Private Tomus Dokter was hot, bored and generally pissed off. He was hot because his bullet and stab proof uniform was both coal black and 10cm thick, which is 10cm too much when the average temperature of an English summer day is 37˚C. He was bored because he’d been standing at his post on Magnum Road for over three hours, waiting for an organised protest that he was beginning to suspect had been cancelled. He was pissed off because he was on duty with Private Mathu Consultan.

There were many good reasons to feel pissed off with Private Consultan. Firstly, he’d flouted regulations by opening his coat and pushing back the visor of his cumbersome police helmet. Secondly, while Tomus had been patiently observing the citizens of Manchester going about their daily business, Private Consultan had hooked up his helmet’s communication system to a local radio station and was listening to “Smooth Ride” by the Snorters. Tomus didn’t like the Snorters and was sorely tempted to break regulations himself by switching off the “buddy link” that was transmitting the music to his own helmet. Thirdly, Tomus had good reason to believe that Private Consultan had been screwing his wife.

“…yes I’ll take you down to the silicon shores,” crooned the voice in his helmet, with Mathu singing along under his breath.

Tomus glared at his partner and for a moment thought the man had felt his gaze because with a touch to the wrist-pad the music died. Then he saw what had really got his partner’s attention.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Obviously surprised, the blonde turned round from the shop window she’d been examining.

“Are you talking to me?”

Mathu’s smile broadened.

“So it is a miss.”

Not that it would have stopped you, thought Tomus. The young woman tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled back.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a miss.”

Her lens covered purple eyes took in the uniform and the man inside it with obvious approval. Tomus felt sick.

“So,” she continued. “Is there a problem?”

Mathu made a show of looking her up and down.

“Not from where I’m standing. That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, it’ll match my bedroom carpet perfectly.”

Slap him, thought Tomus. Slap the slimy git into the 26th century. But the woman just giggled and bit the corner of her lip provocatively.

“Big words for a policeman.”

Mathu winked.

“I’ve got more than words darling. So, do I get your name?”

“Sarah Griffon. I guess you can find my number on the police database.”

Mathu nodded.

“Your address too. I’ll see you at seven.”

And that was that. The woman walked off swinging her hips and Tomus stood grinding his teeth and pretending he hadn’t been witness to this latest display of police misconduct. And there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do because the disciplinary warden for their unit was a woman, so naturally a quick smile and a wink would be all that was needed for him to be let off. Hell, the last time Mathu had been reported for inappropriate behaviour towards a witness, he’d left her office looking somewhat out of breath. Consultan was untouchable. Unlike the women he met…

Tomus bit his lip and tried to block to image of his partner and his wife testing the bed springs. Bloody bastard son of a...

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Mathu’s private phone ringing. Mathu fished the device out of his pocket and checked the name on the tiny screen. He smiled and shot a wink in Tomus’ direction.

“Back in a flash.”


Then he turned and walked a few paces away, pulling his helmet off and slipping the phone over his ear as he did so. Once the device was in place he tapped the side to answer the call.

“Hey Sweetlips.”

Tomus made wrenching sounds into his helmet mic, safe in the knowledge that Mathu could no longer hear him. Then he turned away and stared down the road instead. A crowd of people were appearing around the corner. Was this the protest march at last? Tomus squinted to make out their banners but was saved the trouble by a tall man at the front starting up a chant.

“Fee fi fo fum… Smart Missiles are really dumb…fum fee fi fo…blanket bombing has to go…”

Tomus groaned. Not these crackpots again. He was amazed they were still being allowed to protest. Even just last week, three units had been ordered to break up a demonstration about falling pay for nurses. But then, the nurses had a point, whereas these idiots were just ranting nonsense.

“…fo fi fee fop…bombs in Egypt have to stop…”

Nutters. Who did they think…

His thoughts were broken again, but this time by a much more violent sound than just a phone ringing. Tomus barely had time to register the explosion before someone screamed, signalling to the terrified citizens and protesters that it was time to run in panic. Without thinking Tomus pulled out his 260v Magno, prompting further screams, and tried desperately to make sense of the chaos. Private Consultan was looking a lot more horizontal than he had a moment ago and for once it wasn’t because some nubile young woman was showing off her assets. For a moment Tomus stood transfixed by the sight of his partner’s brain matter spilling out onto the pavement. Then he thought to go for his helmet radio.

“Man down! Man down on Magnum Road! I repeat, we have a man down…”



Mathu Consultan drifted through a world of red fog and purple shadows. Around him floated a strange host of blurred figures, as if viewed through frosted glass. Every now and again a face would crystallise out of the soup but they faded again before he could put a name to any of them. Somewhere in the background a woman was giggling, the innocent sound managing to portray a myriad of sinful thoughts. Soft skin brushed his fingertips but when he tried to reach out his hand closed on cotton.

“Naughty, naughty,” scolded a voice.

“Rosebud,” Mathu murmured.

The familiar scent of fruit and flowers teased his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, trying to draw in the memories it evoked, but the smell and the voice were already slipping away. He was floating up and up into a bright white light. His face broke the surface and Mathu’s eyelids fluttered open. The light was coming from an overhead lamp that threatened to dazzle him and the cloth still clutched in his hand was the stiff fabric of hospital bed sheets. The wholesome scent was gone and in it’s place was the sharp smell of antiseptic in cool, purified air. There was also something tight across his chest and he couldn’t open his right eye.

