Doorport Alterludes Read online

  DOORPORT

  ALTERLUDES

  Excerpts from Doorport

  By

  Scott Michael Decker

  Copyright 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  By

  Scott Michael Decker

  First draft written

  11/21/2010 - 01/08/2011

  Typed by Susan Meier

  These stand-alone vignettes are works of fiction. The names, characters, and events portrayed are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright Notice

  DOORPORT ALTERLUDES

  Excerpts from Doorport

  Copyright 2014

  Scott Michael Decker

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Covered within

  U.S. Copyright application

  # 1-1522153471

  ISBN # 978-1-941911-09-9

  Cover Art Background

  ID 127383

  Copyright Photoeuphoria | Dreamstime.com

  Cover Art Silhouette

  "1191138_81918195.jpg"

  Copyright katagaci | Freeimages.com

  Cover Art Design

  Copyright 2014

  Scott Michael Decker

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Notice

  Other titles by the Author

  Alterlude #1: Deputy Anthony Stewart

  Alterlude #2: Attorney Suzanne Roberts

  Alterlude #3: Reporter Zachary Hempstead

  Alterlude #4: Doctor David Winters

  Alterlude #5: Bureaucrat Ashley McArthur

  Alterlude #6: Psychiatry Patient Janice Thomas

  About the Author

  Where to Find/How to Contact the Author

  Other titles by the Author

  If you like these vignettes, please post a review on the website where you obtained it, and consider these other titles by Scott Michael Decker:

  Science Fiction:

  Alien Orb

  Doorport

  Drink the Water

  Glad You're Born

  Half-Breed

  Legends of Lemuria

  War Child

  Fantasy:

  Bandit and Heir (Series)

  Gemstone Wyverns

  Sword, Scroll, Stone

  Look for these titles at your favorite Ebook retailer.

  All points in space exist at one point in space.

  All points in time exist at one point in time.

  Alterlude #1: Deputy Anthony Stewart

  Officer Anthony Stewart checked that he had everything ready, scooped up his three-year-old, shouldered the day bag, and kissed his wife goodbye. "I'm so lucky to have you," he told her. "C'mon, Suzy," he said to his four-year-old and headed for the garage.

  "I'll pick up the kids at three," Sharon said as he stepped into the garage. "As usual."

  "Thanks, Honey," Anthony said, the door closing between them. His hands full of child, bag, lunch, and briefcase, he managed to extract his comcard from his pocket and swipe it across the doorport sensor.

  Space-Time Harmonic Aperture, it said across the lintel.

  Fancy name for a doorport, Anthony thought. The light turned green, the surface shimmered, and he stepped from his garage into the nippy Denver morning. Making a beeline across the neighborhood square for the childcare doorport, Anthony saw that a line had already formed.

  "Daddy, slow down," Suzy complained, hanging onto his hand.

  In his arm, his son Dustin giggled.

  "Sorry, Honey," Anthony said, his breath fogging up in front of him. "You both warm enough?" he asked, heading for the back of the line, looking around the square. Several doorports had lines in front of them. Rush hour. The bank of five doorports labeled "downtown Denver" was fifteen people deep. Anthony sighed, knowing he'd be there after dropping off the kids at daycare.

  A woman with a child in her arms slid into the line just before he did. The child grinned over his mother's shoulder and stuck his tongue out at him.

  Anthony flipped back his lapel to expose his badge. "All right, you're under arrest."

  The boy burst into tears, and his mother spun as though to rebuke him. Suzy giggled, and Anthony told the woman, "You're up," pointing to the open doorport in front of her.

  The mother scowled at him, waved her comcard across the sensor and disappeared through the doorport.

  He swiped his comcard, the light turned green, the doorport shimmered, and he followed.

  The mother with the bawling child entered the daycare center ahead of him, throwing dismayed glances over her shoulder.

