Black Cat Weekly #57

By Mark Thielman, Dee Long, Chris Willrich and 7 more

Our 57th issue opens with an original tale by Mark Thielman, courtesy of acquiring editor Michael Bracken. It does triple-duty as a crime story, a science fiction story, and a dystopian story. All with a great punch. As for our other acquiring editors—Barb Goffman has selected a great tale by Dee Long, and (not to be outdone) Cynthia Ward has a real winner from Chris Willrich. We will have a contribution from Darrell Schweitzer next issue.

As if that’s not enough (when is it ever for the Black Cat?), we have gone back to the pulp era for historical mystery novels by Harold Bindloss and Nicholas Carter, and uncovered some classic short science fiction by Damon Knight, Frederik Pohl, and Jerry Shelton. Rounding things out is a rare historical Lost Race fantasy by Crittenden Marriott set in the always-spooky Sargasso Sea.

In coming weeks, expect to see more fun, with ghosts & goblins & things that go bump in the night — climaxing with a Halloween Spooktacular issue. Don’t miss it!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Future Tense,” by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Mystery Map,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Fool’s Gold,” by Dee Long [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Man Who Measured the Wind,” by Harold Lamb [novella]
The Intriguers, by Harold Bindloss [novel]
Nick Carter Rescues a Daughter, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Future Tense,” by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“A Wizard of the Old School,” by Chris Willrich [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“Definition,” by Damon Knight [short story]
“A Hitch In Time,” by Frederik Pohl [short story]
“You Are Forbidden!” by Jerry Shelton [short story]
The Isle of Dead Ships, by Crittenden Marriott [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667660066

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

FUTURE TENSE, by Mark Thielman

MYSTERY MAP, by Hal Charles

FOOL’S GOLD, by Dee Long

THE INTRIGUERS, by Harold Bindloss

INTRODUCTION

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 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

NICK CARTER RESCUES A DAUGHTER, by Nicholas Carter

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

A WIZARD OF THE OLD SCHOOL, by Chris Willrich

DEFINITION, by Damon Knight

A HITCH IN TIME, by Frederik Pohl

YOU ARE FORBIDDEN! by Jerry Shelton

THE ISLE OF DEAD SHIPS, by Crittenden Marriott

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

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 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Future Tense is copyright © 2022 by Mark Thielman. It appears here for the first time.

Mystery Map is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Fool’s Gold is copyright © 2012 by Dee Long. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Sept 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Intriguers, by Harold Bindloss, originally appeared in 1914.

Nick Carter Rescues a Daughter originally appeared in Nick Carter Weekly #186, July 21, 1900.

A Wizard of the Old School is copyright © 2007 by Chris Willrich. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, August 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Definition, by Damon Knight, originally appeared in Startling Stories, February 1953.

A Hitch In Time, by Frederik Pohl, originally appeared in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947, under the pseudonym James MacCreigh.

You Are Forbidden, by Jerry Shelton, originally appeared in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947.

The Isle of Dead Ships, by Crittenden Marriott, originally appeared in 1909.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 57th issue opens with an original tale by Mark Thielman, courtesy of acquiring editor Michael Bracken. It does triple-duty as a crime story, a science fiction story, and a dystopian story. All with a great punch.

As for our other acquiring editors—Barb Goffman has selected a great tale by Dee Long, and (not to be outdone) Cynthia Ward has a real winner from Chris Willrich. We will have a contribution from Darrell Schweitzer next issue.

As if that’s not enough (when is it ever for the Black Cat?), we have gone back to the pulp era for historical mystery novels by Harold Bindloss and Nicholas Carter, and uncovered some classic short science fiction by Damon Knight, Frederik Pohl, and Jerry Shelton. Rounding things out is a rare historical Lost Race fantasy by Crittenden Marriott set in the always-spooky Sargasso Sea.

In coming weeks, expect to see more fun, with ghosts & goblins & things that go bump in the night — climaxing with a Halloween Spooktacular issue. Don’t miss it!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Future Tense, by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Mystery Map, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Fool’s Gold, by Dee Long [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Man Who Measured the Wind, by Harold Lamb [novella]

The Intriguers, by Harold Bindloss [novel]

Nick Carter Rescues a Daughter, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Future Tense, by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Wizard of the Old School, by Chris Willrich [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Definition, by Damon Knight [short story]

A Hitch In Time, by Frederik Pohl [short story]

You Are Forbidden! by Jerry Shelton [short story]

The Isle of Dead Ships, by Crittenden Marriott [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

FUTURE TENSE,

by Mark Thielman

I almost had it, Terran Korb told his wife. He pounded his fist against the kitchen table.

Flora quickly slid a potholder beneath his hand to muffle the sound. Excessive domestic noise could easily result in the loss of Citizenship Points.

