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Posted by Synik, A week ago in Writing
Necroville
In the cold street below, hazy light spilled out from ornate gas lamps. The hydrocarbon fuel was long gone, now bio-luminescent chemicals swam in the heatless white candles. A sea of people strolled through the fake heritage: Neo-viks, Metalheads, Necs and Breed plus a few wannabe's down from the corporate zones. Far above them, the father of the Nec movement watched from his office window. He stood holding a bone white china cup filled with fragrant tea. The vessel of similar colour to his own modded complexion. Aldrich - another untruth fixed to the man - looked down and pondered his next line. Behind, there was the gentle scratch of a stylus against a data panel. The reporter could have videoed the conversation, but there was something delightfully old school about his approach. It was that, that had piqued the old surgeon's interest. Aldrich rarely gave interviews these days. "It startles me that people choose still to read," and sipped his tea. Aldrich turned and looked along the corner of his office to view the junction of 1st and Morrison. "I thought it was a dying art."
The reporter stopped writing. Aldrich's ears picked up the clink of teeth against the pen. "We have a strong readership. Sure, lots of people prefer vids and stuff like that, but you'd be surprised. I hope."
"How's the tea?" Aldrich asked changing the subject. He found himself nervous. Odd considering his sparring with property corporations, Security Services and the Old Man's chief whip, Kellerton. A lift craft fixed with much Victoriana rose from a roof top garden and drifted high into the half light. Necroville was never brightly lit, the architecture and population seemed to prefer it that way. It was also much cooler than other parts of the giant city. You could spot a Stack resident as they'd be wearing a hat and glove.
Aldrich's gaze settled on the lift craft again. Its smart glass roof hardened into shape after flowing from the fancy wood and brass surrounds of the air carriage. He wondered if some of the Neo-Viks were starting to overdo things. His eyes tracked it upwards until they met his own reflection. A man in his 40s with the traditional dark hair and pale face that marked him out as Nec. He had kept some of his Arabic features, the hair was much like his fathers. Nec, or necroform, to use an older word. Not many did these days: Nec was short, blunt and common parlance. Aldrich studied the well cut suit he wore and wondered if he should have opted for something less formal. Still, there were fashions even within Nec society and the Victorian look was on another loop. Still, a break from last season's leather road warrior and tough luxe. He left such decisions to Miss Crew, she knew far better than him in that regard.
He shifted his gaze to the reporter sat in a chair behind him. Harsher elements of Nec society would describe him as a kenbie, while the ancient core, a muggle. Both words fascinated Aldrich. Despite his and Miss Crew's work to try and bring Necroville into mainstream acceptance, they - like the denizens of the Breed zone - remained forever at arm's length. Perhaps they would never merge and this was a hopeless dream.
"The tea's fine, thank you," came the answer. The report leant back in the leather chair which creaked slightly. He was dressed casually and would have stuck out on the street like a war bot at the crucifixion. "Why don't we start with some of the history?" the reported asked. "The beginnings of this hab-zone, the start of the movement and of course, you and Miss Crew."
Aldrich finished his drink and placed the cup and saucer on the large desk that dominated one side of the office. "Really, the movement and the zone - as you call it - are tied together. One influenced the other."
"When did you start?"
"Shortly after Magdalene became a city state," the doctor answered. "I blew in from the wreckage of London." The reported nodded, hoping to coax more out of him. "I didn't have much with me. Most refugees didn't. At least I had my health: psychical, mental and spiritual."
"You believe in spiritual health?"
Aldrich thought about it, looking up at the plain white ceiling. A brass fan hung motionless above the reporter. "Don't you?"
"I can't say I'd thought about it," came the answer. "As a man of medicine, do you find a level of spirituality surprising?"
"Some people have faith in religion, some in each other and many only in themselves," he found himself replying. "What I mean by spirit is... belief. Some would call it drive, but to me, there's more a creative side to it than a desire. Spirit is what calls people to Necroville. There often something - missing - from their life outside and they come here looking for it."
"Don't some come to die?"
"You mean the euth-tanks?" Aldrich replied and the reporter's head bobbed. "They are not to help people kill themselves, at least, not in the way you might think. They do let you die, that is true, but they bring you back. As a society, we can beat death. The post-humans in Maple could probably tell you more than I could."
"So why do it?"
"To see the other side perhaps?" Aldrich shrugged. "I did it twice: once to see what the fuss was about and second to be sure that there's no great mystery awaiting us."
"You truly think that? That there's nothing after this? Doesn't that play into the hands of those who say Necs are all about doom and gloom?"
A smile hit Aldrich's face. "I thought you may say that. I did not hear or see a corridor of light - although some have - I did not experience anything. Only a sense of peace. Perhaps I did not die long enough to witness the Other Side as it were. But I will tell you this, it is all about what you can do now in this existence."
"Do feel you've done that?"
"In a small way..."
"You built a hab-zone, you're a world renown tailor and the figurehead of Necroville. Wouldn't you say they are big achievements?" The reported stopped and held the stylus near his lips. Aldrich wondered what work the young man had had on his face. Chin and nose perhaps?
"The zone was already here," he answered. "Sector 17 was part of the Rescued Buildings Project. Older buildings that survived the war and the town style ones were imported as part of a living museum. Certainly a grand idea. Sadly, a lack of planning with this being in the wrong part of Magdalene didn't help. This place is cold, colder than the central parts and people did not - if you pardon the pun - warm to it. The Consortium tried to redo the properties and sell them on, but there was little interest. A vicious feedback of no investment, so no facilities. No doubt the lack of a good sun tube feed made the place darker than usual. To the Nec Movement, it was perfect."
"How did you fund it?"
"Favours, loans, promises and the movement. Necroforms - or necs as you call us now - we'd been around as long as people have been able to modify our bodies - "
"Is that were you made your fortune?"
"Yes, Aldrich said. "My trip from London. I set up business here as a tailor: not clothing in the traditional sense of the word, but as someone who could remake a person. My gift was bioware and biosculpting. I say with no falsehood that I did well out of it. Certainly that helped fund large sections of the community you stand in now."
"It has been said that you are against cybernetics? Is that true?"
Aldrich shook his head gently. "Not strictly. From an artistic point of view, I prefer to work in the medium of flesh. I find that infinitely trickier to work with and yet so capable as a material. The Chrome Age, if you could call it that, was an age of identikit replacement. There was no soul to it. So, yes, the artist in me is against them, but the realist says some people need them to survive." He folded his hands slowly. "Who am I to say what is right? Is a plastic handle better on a brush or a wooden one?"
The reported scribbled away and pursed his lips as he thought. Aldrich looked very carefully and his vision zoomed in like a hawk's. Yes, he nodded, definitely face work. Very good though. The youth seemed to stealing himself to ask a question. "May I ask you about your partner, Anita Smith?"
Ah, Aldrich thought, I was wondering when this would come out. "What about her?"
"Well," the reporter seemed to struggle to get the question out.
Aldrich's gaze wasn't helping, although inwardly the old Nec was on the verge of laughing. Miss Crew would no doubt chastise him for such social cruelty.
Finally, the young man gathered his wits: "You came from London and I believe you met a year later, is that correct?"
"That is right, yes. We met at an art exhibition. A mutual friend had created a series of pieces called The Human Network. The one that sticks in my mind was the over scaled blood and nerve system hung about a large room. A large heart was in the centre - underneath the seating - which pumped blood through it and kept it alive. Very clever, Anita told me. She'd helped him and we got talking. She was a fascinating woman."
"I'm sorry, you talk about her in the passed tense, yet she is still alive." The pen tapped out time against perfect teeth.
Aldrich let out a sigh and turned to look out of the window. His gaze became unfocused as the memory played back to him. "I'm afraid that is not strictly true. Anita did die that fateful night. We had been to a party when we were attacked. My assistance, Kalis was fatally injured but it was Anita who took the brunt of their fire."
The reporter put down the stylus and lent forward. "What happened?"
"There was a group of them: two men, two women. I am not sure, even to this day, which meme they represented, but they had decided to kill us. They said we had committed crimes against the natural order. Whatever that meant and we could not be allowed to live.... as that would let the corruption continue." Aldrich's lips had become dry and he looked at his empty cup longingly. "Kalis moved to stand between us and our assailants. I remember activating my panic button and trying to get Anita into the porch. Our town house was heavily protected, but it was not to be. I was shot in the leg and the back. My darling? She took many hits. Automated security arrived very quickly, but it was too late for her. I saw the life go out from her. That look will always be with me."
The reported fidgeted in his chair. "I-I'm sorry. Would you like me to remove that from the transcript?"
"No. Leave it in. It is history." Aldrich took in a deep breath and turned to face his interviewer. "Besides, there is a happy ending - of sorts."
"I know you brought her back."
"Again," Aldrich answered cooly. "Almost. It is as if much of our history has... become enhanced into legend. I did bring her back from the dead, yes. But it was not Anita who came back to me, but Miss Crew."
"What is she like? How is she different to Anita?"
A tiny smile bounced Aldrich's lips. "Why don't you ask her?" The reporter frowned and then almost squeaked in alarm as he found a tall, elegant blonde woman stood by his side. "Miss Crew says you dropped your pen," Aldrich continued. Previously his wife's hair had been long and a neon red. He never managed to keep up. Miss Crew smiled politely and then walked over to stand at her husband's side. Her dark leather dress made no noise, there was only the soft clock-clock-clock of boot heel against the fine wood around the desk. "How are you, my dear?" he asked and waited. "That is excellent. We have a visitor, Lucian Grenham from Tower House Publishing."
Crew slow blinked and put her arms behind her back. "My wife says it is nice to meet you and..." Aldrich stopped to smile. "She hoped that I have not been too cruel to you."
"I was going to ask - how are you different? What happened to Anita?" the reporter asked.