  Sheepishly, he entered behind her and set down his wriggling three-year-old son. "Sorry about that," he said, his kids dashing off to play with their friends. "He stuck his tongue out at me." Anthony stuck the day bag into his daughter's cubby.

  "Oh," the mother said, trying not to smile. She handed him the sign-in wand. "Jackie," she said, offering her hand.

  "Anthony," he said, shaking it and turning. "Bye, Kids." He waved.

  "Bye, Daddy," five kids replied, maybe one of them his.

  He held the door for Jackie, and they headed up the walk for the doorports.

  "County Sheriff?"

  "Yeah," he said, knowing the badge visible under his lapel.

  "D.A.," she said.

  "Oh? Deputy or big cheese?"

  Jackie smiled bashfully. "Assistant."

  "So I bag 'em and tag 'em, and you—"

  "Lock 'em up and throw away the key," she finished.

  They both laughed and took their turns at the doorport.

  Back at the neighborhood transit point, Anthony saw that the line to downtown was much shorter. After a couple minutes of talking shop, they'd stepped through the doorport into Civic Center Park. Across the street, behind yellow-striped sawhorses, a cadre of protestors chanted in unison and waved signs. "Doorports will be the death of us all," one sign said. A cloud of steam rose above them, the protestors were so numerous. While Jackie headed to the courthouse, Anthony turned toward the County Jail, the Sheriff substation attached to the backside.

  At his desk, Anthony sorted through the missing-persons reports filed overnight in the county. He scratched his head at the number, which had increased recently for no apparent reason. As the open squadroom came to life for the day, Anthony browsed through files on his tactiface.

  "Hey, Stewart, did you find that 84-year-old who lost herself in her own closet?"

  Anthony didn't even look. He just held up a single finger. A cackle of laughter followed. He didn't care; he liked what he did. No one else wanted missing persons, considered a promotional backwater at the department. Of course, having a hysterical wife call about a husband who'd been missing only four hours and was just checking out of a motel with someone who wasn't his wife, or an old man looking for "Bessie" who later turned out to be a forgetful basset hound so old she didn't know how to get home anymore, wasn't exactly detective work.

  Some of it included matching a John Doe at the morgue with a missing persons report. A new body had come in, and some of the circumstances triggered his memory. Sorting through reports, he matched one to the John Doe. Per protocol, he personally had to port to the morgue and match it to the specs given him by the worried family member. Anthony pulled the profile onto his Sheriff's comcard.

  Near the john was the doorport to the morgue.

  Anthony swiped his card and stepped through the shimmering port.

  "Stewart, got a match already?" Ruth the receptionist asked.

  "I think so," Anthony said, following her back to the meat locker.

  "Column five, door three," she said, gest
uring him into the refrigerated area. Shiny aluminum panels mirrored their progress down the banks of drawers toward the one he wanted.

  He slipped his comcard into the tactiface nearby, then pulled open the third drawer down.

  An elderly male stared up at him with a bewildered expression, a mole on his left cheek.

  On the tactiface, a drawn, bewildered face with a mole on the left check looked at Anthony.

  "Biometric," he said.

  "Analyzing," the tactiface replied, then the screen began to flash. "Match."

  "Let's get you back to your family, old guy," Anthony said to the body, then covered him back up and slid the drawer back in. He shook off shivers outside the meat locker. "Thanks, Ruth."

  "Glad you found him, Stewart."

  Back at his desk, his tactiface began to flash, indicating he had an incoming call. He tapped the screen to answer. "Missing persons, Stewart here," he said.

  The face on the screen was that of a young man. "Hi, I'm calling from St. Louis, and I can't get a hold of my father in Denver today. We talk every day."

  Anthony nodded, smiling. A person wasn't considered missing until forty-eight hours had passed. "All right, Sir, I'll need to get some basic information." He shrank the face to a corner of the screen and began putting in the information the young man was giving him.

