Red Shift: The Odds

Chapter 1

An article from the September 3, 2108 edition of the Sydney Morning Herald, the last remaining media publication out of State control.

In the nineteenth century, the invention of useable electricity and steel brought about the age of the machines. It was the time of the second industrial revolution, and life for those of the time went through a dramatic change. No longer did travel between cities and countries take days and weeks; productivity at work increased from the use of lighting, electrical tools and machinery that could make materials and processes never believed possible.

The twentieth century eclipsed the developments of the nineteenth century, transforming the lives of people in the developed and developing world. Communication technology allowed people to talk across the world, in real time. Planes, ships and vehicles moved at speeds a magnitude of order higher than the previous century, allowing people and resources to travel the world. Cities developed into huge economic power-houses, changing the way societies developed and interacted.

It was early into the twenty-first century when the world learned they had irreparably damaging the planet. There were plenty of fear mongers and nut-jobs that had warned for a long time before, but their words were dismissed as nonsense. The terms ‘Global Warming’ and ‘Climate Change’ were now part of the vernacular of even the youngest children. Global economies based on money were now failing as societies realised they needed food and water more than stocks and bonds. The world was slowly shrinking again.

At the beginning of the twenty-second century there are few developed economies still functioning. Most countries and governments are failing, and people often revert to subsistence living. There are but a few strong economic centres remaining that rely on development of technology to make their production more efficient, or their commodities more valuable. Amongst them, Australia became one of the most powerful.

Just like England had once prevailed and used their strength to travel the world, conquering and colonising nations, Australia now holds a power that commands global reach. But Australia did not physically travel the world to take control; we closed our borders and focussed our efforts on building a stronger country from within.

This approach to globalisation was originally thought to be suicidal by the outside world, but by the time other countries’ economies began to weaken, and trade tariff’s increased, forcing countries to drop their own revenues to continue receiving resources they needed, Australia had developed our own micro economies, and sustained internal growth.

The people of Australia still need perishables and commodities we can no longer provide ourselves, but for that we are able to build strong relationships with nations such as New Zealand and the Pacific Islands. Though, to most of these other nations, the people know they are now well and truly just subsidiaries of Australia. The poor cousins that held their hand out to Aunty Oz, indeed.

Australia is, without doubt, the technological hub of the world. If you are a scientist or entrepreneur that has a vision for technology and development, you are in Australia. Development now seems to be creeping along at an ever slowing pace, it seems as though the bursts of development and breakthrough are slowing, perhaps for the last time. But just around the corner is the next giant leap, which will propel mankind into the next generation of pioneers and explorers. Perhaps.

The article seemed to be prophetic, in less than two years the world would indeed begin to change more dramatically than it had for generations.

It started innocently enough; regular couriers offered a bonus for delivering under the allotted time. Soon the bonuses became large, and couriers started delivering in teams to cover more ground and keep rival couriers out. The first teams were running low-risk activities, such as having dummy riders, the odd broken down car blocking roads, a bit of subtle intimidation. This continued for some time, largely ignored by the greater public, the odd headline of a road incident, one in but many for the week.

By the time the bonuses were getting to a week’s wages for a runner, organised crime rings began getting involved. Mild intimidation became direct violence, broken down cars became intentional crashes, hi-tech operators hacked city amenities and changed light sequences to either allow their man through, or stop a rival. The activity of Autohacking wass born.

The ensuing violence became a game to those with enough money to play. For the most part, these were the politicos and socialites of the city. People who had plenty of power, and even more funds.

To those grubbing the streets below, they were known as the Alphas. It was at the same time a term of endearment and an insult. In a society now built on communities working together to rebuild a lost city, they were the ones at the top, but also on their own. For now it suited both sides.

The Alphas offered increasingly high rewards, for ever harder tasks. To Alphas, this was still spare change, the real fun was the betting they made amongst themselves. At parties, groups of people gathered to wage bets, and then sent the request via secure links. Groups began ‘Bid Parties’, and had all manner of socialites on the list to create some entertainment in their otherwise vanilla worlds.

As the stakes grew ever higher, the requests grew more difficult and complex, and often involved contraband. The internet was no longer a safe avenue for transactions, shown evident by many high profile busts of Alphas and major couriers. The now established ‘scrambler broadcast’, an encrypted secure link satellite stream funded by an unknown source, was the standard for communication. The cost for access was high for both runners and Bidders, and the only way in was to be invited. The devices were activated using biometric scanners simultaneously checking DNA, fingerprints and retina scans. One false report and the device self-destructed, often taking the arm of the unauthorised user with it.

