The Iceberg Timefold E-Book

Miguel Gámez

• Herausgeber: Carlinga Ediciones
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

What is hiding inside Lazarus Davids' brain? Lazarus is the designer of a global circulatory transport system, enabling users to travel beneath the Earth's surface at a hundred thousand miles an hour. An engineering marvel which allows him to take a desperate journey through time and space, shedding then saving his own skin, becoming invisible, and finally turning Lazarus into a man beyond compromise.

Leseprobe

THE ICEBERG TIMEFOLD

Miguel Gámez

Carlinga Ediciones

www.carlingaediciones.com

First edition: ©2014, Carlinga Ediciones S.L.

English edition: ©2015, Carlinga Ediciones S.L.

Translation: ©2015, Berni Armstrong.

Copyright © 2014, Carlinga Ediciones S.L. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-84-942225-3-5

The Icerberg Timefold

Author: Miguel Gámez

Translator: Berni Armstrong

Illustrator: Miguel Gámez

Layout Artist: Sonia Gallardo

Publisher: José Núñez

Follow us on twitter: @pliegueiceberg and @CarlingaEd

1. Graphene Casings

The main building of the penitentiary left no room for doubt as to its identity. It was a mass of exposed concrete with little architectural merit that greeted the morning sun with an almost audible groan amid the raucous calls of visiting flocks of crows and seagulls. After the rain, the squawking resonated in the interior of the almost empty building. Lying idle, the prison seemed to be protesting its misfortune via the echoes of the scavenging birds scratching around its entrails.

A watchtower stood in the central courtyard, still defying the most extreme weather. Some of its glass observation panels were now cracked or shattered, while several of its searchlights had long since ceased to shine. In contrast, the prison surgery remained active although nowadays it only opened its doors within a limited timetable. All of this was thanks to the widespread use of the controversial graphene skin casings, popularly known as dermis.

Two policemen stood guard at the door like solemn statues, while the duty surgeon on this minimum services shift put on his customary green gown before meticulously preparing the tools he would need for the operation. With a nervous tic the surgeon repeatedly glanced at a medical data screen, noting in its reflection the ravages of time he could see in dark bags around his eyes and his growing collection of wrinkles that were noticeable across his eyelids. At thirty-three he felt old, weary and fed up with life.

“You left or right-handed?” he asked his middle-aged patient without much interest in his response.

“Right.”

“Then we’ll start on your left arm, okay?” The doctor pressed a button on the screen as he spoke. “Open and close your left hand like you’re squeezing one of those anti-stress balls. You know the thing I mean?”

The convict nodded, then imitated the movement. After a few seconds the neurological scanner emitted a quiet note of confirmation. The surgeon scratched himself just below his left collar bone. The letters PHS, embroidered in white on his gown, always made him itch. His eyes were momentarily drawn towards the three letters as he started the most routine part of his task. Sure of what he was doing, he let his thoughts play around with the initials of the Planetary Health Service in his subconscious.

For their own benefit, the collective to which he belonged as part of the PHS demanded greater training in software development. That had been the spark for the conflict of interests which had led to the strike. The strikers claimed that such training had been provided by the ministries who had then seen how the introduction of graphene casings into consumer society, thanks to the Grafiderm Company, had provoked a general exodus from the public to the private sector. Once they had acquired the knowledge and experience necessary, public health workers were leaving in their droves to join huge multinational companies.

Programmers, on the other hand, had no need to train in medicine or surgery in order to allow themselves to be tempted by the huge sums of money that were being doled out ever since conductive casings began to be used in civil and commercial applications.

As the surgeons saw it, the problem was that they specialised in extremely costly disciplines in a world in which time was more important, if that was possible, than money. On average it took eight years of demanding study, and not everyone could finish the course without a scholarship. Available student loans had become a modern form of slavery, with less well-off students having to mortgage their time to the grant foundations; and all to try to stem the brain drain to private companies.

“There, now that took no time at all, did it?”

The habitual paternalism of the doctor-patient relationship exasperated the prisoner.

“No sweat. I’ve got two long years to serve. I’m in no hurry.”

“Two years? That’s nothing!” The prison surgeon replied. “I’ve still got four to go before I can pay off the loan that keeps me tied to this wonderful job.”

The prisoner shrugged off the sarcasm. “At least your shackles aren’t physical, like mine.”

“You mean the dermi? Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about that. You’re down as a CON-4. That’ll give you lots of freedom of movement. As you’ll find out in a minute.”

The specialist adjusted the neurological transfer and began to download data into the prisoner’s plastic conductive arm covering. At once, the latter began to feel as if his extremity was no longer his.

The computer programmer who had developed the idea of keeping prisoners within plastic sheathes was only seventeen years old. He called himself Chester and had amassed an immense fortune with his prisoner rehabilitation programme. He and his team were the envy of the entire medical profession. And they had emptied the prisons.

Yet, not all criminals finished up inside a dermi. The more serious cases were hibernated. Those who had only committed minor offences were held in custody, underwent an express trial and were out on the streets in a few days, having paid a fine.

For the rest, Chester had created the CON application based on three concepts.

