The Poisoned Oasis

By Ethan Somerville

A mysterious killer is stalking the streets of the Oasis, and detectives Sapphire Stone and her partner Andy are assigned to the case. It doesn’t take them long to figure out that the killer is not human, but a rogue robot.

Meanwhile, famous soap-star Alex Lavelle is fighting his own battle against a fanatical stalker, and has bought a robot bodyguard to protect him.

When Sapphire reveals to her superiors that the killer is actually a machine, the army take over. But to catch their quarry will require superhuman effort.

Fortunately the army has access to some superhumans. Before departing the Oasis, Dr Grayson’s assistant Dragan Vesnic froze the Lazarus cyborgs – and the doctor’s own son, Raphael “Mission” Grayson.

With the help of Dr Naomi Vaughan, the cyborgs are brought back to life. But they refuse to cooperate, and Mission is woken as a last result. However he is a grudging recruit, and only Naomi can keep him in line.

Sapphire joins Naomi, Mission and the army to track down the killer and Alex Lavelle, who has disappeared. They will need all the help they can to stop this menace before his killing-spree escalates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370090273

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

Mission 2

The Poisoned Oasis

By

Ethan Somerville

* * * *

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Mission 2 – The Poisoned Oasis

Copyright © 2017 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Part One

The Police

* * * *

Chapter 1

Come on Aileen

Dr Gideon Bacall had called his computer Aileen in an attempt to personify it, in the hope a human name would bring it closer to self-awareness. Aileen was actually an acronym for Artificially Intelligent Life Engineered Electronically with an N thrown in for completeness. It occupied a sizeable corner of the computer room, an ugly cluster of gunmetal-grey databanks, processors, sensors and speakers. The massive contraption hummed and throbbed as though already alive, coloured lights flashing from various sections. All eyes were focussed on the impossibly beautiful woman on Aileen’s large central monitor. Dressed in a tailor-made business suit of dark blue, she acknowledged commands in a cheerful, sing-song voice and programmed body language.

When the computer finally outgrew the constraints of her programming, Dr Bacall would achieve his ultimate ambition - to create life from un-life, a soul for the soulless, an artificial mind. Every day he bombarded Aileen with questions, hoping she would eventually answer with a completely original thought - one that demonstrated complete independence. The gaggle of technicians surrounding him hung onto his every word. He wanted witnesses to his eventual triumph.

One individual, leaning against the computer room doorway, didn’t share the doctor’s enthusiasm. As far as Dr Naomi Vaughan was concerned, Aileen was little more than a very large, expensive paperweight. If machines were to eventually become self-aware, they would do it in their own good time, not when ordered to by an eccentric Einstein lookalike with delusions of grandeur. Stuffing a computer with complicated behavioural programs, giving it blonde hair, a big chest and a stupid name, didn’t mean that it would achieve sentience any faster than the enormous number-cruncher down in the basement. It was as fast, if not faster, and had just as much memory space. Like Aileen, the university mainframe regularly reprogrammed itself so its users could get the best possible service.

Students rested coffee-mugs on its console and called it an oversized abacus.

But Dr Bacall and his toadies would never listen to Naomi. For a start, she didn’t look like Aileen. In her flat-heeled shoes, stained, ill-fitting lab-coat, and mousy hair pulled back in a limp pony tail, she drifted through the university largely unnoticed. Few people knew that for her first PhD thesis she had developed the Sireborg and programmed it to perform a number of simple duties. Dr Bacall, her professor, had simply expanded on her work, and more importantly, made a huge bundle for the Sire by putting Sireborg designs up for sale to private factories.

Fortunately, Bacall and his techs weren’t shallow enough to disregard Naomi’s opinions because of her small, unassuming appearance. She had returned to Bacall’s fold after spending several years working for the late, great Dr Douglas Grayson, the man who once ruled the Sire with an iron fist – literally.

Even though Grayson and other his assistants were long gone, Bacall still feared Naomi. She was only present because of her phenomenal knowledge and unrateable IQ. She didn’t waste time on cute behavioural programs or graphics packages that could make a gorgeous woman live and dance on a screen. But she had the ability to slap a machine together from little more than scrap. Some reckoned she could make a computer run on rubber bands and paper-clips. She had lost count of all times she had coaxed obstinate systems back on line while Gideon Bacall took all the credit. Just because he wrote the glitzy programs that ninety percent of people relied on. No-one was interested what lay inside a machine so long as it did what it was told.