Terran appeared not to notice. I was strolling in the park on my lunch hour. The French hydrangeas were in full bloom. I wish you both could see them. The blue would be the perfect color for your room.

As Terran spoke to Flora’s belly, her eyes roamed the one-bedroom apartment.

I looked up, picturing the walls, and I saw it. Clinging to a trellis in the rose garden, trash. Wastepaper, just sitting there, waiting to be plucked like a ripe apple in an orchard. I started walking, moving quickly but nonchalantly, not wanting to alert anyone’s attention. Then, I spied a teenager. He’d seen the trash as well. I walked faster. He started running. I sped up. Maybe if I hadn’t been in a suit.

But inappropriate attire would cost you Citz Points.

Terran again hit the potholder in frustration. I had to keep to the path. The hydrangeas prevented me from a shortcut. The kid, he just ran across the lawn. I cut the corner on the last path and sprinted. I thought my lungs would burst. And just when I could see the paper in my hands, the little bastard snatched it off the trellis.

Flora patted his arm. She hoped to keep him from pounding the table. Maybe, she thought, she could put a towel on top of the potholder.

As I’m doubled over trying to catch my breath, the kid says, ‘better luck next time, old man.’ Then he wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash bin. The little bastard was barely breathing. He put his hand on his CP monitor, right there in front of me. ‘Could you feel that?’ he asked. ‘I just got another Citizenship Point.’ What the hell would a teenager need Citz for?

Flora could think of a dozen reasons why a young man might need Citizenship Points. They were the key to college admissions, job applications, apartment rentals, and even restaurant reservations. She chose to mention none of this. She knew that Terran wasn’t really asking.

And you know the worst thing? The Panopticon saw me cut the corner in the Hydrangea Garden. Apparently, I kicked the bloom off a hydrangea. I got a courtesy demerit and lost a Citz.

His wife’s lower lip began to quiver. We’re never going to get out of here, are we?

Terran stood from the table and pulled her close. Tears were never far from the surface for her these days. Don’t worry about the demerit. Say what you will about the Bureau of Vehicle Registration. With all the public interaction, it’s easy to smile and earn Civility Credits.

She pinched her eyes and dried them with the potholder. I know, but improving our lot always seems beyond our reach.

Terran’s shoulders sunk. If I’d only exercised more. I could have outrun that kid and earned Fitness Points too.

But sweetie, you know this neighborhood isn’t safe after dark.

Terran slipped back into his chair. He pounded the table again. The best apartments and the best schools want the best people. We can’t afford a good apartment with our Citizenship Scores. But to get our scores higher, we need to live in a better apartment. It’s cruel.

She pressed her hand against her belly. Silently, she implored the baby to wait. What can we do?

I’ll think of something, Terran said. He outturned the cuff of his pants, and a single petal of a blue hydrangea fell into his hands. Would you like the baby’s room to be this color?

Flora smiled, although her eyes still brimmed with tears.

* * * *

Riding the Underground to work the following day, Terran considered his choices. Ordinarily, he did not like having to ride the train. The Underground reminded him of his mediocre Citz score. The Citz set the interest on a car loan. Citz were, after all, a measure of social commitment. And social responsibility meant that a person could be trusted to pay his or her debts, so less interest was required. Terran couldn’t afford the loan at his level, so he didn’t drive. Today, however, Terran wanted time to think, and the train provided the opportunity. He could dream about a better life for himself and Flora, so long as his reverie didn’t make him miss his stop. Late for work might cost him a Social Reliability point.

At the station, Terran walked briskly to the Bureau. He lifted his head as he passed the pole camera of the Panopticon just outside the station’s exit and forced his face into a smile. The image of a happy and contented worker arriving early to work might well earn him a point. Terran did his best to hold the smile for the entirety of his walk. He did not know where the other eyes of the Panopticon were located. No point in undoing his feigned joy. Still, he sensed the futility of the effort.

He checked the Citz monitor on his phone—nothing.

Today, Terran hoped to find a broker.

Whispers and rumors suggested brokers could be found, shadowy figures who helped desperate people like Terran for a fee. He and Flora had debated whether they really existed. Flora argued they were an urban myth, unicorns for the hopeless. Terran disagreed. He’d seen the men and women who came to the Bureau to register new vehicles. They didn’t seem to be any different than he, yet they suddenly had the jump in CPs to enable a car. He particularly remembered the last fellow, Chance, a factory worker. When Terran inputted the registration data, he saw a sharp uptick in Chance’s Citz Score. He congratulated the man on his success. Chance had sermonized about hard work and sacrificed sleep. He chose to remain on the night shift at the factory to give himself more time for community service. To hear him tell it, Chance was the Horatio Alger for the Panopticon Era. Terran, however, heard the memorized quality of the speech. Terran felt sure he could guess what Chance left unsaid.