Remaining silent, Crew shifted her weight to another foot. Aldrich answered for her: "My wife says that it was like coming out of sleep. That before... she had been dreaming and is now fully awake. She says Anita died that day. There is nothing left of her."
"Do you mourn her?" The question rang out like a shot.
Aldrich put his hand to the small of Miss Crew's back. "Each day I am thankful that Miss Crew is with me."
"But is she Anita?"
"My wife tells me to see her previous answer: Anita is dead."
The reported nodded and made some more notes on the data pad. "Why does she not speak?" His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry. I was told I had to ask the question."
"If I may answer that?" Aldrich asked Miss Crew and then added: "Miss Crew says she cannot speak until those who did this to her have been brought to justice." Aldrich lent back in his chair and Miss Crew moved to the other side of the room. She opened a wall cabinet and took out Aldrich's coat.
"I'm sorry if I've caused you offence - " the young man began.
"When you've been shot for being who you are, questions such as yours," Aldrich actually grinned at the reporter. It wasn't an altogether pleasant experience. "Let us say that I've had worse. Please Mr Grenham. I have another appointment and our time is now up."
The reporter pushed the stylus into his pad and the plastic reabsorbed it. He offered a hand to the Father of Necroville. Aldrich shook it firmly. "Miss Crew will see you to my assistant and they will see you out. Same time next week?" The reporter visibly relaxed when he heard the offer of a further interview. The two made their way out, leaving Aldrich to stand by his desk.
Left alone, Aldrich walked over to the wall and picked up his coat. Draping it over a high backed leather chair nearby, he pressed on a panel of dark wood. It slid back revealing a distinctly ancient chemistry set. He picked up a dropper and squeezed two drops of liquid on to his tongue. Aldrich gave a short shiver and then stretched his back like an old cat. "Much better." He heard the door shut behind him. "All done?" he asked.
Miss Crew padded across the floor and stopped by his side. He was a very bold young man, she sent to Aldrich. Her voice sounded only in his ears. Anita's soft country tones would never grow old, never wither. They were the only constant of life in his world.
"Why do they always ask about the talking?"
I could not say, but you always did like the sound of your own voice. Mirth danced in her pale eyes. Today they were lilac. Yesterday they had been the colour of blood.
"Thank you, dear," Aldrich chuckled. "Talking of which. How are our guests?"
The same as ever. Miss Crew slid the chemistry set aside to view a small tank. Inside four partial human brains floated in a tank of nano-gel. In abject pain, but very much alive. Tubes and wires ran from inside them to the sides of the tank. They didn't need to pulse malevolently, but Aldrich enjoyed the comic touch. "Where are they?" he asked.
Running through Programme Six, Miss Crew returned. The iron forest. Her crimson lips remained closed and perfect. Shall we?
"Just five minutes," Aldrich said pulling up a chair. Above the grand fireplace a holoscreen flickered into life. Dark woods filled with sharp metal trees filled the landscape. Four people - two men, two women - woke up naked. They looked confused and then one screamed. A hand burst from the forest floor and grabbed the nearest ankle. The hand became an arm and then a shattered head followed it. The bullet ruined face of Anita Smith pulled itself from the dirt. Snarling and snapping, the creature chewed into the woman's leg. The others fled, abandoning her to a slow death.
Aldrich picked up a book and flicked through it. See how they run, his dead wife sang to the holo footage. One of them ran into a tree, the branches sawing through skin and pinning him in its murderous grip.
"A thousand creds that Christopher makes it to the waterfall this time," Aldrich wagered.
You are tight. Tell you what. If he does, you can pick the restaurant tonight. How about that?
"Done," Aldrich smiled and looked up from the book. A Breed version of Anita was stalking the remaining two: Christopher and Sarah-Anne. The body had been real enough, Miss Crew had worked on an unanimated clone of herself as a pet project. This one seemed like an unholy trinity of wolf, bear and crocodile. Sometimes the players would fight each other to make one fall and today, Sarah-Anne didn't disappoint. Today she got the upper hand. She caught Christopher in the throat and he slipped, gashing his leg as he fell in a riot of metal brambles.
As the screams rang out, Miss Crew smiled wickedly. You lose, honey. I feel like a visit to Solar Arc tonight. You can book. I shall be downstairs working.
"Enjoy, petal." Aldrich waved his hand at the display and it reset. The four killers returned to the boot point of the game. Unmolested, uninjured. Now, the game would run again, and again until the four learned to be human and to help each other. Part of him hoped they never would. He muted it and returned to his book.
Posted by Synik, 2 weeks ago in Writing
Mistry woke to the sound of knocking. He rubbed his cold hands together, trying to get some warmth back into them. He'd slept fitfully on a borrowed roll of packing foam. The knocking turning into banging. "Wake up," came a thick voice. "Mistry? You in there?"
"Just a moment," he called back. "Please." The last word added on as he tried to hang on to his old manners. Groping for his shoes in the semi-darkness, he found that one of them was still damp from the snow. He grimaced as he put it on. Behind him, the driver - Anna - stirred in her sleep.
"You need me?" she asked as if drunk.
"No Anna. Go back to sleep." Mistry tried to answer quietly. "I'll come get you when I've finished. You stay and rest."
Anna pulled the grubby blanket over her head. "Don't need to say that twice," came the muffled reply.
Shoes on, Mistry popped the lock on the cab and stuck his head out. Despite being high up, he wasn't far from man's - no, SHARC's - eye view. The ghostly silver orbs stared up at him. It was the same guy he'd seen a few days ago. He struggled to put a name to the face. Ah yes, Derror. Derror had taken off some of his outside gear and was now wearing fatigues and a cable knit jumper that had seen lots of patching. "Mr Mistry? Klass will see you now." His piece said, Derror turned and started off down the dim tunnel. Bio-lum globes were bolted to the rocky ceiling at various intervals. It made the soldier fade in and out as he walked.
Climbing down quickly, Mistry shut the door with a bang - winced, wondering who he might have woken up - and half ran to catch up with the striding SHARC. He'd seen SHARC troops in the media, but never close to, not like now. Derror was pretty much human, just well muscled and slightly unearthly looking. His skin was very pale and his eyes were white with silver discs. There seemed no pupil and he'd read their vision was much better than baseline humanity, even in darkness. Only the last few words of the acronym based name came back to him: Artificial Construct. He wondered how it felt to have been created, almost from scratch rather than having been born. Would Derror ever be a father? He'd heard the company had kept them sterile as a population control. "What time is it?" he asked. His mobile didn't work down here.
"Very late," Derror rumbled. "Or very early depending on your view point. Sun's up. Not that you'd know being down here."
"Where are we going?"
Derror's boots crunched on some grit. "To see Klass. Just like you asked. Turn left here." The SHARC pointed a heavy arm to a smaller set of stairs cut into the sandy rock. Mistry's eye caught the pattern caused by the laser cutters on the one sandstone. The walked up the stairs as a rapid pace, Derror only pausing to push Mistry into an alcove as a group of armed people trudged downwards. Greetings where grunted or nodded. Everyone seemed tired or cold, Mistry noticed. Uniforms were a drab grey splattered with white or were outdoors clothes bleached white for the snow.
Opposite of the alcove two large tubes and a clockwork mechanism where fixed into the rock. Warning decals winked lazily in the half light. "What's that?" Mistry asked and nodded at the funny contraption.
"Home brew instant rock," Derror answered. "Goes off like a bomb and hardens in moments. It's packed with anti-nano and crap that messes up droid sensors. Don't get stuck in it if you can. You really don't want to be chipped out of it... assuming you don't suffocate first." He took Mistry's arm. "Time to go."
A cold trickle of fear snaked down Mistry's back. "I thought we were out of range from the swarm?"
Derror's boots ground on the grubby stairs and he started back upwards. "We are," he answered over a shoulder. "But we lost a couple of burrows - buried outposts - back in the day. Now, we don't mess about."
"No accidents then? They look lethal."
Derror grinned as he stopped under a bio-lum pod. His pale skin glowed a sickly green. "No-one messes with live ammo. Wardroids don't do Health & Safety." Turning his back, he carried on leaving Mistry to pant and struggle to keep up.
After another flight of dry steps, they came out in a low but wide tunnel filled with army vehicles. Many of them where blackened - even in the poor light - and bullet or beam weapon wounds marked and pitted the surfaces. Four sets of dirty trousered legs poked out from under a tank. Light glinted from the pitted chrome of a cybernetic replacement. "Up here," Derror instructed. "Stop by the Medic's tent." Mistry couldn't see it, not in this light. "The blocky tent at the back of the tunnel," Derror added. "Just before the main wall."
Mumbling a thanks, Mistry wandered forward, suddenly nervous. Hard lumpy shapes loomed in the darkness. Pods and stubby wings hanging in the gloom waiting to bruise the unwary. A flicker of blue lightning crackled along a far wall as someone started up an arc-cutter. The cold air smelt briefly of ozone and then returned to a heady mix of bio-diesel and medical sterilants. Passing two jeeps, an APC and half of a rotorless transport 'copter, Mistry reached the tent. A warm yellow light spilled out from one of the tent flaps and Mistry heard the fine whine of an electric heater. Stopping by the entrance, Mistry wondered how he could knock. slight lost, he tapped the heavy material. "Hello?"
There was a clunk as someone put something heavy down in a metal tray. "Be right with you. Who is it?" The voice had a subtle Yorkshire tone to it.
"Mistry," the architect answered. "I brought the structures. Like I said I would."
The tent flap was drawn back. A young man's face, or part of it, peered out. The skin was badly burnt on the right and it pulled the man's lips at a funny angle. A dark artificial eye stared out of a bare plastic mount above the mess of skin. Like-wise, the right ear was gone; a make-shift bio-plastic replacement had been skin-bonded to the man's skull. "Spider," the man thrust a hand out to Mistry. He took it, feeling the cold grip of artificial skin through the man's threadbare gloves. "Sorry about that," Spider answered as he picked up on Mistry's failed poker face. "I'm saving power in my hand. An experiment. Come in, come in. No point hanging around."
