Time and Punishment
“Excellent!” whispered Aaron into Daniel’s ear, “World War 2 beach landings. My favourite method of execution!”
In his newly-issued guards uniform, Daniel watched the silent projection hovering above the court. In the near-darkness, the defence team could be heard packing their papers away; it had been a quick and unsuccessful trial for them, the video evidence proving without any doubt that Vince McAndrews had murdered the elderly couple. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; ironic, considering that time would kill Vince.
On the holographic screen, the amphibious landing craft juddered as it hit solid ground, its cargo of british soldiers almost toppling over. Amongst the squaddies was a frightened Vince, his orange prisoner's uniform replaced with an olive-green tunic to ensure that the time-travelling convict would blend in with the era. The court watched Vince make an unsuccessful scramble towards the back of the craft, but his path was blocked by the soldiers. Thinking that he was one of them, they shoved him back, screaming at him to do his duty for King and country.
The ramp at the front of the vehicle lowered to reveal a dreary and punished beach. Pillboxes and barbed wire loomed in the distance. Suddenly, tunic and flesh were ripped from the soldiers’ bodies, bullets flooding the craft like a swarm of wasps. The soldiers fell quickly, killed by the distant machine gunners – all except Vince, who covered himself with a dying man to shield himself from the gunfire.
“Completely pointless,” muttered Aaron to Daniel. “Whatever happens, Vince will be killed. Every action that can be made, every possibility, has been calculated and simulated. It’s a certainty.”
“There’s no such thing as certainty,” replied Daniel without taking his eyes from the projection; still clutching the dead soldier like a shield, Vince made his way out of the craft and waded through the red water, stepping over dozens of dead bodies littering the beach, and scurried into a large crater. As he lay on his back catching his breath, the sand beside him erupted. When the image cleared, Vince was writhing in agony; both of his legs had been sheared off by the explosion. Screaming, he crawled out of his hole and tried to get back to the landing craft, but a flurry of bullets stitched a line up his back. He screamed again and rolled over; another couple of bullets ripped into his stomach. He balled up, crying as he held his gushing wounds.
In the gallery, someone started to clap. Judge Skivil, his single brass-framed eye peering into the darkness, banged his gavel. “There will be no clapping,” he grated, steam hissing out of his facial augmentations. “Death is not a cause for celebration.”
Soundlessly, a bullet hit Vince in the forehead and his eyes went blank, his quivering body suddenly still. There was a murmur from the witnesses; some people stood up and left, their work done. The screen remained on Vince's corpse, the sea lapping at his bleeding back, the odd random bullet tugging at his torso, until the judge stood up and cut the transmission with a metal hand.
“Justice has been served, and a part of the past has been saved,” said Judge Skivil.
Aaron leaned towards Daniel. “Neat, huh?”