Written by Ken Turner

“Given the choice between stepping into the unknown or remaining stationary and safe, we will always advance. This desire for progress is at our very core; enforced by our very evolution and manifesting every instant in the coursing of the blood through our veins.” – HON. ORATOR T. S. MEYER – CHAIRMAN OF THE FUTURE TECHNOLOGIES COMMISSION, U. N, 2072.05.10

This is not a Drill



Trapped and in total darkness.

It is obvious in hind-sight, really. Bad omens all aligned. Apart from the vigorous ethical debates and political unrest exacerbating the already strained social divide, today of all days I just had to wear these shoes. I doubt the designers had standing around for hours in a turbo-lift in mind when they created them.

Well at least it seems like hours. Whatever’s gone down was has certainly toasted anything useful. My watch, pad and coms – all completely lifeless. Even a few solid taps couldn’t wake them, though the loud crack of the pad against the wall probably means its sleep will be permanent. No contact. No work. No enternet feed. The only thing keeping me company is this song stuck in my head. I only wish I knew more than one line.

I’m sure they’re coming though. The constant echo of the emergency siren from the sub-levels is cause for hope. At least the vitals are online. The feint sound of metal being worked gently syncopates the siren’s rhythm. The rescue is underway. It’s just a matter of time. Really, there’s no need to panic and get all crazy.

Crazy? Now that would be trying to make sense of all this. There are too many unknowns leading to way too many possibilities. Facts and data – that’s what’s needed. Speculation is for panic merchants. Don’t assume the worst. At least until you can prove it, that is.

It doesn’t look good, though. I mean, this place is mean to be impregnable. What, with the long, short and micro defense arrays, it would take some pretty serious firepower to take out the compound. A quantum vortex? Hah, not likely.

Maybe an inside job? Yeah. That guy who bought me lunch at the mess hall. Way too many personal questions. Look bud, it’s simple – I work hard, I deserve to be in my position and I accept the sacrifices. Besides, nobody normal asks for extra anchovies. I bet the bastard is married too. No, no, no. Now that’s crazy. Don’t assume the worst. Really, they can’t all be married.

Ah! Keep it together. Don’t panic. Deep breaths. They’ll be here soon. Thought so an hour ago too, or was it five minutes?

“… Subterranean lock-down initiated …”

A flash of red light; ear splitting sirens; wincing pain; the gentle rock of gradual descent. Today is just full of new forms of hell. Focus now. Yes, the lift controls. Sub-level 8. Sub-level 9. What a relief. Moving, finally!

“… all authorized personnel evacuate to sub-level 12 …”

Okay. Straighten yourself up. The travs will undoubtedly be off-line. Need to hoof it. It’s alright, I can do it – never really needed circulation in my toes anyway. Just one foot in front of the other, back straight, head high and make an entrance. Better late than never, right?

“… This is not a drill …”

We are in Control



“… Identify …”

It seems a little over-engineered. Whoever thought that a meter-thick blast door was absolutely necessary when there’s five hundred meters of solid rock between here and the surface? Must have been awarded the Chancellor’s super-anal safety-design medal. Something for the politician types to feel proud of. Not that any will ever visit.

“…. Admin. Reg. – class 2, Josephine Kirkland …”

Meanwhile, every-day people who’ve just spend freak-knows how many hours trapped in a lift, with shoes that kill and whose bladders are about to burst have to wait for the ceremonious entry sequence: the metallic clunking and sliding of the locking bolts; the rising whir of the door activators; the rush of pressurized air as the first cracks of light appear.

“… Entry authorized …”

Here we go. After some desperate urinary relief, the first order of the day will be a quick caffeinette and then get to the bottom of this mess. It can’t be too serious if the emergency power and security systems are online. Won’t take me too long to bring it back under control. Probably just some debacle like a tech’s slum-crawling apprentice falling into the energy array again.

Stepping through the blast door reveals a passageway identical to the one left behind.

It was almost impossible to navigate this rat nest for the first few weeks, even with my pad’s nav-ware. No signs for security reasons. What a joke. It’s more likely to be a trap to catch the directionally challenged from finding a much-needed bathroom. Yep, down the corridor, on the left, just past the Control Centre. At least I’ve learnt something in the last four years.

Oh crap, here comes that assistant. Not now, don’t make eye-contact, just keep moving. You’re a woman on a mission. Let nothing stand in your way.

“Administrator Kirkland, Sir … uh … Ma’am … um … there is a problem with the …”

“It can wait. Unless your ass is on fire, I’ll be of no use to you for the next five minutes or so.” Okay, just keep moving. Past the Control Center, first door on the left.

“But … Administrator … you’re needed in the Control Center. The systems have overloaded, the communications are out and …”

“Don’t Panic! Get Davis to sort it out. Do you think that you can handle doing that?” Where the hell does HR find these yapping muppets?

“Davis isn’t here yet … and we’re only on skeleton staff. We need you to …”

“Alright, alright! This had better be worth it and you’re lucky it’s on my way.”

It’d also better be quick if my bladder has anything to do with it.

Don’t Panic



The door to the Control Centre is a portal to total chaos.

What’s going on? Frozen in place. Completely overwhelmed. Suddenly can’t breathe. Vision blurs and need to refocus.

Glance left – wall-screen flashing incoherent images and rapid cycling of windows. Glance right – burnt out remnants of the coms station and its former operator. Eyes front – the ghostly form of the holo-vis globe stuttering on playback: a slow spinning planet; a luminous flash; a burst of noise and repeat.

Starting to sway on the spot. Come on, hold your balance. Focus.

A figure crouching over the holo-vis panel, trying frantically working at the controls, looks over and starts barking requests. Wild beckoning gestures at least indicate his primary need, though the words lost momentarily to the peaked crescendo. A mixed noise-floor of droning security alerts with the wall-screen’s turbulent audio, punctuated by bursts from ruptured cables. Hearing is phasing in and out.

“… It’s all gone! …”

Hold it together. Eyes clasped. Don’t lose it now.

“… over here now! What are you doing? Help me with this piece of shit!”

Trying to move, but can’t. The room threatens to spin. Breakfast is lining up for an encore. Come on, center yourself. Concentrate.

“… stuck in a freakin’ loop! Watch! RADiX … the Meyer Station … Boom! Nothing left but vapor! See … and then back to the start. It was meant to be a routine recalibration, but …”

What? How? Who? Systems overload? Sabotage?

“… security’s locked us out. The whole system is whacked. I need the override code … Jo? Josephine? Snap out of it! Give me the code!”

This can’t be real. I know… a bad dream… or a training sim. Just close your eyes and count to ten.

“Jo? Oh great! You’ve completely lost it. No codie … no fixie! What do you want me to do? Just keep bashing the control panel? Will that make you happy? Flakey cow!”

One last bash jolts the system out of its loop. The initial flash is now followed by a chain reaction at stations across the planet’s surface – lighting up the sky. All other tracked objects in the vicinity flash and blink out of existence. Bases, towns and cities, all disappear as the wave passes.

For a moment, everyone in the room is transfixed, watching the shock-wave’s unrelenting procession. A voice finally breaks the silence and everyone turns to looks at… me.

“What have we done?”

A warm salty pool wells on the floor. Could today get any worse? I think I’ve ruined my shoes.

The room blackens, spins and tilts.

Thud.