Mistry nodded somewhat dumbstruck and entered the tent. He let the canvas flap drop back behind him. There was a gentle hiss as the smart fabric glued itself back together. They might fear droids, he thought, but tech was alive and well down here. "Fancy a drink?" Spider asked walking over to check a couple of machines. He poked and prodded a couple of display panels, moving items around the screen with his other hand.
"Whatever you're having," Mistry answered and Spider produced a flask from a desk creaking with machine parts and a miniature hydroponics system. A blue-white light buzzed over the top of an array of plants. Spider plucked one of the leaves off and popped it into his mouth. He chewed steadily while he made the drinks.
Accepting the cup of steaming liquid, the former architect sipped the brew carefully. He nodded, enjoying the taste. "What's this?"
"Coffee. Sort of at least." Spider swirled his cup to shift the grains around. "Not perfect, but it's hot and keeps you awake too. You here to see John then?"
Mistry drained the bittersweet drink and his stomach growled as it woke up. "Yes. Umm... is Mr Klass about?"
Knocking his own drink back, Spider waved him closer. His breath smelt faintly of coffee and mint. "This way. Through this door at the back." He peeled open a segment of the tent marked with a large red cross. In the other room - if you could call it that - tubes and pipes ran from machine to machine cluttering the place up. A dim bio-lum globe had be perched on top of one of them. It ticked occasionally to complete with the semi-silent machines. Mistry followed the cables with his eyes to a bed at the back of the room. The canvas ceiling sagged here and he had to stoop. Spider pushed a crate under the bed for him to sit on.
The bed was covered with dark green blankets. No crash-tubes or medivac beds were left, not now. Humanity was running low on tech and time. Mistry hoped the balance would tip in their favour once again. A head and a single arm lay on the material, while tubes and shunts burrowed or wrapped around the pale flesh. "John?" Spider tapped the man's hand. "Wake up. We've got visitor."
The man's eyes blinked open and he squinted as if the room was brightly lit. He had a light fuzz of brown hair on his skull and a he looked to be in his late 40s. "Who are you?" Klass's fine was lined with worry. Part of the skin on his chin was smooth and baby soft, Mistry noted. Was that a skin graft? There was medical tape covering a gash on his shorn scalp. His voice was rich and although soft, held a power within it.
"My name's Mistry," the architect began.
"Ahh," Klass said and closed his eyes. "I remember now. You sent me a message about shelters. I remember your work from before the war." Klass winced as he tried to move. "Spider, a hand please?" The medic pulled back the sheets and pushed a wheeled walking frame from out of the shadows. "Forgive me," Klass muttered. "Leg surgery, but this cannot wait. We have people in danger of freezing to death and that will never do. We need every soul we can save."
Mistry offered his help and Klass made his way on bad legs to the edge of the tent. Spider took a comms unit from his pocket. "You want me to call the guard in?"
Klass shook his head. "No. Just get me a transport and warn them up at the old Church. I'd like to see it in action."
Spider nodded and tapped the screen with his human hand. "I don't suppose I should bother telling you that you need bed rest for another 72 hours?" Humour shone in his remaining human eye.
"No point at all," Klass grunted as he made his way out into the much cooler tunnel. "Don't wait up, Spider... and try not to lop anything off while I'm gone. Mistry, get your gear and snag yourself a coat if you see one. We're going out."
"Don't you want to hear about the technology? Maybe the limitations? I don't know what you want to do with it? Even if it'll work in these conditions."
Klass paused to lift the walker over a patch of rough ground. "Already read them when you got in. I've been waiting for your arrival. I hope you don't mind, but we've already shifted the first truck load to St Mary's. At least, what's left of the old building."
"But the anchor points, self repair systems and even the glazing process - are you set up for that?" Mistry was struggling to get his head around the level of optimism Klass held.
Mistry reached a set of stairs and gave a sour look. "Put it this way," he say in a tired voice. "If we don't get decent shelter up soon, we're done for. We've only got so much space down here and it's more military than living space." He signed and his breath slid out at steam. "It doesn't matter if we've got those wretched machines on the back foot or not. It's going to get a sh**load colder than it is now. It's only September and already if feels like winters my grandpa wouldn't have seen." Mistry forced his hands to be still and just listened. Klass clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Good man, I knew you'd come round. Now, help me get up these damned stairs would you? Spider's a good surgeon, but he can't work miracles. Not with what we've got left."
Obliging, the architect helped as best he could. "What's so special about St Mary's?"
"A lot of folk were drawn to it," Mistry answered through the strain of moving. "There's a lot of the spire left and it drew people to it. The local priests - an Imam and some modern faith bloke, they helped. Big time." He paused to grab a breath. "If we can protect the refugees - get them out of this bitter weather - we can make a start. The volunteer force, they can provide security, but we've not got enough talent to keep the patrols up, maintain order and put shelters up. Not with the weather turning and with the folk who are making their way to us. Syston called in that they've seen four coach loads making their way up the remains of the old M1. This gear of yours, it'll either be a stop-gap solution or the start of something big. I'm hoping it's the latter." Mistry nodded. The man certain had vision. He just hoped it would work. The alternative was the winter from Hell.
The two men reached the top of the stairs and made their way to a waiting transport. Mistry got in the back as Klass collapsed the walking frame he'd been using. The tracked vehicle snaked its way through food tents, a transport repair shop and stack of giant shipping containers. White light spilled into the cab as the ground crawler slipped through a darkened shimmer field.
The driver took them along a railway cutting and then up a steep bank. Mistry held on as they tipped over the lip and they ran through a field and out of a barely wide enough gap in a hedge. They passed the bent and twisted remains of a comms tower. To the side of it, a fire blackened helicopter laid half lost in the snow. As the ride grew smoother, Mistry put on the coat he found in the back. He looked down at his feet and shrugged. At least he had shoes on. Anna hadn't had that luxury and she'd made it out of Manchester.
Through twists and turns through broken houses and snow covered roads, the transport made its way along a ridge. The left side dipped down in a gentle hill and weak sunlight washed the battered remains of the houses. The fighting had been house to house as the nearby city fell to the machines and now little remained of this small town. In the distance, the cracked steeple of St Mary's poked upwards toward the grey sky. "There," Klass said jabbing his hand out and Mistry ducked to see more.
A few curls of smoke threaded into the sky. As they drew nearer, Mistry saw a shanty town of reclaimed materials and a few barrels filled with anything that would burn. People huddled around them, stopping to warm themselves before continuing on their work. Fetching wood, looking for food in the ruins or, in one case, two wrapped up figures dragging a body out wrapped in a sheet. Mistry looked away to the spire. Near it, five more heavy lifters where in the area and they'd cleared a space among the wrecked village. The troops had put a few anchor units in. Mistry could see at least two of the fat pods. A fuel unit was plugged into one. On the other side, as much crushed glass and plastic as the troops could fine. Mistry realised how dedicated Klass was to this. Everything about the installation was by the book. Well, except for the recycler units, but there was no reason why they shouldn't work.
"Just there please," Klass said and tapped the driver's window. The soldier slowed down and put them in a dip by a row of burnt out shops and shot up bus shelter. Slush sprayed from under the fat tires and splattered against the bricks. "Thought you might like to check how it's going," Klass said over his shoulder. As the architect climbed free of the cab, somehow Klass had got moving and was off towards a snow cammo tent. His walking frame dragged in the snow leaving an odd set of trails. Mistry caught up with him. He looked around and they'd got the base frame in and feed trough. With enough materials, the system would be assembly and would probably work. He looked at the area they'd dug out and prepared. It wasn't much bigger than the Trafalgar Project they'd done all those years ago. He tried to keep his nerves in check.
Bursting into the tent, Klass shook hands with an Oriental looking woman. She had bright red hair that stuck out in unruly plaits from her heavy hat. "Sash, how's it going? This is Mistry."
The woman extended a dirty hand, wiped it on her uniform and smiled. "Sir! Mr Mistry. So good to meet you at last. I've been a fan of your work for years." The smile went up a notch. "I had hoped we would have met in better times than this."
Mistry tried not to gabble a reply. "Th-thank you," he managed and tried not to embarrass himself at her enthusiasm.
"Are we set?" Klass asked.
Sash's face slipped back to a professional mask. "Quite ready. All we need do is activate the system. You have the codes, yes?"
"Mistry?" Klass pierced him with a look.
"May I use the input screen?" the architect asked and pulled his other hand free of the coat. The engineer and Klass stood aside as Mistry activated the assembly units with a brush of his hand. For a moment, nothing happened and then the screen started reporting temperature increases and motion within the base frame. "We should take a look outside," he said.
The snow was still falling but not at the rate it had. Someone turned on a generator that kicked out a low hum and brought dull light to the scene. Slowly, panels of shaped glass and metal rose from the assembly troughs. As if coaxed by some giant hand, they formed sheets and curves of darkened glass. As one wobbled and cracked, Sash took a sharp breath. "It's fine," Mistry assured her. "Watch." The glass did not fall, but twisted to form a new section, the break sealing up and then disappearing. The process started on the other trough. Behind them, the anchor point was producing a thick tube like structure. It rose steadily into the sky like the stalk of a massive flower. When it touched the main glass structure, the surfaces met and melded. Flowed into each other like so much slow liquid.
Refugees stopped what they were doing and looked up as a shadow fell across their camp. The thick walls rose until they passed the church and then upwards and finally over the spire. Behind the church, another support beam rose to link and feed the ever-sprawling house of glass. One of the lifters whined behind them as a trailer full of scavenged materials was tipped into the recycling unit's maw. Above, the high shape rose ever higher until it reached a peak and it began to flow the opposite way, curving and shifting to cover the church and shanty town under a giant protective umbrella of smart glass. For a time, no-one spoke. The silence was broken by someone clapping. Mistry looked and it was Klass. "Excellent work. All of you." Sash bowed formerly and then cheers and shouting broke out from the troops and refugees.
