next step? And do we really want to take it? Where will technology lead us to in the end? Clocks is just one possible future. One that I hope you enjoy reading about as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  And sleep easy: it’s only science fiction. Isn’t it?

  1

  The Aeroflex Skyspeeder screamed round the corner at a dizzying speed. Clipping the edge of the wrecked building, it lurched over, narrowly missing a twisted steel tentacle jutting out of an adjacent tower. The speeder recovered quickly, straightening up and accelerating out of the beginnings of a flat-spin with a whoosh.

  Geo checked his HUD. Luckily, the damage to the fin was superficial – just a graze – and hopefully not enough to affect its aerodynamics. He ducked under a shattered skyway and floored it, darting in and out of the obstacles strewn across the concrete canyon. For an older model, the speeder was incredibly fast and agile, carving an almost impossible line through the subterranean ruins of old Manhattan.

  He broke free from the cover of the mashed-up skyscrapers and headed out into a massive clearing. At its centre was the kilometres-wide plexiglass biodome that contained the Central Park Country Club. The next marker was on its far side.

  He skimmed over the last of the low-rises, coming up fast on the neatly manicured gardens that surrounded the CPCC. The most direct route would take him over the park itself, but that would guarantee detection and being shot down. Instead, the best move was to skirt low around the outside. As he reached the outer perimeter fence, Geo shoved the controls forward and the Aeroflex dipped sharply down to hug the ground. He crossed the gardens in seconds and swooped into the sunken sanitation moat at the base of the dome. It ran the whole way round and would protect him from any prying sec-cams.

  He scanned his HUD again. Not bad. He was in third place, up from 12th on the grid – he was only a blue chip after all – but the trailing pack was right behind him. In his rear-view, he saw an A72 follow him into the concrete gully and close the gap between them. It pulled up alongside and brushed against him, trying to knock him off course. Geo fought to hold his line. The other racer moved away, but then swung back, knocking the Aeroflex sideways and nearly causing him to crash into a protruding sewage pipe. A chorus of alarms and warning lights went off on his HUD.

  The A72 veered back towards him, going for the kill. Geo flipped a switch and the modified afterburner kicked in. The other racer ploughed into empty space, through his exhaust trail, and smashed into the base of the dome. Its wreckage tumbled along the moat, registering more damage with each bounce. Geo swore he heard expletives over the sound of the crash. When the A72 finally came to a stop, it was completely destroyed.

  There won’t be much to salvage from that.

  A shrill siren alerted him to the impending arrival of ALU sec-drones. No doubt the crash had given the game away. It wasn’t a problem so much when they were this deep into the course – by the time the drones arrived at the crash site, the race would already be over and all the speeders would be safely back at the Barn. Still, it added to the excitement, and released a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

  Geo checked his scanner. He was nearly at the far side of the CPCC and closing in on the marker, the second from last. After that, it was just the tower-top one and then onto t
he finish line. With the A72 out of the way, he was confident of placing in the top three and taking home some much needed scratch. He was already thinking about the special dinner he would treat his family to that night. He looked at the map again: he wasn’t that far behind the two leaders. I might even have a chance of winning this.

  He pulled back on the yoke and rose out of the trench. The Aeroflex crossed the gardens and shot into the shadow of a steep concrete and steel rubble valley. Geo aimed right at the centre of the marker and bulls-eyed it skilfully, setting off a ping in his earpiece. He checked the readout and calculated the distance to the next checkpoint.

  Twenty blocks south and two blocks over. Then up 400 metres.

  The Empire State marker was going to be a bitch – in order to get to it, you needed to ride up the side of the mangled tower as close as possible in order to not be detected by the ALU. Then at the last moment you had to dart inside and thread your ship through the needle that was the remains of the lift shaft. The marker was perched right on top of the spire. Given its location, the final approach had to be made at an excruciatingly low speed – any faster, and you’d stick your head above the parapet and be scoped immediately. It would be way quicker to remain outside and skewer the marker at speed and drop down the other side. But that guaranteed being spotted and being destroyed. Unless…

  Geo’s insides twitched with excitement. He had a plan. A risky one – if he messed it up, he’d be toast – the added scrutiny that the A72 crash would be bringing to the area meant there was no room for a mistake. But if he wanted to catch the front two racers he’d have to be bold. And fast. Geo wouldn’t have it any other way.