Chance would return this afternoon to pick up his registration certificate. Terran patted the envelope in his breast pocket. He would have to gamble.

The hours of the day moved at a glacial pace. The digital clock on Terran’s phone seemed to stand still. Chance had said that he would return on his way to the factory to collect the documents. Although the day outside looked gorgeous, Terran remained at his desk throughout the lunch hour, fearing he might miss his opportunity.

Late in the afternoon, Chance entered the Bureau of Vehicle Registration.

Terran hurried to the counter, elbowing past Kevon, the new guy in the Bureau. Back for your documents?

Chance grinned, the excitement evident on his face. Yes, I am.

Don’t suppose we’ll see you again after today. You’ll motor past the BVR without another thought of the bureaucrats inside.

Chance shook his head. You might see me on the streets. I’ll likely take the Underground to work. Don’t want the new car crushed by all that heavy equipment at the factory.

Your documents are on my desk. Just a moment. As Terran collected the paperwork, he slipped the envelope from his breast pocket underneath the registration form. Handing it to Chance, he maintained his grip. You know, I’d like to hear more about how you managed to afford an automobile. I’d find myself even broker than I am now if I tried to buy one. Terran placed particular emphasis on the word broker.

Chance’s eyes widened. He pulled harder on the paperwork, but Terran refused to release his hold.

Terran looked him directly in the eyes. He kept his voice low. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve penned a special congratulatory note on your success. It’s with your documents. Remember to check the brake or the other components. You’ll want to keep the car in tiptop shape. Terran released the paperwork.

Chance nodded and wordlessly left the office.

Perhaps the reference to brake or had been too cryptic. Terran had made lists of words that sounded like broker. That had seemed the best.

That night, he and Flora had argued. She’d checked the bank balance. They didn’t have nearly as much money as she’d thought. Terran told her he was trying to buy something for the baby. Flora’s expression told Terran that she didn’t fully believe him.

Chance didn’t return the next day or the day after that. As the weekend neared, Terran knew he’d been taken for a fool. As he shut down his computer on Friday afternoon, he decided he must act. He logged back into the system, this time as Kevon. He copied down Chance’s address and hurriedly exited the system. He scowled into the monitor and examined his reflection. Terran could do tough. He would find Chance tomorrow and make him disclose his broker. At the very least, Terran would demand Chance return his money. Perhaps he’d carve an IOU into Chance’s shiny new car. He knew there was a risk the Panopticon might spot him, but Terran felt desperate.

Then, Chance walked into the office.

I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed, Kevon said. I just hadn’t locked the door yet.

It’s alright, I’ll help him, Terran said.

Someone must be gunning for Courtesy Points.

Terran ignored the comment. You go on. I’ll lock up. He turned his attention to Chance. And how may I help you, Mr. Jaxon?

Chance offered a nervous smile. I’m glad it’s you. I believe that you helped me the other day. I think my documents have a typo. I’d hoped you would check. His hand held the standard Bureau envelope.

Certainly, Terran said. When he took the documents, he felt the folded slip of paper underneath. Terran smiled and pushed the note deep into his pocket. He felt relieved. Terran could forget about the planned vandalism.

The message in his pocket felt as if it were written in lead. The weight of it pulled at his pants. He resisted the temptation to glance at the note on the Underground. He barely acknowledged Flora’s presence in the apartment. Instead, he made straight for the bathroom. Locking the door, he carefully withdrew the small slip of paper.

Flora knocked on the door. Are you all right?

Something at lunch didn’t agree with me. Terran forced a retching sound.

Do you need a doctor?

No, we don’t want to risk the ‘Adding to the Social Burden Index.’ I just need a minute.

I’ll fix you some broth, Flora said.

Terran made another groan and then unfolded the paper. The instructions named an address. The broker expected him at ten the next morning.

Terran felt genuinely sick. The address wasn’t far from his apartment, the street even sketchier than his own. How could anyone with the power to help live there, he wondered.

* * * *

The following day, Flora advised bed rest. She’d seen his fitful sleep, heard his feverish moans. Terran disagreed. He told her that walking outside would help shake off the last remnants of whatever intestinal bug had affected him. Terran promised to return if his symptoms worsened. He hurriedly dressed and left the apartment before she could disagree or demand to accompany him.

Terran carried what cash he could scrounge. He had no idea what a broker, even one who operated out of the slums, would charge. The bulk of the money he carried in an envelope pressed against the small of his back. Terran had a few bills in his wallet. If robbed, he prayed the criminals would not search him. He kept the knife he’d earned as a Youth Patrol in his pocket. Terran hoped that any mugger might give him time to find the blade amidst the can opener, awl, and spoon attachments.

