On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 161, of 240 so far.

Inheritance

The man who was waiting for him looked vaguely familiar, but Collins couldn’t decide whether it was because he might have met him as a boy, or just that the older man looked like the absolute stereotype of a university professor.

The man came forward, and cordially shook his hand. “So, another Collins, is it? Your family name is almost royalty around here.”

Collins smiled, feeling a little embarrassed. He was certainly the beneficiary of a degree of nepotism, but he had also earned every one of his qualifications and diplomas, and indeed both of his degrees. The fact that he had chosen to apply to work at the same institution that several of his forebears had devoted their lives to was simply a matter of tradition.

“Yes, sir,” Collins replied. “My father was always keen that I should follow in his footsteps.”

“And those of his own father, and so on,” the older man said. “What has it been, now; six generations?”

“I’d be the seventh, sir, yes,” Collins replied, not wanting to seem presumptuous. It was a preliminary meeting, after all, rather than an offer of employment, but he had to admit to himself that he wanted it to go well. The surroundings were grand, and even intimidating. The diplomatic service of the Foreign Office had kept the same headquarters for several centuries, enviably positioned in central London, and stepping inside was like travelling back in time to a better age.

“My name is Braithwaite,” the older man said at last, gesturing that Collins should follow him down a wood-panelled corridor. “I expect that your father might have mentioned me at some point.”

“Very much so, sir,” Collins said, now realising exactly who he was speaking to. The man had been his father’s close colleague, as far as Collins knew, and he found himself feeling more relaxed immediately. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“We’ll be working together quite a bit, you and I,” Braithwaite said, and Collins could hardly believe his luck. It seemed that the preliminary meeting had almost immediately become an assurance of employment, and in a government job with a respected and noble institution, no less.

They reached a broad door, and Braithwaite opened it, ushering him inside. The room beyond was ornate, lit just as much by various lamps as by the meagre sunlight coming in through the windows, despite it being the middle of the morning.

“Take a seat just there,” Braithwaite said, and Collins nodded and walked over to a burgundy leather armchair whose twin sat nearby, with a drinks table between. It was to this other chair that Braithwaite went, peering at a document he had been carrying the whole time, through the small spectacles that perched at the end of his nose. Belatedly, Collins became aware that the document was his own curriculum vitae.

“Well,” Braithwaite said after a moment as he set the document down, “this all seems to be in order. Not that it would matter very much if it wasn’t, mind you.”

Collins frowned, unsure what the man meant. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he also wanted to feel that he had earned his place in the world, and wasn’t riding entirely on his own father’s coat-tails.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Braithwaite said pleasantly, seemingly intuiting the younger man’s thoughts. “You’re here on your own merits, of course. But not the merits inscribed there. Your past accomplishments — impressive though they are — have very little significance.”

The man seemed to be waiting for a question, but Collins found that his mind was whirling with too many to ask. He had felt extremely comfortable a minute ago, and now he was profoundly unsure what was going on. Perhaps he’d been presumptuous after all, and somehow misunderstood the situation. But he had been very clear in his letter of application that he sought a post in the diplomatic service, as a negotiator. He’d even said so during the standard phone screening a week earlier.

The silence stretched out, and Collins cleared his throat. “How do you mean, sir?” he asked, and Braithwaite smiled.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the older man replied, “and allow me to explain. When I said that your name was held in high esteem within this institution, I wasn’t exaggerating. Or more exactly, your bloodline and genetic heritage. You see, your six predecessors — all of whom, of course, are also your ancestors — possessed a unique trait, which you share. They had a curious mutation in a portion of what we now know as the prefrontal cortex.”

Braithwaite reached up and tapped his own head, as if he were complimenting someone’s intelligence. Collins was none the wiser.

“A mutation?” he asked, and Braithwaite nodded.

“One that’s highly prized in any interpersonal context, and which is invaluable when involved in a negotiation,” he said. “And none of your family members knew about it before they started working here, because their immediate predecessors — their respective fathers — were sworn to utter secrecy.”

Collins said nothing, but he didn’t doubt a word of what he was hearing. His father had been an exceedingly private man, and so had his grandfather, but both of them had been given knighthoods before they passed away, and they had each been fiercely proud of their work for their country.

A memory surfaced, of his teenaged years, one particular evening when his father returned home from work. The younger Collins wanted to ask him if he could attend a party that weekend, at the house of a classmate, with the real motivation being that a certain girl would be there. His father asked him why he wanted to go, and Collins told him that he just wanted to spend time with his friends. His father had looked at him with both understanding and a measure of disappointment that he had never understood. The following evening, Collins found money and a box of condoms on his bedside table, with a note from his father to call if he wasn’t going to be home, so his mother wouldn’t worry.

Every child, at one time or another, had entertained the possibility — quickly dismissed as ridiculous — but in this case Collins wasn’t surprised to hear the next words of the man sitting across from him.

“You have the latent ability, young Collins, to read other people’s minds,” Braithwaite said. “And we’re going to activate it for you, then you’ll use it to tell us the deepest secrets of your opposite number in every negotiation you take part in during your impending and inevitably illustrious career.”

The older man sat back, placing his forearms on the chair’s armrests.

“It’s nothing less than your family legacy, and your truest inheritance,” he added. “Now, shall we begin?”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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