The Future Doesn't Need Your Approval

By Lucien Romano

HOW DO YOU CURE TRUTH DECAY?
Our civilisation is failing, undermined by disinformation, deliberately spread by populist politicians and greedy corporations. Trust in authority and belief in science has never been lower, while our inability to deal with climate change threatens the entire planet.

This is the problem which confronts intelligence officer Alan Cunningham and his new colleague, the mysterious Madame Olga. But who is she and what does she really want?

THE FUTURE DOESN’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL is a collection of interconnected stories set in two very different worlds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucien Romano
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005099183

Lucien Romano

LUCIEN ROMANO is a Brisbane-based author who usually writes science fiction, but he could not resist the invitation from a former colleague to collaborate on her new book.SEX AS IT SHOULD BE is the result, covering in detail things no one else ever seems to mention, and answering questions you never knew you needed to ask.

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The Future Doesn't Need Your Approval

tales of now and when - an anthology

Copyright 2020 Lucien Romano

Published by Lucien Romano at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Acknowledgements

Robert Lulham – editorial advice

Fiona Walker – cover concept

Author's Note

All characters and events in this work, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

The Footsteps

In The Nick

Saviour Machine

Decision Day

Deus Ex

They Don’t Exist, So We Had To Create One

The Paris Match

You Never Know

Habeas Corpus

The Future Doesn't Need Your Approval

Harvester Of Lies

Intravention

Brave New Whirl

Natural Justice

Committee Of The Hole

Feast Of Eden

It’s No Endgame

Brief Endcounter

About the author

1. The Footsteps

You know the worst kind of mystery? It’s the sort which grow slowly from something small, and maybe pause every now and then, so you think it’s gone away. A lull makes you feel better about doing nothing to resolve the conundrum, but then it comes back more persistently than ever, until you’re on edge and alert for it, instead of getting on with what you’re supposed to be doing, which is not letting other stuff divert you, because in truth, the mystery is no big drama.

My last job forced me to move when it was over. I’d been told to lie low for a while and found myself living in the sort of inner-city apartment block which provided anonymity and an unobtrusive lifestyle. I could come and go at odd times of day without arousing anyone’s interest. The apartment wasn’t my kind of thing, being sleekly minimalist, but it also gave no one any clues about me. Not that I ever invited anyone in, but, you know, professionals would spot a higher level of security and wonder why. I had to leave the place vulnerable and ensure it was always clean.

They were barely audible unless it was late at night and the whole building was quiet. Just footsteps on carpet: thud-thud-thud, pause, thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud. Nothing loud enough to complain about, only someone moving around in the apartment above. It sometimes went on for so long I grew used to it and tuned out.

I did wonder, though: who does that? Who walks to and fro in their home doing heaven knows what, often for many minutes at a time? It wasn’t like they were pacing up and down, like a bored prisoner does in a cell. No, this was intermittent and random. Thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud, pause, thud-thud-thud.

If the footsteps were audible late in the evening, I’d go to bed and doze off without noticing if they were still going or had stopped. But then I’d wake up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, and as I lay there, waiting to get back to sleep, I’d hear them. Thud-thud-thud-thud, thud-thud, pause, thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud.

Who does that in the middle of the night? What on earth for?

Sometimes I’d hear them stop before I went to sleep again, and other times I’d drift off anyway. In truth, they were not that intrusive. But I did begin to wonder about my neighbours on the floor above. Who were they, and what were they doing?

There was no way I could find out casually, not without drawing attention to myself. The electronic tag I used in the lift was coded for my floor and wouldn’t allow me to access the others. I didn’t want to ask the building manager unless I could think of a suitably innocent reason. I could easily have stolen one of the master tags from his office, but Rule One of lying low was: never shit in your own nest, and especially not for something trivial and unrelated to work.

That also ruled out hacking into the building’s security systems, internet and phone lines. Ditto finding a suitable vantage point in a nearby building with powerful binoculars. I had to keep my phone with me at all times, and naturally, it had a location tracer. Turning it off wasn’t allowed.

Nor could I hope to meet my neighbours in the lift and know it was them. There were ten apartments on each floor, and I had hardly met the same person twice since moving in. That was why I was living here.

Periodically, but not predictably, the footsteps would stop for a couple of days and I’d forget about them. Then they’d begin again, and I’d start thinking about how to find out who was responsible, and what they were up to. The problem was how to do it without compromising my work.

I’d catch myself fantasising about my next meeting with Martin Boringmann (not his real name. I’d given him the moniker because of his authoritarian ways and verbal flatulence).

