Note: this blog is an early draft. The completed story has a new introduction, and the final three scenes are completely rewritten. Become an AltSciFi subscriber (click here) to receive the complete 50+ page novella.

Tugging lightly to secure shirt cuffs of a crisply tailored Liberty Corrections uniform, Fernandes emerged from the unisex locker room and crossed the officers’ lounge.

The open floorplan office space offered no pretense of privacy, prompting those walking through to carefully look past seated officers and support staff. Workers at shared tables avoided unintentional eye contact with those on the opposite side of conjoined cubicles ostensibly designed to facilitate collaboration.

Supervisory offices lined the workspace with one-way soundproof glass walls. Down the curved hall, senior officers and staff were distinguished by heather grey noise-dampening dividers, hanging from the ceiling between tables. The dividers allowed for a modicum of shielding from others’ wandering gaze and ambient noise from frequently raised voices.

Sitting at one of the desks assigned for new recruits, Fernandes waved at the screen a meter ahead.

Ten seconds of startup video showed a child in pigtails and rainbow-coloured swimsuit sprinkled by sunlit waterfall mist. Small cupped hands pushed crystal clear mini-tidal waves through waist-height water toward the camera.

System personalisation complete, a scheduling reminder popped up:

0900 Simulation Training Lecture Hall 2A

Fernandes air-tapped the reminder.

The video window disappeared, replaced by the Liberty Corrections Threat Map.

PredPol predictive policing data fed the New Detroit map’s topography of longitudinal boundaries in green, blue, yellow, orange and red. Each colour gradation denoted escalating response severity, based on likelihood of violent crime within the bounded areas.

The map centred on one PredPol Red incident three days prior, inside a predictive “hot box” anticipating increased criminal activity.

Fernandes air-tapped the event’s pulsating epicentre. The incident report summary’s listing involved officers Fernandes, Castille and Bollinger among those scheduled for disciplinary measures.

“A full day’s pay? Dammit.” Fernandes hunched in the chair and quickly closed the reminder.

Time: 8:57 a.m.

Fernandes waved to the screen, activating its screensaver, and headed for Lecture Hall 2A.

—

Officer Phelan sat near the rear of the lecture hall, eyes closed, in front of a thermoplastic coffee cup and bottle of aspirin.

“Hey all.” Fernandes sat in the front row between Castille and Bollinger, who mumbled and nodded while staring into their phone screens. “We get to be cadets for a morning. Exciting, no?”

In front of each officer, wireless goggles sat atop a tablet computer. On either side of the tablet, two joysticks: left, a throttle; and right, a directional controller.

At the toll of nine a.m., officer Phelan sipped coffee and popped an aspirin. “Best hangover cure. Some things never change.” Phelan walked to the front of the room, then picked up a headset. “Change of plan, kids. Today’s training is mixed-reality, not VR.” Phelan handed the goggles to Castille. “If you get seasick or carsick easily, now’s the time to opt out. Otherwise, strap up.”

The room’s lights dimmed. Phelan moved behind a glass-topped podium, tapped the surface and watched a large projection on the white front wall. “Intiating MR runthrough for PredPol Red code LCEJAD7S1 now. Ballistic Engineered Armored Response Counter Attack Truck offload”. Phelan headed back for another drink of coffee.

Castile’s gaze swept from side to side, goggles on and straining to see in the semidarkness. “Is this telepresence? Realtime?”

“Realtime? Oh yeah.” Phelan chuckled, prior sleepiness replaced by a gruff approximation of childlike excitement. “HULC3 prototypes. Our final step before autonomous bipedal weapons platforms. Debuted right before the end of the war. The Navy was looking to offload a few toys, so we put taxpayer procurement dollars to good use. Well, officially, the city did, and we bought from them.” Phelan appeared as an apparition by officers’ side, figure circumscribed by a diffuse electric blue outline. “With an interface directly back to PredPol training A.I., they practically drive themselves. Soon we won’t even have to leave campus.”

The apparition ran a finger along Castille’s face panel. “These HULC3s are pre-programmed to retrace your steps during the incident, but you can override. When you take your hands off the controls, the walkthrough resumes where it left off.” Phelan disappeared, then reappeared at the transport’s rear door. “During an override, you’re in control. I might as well be a figment of your imagination.” Morning light flooded in as the rear door opened. “Comms are routed through our local network; no worries about being recorded by civilians.”

Phelan’s illuminated avatar crouched and hopped down to the street, then looked back and beckoned. “Time for you kids to take your baby steps into the next era of private policing.”

Castille, Fernandes and Bollinger’s HULC3 exoskeletons crouched and jumped with flawless dynamic equilibrium, then begin walking down St. Antoine Street.

Behind them stood the ballistic-shielded hybrid of tank and jeep. Ahead, the streets were empty except for an armored Liberty Corrections SUV two blocks away, also outlined in electric blue. Castille’s HULC3 paused. “This place is a ghost town.” Turning to take in the scene, the exoskeleton’s articulated vertebral column and microcalibrated joint structures moved together in uncanny biomechanical synchrony.