The first referred to convicts who had to complete their sentence subject to five grades of behaviour control. The second related to the most useful property of graphene, a new single-atom thin material, hard as diamond and with the appearance of an innocuous acetate sheet. It was plastic, but at the same time allowed current to flow along its crystalline structure. Being micro-perforated and in semi-contact with human skin, the molecular electrochemistry of the body could be altered via a bionic exoskeleton which led to the third concept. That involved the control of behaviour and it was this that had swayed the powers that be in favour of its introduction. In fact, the latest amendment of the penal code made explicit mention of human behaviour manipulation. Specifically, the new legal text stated that prisoners’ conduct could be controlled: “by technological means which do not damage or interfere with the health or morals and beliefs of the prisoner.”

As Chester had declared in his presentation to the press: “There are five different levels of sentence, depending on the gravity of the crime. It’s kind of like the famous defence readiness alerts, the US Army uses, the DEFCON’s. Our system works the same way,” said the computer genius, bringing his speech to a close with one of his stock phrases. “Society needs to defend itself from hoodlums and criminals! But who needs armed guards when the felon is wearing a graphene casing?”

‘Pretentious Brat’, thought the surgeon as he continued his work, mindful of how badly paid he was and the burden that hung over him, thanks to the galloping interest on his loan repayments.

A software developer, like Chester, invested barely two years of his life generating an extravagant salary without ever having to commit himself to a code of ethics. One day a certain programmer had created an apparently altruistic application. Once installed in the memory of the dermi it allowed patients with tetraplegia to walk. An external skeleton basically controlled their movements and allowed them to live normal lives. Then the next day, the same programmer released a free download of a related program that allowed you to do a gym workout without effort. Both of them made him immensely rich.

Of course, by then software developers had already met stiff ideological opposition from eco-nuts and other anti-technology types. They just laughed all the way to the bank. Not being subject to the Hippocratic Oath, they were less than worried about the concerns of health professionals that the graphene body shells were counter-productive for public health. But it was not long before hospitals were having to cope with the consequences of bodies being mangled by enforced exercise.

The surgeon’s mind drifted back to his job.

“It’s a strange sensation, isn’t it?” he said with a forced chuckle as he pressed an electronic stylus against the prisoner’s elbow. “It feels like your arm’s gone numb, so they say,” he added, confirming each measurement he took on the tactile transfer screen. “Try to lift your arm up to about here and open your hand, please,” he said, indicating the height of his growing beer gut.

The prisoner did as he was told without meeting resistance and with a surprisingly natural movement.

“Now, turn your head to the right and close your eyes.”

For the first time, the prisoner was conscious of the squawking of the birds outside the building and of the deathly silence in the operating room. A feeling of emptiness suddenly overcame him.

The prison doctor scratched himself above the logo again. He opened a drawer, took out an anti-stress ball he kept at the back and threw it towards the open hand of the prisoner, who caught it with a movement calculated to the millimetre.

“Now you can open your eyes.”

When the convict opened his eyes and saw his own hand opening and closing around the sponge ball, he knew that the artificial gauntlet in front of his eyes would not truly be his own hand for two long years and he finally began to understand what his sentence really meant.

“Congratulations, Mr. Kerapan,” stated the doctor reading the name off the open file on the screen and bringing to a close the first phase of the operation. “Your left hand is 100% compatible with its graphene casing. Right arm, please.”

***

Fergus Kerapan had been waiting almost thirty minutes for his lawyer. He tried to console himself to the idea that his time was no longer his own and thanks to this new reasoning his sentence felt reduced by half an hour. His life had taken a turn that was too important for him to become obsessed, like the rest of the world, with time. In fact, he was in no hurry anymore.

While he sat waiting, the broad corridors of the courts enhanced the usual hubbub of the crowds passing through in all directions, their skewed silhouettes reflecting on the floors and walls covered in polished Travertine stone, burnished as a mirror.

Each footstep reminded him of the drive of those who still enjoyed their own freedom. They echoed in his head like some chaotic drumbeat, filling the silence with an irritating and occasionally deafening pounding.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kerapan. My name is Marie Clichy.”

Fergus Kerapan looked at the young girl with a mixture of surprise and barely disguised disdain. She looked like one of those customised girls: no accent, no defects, and no scruples. She had not even offered to shake his hand.

“Sorry about the delay, but I’m afraid I’m really busy at the moment. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you a rundown of the situation when we meet the tax officer and the prosecutor. This way...”

Fergus got up and followed her. For a moment, he felt like breaking the rules and pinching that perfect ass with his new right-hand, however his behavioural control program stopped him carrying out the impulse. He half smiled, knowing that frustrated whim had nothing to do with unsatisfied sexual desire.

“As you know, for the next two years you will be working for your company. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you said the most important thing in these negotiations with the prosecutor is the amount they’ll pay into your pension fund.”

“Not exactly.”

“I have some very good news for you,” the lawyer went on ignoring what he was about to say. “We have gotten the best deal possible on pension benefits for your work while completing your sentence.”

“In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for a 40 hour week as stipulated by law. But you’ll be on the maximum, which is 33%, as fixed by the new penal code.”

“I know the damn law backwards. So, how’s that possible? The deal you mentioned is only for petty crimes. Now if I was a CON-5, or if I hadn’t already spent the money I ripped off the Corporation, well... Besides, before the trial it was clear they wouldn’t budge on that.”