‘Do you need anyone trained in the next few weeks?’ I’d ask.

‘Bored are you? Well, it just so happens I’ve some new starts whose fieldwork skills could do with a little polishing up by someone with your years of experience. You’ll have to fit them into your current schedule, of course, and the budget is bugger all.’

‘No problem. I’ll keep it close to home, so my time and expense will be minimal.’

‘Whose home would that be? Your current lodgings, I hope. You won’t be allowed the use of any other company assets.’

‘Some interesting neighbours of mine should test your newbies’ skills, and it’ll be easy for me to keep an eye on them.’

‘Alright, send me the details and we’ll see how long it takes you to identify them all.’

‘I’ll need to see their reports. For my assessment.’

‘Hmm, I suppose I can grant you access, but it will be anonymous logs only. The metadata will have to be redacted.’

‘Fine. That’s all I’ll need.’

And it would have been. I’d find out about my neighbours, and Boringmann’s freshers would discover what my world was really like. There was a catch, though: it was never going to be that easy. Either Boringmann would ask awkward questions or some paperclip counter would suggest a slightly cheaper alternative across the street, which meant I’d end up reading tediously detailed reports about people I had no interest in whatsoever.

As it happened, though, Boringmann mostly solved the problem for me.

‘I am not here and I did not utter one single word of what I’m about to tell you.’

He deposited his ample derrière onto one end of the park bench and I resisted the urge to clutch an armrest, as if that would prevent him from launching me into the air.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘That’s why I left my phone at home.’

‘Good. Internal Security are checking up on us. But there’s nothing to worry about, because it’s only an exercise for their people. The whole thing should be a doddle for you, as long as you’re being a good boy and doing your job properly.’

‘Apart from this non-meeting, yes I am.’

‘Excellent. One of their teams will be trying to locate you. All they have is a street name, so play it straight and if you do spot any of their operatives, don’t be tempted to play any juvenile games with them.’

I nodded.

I wondered how he knew in advance of an IntSec operation. It could be as simple as IntSec’s head making a negative remark about Boringmann’s section, which prompted him to lay down a challenge: let’s see if you can catch one of my team then, clever dick. Boringmann had set me up as the target, but then tipped me off, so I made sure he looked good. This could be nothing more than an inter-departmental cockfight. That was fine with me. It would liven things up and might help explain my mystery.

So, all I had to do was play it very cool and normal, safe in the knowledge that if there was anything unusual happening in the apartment above mine, it would draw IntSec’s attention instead of me. The only unresolved issue was how to gain access to their reports. That would be tricky, even after the exercise had ended.

*

After a week of model fieldcraft, though I say it myself, I was sure I’d picked out most of the IntSec team without any of them being aware of who I was. More importantly, I’d seen none of them anywhere near where I was working. The most they’d discovered was my favourite deli, but I’d made sure it was a dead end. I knew its owners Ariadne and her son Nick well enough for them to let me slip out the back way. The narrow alleyway led to a department store’s staff entrance, which was always left open during trading hours.

Late one evening, I was lying in bed, thinking about the following day’s activities, when all hell broke loose. Or if not, a dress rehearsal for it. The footsteps had been quietly thudding about as usual, when without any warning there were several loud bangs, a crash and lots of shouting. Most of it was standard-issue law enforcement stuff (Armed police! Stand still! Hands in the air, now!) and the rest panicky people-being-raided exclamations of alarm, which sounded distinctly African.

It was coming from the floor above and I realised it was my neighbours’ apartment. I lay listening for another minute, before it occurred to me that I ought to do something. Like behave as the innocent bystander I was supposed to be. I grabbed my dressing gown and looked out of the balcony doors. Something fell past, presumably towards the bin area below. Then another, and another. The fourth one landed on my balcony with a metallic crash and fell apart.

Fortunately, I had not turned on a light, so I crouched down, opened the doors and retrieved a flat metal box in two pieces. Moments later, the service lane below was crammed with white squad cars and vans, flashing lights full on. I carried on watching the spectacle (shouted orders, people being shoved into vans and the like) as a good uninvolved rubbernecker would, until the vans began driving away.

Back inside, curtains redrawn and lights on, I examined my prize. It was a Cisco gigabit ethernet router. The top cover had flown off, the chassis was bent, and the motherboard had broken in two. I was wondering if I should risk photographing it, when there was a loud banging on the door.

‘Police. Open up!’