Only one man had known more about computers than her, even before she’d implanted one in his head. After that, well - he had been more than human. Sometimes she really missed Dr Grayson. Had he lived, she would have been his next major project.

No use dwelling on the past, she thought and forced his image from her mind. Bacall and his techs resembled worshippers at an altar as they clustered around Aileen.

His frustration growing, Dr Bacall raked his snow-white curls back with gnarly fingers. So Aileen - how do you feel today?

I am experiencing some difficulty in downloading from the mainframe. Because it is close to midyear exam time, there are a lot of users on the system, Aileen answered in her beautifully modulated voice. Also, several sectors in my tertiary hard-drive appear to be corrupted. I will need to run a defrag and a repair program.

Bacall sighed. Is that all you feel, Aileen? What about the weather outside? He gestured towards the open window at the pristine blue sky, flecked with tiny, fluffy white clouds.

It appears clear, yes, but at approximately five fifteen this afternoon the wind will swing around to the southwest and bring rain, Aileen answered dutifully. Sensors on the wall outside allowed it to predict the weather - sometimes more accurately than human meteorologists.

Don’t you think it’s a lovely day? Bacall insisted.

It is a good day for outdoor activities, Aileen responded.

Bacall sighed heavily. He could have programmed Aileen with the responses he wanted, but that wasn’t the point. She had to come up with them on her own.

Why don’t you give it a rest, Bacall, Naomi declared from beside the doorway. Aileen’s no more alive today than it was yesterday!

Bacall turned, his techs following his angry gaze. "One day very soon she will give an independent response," he declared pointedly.

Naomi folded her arms. "One day, maybe it will. But bombarding it with questions isn’t the answer. You want Aileen to develop, leave it alone so it can think."

Bacall wasn’t impressed with Naomi’s gratuitous use of the word it. How dare this impudent child reduce his baby to mere spare parts? Would you prefer I drill a hole in my skull and wire my brain directly to Aileen’s? Inflict my thought-processes onto hers until she starts thinking properly?

One tech sucked in a shocked breath; that was a bit below the belt.

Naomi tried to slam a lid on her ire and failed. It might teach her how a human mind thinks ... although I’m not sure whether she would receive any benefits from your brain.

That’s enough! Bacall slammed his fists into his hips. I’ve had as much as I can take from you, Doctor Vaughan! You have been against this project from the very beginning! You’re off the Aileen project!

Naomi gaped, one slender hand fluttering to her lips.

So you might as well go back to where I found you - skulking around the old cryogenics lab!

You can’t do that.

I just did. He turned back around to face Aileen and stabbed a few buttons on its keyboard. The attractive blonde stepped forward and took a bow. When she straightened, her business attire transformed into a skimpy, dancing-girl attire, festooned with beads and ribbons. She started to gyrate, long hair billowing around her body.

This is an outrage! Naomi marched into the room and shaking a tiny, imperious fist at Dr Bacall. You can’t kick me off the team! I’ll appeal to the Dean!

Bacall spun back around. And whose side d’you think he’d be on? The Oasis’ best programmer - or one of the late grave-robber’s ghouls?

With that he stalked past her, leaving the techs to shuffle after, each avoiding her gaze.

Naomi swore, hot tears stinging her eyes. What about the robot she had invented, the very first Sireborg that still stood outside the Dean’s office? No, it seemed she would only be remembered for helping Dr Grayson electro-shock those stolen bodies back into life, then transforming them into cyborgs with various mechanical and electronic implants.

By all rights she should have been rotting in gaol. Only her exceptional brilliance had saved her. Yeah right. Exceptional brilliance that had just gotten her booted out of the Special Projects Division! Why the heck did she have to go and lose her temper with that idiot? Why couldn’t she just kept her big mouth shut?" Now she would have to go back to running lectures and tutorials, trying to drum into dim young minds the very fundamentals of computers.

She gazed across the deserted computer room at Aileen. The computer-generated woman also made a convenient screen-saver as she danced seductively. Despite her beauty there was something sinister about her - a coldness that only a healthy dose of humanity could remove.

