Michael Harrison
Stories (2)
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Another Man's Treasure
Nick wasn't sure what he had expected, but it was just the six of them at the funeral. Jake, Paul and Kelly were there for him more than anything, and the Priest had to be there, so in truth, only Hana and himself had come to say goodbye to his Mother. Hana had worked with his Mum for almost thirty years, but Nick suspected she had only come so she could gossip about it with the other girls on Monday. He couldn't help but think that calling whatever this was a funeral was more than generous. It was over in less than twenty minutes. Most of that time was eaten up signing papers and watching the body incinerate. This was all they could afford, one-half hour, eleven-thirty at night, to farewell fifty-three and three-quarter years of life. In fact, they couldn't really afford it, but it had been her wish, and it was mostly her money, so it seemed right to Nick. Initially, he had thought the company would pay for the funeral. She had died on the job, a quick heart attack at the end of a long, long shift. Unfortunately for Nick, within the hour of her death, he received a message explaining that her insurance policy was void. The company had determined that statistically, she had lived longer than would be expected for someone with her genetics, and they could not be expected to pay out in such circumstances. So he had paid what little money they had left.
By Michael Harrison5 years ago in Fiction
The Fruits of Our Labors.
Deliveries to the palace generally arrived on the four hundred and fiftieth floor, either gently cradled in the arms of drone swarms or, in the case of particularly valuable packages, hand-delivered by couriers in unmarked transport jets. For this reason, the Baker stands on the delivery platform in a heavy thermal coat and oxygen mask, neurotically checking the time on his watch. Of course, he is not required to collect his prize in person. Most workers of his importance would send someone unimportant for collection. But, lifetimes ago, the Baker had always tended to these details himself, and, after many countless iterations, it was unthinkable that anyone else might lead this small ritual in his place. After some time, the thrusters of a reflective black delivery Jet silenced. A small man in unmarked clothes emerged from a hatch with an unmarked steel case. A few minutes later, the Baker was in the service Elevator heading down a hundred floors to the kitchens. Although the entire trip, up and down, had taken less than ten minutes in total, it infuriated the Baker. Each minute was precious. When he had first worked in this building, deliveries had arrived by hyperloop in the basement levels before pressurised vacuum tubes carried them to their destination. It was quick and reliable, but recent civil unrest in the undercity and incidents of missing stock had forced a change in procedure.
By Michael Harrison5 years ago in Fiction