Even though he journeyed less than a mile from his apartment, Terran walked into a part of the city he’d never entered. He felt invisible eyes watching him. Although he saw trash on the street, he didn’t dare bend over to collect it. Terran did nothing to render himself defenseless or unable to run. Then, he came to a narrow alley. Terran paused and pressed his back against a brick wall. Withdrawing the directions he had written, he double-checked. They led him down the narrow, garbage-strewn passage.

He took a deep breath. Terran felt his heart beating faster as he entered the narrow space. His head felt like a swivel, trying to watch all directions at once. Terran came to a door, and a foul-smelling odor seeped from the other side. He felt a genuine retch inside his stomach. Terran clutched the small knife in his right hand and knocked.

A woman opened the door. The stench made his eyes water. Wordlessly, she quickly ushered him through a second door. He heard a seal closing the door tightly. Here, the air felt cool and smelled slightly of piney freshness. Terran breathed deeply and allowed his flopping stomach to settle.

The woman made a long exhale. Sorry about that. But the inspectors get suspicious if it smells too good in this neighborhood. We pump that stink into the airlock. Follow me.

She led him into an apartment. Terran paused. He couldn’t imagine entering a room like this through the dingy and disgusting alleyway. It looked like something from an advertisement. An artist’s eye had selected the furniture, a mixture of antiques and modern pieces. An aquarium filled with a mosaic of tropical fish lined one wall. Art spotted the others. He wished Flora could be here to see this space.

The woman gestured to a chair. I hope you like tea. She disappeared momentarily and returned carrying two steaming mugs. She handed him one. Tell me how I may help you, Terran?

He sat forward in his chair, frowning slightly.

She smiled at the unasked question. No one comes without being researched. I know who you are, Terran. My name is Birgitta. And I know that your grocery purchases include tea, usually Earl Grey. What I don’t know is exactly what you want from me?

My wife…we’re expecting a baby…

Congratulations.

We’d like an apartment big enough to hold a nursery.

And maybe a guest room when the grandparents visit.

Terran hadn’t even allowed his imagination to consider the possibility.

Astrid, Birgitta called.

A plain-looking young woman with mid-length hair appeared from a side room. She carried a small electronic device and typed rapidly.

Birgitta glanced at the results and snorted. Hardly worth the trouble.

Terran felt his frown deepen.

I fear you misunderstand, Birgitta said. Getting your CP to the level you need will be easy. We shall have you there in no time. You’re certain you wouldn’t like a better job? Boat? Car?

Terran felt the butterflies in his stomach. Just the apartment. I doubt I could afford your fee for more. As he spoke, he pulled the envelope free from his back and held it out to Birgitta.

Birgitta smiled. Keep your money.

Terran’s eyes widened.

Spend the money on a new crib and fresh furniture. Do you understand the Panopticon?

The all-seeing eye. It sees us and catalogs our behavior. Rewarding good and punishing bad.

Birgitta laughed. Your description sounds like Santa Claus. The Panopticon is a computer, a very large, very powerful computer. It is nothing more. Around the city are data terminals, usually cameras. The eyes. They give the Panopticon its name. There are also microphones. They track sounds. The system should be named the Pansensicon. Birgitta paused.

Terran nodded understanding.

A few of the terminals are public. They ensure order. Only fools misbehave in front of them. Most are secreted. I know where many of them are located. Of course, the Panopticon Authority is always adding more. So how do I get you the Citizenship Points you need?

Terran leaned forward.

I have you do good deeds.

Terran’s face showed his confusion.

Birgitta smiled. You attend the morning flag ceremony. You carry groceries for the elderly. You perform many small courtesies. When one knows the Panopticon’s algorithm, one knows exactly what must be done to enhance a score.

I’ve tried. I don’t have the time…

Birgitta raised a finger to interrupt Terran. If you had the time, you wouldn’t need me. In a few minutes, we will map your face and voice. Then, my associates will spread out around the city, as you. You will go places and do things you’d never thought possible.

Just wearing a mask?

A mask of sorts. Your facial and voice data will be recorded on microchips. Four chips on the face and one on the throat. Birgitta gestured to Astrid. I select my staff for their nondescript looks. No one in my employ has prominent features. The chip data overwhelms their facial characteristics. The Panopticon’s biometric software reads the chip data. It is a flaw in the system that I exploit.

And how do you find elderly people who need groceries carried?

They are right where we stage them.

Terran’s head spun as he considered the theater of it all. And what do I do?

Sit back and let the points accumulate.

I can’t believe you do all this for free.

Who said it was free?

I tried to pay you…

I told you to keep your money. But you will owe me two favors.

Terran frowned.

The first is payback. I’m doing you a favor, and you shall owe me one in return. The second is the vig, my commission.