Mistry stood in awe looking up at the huge structure. Klass appeared by his side without his frame. "Nice eh? Now, you think you can oversee delivery of a few more units?"
"How much more?" Mistry asked still lost in the magic of the construction.
"As much as it takes to build a city."
The architect looked over Klass. "Yes. Yes. Whatever you can supply."
"Can you recycle droids?"
Mistry thought about it. "The battle armour and nutrient fluid, yes. They'd be an excellent source of materials."
"Good. Get yourself back to base and tell Derror to get the Scav Squad on the go. I want another unit up ASAP. Sash?"
"Sir?" the engineer answered.
"Get the codes backed up to HQ and help Mr Mistry with anything he needs. We need this township sealed up and warm by nightfall. Can you do that?"
The engineer bowed deeply. "Of course," she answered with a smile and strode back to the tent.
"Are you staying?" Mistry asked Klass quietly.
"Hell, no," Klass replied. "I've got way too much to do. No point hanging around here watching stuff go up. You can get a lift back with me. If you want." Mistry looked to the command unit in the small tent. "You have a question." That was a statement.
"Yes." Mistry's voice faltered. He felt a little awkward. "Normally, I-I name my work. It is like art." He looked at the two ex-military folk in front of him. "A-At least to me."
"Magdalene," Klass answered instantly. "It's a good a name as any."
Posted by Synik, 4 weeks ago in Writing
Pale flakes fell lazily from the black sky. Slipping through the still air to land in drifts or to paint the trees with clumsy frosting. Some of the flakes were snow, other lumps, cooling ash that stuck to clothing and scenery like delicate paint.
Two guards stood in all-weather cammo gear, their helmets and smartcloth cloaks offering little comfort against the elements. They waited by the old Signalman's shed next to a bare electrical pylon, the power lines long gone. Footsteps and dragged sledges scarred the snow with tracks and dirt around the old railway line. The sleepers and track were missed, either recycled or stolen. Small history swallowed by time and necessity.
Gilford took out a self-heating flask and drew on the broth inside. His old bones felt every whisper and stab of freezing air. He would have much preferred to be back in the tunnel helping the others, but they'd drawn straws and this was it. No point grumbling about it. The soup was a little too greasy for his liking, but then rations were in short supply and you took your calories where you could. "Hungry?" he asked his colleague, Derrot.
"No ta," Derror grunted. The big man - no, SHARC - Gilford corrected, didn't seem to eat much. That or feel the cold. No wonder they'd been so popular in the euro-war. "Hey, I got something on the scope. Ground crawler."
His parter pushed the hard plastic straw back into the flask and stashed it on his hip. Gilford moved closer to the old hut and brought up a ghost-like data window on his HUD. "What do you make of it?"
"Not sure," Derror said carefully. "It's Alliance, or at least the shell of it is. Taken a few shots. Looks civilian. Scanner says no heavy power: no plasma. No nuke. If there are any bots on there, they're cold - no power to them at all."
"That'd give us a bit of an advantage if they tried to drop on us." The old guard picked a bit of carrot out of his teeth with a cold tongue. "Sounds like refugees, don't it?"
"Could be," the SHARC answered and shut down the data feed. "I'll call it in."
"Good," Gilford nodded and he powered up his carbine. He had half a clip left and nothing in reserve. They weren't due for shift rotation for another few hours. "Let's go see. You want point?"
The groundcrawler turned out to be a large converted flatbed and two hauler engines. Big tracked monsters that had been retro-fitted to cope with the loss of roads and a lack of petrol stations. The sweet smell of burnt bio-diesel swam in the eddies. The crew weren't hostile and there were no bots or smartweapons hiding out in the metalwork. There were twelve people packed into the two cabs, some family, some strangers, some wounded, some not. Gilford caught the gaze of a young lad, probably not much older than his lad. The kid's gaze was blank and dull. Lost in whatever turmoil ran within.
"What's under the big tarp?" Derror asked the driver. She was a skinny woman with matted hair and at least two coats on. She had mismatched gloves and only socks to keep her feet warm.
She shrugged and pointed a thumb at a bloke sleeping in the back. "You need to ask him," she said in a posh accent. "Mistry said it was important. Save our asses apparently." She seemed tired, Gilford decided, but then, who wasn't these days?
Derror kept one hand on his carbine as Gilford ran IDs for the survivors. Alliance or not, so long as their were no Party members trying to worm their way in, they'd be welcome. "You," Derror rumbled. "Mistry is it? What's in the trailer?"
An Asian looking gent in a patched up cammo-cloak hauled himself out of the cab. Climbing down the ladder, he shut the door to keep what little warmth was there in. His dressy shoes were swallowed by the snow. "Mistry," he said offering a hand, but Derror ignored it, keeping it on the weapon instead. "You want to know about the cargo?"
"That's right," Gilford answered as he appeared by his mate's side. "Anything we should be worried about?"
"Not at all," Mistry beamed. "In fact, you might even be thankful." He looked at the two soldiers hopefully. They'd heard and been promised a lot by people desperate for shelter. Not that the chief sent people away, but it was getting crowded in there. "It's building material and I'd like to see who's in charge too."
Gilford touched his helmet mic and nodded to Mistry. "Prep a scanner and half open the shimmer field," he said to the unit. "My auth codes will follow. We got a ground truck and 14 people in. Two are wounded and need treatment. ID snaps to follow." He let go of the mic and the LED in his vision dropped to red as the channel closed. "Consider me to be in charge right now," he answered. "What's the beef?"
Mistry nodded in agreement. "If you tell Control that their Glass Architect has arrived, they'll confirm it for you."
"Some type of code name?" Derror offered.
"No, no," Mistry said shaking his head. "I am an architect. Or I was, before we lost the three cities." Sadness settled in his eyes. "I can't believe they lanced what was left of Old Eaton...."
"It was infested," Derror answered simply as if he'd been asked the time. "No-one was getting out."
Gilford cleared his throat. "This whole war's a mess," he said. "There's bad on both sides. The machines are held back near the top end of the Trent. The shimmer field will hold them back for now." He touched his radio link again and called in Mistry's message. "Done," he said. "Best get yourself warm in the cab. It could be a while as Central have gotta sort you out a birth." Mistry nodded and climbed the ladder. Both of the soldier's helmets buzzed. "Unusual," Gilford muttered and listened to the call. "Change of plan," he told Mistry. "Make some room up there: we're going straight in."
The architect smiled as if it was Christmas and hauled open the door. "Make room, everyone," he chirped. "We've been let in!" There were murmurs of joy and the occasional sob of relief. "Ready when you are, Anna," Mistry said to the driver. Anna wiped her eyes and crunched the gears to make the hauler go. "What about the hut?" he asked the two guards.
Derror put his finger to his ear. "A new squad are on their way out now. You must be important."
"It's not me," Mistry said with an honest look. "It's what's back there you need."
The hauler rolled its way along the deserted cut-out, the scrubby hedgerows and bullet-marked bridges passing overhead as they rolled further and further towards the mouth of Stanton Tunnel. Faces pressed to the cold glass as more soldiers came into view. Some where in uniform, but many where not. This was a rag tag group of men, women and occasionally teenagers too. Barrels of burning wood kept them warm while sentry systems scanned and picked at the electronic ether. Above the flatbed's cab, the air fluttered just as it would on a hot day. The shimmer field was half up, the group never shut it down, even if it signalled their position to the few rogue droids that roamed the land. The fear of air strikes was all too present. With all the dust seemingly wedged in the sky, it would be a long time before the earth felt the bake of the sun. Mistry thought about how he had laboured designing buildings to be cool and now, warmth was the order of the day. He looked to one of the soldiers, a woman with tired eyes and a tatty poncho covering her overalls. Warmth and protection, that's what people needed, he decided.
"Pull up there," Derror rumbled and pointed to a slab of concrete painted with warning decals. The driver pumped the gears and did as she was told. A converted battle droid rolled out on tracks and rolled towards them. A few people muttered and there were gasps from one or two.
"No need to panic," Gilford said calmly. "It's one of ours and it's just a scanner. The top brain's been taken out, it's just a drone now. Look." Anna flicked a lever on the dash and two of the three wipers flicked across the treated glass to dislodge some of the snow and ash that had stuck on. The wipers smeared what was left and the view improved slightly. Out of the window, the travellers saw a tracked war-machine roll towards them.
The unit's angular tank like head was dented and a large chunk had been cut away leading jagged metal like molten wax. The gun arms had been removed and instead, a frame similar to an old iron bed had been fixed in place. Tubes and sensors filled the structure and the drab green droid raised this like some weird disco lamp; sensor lights pulsing on and off. It's heavy tracks rolled through the dirty snow as it trundled along the length and breadth of the transport. Behind the unit, two blokes in ill fitting clothes and woolly hat trailed after the war-machine, a cable running to a laptop that one of them carried like a tea tray. After a time, one of the men held up his arm. A green light came on near the transport.
Anna coaxed the transport into life and they headed into the semi-darkness of the tunnel. Mistry looked up, 18-something the chipped stonework told him. Over 300 years, he thought. A little part of him hoped humanity would see at least another hundred. Right now, it didn't look good.
Posted by Synik, 13th July 2010, 20:47
A shadow hung to the man as he worked. A numb cold that drained, pulling at his core swallowing delight and interest. The tendrils of this encompassing malaise had weaved their dark magic with the patience of a glacier. A slow, creeping touch of gentle despair. Like the loss or sight or the increase in weight, the softly-softly progress had been beyond human perception. Only now, with the spectre a virtual constant, was it felt.
