Peregrine Comfast woke up in his hibernation pod and blinked. What was today? The ninth. Right. May ninth. 2089, obviously. He wasn't getting so old that he could forget the year.
Slowly, groggily he lifted himself up to a semi-vertical position and yawned raucously, disturbing the cat that lay sprawled across the hall a few feet away. The cat mewed indignantly at him before pawing at the door, signaling to Perry that it was feeding time yet again.
He read the clock slowly. 'Jesus, 8 A.M.,'� mumbled Perry as he reached inside one of the foodmail compartments and picked up the day's ration of cat food. Dry today; Barry the jet-black Siamese would not be amused. The cat had very definite tastes, and dry food was never one of them. But what could you do? The government told him it was necessary to make sacrifices in wartime, and God knows you did what the government told you.
It wasn't wise to cross William Nixon, even if you were a Party member, unless you wanted to go up against the firing squads. Nixon made no bones about the amount of power he wielded, which was substantial--Congress being, after all, a thing of the past. It really wasn't even wise to reminisce on ancient history like this, Perry noted. He was sure Nixon wouldn't resort to mind-reading, but he might have the capacity. You just never knew with a Nixon.
Perry sighed a little, and then regretted it immediately--he had nothing to complain about. Those poor people off in, where was it? Uziafghiraq? North Franzistan? Whatever it was called. Geography wasn't his strong point. Though, to be fair, it wasn't anyone's strong point. It was a subject that was frowned upon as subversive. What your children needed to know would be infomailed to them in the briefing discs every week, like clockwork, from the Education Czar. And if you couldn't trust the Education Czar'�well. That just threw all trust out the window, now didn't it?
Pouring the dry food into a bowl, Perry made himself a mug of hot tea. Now there was something the British had been doing right all those years. Tea was good for anything that ailed you. Perry felt a hunger pang coming on, and wondered how much breakfast there'd be today.
His question was answered shortly as a soft chime signaled the arrival of today's meals. Hungrily, Perry tore open the airtight package and shoved the food in his cooking slot underneath the television. Then, as whatever it was began to form a recognizable foodstuff, he paused, as he did every morning, to take inventory of his life.
Looking around him, he saw the same miniscule apartment that he had seen every day for the last decade. He remembered its statistics, as shown by the purchase forms: 20 feet by 60 feet by 10 feet. His room was the largest room in the apartment. It contained his hibernation pod (as well as an old bunk bed he kept disassembled in the closet--he kept thinking he'd sell it, but sentimental value kept him from it), and a metal 'scoop,'� as they were called, for Barry.
The bathroom was the smallest place he'd ever remembered seeing--a 5.5-foot cube, with a toilet and tiny sink. The shower was located in between his room and the bathroom, so he could step into it from his pod and out again into the commode. He never did use this little process, though, preferring to have some tea before showering.
The rest of the apartment was simply a table, a few bits of furniture, and the television. The mail slots were located right next to the table. There were no windows.
There came another soft chime as Perry's breakfast finished cooking itself. Perry opened the little slot, placed his meal on a plate, and sank into a chair, turning on the television to provide some background noise.
He spooned the oatmeal-like mush into his mouth and allowed his mind to wander. He never found the celebrity news to be all that interesting, and even the stand-up comedy bits that were supposed to bring any man to his knees with laughter did little to tickle his funnybone. Instead, as a robot manufactured to look like Katie Couric introduced the next correspondent, Perry thought aimlessly.
Today it would be the same old routine, the same job, the same people, the same as it had been for the last five years of his life. No, no, don't complain, it's okay, you have the best life possible. But wouldn't it be great to be President? Oh Hell, don't even think about that! Shut up, Perry! Think about something else'�
An explosion broke him out of his reverie. He looked wildly around to see what had happened, then realized it had only come out of the television. Barry came around the corner to investigate, and as he hopped up on Perry's lap, Perry began to watch the news report with growing horror.
'--bomb exploded at approximately 5 of the clock this morning. Channel 37 News was there, filming a series on the power plant. A statement from the government has said this was most likely the result of terrorist activity, although how the terrorists managed to plant the bomb is unknown--oh, wait, I've just been handed a bulletin--'
Perry was terrified. They'd blown up his plant. He had worked there for five years now, enjoyed the work, liked the repetition, liked the people. And now, today, it was gone.
What would he do now? Oh God in Heaven, where would he go? What would he do? His life had been the plant, ever since he'd been sent there by the Center for Job Control'�work had made him free, like the Party always said'�
As soon as the panic attack had begun, it died. He'd just get another job from the Center, was all. No big deal. He shouldn't let himself panic like that--panic was a sign of weakness, something that could get you fired or placed under suspicion.
Even as he thought about what his new job would be, no longer paying attention to the monitor, he heard a chime and some buzzing as a piece of mail came through the mail slot. My new job! He thought about what new experiences would be available to him. He had been granted a new life. Perry was almost grateful to the terrorist, whoever he was'�
He shooed Barry off of his lap and moved towards the mail slot, tearing off the message. He read the mail, first in eager nervousness, then with growing horror:

