No Other Witnesses

'There's no other witnesses, just us two.'

With such an unintelligible statement, I knew once again I was on my own to solve this mystery. From the chalk outline of the body, I noticed a pattern of large dark footprints along the carpet, ending exactly in the middle of the wall. A rope dangled from the ceiling, far too high for anyone to reach. I rubbed my forehead and leaned into the rest of the room like an ostrich needing a chiropractor.

'Poor James was just here. Now he's gone. He must be somewhere else.'

The ceiling lights shone conveniently on my partner, a tiny man wearing a sweater and jeans much too baggy for him. He was hiding in the corner, like he was the first ever chameleon-human hybrid. He tried to make himself look more comfortable, but his body language screamed that he wasn't supposed to be here.

'I wasn't supposed to be here.' He repeated the words, nibbling his nails once spoken.

Naturally I wasn't interested in the happenstance, much more in the happenings. I asked for his memory and he remembered as much as the table: the lights went out, there was a scream, and when they came back on there was Poor James, dead. In the ashtray by his chair was an unfamiliar cigarette, not the brand smoked by my old departed friend. I wandered outside onto the lawn, where I was certain to find his daughter. She was smoking and shooing away police officers, so I went off to meet her, leaving my jacket by the front door. Tall, dark haired, shiny legs and eyes that sent lasers through your soul. She watched me as I approached and I went in shields up.

'Eve. Good to see you.'

She did not smile at this and inhaled her cigarette. It was the same brand I'd seen in the ashtray.

'What do you want, Ruby. My father just died.'
'You don't seem so hung up on it.'

With a sneer, she blew smoke in my direction. I merely smiled and took a sip of my tea, kept warm in my trusty flask.

'Who left those footprints in the hallway?'

I wondered if she was about to spit at me, until her face lost its aggressive sharpness and precipitation formed in her eyes. She showed me the bottom of her shoes, caked with sand and thus not the ones that had made the incriminating marks.
 
'Did you guys see the murder? No? You? No? Okay. So.. hum. Did you guys see anything?'

I tried to forget how the department had paired me with such a slug for a partner. As a mental habit, it was easily done. I turned my attention back to the daughter, smiling at her once again. She threw her smoke away, looked in my eyes, and lit up another one. Her inhales were more deliberate than before.

'Is there a basketball team that plays nearby?'

She stared at me long and hard. Confusion, a perfect elixir for spilling truth.

'There's a pickup league. Why? You think can play?'

I grinned at her quip and mentioned the need for a jacket on such a chilly night before exiting. She watched me the whole way. I returned to the dining room, the scene of the crime. My partner followed me.

'Hey, you think it was a giant chocolate ice-cream man that committed the murder? It would make sense, what with the footprints and all. Yeah, that's obviously it. Wait, lemme start writing that down...'

I looked in the main floor closet for gym shorts. There was one enormous pair atop an old wooden chest, large enough to fit Patrick Patterson but with a stench of several abandoned farmer's markets. Still damp. Also interestingly, the fitness ensemble was consistent with the colours red and white: the shorts, workout shirt, headbands and socks. But no shoes. As far as footwear went there were only brown boots in this closet. There was nothing more for me in here.

'This is a real mind bender. Hey you want some grub, partner? The blue boys just came back from Cosmos Grill for some burgers. Ya know, help you think?'

I shooed him away and returned to the scene of the crime. The body was long removed but the footprints remained, ending exactly where the wall began. I contemplated the possibilities: secret passage? No, there would be an indentation on the wall somewhere but it was perfectly smooth. Trapdoor below? Same thing, the carpet stuck to the floor like glue, it hadn't moved since Lester Pearson was around. There was only one other direction. I looked up, and saw that tiny rope still dangling innocently from the ceiling. It was much too high for me so I moved a chair over as a step, went up and grabbed the rope. A latch in the ceiling gave way and a ladder spilled down into my hands.

'Mmmm, bacon cheese... hey? Where'd that come from?'

With my weaker hand I climbed up the ladder, my stronger hand caressing the pistol in my pocket. It was dark so I slipped in as quietly as possible, ducking behind a crate just as some commotion started around me. Long, large footsteps vibrated towards my direction and I had my pistol ready, in case of the worst. The vibration stopped, apparently confused, and pulled the latch closed again. I heard a complaint about stupid old houses and I emerged, a flashlight in one hand and my pistol in the other.

'It's over. We've got you.'

He turned and looked down at me in the artificial handheld light, and I do mean looked down. This was a giant of a man, ducking under the ceiling of this attic with extreme discomfort. His shoes were covered in mud but beneath the grime I could identify that they were red and white. He scowled at me but obeyed when I ordered him to reopen the secret door. I went down first, beckoning him to follow, while four constables stared up at me in surprise. The chief arrived just as my large friend touched the floor and was put in five pairs of handcuffs.

'Well done, apprehending this clever villain. The moment we left the scene he would've surely fled and never been seen again. Sorry to say the daughter escaped once our boys moved inside, but we've got a bulletin out on her. Excellent work Blarnt, Ruby. A commendation to both of you.'
'Aw, tanks cheef!' My partner mumbled through a mouthful of processed cheese.

I stood aside and watched the boys carry this giant away. He shot me a look like we'd meet again some day. I was certain we would.

The House On Maple Street

It was a perfect liftoff. Everything checks out, your velocity is steady. Congratulations, the launch was a success. 

