BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

teen years ago and are so good it’s downright scary, but they fouled up the Leo job – admittedly through no fault of their own. The bets are still open as to whether the company’s rep died in that impact, but four million people certainly did, and counting.

So: here we are, a few hundred kilometres from this nameless lump of inertial murder, and coming in quick, with very large quantities of currency and, potentially, human life, at stake.

“It’s a military op,” I remember saying with some surprise to Artem, two months ago, when the Blantyre set off from the company station above New Ambleside.

“Well, of course it is,” he said. Then, with some suspicion, “Do you make a habit of clocking on without even looking at the mission?”

“I looked at the fee. Easy decision to make after that.”

Of course, I was breaking the company line by even calling it a military op; we are meant to be neutral here, acting only as civilian contractors, Apolitical Averters of Impact Events. But you can work most of the situation out from context; people don’t pay Starbreakers’ fee unless their existence is at stake, and people don’t weaponise asteroids unless they wish their fellow man considerable discomfort. There are at least two players involved beside us: one of them has attached the drivers to set this rock on its way, and the other, who presumably lives on the planet in the way, objects to being annihilated by a giant inertial kill vehicle, and is willing to pay a staggering amount of money to avoid this happening.

You can draw further conclusions – that these are two rather undeveloped players, nascent colonies without spaceflight and possibly without even serious industry, from inferring that the victim nation doesn’t have the launch capacity to attempt an intercept themselves and the aggressor can’t afford anything more subtle or sophisticated than a pebble from God’s own sling – but here you enter the realms of speculation.

As this is a contentious mission rather than a random rock, we’ve got some shooters to look after us; a warship named the Longstreet, run by an outfit called Brisk Security, which will be shadowing the Blantyre for the duration. I personally haven’t heard a single good thing about their character; the one who was constantly trying to chat me up over the link for the last six weeks was certainly no paragon. But rep matters, even out here at the ends of the stars. And their rep for competent violence is solid as a million tonnes of craggy nickel-iron.

Speaking of which. The rock ahead doesn’t have a name; optics have picked up PANDAEMONIUM scrawled on some of the engine housings, but nobody wants to write that in a report. We just call it ‘the rock’, which goes to show they really don’t pay us for creativity.

I’ve been on two rock-stopping jobs for Starbreakers before, the first of which paid off my training, the second of which gave me savings enough to live comfortably for the rest of my days. Neither was contentious; there are plenty of pieces of stellar debris threatening to rub out underdeveloped colonies, and plenty of governments who will pay us to avoid that. But there are only so many people insane enough to attempt to weaponise an asteroid. Rocks flung at planets are objectively bad weapons.They’re extremely difficult to shoot down, but they cost more than a ballistic missile programme, and if the calculations are even slightly off they miss entirely or, worse, flatten the wrong continent. Even when they work perfectly, they cause the sort of collateral damage that makes them a crime against good business practice.

Like everything, it comes down to money. Doing anything in the void costs. Motors are cheap and ubiquitous enough in space terms, and rocks are a budget option compared to genuine spaceborne weapons, but cheap in space terms is still ruinous, and the budget in question is that of a well-off planet. And as a countermeasure, the cost of a Starbreakers callout... well, we’re the best, and we charge accordingly. You get what you pay for; you pay for what you get.

I’ve done my reading: there have only been twenty-one contentious rock-stopping runs in all of human history. Spiros & Harker have done six, one of which saw two of their teams killed and a warship dragooned in at the eleventh hour; a considerable expense in both blood and treasure. Starbreakers have done one, which went off without a hitch.

I don’t know what was in the minds of the people who planned this particular rock. They may even be mad enough to believe it will actually hit. But it will be a year before the rock hits, long enough for the suits to try again and again. A second mission would turn profit to loss, a third would put the entire company in financial jeopardy; but their rep rests on it, and that is worth everything.

Compared to all those trillions, the expense of a few sophisticated booby-traps and deterrents is negligible, and we have no doubt the rock is riddled with them. I’m fighting the craftsmen who worked this rock, not the planners or the paymasters. If they are better at their jobs than me, I’ll never be close enough to my killers to even see them. It’s oddly difficult to take personally.

“Belt up,” says Artem, terse as he always is, and we go below to prepare.

We are pawns in the most detached method of fighting ever devised. This is war without slaughter, war without hate; war reduced to a puzzle, played down a one-way wire five years old and fifty billion kilometres long. The only person really likely to die is me.