Terran squeezed the mug. He feared what came next. And what will I be expected to do?

I have no idea. I promise it will not be something you’re not capable of performing. Many people ask me for assistance. My true value is matching someone with the right person to solve their problem. Someday, you will be the solution to another’s problem. On that day, I will call.

Does anyone ever refuse to pay?

Birgitta smiled. Envision the park near your office. Imagine my associate drunk, flinging his liquor bottles into the river and urinating on the hydrangeas. All the while singing the bawdiest song at the top of his lungs. Now, picture him wearing your mask. I can ruin a Citizenship Score in an afternoon, and my associates fight for the opportunity. It is the most fun they have on the job.

Terran’s tea mug shook slightly.

Birgitta extended her slender arm. Do we have a deal?

Terran thought of Flora and the baby living in the apartment they deserved. He knew he had no choice. Terran shook her hand.

Birgitta’s smile widened. Excellent. Astrid here will handle the face mapping. Birgitta stood. Have you chosen a name yet for your son?

I didn’t tell you that we were having a… Terran stopped. She’d known from the beginning.

This way, please, Astrid said.

* * * *

By Tuesday, Terran noticed the uptick in his Citizenship Score. Others did too. When he telephoned the bank inquiring about a loan, the response was immediate and fawning. The real estate agent gushed about the opportunity to upgrade their apartment and began scheduling viewings. She was happy to meet them after work.

At the Underground station with Flora, Terran saw Chance on the opposite platform. They exchanged nods.

Who was that? Flora asked.

A man I met at the Bureau, Terran said.

Flora narrowed her eyes and chewed on her lower lip. Then, she nodded. Flora never asked how they had acquired such a lofty Citz. She did, however, smile broadly as they toured the apartment with the two extra bedrooms and the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view looked out over the park, and she could see the elementary school just two blocks away. Flora patted his arm. He knew that she knew he’d done something to make this possible.

* * * *

Terran stretched his calf muscle while he waited for the Underground to arrive. Without the stress of trying to boost his Citz, he found it easier to lose weight. Terran had been able to exercise more. He remembered that kid in the park. Terran would love to race him again. As he leaned into the stretch, Terran saw a familiar face. He straightened up and walked to where the man stood. Chance, thank you for recommending me to that…barber. I can’t imagine being more satisfied. The haircut has been life changing. Just wanted to say thanks.

Chance’s eyes narrowed. Then, he nodded. The barber. I’m glad she worked out for you.

Still get your hair cut there? Terran asked.

Now and again. I’ve referred a few other customers too.

Terran saw his train arriving. Well, tell anyone you see that I think she does top-notch work. The two parted, and he hurried back to his platform.

Just after he boarded the train, Terran got the call. Birgitta explained that a client sought a favor. He owned a 1967 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray. He needed the Bureau of Vehicle Registration to list it as an economy car.

Terran’s eyes scanned the platform. Should we be discussing this over the phone?

Perfectly all right. My calls are never monitored. I have a friend at the phone company. Owed me a favor. About the car, the hit he’s taking on the Environmental Points is pulling down his Citz.

But it’s a gas guzzler.

You’ll figure something out, Birgitta said. I’ll never ask you to do something you can’t perform.

And that’s it. That takes care of one of my favors?

Half your debt paid. Have you painted the baby’s room?

I think you know the answer.

The blue was a good choice. It matches the sky. Do try to take care of this by Saturday. That is when my client would like to go driving. Birgitta gave the vehicle’s information and disconnected.

Terran stayed late at the Bureau. After the rest of the clerks had gone home, he accessed the vehicle registration database. Terran logged in as Kevon. The young man didn’t have a son who needed his father to have a job. Terran quickly found the Sting Ray and adjusted the pollution and noise settings. He backed out of the computer and did his best to brush away his electronic tracks.

The other clerks assigned his on-edge demeanor to the stress of an expectant parent. After two days, when Terran hadn’t been arrested or fired, he relaxed. Then, he became giddy. Somewhere, a man drove his dream car. He was happier. To help bring that joy, Terran and Flora were packing to move to their dream apartment. The net happiness increased. The Panopticon must indeed have recognized this, he reasoned. When he was honest with himself, Terran admitted that he also enjoyed the thrill of getting away with something.

He saw Chance frequently on the platform these days. Chance told him that he had taken a new job, one that allowed him to work during the day. He still rode the train, saving his discretionary credits for a boat.

* * * *

Terran pressed his arm against his desk and used his thumb to massage his triceps muscle. Moving the furniture around the new apartment, as Flora sought the perfect arrangement, strained his arms. She couldn’t do any more than direct at this stage of the pregnancy. He tried to keep working out the knots as he answered the phone.

I need a favor, Birgitta said.