Where am I?

London Medical Research Centre, level 4, sector D.

Who the hell said that?

My name is BIANCA. I advise you not to panic.

Mathu screamed.



Sergeant Frank Tennik possessed all the qualities of a tall man. Pick any line-up of government servants and he’d stand out like a bulldog in a fishtank. Any room he entered instantly became “A Room With Sergeant Tennik In It”. He overshadowed his superiors and looked down his nose at his inferiors. In fact the only quality Sergeant Tennik didn’t possess was height.

“A little bird tells me that one of my men is here.”

The receptionist peered over her desk and looked the four-foot Sergeant up and down, or rather down and down. Frank waited patiently.

“Sergeant Tennik?” she said at last.

“That’s what the badge says.”

“Sergeant Frank Tennik? Street Patrol and Crowd Calming?”

Frank rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t aware there were that many Sergeants with the name Tennik to get me confused with.”

The woman blushed.

“I’m so sorry Sergeant, it’s just that on the news screens you look a lot…”

“Prettier?”

“Er…”

“Just tell Dr Bleech I’m here darling.”

“Right.”

The flustered receptionist tapped her earpiece.

“Inspector Tennik to see Dr Bleech.”

There was a brief pause during which time Frank was sure he heard swearing at the other end. Then she tapped the device off again and smiled weakly.

“You’re expected. Proceed to lift five.”

Frank strolled over to the row of metal doors. There were no call buttons but number five opened as he approached.

“Sergeant Tennik for sector D?” asked a digital voice as he stepped inside.

“That’ll be me.”

“Please answer ‘yes or ‘no’.”

“Yes.”

“Please be seated.”

Frank sat down on one of the brushed aluminium chairs bolted to the floor and for good measure fastened the black safety belt. The doors snapped shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

“Ventnor Official Manufacturers of Inter-office Transportation accepts no responsibility for any injury you may obtain while using its lifts. All complaints to be handled by the on board computer. Have a nice day.”

The lift jerked a few feet to the right then plummeted downwards, causing Frank’s breakfast to make a hopeful bid for freedom. The Sergeant grasped his stomach and made an effort to force back the bile.

“I hate these lifts,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“All queries should be appropriately phrased for computer recognition.”

But not as much as I hate 1st Gen AI, Frank added silently. The forties give this building a miss or something?

With a clang of changing rails the lift finished its descent and shot off to the left. A few twists and turns later there was a small, but abrupt ascent and, like a pig in a box of nails, the lift came to a squealing halt. Frank scrambled to his feet in time to be standing nonchalantly as the doors opened.

“VOMIT hopes that your lift journey was fast, clean and untouched by personal injury. Have a nice day.”

The corridor revealed had a white tiled floor covered with black scuff marks from rubber soled shoes and walls painted the peachy cream of government buildings everywhere. Studies had shown this colour to have calming properties and to aid concentration. Frank was pretty certain it gave him stomach aches. From the looks on the faces of the two people hurrying towards him, it gave them stomach aches too.

“Sergeant,” began a woman with a pinched, cat’s-arse mouth and a transparent Digiwriter. “Had we been forewarned of your visit…”

“I called yesterday evening at 1900 and again this morning at 0600,” said Frank, strolling out of the lift. “That’s more warning then South Africa got.”

While the woman scribbled frantically on the plastic surface of the Digiwriter Frank walked past her down the corridor and began scanning the labels on the doors.

“Sergeant Tennik,” said a man in a stain-repellent white lab coat. “The subject in question is in an extremely delicate position and should be…”

“Dr Bleech, right?” said Frank without looking at him. “I think you’ll find Private Consultan isn’t the only one in a delicate position right now.”

“I’m sure I don’t…”

“Doctor, please, don’t try to convince me you’re a stupid man. I might believe you.”

Frank spotted the door with Dr Bleech’s name on it and pressed the open switch.

“Please state your…”

“Police override. Frank Tennik.”

“Voicekey accepted.”

The door slid open and Frank stepped through followed closely by Dr Bleech and the cat’s arse woman.

“Sergeant, with all due respect…”

But he wasn’t listening any more. Frank scanned the room, noting the 3D diagram of a brain on its projection pedestal, the four screens filled with colourful charts, and the two startled looking doctors. Of the three available, Frank picked the door with “Strictly No Un-Authorised Access” written on it.

“Sergeant if you’ll just…”

“Please state…”

“Police override. Frank Tennik.”

“Voice…”

“Sergeant I really must…”

Frank stepped through the door.

“Private Consultan?”

The man in the bed tried to sit up, hampered somewhat by the thick straps holding him to the mattress. Much of his head was covered by bandages and a row of medical staples were visible along his crown. But the visible part of the face was contorted in terror.

“GET ME OUT OF HERE! GET ME…urgh…”

The man collapsed back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched tight enough to break. For a moment he squirmed under the straps, then abruptly his jaw loosened.

“Please shut up,” he whimpered. “Shut up! Shutupshutupshutupshutup…”

Dr Bleech delicately fished an injection gun out of his coat pocket and walked over to the patient. His pressed the gun against the Private Consultan’s neck and with a snap of the trigger the man fell silent. Dr Bleech put away the gun and looked round at the open mouthed Sergeant.

“A delicate position,” he repeated.

Frank brought his face under control.

“Maybe we should talk outside.”