Perhaps it’s for the best you aren’t alive, Naomi told her. Heaven only knows what you’d do if you were. She marched from the room, slapping a button as she left. The door whispered closed behind her and locked with a click.

She strode down the pristine corridor, her practical, rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the white Lino. Midmorning sunlight slanted in through a long row of windows running along the left side of the passage, creating bright squares on the floor. Naomi paused at a window and gazed out at the lovely day Aileen had described. The Sire basked in the cheerful June glow, its rounded buildings blending with the carefully cultivated greenery. Six storeys below, students lounged on the hillsides with their textbooks, and walked along the gravelled paths. Sireborgs trailed after a couple. These days everyone seemed to have a personal robot, whether they needed one or not. The things had become status-symbols and Heaven knew what else. Naomi had intended them to be useful things like housekeepers and protectors. But Bacall had written new programs, and now ninety percent of all Sireborgs manufactured were pleasure-bots. Her white-haired old professor was making a killing while she had to go back to lectures and tutorials to make ends meet.

Suddenly the doctor wished she was one of those youngsters, free of her dark past. To be eighteen again, with a head full of music, soapies and pipe-dreams.

Not unless you can turn back time, dear - and you can’t, because they’ve dismantled Project Eloi as well! She spun from the window and stomped down the hall to visit the disused cryogenics laboratory. So what if she was fulfilling Bacall’s prophecy? She no longer cared.

Every day she feared she would be denied access, but every day her Sire swipe-card still parted the reinforced doors. Slipping the card back inside her jacket she entered the musty lab and flicked on the lights. The stark white glow illuminated scrubbed plastic-topped benches and bare metal shelves - a skeleton of the place that had once teamed with activity. After Grayson’s death all the expensive equipment had been removed. Only the freezers and their contents remained. Until the government decided what was to be done with the cyborgs they would remain in stasis, caught forever on the thin, wobbly plank between life and death. They were all that remained of Project Lazarus - Dr Grayson’s pride and joy.

She mightn’t have agreed with the late doctor’s methods, but she had supported his ideas. Man and machine were meant to be together, not separate entities. They complimented each other, together forming a whole that was far more than the sum of its parts.

If Aileen ever attained sentience, would it want to be a part of humanity? Of course not. After realising what humanity had done to its planet, it would more than likely want to remove itself. And then what would Dr Bacall be? A god rejected by his creation.

Naomi laughed at the irony as she let herself into the small, circular cryogenics chamber. She shivered, her grubby white lab coat doing little to protect her from the subzero temperature. Nevertheless she bore the cold and flicked on the lights.

Ten airtight sarcophagi lined the curved, womblike walls. Six were dark and empty, only four illuminated from within. Lazarus Cyborgs slept inside three of the coffins, their vinyl-clad bodies softened by the swirling, liquid mists. Heavy goggles covered their eyes and noses, leaving only thin, lipless mouths exposed to the outside world. They were perfectly intact, and would be ready for action as soon as the cryogenics process was reversed - if it ever was.

Naomi admired the creatures, but they didn’t pique her interest as much as the occupant of the fourth capsule. She knelt down beside it, located near the floor. Wrapping a sleeve around her fist she cleared a patch of condensation from the curved plastic wall.

Inside lay a different figure, its pale face relaxed in repose at minus one hundred and seventy eight degrees. She had come to know that visage as well as her own; every mark, every scar, every part of his enhancement. Because of her knowledge of robotics, she had been called in to help Dr Grayson transform the mangled remains of this man into a superhuman cyborg. Then she had performed the same operations on the Lazarus Cyborgs and finally on the doctor himself.

Cables trailed from the left side of the cyborg’s head, from delicate circuitry now exposed and dead. An image enhancer covered the creature’s left eye, and another cord ran down his face to his throat, disappearing beneath a segmented metal collar protecting his neck. There was a gaping hole in his stomach, and through the mist Naomi could see the artificial internal organs she had helped Grayson insert; his heart, battery and drug container. The creature’s mechanical right arm lay still beside him, his own flesh covering the upper part. The lower consisted of six guns and a murderous three-fingered claw, still with red stains on the tips. That arm had once hurled her into a rack of chemical equipment, so hard she had lost consciousness.