Like his movements, memory was slow. Words failed to arrive, sometimes concepts drifted away, untouchable as smoke. How had this happened? the man wondered. How did it get like this? Was it work? Was it family? Was it him? The shadow did not answer - that was not its purpose. Instead, it hovered at the back of his sight, unseen by others, felt only by him. A personal vampire.
Some days, busy days or randomly, the shade would slip away and the warmth of true emotion would shine through in a glorious summer memory. Colours were bright, voices happy and people welcome. A return to the real world. The balance would tip and that sweet gap would close; the colours would dim, the sound dull and the connection would be lost. From outside, all would appear as before. Inside, the only movement was breath and that of the eyes: roving slowly from screen, to face, to hands. Markers of the silent tick of time.
At night, thoughts surged, worries and ideas pushing against the much sought cloak of sleep. The brain over-active as if it it could not rest until the hopper was empty. The body would breath, rest, but the mind could not - would not - switch off until exhaustion took hold as the sun poked curiously at the thick blinds.
Robotic, the man worked through as he could. Clutching at the good, shunning the bad and all the while, searching. Searching for the answer, the kernel that would unlock the puzzle and free him of the shade. Did chemistry hold the key? Those small white dots birthed from the crackle of plastic every morning. Downed with a sip of water and a dose of hope.
Hope. So long as there was hope, the beast would be beaten. Wouldn't it?
Posted by Synik, 21st June 2010, 22:46
6. Recall
Words. Sounds. Images. Words. Sounds. Images. The loop thundered on as Maiken floundered, tumbling through waves of what was and what might have been. She was lost in a fever of memories and her hands clawed at facts or faces, trying to slow down the barrage of recall. Hotel rooms, stakeouts, data runs, sex, friends, food, children.
In the memory dream, she opened her eyes to find herself strapped in a hard plastic chair. The room was slightly too cool and smelt of antiseptic. Grey tiles lined the walls and the floor was a blur of blended plastic. By the door, there was a drain set in the flooring: a chrome mouth greedy for fluids. Thick binds held her arms, hands bent palm up and open. There was something around her knee, but she could not move her head. A firm collar held her neck in position. Behind her, there was a buzzing noise. Her eyes flicked around, trying to pin point the sound, but she could not. Someone placed a cool gloved hand against her neck and then the buzzing increased. Maiken saw clumps of her hair fall to the floor. The hand continued to push her around and the trimmer did its work.
The technician clicked off the trimmer and for a moment the room was silent. Another man moved from behind her and removed a gown from her by pulling the hem hard with his hand. He tipped her locks to the once clean floor and Maiken realised she was naked. She wanted to cover herself, but the binds would not move. With her head locked into a new position, Maiken made out the shape on her leg. It was a speed-cast, a fat bandage of medichines and healing drugs. They had repaired her, at least, in a basic way. A gasp escaped her lips: one foot was wrong. The skin was pink and chubby like that of a new born. Her eyes tracked up the shin, to the knee and to where the bandage was. Further up the skin had cured along its length. Corpse white, a half leg pulled from the vat. But it was distended and... just wrong. It was not hers! It seemed alien, a freakish thing that was both right and horribly wrong at the same time.
The view was pulled from her as the masked technicians turned her head to the ceiling. One of them pressed a cold object against her scalp, Maiken felt the pass of air as he swept his sleeve over her head. There was a high pitched whine and then the world seemed dimmer, quieter too. Her implants, the ones said to be EMP resistant, went off-line. "No," she whispered. She had not meant to talk, but the protest had slipped out. She had hoped to take this punishment and ride it out. There had been worse violence, but the threat of banishment. That was proving to be too much. She bit her lip and tried to focus on the simple nature of the pain.
To her side, the man put something down on the metal tray. It clinked against other objects and then he fixed something to her bald head. Maiken pushed against the collar, but it would not move. "Not long now," the man said. His tone was like that of a doctor soothing a child. In front, the second technician wheeled a long mirror in front. His green scrubs swept back like a curtain, revealing a women with blackened eyes and many bruises. Small tufts of dark hair stuck to the frightened woman's head. No, there was something else. A fine crown of black metal. A tear threatening to leak out of one eye and as it hit her leg, Maiken realised the reflection was her. "You may experience a short loss of consciousness," one of the men said to her.
Maiken could not speak. Something had frozen her face. Only her eyes where her own. The man look something from the tray and fixed it at certain points to the crown. There was a flash of laser and the stench of burnt pork. The dark shape at the front of the crown stared to empty. Something pushed at her scalp like a thousand mad ants. The technology crept and burrowed into her.
The mirror was gone and one of the technicians had left too. Now, two men in black Security armour stood against the chipped grey tiles. They held carbines that absorbed the light. Neither of them looked at her. "You are free to go," the senior technician said. Maiken felt her neck and realised the collar and the hand bindings had gone. There were no bumps or scars on her head. Just the odd tuft of hair or smooth patch of skin. She had read about the process, in a published diary of a New York dissident. His unit had been fitted through his hair. Apparently the process had been amended to upgrade the degradation. Maiken turned one hand over. There were specks of blood against her wrist and pale globs of skin-putty where her data plugs had been. She was disconnected. There was nothing in her. No systems answered to her commands. Parts of her were dead. "The officers will escort you outside of the building," the man added. "You may collect a new set of clothes from the office and a ticket to the border of the city. In three hours, you exclusion unit will activate. If you are not outside of the communications network by that time, it will begin to stimulate your pain centres. Gradually at first, but each sensation will increase. We will give you time to get out of the city. We are not monsters." Maiken stood on her bad leg and walked over to the UN guards.
Hours and streets passed by as she made her way out of the city. The terminus of the final robo-transport dropped her in a dead industrial park outside the Safe Zone. Rusted machinery and broken buildings had fought against the burning desert sands and had lost. Maiken checked her watch. A cheap plastic thing from a road-side vendor. The face showed north, but it also showed the final bar of the Network. A mile or so and she would be out of the city and her exile would begin. Shouldering her bag, she set off west towards the mountains. The walk would be harder, but on the other side, they'd shelter her from any signal backwash. She was on the cusp of what felt like a migraine, but if that was the brain-crab or the stress, she couldn't say. Foot followed foot as she walked down broken roads and as the land rose, along thin tracks in the hard pan. Her new leg was sore and she was spent. Pausing to take a drink of water, she checked the watch. Still one bar of signal. Maiken cursed and the watch peeped. No, it wasn't the watch. The beep sounded in her ear and then the exclusion unit made itself known to her. A spike of pain arced her back and she almost dropped the water. Gathering her things, she tried to pick up the pace towards the ridge up ahead. She cleared more ground and then it hit her again. It was like a metronome of punishment, stabbing her ever onwards.
Eventually she made it over the ridge and she tumbled over the lip to land in gritty sand and small rocks. Panting, but still alive, Maiken checked the watch one more time. No bars. In front of her, empty desert stretched away from her. The mountains ran north and south. Far in the distance, she could make out a small township. Really, not much more than a couple of buildings that clung to the black road that circled through the seared valley. Walking carefully through the steep drops, Maiken made her way towards it. She hoped the hamlet would be free from the communications. The irony wasn't wasted on her, all of her life had revolved around being on-line and now? Now she craved digital solitude, less the claws of the brain-crab would tighten their grip. Somehow she would beat this. There must be a way, she thought. All systems can be broken. Water, her throat, begged. Sleep next, her body added.
The memory ended and darkness took her away again. She lay, her bad leg twisted under her in the red sand, her body shaded by a large sandstone boulder. A way away, the wrecked lift-craft burned hot and a drone circled on the thermals. Maiken did not stir, not even when footsteps crunched or whispered in the sand.
Posted by Synik, 8th May 2010, 21:25 in Writing
5. Tick tock tick tock.
A heavy rattling shook Maiken from her sleep. She'd dropped off - again. Was this a side effect of the treatment? She gripped the arms of the chair, her hands were greasy with sweat. In front of her, the security door was open and a series of lights blinked red through the holographic fog of the cockpit.
"Back with us?" Anna's voice was hurried. Her hands twitched and leapt as she clutched at virtual ghosts. The craft lurched violently to the right and then dipped. Maiken felt her insides flip. "Hostiles locked on. A ground crew and a rapid response drone." The wind was now roaring around the craft's stubby wings.
"What?" Maiken yelled. The spectre of sleep threatened to pull her back from the world. "Where are we?"
"The wrong side of the NORCALA mountains. Scavengers probably. They - " The pilot stopped talking and the craft twisted on its axis, making them both slam against the restraints. "There's a bag under the seat. Don't decorate my ship!" Maiken nodded and pulled it. She told herself she'd had worse, but her brain was struggling to put any details to that hope. The ship's warning systems let out a series of cries like pierced pigs and Anna cursed in Russian. Two white hot stars leapt from the side of the craft and span off in different directions like drunken fireworks. There was more rattling, then a very loud bang behind them and the craft dipped forwards in a sickly motion. Anna cursed again and resolved the drop.
"Was that the drone?" Maiken called forward.
"No, no luck on that. That's still with us and closing." The craft rattled again and a few objects that hadn't been strapped down fully, shook lose. A water bottle rolled by Maiken's foot and she snared it between her feet. "Got reverse lock... c'mon database... Oh jeez."
Maiken twisted in her webbing, trying to get a look at the hazy shape held in the cockpit's overlay display. "What is that?"
"Not scav - sorry - not scavenger class. That's military." Anna's steely gaze burned from the tiny mirror stuck to one of the screen struts. Maiken didn't like being on the end of it. "Anything you want to tell me?"
"Not that will make a difference," the old hacker replied. "They radioed you yet?" The pilot shook her head. "Figures. I wonder who ratted? Not that it matters now."