For years the authorities have tried to break into the ring but were never successful. The Alphas were all but untouchable, with any investigation usually resulting in the officer or detective being demoted to traffic duty. There was talk of corruption in the force but never confirmed. It was almost unanimously agreed by those that cared to discuss the issue that there was involvement to the level of Senators, possibly higher.

When the runners themselves were caught, they never spoke. Should any of them try, their accounts of activities were discounted by any one of a dozen ‘witnesses’, and their action destroyed any chance of them continuing in the industry, destined for the ghetto districts. If they were lucky they could make a living begging, if they were unlucky, they’d be doing that less a limb or two. Not many wanted to take the odds on that one.

As a runner, you worked through the levels of hierarchy, both within the company and with the Alphas. Some runners achieved notoriety amongst their peers, and fame with the Alphas. Although they were admired at times for their courage or ruthlessness, the admiration was more that of a pet than anything else to the Alphas; warriors in their own realm, but as insignificant as the dirt on their shoes to those that answered no one.

The activities of the Runners created a black market within a black market. Although what many of the couriers carried was outright illegal, it was more often than not the manner in which it was to be delivered that created most of the problems. To ask for a bottle of booze was easy, asking for it fast was harder, asking for it to be delivered with the prime minister’s finger prints on it was a whole other level. There is mumbling among the ranks that this has been tried more than once, but there has never been proof. Most put it down to bullshit ranting among runners to kill time, but a few are convinced that their activity is but a small part of a larger truth; that anyone can be bought, it’s only a matter of what you’re willing to pay.

Chapter 2

So Tyrol, what do you think?

Hell of a party Xan. I heard you knew how to make things happen, but this is phenomenal.

Tyrol looked around the room. It was the size of a ballroom, with old colonial architecture, sculptures of ancient Greek gods, velvet drapes puddled on the floor, and more marble than he had seen in any one place. The foyer also served as the main receiving room, with large sweeping staircases at each side of the room.

It was not as though Tyrol wasn’t familiar with this, he had grown up on the hill, so was surrounded by opulence. No, it was the presence of dignitaries, politicians, and even a prince, that was most impressive. Xan told him it was just a little gathering to welcome him to the Clan, but Tyrol knew there was more to it.

So, Tyrol, how about you come upstairs and we have a chat?

And there it was. Tyrol knew it would be no ordinary chat. What he didn’t know was that this was a pivotal moment that would change the destiny of many. The events that changed history, talked about by scholars and peasants alike, all seeded from one place. This was to be the seed that would grow a monster.

Sure Xan, it’s kind of crowded here with all of these beautiful women anyway. A wry grin appeared on his face, as he cast his eyes over the crowd.

My thoughts exactly, no fear, there will be time for this later.

As they walked up the twisting staircase, black granite bannisters contrasted the white marble stairs, Tyrol looked down to see a veritable orgy of bodies now swinging and swaying to the beat of music that seemed to emanate from nowhere, but penetrate every inch of the body.

Xan pulled the twelve foot tall doors to with a barely audible click echoing off the large portraits adorning the walls of the study. As he did so, the lights dimmed, and a wall across the room became transparent. Tyrol was looking straight down to the ballroom floor as though the marble clad wall had just vanished.

Don’t worry Tyrol; no one can see here, it’s just a nice effect one of my associates developed. There are a few dozen cameras outside the wall, too small to see, that capture all angles of light hitting the wall. They are then transferred to this wall by a laser-interference array calibrated to match the light frequencies from the cameras.

Very neat, could come in handy for making my car disappear next time I have the Feds following me home!

Way ahead of you my friend, but we’ll talk about such things later.

Now, as you know, the Ordained are the most influential business syndicate on the Eastern seaboard.

Indeed, hence my appreciation of your offer to bring me in.

It is the least I could do for you Tyrol. You have been a strong advocate for our way of life, and your heritage provides for certain accommodations.

The last word rolled off his tongue as though the deeper meaning in the sentiment were to carry an unsaid understanding. And of course it did, Tyrol would not be here without his father’s work, regardless of Tyrol’s own accomplishments.

The two of them stood in silence for a moment before Xan opened the decanter and poured two large glasses of whiskey, dropping ice in that fizzed for a moment. Tyrol was looking out the window at the clear sky. The stars were hazy, something Tyrol was frustrated about, in his otherwise perfect world. It made the sky look like you were drunk every time you looked up. Nonetheless, it was a clear night, and one to be remembered.

