Escape Routes from Earth

Escape Routes from Earth

science fiction stories

by Ian Creasey

Copyright 2015 by Ian Creasey

Smashwords edition

Cover design by James, GoOnWrite.com

Individual story copyrights and original publication details are listed at the end of the book

Table of Contents

Within These Well-Scrubbed Walls

Ormonde and Chase

Silence in Florence

Escape from the Andromedan Empire

Joining the High Flyers

Live-Tweeting the Apocalypse

Souvenirs

Best In Show

Kelly's Star

Drawing the Line

Danny and the Quiet Police

How I Lost Eleven Stone And Found Love

The Odour of Sanctity

The Unparallel'd Death-Defying Feats of Astoundio, Escape Artist Extraordinaire

Afterword

About the Author

Copyright notices

*********

Within These Well-Scrubbed Walls

When David arrived at his mother's house in Harrogate, he hesitated before getting out of the van. After a moment, he picked up the plastic box containing his mother's ashes. It felt disrespectful to simply leave the box in the van — and besides, what if someone stole the vehicle?

Yet it didn't feel entirely right to take the ashes inside. The whole point of today's visit was to clear out the flat, so it seemed odd to start by bringing something in.

Well, no help for it. David strode up the path, past the paved front yard where no flowers grew. His mother lived — had lived — in the ground floor flat. He fumbled the keys into the lock. As soon as he opened the door and smelled the familiar scent of bleach and air-freshener, a rush of emotion welled up within him.

Not nostalgia, a word that implied pleasant or at least bittersweet memories. This was a more painful emotion, a tangled knot of grief and childhood resentments. He'd lived here until he was seventeen, and had hardly been back since.

He entered the living room and put the ashes on the mantelpiece. Then he walked to the window to open the curtains.

David, take your shoes off! You'll tread dirt everywhere.

It was only a remembered voice, of course. His mother had always forbidden anyone to wear shoes or coats inside the flat. David wanted to reply, to say that it no longer mattered. But arguing would be as fruitless now as it had ever been.

Instead he went back to the van to fetch the removal boxes. Swiftly, he began filling them with his mother's belongings. He labelled each box according to whether the items needed to be kept, donated to charity, or thrown away.

It shouldn't take long, because his mother owned few possessions. Her voice resounded in his mind: It's just one more thing to keep clean! When he was young, he'd given her some silly trinket for a birthday present. He no longer recalled what the trinket had been, but he remembered her waspish response on receiving it. She'd tried to make amends by saying she appreciated the thought; yet that wasn't the same as actually appreciating the gift.

He sighed as he contemplated the detritus of existence: a half-empty bottle of vitamin pills; three fluffy cushions in bright colours; a framed print of a David Hockney still life....

Some items were freighted with memories. David winced when he saw the HoloMax projector. That had been his own birthday present, when he was nine years old. He'd been hankering after a puppy and nagging Mum about it, even though he knew she'd never agree.

This is much better, she'd said. It's a hologram! It can do lots of tricks, and you can change it to a dog or a cat or anything you like.

She'd meant well, she really had. The HoloMax was no match for a real pet, but it was better than nothing. David had fired it up, flipped through the defaults, and chosen a bulldog called Spike. The hologram roamed around the flat, performing wacky cartoon-style antics. David's mother had even paid extra for the battery-powered remote unit, to let Spike accompany him outside. If you threw a stick, Spike eagerly chased after it — but he could only pretend to bring it back; you had to find another one yourself. Still, it was a game. Spike could also spray phantom pee on the legs of passers by, a joke which amused David's nine-year-old self rather more than it did the victims.

Meanwhile, his mother would stand gingerly at the edge of whichever park they'd visited, even though the Stray and West Park both had tarmac paths across the grass. David knew how the parks felt from Mum's perspective. They were full of other people's boisterous dogs, who might jump up and put their dirty paws on you. They were full of inconsiderate cyclists who would zoom past, forcing you to step off the path into the muddy grass, dodging the dogshit. In autumn, the avenues were full of dead leaves, which grew stickier and slimier the more it rained.

As a child, David would pick up great armfuls of dead leaves and bury his face in them to inhale their smell, just for the thrill of being naughty, while Mum yelled frantically at him to put the nasty things down....

Now, David flinched at the memory, feeling both guilty at his own behaviour and resentful of his mother's strictures. What did she expect? He was a child! He wanted to run around and play. He wanted to have friends. But he could never invite anyone over, because Mum hated having visitors. "You don't know where they've been," she would say.

