Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

David groaned. Bruce wanted him to open it. The metadillo would come charging in and then Bruce would spear it, and then the spear would break, and then it would fire its darts at both of them like a spider wrapping flies.

Bruce nodded again irritably.

“Alright, I’m going,” David whispered. He considered removing his mask and leaving the computer. It might save his life. With a shake of the head, he turned the handle. He looked back at Bruce and remembered his words from moments before: ‘Kill me’.

He flung the door open.

Crouched in the darkness, wearing an exact duplicate of his hiking clothes, was Sergeant Caroline Benson. The jacket was too big for her.

“Bloody hell,” David said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said calmly. “But, actually, I can explain.”

Bruce did not lower his spear. “I don’t know who you are, but get inside now and close the door behind you.”

Caroline stood and brushed the dry mud from her lapels. “Certainly,” she said. She entered the room and sank to her knees. She frowned at David. She genuflected to the floor and sighed. She did not take another breath. There was a stiletto in the base of her skull. It still quivered. David simply vomited. Bruce said, “Shit,” and took Caroline by the shoulders. He threw her outside. He closed the door and braced it with the spear. David heard her body flop down the veranda stairs.

“We’ll have to sit this one out,” Bruce said. He began to check the windows.

“What about Caroline?”

“She’s dead.”

There was a distant booming sound. David’s fillings vibrated. He slid a metre into the floor.

“Did you feel that?” David gasped. Somewhat selfconsciously, he climbed out of the floor.

“Feel what?” Bruce asked absently.

“It must be the soldiers. They’ve blasted through.”

He heard breaking glass. His head snapped to the window, fearing the metadillo. But the window was intact. It must have been the sound of the glass immersion chamber smashing.

David gagged. Somebody was trying to pull the mask from his face. In New World, he appeared to wrestle with his own head. “Bruce,” he gasped, and tried to move forward. There was no time left. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

He tried to embrace his friend because he appreciated – far too late – that he would never see him again. His arms reached

Bruce but they passed through. The microbots were malfunctioning. Bruce smiled and he waved a goodbye. He pointed towards his eyes and then out towards David. “See you later, alligator.” “Bruce!”

The Murderer Unmasked

Monday, 11th September 2023

Saskia examined her face in the mirror. She pulled different expressions. Her eyes had rings. Her lips were too thin. A smile didn’t suit them. She thought about faces. A person’s face should be greater than the sum of its features. But not hers. It lacked something critical.

She yawned. It was fifteen minutes to nine. At nine o’clock the repair man would arrive. If she did not allow him to find the body and call the police, then Jobanique would.

She left the mirror and entered the main office.

“Computer, are you finished?”

“Ten minutes of image analysis remaining.”

Saskia rubbed her eyes. “Computer, what records do you have following 6:33 on Friday evening?”

“None for approximately fifteen minutes. No real-time data was collected during that period. It was likely that my operation was terminated for maintenance, though this was not recorded in the maintenance log.”

She smiled. It was the murderer. He had returned to temporarily deactivate the computer just as he had erased the central surveillance tapes. But why deactivate the computer?

Simple: so he could do something in the office without threat of observation.

Saskia’s eyes touched every object in the room. She looked for the slightest change: picture frames moved; pens rearranged; a plant pot turned by ninety degrees. Impossible to tell. She did not have a perfect recollection of her office. She examined the desk. She opened the drawers, emptied their contents and checked every surface. Nothing. Then she examined the shredder. It was still broken. In a flush of excitement, she realised that she couldn’t remember breaking it.

The shredder was integral to the desk. It had a thirtycentimetre slot, the mechanism itself and a detachable hopper. She removed the hopper. Inside were slivers of purple fabric. Next, she broke open the shredder itself. Deep in the mechanism, held in tiny teeth, was a little golden eagle. The hat maker had been particularly proud of it.

You are a detective, Saskia Brandt. Detect.

This, then, was the murderer’s hat.

Why did he take pains to shred it?

Because he could not take it with him.

Why couldn’t he take it?

Because if he had it, he could be identified.

Who could the murderer be if the hat was so crucial?

And then remembered examining her face in the mirror. Something had been missing. The burn.

Saskia collapsed into her chair. It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Everything fell into place: the burn, the hat, the timing, the secretary in her fridge, the knowledge of the computer system and the workings of FIB. She knew who the murderer was. And she knew who to call.

Jobanique.

He let the phone ring for nearly a minute. She gave him proud stare. In truth she did not feel angry. She lacked the energy. Solving the case did not lift that burden. Somehow, it made her sink inside her.

“You bastard.”

“Good morning, Detective Brandt,” he replied mildly. He waited for her to speak.

“It is two minutes to nine o’clock. I have time to spare.”

“To spare for what? I’m late for a meeting.”

Saskia erupted. She was surprised. Though her mind was calm, her body thrashed, hammered the desk, picked up the case of the broken shredder and threw it at the window, at Jobanique’s computer-generated face. “You listen to me!”

Jobanique screwed the lid on his fountain pen in the manner of a newsreader. “I’m listening.”

Saskia breathed in and out, in and out. She willed herself not to cry. He would misinterpret it. “I know who the murderer is.”

“Do you.”

Behind her, the computer bleeped to indicate that it had finished