But she never thought of how badly she had been injured, only of how powerful the cyborg had been; how he had tossed her like a ragdoll. She remembered the creature smashing his way out of the cryogenics laboratory, hurling techs left and right like tenpins. He had crushed a security guard’s throat with one squeeze of his metal fingers. He had even beaten the enhanced Dr Grayson in single combat. And he had been damaged and in need of stimulants at the time. He had torn the doctor’s head off while one of the Lazarus Cyborgs was twisting a spear in his guts.

Naomi trailed her fingers along the icy glass. Mission - you are the next step in human evolution, not that stupid computer down the hall! she whispered. Don’t worry ... I will find a way to bring you back.

* * * *

Chapter 2

The Last Night of Delia Malone

Twenty-two year old fashion model Delia Malone lay on her side in the hallway of her flat, head lolling at an unnatural angle. A puddle of drool had collected under her slack red lips and soaked into the beige shagpile carpet. Long wavy hair hung over her bare shoulders like a blonde cloak, and she was wearing nothing but a pink satin nightie with pencil-thin straps.

Senior Detective Sapphire Stone knelt down beside the body and picked up one of its limp wrists, moving it left and right. Rigor mortis doesn’t appear to have set in yet, she muttered. She pulled a black, boxlike object from one pocket and pressed it against Delia’s dead flesh.

A readout soon appeared on a small screen. Surface body temperature twenty five point five degrees - that would make the estimated time of death approximately one fifteen. She moved up to the bruised neck and positioned the medi-scanner above it. It operated like a portable ultrasound machine, bombarding the area with harmless sound-waves. Soon, a detailed picture of what lay inside was revealed. Bloody hell, this woman wasn’t just strangled, she muttered. "Her neck’s broken. Or more precisely shattered." She nudged the head and it moved easily, connected to the body by little more than a thin rag of skin. Tiny bones ground together. Delia’s face expressed a mixture of shock and pain; her death had been brutal but very quick. The scanner reveals at least three smashed vertebrae.

Pocketing the little machine she examined the purple bruises on Delia’s throat. It didn’t take her long to come to a disturbing conclusion. Andy - come here!

She straightened to her full height of one metre eighty and stepped back from the body so her partner, Detective Andy Byrnes, could check the body out. Although she wore a grey, conservatively cut pant-suit, it did little to conceal the power and grace with which she moved. Only years of intense exercise could produce a physique a physique like that on such a tall, slender woman. What d’you think? she asked.

Yeah - the neck’s completely crushed! Andy agreed. Like it was shoved in a vice or something.

Now look at the bruises, Sapphire suggested.

Andy leaned forward, checking them out through his electronic magnifier. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, and he found himself relying more and more on the electronic enhancer. Finger-marks, he mused.

Notice anything strange about them?

He leaned in again, running the electro-mag over the purple marks encircling the dead woman’s throat. There’s one mark on the right side of her neck and four on the left ... They practically meet at the back ... Good Grief! Her throat appears to have been crushed by only one hand, Saph - One hand!

"One very large hand that crushed her voice box and shattered three cervical vertebrae when it closed."

How strong would someone have to be to do that? Andy gasped.

Extremely. Tucking a strawberry blonde strand that had escaped from her bun, Sapphire marched back down the hall to the front door. A duty officer in a leather jacket stood just outside, making sure curious neighbours couldn’t see what was happening within. A buzz of excited conversation reached the detectives’ ears.

Andy pushed himself to his feet and straightened, rubbing the small of his back. At forty nine, the physical exertion and long hours were starting to weigh on him. Every day he found more grey hairs peppering his golden-brown buzz-cut. This killer really must have been eating his greens! he called after Sapphire.

Ignoring Andy’s lame attempt at humour, Saph tapped the duty cop on a broad shoulder. Any sign of forced entry?

He turned, a little disturbed by the fact that he had to look up at this stern-faced woman. None, Detective. Our scanners found no evidence of tampering with the lock, normal or electronic. Ms Malone could have let the killer in.

If he was someone she knew, that would explain the look of surprise on her face, Saph muttered, more to herself than the duty officer. She pushed past him and stepped out into the crowded corridor.