Department of Discipline and Defense
Office of Inner Threats
J.F. Cole, Head of Office
A.R. Souther, Deputy Head of Office

To Mr. Peregrine W. Comfast:
It has come to this office's attention through intelligence gathered that you have orchestrated a deliberate attack on government property, namely the Government Works Plant No. 5682-10. This attack, in addition to possession of explosives used to carry out said attack, is a violation of the United Agreement of the Technocracies, resolution 3, section 10, paragraph 9.
Hence, you are hereby formally charged with criminal counts of murder, treason, possession of illegal arms, and conspiracy to commit said crimes.
Law enforcement officials will arrive at your place of residence shortly to arrest and subdue you. Do not leave your home. Do not attempt to resist.
A.R. Souther
A.R. Souther
Deputy Head of Office

For a long moment, Perry could not draw a breath.
What was going on? Why did they blame him? He worked at the plant! He'd never caused trouble! He loved the Technocracy as much as anybody, maybe even Nixon! He was innocent'�
Perry decided he'd get to the bottom of it later. His mind was functioning more clearly than he'd ever thought possible. Gone were any idle, musing thoughts. His entire body was concentrated on figuring out what to do next.
The obvious thing, he thought, was to get out. That much was obvious; he couldn't find out what had happened in a halo block. He really didn't want to leave Barry behind, but cold logic told him it was necessary--they wouldn't harm him, and Perry could no longer afford to keep him. The stakes were too high to keep a cat around. Perhaps, once this business was done, he could find the cat again.
Now. Packing. Maybe some spare clothes. Yes, that would be a good thing. But they would have to be light. He'd need other things.
Perry strode purposefully over to a drawer and unlocked it. He hesitated, and then opened the drawer and picked up the ancient Colt .45 he kept hidden. He'd bought the thing a two decades and a half ago, when he was 17 and on the wrong side of the law. Now, twenty-five years later, he was back to where he'd started'�
For some reason, Perry had never bothered to get a shoulder holster or anything for the Colt, so he simply threw on his old tan trench coat that past girlfriends had loved and stuck the gun in the inside pocket. He withdrew the box of ammo he had left over from those criminal days. He prayed to the Maker that the stuff still worked.
Perry was now armed. He felt a little better, but he still needed to get out of his apartment soon. He dashed into his room, grabbed an old briefcase from an office job long since forgotten, and proceeded to throw some clothes into it. A shirt, some pants, and one pair of underwear. Enough. He grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, ran into the kitchen and grabbed some chips. He had a soft spot for chips, especially with dip, and food would be a good thing to have wherever he was going.
For a moment, Perry was overwhelmed with doubt and grief. Where was he going to go? He had no plan, he was just Perry Comfast, unskilled laborer and suspected terrorist. He was more than slightly chubby and had dropped out of school a year and a half early. He was now 42, 43 this March, and had a slight case of asthma. He couldn't take on three gerbils right now.
But then he spied the letter from Mr. A.R. Souther on his kitchen table and his head was clear again, thinking coolly, rationally. He was going to go out and find the bastard that had turned his life upside-down and sort him out.
A mini-bag of chips flew into the briefcase and Perry slammed it shut. He grabbed his classic fedora hat, reflecting that he felt a good deal like Philip Marlowe from those old English lessons, and turned around to face the door, he could make it, he could get out of here--
Perry suddenly found himself facing three stun batons pointed at his head. He sagged against the table. He felt despair once again begin to wash over him'�
'Mr. Perry Comfast, you have been charged with crimes against the Technocracy of North America. You have the right to remain silent'�'�
The policeman began to read him his rights. Another one began to pull out handcuffs. The remaining one just kept his baton ready, keeping silent. But he couldn't hide the hint of a smirk from crossing his face.
He's laughing at me, thought Perry. Inside his head, he's laughing at me. He thinks he's better than I am. He's laughing, I don't like people that laugh at me'�The cold rage returned to his body and he began to straighten up slowly.
'You have the right to an attorney--'
Perry grinned broadly. 'Aw, that's sure nice of you.'�
The policemen stopped what they were doing. Suspects usually cowered, not laughed. The front one looked especially disconcerted. 'Uh, um, yes sir. If you--'
'You know what though?'� Perry continued, making as though to cross his arms. 'I don't really want an attorney. Buggers give me the creeps.'�
One of the policemen nodded for a moment before seeming to catch himself and readied his handcuffs again.
'Yes, I don't want an attorney, fellas. Especially since--'� Perry casually slipped a hand inside his jacket-- 'I won't be needing a trial.'�
With a speed that shocked even Perry, the Colt was drawn and had popped off two hunks of lead within as many seconds. The police, equipped for regular day-to-day firearms, not antiques, had no chance. Two officers fell, clutching their chests.
The remaining officer, the one that had been silent, no longer wore a confident smirk. His face was a mask of fear, pale and shaking. 'N-Now come on, b-buddy, y-y-you don't want to g-get yourself in more trouble,'� he stammered, reaching for a plas-pistol.
'Why not?'� growled Perry, with a ferociousness that was eerie coming from his mouth, and squeezed the trigger a third time.
As the third man crumpled and fell to the floor, Mr. Perry W. Comfast of 54 West 4567th Street, New York City, Ontario Territory, North American Technocracy, held his frightened cat tightly for a few moments, then rushed out into the suddenly hostile world.