So David spent all his free time at his schoolmates' houses, where the adults didn't make such a big deal of a speck of mud on his clothes, or a few crumbs on the carpet. His mother's sterile sanctum became a place to escape from. He only ever came home when he had to. And when he grew up, he didn't have to come home at all.

He'd felt guilty about this, but not guilty enough to actually make the effort to visit more often. He was busy having fun: festival weekends, backpacking excursions, adventures with women.... Besides, there was always phone and email. Through such occasional contact he knew that his mother was retreating further into herself, hardly ever leaving the flat. She shopped online and had everything delivered. She managed her investments online, took distance-learning courses online, and joined online forums discussing contemporary politics and Victorian fiction. Or was it Victorian politics and contemporary fiction?

When David suggested that she seek treatment for her problem, she took this as a criticism rather than an attempt at helping her. So he left her alone. Just after turning fifty, she suffered a stroke and died.

All that bleach didn't save you, did it? David said, gazing at the ashes on the mantelpiece. You only ever worried about germs, as if they were the only things that could kill you.

He shook his head, wincing at how harsh his words sounded. He was angry at the waste of it all: not just his own blighted childhood, but his mother's confined existence here within these well-scrubbed walls. Had she been happy, inside her pristine cocoon? Or had she felt trapped? With a pang of shame, David realised that he didn't know. Too late now, he told himself.

He turned his attention back to the HoloMax. He hadn't bothered taking it when he left — he'd resolved to get a real pet as soon as he found his own place. But he was surprised that his mother had kept the gadget. Had she been using it? Did it even work, twenty years on?

David powered it up, and a green light appeared on the front of the unit. He glanced around, looking for the hologram, already smiling as he anticipated seeing Spike bound toward him.

Instead, the hologram showed something else entirely: a young boy, about seven years old. The boy had untidy brown hair, and wore a white Leeds United shirt that was too big for him. He sprawled on the sofa, reading a comic, biting his thumb in concentration as he peered at the pages.

It might have taken David a few seconds to recognise himself, if he hadn't immediately remembered the shirt. That's me, he thought, astounded to see his younger self in hologram form. My mother turned me into a hologram.

When? Why? What else might be in there?

David dived into the image files. He saw the defaults he remembered from childhood: Spike and the other pets. Then he saw the user-generated images — six versions of himself, at various ages. The youngest was a toddler; the oldest was pre-pubescent, about ten or eleven.

The age at which I stopped being cute, he said bitterly.

He examined the dates on the files. They'd been loaded a decade ago, a couple of years after David left home for good.

Did you like these better than me? He glared at the white plastic box containing his mother. So much more convenient, a hologram boy who never gets dirty, never gets ill, never gets to invite anyone over....

Outrage filled him. His jaw clenched until his teeth ground together. The plastic box lay silently on the mantelpiece, an unsatisfactory focus for his anger.

Two can play at this game, David muttered. He grabbed his phone, logged into his data archive, and searched through the picture tags.

He was embarrassed to discover how few pictures of his mother he possessed. But he selected the best one, and loaded it into the HoloMax. The green light blinked rapidly as the unit converted the 2D picture into a 3D hologram. A few seconds later, David's mother stood in front of him, wearing a summer dress and a straw hat. The picture had been taken long ago, on a rare trip to the seaside.

David remembered that day: he'd dashed up and down the beach, Spike bouncing along beside him, while his mother looked on from the promenade. Back then, David had been annoyed that she wouldn't walk to the end of Filey Brigg, and wouldn't let him go alone. Now, he found himself wondering how hard it had been for her to force herself away from the flat and go to the seaside at all, giving him a day out in the summer sun.

But he was still angry at being replaced by a hologram. He took off his sweater and tossed it on the floor. Was I too untidy? he shouted. Then he walked back and forth across the living room, grinding his shoes down into the carpet. Did I spread too much dirt? He emptied one of the 'Rubbish' boxes onto the sofa, spilling brushes and dusters and air-fresheners across the upholstery. Too much mess? Too much flesh and blood?

The hologram said nothing, of course. It only watched, with sad grey eyes. His mother looked disconcertingly young — about David's own age. He'd been so used to thinking of her as the grown-up, the authority figure, that it was a shock to realise how young she'd been when he was born.

Maybe I needed some company, sitting here alone after you'd left home, said the imagined voice in his mind.

