Futuredebt - 6 - Forever and forever and forever

I’m releasing a novel called Futuredebt across 2024, letting it go one chapter at a time. The first chapters are available for free, but you’ll need to join my Patreon to read later chapters.

Click here to go back and read from chapter one.

How long do you stay when you know it isn't going to last? The future has told Kerry the man she loves today will not be the one she marries in the future. Now she has to decide what she does with that knowledge. Meanwhile, at the other end of society, Fi finds herself struggling with a world that seems to be working against her, pushing her into the heart of a revolution plotting to bring the system crashing to its knees. Futuredebt is a story of free will, self-determination and how small acts of kindness can be a catalyst for change.

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Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

Forever and forever and forever

She will drive herself when she returns to the place where you died. No more waiting around to be picked up when the bodies start falling. This time she spots a space next to a black Mercedes and a red coupe and slips in between. She can hear John urging her on, excited about what might happen when she steps inside the building with its huge machines churning that data streaming back from the future, all the way back to her. Who would have thought it? He insisted she take the car, putting himself on public transport for the first time in years. He was giddy with opportunity, his thoughts flying high on pie in the sky. Her thoughts remained stuck on that rooftop.

You looked beautiful that day. My dress hugging your figure, the silken air casting ripples along the fabric as you fell. She imagines it now as she sits in the car looking up. She will fill in the gaps left by memory. Embellish it. Make it perfect in her mind’s eye. Her own Ophelia drifting down a river of mirrored glass and steel framed windows.

The finished piece can never be as good as how she imagined it. She thinks of separating the building from the scrubland, you from the glass, the glass from its reflection, the subject from the landscape. What she is really doing is separating the fall from the end. She wants to hold you there at that moment before death, always falling. Never ending.

Forever and forever and forever.

Her fingers twitch on the wheel. Maybe she should go right now, she will think. Head to the studio and set up a new canvas - spend the afternoon working on your echo. It could be fun, painting something other than herself. 

But she knows her own limits. She couldn’t capture you. She is still trapped inside her own skin, painting the same damn self portrait every time. She knows it is the bluntest of all narcissism. Shallow. Self obsessed. Art is meant to illuminate the world but she can’t escape her own reflection. She’s thought it many times before, cursing herself in the dark while John sleeps beside her. Only ever painting herself. Maybe your final image is bright enough then she might at least hide herself within its glare.

She starts the car and shifts the thing into gear but doesn’t go anywhere. She sits in the car park, engine running, on the edge of escape. But she doesn’t leave. 

The rooftop. You fell. You died. That moment is etched into her, carved in her chest, an emptiness in the shape of you. But now she is invited to step back across the same threshold you stopped her crossing when you fell. Did you do it intentionally? Was there some reason you wanted to keep her out - something so important it was worth sacrificing her life to spare you? Or was it merely a common, garden variety despair that led you to step out from the edge? 

Either way she is back here, watching you fall all over again.

They invited her back in. What is she to them? John was caught up in the idea of James McClain, the singer was catapulted to the top of the charts after a company that had, up until that moment, dealt mainly in insurance invested heavily in his collapsing record label. Now a pop phenomenon. Could the same thing be about to happen to her? She imagines herself at Sutheby’s, paddles springing up like wild grass. She knows it is a ridiculous image. She knows she is dreaming. But dreams are powerful things.

She draws in a deep breath, turns off the engine and steadies herself in the present. 

It is time to go in. She draws up all the confidence she can muster and opens the car door - slamming the thing into the Mercedes next to her.

Shit.

She climbs out to inspect the damage. A triangular dent. Very noticable. A crack where the paintwork has pulled away from the metal beneath. She pokes at the bodywork as though it might simply pop back into shape, but it sticks rigidly to its garish new position. 

Shit.

The car park is empty. No one is rushing over to accuse her of vandalism. She could just leave. But they will have cameras. Everything is on film these days. She scribbles down her contact details on the back of a receipt from the bottom of her bag and leaves it wedged beneath the windscreen wiper. 

