Iapetus Shift

By Jonas David

Constant shape-shifting has damaged Olan's DNA so much that he's become dependent on expensive medicine--medicine he can only afford by continued work as a deadly assassin--which requires even more shape-shifting.

Now Olan has finally saved enough money to buy the cure, just one more kill is all he needs. But before he can get out of the business, it all goes wrong and he's forced into a different kind of job--kidnap a super-genius from a secret government facility on Mars, and transport her to a hidden base on Saturn's moon, Iapetus--by any means necessary...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonas David
• Release date: Jun 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463486689

Jonas David

Jonas David is a writer and editor at Lucent Dreaming magazine, and lives in the Seattle area. His stories have appeared in Fireside Fiction, Daily Science Fiction, IGMS and others. Additional writing and info can be found at jonas-david.com, and you can follow him on Twitter @thejonasdavid.

Book preview

Iapetus Shift

By Jonas David

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 1

Olan peered down through the skylight at the man he was going to kill.

Jep Crason, of moderate wealth and slightly above average power, was a board member at SedTec, a research and development firm. Olan's career had started with SedTec, in a way, twenty years ago. A part of him found it fitting that his last job would be to off one of their employees.

He'd done some brief research to see if he could find dirt on Crason—fraud or embezzlement or even philandering. It always interested him to know what it was that had spurred the hit. All he'd found on this guy was a long history of voting No at board meetings on every attempt by SedTec to open new testing facilities. It seemed it didn't take much.

Crason was roughly Olan's height—which made things easier—balding, and a bit portly. He sat tapping at a computer terminal, pausing to scratch his head every so often.

Olan remembered a time when he would have been pacing on that rooftop trying to psych himself up for the kill. Now it was just another thing he had to do to get by. A job. People die all the time, he thought. Olan would die too, likely sooner than most. It was just how the world worked; life fed on life. Death sells, and there's always someone buying.

He had to get to work.

Olan pressed a suction cup onto the skylight and slid the nanocutter out from a compartment in his right ring finger. It made a soft, high-pitched whine as he touched it to the glass.

Gusts of wind ruffled Olan's blond hair and snapped his maintenance jacket back and forth as he moved the cutter slowly along the pane. Olan felt a brief spot of envy for his victim; living in Olympus City—the capital of Mars—on the top floor, above all the traffic and smog with a clear view of the stars was no cheap thing. He wondered if Crason ever looked up to enjoy them.

Olan completed the cut and lifted the suction cup. The glass came out with the slightest scrape that made his heart pound like a machine gun. Crason didn't move.

The maintenance bag Olan carried as part of his disguise held a thin rope and a needle with a pressure pouch, his own design. The needle was made of bone, the pouch a soft leather. He held the needle so that it extended from between his ring and middle fingers, and the pouch rested in his palm. The nanobots in Jep Crason's bloodstream would be no match for the poison; Olan had seen Crason's medical records. He zipped up the bag and tied one end of the rope around the handle, then stood and dropped through the hole.

He landed directly behind Crason with the silent balance of a cat. Two steps forward and he slammed the needle into Crason's neck, squeezing his fist to inject the poison. Crason went stiff, dead before he could gasp.

Olan slid out the needle, carefully sticking an adhesive over the wound before any blood could leak out, then laid the man on the ground. And just like that, it was done. Simple, in the way that most kills were—but, this wasn't most kills.

This was his last job.

His stomach flipped with excitement, but the work wasn't done yet.

He stripped Crason, folding his clothes into a neat pile before dragging him to the bathroom and rolling him into the wide, jetted tub. He rubbed his face and tried to calm his nerves, then leaned over and pricked the body with a needle that extended and retracted back into his pointer finger in a flash.

Back at the skylight, he snatched the rope and pulled his bag down through the hole. It landed beside him with a soft thud, and he zipped it open to take out a pair of aluminum gloves that crinkled as he put them on. The vial he took out next sloshed with a murky, brown liquid. The vial was a large part of his expenses for each job, but when he did something, he wanted to do it right. Even murder.

He remembered when he'd just robbed people—people with so much money, they wouldn't even have to change their lifestyle afterwards. But the price of the medication rose faster than he could find bankrolls to swipe. The Olan of those days would have been sick to think about what present Olan was about to do with the vial in his hands. Now, his guilt had been worn down like the sole of an old boot.

Desperation could change anyone. His accounts swelled after his first murder, and there was no turning back.

He disrobed, tossing the maintenance clothes—made of all-organic materials like wool and cotton—into the tub with Crason's naked body, along with the bone needle and leather pouch. Then he threw in the maintenance bag and the rope and splashed it all with the brown fluid from the vial. The tub sounded like a pit of spitting vipers as he rinsed the vial in the sink.

He closed the door to the bathroom and focused. In a few minutes, he could wash what remained of the evidence down the drain.

A brief message projected on his electronic contact lenses let him know that the DNA he'd taken from Crason's body was done being analyzed. Olan slipped carefully into Crason's clothes. They hung loose on his wiry frame. He then sat down with his back to a corner that let him see the whole room.

He never got used to this part.

Olan let out a long breath and activated the program latticed throughout his epidermis, keying it to Crason's DNA.

The pain lurched through his body like a seizure. His skin convulsed and rippled as his cells reacted to their new instructions. He clenched his teeth, fighting not to scream. His vision blurred as his eyes adjusted their shape to compensate for the shifting structure of his face. Once the process was done, he'd be able to walk out as Crason and vanish. Crason would be a missing person for days before anyone thought of murder.

Pounding on the front door sent him springing to his feet, the skin on his legs screeching at him in protest. There was no way he was ready to be seen yet.

The knocking continued, and Olan heaved himself into the bathroom. He turned the shower on the brown puddle that remained in the tub, then looked in the mirror. His face drooped and twitched, slowly tightening and shifting into place. Maybe they would leave. Maybe they would hear the shower and go away.

Slam! The front door cracked, echoing through the room.

Olan dove to the tub. The running water had washed away the sludge that was left of Jep Crason, but his mechanical enhancements remained—evidence of his death. Olan scooped the pieces out and tossed them one by one into the small trash can near the toilet. A high-efficiency stomach, liver, bifocal eyes—

The door crashed open, and Olan heard the pounding footsteps of several men. Mr. Crason? someone shouted. Are you alright?

Olan narrowed his eyes. Why would anyone suspect that Crason wasn't alright? Something was wrong. If Crason had been fitted with a LifeMonitor, these could be paramedics. A LifeMonitor would send an emergency signal if it detected the wearer was in medical trouble, and a stopped heart would be plenty. But Olan hadn't seen one in the tub, and there wasn't one on his medical record. They were small things though . . . it may have washed down the drain.

It dawned on him that he'd been able to furrow his brow, and he looked to the mirror again. His face had settled down. It was still too thin and not the right skin tone yet, but it could pass as Jep. He could pull it off. His vocal cords convulsed for a moment as he triggered the program he'd made from months' worth of Crason's phone conversations downloaded from the tele-company's servers.

I'm alright, he called weakly in Jep's voice. I think I might have had a heart attack. He hunched his shoulders and leaned forward, letting the shirt hang down and hide his lack of a gut. He mussed what little hair he had, splashed some water in his eyes and opened the door.

Oh no, he said, gesturing feebly. You didn't have to go smashing things apart, did you? He sized up the four men standing in the room. He didn't see weapons but knew they were armed; it was in the way they held themselves, where their hands lay at their sides. And the way their eyes darted over entry and exit points told him they were cops.

Mr. Crason, are you sure you're okay?

Olan