Neighbours in dressing-gowns and pyjamas jammed the narrow, carpeted hall. Sergeant Vitomirov and Senior Constable Charles were currently interviewing the white-haired woman who lived directly below Delia Malone’s flat. Tears streaked her cheeks as she poured out her story.

I live right under Ms Malone, and I have very sensitive hearing, she sniffed. Her wild antics used to keep me awake at night sometimes, especially when that good-for-nothing playboy boyfriend of hers came over. She dabbed at her watery eyes with a lace-edged hanky. They used to run all over the unit, laughing and squealing like children. She gulped, suddenly feeling guilty for all her dark thoughts.

Did her boyfriend come over tonight? asked Sergeant Vitomirov.

"Someone came over. I heard Delia’s doorbell - she has one of those annoying buzzers - and then she let whoever it was inside. I ... I didn’t hear his footsteps. Delia said something - I didn’t hear what. Then there was this loud thump ... I-I suppose it could have been the sound of Delia’s body falling onto the floor. At the time I didn’t think anything of it." She swallowed again, tears overwhelming her. Senior Constable Charles patted her on a shoulder.

A tall, blonde man in a trench-coat standing behind the sobbing woman nervously cleared his throat. He was almost as pale as she was. Um ... excuse me, I’m the one who found her body.

The sergeant turned to face him, and he gulped, realising that all attention was on him. Okay. Well, I’d just come back from my shift and I noticed the door to Delia’s flat was slightly open. I ... I thought this was odd, considering the time of night, so I nudged it open to check on her. Then I saw her. She was lying on the floor just inside, and her head ... well, it didn’t look attached. That’s when I called you guys.

Saph stepped forward, gently but firmly pushing through the closely-packed bodies until she could stop beside the old lady. Excuse me uh...

Sandra Bailey, Sergeant Vitomirov supplied.

Excuse me, Mrs Bailey.

The old woman looked up from her hanky, now a soaking wet cloth. Yes?

Do you know the name of Delia Malone’s boyfriend?

Of course! Everyone here knows his name. He’s Alex Lavelle - star of that dreadful show Paradise Lost!

For a few seconds, the jabbering neighbours silenced. Saph gaped at the revelation. No wonder the hall had filled up like a football stadium on Grand Final day. "Really?’ she gasped.

Mrs Bailey nodded vigorously. He came over every couple of days to visit her, although I don’t think they were ever very ... serious about each other.

Fair enough. Thanks for your help. Saph pushed her way back to the flat.

She found Andy in Delia Malone’s lounge room, examining her phone. Listen to this voicemail I found, he commanded before Saph could open her mouth. He held the little phone up.

-Not sure if I’ll be able to make it tonight, a deep, liquid voice began. I’ve pretty tired. But I will be over tomorrow, I promise, and we can go over my new script if you like. How would you like that? See you then. Click.

Recognise the voice? Andy asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Alex Lavelle, she answered without pause. Star of Paradise Lost.

Andy’s pouchy face fell. You guessed that pretty quickly. I didn’t think you watched Paradise.

I don’t. Mrs Bailey outside said that Alex Lavelle was Delia Malone’s boyfriend.

Aw! And I thought I’d found the evidence of the century!

This may be the story of the century! ‘Popular Soap Star turns Murderer’! She gazed around at Delia’s sumptuous lounge room. Everything was pink and frilly. Even the landscapes on the walls somehow managed to look pink and frilly. She lost count of all the teddy bears and cute dolls in mob-caps and pinafores. Any idea where Lavelle lives?

Sunnyfield Heights - where else?

Then that’s our next visit. He’s our prime suspect.

Andy gaped. Surely not.

Someone came here tonight, someone Delia knew and let into her flat.

But Alex Lavelle? He’s pretty muscular, but could he snap a girl’s neck with one hand?

There are some pretty frightening steroids on the markets these days. Rich people have made it fashionable to enhance themselves with drugs.

Suddenly, there was a commotion down the hall and the detectives look up. The police photographers had arrived, and the tiny hallway became a circus as they manoeuvred around the body, trying to take pictures from every angle. When they had finished, Delia Malone’s body was zipped into a black plastic bag and removed. Detectives Stone and Andy followed it out, leaving the duty officer to finish up.