It had been a long, pain staking process, but the Burdick residence had earned the distinction of being space-worthy and there had been no option to go but up. The house was successfully zipping past Mars when mission control popped in with another check:

Your speed is greater than calculated in simulations, but integrity readings are within acceptable levels. All of us here in Houston are just... well we're in awe of what we're seeing up here on the big board. Doctor Burdick, your work has inspired many of us down here. The advances in rocket technology cannot even be fathomed yet. We hope you're all doing all right up there. Send the signal if so.

218 Maple Street had been the home of the Burdick family for just over ten years. It was a square but pointy house, particularly on the upper level, where two third story windows poked out behind a steep wind resistant roof. For nearly a decade the basement had been slowly transformed into a giant engine, slowly gaining fuel, energy and the material for combustion. When the time finally came for launch, everything on the Periodic Table that happened to be lying around was thrown into the mouth of the engine. It reacted powerfully, and up the house went into the sky.

Check in, check check. We haven't received a visual report in a while. Our telemetry indicates you're just zipping past the rings of Saturn and we'd like to request a visual if possible. Please check in, requesting a visual of Saturn rings, over.

The house tore through cold empty space with unrecorded speed. Around Neptune a gravitational pull made it spin off axis and Mission Control for a moment ordered the Burdick home to abort the mission. The unexpected gravity thrust the house further away from the sun's orbit, unexpectedly, and it flew past The Dwarf Formerly Known As Planet Pluto within an hour. This was well beyond the boundaries of the mission, but the house kept on speeding away.

Doctor Burdick, we are losing contact. You are passing the boundaries of our communication. Abort. Repeat, Doctor Burdick, we are losing contact. Abort the mission and return to Earth. We can only monitor your progress and send messages for another------------------

Into a solar system with planets unknown to anyone of the Sol System, an odd spacecraft entered with atypical navigation. The strange craft lost flight and fell into the fourth planet, surviving the entry into atmosphere thanks to smart engineering, and landed in the middle of some farmland right next to an ocean. The locals came out to see this bizarre visitor, with the strange pointed roof that had smashed into their tall blue honeyfields. The front door of the house opened... and nothing was ever the same.  

Life In 3265

The time is 8:45. 8:45 is the pre-determined time of waking. Waking will commence.

'Mmmmmmnnnnn. Nnnnnnn.'

8:45 is the pre-determined time of waking. Secondary waking measures will commence.

'Mmmmnnn.... Nnnnnuh? Uh! Nnnnn! Loud! Nnnnn! Stop! Stop! Enough!'

Waking successful.

Dirty clothes are located to the right of the resting chamber. The option for fresh clothing is available.

...

Fresh clothing selected. Host will relocate to the re-dressing zone in seventeen seconds.

'Ughhh, dark. Can't see.'

Increasing illumination. Host now within re-dressing zone. Re-dressing now in progress.

'No, not the red ones again. I swear I have better taste than you.'

Host opinion disregarded. Morning meal now ready for consumption. Materializing in Port H.

...

Physical Nutrients consumed. UniNet connection loading, awaiting host integration within one hundred seconds.

'Can't even walk in these things. Red. Huh.'

Host in position for network upload. Beginning external diagnostics, preparing for integration.

'Never get used to this part, no matter how many RGGGGAAAHHHH!!!!'

Host integration successful, thought patterns joining Harmony. External implant activating 'Dormant' mode. Initialize. Transfer in progress.

The old world was hard to let go of for many people, particularly the ones who had once walked atop her sweet surface. Many of them wanted to preserve it somehow, and well intentioned preservation easily turns into re-creation, and re-creation easily turns into simulation, and simulation easily blurs into reality. Everyday I walk the streets of Old Earth, or at least what remains of our collective memory of the place. It gaps and fades and I suspect mixes together inaccurately, like men with sheriffs badges who ride into the Sky Cities on horses, waving a spear at everybody. The disaster, so long ago that clarity is impossible amongst these washed minds, must've changed us. Was that old world really worth the fantasy? Was it more genuine than a blue flower gaining pixelation? Maybe we've always been this way, who can know. I walk down the streets of Old Earth and sometimes I'm myself, but most other times I'm everybody else. The streets are all the same and they never change, the squares of the clouds above constantly shifting resolution and the smell is always of dried paint. No sound, like my ears don't work anymore. What is sound (?) everything I hear is already inside my mind. Mind, engaging. Sights, sounds, smells, in unison. Old world, old place, old wonders, true home. Home. Home. Home.

Thought patterns aligned with Harmony. Host conscious transferred to UniNet platform. Expected time of disengagement: fifty thousand six hundred and twenty four seconds. Decreasing illumination.  

Gristmill Lane

The door closed behind me and I was alone on the street. In my pockets were three dollars in quarters, my broken digital watch, two expired coupons for Diamond Burger and the folded letter you had written me only an hour before.
I decided to embrace this current aloneness and take a slow stroll down the laneway. My boots clicked along the black brick road as I walked, wondering what was freedom or exile and if this was it, whatever it was. I peeked into an open window and watched a young family carry along their evening: the little son fiddling with lego blocks, the taller daughter brushing the hair of her blonde doll, a dog and a cat resting by the fireplace and the husband and wife lying together on a chesterfield drinking root beers with marshmellows. I giggled and continued on my slow way, careful not to look at any other fantasies through these windows.
My attention slipped back to your letter in my pocket which I still had not read. The laneway was nearing the end and I could see the noise and traffic of the real world ahead. I pulled out the letter, dropping my watch onto the brick road, and read aloud:

    Here is only what you make of it.

    The letter slipped from my fingers and blew away in a breeze from the way I came. I reached the end of the lane and the noise and traffic filled my mind again until there was nothing else. Tapping my stomach, I wondered if Diamond Burger was still open.