Sullenly, David said, You could have used Spike, or any of the defaults. You didn't have to program me in.

I didn't want Spike: he was just a pet. I wanted you.

"Yeah, well, as you always used to say — 'I want doesn't get'." But David winced as he spoke, thinking of how rarely he'd visited, or even phoned.

You've been saving that up to fling back at me, haven't you?

David began to reply, then stopped. What was the point? It would only make him feel worse.

He went back to boxing up possessions. At least he knew that the HoloMax still worked. He didn't put it in the 'Charity' box just yet, because he didn't want to unplug the unit. Even though it was only a hologram, switching off his mother felt too brutal.

David left the spilled trash for the time being. He cleared out the other rooms: the kitchen, Mum's bedroom, the study that had once been his own bedroom. By the time he finished, his arms ached and he felt emotionally numb from the barrage of seeing so many things familiar from childhood. Even the patterns on the kitchen plates triggered unexpected flashbacks to long-forgotten mealtimes.

He returned to the living room, and picked up the rubbish from the sofa. Eventually, you had to clear up your own mess. When he first lived alone, he'd learned that you could let things slide for a while, but not forever.

David carried all the boxes out to the van, grateful that his mother had lived on the ground floor. Then he returned to check whether he'd missed anything.

The flat looked bare and alien, stripped of everything personal that had turned it into a home. The hologram of his mother stood in the middle of the empty room, smiling as if having reached the apotheosis of tidiness.

It was time to unplug the HoloMax. David took a deep breath, summoning the strength to switch it off. Then he remembered the battery-powered remote projector. He retrieved the bracelet from its storage slot, and clipped it onto his left wrist. When he unplugged the main unit, his mother's image flickered briefly, then steadied as the auxiliary projector took over. Now the HoloMax could go into the van with everything else.

Jangling the house keys, David came back for a final look around. There was one last thing: the white plastic box on the mantelpiece. When he'd collected his mother's ashes from the crematorium that morning, he hadn't anticipated receiving them in such an ugly, functional container. He'd expected some kind of decorative urn. Apparently it was David's own responsibility to find a suitable final home for these mortal remains.

His mother had made a will, and specified cremation. That was no surprise: the tidy option. She wouldn't want to think of being buried — worms slithering over her decaying body; her flesh putrefying and rotting away.... No, cremation was much cleaner.

She hadn't specified what should be done with her ashes, but David was sure she'd envisaged them being kept in a vase on a shelf, to be dusted regularly. Every day. Cleanliness in death, as in life.

If he took the ashes home, then he would have to buy an urn for them, and put it somewhere, and keep it clean.... Yet was that really the best thing to do? It was in keeping with his mother's life — but what kind of a life had she lived, alone in her flat with the bleach and the HoloMax?

David had a better idea.

He picked up the plastic box, left the house, and locked the door. Instead of getting into the van, he walked briskly down the street. It was late afternoon, with autumn twilight setting in. The roar of rush-hour traffic sounded loud after the silence of the empty flat.

His mother's hologram trotted along behind him, projected by the bracelet. The HoloMax was designed for pets — it could display human images, but not the quirks of their personalities. For the first time he saw his mother walk over rubbish and dead leaves without flinching, almost as if learning to tolerate the outdoors.

As David reached the entrance to Valley Gardens, drizzle set in. He kept walking, past the shrubs and faded flower-beds. Here the trees were more exotic, their fallen leaves dazzling in drifts of red and gold.

Beyond lay the Pinewoods, where the neat tarmac paths ended. Muddy trails led through the forest. His mother would never have come here in life. Her hologram braved the elements regardless — her summer clothes looking incongruous in the rain, her straw hat undisturbed by gusts of wind.

The forest smelled deep and rich, a cocktail of fresh pine and damp earth. David arrived at the wood's northern edge. When he emerged from the trees, he saw a panoramic view across Nidderdale. Even on a gloomy November afternoon, the vista was breathtaking.

This is the first time you've been out in years, David said to the hologram standing beside him. Look how beautiful it is. See, it can't hurt you. You've been missing so much. He pointed across the valley, gesturing from west to east. Beamsley Beacon, Simon's Seat, Brimham Rocks, Fountains Abbey, Ripley Castle, the White Horse of Kilburn.... There were many more landmarks, but he couldn't remember them all. Even in this one corner of Yorkshire, the landscape was full of history.

It's too late for me now, her imagined voice replied.

