Durand clambered through a hedge line and crossed onto a three-lane road busy
with autonomous cars and buses. He waved his arms and the autonomous
vehicles lurched to a stop—as he knew their algorithms required. Comcar
passengers shouted at him to get out of the road.
“What, you crazy?”
Durand could see nightsun searchlights already stabbing down from
approaching aircraft in the distance. Strobing police lights passed on nearby
blocks. Sirens grew louder.
Durand’s bare feet slapped across the pavement, moving toward crowds of
people—toward restaurants and cafés on the next block—and deeper into the
Central Business District. He loped along, wind kicking up his hospital gown—
his near nudity making him feel even more vulnerable.
Hallucinations be damned; he was propelled by instinct now. How all this
had happened wasn’t clear, but if he wasn’t brain damaged and imagining all
this, a police officer had just set him up. Set him up and reported him as an
armed escapee who had already killed two cops. With that added to the other
heinous crimes committed by Wyckes, he had no doubt the Singapore police
would shoot on sight. They’d have to assume he was a clear and present danger
to the public.
As futile as it felt, Durand ran. He needed time. Time to figure out who to
talk to. There had to be a way to straighten this out. But he had to reach friends
to do that.
Durand glanced up at Ping-Pong-ball-sized surveillance cameras on every
light pole. Facial detection would make short work of finding him. How long
would it take to load his likeness into the SPF surveillance system? Minutes?
Pedestrians stared at his bloody hospital gown as he passed by.
Durand wiped blood off his face and arms. More passersby gazed after him
and shouted in alarm as he fast-walked past. He hoped that he looked like a
runaway surgical patient.
As he rounded a corner, Durand noticed autonomous vehicles up the block
turning away en masse—avoiding the area. A synthetic voice spoke from a
passing car as its windows automatically rolled up, “Rerouting vehicle. Police
activity, this area . . .”
“Shit . . .” He was beginning to realize the foolishness of all this. Running
would not help him escape. At most it could buy a few minutes. Yet a few
minutes might help him find an answer.
The roadways rapidly emptied of autonomous cars as sirens surrounded the
area. Durand moved more calmly now as he tried to slow his breathing. He
passed cafés and bistros lively with a dinner crowd. A discordant alarm tone
sounded on every device in his vicinity. A synthesized voice announced, “Alert:
police activity in your immediate area. Be on the lookout for this suspect . . .”
Durand noticed people glancing up at virtual screens he could not see.
Others were gazing up at the sides of buildings, where he suspected the normal
AR ad rotation had been replaced by his likeness displayed forty stories high.
The same voice echoed on dozens of devices as he walked. “. . . do not
approach. Suspect is armed and extremely dangerous.”
Durand noticed his new strange face filling a lone physical screen still active
over a nearby bar. His image was bordered in red and marked “Extremely
Dangerous.”
While looking through the glass, Durand suddenly focused on a stranger’s
reflection staring back at him—a brooding scowl. An intimidating visage.
He raised powerful hands to the window—the reflection moving to meet
him. It was him. He could feel horror gripping him again, his heart pounding.
This was him. It really was him.
And even as he watched, on his forearms the lines began again to draw
themselves across his bruised skin—like something floating up from the deep.
Within seconds he had a full complement of black, red, and green Thai or Malay
letters, Chinese characters, as well as images of a nine-tailed fox on his left
biceps, a trefoil knot on his right. Another tattoo of Asian script on the left side
of his neck, and more running across his scalp. He was as menacing a character
as he’d ever seen on an international arrest warrant.
It had to be an LFP projection—a virtual trick. He shielded his eyes with his
hand—protecting against an unseen LFP projector, but the tattoos did not
disappear.
Someone shouted, and Durand turned back to the street to see someone
pointing at him from a café.
The synthetic voice could be heard all around him: “. . . if you see this
suspect, alert police immediately. Use the hashtag ME9_PURSUIT. Repeat:
hashtag ME9_PURSUIT.”