  Within seconds he had a match. Anthony verified all the major demographic details, then said, "Sir, my apologies but my records indicate your father died—"

  "Last week, that's right. I did it again," the young man said. "I'm sorry, I keep forgetting, it was so sudden, I must have dreamt about talking with him yesterday. Look, I didn't mean to waste your time."

  "Sorry about your loss, Sir, and it wasn't a bother at all."

  "I can't believe I did that, forgetting my own father died. My therapist says sometimes people do. You ever get calls like this before?"

  "It's happened," Anthony said, thinking they'd been all too frequent recently. His tactiface flashed, indicating another call. "I've got to go, Sir." The caller hung up after another apology and Anthony picked up the next call.

  The daycare.

  Oh, great, he thought.

  "Hi, Mr. Stewart, just wanted to remind you that the kids need to be picked up at three. I'm calling because of what happened yesterday."

  Oh, yeah, Anthony thought, I was supposed to pick them up but thought for some reason that my wife was going to. Been forgetting a lot lately. "Thanks for reminding me," Anthony said. His therapist had told him to expect some of that around the anniversary. "I appreciate the reminder. So much to juggle, doing this all on my own."

  Anthony hung up, saw it was already noon. Seems like hours had passed without his having noticed. Looking up, he saw Captain Jameson approaching, the precinct Chaplain in tow. Father McClanahan had been to the house a number of times in the past year, but not recently.

  "Captain Jameson, Father McClanahan," Anthony said.

  "Stewart," the Captain said, his hand on Anthony's shoulder. "Why don't you join the Father and me in my office in about five minutes?"

  "Certainly, Sir." Anthony nodded to them and returned his attention to his reports. He could feel the looks of his coworkers, and he knew they could see he was suffering. It used to be they'd rib him about finding someone who'd lost themselves in their own closet. They hadn't done that for the last year. He thought it ironic he'd miss something he used to find so annoying.

  He knew his work wasn't as thorough, and the Captain was probably going to suggest he take some time off. The tactiface told him how many reports he still needed to sort through. How can I take any time off? he wondered.

  With a sigh, he headed for the Captain's office.

  "Anthony," the Captain said.

  First names, Anthony thought, wants to keep it informal. "Captain, Father." He nodded to them both.

  "How are the kids, Anthony?" Father McClanahan asked. As precinct Chaplain, he knew all the officers, all their spouses' names, all their kids' names. "Dustin's four now, and Suzy three, eh?" And their ages.

  Anthony hesitated, thinking at first that McClanahan had it backward. Why did I think that? Of course Justin's four and Suzy's three. "Uh, yeah, yeah, they're, uh, fine, Father. Thanks for asking. They still sometimes ask for their mother, but that's to be expected."

  "Tomorrow's the anniversary, Anthony," Father McClanahan said. "Got anything planned?"

  Anthony blinked back a tear. "I hadn't realized. No plans, since I guess I forgot. Funny how you forget things like that."

  "Anthony," Captain Jameson said, "it's the forgetting that's got everyone concerned." He sighed and looked away. "And how you sit there for hours not moving, man! It's unnerving!"

  The Father put his hand on the Captain's arm.

  "Maybe I could take the kids to the crypt," Anthony said, not really seeing them anymore. "Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, Father, for the suggestion, and thanks for the day off, Chief."

  Anthony found himself back at his desk without a memory of returning. It's just the grief, he knew.

  His tactiface alerted him to the time. The squadroom was subdued as he rose and tidied his desk. He felt their eyes again and wished his suffering weren't so apparent.

  His walk to Civic Center Park seemed to take no time at all.

  "Hey, Anthony, put on your coat, it's freezing," Jackie said, standing in line at the doorport.

  He smiled, liking her, remembering their date two weeks ago, remembering he'd enjoyed himself for the first time since his wife ... I can't think about that right now, he told himself.

  At the daycare, he held the door for Jackie and they walked in together.

  Justin glanced from Jackie to him. "Are we getting a new mommy?" he asked, Suzy watching wide-eyed beside him.

