Sub-Critical

By Gulliver Noir

Sub-Critical is the mind-bending, heart-wrenching, novel-length second installment in the Love to the Power of Three Science Fiction Steamy Romance Trilogy.

Mob Boss Anton has promised his assistant Ry a painful death if he so much as touches his fiancé Natalya—but Bad Boy Ry has never been good at following orders. In a dizzying day-after-tomorrow of futuristic hook-ups, drugs, and intrigue, Ry, Natlaya and the brilliant but awkward Autumn struggle to find lasting love, friendship, and freedom.

Their desperate game of cat and mouse to free Natalya from her explosive collar is played out in the shadow of the great machine in building Twenty-Two on the CIT campus. The so-called Time Displacement Unit has the potential to make all their dreams come true, or destroy them utterly.

Another disastrous eyes-wide-shut party pushes them all to the brink, and someone has to die, so the rest can live to love another day. To save his beloved, Ry will have to think and act like a heartless killer.

But can Ry find love if he truly becomes one?

The Epic Time-Twisted Super Science Fairy Tale of love, illicit desire, and technology gone mad continues in the third volume of Love to the Power of Three: Everywhen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gulliver Noir
• Release date: Sep 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370403820

Gulliver Noir

Gulliver Noir is the quintessential man of all trades. He's been a construction worker, a fast-food slave, a market-researcher, a software executive, an industrial video producer, and through all of that, a writer and storyteller.He's interested in the ramifications of total honestly in personal relationships, non-conventional family structures, alternative sexuality, freedom of expression, and personal fulfillment and self-discovery. His fiction combines real life experiences with well-researched anthropology and imagination.

Book preview

1

Mallory: Premptive Justice

Mallory tracked Jason to the food court in Kendall Square. It was a lovely, sunny, late spring day, and she was excited by the thought that she might murder someone.

Finally!

She hummed a little tune to herself as she broke into a jog. The Novellus pharma-lab and office complex gleamed in the late morning sunshine, set back from the busy street and surrounding buildings behind a blanket of green, bio-engineered lawn littered with amorphous silvery sculptures. The offset allowed the building to be incinerated with charges buried in its foundation during a biohazard event, the so-called Beijing Protocol, which to date hadn’t been triggered in the Commonwealth.

Yet.

Jason had missed two Lodvigo treatments, the deep hypnotic patterning that made him incapable of acting on his violent and abusive tendencies. So Mallory had a few options. She’d promised to kill him, but it was possible that he hadn’t really believed her, because she was female, skinny, and she looked younger than her nineteen years.

Or she could give him a warning, a new deadline. Kill him tomorrow if he did not comply. Everything she’d read about Lodvigo suggested he’d be incapable of hurting anyone for another week at least.

Her fingertips caressed the dart gun in the pocket of her tattered bomber jacket. She’d practiced with it in her bedroom, and could hit a bullseye from 10 feet about half the time. IRL, she would cut the distance to something much much closer and shoot him in the eye. The tree-frog poison in the spring-loaded dart would stop his heart within thirty seconds.

She found him eating a fish taco at a metal table in the courtyard; a strong, cold breeze whipped his wispy hair around his head. A blob of pico de gallo was caught in his stubbly not-quite-a-beard. He stopped chewing when he caught sight of Mallory jogging toward him.

She wore the glowing red contacts, which weren’t as impressive in the noonday sun as they were at night, although in the shadows they were still off-putting. She wore the padded bodysuit under her leather bomber jacket. She’d etched the leather with a laser, cutting the lower third into a lacy, see-through gridwork that disintegrated into a fringe that swished as she padded toward him in her rubberized climbing shoes.

Jason swallowed and gestured at the chair opposite him.

You’ve got a little… Mallory took the seat, flicking at the spot on her check where Jason was wearing the glob of tomato and cilantro.

Oh, he said, brushing it away. Thanks.

