TimeShift
Kris Trudeau
TIMESHIFT
KRIS TRUDEAU
SECOND EDITION
LACLU PUBLISHING
COURTENAY, BRITISH COLUMBIA
Copyright © 2016 Kris Trudeau
Thank you for downloading this ebook. All rights reserved. Other than for review purposes, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission by the publisher. The scanning, uploading and distribution of any part of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property and is punishable by law. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of names, places, events, business establishments, robots and persons—human or otherwise, living, dead, de-created, orphaned by time—are products of the author’s imagination and are purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9949225-4-0
LACLU PUBLISHING
351-2401 Cliffe Avenue
Courtenay, BC V9N 2L5
www.laclupublishing.com
Cover and layout by Halftone Pixel Website Design
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
About the Author
DEDICATION
First and foremost, I must thank two people who have been a tremendous help and have listened to me talk about this book for oh, over six years: Mom and Andrew. I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to go on about it. But look! It’s done now! Wanna hear my next book idea?
To my eleventh hour angels—Sherry and Double D—and everybody else who played a role in the evolution of this book, thank you. Whether it was advice, opinions or encouragement, the contribution each of you has made was, and always will be greatly appreciated. This book would not be what it is without you.
I also dedicate this book to everybody who wanted to do something that they didn’t believe they could. You often hear successful people tell you that you can achieve any dream and accomplish any goal. To a penniless high school graduate, an employee living paycheque to paycheque, or to somebody whose day is so full there isn’t enough time to eat or sleep, advice like this makes the speaker seem out of touch with us mere mortals. I can attest to this, as I’ve been all three of those people, thankfully at different times. But guess what? They’re right! I feel this advice should come with some disclaimers—I don’t recommend you study online to become a backyard brain surgeon. However, if you possess the proper motivation, tenacity and common sense, you too can achieve anything you set your mind to. To paraphrase Canadian legend Terry Fox, “The only limit is the one you set for yourself.”
Don’t let fear stop you from fulfilling your dreams. Life is short; there are no do-overs. Be the best you that you can be, live your dreams and don’t let anybody—especially yourself—tell you that you can’t or you’re not good enough. Grab life by the horns and ride!
Prologue
August 14, 2097
The view from the third-floor balconies was a sea of windows belonging to cookie-cutter, high-rise condominiums. Unlike the sixty-seventh floor, where the cluster of adjacent glass and concrete buildings wove a tapestry of an idyllic urban utopia, the view from the third floor showed no appreciable beauty in the surrounding landscape—merely a too-intimate view into the living rooms and lives of faceless residents of neighbouring buildings. However, the third-floor residents were privy to something that residents of the upper storeys were not—a front row seat for real city living in all its imperfections, mediocrity and grittiness.
Recent events had erased the city of its colourful daily affairs. The absence of people, the boarded up storefronts and eerie silence were indicative of what life in the city had recently become. The only sign of activity was the faces of neighbouring apartment dwellers peering out their windows. Some wore expressions of fear, some looked nervous. Others looked angry and contemptuous; ready with the phone to report to the police anything remotely amiss.
A two-day-old newspaper lay on the glass coffee table. In red, upper-case letters, its headline screamed:
“NRD DENIES ANY INVOLVEMENT”
Ink smudges, small tears and rolled edges were evidence of the paper having been frequently handled—as if it had been picked up, read and set down repeatedly. Perhaps from being taken to a neighbouring apartment where its damning claims were speculated upon over afternoon coffee. The previous day’s paper lay across the arm of the sofa. Its headline read in the same oversized, red font:
“WHAT THE NRD ISN’T TELLING YOU”
However, today’s paper, spread out across the dining room table, screamed the most damning headline to date:
“THEY’RE COMING FOR YOUR HOME!”
The local evening news boomed from the TV, its volume set at maximum so as to be audible over the sound of clanging pots, a singing kettle and shuffling footsteps in the kitchen.
“I don’t know, Ted,” said the stately news anchor, scepticism etched in his puzzled face. The timbre of his voice rumbled, rich and deep. “There really isn’t too much proof that they’re the source of these break-ins.”
The anchor’s attention was focused on a large split screen on his right, displaying the feeds of two people weighing in on the discussion. The right-side feed showed Ted, a prominent, however, bedraggled anti-robot activist standing in a deluge of rain. His hair lay plastered to his head and face. The water-spotted lenses of his round, horn-rimmed glasses had begun to fog and he clumsily pushed them up on his face. The hand-painted message on the sandwich board he wore had dripped down the white sign like colourful ice cream on a child’s face on a hot day. A sharply-dressed woman filled the feed on the left. Her designer suit jacket had not a single drop of water on it, shielded from the driving rain by several large black umbrellas. Mobile lighting lit her up li
ke an angel as she stood among vibrant flowers in a formal garden before a magnificent glass building.
“I agree,” said the woman. Her authoritative voice commanded respect if her confident demeanour and professional appearance had not already earned it. “If there was any chance that these robots were even remotely responsible, National Research and Defence would have launched a formal investigation.”
“Are you kidding me? Not even with eyewitness accounts from people who have had their homes destroyed?” Ted pushed his wet hair from his face and it came to an awkward point on the side of his head. “Homes and businesses have been demolished and I don’t get why you people don’t see!”
A smile grew on the woman’s face. “They don’t see, Ted, because there is nothing for them to see. These incidents are mostly unrelated, although we do suspect that some of the break-ins may be gang-related.”
Ted sputtered and his face reddened. “Unrelated? Gangs? Each of these break-ins are identical. The same thing is stolen and there’s never any physical evidence left behind. Sounds like a pattern to me!”
“You are finally correct,” said the woman in her calm, metred voice. “There is never any evidence found proving who was responsible.”
“Because what they steal is evidence!” What remained of Ted’s façade began to crack. His face screwed up in frustration and his voice shot up an octave.
The apartment suddenly shook. Seconds later, another quaking shake. The cacophony of cooking sounds issuing from the kitchen fell silent for several moments. The miniature poodle slumbering on the couch awoke with a start and took in his surroundings. Seeing nothing of interest, he laid his head back down.
“These robots are a plague on our communities and inevitably our planet! The human race was at risk from the moment they were released in this city! They are going to take over and end up killing us all!”
The woman smiled warmly, the way one would to console an upset child. Ted achieved her goal for her—he had made himself sound like a raving lunatic.
A large crash echoed in the distance and the building shook more violently. With this, the little black dog jumped off the couch and scampered into the kitchen.
“There is no evidence that the robots have had anything to do with these break-ins. There are a lot of people who have concerns that unemployment rates may increase as a result of these robots entering society, and that is a legitimate concern we’re prepared to deal with. But to make wild accusations about this highly successful, world-class program is slanderous. These robots have been proven to be safe, productive members of society and they pose no danger to any…” The projected TV screen vanished and the lights in the apartment went out. An eerie silence crept through the apartment as all electronic devices shut down. The blades of the fan in the corner of the living room began to slow.