It's not too late, David said. Come on, just a little bit further. He smiled ruefully as he recognised the incongruity of chivvying the hologram onward, when he wore its projector on his wrist.

Other people were walking along the trail and admiring the view. He needed a little more privacy, so he cut across into the new plantation that extended down the slope. Here, the path was merely a long chain of puddles reflecting the clouds. Soon, David and his mother were surrounded by saplings: waist-high tangles of holly, their leaves a startling green; shoulder-high oaks, too young to produce acorns; slender willows reaching above their heads.

David opened the plastic box that he'd been carrying all this way. He blinked at his first sight of the ashes inside. They were as grey as the vaulting sky. He reached in with his bare hand, and shivered when he touched his mother's last remains. The texture was like coarse sand. With a convulsive jerk, he threw a handful of ashes down into the mud.

It's only dirt, he said, his voice muffled by the tension in his throat. It won't kill you....

He delved into the box again. He'd intended to sprinkle the contents gently, reverently. But he found himself flinging the ashes onto the ground around the saplings: into the puddles, into the thick black mud, into the grass and toadstools and dead leaves. All the pent-up anger of his childhood went into each throw.

Beside him, the hologram looked on, the image growing dim in the twilight. It flickered, wavering like a windblown candle. David wondered what was happening, until he realised that his mother had only operated the HoloMax inside the flat; she'd never used the remote projector. The battery hadn't been replaced since his childhood.

Goodbye, Mum, he whispered.

David's cheeks were wet, either from the drizzle or from his tears. Reaching deep inside the container for the last few handfuls, he cast them wide, in great arcs. He upended the box onto a holly sapling, gifting it with the final smudge of ash. Then he grabbed a cluster of holly leaves and squeezed tightly, hugging the pain to himself as the sharp spines pricked his palm, and blood began to trickle onto the damp black earth.

The hologram quivered, its edges softening, the image dissolving into air.

I'm sorry! I'm so sorry....

And he couldn't tell whether the voice was his mother's, or his own.

*********

Ormonde and Chase

As we waited for customers, I stared out of the showroom window into the garden full of celebrities sprouting from the soil. This early in spring, most of the plants hadn't yet reached resemblance: the flower-buds were tiny blank faces, gradually developing features. Only the cyclamen — Harriet's self-portrait — was in full bloom. Their pink flowers smiled in the sun, looking cheerier than Harriet had done for some time. A pioneer in pomonics, she'd created all this floral art. But at the height of a recession, few people had money to spare on customised flowers. Most of our visitors came to complain about something.

Look at that! said Lorraine Schuster, wheeling a large pot-plant into the showroom.

Ah yes, your mother. I beamed heartily. Splendid foliage.

Look! she repeated. This isn't good enough, Travis.

I bent down to inspect the plant. As I approached the blooms, I got a strong whiff of Chanel No. 5, Mrs Schuster's favourite perfume in life. No problem there. I peered at the flower-heads, and tried to remember Mrs Schuster's appearance from the photographs provided last year. The match seemed close enough, within the limits of horticultural portraiture. What seems to be the problem? I asked.

Warts! Lorraine exclaimed. Can't you see them?

Tiny brown specks disfigured several of the papery faces. I see them, I said. Weren't they there originally?

They certainly were not.

I glanced at Harriet, hoping she would come and help me out, but she stared at a screen full of genetics schematics, showing no sign of having heard anyone arrive. I'd found it hard enough persuading her to even sit here during showroom hours, and now I wondered why I bothered. She showed less and less interest in the clients who financed her art.

Troublesome customers were my domain as her business manager. As politely as I could manage, I asked Lorraine, Have you been spraying regularly?

How should I know? she said waspishly. My housekeeper looks after them.

I took some Vita-Pom from the shelf. Then tell the housekeeper to spray against bugs and viruses. As you're a valued customer, I'll give you two bottles for the price of one.

You charged me a fortune for this plant, Lorraine said. I refuse to pay extra for whatever fripperies you're trying to fob off on me. Your plants should be virus resistant in the first place.

I looked at Harriet again, but even this insult to her handiwork didn't rouse her.

If you leave your mother with us, I'll see what we can do. I gave Lorraine my best mollifying smile, and soon found myself smiling at her ample rear as she stalked out of the showroom.

Well, at least she hadn't demanded her money back. It would have been very difficult for us to comply.

Harriet, my dear? I inquired.

Oh, just spray it! she said, in an irritated tone.