Outside the glass doors of the Cyan building, the concrete has been scrubbed clean of your blood. She will pause a moment before going inside, remembering how much there was. It was unnatural. Far more than one body could ever hold.

A receptionist in a blue suit welcomes her inside with a well-practiced nod of the head.

I've got an appointment, she says. 11 AM, Kerry Kesser. 

A look of recognition flashes across the receptionist’s face. 

Oh, god, he says. Sorry, yes. You were here when that girl... Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you OK?

I’m fine. Thanks.

You saw it all, didn’t you? How awful. I called the police, you know, he says. There’s not much we could do, of course, but the whole place came to a complete standstill. You know who she was?

She shakes her head. I thought she might have worked here, she says.

No, I don’t think so. They would have told us. No, she wasn’t one of ours, thank God. 

There is a look of pity on his face. Maybe they think that’s what you wanted: pity. Maybe that’s why they think you jumped. It’s OK. They don’t yet understand. But they will. 

After he signs her in, she waits on one of the ornate benches scattered throughout the lobby. She takes two paracetamol from a blister pack in anticipation of her oncoming hangover and swallows them dry.

Miss Kesser? 

A guy in his mid-thirties, dressed in a slim grey suit – a single button keeping it closed at the front. She stands. Miss Kesser, he says in confirmation. So good of you to come in - especially considering the unfortunate events that waylaid our previous appointment.

There is a eastern European edge to his accent.

My name is Dimitri, he says, offering his hand. I'm one of the account directors here at Cyan. I trust you found us alright today? 

Turkish? Could he be Turkish? No. Greek. Dimitri is a Greek name.

He invites her towards one of the doors in the back wall. So, we were meant to meet yesterday, yes?

Well, I made it here, but, well... 

Ah, yes, he says. We had to close for a few hours, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if you had a wasted trip.

No, it was fine, she says. 

He doesn’t know what she saw. He has no idea she was there.

They reach a door at the back of the lobby area and he holds it open for her. 

Just in here, please, he says. 

Inside is a windowless room painted the colour of coffee and cream. 

I won’t be a moment, he says and disappears. The door closes with a hermetic clip, dampening the sound inside the room in a way that makes her ears pop. 

There is a table with a screen and two chairs. Against one wall is a leather sofa. She looks at the sparse walls, wondering what is expected of her while she waits, though she doesn’t have to wait for long. The door opens again and the mellow sounds of the workplace are heard again. The gentleman in the grey suit is followed this time by a petite woman who introduces herself as Samantha, an associate account director. Whatever difference there was between her role and that of the man is not explained.

Well, she says. I am delighted to say that we are the bearers of good news today. Miss Kesser, you are aware that Cyan is FDF Recipient company, yes?'  

She nods.

And you are familiar with Chronocoin?

She nods again. Digital currency, she says. 

Good, says Samantha. Our job here at Cyan is to download it from the Future Data Flow and pass it on to its owner. Which, in this case, is you.

Me? 

Yes, she says without a flicker. 

The man gives her an excited rise of his eyebrows. 

You see, he says, it’s rather unusual for a private individual such as yourself to be named in a chronopacket. We normally get the name of a company or product that is meant for procurement. I think there’s only been a few hundred transactions of this nature in our company’s history, so we’re all rather excited to see what’s inside.

Inside?

Inside the coin, he says. 

With your permission, says Samantha, we'd like to try it today. 

Right. Yeah, I mean, sure. But I don’t really understand why this is happening. Like, who’s sending me money?

Well, he says, we won’t really find out the details until we get it open. It’s part of the timelock. It’s a security thing. Prevents fraud. 

How did you know it was for me?

It’s got your name on it, says Samantha. Along with contact details and a few other pieces of identifying information.

It’s really nothing to worry about, says Dimitri, his eyes on the screen. Nine times out of ten, it will have come from your future-self anyway. It seems a lot of people who come into money at some point later on in life like to send it back to the present to give themselves a helping hand when they need it most. Mortgage, business capital, that sort of thing. Are you in real estate or something? 

No. Well, we're looking to buy somewhere in the next year or so. You know, saving for a deposit, get our own place. 