Rosa Thorne

New Dreams [Priority: Alpha]

The band starts to play: the guitar first, a few striking reverberating notes out into the breathing, thrashing throng of people. The focus on the player’s face is intense but the enthusiastic energy infectious too. The lead singer strides one high-heeled boot towards you with a click and firmly wraps a hand around the mic. Her other hand is fiercely holding a simple power chord on a white and gold Gibson guitar, which hangs in line with her leather miniskirt. Her voice is a soft screeching, pure power in few words. The drummer never misses a beat. The guitars ring out perfectly timed; the bass growls, every syllable the lifeline of the song. The connection between them all is obvious and for a moment you too feel like one of them. ‘This one’s for you Chicago,’ she shouts. Her lipstick is a rich purple which glows in the warm night.

The riff is still resounding inside your head when the picture fades away. There is a living, breathing moment of silence and complete blackness. The machine whirrs, once, twice, thrice. ‘Thank you for choosing Dreamify.’

A man of unknown age stands at the front of the hall, sharply dressed in a timeless, three-piece black suit that complements his cautiously practical watch. An oval badge reads ‘Mr Foucher’, and underneath, in a smaller uppercase font, ‘HEAD OF DREAMIFY™ CORP’ is clipped onto his jacket.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, today I am here to revolutionize technology once and for all. A statement which, I assure you, you will not consider too bold once you see the technological marvel that is my greatest achievement …

‘Unfortunately, you have run out of Foucher Illusocoins™ for the night.’

His largely black moustache quivers when he talks, intertwined with the same paler, greying hair strands which find their way on top of his head. You don’t know if it’s deliberate, a fashion statement to match the suit, or the first sign of his age creeping into his appearance, but in this lighting the latter feels more likely. He stops talking momentarily.

The auditorium lights dim and a screen drops, displaying a series of grainy black-andwhite photos featuring glamorous people smiling, celebrating, living seemingly perfect lives. The grey hairs seem more deliberate against this backdrop.

‘Welcome back 150 years to glamorous 1930s Hollywood, amid the beginning of cinema, the start and inspiration of technology as we know it. A world where streets are soaked with neon and shivering silk, laced with gold threads, and held together with reels of video tape. It is my very greatest pleasure, after lifetimes of research, to finally present you with the opportunity to meet the stars who defined that world, despite their early deaths.’

‘As per Government Article 3.4 Clause 6 [Priority: Alpha] you must continue to sleep for a minimum of 8 hours, or 5 dreams.’

Mr Foucher laughs. ‘However, this is not what I have spent years perfecting. For, as great an era as that may be, there is so much more of existence to explore. I’m sure you’ve all seen VR, its rise, its fall. And even from the brief, several of you dismissed this as an ill-fated, pointless revival. That is not what this is. This is saving you from yourselves, making every second count, giving you the chance to experience everything, take over the world, save it, rebuild it, outlive it and not only meet your idols but be them as well. And all before your 7 o’clock morning alarm. I am proposing a world where dreams are purely synthetic and all the more beautiful for it.’

‘As you know, quality of subconscious and conscious living are strongly correlated, and so for one night and one night only we would like to offer you a premium subscription for only 80% of the original price. Happy Black Friday.’

‘Not only does this present great possibilities for enhancing the quality of life for every individual, it creates jobs, it creates business, it creates potential. More than all this, it does not just create the future, it is the future. We can now prevent crimes before they occur, end discrimination through subconscious conditioning. Everyone benefits.’ He pauses momentarily, smugly. ‘I challenge any one of you here to name a person whose life is not infinitely improved by my worthy invention’

You want to accept it. You dream of the past sliding into the slot, throwing aside dust, letting you breathe freely. Knowing you can escape. That a few hours are completely and utterly yours. Dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin, pure and simple. C8H11NO2, C43H66N12O12S2 and C10H12N2O. If it were reduced even slightly more you could, you would. But you don’t have the interesting well-paid job of a premium pass holder, and the machine not only knows it, it controls it. The offer fades away.’

‘Sleek, efficient, environmentally beneficial, rigorously and robotically effective based on micro-tech, precise to a subatomic level, perfectly and immaculately designed and programmed to ensure it is indistinguishable from real life. Night after night, a glorious nostalgic journey through the highlights of humanity, handpicked by our editors. Nightmares, sleep disorders all will be cured forever more. This is the future. More than that, this is your future, our future.’ He finishes his speech with a hungry smile, eyes still glinting with passion at the thought of his hobby and obsession, scanning the applauding crowd of businessmen, scientists and cameramen in front of you. A slightly queasy-looking stockbroker scratches something on a thin, grey paper notebook and you hear his neighbour tut and mutter something at him. The applause continues, unknowingly, rigorously robotic.