Mallory removed the dart gun from her jacket pocket and laid it between them. Jason stared at the gun. Mallory stared at Jason. Jason set down the taco and folded the remains into its sheet of wax paper.

Why did you miss treatment?

Jason shrugged. Um, I forgot?

Mallory shivered with rage. She picked up the gun and rubbed it against the side of her neck.

There are cameras! Jason squeaked.

Mallory grinned. I’ve turned them off.

Oh.

She hadn’t. But he didn’t know that. She could, although it would be a huge pain in the ass.

Why did you miss your appointment?

You’ve made a ton of enemies. Someday you’re going to slip and someone will kill you. You will disappear. They’ll never find a body. Jason said.

"So you were hoping I was dead. Lovely. Have you made bodies disappear, Jason?"

He shook his head. The wind teased his wispy hair into a comical nimbus around his chubby face.

You’ve thought about it?

He shook his head again — after a half-second pause.

Mal slipped the dart gun back into her jacket pocket. Look at deadmanswitch dot com.

He fumbled his phablet from his oversized front shirt pocket and whispered the address.

Search for Mallory Hunter.

Jason whispered her name.

See the list?

I’m on it, Jason said. Beads of sweat were forming on his plump face.

"You’d better hope I don’t die because if I do, everything I know about you gets forwarded to the Commonwealth SVU, the FBI, and Hannah’s List."

Jason nodded. Oh, he said.

She hadn’t really set his info to be forwarded to Hannah’s List — a BlackNet database of biometric and geodata of convicted sex offenders. Anonymized vigilantes used it to hunt and kill offenders for fun, as part of a RTG — a real-time game. There was sometimes collateral damage. Mallory couldn’t be a part of that. Although she’d daydreamed about it.

You know why I don’t kill you?

Jason shook his head.

You know what’s right, you know what’s wrong. Your wiring is bad. But you can, and should have, gotten treatment, once you knew. You didn’t. I caught you before you hurt anyone.

Jason nodded, his eyes screwed shut. I’m glad—

Shut up, Mallory said. I didn’t say you could talk. You’re wired wrong and you need treatment and you are getting it and you’ll get it for the rest of your life.

Jason’s face was doing things Mallory had no desire to look at.

Maybe someday treatment will be less unpleasant, Mouse said (she’d pushed herself to the surface to make the comment). Mallory crammed her back down in the stack. She shook with rage. She was in charge of who was in charge. She was the gatekeeper.

Jason noticed. What happened? Your voice sounded different.

Fuck off. You have twenty-four hours. No more warnings. You’ll never see it coming. Neither will any of the cameras around you. Are we understood?

He nodded. He reached his hand out. He turned it palm upward. As if she’d shake it. Mallory shivered in the cool breeze. She’d referred to herself as we, damn it.

Understood, he said. He attempted a smile. Thanks for not killing me.

Mallory went home and locked herself in the shower, and stood in the hot stream until the water turned cold and her body went numb.

"Don’t ever interrupt me like that," she told herself.

Mouse and Babydoll didn’t reply.

2

Ry: An Interupted Conversation

Ry’s first night in prison was uncomfortable.

The reality of incarceration lacked the glamour he associated with films and television. He passed the time dozing fitfully, leaning against the cement wall, packed into a holding area with hundreds of other political detainees he did not know. They had been purposefully scrambled after exiting the transport vans.

The hours ticked by. They were given no food or water or bathroom access. Someone commandeered a trash barrel and it was sloshed about as needed, stinking to high heaven. Eventually, the detainees were allowed to use a single indestructible police mobile, passed from person to person, to make their single phone call. This took several hours more. Ry was one of the last to be handed the smudged, chunky phone.

His father answered on the second ring and agreed to pay his bail instantly.

You don’t have to come down, Ry said. I’m good.

No, Ry’s father said. We need to talk.

Ry's father's face was blank, impassive, as the scowling corrections officer thumbed open the lock and escorted them down the brightly lit concrete corridor toward the front desk.

