Future Syndicate II

By J Alan Erwine

Many would like to think that as our species evolves, crime will disappear, but most know this is not true. Crime has always been with us, and it always will. Future Syndicate II features stories told from the point of view of the criminals, sometimes bad people, sometimes people forced to make bad decisions, but always, in the eyes of society, criminals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: nomadicdelirium
• Release date: Feb 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463710975

J Alan Erwine

J Erwine was born Oct. 15, 1969 in Akron, Ohio. Early in his life he was exposed to science, and specifically astronomy. From there on, J's passion turned to science fiction, a passion that's never died. Due to family issues, J eventually found himself in Denver, Colorado, where he still lives (well, right outside now.) From the time he could put subject and predicate together on paper, J has been writing stories. None of those early stories exist anymore (thankfully), but that passion for writing has never waned. After several years of rejection, the story Trek for Life was eventually sold to ProMart Writing Lab editor James Baker. It wasn't Asimov's, but it was a start. Since that time J has sold more than forty short stories to various small press publishers. In addition ProMart also published a short story collection of J's entitled Lowering One's Self Before Fate, and other stories, which is still available. ProMart also published a novel from J entitled The Opium of the People, which sold a few copies before going out of print. The relevance of the novel after the events of September 11th caused J to self-publish the novel, as he felt the story had a lot to say in the new reality we now find ourselves living in. Now, this same book has been re-released by Nomadic Delirium Press. Eventually J would become an editor with ProMart. Then, after the untimely death of ProMart editor James Baker, J would move on to ProMart's successor Sam's Dot Publishing. J also spends most of his time working as a freelance writer and editor. J's novel was voted a top ten finisher in the 2003 annual Preditors & Editors contest, and his short story The Galton Principle won a ProMart contest for best story over 5,000 words. In addition, a number of his stories have been voted "best of" in various issue of The Martian Wave and The Fifth DI… and have been included in Wondrous Web Worlds Vols. 2, 3, 4, and 6. In 2009, the Ephemeris Role Playing Game was released. J is the co-creator of this game, and has written numerous supplements for the game. J has now sold three novels and four short story collections, all of which are still available from various sources, including Smashwords. J currently lives with his amazing wife, three wonderful children, three cats, and a very quiet turtle.

Book preview

FUTURE SYNDICATE II

Edited by J Alan Erwine

Published by Nomadic Delirium Press at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Future Syndicate II is a publication of Nomadic Delirium Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including physical copying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists.

The stories in Future Syndicate II are works of science fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

First printing February 2020

Nomadic Delirium Press

Aurora, Colorado

http://www.nomadicdeliriumpress.com

Contents

The Mill by David Castlewitz

Mister Chauhan by Eamonn Murphy

Super Fake by Ray Daley

Burning Down the Puta Mierda by Gustavo Bondoni

Masks by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Legal Ground by Gregg Chamberlain

Ladies’ Night by Jane Wilding Conveyed by Robert Dawson

Who’s In Charge Here? By Gerri Leen

Claim Jumpers by Doug C. Souza

The Mill

by David Castlewitz

A fight raged outside Andy Krupp’s cardboard shack, so Andy got ready to run before any walls caved in on him. He stuffed crinkly pink wrapping paper over the hole in the sole of his left shoe. He tied his savings – a few metal coins – inside a red rag cloth that he looped and knotted and secured around his waist, under his shirt.

He pushed aside the tire rubber curtain taped across the doorway and stepped outside. His canvas shoes pinched his instep and he dropped to one knee and shoved a finger under the tongue to get some relief. He'd gotten his footwear from the Treasure Drop, a nearby weed-encrusted lot where do-good outsiders dumped usable refuse. He still needed to find socks, but he had time. Winter was weeks away.

The argument between his neighbors settled down and Andy looked for the shaggy-headed eight-year-old he paid to keep watch on his house and make sure nobody pilfered his few belongings. Two mill-bits, printed currency bearing Old Man Brahams’ signature, kept Andy’s stuff safe while he worked at the recharging station in the mill’s basement. He just hoped he got a stint pedaling one of the generators today. Sometimes, he loitered around the station, waiting in vain to be tapped by a supervisor.

He calculated the day of the week. Wednesday would be tomorrow. Which meant a visit by Bucktown, the rent collector, who took payment from everyone with a lean-to or cardboard hut along the mill’s outside walls. Andy dreaded the sight of that bulldog-of-a-man turning the corner, his rocking gait and close-cropped blonde hair giving away his identity before he got close enough for Andy to see those signature front teeth.

But he didn’t need to worry this week, he thought, touching the sack of coins slapping his side. He had more than the required two-dollars for rent. Last week had been a good one. Dad would be proud.

Since his father’s disappearance nearly a year ago, Andy had learned how to be on his own. Like most sixteen-year-olds, he quit school and found work at the mill. With no skills to offer, such as welder, carpenter, or metal worker, he gravitated to the battery recharging station. He thought his slim strong legs could handle the physical punishment of bicycle pumping a generator for six hours at a stretch.

Best skill you got, Andy often heard from his father, is being ugly.

Andy knew his patchy complexion, a mix of dark brown and pink skin, offended people; and his close-set beady eyes had the power to unnerve. He tried not to care what anyone thought.

At the recharging station, he proved himself able to keep up a grueling pace. He kept the beat, too, perfect at timing his cycling rhythm to the pounding of the drum manned by a pace-setter sitting on a raised stage up front

Any of you losers been out to the avenue? the foreman shouted into a handheld megaphone when the drumbeat stopped. Andy’s line needed a new battery pack of depleted energy cells.

I been there, Andy said. He’d accompanied his father on several occasions, serving as a distraction when they wandered the stores so Dad could shop-lift.