Terran smiled. Like sending in the final loan payment, he looked forward to cancelling this debt. Someone got an old Buick they want to hang onto?

This is a little bit different. Do you still ride the Underground?

You know that I do.

There is a man who rides the train.

I know the type.

Push him off the platform.

The phone slipped from Terran’s hands like a wet eel. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled it to his ear. He shouted at the phone, certain that he had misheard. What did you say?

Yes, I need you to push him from the platform. Chance Jaxon has begun to act like he is my own personal recruiter. He has become a liability. We can’t have him blathering to just anyone.

You want me to push Chance?

You have the special gifts. You know Jaxon well enough to get close but with no emotional attachment.

I can’t.

Of course, you can. Do you remember that bit of government fraud you performed? You’re already a criminal.

They’ll see.

I know exactly where the blind spots are on the Panopticon. No one will see. And your debt will be forgiven. Think of how happy your son will be playing in the park.

Terran bit his lip. The hand holding the phone shook.

It needn’t be tonight but see that it’s done by the end of the week. Good night.

The phone went dead.

Terran listened to the silence, too stunned to speak. He’d call back and persuade her that this was foolishness. He looked at the Caller ID. The phone showed Anonymous.

* * * *

Terran skipped the train and walked home. He didn’t want to risk meeting Chance. He took long strides, barely aware of the distance, his mind lost, considering what the broker had commanded him to do. Terran couldn’t take another life. He walked further. But it wasn’t really killing someone. The train would commit the deed. Terran would merely set a course in motion. When he registered a car, he reasoned, he bore no responsibility if that driver recklessly killed someone. He simply began a process. Chance may well survive. Then, Terran would have fulfilled his promise, and all would be well.

He looked around him as he walked. The gleaming new buildings starkly contrasted with the apartment they’d left behind. He couldn’t make Flora go back, couldn’t ask her to raise a child in that environment.

He remembered the guilt he had felt when he altered the government records. His tongue licked his upper lip. Would this give him a more potent adrenaline rush, he wondered.

Terran pulled the monitor from his pocket and looked at his score. Could he push Chance? It might be different if the man were anonymous. Another registration to be handled. But they had spoken. Shared a laugh or two on the platform. Terran heard the laughter turning into a scream. He covered his ears to keep out the sound and ran. Soon his beating heart and gasping breath muted all other sounds.

He didn’t eat that night. When Flora asked, Terran said he had a great deal on his mind.

I worry about being a parent, too.

He had not corrected her.

Terran began taking a different train, arriving at work earlier. By Thursday, he thought that the new schedule might be his answer.

Long time no see, old man.

Terran felt a chill. He turned.

Chance stood in front of him, smiling. The smile quickly disappeared. Have you been ill? Your face looks gaunt.

Terran nodded and gently steered the man across the platform. Some virus. Had me down for a few days. Feeling better.

That explains the early train. Probably got some catching up to do at the Bureau.

Terran nodded. They arrived at the platform’s edge. He had maneuvered Chance to the blind spot. What’s new with you? Terran heard the rumble of the oncoming train. He calmed his shaking hand.

Same old, same old…

Terran didn’t listen. He moved alongside Chance. He could bump him off the edge with a hip bump, merely a quick shift of his weight. Terran pictured the apartment. Saw Flora smiling.

Settling into the new job…

Terran pressed himself against Chance. The headlight of the onrushing train pointed at them. Others crowded the platform. Terran grabbed a deep breath. He leaned into Chance.

The noise would drown out everything.

Run, Terran shouted.

Chance’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

The broker wants me to push you off the platform. You’re my second favor. Run. There may be others. Go.

Chance stood motionless, his face blank. After a moment, he grasped what he’d been told. He raced past Terran, up the stairs, and out of the station.

Terran drew his Citz Monitor and looked at it. He wondered how long before the score started to tumble.

He called his boss from the station and told her he was too sick to make it to work. She didn’t sound surprised. The office, like Chance, had noticed his sunken eyes and pronounced cheekbones. She told him to stay home and recover. You’ll need your strength to care for the little one.

Terran didn’t go home. He walked to a seedy alley in a disreputable part of town. He remembered to grab a breath of passable air before standing at the door. He held his breath until he’d been escorted through the airlock. He exhaled. Astrid led him to the sumptuous living room.

Birgitta floated into the room. I didn’t expect you to report in person. She sat across from him.

I couldn’t do it.

Birgitta’s face darkened. What did you do?

I warned Chance. I doubt you’ll see him ever again.

Her fist lashed out, striking his face. Terran felt his nose break. His eyes clouded. He fell to the floor.

Birgitta threw down a cloth. Get up. And don’t bleed on the furniture.

Terran checked his hands. Then put both on the arm of the chair and pushed himself upright.