Many of Ry’s fellow protestor’s lives were ruined. They would not make bail. They’d lose their jobs, their apartments, perhaps custody of their children. Court fines would mount and multiply while they languished in detention. Ry knew how lucky he was to be on his side of the great divide.

His father wore the perfectly tailored slate gray three-piece suit that Ry had become accustomed to over the years. Ry waited for the lecture as they bustled past holding cell after holding cell filled with other political detainees. They slipped past the hoots and catcalls, the angry shouts like a trio of ghosts. The hallway reeked of some industrial lemon-scented antiseptic that failed to cover the pungent tang of sweat, blood, and vomit.

I am not unsympathetic to your politics, his father said softly, after they'd collected Ry’s personal effects — bomber jacket, mobile, belt and bootlaces — and passed through the final security arch into the parking lot. In fact, I share them.

Ry nodded. They'd had this discussion before.

His father beeped open the tiny runabout that had replaced the family sedan when Ry had gone to CIT. His parents had been downsizing for years, from the big house on Memorial Drive to the tiny two bedroom near the new CBTA station past Alewife in the ridiculously named Grover's Corners, one of the insipid urban retirement villages springing up at the edges of every metro area.

We can no longer pay your tuition, his father said. We’re sorry. We’ve had a few financial setbacks.

Ry rubbed at the ache forming behind his temples. Oh, he said. I’m sorry, too.

His father had specialized in a narrow sliver of intellectual property law, one eliminated by the recent sweeping reforms of the NWO Copyright act. His firm had gone bankrupt abruptly. Half the legal profession was being obsoleted by IBM Sherlock systems. Ry’s father had assured him this would never affect the family personally.

He’d been wrong.

Are you all right? Ry asked. Worrying about his parents was a new and unpleasant feeling.

We'll be fine. We've had to make changes. You will, too, his father said.

Ry nodded.

You may seek loans to complete your education, if it is of any value to you. But you will need to discover something practical you can stand doing. Immediately.

Ry nodded again. His CIT selected studies program included Psychology, Fine Art, Media Studies, Recreational Cybernetics, Non-Violent Studies, Film Production, Interactive Immersive Systems, Human Sexuality, Science Fiction, Game Design, Painting. In short, nothing useful.

The last few months he’d been struggling to pass his courses; his work with Anton, the Russian pimp, was consuming more time than he’d imagined possible. Anton’s escorts, dealers, and cooks got into lots of interesting trouble. They had legal issues, health issues, and mental issues.

Charlotte had been avoiding him for months. He still hadn’t told her about Anton.

What was this one about? His father’s question startled him. He was driving manually, Ry guessed, to avoid having to make eye contact.

He meant the protest. Free-for-All, Ry muttered. His father didn’t know he was a mid-level organizer for the banned group, recently branded by HSEC as economic terrorists. The universal rent strike for basic income.

His father smiled without looking at him. That's a good one.

Ry laughed. It makes billionaires very angry.

Then they were both laughing. His father uncontrollably. Tears rolled down his cheeks from the corners of his eyes as his knuckles went white on the steering wheel.

His father wiped his face. "I'm serious. You're going to have to figure something out. Something remunerative." Ry nodded. He’d been paying down his credit card debt with what he earned from Anton. He supposed it would be enough to live on. After a fashion.

My name is on so many lists, Ry said.

I told you that might be a problem.

They pulled over in front of his apartment building's door and Ry got out. His father walked him to the door, moving slowly as if he were exhausted or suffered from arthritis, which he did not that Ry knew of. The night was damp, cool, and quiet. A Love-Bug city-car hissed by. The mist specked his father's glasses. They stood in silence for a long awkward moment.

Do you want to come in? Ry asked.

No, his father said. Whatever emotion had briefly possessed him was gone now, leaving behind the pitying stare. You've never listened to a word I've said. His voice was flat. He didn’t seem angry.