Others pointed at him. There were shouts of fear as the patrons of cafés and
restaurants moved away from him, even as they turned their LFP glasses and
thumbcams onto Durand. Pedestrians ahead on the sidewalk dodged out of
Durand’s way and collectively started filming him as they crossed the now
empty roadway.
Durand turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction—only to be met
with more pointing people and more thumbcams. He glanced up to see
searchlights of approaching police drones weaving between two-hundred-story
skyscrapers—en route to his location. The roar of racing police cars and sirens
converging.
Dozens of people filmed him from all angles. He knew what was about to
happen; crowd-sourced policing was kicking into action.
“Great. The system works . . .”
• • •
In the Singapore Police Force Operations Control Center on Ketam Island,
technical officers tracked dozens of virtual objects in their light field projection
glasses—manipulating their perspective with gloved hands.
Already the ME9_PURSUIT hashtag was trending in local social media, and
video streams were pouring in—pinpointing the suspect’s location with a
hundred different feeds.
Police software immediately identified the hashtagged video, pulled it from
public streams, and stitched it together into a live 3D video feed of Durand’s
chase from constantly shifting civilian perspectives.
The officers gazed down on the live 3D projection and highlighted Durand
in the shot. The system tracked his movements from there on. The police had
him zeroed in.
“All units, positive identification on Marcus Wyckes moving eastbound on
foot along Orchard Road.”
• • •
Durand noticed more people holding up thumbcams on the sidewalks ahead—the
entire city bearing witness, triangulating him. This was about to go very badly.
He fled the sidewalk, clambering over a wooden construction-site security
wall painted with utopian visions of the multihundred-story office tower to
come. At present beyond the fence was a fifty-story maze of exposed girders and
decking, lit up at intervals by laser sintering robots that were printing the carbon
lattice girders as they went. Work carried on around the clock.
Durand hit the ground on the other side, skinning his knees. He carefully
navigated in bare feet across rock-strewn soil and onto the concrete foundation.
Sintering flashes stabbed at Durand’s eyes, and sparks sprayed downward on
him from above.
Directed by civilian camera streams, truck-sized police quadcopter drones
roared overhead, converging on the construction site—blinding nightsun lights
stabbed down, bathing him in white light. A thunderous voice shouted from
loudspeakers, “Marcus Wyckes, stop where you are and place your hands over
your head immediately!”
Durand fled between robotic construction machinery as a dozen police cars
arrived beyond the perimeter fence on all sides of the construction site. He
jumped onto another inner security fence, climbing up and over it with
surprising ease. He was amazed at what the human body was capable of under
circumstances of life and death. He couldn’t believe he was standing upright,
much less fleeing.
Fleeing to where? was the question.
Durand could see body-armor-clad tactical police units streaming out of a
truck as it pulled up. They looked ready to deal with a terrorist attack.
Durand fled beneath the decking of the unfinished office tower, moving up
an open stairwell. He triggered several alarms on the way. Warning sirens
whooped. Robotic machinery in his vicinity shut down for safety, allowing him
to pass.
As he glanced down at the streets from the fourth floor, Durand could now
see dozens and dozens of heavily armed Singapore police surrounding the site,
with more vehicles on the way. In the air, large police drones descended from
between neighboring office towers, moving into support positions.
“Goddamnit . . .” Looking out, Durand realized there was nowhere to run, no
escape. And for what reason?
He caught his breath and pondered the situation. He needed to talk rationally
—to get authorities to understand who he was and what had happened. Lie
detector tests or some other method. There had to be a way to prove his identity.
detector tests or some other method. There had to be a way to prove his identity.
There had to be. Because he really was Kenneth Durand.
Durand heard boots clattering on the decking just a couple floors below—
could see the darting beams and shadows from tactical lights. He raised his
hands and began walking down the stairwell.
“I’m here! I surrender! Don’t shoot!”
Almost immediately a tactical squad in black body armor rounded the
stairwell. Startled, the point man raised his MP6. “There!”
Durand instinctively jumped aside as bullets sparked off the metal deck and
girders, the shots thundering in the partially enclosed stairwell.