You’re a fool. Do you think Chance won’t use a Citz point? We’ll find him soon enough. All you’ve done is make his last days miserable. The outcome won’t change.

Terran blinked, trying to clear his vision. When he did, he saw her sitting there shaking her head.

His outcome won’t change. But yours, yours has gotten far, far worse.

You said you’d never ask me to do something I couldn’t. I couldn’t push him.

Wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t is very different than couldn’t. Remember this day. Remember when all you had was lost. Birgitta stormed out of the room.

Terran walked back outside. As he passed through the airlock, he didn’t bother to hold his breath. He couldn’t smell through his nose.

* * * *

Terran walked for the remainder of the day. He considered returning home and confessing all to Flora but could not find the words. He paced the streets and hoped for some inspiration, some clear path forward. Once, lost in thought, he nearly stepped in front of a car. The driver swerved and honked. Terran jumped back, his heart racing. He’d nearly been run over. When Terran recovered, he considered the irony he’d just avoided. Then he looked both ways, lowered his head, and resumed his trudge.

* * * *

Friday, he returned to work. Terran did not see Chance at the train station. He’d made up his mind overnight not to hide in the apartment. When the world crashed around him, he would stand in public. At least that would make his co-workers whisper when they talked about him.

They stared when he walked into the office. Small dark crescents had formed under each eye. No one said anything as he walked to his desk.

A bit later, the boss summoned him to her office.

Again, no one spoke as he passed.

Perhaps you should work at your station. Let the others handle the front desk, she said.

Something wrong?

You look a fright, Terran. Can’t have you scaring the public.

He gently touched his nose. Tripped and fell. Clumsy. Flora packed me in ice last night. And I thought I was to be taking care of her.

Terran returned to his desk, unsure whether his boss fully believed his story. The other workers largely ignored him throughout the day. They seemed to sense the storm brewing within the office. Terran had been right. He could hear the whispers.

Midafternoon, two frowning men in dark suits entered the Bureau of Vehicle Registration. They opened leather cases and flashed identification to Kevon. Terran saw the glint of a badge. Kevon quickly ushered both men into the boss’s office.

Terran’s phone buzzed.

See me, please, the boss said and rang off.

Again, Terran felt every eye in the Bureau watching him as he passed. The others quickly averted their gazes if he sought to make eye contact. Instead, Terran focused on the desks. He noted the odd bits of personal memorabilia each Bureau employee kept on his or her workspace, photos of pets or children. Small private mementos of their lives.

At the boss’s door, one of the dark-suited men stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The man closed the door behind him. Terran noticed the holster clipped to his belt.

Is there anything you need to tell me, Terran? the boss asked. Terran heard the faint quiver in her voice.

He cocked his head and allowed himself to gaze at the ceiling. Then, after a deliberate pause, he shook his head. I don’t think so.

These men are from the Panopticon Bureau. They investigate fraud.

The taller of the dark-suited men stepped forward. You’ve made someone very angry, Mr. Korb.

Terran felt his hand begin to shake. He pressed it against his leg.

The taller man stood eye-to-eye with Terran. He produced an electronic wand and scanned Terran’s face. What happened to your nose?

Clumsy, Terran answered, afraid to say more. He felt sure that the crack of his voice would reveal everything.

Lucky fall, the other man said.

Terran looked over at him.

The man nodded. Without it, we’d have never known. He too walked over to where Terran stood. As he did, he reached inside his jacket.

Terran wondered what the bureaucrats would say when the Panopticon investigators led him out in handcuffs.

The smaller man, however, did not handcuff him. Instead, he produced a picture and slapped it on the boss’s desk. Recognize her?

Birgitta’s face stared back at him. He shook his head.

Well, she knows you. Deployed a group of lads to deprive you of every Citz point you’ve got.

Terran leaned forward, putting his hands on the desk for support.

They had your biometric data stored on microchips. But they misjudged your weight. Had you heavier than you are. They also didn’t know about the broken nose. That, likely, changed the timbre of your voice. The Panopticon alerted us to fraud. We were able to tail them and unravel the broker’s entire operation.

Then, as we’re setting up the bust, this fellow, Chance Jaxon shows up at our office. He’s a two-bit hoodlum, usually up to no good. But this time, he tells a story about how you intervened when the broker sent someone to push him in front of the Underground.

Very brave, Mr. Korb. The taller suit said.

I couldn’t let him die, Terran said.

The boss patted his hand. And you never mentioned a thing.

So many people out there posing for points. Won’t do a thing unless they know the camera is watching. The shorter suit extended his hand. Selfless people like you make those of us at Panopticon feel better about society.

Since we identified the fraud, you didn’t lose any Citz Points, the tall suit said. We could see you’d been working hard to accumulate them lately.

New baby coming, the boss said.