So she'd been listening, after all. I hoped her irritation was directed at the client's lack of aftercare, because I didn't like to consider the alternatives. As I sprayed the plant, Mrs Schuster's dozen faces all gave me a warty disapproving glare.

I'd just wheeled Mrs Schuster aside when a man walked into the showroom. He wore black jeans, and a black T-shirt with a logo of a clenched fist. His facial hair resided somewhere in the limbo between weekend stubble and nascent beard. I didn't recognise him as an old customer, but I hoped he would become a new one.

Good morning, he said. I'd like to discuss a commission.

Certainly, I replied. Harriet, could you come over?

She grudgingly joined us on the cluster of easy chairs next to the showroom window, overlooking the gardens and the Devon countryside. I poured out three cups of coffee.

This is Harriet Ormonde, who does all the design work, I said. I'm Travis Chase, her partner and business manager.

My name's Dean Hudson, the new arrival said, and I'm with the Austerity Rebels.

The protest group? I asked.

He smiled, clearly mistaking my recognition for sympathy. Yes, that's right. We've got a great project for you: it's part of our anti-austerity campaign. We want you to create the whole Government in effigy. Then on Bonfire Night, we'll burn them! Everyone will do it, all across the country. Britain will be united in protest, and the strength of feeling will show —

I sensed that this peroration might continue for some time, so I interrupted to say, The whole Government is quite large, if you want all the cabinet ministers. We can give you a bulk discount, but I assume you realise this won't be cheap.

Unfortunately, we can't afford to pay you. Hudson spread his arms wide. Times are hard — that's what we're protesting against, he said, as though this was an incontrovertible argument in support of demanding a freebie.

Times are hard indeed, I replied sternly, which is why we can't afford to work for nothing. I stood up, dismissing him. Good day to you.

Hudson ignored this, and addressed himself to Harriet. Ms Ormonde, he said, we're great admirers of your work. That's why I've come. We know you could do a fantastic job of lampooning these politicians. You can make them ludicrous, make them hideous, make them poisonous — anything at all, as long as they're flammable.

Ah, negative qualities, said Harriet. It would be an intriguing challenge. There are lots of possibilities, apart from the obvious thorns, stings and bad smells. To represent someone as rapacious, we can use a carnivorous plant, or a parasite —

As soon as she said we, I knew she was in danger of being persuaded. Harriet, darling....

She continued as if she hadn't heard me. Some plants are nocturnal, for those politicians who have something of the night about them. Others are weeds, or they're invasive, or they flourish in the shade —

Hudson gazed at her in fascination, or a flattering facsimile of it. This is great stuff, he said. Carry on.

She was already carrying on. Then we come to the payload, the part of the plant that bears the resemblance. If it's a root or tuber, you have someone who's sticking their head in the ground, refusing to see reality —

Such as the reality that we can't afford to give away freebies, I interrupted.

Think of it as advertising, Hudson said. We'd need lots of seeds to distribute across the country, so everyone can grow the Government for their own bonfire. Each packet of seeds would have your logo on it, your accompanying brochure, your special offer for an introductory purchase. You'd reach so many people!

And alienate half of our existing clients, I said, who voted for the party that you want to burn.

Hudson raised his hands placatingly. I can see you're not convinced, but I won't press you. He looked at Harriet and said, I'll leave you my card, in case you change your mind. There's plenty of time — Bonfire Night isn't till November. It could be a little side-project to occupy any spare moments. I understand that paid work takes priority....

The showroom door opened, and a woman walked in with a terrier on a long leash. The dog scurried toward us, yapping madly, jumping up onto our legs. I suppressed a smile as it left muddy pawprints on Hudson's pristine jeans.

Down, Sprocket, cooed the owner. Oooh, you're so naughty. Aren't you? Aren't you naughty? Yes, you are. Get down!

Hudson hurried to the door, spluttering his farewells.

Welcome to Ormonde and Chase, I said to the woman, mentally sizing up her clothes and jewellery to figure out her price range.

I'd like to commission one of your plant portraits, she said. Can you do dogs?

Of course we can do dogs. We can do them in dogwood, if you like. I turned to Harriet. Can't we, dear?

Harriet looked at the manic terrier, then back at me, her face devoid of expression. Yes, I suppose we can.

She put Hudson's business card into her pocket.

* * *

When I first met Harriet, she was an administrator by day and an artist by night. She tinkered with plants and grew strange little