Get over to Mr. Leon’s office, the foreman said.

Andy slipped from the bike seat. Would he make more money if he went to work for the Brahams, the family that ran the mill and held sway over the neighboring streets? It had to be an improvement over pedaling a charger. Giddy with excitement, he scurried out of the room and up the metal staircase to the first floor.

There, he paused and composed himself. He didn’t want to be some trembling kid ready to piss his pants when Mr. Leon, the head of the family, looked him over.

A steady stride took him past bales of aluminum wire, and he stepped over the steel tracks embedded in the cement floor, his arms swinging as he walked by the huge metal vats that were evidence of a past plastics industry. Elsewhere, splintered wood and battered fiberboard tables echoed the days when workers congregated in a cafeteria. Remnants of walls clung to metal pillars that rose to a high ceiling.

Several young men lounged on old living room furniture arranged haphazardly outside the patched-up cubicle that defined Mr. Leon’s office.

Ain't exactly muscle, Leon Braham said, coughing as a follow-up to his comment. The years had brought him a paunch and a circular bald spot as well as that cough.

He’s Big Crow’s boy, someone said. I seen him on the guy’s runs.

Andy grabbed at this opening. I know I ain't like my father. Not tall like Dad. No thick upper arms. But I'm a fast runner. I know the neighborhood. You got something to deliver? I can do that. I been to the avenue.

You with me, someone said, and Andy turned to look up at Bucktown’s toothy visage.

Go on, Little Crow, Leon said, using a riff on Andy's father's nickname. Andy took that as evidence that Mr. Leon liked him.

*

Four hot water heaters stood next to the wall. Thick cables ran from a humming generator, across the cement floor and up the whitewashed wall, and then into plastic conduits to deliver electricity to the building. Thick pipes laced the ceiling, crossing one another with near-artistic arcs and elbows. Chains and ropes dangled from steel hooks in overhead wooden beams.

Bucktown paused at an open stairwell before descending to the sub-basement. Andy followed. Kids who went this far out of curiosity or with the misguided notion of finding something to steal often returned bloodied, or with broken arms or mangled hands.

The last time Andy saw his dad was a year ago, around the time there'd been an explosion in the sub-basement. The Brahams had called for manpower to clean up the debris and Andy guessed his dad took the opportunity to make some extra money. Had to be good pay. Enough for a beer-binge, Andy guessed. What happened to his dad, he didn't know. He asked the men hanging outside the mill, but they just shrugged in response. Though someone said he'd been on a crew carrying several crates of smart-guns to the sub-basement. Disabling the brains in those guns had caused the explosion

Keep up, Bucktown said.

Where're we going?

I’ll get some other guy if you don't want the work.

Andy decided not to argue. In the back of his mind he heard his father telling him not to ask questions.

The stairway led to an empty space. Open doorways to several rooms ringed the area. Bucktown stepped towards one. Inside, a man sat on a spindle-backed wooden chair, a one-shot long gun on his narrow lap, a bandolier of bullets across his skinny chest. Clothing lay in heaps on a table.

Find some clothes that don't stink, Bucktown said. Wash up. There's a shower over there.

Andy hesitated. He couldn't afford to pay for a shower. He usually washed in the runoff from the mill's laundry, stripping naked like he did when he was a toddler. Privacy cost a dollar, which the head laundress collected for five minutes behind a wooden barrier. He couldn't afford to be modest.

Get in there. I ain't hanging with a stinker.

The guard spoke up. It's free. Shower. Clothes. He lifted a foot and tapped his boot. Got me these. He then hefted the weapon in his hand. Made of blue steel, with a wooden stock, the gun fired one shot at a time, which was ridiculous in a firefight with city cops or federal police, but deadly otherwise.

Do I get a one-shot? Andy asked.

Bucktown slapped him across the back of the head.

*

Andy followed Bucktown to an outdoor market across the street from the mill. The men and women at their stalls offered nods in greeting. A pair of men in rumpled jeans stood outside an apartment building.

You meeting with George Braham? Andy asked. He'd heard that Leon's younger brother now managed the market and collected its rents.

Bucktown snorted. You talk too much. As bad as your dad.

You knew him?

Bucktown stepped into a narrow alley. His jacket, only half-zippered shut, parted, and Andy saw a flash of silver-steel and polished wood. Not some slapped-together weapon made in the mill. This was an old-fashioned handgun, the kind that held six rounds in its cylinder. Though it packed a punch, it lacked the firing capacity of a fully automatic pistol. On the plus side, it didn't have smarts. Anyone could shoot this gun.

They walked through one alley after another. Bucktown set a fast pace. Rats scurried out of his way; dogs barked on the other side of cinder block walls. At the end of one thoroughfare, Bucktown stopped, his hand raised. Pedicabs and bicycles, along with slow moving cars and trucks, filled the street.

You ever been to the Eighth Street Terminal? Bucktown asked.

Andy shook his head. The transportation hub, alongside the river where 8th street came to an abrupt end, was worlds away from the mill. This avenue was as far as he'd ever come.

A line snaked outside a food pantry across from him. A sign above barred windows blinked on and off, advertising itself as Dollar Ventures. A cop-bot rolled down the middle of the street, inside the yellow line reserved for police automatons.

You scared? Bucktown asked. You gonna throw up? Don't do it near me.

I ain't throwing up. I ain't scared. Whatcha want me to do? That pistol for me?

Last thing you want is to get caught carrying a gun outside the neighborhood.

You got a gun.

Because I ain't leaving the neighborhood. You are.

*

Andy clipped shut the brass fasteners at the front of his jacket, all the way to his neck. He'd never been alone so far from the mill before.

He passed a cafe full of people, many sitting