“Traffic is diverted.” Officer Phelan sent Castille a schematic of vehicular activity for the incident zone’s five-block radius. “Turn on your infrared. Look around.”

Infrared spectrum detection revealed human metabolic heat signatures inside houses on both sides of the street, standing near or behind doorjams and window curtains.

Phelan pointed to the transport’s turret, a fortified gunner’s position built into the roof. “This BEARCAT G20 is equipped with an LRAD sonic cannon. Makes life highly unpleasant for unauthorised civilians wandering the streets within audible range.” Atop the turret sat a disc resembling a small satellite dish capable of swiveling and rotating 360 degrees. “Somebody throws rocks or a bottle? Their ears start to bleed. Temporary deafness, inability to stand without falling over for a few weeks. They saw the Pittsburgh riots; citizens know better than to play games with us now. We own these streets.”

Spent shell casings cartwheeled through air. The playback overlay showed Castille’s pistol firing at a black sports car as it swerved and barely missed hitting Bollinger.

Accelerating for two blocks, the sports car smashed into the armored Liberty Corrections SUV. Castille took over manual control, pushing the throttle forward to run toward the crash. Fluid, near-instantaneous responses to torque and load-bearing demands of gravity were inhuman, yet gracefully efficient beyond expectations of the exoskeleton’s spare functional-mechanical appearance.

Castille reached the car, stopped and listened.

Robert Graham’s three-dimensional image tumbled from the passenger’s side, saying nothing before bolting toward the backyard of a red-bricked house.

As Graham rounded the corner, a young woman stepped out from behind it, dressed in flowing autumnal tones fashionable nearly twenty years ago. Along the narrow walkway between the house and fence, the woman smiled slightly and walked directly toward Castille.

Pedestrian facial recognition failed to identify the unknown individual. “Ma’am, are you authorised to be here?” The woman did not speak. “Sir? Are you seeing this?” Phelan was nowhere to be found and did not respond on the communications channel. “Sir? Is this part of the exercise? Sir?” The young woman continued toward Castille, mouthing words without sound. Castille commanded the HULC3 to step back, but it did not respond.

Castille began to experience disorientation, ringing in the ears, dizziness and nausea, then tried to release the throttle and controller. Muscles failed to respond. Throat tightening, Castille lost the ability to speak; breathing became constricted and laboured. The young woman continued, closer and closer, until they were less than a meter apart.

Consumed in a blinding flash of light, Castille instinctively looked away, eyes closing to shut out the glare. As the flash subsided, the young woman was gone.

“Ss…Sir?” Castille croaked hoarsely.

“What, kid, you just going to stand there admiring the scenery?” Officer Phelan’s apparition was again by Castille’s side, glaring in the exoskeleton’s face panel.

“I… no, sir. Returning to autopilot.” Castille released the throttle and controller; the HULC3 ran back to its previous place, and playback resumed. The footage showed Castille running down the street after the sports car, then following as officers Villeneuve and Fernandes stepped from the SUV to give chase.

—

Fernandes toggled into the SUV’s point of view, moments before the sports car smashed into its fortified grill. Fernandes looked down at the badgecam. It appeared to be turned off, but the footage playback continued as if it were still turned on.

“Are you okay?” Hearing Castille’s rapid and shallow breathing, Fernandes reached across and felt for a pulse at Castille’s inner left wrist without removing the goggles. “Your heart is racing.”

“Yeah, fine. No. I mean, yeah, I’m fine.” Castille’s breathing and heart rate began to return to baseline. “I’m okay.”

—

Two minutes later, shots were fired in the backyard.

Castille jumped into Bollinger’s perspective, kneeling over Robert Graham’s handcuffed and motionless body. Castille unzipped Graham’s backpack and searched for a weapon, without apparent success; there was no handgun to be found.

In the dim lecture hall, Bollinger raised the mixed-reality goggles and turned to observe Castille immersed in the runthrough, sitting two seats away, then silently put the goggles back on.

—

The three officers placed their headsets on the table as the lecture hall’s lights returned to full brightness.

Officer Phelan walked to the front of the room, setting coffee cup and aspirin bottle down on the transparent podium screen. “A pistol was discovered later by forensics. Ballistics found that the pistol had been fired twice, which is consistent with drone footage.”

“Don’t know how I could have missed it.” Bollinger looked to Castille with a shrug. “Any ideas, detective?”

Castille ignored the remark.

Phelan tapped the tab labeled ‘Castille’ and read from the PredPol Disciplinary Measures report. “Castille, you also fired at total of seven times, twice while Bollinger was in your line of sight. Standard-issue friendly fire risk mitigation software prevents accidental discharge, but if intent is proven, line-of-sight violations are a fireable offense. And, officer Fernandes…” Phelan tapped the eponymous interface tab. “…improper arrest procedure could have given the suspect time to escape.”