What you don’t know about us is that we are far more influential than most know. We have silent members across the globe, and with that, control over industries, and even one day, governments. From this day forward, you are to become a part of a New World Order. We have been building our ranks, our wealth, and our power carefully over the last fifty years.

I have an understanding of your foundations, father shared that much with me. But the depth and breadth of the organisation is a little surprising. I am suitably impressed that this has all been kept so private, but tell me, are you the Prime of the organisation?

Dear boy, I am but a cog in the gears of this machine. Albeit a reasonably important one, but no, I am not at the top.

And who may that be?

A person you will meet in due course my friend. No, I am the overseer of what the ants call Autohacking, and by effect the primary income earner for over half of our enterprises in this country. Xan paused for a moment to let his success resonate through Tyrol’s thoughts.

You see, we are well known to all those around us, in the cities and the country the same, but most consider us just a bunch of wealthy kids who inherited all we own. We like to keep that illusion running. Your rise to prominence in the region is no mean feat, but one deserving of such a valued member of the true society. Many more people respect you than you acknowledge, my friend.

Xan proceeded to outline the organisational links of the group. They had multiple streams of revenue. Most of the Autohacking clans and groups were directly controlled by the Ordained, the few that weren’t were either of little significance or were currently being taken out of the loop. Tyrol took this as it was meant; they were killing off the competition.

There were multiple angles they had on the activities. The most basic, and only one that was known to the public, was a form of courier service for items of both legitimate and not-so-legitimate purpose. They usually moved goods, but occasionally moved people, willing or not, and at times carried out specific tasks that were best not discussed openly. The money moved was large, but it was still the side-line, the ‘honest’ front to the group.

Next was the betting. There was, of course, the street scum that picked up courier requests on the scanner and took odds on who would make the run, but the real action was on another level. Among the Alpha’s there was a fairly formal ranking system for individual runners and groups. They could place secure bets on some runs, which were scheduled in advance. Of course the Ordained had more than a little hand in the result, sometimes taking out other runners if the odds weren’t quite going their way. This activity wasn’t directly linked to the Ordained, but there was a little suspicion.

The last stream, and by far the most lucrative, was the exchange of information. A lot of digital transfer of data was tracked or ripped off before it got to the intended recipient. Even near indestructible encryptions weren’t a hundred percent safe, as information was siphoned off then the recipient was blackmailed later. The Ordained couriered physical copies of information, often under the guise of less critical tasks, such as obtaining alcohol or cigars, from specific locations. Sometimes the courier may not even know what they are taking, in case they themselves want to get into the blackmail business.

The group already had significant control of much of the industry in the region, but were struggling to get much political traction. For that they needed more money, which they were working on presently. The one major sticking point was a group of runners called the Wing’Tan, who had a lot of local connections, and were hampering the aspirations of the Ordained. Xan wanted Tyrol to find a way to either expose or destroy the Wing’Tan through either the upper hierarchy known as the Leadership, or their chief officer, a man known as Seek.

With that, Tyrol raised his glass in a salute, and they drank in silence while watching the crowd below. After a few minutes Xan walked over to his desk and placed his empty glass down. He adjusted his bowtie, brushed his sleeves, and looked to Tyrol with a warm smile.

Well, we mustn’t keep the guests without company, let’s make a small address and get to know a few of those beautiful women you were talking about earlier.

Well, I’m never one to keep a lady, or tramp, waiting. The slight excitement in his tone was noticeable.

The pair left the room, and headed toward the pulsating rhythm of music in the main foyer.

Chapter 3

Stars swirled around the sky like fireflies fighting for their place in the world. No matter how you try to rationalise it, there was chaos. Both moons were swinging in tandem, like a pair of Newton’s Balls moving in a symphony of unison. That smoke is doing the trick perfectly, pity it only lasts a few seconds. Soon the fireflies began to settle, and in a vision of pure motion the moons merged into one.

Fuck me, I’ve got to lay off this shit, one drop and I’m flying higher than a fucking star-class pilot.

As confusing as those moments were after the event, at the time they took him away from the world he was bonded to. That bitch of a mistress most call life was determined to drag him back to reality. Soon enough the stars were back to their usual haze, interrupted only by the occasional cloud or random flash of light that no longer caused any reaction from him.

Look at yourself, elite soldier, husband, father, and all you have to show for all of it is this bag of second-rate drugs and a bike.