  All Anthony could do was kneel, gather his kids to him, and weep. As though he hadn't wept at all since his wife had died.

  Alterlude #2: Attorney Suzanne Roberts

  Suzanne Jacqueline Roberts, Esq., Attorney at Law, Inc., frowned at life, disgusted.

  She looked out the window of her old brick office building and sneezed. Oh, no, she thought, not another cold. But she knew from the rush of heat that followed it was too late—she'd already caught it. That's the third one this year. That's what I get for sitting in a cold, drafty building, day after day, in the middle of winter.

  She blew her nose and shook her head at herself, then returned her attention to the legal brief in front of her. The Friend-of-the-Court brief had been filed on behalf of a plaintiff suing Mountain Power for destruction of habitat on her twenty-acre farm downhill from a powerline clearcut, the runoff from a cloudburst a year ago having washed away the topsoil and the plaintiff's barn and back acre preserve with it. She'd won a similar case last year, which had garnered enough in the way of fees that she'd been able to afford an office, rather than work from home. She still had to do all the work herself, unable to afford law clerks or secretaries.

  A beat-up tactiface perched precariously on the right side of the desk. The left side was piled high with docupads, cases she'd agreed to take on the behalf of mostly poor clients against primarily rich corporations with legions of lawyers at their disposal. Out the window, the frames peeling paint, the State Capitol was barely visible above other surrounding buildings. The office had seen better days, the carpet worn and shedding nap in a couple places, the furniture mismatched and stained, the ceiling missing a few tiles.

  All that, and I awoke this morning in a cold bed, alone.

  Looking around her office, Suzanne sighed at how screwed up her life was, rubbing her bare ring finger.

  Suzanne's last date had been with a County Alderman ten years her senior whose philandering ex-wife had made him look like a pimp, and that date had been eight months ago to a Nuggets basketball game where the box seats had given her butt cramps and the smell of beer wafting from below had made her nauseous and the noise had given her a migraine. The date five months before that had been with a phy
sician so full of himself he hadn't the slightest interest in anything except the wart on her cheek which she'd always thought cute and he'd said might be cancerous. Eighteen months ago was the last time someone had asked her out and that had only been to try to seduce her into a compromising photo shoot at a seedy motel to derail her prosecution of a defamation suit against a newspaper. And the last time she'd had rousing sex was that college quarterback who'd happily gored her at her request but had been dumb as an ox and just as clumsy.

  At least he'd been nice about it, Suzanne thought. But then he'd never returned her calls.

  She straightened the collar of her limp tweed jacket, smoothed her impossibly wrinkled skirt, and decided to get some lunch. She pulled on her coat and went out the door, barely able to pull it shut behind her because of the wood-swell. Two blocks from her office was the nearest set of doorports. She tucked her face into her lapels and pushed against the biting wind, her walk as brisk as the noonday weather.

  Not many pedestrians in this area, the buildings mostly old and neglected.

  No lines at the doorports, she saw. Not like other areas. She waved her comcard across the doorport sensor, and as the light blinked green, she stepped into the shimmer and out into Civic Center Park.

  The first pushcart vendor she came across was hawking hot dogs slathered with chili.

  Hot comfort food for a cold winter day.

  Suzanne strode among the trees, enjoying the chili dog, knowing she'd have heartburn later. With a belch, she finished it off, wiped her face the best she could, and turned toward the bank of doorports. Towering above them was the State Capitol. Suzanne looked at some of the surrounding buildings.

  I'd just die to have a view of the Capitol, she thought.

  Sighing, she turned to the doorports, found hers, swiped her comcard, and stepped through.

  Her office building was a few steps from the bank of doorports. She entered the lobby, noting some of the looks she drew, her suit the finest Armani, her shoes Italian leather, her jewelry subdued silver-and-diamond Giorgio originals. Sometimes, she even drove her Jaguar XJ-9.