*

We are disappointed to see you have not decided to increase your dream count.You still have six hours of sleep remaining.

There is a living, breathing moment of silence and complete blackness. The machine whirrs, once, twice. ‘Your next nightmare will begin in 5…4…3...2...1 *

You sigh and raise your hand, slowly getting to your feet. Squeaky and indignant your voice shakes as you query his words. ‘Indistinguishable from real life? How will we know what’s real? Surely that’s incredibly dangerous? And besides, it’s completely impossible – you won’t have that technology out in either of our lifetimes…’ *

The auditorium blooms into existence in front of you, like a darkly saturated paintbrush dipped into a pot of icy water.

Mr Foucher’s voice rings out, echoing inside your skull. ‘My dear, how do you know I haven’t already succeeded.

Arthur Hales Escape

William Harris was walking with his squadron back to camp. He’d been walking like this for hours, either as point man, or in the middle of the line of eight men. One of his unit, Scott, suddenly crouched and held up a fist – all the men dropped low and brought up their assault rifles.The click of safety catches being flicked off cut through the heavy, oppressive silence.Then he spotted the target: a man walking along the wide open field. Just another farmer. They brought their firearms down and stood up. A crack filled the air. Scott dropped, like a rag doll who’d suddenly outlasted its interest. He lay with blood pooling in his helmet. William stared desperately through his scope, willing the sniper to magically appear. Another crack, and he saw movement to his right. The shooter had been identified and taken out. They all slowly got up and, with Scott’s limp corpse being held between two men, continued their way back.

He sees his father peering through the iron sight of his old hunting rifle. Old, but no less lethal. The stock was varnished and polished wood, the metal cleaned and oiled. He also sees what is standing unaware, at the end of the barrel. A tall deer, gently munching away at the thick luscious grass beneath its feet. But it unexpectedly glances up, as if so in tune with everything around it that it could sense the threat. It turns and spots his father, who is lying in the bracken, and the gun resting in his experienced hands. It stares hard, as an amateur writer stares at his first critic, and then leaps away.With a quietly murmured expletive, his father moves, adjusting himself slightly. He breathes out calmly and, holding in his next breath, squeezes the trigger.

He woke with a jerk. Back in the barracks, he suddenly felt calmer. The thoughts of the previous day rushed back. Scott falling, confusion, the sharp spike of fear that lodged itself in everyone. The crack of noise that split through the silence.

‘You win some, you lose more,’ he used to joke. ‘But as long as you catch all your winnings, and drop all your losses, then life’s pretty damn perfect!’

But one thing that William had understood for a long time was that Scott played his own game, and had been willing to lose as long as he made a difference on the way out. Despite his recognition of this, it was still a shock. He exhaled another shaky breath before getting up.

He was safe, and now that his six month tour in Iraq was over, he could finally go home.

The bullet pierces the deer’s thigh. It squeals and hops onwards with its three working legs. For fifty painful yards it staggers onwards, desperate to escape. Suddenly it stumbles and drops onto its side before rising with hidden strength and carrying on.

Twenty yards later, it stops. It stands there, trembling, and sits down. It makes no effort to lick its wound; it does not even look at it. It just sits there. It knows what is about to happen, and it can’t resist the inevitable any longer.

He sees his father rise carefully and walk over to the deer. He runs a hand gently down the antlers and onto the deer’s neck. He raises the rifle and rests it on the side of the deer’s skull. A gentle squeeze of the trigger ends the deer’s pain. It is free now, free from fear.

William forced his eyes open. A splitting headache cut through the idea of snoozing. He got up and had a much-needed cup of coffee before shutting the front door with his house key clutched in his palm.

He was breathing heavily as he jogged around the park. He was running off the hangover from last night’s celebration with his squadron. Luckily, almost everyone had returned safely. Almost everyone. He always found that running cleared his head, made him calmer. He was glad he had no pockets as it gave him the opportunity to hold his house key. It gave him a little piece of pain that took his mind off everything. The key dug deeper into his hand as he pushed himself up the next hill. He grated his palm along the divots on the underside of the key and felt his clammy hand grow slick with blood. He didn’t want to damage himself, but he needed something to completely consume the essence of his being. Something that wasn’t fear. He ran harder and passed the blood-slicked key across to his other hand. His throat was tightening, and he jabbed the key – point down – into his palm. He felt the sharp pain and almost stopped, growing faint for a few seconds. He pushed on regardless, his pace increasing and his key cutting deeper. His mind drifted away from everything, and he was free. He woke on the cold, emotionless concrete. He had passed out again. Luckily, no one