"I got a sensor ping as we left the liftport," Anna replied. She waved her hands through shapes and dials, the craft pushed itself forward on silent engines. "I put it down to Customs... Shit!" Another bright star shot from the side of the liftcraft and Anna pitched the vehicle hard right. Maiken just hung on and shut her eyes as sensors squealed. Time drew out on adrenalin and she waited for the explosion - it didn't disappoint. Hard light burrowed through squeezed eyelids and everything went quiet.
Sound returned as if the volume level had been cranked back up. "Anti-noise," Anna called over her shoulder. Maiken's eye settled on an old holo panel that even she recognised: a comms unit. The system was processing and as she looked round at Anna, she could see the pilot sub-vocalising.
Knowing she was about to be traded, Maiken popped her seat harness and studied the pilot's reaction. Nothing. She seemed locked in the debate with their attackers. Sliding from her chair, Maiken crawled and stumbled towards the back of the craft. There were no obvious weapons: no brace of carbines webbed into position, or giant wrenches ready to be grabbed. She spied Anna's kit bag and rummaged through it, hopeful she'd find a gun or even a non-lethal.
There was a tension in the air. The craft's position had steadied. "Looking for something?" The pilot's voice purred with anger and Maiken looked up. Anna stood about a metre from her, a snub nosed pistol in her hand. The bright yellow casing was chipped and scared, but the lightning bolts on front of its emitter plate looked nasty enough. "Hands up slowly. We're going to trade. All they want is you."
Lifting herself slowly, Maiken stood. She still had one of Anna's t-shirts in her hand and she let that drop to the floor. The pilot's eyes flicked to it and Maiken took her chance. She twisted on her side and slammed her fist into the water bottle. Stale liquid jetted over Anna, soaking her face and spraying the weapon. Anna raised the weapon to fire, but it was too late as the safety system had rendered it useless. Maiken's elbow slammed into the pilot's stomach and she got Anna into a headlock. "There'll be no trade, not today. They'll bomb you out of existence as soon as you slow down. Put the gun down."
Anna shuddered with rage and said nothing. Maiken increased her grip on the woman's neck. "Do it or I'll choke you."
"You can't fly this ship without me," the pilot hissed. She threw the arc pistol on to a nearby canvas chair.
"Says who?" Maiken saw the drone overtake them through one of the port side windows. "I thought you were good."
"I am, but I'm not stupid. Give it up, there's nowhere to go from here."
"Yes there is. We over the mountains yet?"
"Just. The LZ is a mile behind," Anna's voice had a notch of panic in it.
"We'll never make it, they just want us off civilian airspace checks. Speed up."
"No." Maiken pushed the pilot into the superstructure and twisted her arm up behind her back. "N-no w-way. I'm not going to die with you," she spat.
This one wasn't going to crack easily, Maiken thought. Some folk were like that. She carried on pushing the pilot's arm upwards until she shouted obscenities and the craft sped up a little. The old hacker's eyes fell on the emergency pods. "Get up front and say you're arranging a new landing zone."
Pushing the pilot forward, Maiken scooped up the pistol and pulled an emergency pod off the wall. Anna rubbed her sore arm and stumbled forward, Maiken saw her face reflected in a window - it was set in hatred. She wasn't surprised, the woman had been threatened, assaulted and was under the impression she was going to die. "Get back in the seat and I'll direct. No funny business. I want the comms on speaker."
Anna slid into the chair and reached for her straps. Maiken poked her in the shoulder with the arc gun. "Uh-uh, just in case you were thinking of spinning the ship. No webbing for you." Anna's hands danced through the haze of light in the cabin.
"They're not replying."
"Hail them again," Maiken ordered. She reached up and knocked the mirror from the strut. Anna just scowled. "Radio them that you're going to put down 2 miles north from here."
"There's noth-"
"Don't ask," Maiken hissed and she took a pace back. Ensuring Anna was busy with the comms work, she took a moment to read the instructions on the emergency pod. It had its own mini-lift engine. Not enough to let you fly, but enough to serious slow your fall.
Without warning, the craft lurched hard to the right and Maiken struggled to hang on. She saw Anna with a manic look on her face and one arm in the crash webbing. The other arm raised upwards and she flipped Maiken the finger. She made a slicing motion with her other hand and the craft tipped upwards until it was almost vertical. There wasn't much to hang on to, Maiken slipped and grabbed for the nearest seat. Her arms screamed in pain as she jolted the sockets. Behind her, the void of the craft span in sun lit disco beams as the vehicle twisted in the sky. "Down you go!" Anna shouted over her shoulder and made the craft dance.
Maiken slid down the floor that was now a wall. She bumped into cargo, chair posts and clawed at webbing. She slowed down but she wasn't going to stop easily. She kicked a leg out - her bad one - and her foot caught in the crook of one of the cargo net rings. She was thrown around and the pain almost had her pass out. The craft bucked and her head banged against the floor. She spat blood and pulled her foot free - the back of the craft was metres away and she let herself fall to it. "Transport to HG-786a," crackled Anna's voice over the speakers. "Situation under control. Returning to designated LZ. Over."
There was a mess of junk covering the back of the vehicle. Used cups, water bottles, magazines, a jumble of Anna's clothes and - yes! - the emergency pod. Maiken seized the device and struggled into the straps. Her right arm complained but she got it on. Anna started to straighten the vehicle up again. Maiken's gaze slid up the wall towards the hatch button. Reaching up, she slammed her hand into it and a warning klaxon fired. "What the hell are you doing?!" Anna screamed over the speakers.
There was no time to answer, debris and Maiken where thrown from the back of the liftcraft as the emergency systems blew the back cargo doors away. Sky earth sky earth sky earth went the terrain until Maiken managed to hit the pod's central dial. She felt the nausea kick in as the tiny lift engine surged into life. Straps dug into her body as they self tightened and the unit fought to stabilise and slow her down.
She was passed the mountains and she could see houses and the odd road through the desert scrub. Anna's craft was far in the distance and she saw it bank hard. It spat out more hot chaff as the drone chased it down. Maiken took her eye off it as she risked another look down. "Oh dear Lord," she whispered as the situation sank in. If it was lack of oxygen or the damned implant, Maiken felt herself begin to nod. Terror kept the sleep at bay for a few minutes and she felt herself slowing more and more. She could see dead palm trees, a sandbanked road and - further away - the fringes of NORCALA: the Northern Californian Alliance. "Time," she whispered to herself and then darkness claimed her.
Posted by Synik, 30th March 2010, 21:23
Chapter 5: Remains
Orange light spills over the concrete, pushing back the night. It reflects dully from Mick's boxy vehicle. This time, a segmented steel shutter fills the normally open void of the chuck wagon's wide serving hatch. A light rain drums against the metal skin of the vehicle and a lazy curl of smoke makes its way from the stubby chimney. Footsteps stamp and slosh in the drizzle, but there is no owner. The puddles pop and splatter as something treads into them. After a moment, a pale ghost-like figure appears like steam condensing. It raises a smoke-like arm and bangs on the shutter.
Across from the wagon, one of the Wardrobe trucks sits like a fat white pig. Water drips from the stark white unit and runs off the sides in tiny falls of water. Light spills from the windows and competes against the single arc light of the lot. A pale faced teenager stares out into the semi-darkness. "Oh-my-God," he blurts out. "You see that?"
Another face joins Andy at the window. "See what? I can't see sh** in this mizzle." Jamie pushes his hair behind an ear and squints. "What?"
"There - " Andy points to the wraith waiting for service. "T-there's a ghost."
"Get out - oh... I see what you mean. What the hell is that?"
Behind them there's a grunt from the sofa and then the old wood creaks as Mick peels himself from the material. "What are you two blathering about? I thought we were playing cards?"
"We were," Jamie answered in a whisper. "Until you nodded off."
"I did? Sh**," Mick cursed. "What about me truck?"
"It's still there," Andy answered. "You locked it up remember?"
Mick grunted a reply but it didn't seem to be in English. Jamie waved him forward. "You've got a visitor? A ghost by the look of things."
"Ghost? Get the ***k outta here," Mick replied and moved forward. He bumped into Jamie.
"Careful! Don't squash the talent, honey."
"Give over, with the pout. You've had heavier... and you liked it." Mick chuckled and Jamie - for once - was short of a reply. The mirth in Mick's face drained away. "That's not a ghost." The three of them watched the figure stand there unmoving. Rain ran off its form - clearly a male form at that - rather than through it.
Andy dimmed the lights and stood behind Mick and Jamie. "So, what is it then? Some sci-fi thing or a super?"
Mick shook his head. "No. It was, or just about is... a character." The other two looked confused. "Someone like you and me," he added. "But, someone who's lost their thread. Without story or memory outside of here, characters become vague and... they can fade away." Jamie put his hands to his face, half-hiding the fear. Andy's face was a picture of shock and confusion. Mick pushed off from the windowsill and stood up. "I'm gonna go see what he wants."
"N-no," Jamie said fearfully.
"Yes," the big man rumbled. "It's right and proper. It may happen to us all one day. Snubbing that poor guy, just ain't right." He looked at the young comic and gave a pleasant half-smile. "He can't take me with him. It's not like that." With that, Mick took a large coat and an umbrella from by the door and headed out into the rain. He shut the door, locking out the cold and the wet.
"W-will that b-be us?" Andy stammered. Sometimes his old habits came back to him: doubly so when he was nervous.
Jamie touched his hand and Andy didn't flinch. They'd got over that barrier. "It'll be okay. Just like Mick says." The two of them watched the cook shamble through the rain and get into the wagon. A moment later, they saw Mick haul up the shutter. "C'mon. We can't stay here gawping. We should help."