  He let the throttle out fully and the Aeroflex covered the twenty blocks in as many seconds. He carried his momentum into a sharp corkscrew turn and spun two blocks over as he rose, pulling up parallel to what was left of the Empire State Building.

  As he neared the top, and the entry point for the lift shaft, he screamed past the two race leaders, who were wasting precious seconds slowing down. Geo continued up the outside, looking up at the belly of the new City above, and silently counted down.

  When it was time, he didn’t just slam on his brakes and let out his flaps – he cut the engine completely. He yanked the controls and sliced through the marker at speed. He carried on up, going more than high enough to be spotted by the sec-drones. As soon as they had line of sight on his Aeroflex, they would detect his engine and blast him out of the sky.

  Except, right now, his engine was shut down. He was as good as invisible. A glance at his HUD confirmed there were no trace locks on him, and no missiles or shots headed his way.

  It worked. Nice.

  The Aeroflex gracefully reached the top of its arc. It seemed to float in the air for a moment, weightless, before it dropped like a stone. He pulled the flaps back in and picked up speed as he dived back towards the ground. On a boom, extended from the side of the Empire State, he spotted one of the race cameras that would be beaming back footage to the race HQ. He gleefully nudged the yoke and bumped the boom, sending the camera spinning away. Can’t wait to see a vid clip of that.

  He began counting down again and held his finger over the ignition button. The speeder dipped back into the thicker cover below in freefall. He zipped past the marker and the second and third place speeders again, who were still on their way up.

  He punched the ignition button. And nothing happened. Geo’s stomach clenched and he held his breath. Not good. He thumped instructions into his keypad, racing to bring his secondary systems online as the ground raced up to meet him.

  This is going to be close.

  Just before he smashed into the ground, the engines spun back into life and Geo pulled out of the steep dive in a neck-breaking and sketchy curve.

  I’m going to do it! What a move!

  BANG.

  Geo flinched as his starboard wing clipped the rubble-strewn ground. The Aeroflex’s speed dropped dramatically and it began to handle like it was flying underwater. The speeder began to shake like an angry washing machine. Second and third streaked past, bouncing around and above him, with the rest of the pack catching up fast. By the time he’d got the ship back under some sort of control, he had dropped back to fifth.

  Geo frantically pummelled the controls, trying to compensate for the damaged wing by rerouting power and reconfiguring the propulsion system. The HUD flashed red from every pixel, and through his headphones, sirens and klaxons battled to drown each other out. His engines screamed out in pain as if they were being tortured. He was only a couple of kilometres from the finish line, but the other four racers had opened up a massive lead. He scowled at the map and had an idea.

  He dropped the Aeroflex down to the ground and started to scan the broken pavements for an opening. The old subway system criss-crossed the Undercity, and would offer a near direct route to the finish. No ruins to navigate through, no twisted mazes of steel and concrete stalagmites to slalom. Seeing an opening, he nosedived the speeder and wrestled the ship through an abandoned station to platform level and the tunnels. He crossed the final sector of the race in half the time it would take topside. He emerged within sight of the finish line, hidden in the warehouse that was otherwise known as the Barn.

  He checked the standings – he was back to third. Still within the prizes though. Given the state of the Aeroflex, Geo would happily take that. He’d have to spend all his winnings fixing her up again though. He entered the warehouse and limped over the line, narrowly beating fourth.

  With some wrangling, he managed to point his nose towards the pit area and glide into the racers’ paddock. The Aeroflex slid to a stop like a drunk duck landing on ice. Smoke lazily spiralled up from the clipped wing, the engine inside cooking. There was a popping noise as the repulsor-lifts gave up and died.