When I did open up, there were two plain-clothes dicks facing me, ID badges hanging round their necks. As I looked at them with a hopefully convincing amount of bewilderment, more pushed past to bang on adjacent doors. I relaxed. It wasn’t only me they were interested in.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Would you come with us please, sir.’

‘Why? What’s happening?’

‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Why? I was hoping you’d tell me what was going on.’

‘It’s just routine, sir.’

‘Oh, okay. I don’t know anything. Can I get dressed first?’

‘Come as you are, sir. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘Fine, I’ll get my keys.’ I stepped back into the apartment and the dicks followed.

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve no idea. It landed on my balcony.’

‘Why did you pick it up?’

‘I wondered what it was, what with all the noise and carry on.’

‘One of our evidence team will come and collect it. You’ll need to hand over your keys. They’ll be returned as soon as we’ve taken a statement from you.’

‘A statement?’

‘Purely routine, sir. A serious crime has been committed. It’s standard practice to interview everyone who lives nearby.’

A few questions taking a few minutes took until seven the next morning and I half hoped one of Boringmann’s runners would show up and tell the cops to let me go. But no, he must be playing it tight. As far as we knew, IntSec had embedded one of their team with the cops, because I’d figured out the raid was almost certainly a sham to flush me out. I passed the time studying the cops for clues that one of them was a plant, but if there was, he or she must be an ex-cop who knew how to behave. Eventually, they let me go and I had to beg a lift home, as I’d deliberately left my wallet in the desk drawer and couldn’t pay for a taxi.

Back in my apartment, it was obvious the place had been thoroughly searched by professionals. Everything was exactly as I’d left it, except for the Cisco router they’d taken. Real cops would have rummaged around carelessly, checking for drugs, guns and stashes of cash on the off-chance, while helping themselves to my coffee and biscuits.

I restrained the urge to contact Boringmann and ask what had happened. He’d not let me know the exercise was over and it would be typical of him not to tell me, simply to test my discipline. So I played it safe, made a couple of calls to cancel the fake meetings I was supposed to be having that day, made a cup of tea and went back to bed.

*

‘Well done, my lad. IntSec didn’t find you, or the safe house you’re running.’

Compliments from him were like unicorn tears. Gloating over a free bottle of vintage bubbly or good malt Scotch must have upset his normal thriftiness.

‘Thanks. How many of them did I pick out?’

‘Seven of nine. Better than par, I suppose, but two USOs means you shouldn’t get too pleased with yourself.’

‘Fair enough. Was that police raid just to make me break cover? The news is saying it was a bunch of Nigerian online romance scammers.’

‘That’s exactly who they were. As IntSec’s team hadn’t managed to find you, I took pity on them and agreed they could tip off the police. My benevolence also earned us a few favours, which can often come in handy when one needs to oil the wheels of inter-agency cooperation.’

And that was that. I went back to being custodian of a safe house. But what Boringmann didn’t know was I’d had just enough time to examine the Cisco router which fell on my balcony. I mean, if you’re an online scammer caught in a police raid, what do you chuck overboard and deny all knowledge of? Anything with a hard drive in it, yes, obviously. Guns, definitely. Drugs, good idea. But networking kit? That meant at least one of them knew the router was dodgy.

The front panel and case were from a current Cisco model, but the motherboard wasn’t. It was brand new Huawei 5G kit. What were Nigerian scammers doing with disguised cutting-edge gear? Unless the Chinese had set them up as patsies, to test how secure its undocumented features were. Did IntSec and Boringmann know that from intercepts before the police raid? If they did, maybe they were sending a signal of their own: that we knew Huawei’s kit wasn’t as clever as it was supposed to be. If not, they had just done the Chinese a favour. Or maybe they simply wanted to keep them guessing.

This was way above my pay grade, of course, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it to Boringmann at the debrief. In my job, it’s better for your career to keep such speculation to yourself, unless specifically asked.

*

As I was about to drop off to sleep that night, I heard them: the footsteps.

For fuck’s sake! I thought, how the bloody hell can that be happening?

Quickly, I slipped on a hoodie, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, then took the fire escape stairs down to the lobby. The manager’s office had a second door at the rear, out of sight of the security camera. IntSec hadn’t found any of my kit because it was hidden in the stairwell service duct. The lock wasn’t too hard to pick, and once inside, I helped myself to a master security key and access tag from the cabinet whose combination lock could be seen from the lobby window.

Back on my floor, I took the lift up one and let myself into the apartment above mine. It was in darkness, but the curtains were open and