Timecaster
Authors: Joe Kimball
Table of Contents
CAUGHT ON TAPE . . .
The murderer looked exactly like me.
His hair was darker than mine and slightly longer than I wore it. But everything else about him was identical.
“You! You killed her!” Neil backpedaled, raising up his hands in case I was going to grab him and twist his head off.
“I didn’t kill her, Neil.” I was shocked, but kept my voice even. “That’s just someone who looks like me. A disguise. Or someone with facial reconstruction. Might even be a clone.”
Neil’s voice was shaky. “He’s your age. He would have had to have been cloned at the same time as your birth.”
“Look, I’ll prove it isn’t me.”
I zoomed out and switched the resolution from the visible spectrum to a preprogrammed wavelength and frequency, bringing up an electromagnetic radiation resolution. The effect was similar to old-fashioned X-rays. The killer and Aunt Zelda became phosphorescent skeletons. I used the joystick to focus in on the man’s wrist, then zoomed in.
His chip filled the screen. A twenty-digit ID number, followed by the birth name.
I paused it, and then got an even bigger shock.
The ID number and the name were mine.
“You killed her,” Neil whispered . . .
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
TIMECASTER
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / June 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Joe Kimball.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-51528-0
ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For Talon Ace Konrath
Ecopunk—(ē-kō-puhngk)
1. A subgenre of science fiction set in a green, utopian future, with a libertarian government. The opposite of nihilistic, authoritarian sci-fi, where no one smiles because everyone is so fucking oppressed.
2. A narrative typified by high-tech gadgetry, over-the-top action, copious amounts of sex, gratuitous and often rude humor, and theoretical physics, taking place in a society that emphasizes personal freedom and respect for the environment.
3. A Joe Kimball story where people get kicked in the groin a lot.
Nothing is improbable until it moves into the past tense.
—GEORGE ADE
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Time is on my side, yes it is.
—MICK JAGGER
ONE
Chicago 2064
Exactly nine hours and eleven minutes before I was charged with the complete destruction of Boise, Idaho, and the murders of the four hundred sixty-two thousand and nine people living there, I was mowing my roof and collecting the clippings like a good little taxpayer when I noticed a raccoon hiding in one of my hemp plants.
Raccoons were on the endangered list. That meant if one took up residence on my city-mandated green roof, I wasn’t allowed to disturb its habitat. No mowing. No trimming. No planting. No gardening at all. Which meant instead of paying my weekly biodiesel tax in foliage, I’d have to pay in credits.
I had no desire to part with my hard-earned credits. Or my wife’s hard-earned credits. That was why I cut off the lawn mower and pulled my regulation Glock 1MV Taser from my side holster and aimed it right between the animal’s adorable masked eyes.
I’m not a monster, even though the world news would make me out to be one later that day. The Taser was meant for human-sized opponents, but I didn’t think it would kill the little guy. It would just stun him long enough for me to toss him on my neighbor Chomsky’s roof only six feet over. Worst that would happen was a little singed fur. Probably.
The raccoon stared back at me without fear, like he knew he was protected by the government. The fine for harming an endangered species was considerably more money than the biofuel tax. But even if the creature didn’t survive, I could still throw it on Chomsky’s property. Then I could arrest Chomsky for its murder. Chomsky was a dick.
Still, I hesitated. The raccoon grew bored with our staring contest, turning his attention back to the hemp bush. He began to snack on a large bud. I holstered the Taser. Maybe if I left him alone, he’d OD.
“Sergeant Avalon?”
I turned. Neil Winston was standing on my roof, between a large hydrangea and some bamboo stalks. He was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. Though it was a cool sixty-five degrees, he had sweat on his forehead, and I resented what that implied.
“What do you want, Neil?” My voice was hard, clipped, pure cop. He took a step back, but didn’t leave.