  Geo popped open the canopy of his VR pod, and tilted up the visor of his helmet. He looked across at the mess lying on the floor of the warehouse. His Aeroflex was totalled. It would never race again. He was going to need another drone.

  2

  The Barn was crackling. All around, racers were jumping out of VR pods and barking instructions to their pit-crews. People were scurrying to retrieve drones in varying states of disrepair from the landing zone. There were even a couple of MechaniClocks, belonging to the more affluent racers, poised ready to fix up returning speeders.

  The excitement of the race, coupled with the illicit nature of the whole operation, made for an electric atmosphere. He couldn’t help but be caught up in the buzz. Destroyed Aeroflex or not, he loved drone racing – everything about it fired him up: the engineering and modding; the danger of sneaking down into the old Undercity; the rush of the race itself; the smell of the Barn afterwards. He loved it all. It electrified him. And it was where he felt most at home. It also didn’t hurt that he was so good at it.

  Geo unbuckled himself from his VR chair and climbed out of his pod. Geo looked around the massive, dilapidated hanger and soaked it up. Clustered around the racer’s enclosure were improvised workbenches, where the drones were tuned-up before – and usually repaired after – the action. Further out, there was a semi-circle of floating vidscreens facing out towards the crowd, who surrounded them on three sides. There were no bleachers or stands set up, just some thrown-together guard rails to separate the spectators from the pit area. The fourth side of the room was the opening to the Undercity, with its shutters now closing behind the last racer.

  The Barn – what the organisers called the race HQ – was a movable set-up. Today it was located in an old warehouse down in the low-teens. Other places they used included an empty canning factory down by the old docks, a decommissioned power station in Queens and the ticket hall of one of the larger derelict subway stations. The organisers liked to move it around, and could strike the whole set-up in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t wise to be too tied down when operating a venture as illegal as this. Even the spectators ran the risk of a collar. Once you were this far into
the Undercity, you were fair game. OmniTech didn’t bother to make a distinction between racer and spectator – both were considered violators, and would be dealt with accordingly. Most people chose to watch the races from the safety of their own homes, using illegally-modded VR chairs with the latest sportscast software. Much harder to get busted that way. There were still a couple of hundred people in attendance though. For them, nothing beat the excitement of seeing it for real, a rush enhanced by the danger of it all.

  Geo turned and looked up at the scoreboard. Projected high on the biggest wall were highlights of the race, and superimposed on that were the rankings. Right now his power-down manoeuvre was being played back in slow motion. He cringed as his drone cockily bumped the camera.

  “A spectacular move there from the Aeroflex!” bellowed the old race-announcer Clock from his makeshift podium. “Almost as spectacular as the crash directly after. Hard luck there, Aeroflex!”

  The race announcer was an old model SportsClock, a 3rd gen, maybe prototype 4th – the race organisers had been using the same Clock for years and it was well-liked, even if it was a little prone to cliché like the older models always were. It was dressed like an early 20th century automobile racer, complete with hat and goggles, a billowing scarf and a cigarette in a long holder. It had a small dog Clock with it, which wheezed and guffawed at its every quip.

  An appreciative and ironic cheer came from the crowd as they replayed his manoeuvre from a different angle. A few of the racers and spectators pointed over and laughed. A couple waved at him sarcastically. Geo bowed exaggeratedly and with good grace. Even with a knackered drone, he couldn’t get pissed off about it – the subterranean race circuit wasn’t a place for the oversensitive.

  Geo turned back to the rank of VR pods popping open either side of him. The other racers were finished now, all twelve of them. They were coming offline in varying states of jubilation or annoyance. The guy in the pod next to him was looking particularly angry. A tall, scruffy haired dude with wild eyes under centimetre-thick glasses – Joules. He was spraying the air with curses. His VR pod had a couple of dents, and the yoke looked like it had been yanked from the steering column in a fit of rage.