Fractured Reality

"Oh crap! Crap, crap, crap!" Isaac clamped both hands over his mouth. Maybe it would’ve been better if he had just closed his eyes. The strange pale, glassy figure moved its hand one last time before collapsing in on itself, its head slumping sideways against the tiled wall.

Was that… the guy from the solar cell factory?

Was he really crouched in his own blood in the shower?

The drain was clogged. What was his name again? – Billy, Isaac thought. Billyboy, yeah, he’d recognize that bald, egg-shaped head anywhere. That weird guy who had saved his skin at the factory. Billy had his long, skinny hand pressed over a bullet hole in his chest, a hole big enough to fit a fist through.

"Is that thing… an alien?"

"Looks more like... a former coworker," Isaac said thoughtfully.

Billy’s skin had turned translucent, and Isaac could see every blood vessel running through his body. Even individual bones, like the radius and ulna, were visible if you looked closely. What had happened to him? Before he died, he meant. Billy had always looked strange, but now...

"Damn it, that’s not a person anymore!"

Isaac stared at the body, paralyzed. This image would be burned into his mind for a long time to come, every gruesome detail. It was also the moment he realized Einstein was right: time was relative to the observer. And right now, this moment seemed to stretch into eternity. The low point in life wasn’t a fixed point, it could shift, and apparently, it could sink lower and lower. The former resistance fighter, who had witnessed countless horrors committed against humanity, tore his eyes away from the nightmare in the shower.

What have I gotten myself into? Oh my God, what kind of sick crap is this?

Secret corporate data, a scientist, and now Billyboy was dead too?

"We need to get out of here," X-157 said quickly. "I’m no damn doctor, but judging by the bullet hole, that was a pretty big caliber. No way this was a suicide. Which means whoever did this could still be here."

"The scientist?"

"Maybe."

Isaac’s knees went weak at the thought, and his hands started sweating like crazy, even though they felt colder than the inside of a freezer. He tried not to let his fear show. Tried to pull himself together. "I… we… we have to keep searching," he said, thinking only of Tabitha. Thinking that somewhere in this apartment lay the only clue to finding her.

X-157 wiped his sweaty forehead with his thick forearm. His bloated, greasy face barely showed the contours of a skull anymore. It was as smooth and round as an overinflated balloon. He was wheezing the whole time.

"Sssssh" Isaac said suddenly. "Hold your breath. Be quiet. Do you hear that?"

Silence.

Isaac strained to listen.

The sound of a sliding door opening.

Then, soft, careful footsteps.

"The bedroom," he whispered.

Billy Jones had always known, even as a child, that he liked to get lost in meaningless hopes. The world of thoughts is a wide and free space, a way to escape reality. At first, it helps, but in reality, problems keep growing, and once the wave of truth comes crashing down like an avalanche, you’re defenseless. There’s no denying it then. And by that point, it’s too late for a lot of things.

There was no simple explanation for his fate, he had come to realize. He had believed he could get his old life back by proving to Vivian at the funeral that he still existed. But he’d been wrong. What was happening to him was far more complicated than his limited mind could have imagined.

Everything was more tangled.

More incomprehensible.

People drifted past him like ghosts, and for a moment, he got lost in the thought that they were all actors, part of his own personal story, a story he wasn’t allowed to know about, where even his sense of logic had been stolen from him. His hands were sweaty. He pushed open the heavy wooden door to the entrance of the 60th Precinct in Brooklyn, where the usual Saturday night chaos buzzed. The lobby was packed with people whose complaints echoed off the bare walls of the station. The officers’ faces perfectly embodied the words fear, stress, and exhaustion. When they weren’t listening to the frustrated voices in the alcohol- and sweat-scented waiting area, they were on the phone or rushing out to urgent calls in the blue-and-white Ford Interceptors with flashing lights. State vehicles were the only ones allowed to run on hydrogen. Though they were much more environmentally friendly and efficient than electric cars, American politics had already invested too heavily in the electric auto market to turn back now and switch to the better alternative. Just like Billy Jones: he had missed every turn onto a better path for his future and couldn’t go back.