Unable to find a third brolly, the two unlikely friends huddled under a large red and white golfing umbrella from the props department. One of the spars had broken and Andy had to hold it up. "Damned, Props. Swords, staff of the magi, 40W plasma rifles - and no spare umbrellas! Rihanna would be gutted," Jamie quipped. They reached the wagon. Mick had rolled out the awning, the rain - heavier now - ran off the sides. It pitter-pattered as it dripped on and off on to the concrete.
"Two... umm.. teas, p-please," Andy asked. He and Jamie waited under the brolly. They couldn't seem to come out of it. Mick nodded and produced two more mugs. He set them down on the counter. Neither of them moved forward to get them.
"I liked tea," said the wraith. "But not coffee. I can't stand it. The Captain gave me some, before I lost my memory..." The figure's transparent hand groped for the cup, but it wouldn't connect. "My memory again."
"Backstory?" Mick offered and the figure nodded.
"Yes, a visit in the library. A chance encounter with Jack. Nice fellow." The voice was without accent, almost completely neutral. That of a calm newsreader or ship's computer perhaps. "Gone now."
The figure's face was a blur, almost as if it was made out of mist. The features, the hair and the clothes could not be made out at all. They were there, but the detail would not come. It turned to look at Andy. "I was good with machines. Not as good as you... You... You should stay with it, but open up. Make them a hobby, not a life."
"W-who are you?" Andy asked. Curiosity had got the better of him. Mick winced and shook his head, but the figure couldn't see him.
"I can't remember," it replied levelly. "Not that it matters now. I know that." Time drew out as the figure stood there. No-one else talked. "Jim... maybe, I'm not sure." it added.
Ignoring Mick's look, Andy tipped his head like a curious rook. "You know? Do you know where you'll go?"
"Yes," the figure nodded. "I will go back into a realm, a realm of ideas. Where everything comes from." Jamie moved them forward and collected the drinks. He propped the umbrella on the side of the vehicle. For once, Mick didn't complain. Both of them were distracted by the figure's lack of legs. Instead, a torso and arm hung there suspended in space. "Parts of me will live again. True karma in a way."
Andy stepped by Jamie and held out a hand. The figure seemed to look at it and then it grasped the teenager's hand. The touch was barely there: no warmth, no pressure - virtually nondescript. "N-nice to h-have met you," Andy managed.
The wraith nodded and was gone. It had faded like steam into a cold night. Mick picked up the untouched tea and emptied it down the sink. The liquid gurgled and swirled down the plughole. "There you go," he said carefully. "But for the grace of God, go I."
The three of them stood there. Lost in their own thoughts. Mick cleaned the mug and put it back; Andy stood looking out into the rain and Jamie stared at the floor. "I think I need something strong," the young queen whispered. "What have you got Mick?"
The cook sniffed and held up a key. "Nothing back here, but I got the key to the tavern props. A lot of good game start off in a bar. It's a tradition."
"I'm too young," Andy said over his shoulder.
"Knickers to that," Jamie countered. "In this country - "
Andy looked confused "Salroth?"
" - England," the comic continued. "You'd be a seasoned drinker by now. C'mon, Mick. Get locked up and - as Mr Leary once said - we'll introduce Andy to two good friends of mine: Jack and Jim."
"Dorothy more-like," Mick grinned and pulled the shutter down with a bang. Jamie laughed, flipped him the bird and they headed off. The rain had stopped and the key to the props room jangled jauntily on Mick's keyring. "Pints or shots then?"
"Both," Andy replied.
Posted by Synik, 7th January 2010, 23:04
4. Exports
The blacktech's van rolled along the broken highway. Mountains and the desert giving way to the flat, dead scrub that had been bio-oil plantations, ranches or solar farms. Nature had fought back, made savage by a petro-chemical kicking and was winning clawed hands down. Maiken would look out of the small window from time to time. Dead gas stops and gutted strip malls hung to the spine of the road like so many broken ribs. Fossils of a former civilisation. The wilderness was truly that: wild and untamed. The journey dragged on and despite her worries, a fitful sleep claimed her.
A knocking noise startled her. "Hey. Wake up Smith." Jonas's voice pulled her from rest and she came too. Damn these old bones, she thought and nodded to his summons.
"Where are we?" Maiken tried to blink the sleep from her gaze. It was like pulling her way from under a thick throw.
"The edges of Fresno," Jonas answered. She could see regular buildings through the heavy glass. Fear grabbed her heart and she gripped the seat. "S'okay," Jonas whispered. "You're cool for another day or so yet. The unit next to your seat, it's checking that brain crab for activity. It's sleeping." He looker her straight in the eye. "You're safe."
Maiken swallowed and reached for the remainder of the water. Unscrewing the cap, she drank what was left. It was unlike anything she could remember: it was tasteless, just wet. There was no grit, no tang of rust to it. She swilled it around her mouth carefully, enjoying the simple pleasure. Swallowing, she asked: "Fresno's changed a bit."
Jonas looked out of the front window. "Sure has. They've got sand crawlers pushing the stuff back. Stops the outlanders coming in over the city walls." He tapped a featureless black box that had been wedged in place of a stereo system. "Today we're Truck 15 from U-Ship-It. No stops for us. Straight to the airport with our parcel." He turned and grinned. "That'll be you. Cash on delivery."
Maiken almost laughed out loud. She'd not had company for so long. "Don't worry, I won't forget. Just get me to the LZ - " Jonas gave her a confused look " - the landing zone and we'll be straight. I just need your cell." The beefcake chuckled. "I say something funny?"
"Nobody calls them that. Not for years," he rumbled. Maiken couldn't see his face, but the tone was pleasant. "Mobies now. Just like the Euros call them."
He meant well, but the point was driven home: she'd been away for so long. Not just away from friends, but from the world. Jonas broke the silence. "We're coming up to the lift-port. There's a Nancy - sorry, NC5 class - lift craft that'll take you wherever you're booked."
The van slowed down for a check point and the box in the dash whistled as it powered up. A moment later they were snaking through some buildings. Big ones by the look of it as they cast a shadow over the vehicle. "Here," grunted the big guard. "Out now." Both him and Jonas climbed out, the doors pulling themselves shut with a slight hiss. Glare leapt into the back as someone opened the door. Maiken screwed her eyes shut and groped for her goggles. A big hand took hers and thrust a set of glasses into them. "These," he said pulling her onwards. "The others no good."
Stumbling into the light, she was helped down to stand on the swept concrete. Slipping the glasses on, she found herself stood at the back of the van under a canopy of treated smart-canvas. It rippled slowly in the light wind like a lazy wave. No doubt it was generating power, they'd had that tech before she was exiled. "Thanks," she managed. Her manners were taking a while to come back.
Jonas reached to the side of her and pulled out a plastic bag with something in it. "Here, it - it's for the trip. Included in the price." She held clean clothes in her hand. Something that hadn't been rinsed in water that'd been recycled more times than spacer's piss. I must stink, she thought. It was something you got used to.
Again, Maiken forgot her manners. "Sorry... Thanks."
The big man spoke. "The craft. This way." She followed him as Jonas shut the van up. He took big strides and she struggled to keep up with him, her bad leg twinging with each loping stride. There was a scuttle of trainers against dry concrete as Jonas caught up with them. He kept his distance to the side, an old street gesture: don't spook the customer.
Tucked under the canvas was something that looked like a converted helicopter. The rotors where gone and four egg shaped pods had been strung out in a diamond shaped rig that slid from the fuselage. Two pods hung out from the sides and a fat round one hung under the cock-pit like a yellow plastic boil. "NC5 cargo unit," the beef muttered. "Pilot will be along soon. Our task ends when you get on."
A door on the side opened as they drew nearer. A lithe figure - a woman? yes, a woman - with blonde dreadlocks waved a hello. She climbed down and stood by her craft. A data socket with a shiny chrome button was stuck at the side of her temple. There's not even any wires anymore, Maiken thought as she waved back.
Jonas removed his cell - no, mobie - from his pocket and offered it to Maiken. "This is as far as we go," he said. "You can call from inside the craft if you want." He raised a hand to cut some of the sun from his eyes. The shadow of the bodyguard slipped away as he moved back towards the van.
"It's cool," Maiken said and smiled to him. She held the unit width ways in her left hand as the other danced over the holographic keyboard. Jonas looked surprised. "Ex-typist," she joked and he grinned.
"Whatever, lady. I don't want to know." As she handed the unit back to him, it let out a bleep. "Nice doing business with you. The funds will be cleared after you take." He bowed from the waist - a very formal oriental gesture -and put the mobie away. "Have a nice life. Just remember: 41 hours and 15 minutes." Concern showed in his eyes. Word would get out if he'd botched the timing. Stuff like that always did. Maiken nodded and she walked away.
Paranoia painted a laser target on her back as she walked up to the craft. She'd read about them on the Network, but never seen one. They'd been built long after her time away. Seems everything was wireless now: people and transport. There were warning decals stuck on the lift pods and as she walked by one, felt a queasy sensation in the pit of her tummy. A small notice stated: "Caution: Strong Field: Do not approach when operational."
"Hi," muttered the pilot. "Just you is there?" Maiken nodded. "That your carry on?" She gestured to the wrapped up overall and the half full bottle of water.
"Yeah," she drawled back picking up on the woman's Norcala accent. "Not much to bring with me."
"Anna," the pilot replied and pushed out a fist slowly. They touched knuckles. Maiken wondered why people still did that as Anna twisted to allow her up the small ramp.
"Maiken," she replied and climbed in. The inside was cool and was packed with crates held down with webbing. A cluster of four flight chairs with four point harnesses had been fitted to the craft and the security door of the pilot's bubble was open. "Nice craft," she said smiling.
"Had this old girl for a while," Anna replied and patted one of the bulkheads affectionately. "SouthAm export and refitted during the Alaska Uprising. Ice and rotors ain't a good mix. Spin engines are the way to go. Slot on, slot off. They rock."