“The suspect was already unconscious, sir, maybe even –”

“You need to increase your willingness to use pain compliance. Escalation from non-lethal to deadly force any time a suspect disobeys a direct order.” Phelan looked up from the podium. “All three of you will be fined one day’s pay, effective at the beginning of your next quota cycle. With exemplary conduct between now and then, your cycle bonus may be sufficient to offset the fine. Plain English, kids: don’t fuck up again and the fine will go away.”

Bollinger leaned forward and spoke around Fernandes. “Try not to get me killed out there, detective.”

Castille does the same. “Only if you don’t get us all fired first, chief.”

Fernandes raised both hands. “Jesus, enough, you two! This isn’t academy. Can you be in the same room and act like professionals for more than ten seconds?”

“Fine.” Castille extended a hand. Rather than shake it, Bollinger sat back with crossed arms, looking straight ahead.

Phelan opened the VoxNews app. Footage from today’s news appeared on the projection screen at the front of the room. “And if either of you three interrupt me again, you will all be looking for a new line of work. Understood?”

The trio stood at attention. “Yes sir!”

Phelan motioned for them to sit. “I’ve been asked to review our media training guidelines, now that you’ve been briefed on…” Phelan gestured to the projection screen. “…the facts as we know them.” A succession of news excerpts depicted intense media scrutiny surrounding the case. Members of the public were passionately divided as well, as deteils had not been immediately provided surrounding the death of Robert Graham.

Castille regarded the screen while massaging a throbbing right temple. “I was a hero just yesterday.”

“We save lives, they call it abuse. We protect our own, they call it murder. They used to call it blue racism, division stoked by our enemies in the media.” Phelan popped another aspirin and washed it down with still-hot coffee. “All you need is the good old, ‘no comment’. Let the muckrakers do their own homework.” Phelan held up the thermoplastic cup, rotating it to show the Starluxe Manatee logo. The cup’s embedded motion sensors triggered the manatee to dive into a splash of water, then resurface into its original pose. “Don’t let them divide us, kids. We’re all partners in the New Detroit Liberty Corrections franchise.”

The campus alert system interrupted: “All units servicing region D-7. PredPol Red in progress. Please report to dispatch D-7 for emergency authorisation.”

The alert repeated twice more.

Officer Phelan jabbed a thumb toward the door. “Bollinger, Fernandes. This one’s yours. Enjoy.”

Bollinger and Fernandes stood, saluted and stated in unison: “Yes sir!” They turned and exited the room.

Phelan called after them, half-seriously: “Remember. You’re part of the family now. Use your training. Make us proud!”

—

Fernandes closed the door of the cruiser, windows set to opaque one-way mirror mode. The engine growled while completing its power-on sequence. “Thanks for your help in combat intervals this morning, Vee.”

Villeneuve checked the charge levels on the car’s auxiliary batteries. “I can tell that Chen probably isn’t a morning person.”

They laughed.

“It all seems so easy for you, though.” Fernandes looked down at the main touchscreen between driver and passenger, watching squad cars and surveillance drones converge on the target.

“Performance intervals are just a game. In five years, you’ll have it beat with your eyes closed.” The car’s internal wireless network registered the officers’ devices and connected to the campus AI guidance systems.

“Hey, Vee, I have a question…why weren’t the security cameras working in Ford Parking Garage the other day? Citywide CCTV sends warnings when a camera goes down, right?”

The jovial mood melted away while Villeneuve selected the PredPol Red call’s location on the touchscreen. “The parking garage is an old building. I’ll check up on it.” Another call flashed red on the screen in a nearby predictive hot box. The windscreen tracked public police squad cars as blue dots; all remained stationary. “Public cops, afraid to get their hands dirty. Thanks God for such a thing as Liberty Corrections, otherwise New Detroit would still be in flames.” In yellow, Liberty Corrections units converged in an intelligent swarm. “Besides, before this call, somebody probably was falling behind on their quo–” Villeneuve caught the breath, then turned to Fernandes and smiled. “Your investigative skills are impressive. I’m glad you’re on our side. You’ll be a great detective for us one day soon.”

“Thanks, Vee!” Fernandes pulled out a cellphone sparkling with rhinestones and took a selfie to capture the moment.

“Not in the car!” Villeneuve admonished. Mild consternation belied amusement in spite of the breach of protocol. “Time to get serious. Every code red is life-or-death.” The squad car commenced into autodrive and steered itself from the parking space at 1 Freedom Way, exiting Liberty Park campus to merge into the mid-morning rush.

—

A few minutes later, Castille received a text from Fernandes. “K. We have things to talk about. I have questions. I know you do too.”

To be continued…

—

“Can you tell me when the next part of the story is ready? I don’t want to miss the next scene!” Thank you for reading. This story is part of the AltSciFi project, dedicated to creating and supporting independent science fiction. To be notified when the next part of this story — and new indie sci-fi beyond this story — is released, you may want to join AltSciFi now (click here).