Being a police officer was one of the most exhausting jobs of all time. Worse than factory work. And that was saying something! Burnouts were more common here than at illegal street races.

Billy pushed his way through the crowd, shoving aside a broad-shouldered officer who was jotting down the concerns of a well-dressed man. The officer’s uniform bore the embroidered logo of the Thandros Corporation. Like water, the police had been privatized after the coup ten years ago and were now run by the corporation.

"Excuse me?"

The man in the charcoal-gray suit, with his slicked-back, greasy hair, was making such a scene that the big officer didn’t even have a chance to notice Billy.

"Hello?"

"Shut up! I’m next, got it?" the well-dressed man snapped, his style completely mismatched with his foul language. What was a man with money even doing here, in one of the abandoned districts?

"As I already said, sir," the officer looked the man up and down, as if he could read his name from the expensive-looking suit.

"Wendland THE THIRD!"

"Whatever," said the officer, unimpressed. "You voluntarily gave your bank details to a third party. Unless the hoe, uh, the prostitute admits to conning you, it's not looking good for your money. To be exact, there's zero chance you're getting it back. We’ve got a whole binder full of cases with idiots, uh, cases just like yours," the officer cleared his throat into his fist, "and not a single one has turned out in favor of the victim."

The problems of a Sprawl junkie…

"Excuse me? This is an emergency, if I may say so," Billy tried, tapping the officer’s shoulder from behind. "Someone’s life is in danger."

Wendland III looked stunned. Apparently, his lost money was more important than a simple human life.

"And whose life is in danger?" the officer asked, not turning around but finally giving Billy some attention.

"My own," Billy said. "At least, I think it might be."

"Then please wait until I’m done here."

Wendland III disappeared about fifteen minutes later, once the realization finally sank into his tiny mind that his money was gone and you shouldn’t trust hookers. Meanwhile, Billy followed the hulking officer into an empty office meant for higher-ranking officials. Judging by the stars on his shoulders, this officer belonged among them. The room smelled like coffee, warm sleep, and cold sweat. The odors seemed to be ingrained in the carpet because, despite the open windows, the stale air lingered in the square room.

The officer took off his cap, placed it on the massive oak desk, and only then introduced himself as Captain. He motioned for Billy to sit at the desk, which was cluttered with disorganized papers. Placing one hand on the current issue of the New York Rebels, he tore the sticky coffee cup from the newspaper with the other hand and took a large sip. A scrap of newspaper clung to the bottom of the cup.

"Ah," he groaned, pretending to savor the moment, as if he actually enjoyed cold coffee. Or life in general. "So, how can I help? Whose life is in danger?"

Billy couldn't close his mouth.

"Conrad Blake?" he blurted, asking the question that had been burning on his tongue since he had sat down.

"Yes, that’s me. Why?"

"Because," Billy hesitated, once again unable to make sense of the world, then took a deep breath. "You handed me my termination letter a week ago. What the hell are you doing at the police station?"

Conrad Blake, the man who looked like the supervisor at the zero-emissions factory (and had the same name) gave him a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

"You worked with me for the Thandros Corporation, at the solar cell factory. The zero-emissions factory at Brooklyn Navy Yard?"

His counterpart bared his teeth. Then, with a slurping sound, he dislodged something from between them using his tongue. "I’ve been with the police my whole life," he said. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Billy took a sharp breath. He wanted to say something, to argue, but suddenly, he just let it go. Another unexplainable mystery added to the endless chain of enigmas. Nothing more.

"So, now that we’ve cleared up this little mix-up: you said your life is in danger? What can I do for you?"

A good question, Billy thought. Can you give me a new life?

Blake raised his eyebrows questioningly, deep lines creasing his forehead.

What should I tell him when the truth sounds so absurd?

"The clock’s ticking." Captain Blake tapped the glass of his watch impatiently with his fingernail. It looked expensive. Despite the stress that came with the job, few people were better off financially than a police officer. Thanks to the corporate takeover, their pay had gone up significantly. If nothing else, you had to hand it to the company: where the state skimped, Thandros at least paid the police a reasonably fair wage. But was it enough to afford a diamond-studded watch like Blake's?