Outside, the crowds had thinned as the neighbours’ exhaustion finally overcame their curiosity and excitement. Rarely did something as terrible as murder happen in their peaceful little community.

Andy followed Saph out into the cold early morning. Stars winked down from a clear black sky, disturbed only by distant wisps of steam from factories. During quieter nights Saph often spent hours watching the sky, and enjoying the fact that she could see the stars. People on the Coast had only grim, grey smog above them, ever-present and always impenetrable.

On our way to Alex Lavelle’s can we stop and get a coffee? Andy massaged his brow with stumpy fingers. I’m rooted. I’m afraid to blink in case I fall asleep.

Of course. Saph led the way to their battery powered Enigma Hatchback, a compact three-doored machine painted a cheerful shade of green. She unlocked it by remote and folded her long body into the driver’s seat. The car was like her; neat, no-nonsense, no frills. No dopy bumper-stickers, no fuzzy toys dangling from the rear-view, no leopard-print seat-covers. It didn’t even have a music-player with speakers powerful enough to shake the doors off. Just the bare essentials. I could use a coffee as well.

Saph pressed a finger against the ignition pad, and the Enigma’s internal computer red her print. The engine started with a whine. Saph spun the wheel and backed out of the parking spot, pulling away from the hi-rise unit block. Soon it blended in with the hundred others that made up Leonora Hills. The buildings might have been pleasing in design, with curved walls, decorative balconies and beautifully landscaped hanging gardens, but they were all the same. Saph preferred her own suburb of Preston, where small houses nestled in semi-rural surroundings. So what if it took her an hour to drive to work every morning? It was a very enjoyable and relaxing trip.

So what d’you think, Saph? Andy asked, hoping to bring his partner out of her introspective brood. She was quiet too much these days. D’you think Lavelle did it?

Who can say? she answered evasively.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he did, Andy continued. Those Sunnyfield Heights snobs are always searching for new and strange ways of amusing themselves.

Saph laughed blackly. I’m sure they’re just like you and me. Now, make yourself useful by calling up Lavelle’s address. I don’t want to be cruising the Heights all night looking for a mailbox with his name on it.

Hardy ha ha. Andy dug out his phone and called up Central Office. It only took him a few minutes to contact the database and retrieve the information they required.

17 Sunnyfield Road, Sunnyfield Heights, he told her as he plugged the phone into the dash. He pointed to the map on screen. That’s right on the beach!

The navigator came on and started to provide directions.

Lucky Alex. I’m sure he paid well for the privilege.

You know, my Emma absolutely adores Alex Lavelle. She has posters of him all over the walls of her bedroom. Never misses an episode of Paradise Lost. She has all the previous seasons so she can watch them during the summer breaks. If Alex does turn out to be a murderer, her poor little heart will break in half.

You seem to know a lot more about the show than me. How about cluing me in?

Okay. Andy took a deep breath. Paradise Lost started about five years ago. It’s set on the east coast and focuses on the lives of a group in a neighbourhood called Wakefield - a made up suburb, I believe.

Set on the east coast? Saph gasped. I find that hard to believe.

Everything’s filmed in a studio, but they say they have done their research. And Alex Lavelle did visit the east coast when he was a teenager.

I’m sure it’s a very true-to-life portrayal, Saph declared, dripping sarcasm. She had read enough confidential material about the Coast to know that no Oasian writer could ever do it justice. Turning the wheel she pulled out onto the Great Oasis Highway, which would carry them into the very heart of the city. Sunnyfield Heights lay off to the right, on a small peninsula a mere ten minutes from Sunnyfield Boulevard.

Despite the hour, the officers shared the highway with numerous other vehicles; compact electric cars, large supply trucks that ran on alcohol, and the occasional hemp-oil powered machine from the sticks, rumbling along with a large cloud of sweet-smelling exhaust billowing behind it. As Saph wove in and out of slower-moving traffic, she noticed a couple of Enigma anti-grav cars, resembling hovercraft, riding smoothly half a metre above the tar. Their drivers were young and slim, dressed in the latest fashions. They rode with the tops down so the early morning air could ruffle their impeccably styled hair. Rich youngsters showing off their new cars after a night out.

And I used to think I had the very latest model, she muttered.

What’s that Saph? Andy asked. You’ve been a bit distracted tonight. What’s wrong?