Approximately eleven minutes after Perry had made his rather unceremonious exit from his apartment, another squad of policemen made their way to check on those that had entered first. In the apartment, they found their comrades shot with what looked like antique bullets, bleeding onto the formerly pristine eggshell-white floor. All three were dead, and a more than slightly perturbed cat circled their bodies. (Hissing at the officers madly, the cat refused to be removed from the apartment peaceably, instead forcing the officers to stuff the cat into a box and ship it to the animal adoption center.) After the bodies had been removed, the officers dutifully placed several bagged objects on the kitchen table and waited for the forensics officers to arrive.
When eventually they did, a great deal of fuss was made about the objects, with everybody wondering how an individual such as Mr. Comfast had purchased such items, and how it was a crying shame that somebody with his bomb-making skills wasn't in the Army, and so on. The fact that none of Mr. Comfast's fingerprints, hair, or for that matter, DNA could be located on these volatile things was not mentioned. The objects left as quickly as they had come. The policemen never found out what they were. The forensics officers went missing soon after the incident.

Perry ran.
He knew in his heart that the most important thing was just to run, and as he fled past the cityscape of New York City, he ignored the things he loved most about it.
There was no time to purchase the old-time falafel that was still sold among the impoverished street vendors, no time to admire the expertly crafted holo-ads (Perry knew he was alone in his admiration for the holo-ads, as they were just so commonplace), no time to even slow down and wave to the eBook-seller that he passed every morning'�
Or was there?
He needed a place to hide. Old Mr. Grandfer certainly wouldn't think he was a mad bomber?
Perry slowed to a trot, and jumped into the lightway. It scanned his face for a moment, and then, with a shrill 'EEEEEEEEP,'� it projected him back onto the moving walkway.
Perry cursed inwardly. Of course the lightway would recognize him, it scanned your DNA. And he was now wanted by the government. Likely it had sent a notification to the nearest government station as to his position at this moment. There was only one thing to do now'�
He took a deep breath, cursed the extra 50 pounds he carried about his hips, and ran off again.
Running, running, crashing into stunned pedestrians that screamed when they saw his face--they'd probably seen his picture on TV as the terrorist bomber. Ah well, no time to argue his case before these people. He had to hide, had to find some respite from running'�and soon, too. He'd forgotten his asthma medication and his chest was feeling tight.
Finally, after a half-hour of running in and out of alleyways, onto and off of moving platforms and walkways, boarding three no-rails by jumping over the turnstiles, and hijacking one cab, Perry leaned against a wall and vomited. The people around him gave him a wide berth. After he was finished, Perry looked around for an convenient alley to crouch down in for a while.
It has been said that you can find whatever you want in New York City, and this time was no exception. Perry spied a dead-end avenue that looked plenty grimy enough to discourage passersby from looking in. He crossed the street, entered the avenue, and collapsed in a heap a good 15 feet from the entrance to the hustle and bustle of the passersby.
He rest only lasted for a few moments. The thwack-thwack-thwack sound of metal hitting something soft made him curious enough to use precious energy and lift his head.
What he saw made him scream like a babe.
The four figures that stood over a fifth a scant 20 yards away from him shone in the dim sunlight. There was no mistaking the rhythmic click of their movements, or the hum of some of their engines.
They were robots, and they were committing murder.

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