Billy didn’t want to test his patience further, so he handed him the torn-out newspaper article about his accident and started talking. He began with the car crash, the strange female creature he was slowly beginning to resemble, then talked about the missing week. At first, the words poured out like a hot geyser, but as Blake’s eyes rolled and he sighed in frustration, Billy grew more uncertain, and eventually stopped altogether when Blake cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Wait, so you’re the deceased person the article is about? Did I get that right?"

"Probably."

"Probably I got you right?"

"Probably I’m the deceased."

"Okay, and you’re also considering the possibility that you’re the creature Billy Jones ran over—if you’re not actually Billy Jones, who died in the crash. Is that correct?"

"Absolutely, sir."

Conrad Blake pressed his lips together. "I don’t mean to offend you, but have you considered seeing a doctor?"

"I’m perfectly fine," Billy lied.

"Uh-huh," Blake replied. "And you just... disappeared from the face of the Earth for a week?"

"I don’t know what happened during that time."

"Do you have any proof? Any family members who can confirm that you’re the Billy Jones from the article?"

Blake tapped the article.

"No, of course not! That’s why I’m here! My family’s dead, I don’t have friends. I’ve got no one, except my wife, who didn’t even recognize me at my own funeral."

Seeing the corporate officer’s expression, Billy let out an exasperated groan.

"Take a look at this." Captain Blake slid the latest issue of the New York Rebels across the table, laying it so that Billy could see the front page. "ANCIENT CIVILIZATION IN ETERNAL ICE?" the headline read, above a photo of a dark silhouette of an object frozen in the Arctic ice, slowly emerging thanks to climate change. Aliens? Could they really exist?

"What do you think? How many crazies have walked in here since this morning, talking about alien abductions, divine punishment, or conspiracy theories? This headline is complete garbage. Whatever those researchers found in the ice, it’ll just be gossip for the bored masses. Meanwhile, there are real crimes and problems out there that I actually need to deal with. Excuse me." Conrad Blake drained the rest of his cold coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Wait! Hold on!" Billy called after the captain.

"What now?"

"Check if I exist. Please."

"Oh, for God’s sake. Of course you exist. You’re standing right in front of me." The police officer couldn’t help but chuckle.

"Am I Billy Jones?" Billy asked seriously. And yet, even he couldn’t believe he had just asked the captain that. Even less could he grasp the serious tone of such an absurd question.

Blake licked his lips, actually turning back, sitting down again, leaning back in his black office chair, and tapping away on the keyboard.

"Ah, well now. Mmh-hmm. Quite interesting," he said after a moment.

"What?"

"Well, it seems I owe you an apology. You are, in fact, Mr. Jones. I just checked."

"See!" Billy’s voice cracked. "I’m not crazy. The article was a lie! I’m not dead!"

"Calm down. You didn’t let me finish." Blake leaned forward over the desk. "You are Billy Jones—but only in your godforsaken imagination. According to official records, Billy Jones is dead, and the photo in our police registry looks nothing like you. Here, I’ll show you his file."

The words hit Billy like a bolt of lightning, striking his brain and splitting his mind in two.

The officer turned the monitor toward him.

The file of the deceased Billy Jones included a profile photo, which indeed looked nothing like him, just as Blake had said. It was a fairly young guy with thick hair, a charming three-day stubble, and big, honest brown eyes.

Billy stared at the photo like it was the end of the world. His world.

"Please try to contact any relatives. Only then can we clear up this misunderstanding, okay?" Captain Blake said in a soft tone, a voice that sounded insincere to Billy. The officer added, "Otherwise, I also have a fantastic address for an idyllic clinic for psychological disorders at Bona Dea Hospital. We’ve received business cards from the head doctor there. With all the nutcases, er, with all the people suffering from extraordinary mental stress, it’s always good to keep a good therapist’s card handy." Blake handed him the card. Just one more thing to add to this awful day.

Billy didn’t take it.

He stood up and rushed out of the police station.

The card had reminded him of something.

One last chance.

Where was that nutcase named Isaac?