The tall suit stabbed a button on his wand. Terran felt his pocket vibrate. Mr. Korb, check your score.

Gingerly, Terran removed his phone from his pocket, holding it between two fingers like it might be hot. He looked down. His eyes widened.

Selfless acts of citizenship need to be recognized. We’re honored to reward you.

Another round of handshaking followed.

Terran’s phone buzzed, showing a message. Again, his eyes widened.

Terran, what is it? the boss asked.

It’s Flora. She’s going into labor. He looked at the two Panopticon investigators. I hope you’ll excuse me. I must catch the Underground and meet my wife at the hospital.

Nonsense, the shorter suit said. We’ll drive you there. We’ll run lights and sirens. I love any excuse to go fast.

The taller suit looked at Terran’s boss. He’s not kidding. You should see him on weekends speeding around in his 1967 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Thielman (markthielman.com) is a criminal magistrate working in Fort Worth, Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine, and a number of anthologies.

MYSTERY MAP,

by Hal Charles

Jill Preston could barely contain her excitement as she put the finishing touches on the Westward, Ho displays. The curator of the University’s rare book room, she hoped that tomorrow’s exhibit would be the crowning achievement of her tenure.

Just as she was about to switch off the lights and head for the pre-exhibit get-together, Jill glanced at the east wall, where the oil portraits of her five predecessors hung. The day’s butterflies had caused her to skip an important ritual. Because of the room’s heavy oak door, all five portraits were jarred askew when she closed the door every evening. Rather than call on maintenance for a solution, she straightened the frame and entertained herself by greeting each august figure with a smile to start the day.

The ritual complete, Jill closed and locked the door.

Have a great evening, came a voice from behind her.

Jill turned to see the familiar face of Howard, the library’s long-time security guard. How will we feel secure after you’re gone? And how will I make it without that smile of yours?

I guess I’d stay on forever if they’d let me, said the still-muscular guard, but the University has rules, and after the exhibit, I’ll be spending my days in my woodworking shop.

Well, you’ll be missed, said Jill as she headed down the steps toward the library’s deli.

* * * *

When Jill stepped through the open doorway the next morning, she was greeted by Estelle, her grad-student assistant, who was red faced and wringing her hands. It’s gone, Jill, it’s gone!

What’s gone? said Jill, stopping abruptly.

The map, said Estelle frantically. I checked as soon as I got here, and it’s gone.

The Lewis and Clark expedition’s large map was the centerpiece of the exhibit. On loan from Harvard, it was irreplaceable. If the map had been stolen, Jill’s and the library’s reputations would be ruined.

Jill raced to the center of the room to find the glass-topped display case empty. I took a few minutes to admire it before I left yesterday. Someone must have taken it during the night.

The door was locked when I arrived, said Estelle. It’s the only entrance. Who else has a key?

Let’s see, Jill said, pursing her lips. Besides you and me, Howard, of course, has a passkey. Then there’s Dr. Monroe, the dean of libraries, but she’s at a conference in New York.

What about the maintenance guys and the janitors? said Estelle.

No, they have to ask me for admittance to the room.

Estelle tapped her foot nervously. We’d better call campus security . . . or maybe the local police.

I wish the University could afford security cameras at places other than the library’s entrances, said Jill, quickly running through her limited options for action. If the police came, the press wouldn’t be far behind, and that would mean a public spectacle.

Jill looked up to see Howard coming toward them. No longer in uniform, he had a smile on his face. Thought I’d take in the exhibit, if that’s okay.

Howard, Jill said, we’ve had a robbery. Did you see anyone enter this room last night after I left?

Trust me, Ms. Preston, nobody except me came near the room till this morning.

Jill was frustrated. If Howard said nobody came near the room while he was on duty, she had to believe him. But the map was missing, and it was just a matter of time before she had to call the police.

As she surveyed the room, Jill’s eyes stopped on the row of mostly tilted portraits on the east wall. Walking toward them, she said, I believe the exhibit will go on as planned.

Solution

Jill noticed that all the portraits’ frames were, as usual, askew—except one. The portrait of the founding curator, Hiram Swift, hung perfectly straight. When she asked Howard to take down the heavy frame, she found the missing map secreted behind the portrait. The guilty security officer admitted that he was angry at the University for his forced retirement. His aim was to embarrass the institution, not to steal the map. Because he had opened and closed the heavy door very quietly so as not to alert the people in the nearby deli, the rehung picture frame had remained straight.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

FOOL’S GOLD,

by Dee Long

It was spring. Like bears out of their caves, we’d all crawled out our shacks and come down through the pines. Some of us hadn’t been off our claims in months, and we were all looking for a little antidote to the cabin fever that set in around the new year in Dark Timber and didn’t let up until snowmelt. I squeezed my way in through the door at the Pole’s and ordered a shot of