The thought wasn’t alien as he spent most days going through the motions of dealing with it. The loss of his daughter never really got easier to deal with, and his wife leaving him for his officer after he was dishonourably discharged for knocking his fucking lights out, was almost as hard to let go of.

But hey, still living, right?

His circular thoughts and internal flailing were broken by the broadcast, reading 400 credit bottle of Jack Daniels, Collect from Pussy Liquor in Ryde, deliver to 240 Irwin Drive, 25 minutes. Looking at the faint glow of the green LCDs on the bio-pager, Jack considered whether it was worth the effort. Looking over the city, with a red pulsing glow through the smog, he could just make out the hills behind the New City. Across a shitty plain of high buildings, roadways weaving through city blocks like spaghetti, and a dull droning noise he could never quite place to any machine or activity, stood the last bastion of society’s upper-class. The inhabitants having less in common with those below them than the smog filled sky had with the ocean to the East.

It isn’t the whole hill, no, just a select group of smug fucks that played with the regular people as though they were puppets.

Fuck it, he mumbled to the city below, If I stay here and look at this for any longer I’m likely to ride right of the cliff at you!

Flicking the ignition, he took a last drag of his hand-rolled cigarette, and whipped around to the road. Gravel and dust spun in a whirlwind creating a halo in the light of the full moon.

He still loved the rush of riding his bike. It was an old model fuel bike, albeit with some heavy engine mods. Nonetheless there was nothing like the feeling of nitro methanol burning under your arse. Especially when it was just about given away since most people were using those fucking gutless electric vehicles now.

As he accelerated, the world began to close around him in that familiar feeling some get as they are falling asleep. But Jack wasn’t falling asleep, far from it. The spike in adrenaline began a process he didn’t fully understand, but knew what it felt like. The world around him became iridescent shades of blues and reds. The thought of it gave him a flashback to high school. He only cared to remember a few things that happened during that time, mostly in fights or trying to be in love, and his lesson on the Doppler effect.

The Doppler effect, he remembered his teacher telling him, was most easily explained by the sound of an ambulance coming past. As it nears, the pitch of the siren increases, and as it passes and travels away, the pitch expands. It was caused by objects approaching relative to the subject having the frequency of, in this case, sound compressed; therefore more waves per metre, hence the higher pitch. Light is no different; as objects approach, the relative distance is shorter when light is emitted or reflected, and so the same light has a shorter wavelength, appearing blue. So as objects were approaching they appeared more 'blue', and receding objects appeared more 'red'.

It gave Jack a unique ability to sense his surroundings in a level of detail unsurpassed by anyone else he had met or heard of. It was handy, especially as he lived his life as fast as his bike, Betty, could move it. God only knows how many close calls he had had, but if each one cost the life of an angel, the world was surely in hell now. Some days it felt like it.

Had he been paying closer attention, he would also have noticed the glow from the comm device on the edge of the scrub twenty metres away.

He’s away, said a calm, steady voice, Modified old Ducati Panigale, 22G version, black, plates Two Delta India Echo.

As the phone clicked shut, the caller looked up with a smirk, turning to walk down the road. The only noise being the click of his heels and a rustle in the trees above.

Jack all but flew down the winding hill, corners blurring into one, dust swirling behind the bike, the light from his headlamp began to dim as the light of the city took over. The hills eased into long expanses of flat land, spattered with twisting motorways and large concrete industrial buildings. The familiar feel of his upbringing surrounding him almost made him lose concentration, just as a rust-stained old Toyota pulled out in front of him. He swerved over the centre line, the Pirelli tires squealing in protest as he swung the tail around, narrowly missing the bumper of an oncoming truck.

Fuck me, the first two vehicles I see in five minutes and they both try and kill me.

He straightened the bike up, checked his mirrors and knocked her down a gear. Another dead angel.

Coming in from the south to the twin cities was always an interesting affair. Aside from the fact that half the roads now ended in impromptu beach, there were all manner of undesirables in this part of the region. Perhaps that’s why Jack liked it, it was the un-sanitised, filthy, honest world that most tried to turn their back on.

As he drew closer to the populated areas, he could see people hanging around the streets. They were derelicts, bums and beggars mainly. He passed a man sitting slouched with his back to the wall, hat pulled over his face, and another on the ground in front of him. A cardboard sign read ‘munney’ sitting beside the hat. As he rode past, he remembered seeing the man yesterday, in the exact same position.