Shouting of police. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”
More deafening gunfire.
Durand crawled up the stairwell and then broke into a run. “Stop!”
His voice was drowned out by more gunfire. Bullets whined past him as he
kept rounding the corners on his way up the stairwell.
In the lulls between, he could hear echoing radio chatter on his heels.
“Suspect in south stairwell.”
Durand ducked down as several shots came up from street level. One
snapped close by, and the others disintegrated in sparks against a girder.
“Hold your fire on the ground! We’ve got people up here!”
Exhausted as he reached floor fifteen, Durand moved at a crouch out of the
stairwell and across the metal decking. He ducked behind a pallet of construction
filament and tried to stifle his panting as he heard boots not far behind him.
The lead tactical team moved past in the stairwell, headed upward, gasping
for breath. He could hear a couple of them linger in the doorway—tactical lights
scanning the deserted floor. But in a moment, they, too, passed, clanging farther
up the stairwell.
Durand sucked for air. He glanced around the pallet toward the far stairwell
to see tactical lights approaching on that side as well. He took the moment to
move at a crouch between pallets—heading toward a third stairwell on the east
side of the building.
Behind him, tactical lights shined across the floor. Durand ducked into the
east stairwell as police spread out and more lights approached from below.
He broke into a run, panting almost immediately as he kept climbing.
Powered by adrenaline, Durand managed to get to the thirtieth floor before
he collapsed onto the decking, gasping for air. Covered in sweat, he could hear
the turbofans of the police drones thundering below. Flashing lights reflected
from the mirrored glass on neighboring office towers. Scanning searchlights cast
from the mirrored glass on neighboring office towers. Scanning searchlights cast
stark shadows everywhere.
Durand had no idea what to do. The extra minutes had clarified nothing.
Solved nothing. Surrender clearly wasn’t an option.
He dragged himself to the far edge of the thirty-first floor and hid behind a
refrigerator-sized sintering robot covered by a tarp. Durand caught his breath as
the noise and blinding lights of his pursuers closed in all around him.
He could see in the reflection of nearby towers that the police drones were
circling the building several floors below—their nightsun searchlights stabbing
out, clearing each floor. He knew they were scanning in infrared as well. Their
lidar memorizing the geometry and zeroing in on the movement of humanshaped objects. The drones were large—bigger than comcars, with powerful
turbofans in cowls on each corner. Bundles of antenna masts on top, and arrays
of searchlights, cameras—and a pod containing both nonlethal and lethal
weapons—on the bottom.
Durand felt what little hope he had vanish. Wyckes was a cop killer. A
slaver. They would not take him alive. And as far as the SPF was concerned, he
was Wyckes.
Drone turbofan engines drowned out the radio chatter and shouts of
approaching police teams.
It wouldn’t be long now. He closed his eyes for a moment. How had this
insanity happened?
He thought about his mother back in Colorado. His brother and sister. He
should have stayed in the States. But then he wouldn’t have met Miyuki or been
blessed with Mia.
Then again, he wasn’t going to have them, was he? He was going to die
here. Tonight. As someone else. A villain.
Could he really just give up? He thought about his wife—and about his
daughter growing up without him.
He looked around. He was not going to simply let this happen. He had to do
something. Durand’s eye fell upon the tarpaulin thrown over the inactive
sintering robot. He ran his hand across the tarp. A thought occurred to him.
He crawled toward the edge of the building and, from behind a girder,
looked down at the drones rising as they scanned each floor with their blinding
nightsun lights. They were only two floors below—the closest one marked with
a bioluminescent number 16, its engines unbelievably loud. The air around it
rippling with heat distortion. Durand studied the half dozen antenna masts
clustered at the center of its upper surface, in the flat portion between the four
turbofan engines.
turbofan engines.
Durand looked lower on the mirrored face of the building opposite to see
reflections of tactical teams moving upward from the floors, close behind and
below the drone scans. He rolled back into darkness and grabbed the plastic tarp.