It’s not every night you see a woman strangled by a grip of steel.

Sure, Delia Malone’s death was disturbing, but that’s not what’s bothering you. You can’t lie to me. We’ve been partners too long.

Saph sighed at the old, but accurate cliché. They had been partners for five years. Despite her best attempts to keep aloof, she and Andy had become best friends. She had once made the mistake of pouring her life story out to him.

Maybe I’m just feeling my age.

Your age? Andy scoffed. You’re only thirty six, for pity’s sake! Look at me! Forty nine with a bad heart and failing eyesight!

Yeah, but you have a wife and three lovely children - a life. What do I have? An ex who stole six years of my existence, and still gives me nightmares.

"Ah. Look Saph, thirty-six is still young. There’s a woman over in Old Alice who just celebrated her thirty fourth wedding anniversary - shortly after celebrating her one hundred and thirty fourth birthday."

You mean I’ll have to wait until I’m a hundred before I find true love? You certainly know how to make a woman feel good!

Andy patted her arm, marvelling at the muscle beneath her polyester sleeve. That’s not what I meant, Saph. You’ll find someone, don’t worry. You’re a lovely woman - when you let your hair down.

Saph simply sighed, depressed by too many recent late nights alone in her little Preston house, sprawled in her black velvet beanbag in front of the TV with a bottle of cheap plonk in one hand. Yes, even her furniture was no-nonsense. She lifted a free hand to the bun at the back of her head, into which she scraped her strawberry coloured hair every morning. Everything about herself was quick and efficient - low maintenance. No wonder men kept their distance. The modern guy wanted a woman who spent a lot of time and effort on herself.

A pink and frilly woman like dead Delia Malone.

Sometimes men are more trouble than they’re worth, she growled.

Settle, Andy growled. He was about to continue when a sudden gust of wind buffeted the little electric car. Looking up he saw a massive black anti-grav Enigma shot past with a whine of boosted capacitors. Two teenage boys sat in front, whooping and squealing as they weaved in and out of the traffic.

They just broke about six road rules! Andy shouted.

And if I had an anti-grav Enigma, I could chase them and give them a ticket, Saph exclaimed.

Don’t worry - I got a picture of their numberplate. She tapped the controls for her car’s inbuilt camera.

Andy chuckled. How efficient could you get?

Following the navigator, they pulled off the highway onto Sunnyfield Road, which wound its way down to the seaside through rolling hills lined with the most expensive of Oasian dwellings. Some were sickening displays of architecture that defied all laws of physics and good taste. Others were attempts to rebuild the fragmented past; several different styles rolled into one bizarre building. Private individuals hid their houses in mini-forests, leaving only high steel gates to greet the outside world. The new rich occupied freshly-built flats; tiny shoebox affairs towering above the main promenade.

Even at this hour Saph found herself reduced to a crawl through Sunnyfield Boulevard. Partygoers crammed the all-night cafes and clubs, and modern dance music poured from the mouths of underground dance venues, so loud it trembled the streets. Lights flashed on and off in myriads of colours, hypnotically describing dozens of different entertainments. A dancer in scintillating colours gyrated high above the middle of the street, cut off from the rest of the world on her own anti-grav platform.

That must have cost a bit, Andy muttered.

Yeah, right. Stop looking up her skirt.

A party of teenagers stumbled across in front of them, giggling and spilling their multi-coloured drinks. A shaven-headed girl almost fell face-first onto Saph’s bonnet.

Isn’t it past your bedtime? Saph shouted out of her window.

You’re not me Mum! the girl shouted.

Thank goodness for that! I’d have disowned you by now, you little brat!

Old bitch, the girl slurred, then stumbled off after her mates.

Kids.

Now you sound old.

Har har. Bet if that was your Emma, you’d have dragged her into this car by her ears!

Yeah, well - you got me there. Andy laughed. I wouldn’t let her anywhere near this place unless she was with at least six friends. Drive-through joint coming up on the right.

They pulled into the fast-food eatery, ordered a big, greasy breakfast, and then continued without stopping. Somehow they managed to squeeze out of the maelstrom and reach the beach, with its dark blue water sparkling under the starlight. Saph pulled to a stop in a carpark so they could cram their meal in peace.

A couple of swimmers were