Ry shrugged. That statement was both true and false. He wondered if they might shake hands. Or hug, even.

His father didn’t move.

Ry didn’t either.

The wind grew colder and the spatter of drizzle turned into a light rain. Ry’s father winced as a fat drop caught him in the face. Someday we will look back at tonight and laugh, his father said. Which was a funny thing to say, as they'd been laughing, but Ry guessed their laughter had meant different things. Maybe he meant that they'd laugh together.

Ry nodded. It was a reasonable thing to hope for.

Thanks, Dad, Ry said. For bailing me out.

His father nodded. I’d like to say you’re welcome, but you’re not. You can’t do this again, Ry. We can’t do this again. His expression softened. You’ll understand one day, maybe, when you have kids of your own.

Ry nodded. He didn’t think he’d ever have children, but felt no need to say such a thing. Okay, he said, not wanting to thank the man again.

RY managed a smile and his father half-smiled back, shaking his head before getting back in his tiny runabout and driving away.

Ry remembered that. Always.

That they’d parted smiling.

---

The next day Ry got a text from the ER social worker while he was busy replenishing sex-bot lubricant reservoirs. He was at Carmelita’s—one of Anton’s escorts— and she had left to pick up coffee, so he was alone when the text came.

The text included the name, title, contact info and headshot of a tired-looking dark-skinned woman. There has been an accident involving your parents. I would like to speak to you in person, it read.

Ry felt a chill. He sat on the tall stool next to the short length of olive colored laminate counter that served as Carmelita’s kitchen and dining room table.

I’m sorry, Ry texted. I’m busy. Can you tell me what has happened?

Not over the phone, the text came back.

I can’t come down, Ry texted back. Of course he could. But he didn’t want to.

I’ll connect you with the Chaplain, the next text read.

A video call lit up in his mobile, and so Ry slipped into his wearable to take it, fitting the goggles over his eyes with dread.

The Chaplain was a pale middle-aged woman with black, tightly curled hair. She radiated compassion and sorrow from big brown eyes.

You should come down, the Chaplain said.

I know what you’re not saying, Ry said. Both of them?

The Chaplain sighed and nodded. I don’t know your parents denomination…

They’re Presbyterians, Ry said after a moment. He was an atheist.

Are you a person of faith?

Ry shook his head. A numb feeling that had started as a throb behind his eyes had now worked its way through his entire body.

You should still come down, she said softly. We should talk.

How…? Ry asked. Did it happen?

Traffic accident. An emergent network phenomena, she enunciated the words precisely, "caused a truck to crush their vehicle. An emergent network phenomena is a kind of software problem that is no single party’s fault; it’s the result of the interaction of many systems. There will be a fault study and the traffic control system will be improved, so this thing doesn’t happen again. So in a way your parents loss will help save lives. That isn’t any kind of consolation but someday, it might help a little, to know this.

Thank you, Ry said.

There are legal issues, insurance issues, around this cause of death, and you should come and talk with our counselor. He can make referrals on the legal matters.

Do you need me to identify the remains?

She shook her head. We used DNA and dental records.

Can I see the bodies?

She shook her head again, the corners of her mouth turning down. There’s nothing here you would want to see. They passed quickly.

Ry promised the Chaplain he would come to the hospital but he never did. He handled the paperwork on-line over the next two days.

He wished he’d hugged his father, that one last time, but was glad, at least, they’d parted with him smiling. He was sure they’d both been smiling.

He stopped going to class and resigned from Free-for-All. He closed his social media accounts and blocked his addresses. He sweated in his trainer three hours a day, and played single-player video games in his OverCasts until he fell asleep at night.

Ry worked for Anton now.

3

Autumn: Test Subject

Autumn stared down at the mobile-home-sized TDU, the Time Displacement Unit, and worried her security badge, tugging the nylon lanyard tight against the back of her neck. Dr. Preston spread his arms,