Pulling past an intersection, two girls opened their coats to show him their wares. One was about forty and had more wrinkles than a Serengeti elephant, but the most perfect round, large tits he’d seen for a long time. The other, no more than eighteen, had almost no tits to speak of but enough scratches, scars and spots to show she had been around this block longer than most young women have been fingering themselves to their rock star posters. He pondered the idea for a minute, but thought better than to get a nasty case of whatever the hell those girls had inside them. Once was enough.

Jack pulled into a bottle store affectionately called ‘Pussy Liquor’, stopping near the far end of the car park. Not the most time-efficient place to park, but he knew there would be cameras in the shop, and he didn’t need any more pictures of his ride in police stations than they already had;

The fuckers had near instant plate recognition software these days. Times are getting tougher.

Walking across the car park he saw only one car, a Dodge Challenger, matt black faded paint, parked half on the kerb near the entry. The car looked much like the shop it was in front of, in that they were both run down pieces of shit.

The only clientele these places usually saw were crack-whores and derros looking for a cheap cask of wine or bottle of ethanol masquerading as Russia’s finest. He hated going into them without casing the area first; he’d rather go somewhere else. But this location was noted on the order and they always knew exactly where things came from.

As the doors swung open, a blast of cold air pushed past his face. The bright fluorescent lamps were a stark contrast to the dim glow of the few flickering street lamps behind. The first few rows were the usual cheap wines and beers, looking toward the back he could see the counter, and the whiskey.

The torn linoleum floor was a memorial to the last millennium, and with it, the faded painted walls.

Who the fuck uses paint on their walls anyway?

Still, it matched the rest of the dated décor, including the flickering light Jack was walking under.

As Jack strolled towards the rear, he caught a glimpse of movement at the far end of the counter. Two large Hispanic men were both showing sawed-off shot guns to the owner, who was behind the counter mumbling something in a language Jack didn’t care to know about.

Crap, there goes my two minutes.

The thought gelled into a sentence in his mind at about the same time as the bangers turned and saw him. They mustn’t have heard the door open over the owner gobbing off at a million miles per hour, but now with their attention, the man on the customer side of the counter swung his gun towards Jack. As he looked down, he could see Jack’s modified Glock pistol sitting just by his hip, trained right at his partner’s head, mil-spec laser pointer splashing his temple in a deep red glow. This was one of those ‘think faster mother fucker’ situations, Jack’s mind was already racing at a hundred miles an hour, even before the adrenaline kicked in.

Ahhh, there it is, that familiar rush of heat surging through his body. The adrenaline told him he could take both of these tweakers before they realised he’d moved, but his head reminded him of what being behind prison gates feels like. Sure the Feds wanted the runners off the street, but it wasn’t their main priority, apparently. A double murder on the other hand … A muffled voice was in the background, getting louder, and in a flash became the screaming voice of the closest tweaker.

Put your gun down mother fucker, or im’ma fucking fill you with holes, fucker bitch, aaaargh!, His face covered in sweat and saliva, almost looked like a rabid dog.

This guy is a looney! He’s just getting warmed up by the sound of it.

Fuck you cunt, I’ll kill this punk bitch fucking sand-nigger shop mother-fucker, then wipe his arse with your nose before I cut it off, aaargh!

Wow, this guy really is nuts, but in a poetic kind of way. Better stop this now.

Jack looked at his mate, with a gun pointed at his face he wasn’t doing shit. He must be the brains of the operation.

Hey, listen buddy, I’m not here for you, or your mate. Jack spoke in a calm voice, although he had to raise the volume a little to get over the grunts from his new buddy.

Fucking lying piece of shit, cunt. Fucking cop aren’t you!

Even more saliva, it was starting to foam. If this kept up they’d all be on the floor pushing daisies, this guy from giving himself a heart attack.

Look, calm down. I’m just here for a bottle of Jack Special; the one behind the counter.

Fuck off cunt, I know if I look you’ll shoot. There ain’t no whiskey there.

Listen to me, there is. I just want one. Your partner can get it, put it on the counter. I’ll take it, walk out, and leave you two to sort whatever you gotta sort.

Jack could see the shop owners’ eyes open wider. He must have thought Jack was a cop, there to save him.

Fuck that, too many other problems right now. Get back on track.

I’ve got enough heat on me without shooting guns off, I just want the booze. Get you partner to help us out, and I’m gone.

I’m watching you bitch, one wrong move and you’re fucked. By now his hand was starting to shake. Jack knew he had to get out of there or things were going to turn into one giant mess.

Deal, now flick me my booze, partner.