Well that’s nice, says Samantha, as if she were expecting more. She clears her throat. Chronocoin tends to come through at opportune moments for people, she says. Maybe this is the boost that will get you on the housing ladder.

So, says Dimitri. Shall we?

He pushes a button on the terminal and flashes her a smile as a display slides up from the table. How does someone get their teeth so white like that? 

I don’t know if you already know, Samantha says, but each Chronocoin has a unique variable half life. That means it tends to decrease in value a little over time. We can exchange it for its Sterling value today, if you’re interested.

Yeah, says Kerry. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. This is just… just a bit too much at the minute. I need to get my head around it.

I completely understand, says Samantha. There’s no rush.

Dimitri leads her through the security process. They take a DNA swab from the inside of her cheek and compare it to the record embedded in the Chronocoin.

My DNA is in the code?

Right here, says Dimitri, pointing.

We just want to make sure everything's going where it's meant to be, adds Samantha. 

Dimitri’s hand hovers over the interface like a conductor unsure of the music. After a moment, Samantha lays a hand on his shoulder.

Dimitri?

He doesn’t respond.

Dimitri, she says with an uncomfortable laugh. Are we done?

Yes, he says.

Everything go through?

Yes! he says, shaking himself free from the screen, the smile returning to his face. It’s all good, he says. The coin’s open. Everything in perfect order. Congratulations, Miss Kesser. Er... Samantha, I think this is all ready for you to take over. If that’s OK.

Oh, she says with an edge of surprise in her voice. Yes, of course.

Dimitri stands up and backs towards the door. Samantha will see you through the rest of the formalities, he says. It was very nice meeting you, Miss Kesser.

You too.

He leaves the room and the door closes securely behind him, sealing them again from the sounds of the outside world.

OK, says Samantha, taking his place at the table. Just a couple more steps and then we’re all done. Here’s your data and over here… yes. Yes, we were right. There you go. Look here. The coin is from your future-self. 

She twists the screen towards Kerry, points to a twin set of digital DNA.

If you want, says Samantha, we can exchange it here and now for a currency of your choice. I can assure you our exchange rate is very competitive.

So this is me, asks Kerry, pointing at the screen.

Yes. This side is you today and this side is from the sender and you can see here how all data-points on the DNA line up. 

Right.

And it comes with the added bonus of knowing that you’re alive in the future. You’re practically immortal, Miss Kesser. Until you decide to send the coin, of course.

Seriously?

Well, it’s not exactly a guarantee. There’s a lot of things that could happen without actually killing you. But you’re still out there somewhere in the future sending this Chronocoin back to yourself now. Amazing, isn’t it? Look, I’ll print you off a copy of our offer for the coin and you can come back in your own time. It’s good for a week normally, though there can be some flexibility in the exchange rate over time. 

Does it say when I send it?

Hmmm?

The coin. I was wondering, you know, how long I have left.

Oh, right, I see. No. No, we don’t know the point of origin, chronologically speaking, apart from it has to be from some point in your own lifetime.

Kerry points to something on the screen.

Who's this?

Er, that’s the name of the sender. That's you - your futureself. 

That’s not me, she says. 

Yes, that’s you. Biometrics all match up. The coin’s open. It’s all good, I promise. Let me just print you off our offer...

Wait, she says, tapping on the screen. That’s not me.

Samantha squints as she smiles. The DNA matches, she says.

Not the DNA. Look at the name. My name’s Kerry Kesser.

That’s what it says.

But here, she says, moving to the other side of the screen. This says Kerry Faber.

Huh, says Samantha, bottom lip strutting out like a diving board. Oh. Right. Well, I guess that’s your married name.

Samantha looks towards the door and back again. 

John’s last name is Truman, says Kerry. 

Samantha seems frozen.

Why does this say Faber?

Samantha smiles helplessly.

Do I marry someone called Faber?

Samantha will look again to the door but no one is coming to help her. 

I’m sorry, she will say, her smile straining at her cheeks as she moves towards the door. I’ll go get you a print-out of our offer so you can go think about it. 

Kerry’s headache pulses from the other side of the paracetamol.

But I’m with John, she says.