He started rolling it and wrapping both ends of it around his bandaged, thickfingered alien hands many times—linking his arms together. Muscular arms that
were now covered with a profusion of gang tattoos.
The turbofans of the drones grew louder as they ascended—scanning the
floor just below Durand.
He moved into a crouch near the edge of the decking and could see drone 16
edging in from the left—still fifty meters away, its searchlights and sensors
scanning for him below. He leaned out, while gripping a girder, and saw that the
police drone flew perhaps fifteen feet from the building.
Fifteen feet.
Durand looked below, at a thirty-one-story drop. A sea of flashing police
lights ringed the building.
He could hear the drone roaring in from the left.
Durand looked up at the nighttime skyline of mid-twenty-first-century
Singapore glittering around him. He soaked in the beauty of the scene, taking
one last deep breath of this life.
Durand stepped back ten feet or so, feeling more than hearing the howling
wind of the drone’s turbofans.
I love you, Miyuki. I love you, Mia.
With that, Durand ran and launched himself off the decking, across the
fifteen-foot gap. As he fell, he stretched out his bound arms toward the drone’s
antenna masts. His vision narrowed and the noise—previously so deafening—
suddenly dimmed.
His focus was total. Sounds muted.
Durand landed hard on the quadcopter’s broad back, between all four rotors
—knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t immediately tell if he’d succeeded
in wrapping his bound arms around the central antenna cluster. But almost
immediately he felt the drone yaw aside, losing flight trim. The world around
him started to spin.
Durand slid toward one of the four large rotor wells, but he was suddenly
jerked back by his wrists. He felt as though his arms were going to come out of
their sockets as he spun faster, veering this way and then that.
He gripped the plastic wound around his hands as hard as he could.
Suddenly Durand’s forearm pressed against a burning hot motor cowling. He
screamed in pain and pulled away from it as the drone’s spin reduced—though it
was still yawing from side to side. Durand heaved himself up and away from the
deafening rotors and toward the center of the drone. The machine veered a bit
more, trying to stabilize itself as Durand looked up and out at the world.
They had already gained altitude and cleared the top of the unfinished tower.
It looked like the pilot was edging away from all the surrounding buildings.
• • •
In the Singapore Police Operations Control Center, Technical Sergeant Zhang put
down his tea and tapped at alert messages on a virtual screen. His LFP glasses
gave him a full virtual reality view of the Central Business District—as though
he was inside the cockpit of the vehicle. Normally it was a view he relished, but
right now he was struggling to keep on a projected flight path as Tail 16 yawed
from side to side.
The software would normally find an optimal, safe route, but his bird was
suddenly behaving unpredictably. A series of anomalies had turned his virtual
board red.
“Lieutenant! I seem to have an undefined technical failure on Tail 16.”
He could hear his commanding officer take a seat and mimic Zhang’s POV
with headgear of her own. “Ground fire?”
“Negative. Engines and avionics are good. Uplink good, but trim is all over
the place.”
Error alerts warbled.
“I’m having difficulty keeping Tail 16 on the glide path.”
“Can you land safely?”
He considered the risks. “Negative. Not in the tight quarters of the CBD.”
She nodded and spoke into her radio. “AOC, Tail 16 returning to base on a
code 3-3-7. Repeat: Tail 16 returning to base on a code 3-3-7.”
Zhang heard her voice focused back on to him. “Bring 16 back to base via
the logistics airway. If you need to ditch, do so over water. Understood?”
He nodded. “Understood, Lieutenant.”
• • •
Durand clung to the deafening police drone. As he felt his adrenaline receding,
the true magnitude of noise and vibration on this machine was becoming
unbearable. Suddenly the engines increased in tempo, and he looked up to see
the two-hundred-story towers around him pulling away.
Durand lifted his head long enough to see that they were ascending and
departing the area. Looking behind and below, Durand could see several other
police drones and hundreds of police converging on the half-constructed
building.
He struggled to hold on as his own drone wobbled, then pitched forward,
heading across town and toward the north coast.
The entire city shimmered below and around him. After several minutes of
rushing wind, Durand realized the drone pilot was bringing them toward the
drone logistics highway that ringed the northern and eastern coasts of the island.
They’d dropped considerably in altitude as they turned to merge into it.
The logistics highway covered a fifty-meter virtual tunnel at roughly 150
meters altitude.
Durand’s heart leapt into his throat as the drone tilted forward during its
descent, causing him to swing around the antenna mast and hang from his hands
on the far side. This only accelerated the drone’s downward glide—which the
software immediately overcorrected for. Durand got swung around several sides
of the aircraft as it yawed this way and that.
By the time the police drone leveled out, he could see he was surrounded by
dozens of commercial drones of all shapes and sizes, soaring over the water just
off the coast. The idea was that if any of these machines fell from the sky, they’d
be falling on water, not taxpayers’ heads—at least for most of their journey. Plus
it was much safer than risking midair collisions over populated city blocks.
Looking to his right, Durand could see a Domino’s Pizza drone, an Amazon
drone, and several FedEx ones as well.
Gazing back at the coastline, Durand could see Woodlands—the
neighborhood he called home. He soon spotted the Hanging Gardens complex,
but it receded behind him in the night.
Rounding south toward Changi Airport, the police drone veered shakily left,
away from the logistics highway, descending on a glide path toward a well-lit
police aviation islet that Durand knew of. It was roughly a quarter mile off the
coast, near the Tekong military island.
Gazing down now, Durand could see he was about twenty meters off the
water and cruising along Singapore’s industrial coastline at seventy, maybe
eighty knots. There might not be a better opportunity to jump ship. He could
eighty knots. There might not be a better opportunity to jump ship. He could
hardly cling to the craft as it landed in the middle of a police base (if it landed
without crashing, that is).
Studying the dark water racing past below, Durand unlooped one hand from
the rolled-up tarp, and then—before he could even prepare himself—suddenly
slipped off the edge of the drone and into free fall.
He heard the deafening engines recede—then it felt like somebody hit his
entire body with a two-by-four. After several moments insensible, he started
clawing instinctively for the surface and burst forth gasping for air and
thrashing.
• • •
Back in the Police Operations Control Center, Sergeant Zhang reacted in
surprise. His entire control board suddenly cleared of anomalies. Normal flight
characteristics had resumed.
He frowned in confusion. “Lieutenant, the malfunction to Tail 16 seems to
have cleared. I’m fully operational again.”
“Return to base just the same. Let’s have the techs check it out just to be on
the safe side. Let me know when you’re landed, and we’ll review the black box.”
“Will do.”
• • •
In the water Durand oriented himself and started swimming back toward
Singapore. It was only a couple hundred meters away. Exhausted as he was, he
was thankful not to be fully dressed. The extra weight of wet clothing might
have pulled him under. He glanced back at the police drone. It was landing at the
distant base. He couldn’t stay in the open water long. Other drones might spot
him.
The short swim to shore nearly killed him. Several times Durand almost
slipped beneath the surface of the water, spitting out salt water. He wondered if
his wounds would attract sharks, but then remembered that there were hardly
any sharks left. He struggled, alternately kicking with his feet and pulling with
one hand against the water.
By the time the moon had crested the horizon, he tumbled through a mild
surf and eventually stumbled out of the water onto a trash-and seaweed-strewn
surf and eventually stumbled out of the water onto a trash-and seaweed-strewn
beach dotted with boulders. He crawled on all fours over debris in the darkness,
finally reaching a cement seawall that ringed the north coast. He collapsed
against it. He was shivering—not something he often did in Singapore. But then
the water no doubt was cold—a fact he hadn’t concretely noticed at any point.
Durand lay facedown on rotting seaweed and tried to gather the energy to move.
Parasympathetic backlash was hitting him hard now. He’d been running on
adrenaline for the past hour or more. He’d never felt such exhaustion. Durand
couldn’t even turn himself over. Instead, his consciousness drifted away.