Unable to understand the conversation, Maiken nodded and made her way to the chair and sat herself down. Anna pulled the door shut and made her way to the cock pit at the front. She made a gesture with her hands and the craft seemed to stretch into position like a cat waking up. "Terminal 54, Longport, Norcala, right?"
"That's right. Just by the docks."
"P.O.D too," Anna continued as she turned her back and prodded a few switches. "Just get yourself comfortable and don't worry about a thing. We like Payment on Delivery, no messing with cash. Traceless stuff." She grinned showing a collection white smile peppered with stone and gold teeth. "Don't know where you came from and I don't know where you're headed. Cargo's cargo - no offence."
"None taken," Maiken replied and got the harness on. She fidgeted a bit and then got the headrest just so.
"Gonna taxi out," Anna called over her shoulder as she hauled herself into the flight chair. "Just sit tight and I'll flick on the comm if you want to talk. Just give me until the green light goes on when we're up, okay?"
Maiken nodded and was surprised when the craft glided forward. There was no grunt of engines or growl of fuel: no wonder the military had gone batsh** for these things. Her old quad bike had made more noise. She listened carefully and there was a very delicate humming coming from the right hand engine. In front of her, the security door flowed shut sealing Anna in her pilot's bubble.
Maiken looked out of the window as they slipped across the concrete along a painted line of bright orange. The line curved around and she noticed that Jonas had gone. She wondered what he might spend the money on. Another soul she'd bumped into and chances are, would never see again. Random encounters, an ex would say. The line curved around into the open area of the lift port. A few craft hung high in the bright blue-white sky, they didn't circle, just wait like children's toys hung from a ceiling or bunk.
They followed the line until they reached a circle of orange and white stripes. Static hissed in a hidden speaker: "We're clear," Anna's voice whispered from everywhere. Before she could say anything, the craft lifted diagonally upwards, its nose dipping only slightly. Maiken felt her stomach drop and her head was suddenly very heavy. The ground dropped away in virtual silence, there was no roar of engines or rumble of wheels, just the growing whistle of the wind. She put her head back and closed her eyes. She didn't like flying, why had she let the midman talk her into taking a lift-craft? Ahh, time. Time was the old enemy.
Posted by Synik, 5th January 2010, 23:51 in Writing
3. Electronic Head Punch
Sand hissed against the pitted form of the old diner, swirling against scuffed glass and blasted plastic. Fine grains would dance and swirl across the retro tiles glued and pealing on the uneven floor. The desert seemed to wash everything out to a hideous beige.
A figure sat hunched in the shade of the fallen roof, while a white sun seared the fallen row of stools by the bar. No-one came here any more. There was no solar, no juice and thanks to an old biker's rifle, the network link was dead too. Maiken sat fanning herself in nomad rags. A make-shift battery pack and signal jammer rested by her boot. A sawn-off shotgun hung from a rope by her arm, the double barrel filled with the one cartridge and she didn't fancy her chances on that.
The woman looked up and listened. Yes. Someone was coming. She unscrewed the cap from her water bottle and took a swig. The contents where the wrong side of warm, but at least it wet her throat. A truck's engine sang in the distance and she moved to get a better look: just a peak from behind the bar.
The vehicle slipped from the sand covered road and bumped onto the hardpan, circling the old building twice before stopping. Two men got out: a short guy with what looked like a mechanic's toolbox by his side and a walking slab of beef. Both wore sunglasses to try and stop the glare, but only the hired muscle had got them right, the short guy's glasses looked cool, but his face was so screwed up, Maiken wondered if he could see.
The two stepped apart and a long barrelled pistol dropped into the hand of the beefcake. "Smith?" called the short guy. "Tullen sent us." He raised the toolbox and put his other arm to cover his eyes. Maiken had planned well and they'd parked up looking straight into the glare. She hoped she didn't need that advantage.
"We know you're in there," the short guy called out. There was humour in his voice, but no cruelty. "Tullen said to say that the rose garden visit is off."
"I'm in here," Maiken called to him. At least Tullen had sent them. He loved those odd-ball phrases of his. She couldn't resist a smirk at the memory of her last job from him. Code words and phrases like something from an old movie.
The short guy lowered the box and craned his neck. "You mind if coming out, or you want us in?" He looked to his accomplice, who shook his head. "Nix that, you better come out."
Maiken checked the jammer and moved to the door. She made a show of lumbering by the windows so they'd get a good view of her. The scratched plexiglass had offered a little shade, no wonder shortie was squinting so much. "You got it?" she asked.
"Right here," the techie replied. "I'm Jonah. This is - " He looked to his bodyguard, but he just shrugged. " - a friend. Just in case, y'know? You got the money?"
"No," Maiken said flatly. "Tullen's got the remaining half. I blurt him from civilisation and you get the rest. Just like we agreed."
Jonah nodded. "S'right. You want to do it in there, or you want to catch some A/C in the van?"
Maiken wasn't sure. Either way they'd be tapping her brain, or rather tapping that cybernetic vampire in her head. There was no point pissing about. Time was not on her side, a blurt to a dummy social networking site tipped her off about the UNPS plans for the monthly death signals. Anyone with a brain crab who picked up one of those signals was gone. A brain pulping thrash of a ride than only ended up one way: death. She'd managed to stall a dozen of them, hoping that hers wouldn't stand out amongst the other exiles.
The beef spoke, his dark skin almost as thick as his accent. "Come inside," he rumbled. "Look. I will put my gun away. You, you do the same." He holstered the hand cannon that hung from his arm. He raised both hands. Maiken had no doubt he had other stuff tucked away, but no was not the time for power games.
"Okay," she nodded and undid her headscarf. She held up an arm and very slowly, let the sawn-off be lowered to the floor. Bending - and wincing at the pain in her leg - she picked it up barrel first and opened the breach.
"Trouble?" Jonas asked pointing at her leg. "You should have said. I got a stack of medi-tabs in the back. Good price and a good date on them."
"Maybe later," Maiken answered and walked slowly towards them.
Jonas nodded at the battery pack and jammer. "What's that?"
"Protection from the network," Maiken answered. Jonas nodded and moved back towards the truck. He and his guard opened the back doors slowly, letting Maiken see inside. It was all a trust game. If they stiffed her over, their reputation wouldn't be worth a damn. Of course, reputations come and go and they're no consolation to a dead guy.
Once inside, the guard closed the doors and Jonas turned up the air-con. It was sweet bliss, a welcome as a cool summer's night in the valley. "You want a drink?" he asked. "No charge. I got water."
Maiken nodded as she took in the packed shelves with unknown components and masses of cables or tools. There was a small fridge somewhere in there and Jonas handed her an unopened bottle of Artic H2O - 'no rads or your money back!' sang the label. Pulling open a packet of baby's wet wipes, Jonas pulled out a long bench from the side of the packed van and patted it. "Please. Lay down here and we'll begin. When did you get this fitted?"
"I - I can't remember," she said as he wiped the muck from her forehead.
"No biggie," he said looking over her. "The scanner - " He tapped something out on a flat plate of black glass. " - it'll pick it up. Yeah. It's a 3-0-A series. Nasty as there's a bit of plastique in there too. I can't removed that here, but I can make it sleep. You got your tickets booked?"
Maiken nodded as he applied some 'trodes to her forehead. "Tullen's sorting me out. Some friend of his in Norcala."
"I don't want to know," Jonas smiled and tapped on the plate again. "If it's Jess, say hi from me. She's solid." He tapped a few more times. "Okay." The last word drew out. Jonas put two small blocks of electronics either side of Maiken's head. "Put the water down and... and if you feel any pain. Raise a hand or say something. J-just don't yell or you'll upset the big guy."
There was a small high pitched whine as the electronics charged up. "You ready? On three. One. Two. Three."
Maiken's body tensed up - every muscle in her body went rigid. Her breath caught in her throat. "Nearly there," Jonas muttered.
Static danced in her vision, the roof of the van flickering as if a million ants danced upon it. A roaring surf of white noise began to build up, threatening to consume. An acrid taste flowed into her mouth and a freezing fire plucked at her fingers. The pain began to build, but she could not move. "Uhhh," she moaned.
Everything stopped. There was just the sound of her breathing. "Done," Jonas said and he packed up the equipment. "You're good for 48 hours and then... well, you're solid for 48. Make sure you get that thing zapped." He banged a hand on the partition wall behind him and the engine coughed into life.
Gesturing to a fold-out seat, Jonas pulled open a small hatch. "Better make yourself comfortable. We've got quite a ride. The Interstate isn't what it used to be."
Leaving her with the water and silence in her head, Jonas pulled the little door shut and the hulking mobile lab rolled onwards. Maiken pulled herself into the chair and strapped the buckles closed. I am on my way, she thought. Dampness pooled around her eyes and left tracks in the dirt on her face. Reaching into the bin, she picked up one of the wipes and cleaned herself up as best she could.
Fresno Lift-Port was a long ride away, but the journey had begun. A chance to finally shake herself lose from this digital shackle.
Posted by Synik, 20th December 2009, 00:02
2. Death Clock
The last few weeks had been hellish. Soaring temperatures and sunlight so keen, exposed flesh was raw in moments. Anything and anyone with any sense stayed hidden, either underground or undercover. Only the mad and the foolish went out after mid-morning. The parched moon-like landscape would surprise every once in a while, with the bleached bones and the tattered scraps of flesh hung on the rare bodies of animals unable to survive.
Maiken staggered under the weight of exhaustion. One hand was bent around a shovel, the other - luckily gloved - held a mask of rags to her face. One of the connection boxes had failed, cutting her off just when she needed the link the most. Weeks had slipped by since her first attempt and now, when the ball was well and truly rolling onwards, the solar unit had burned itself out.
When she'd found the box, the insides where too hot to hold. The stink of hot plastic hung around the gully and feeling the wrath of climate change against her back, she wasn't surprised. Really, the cobbled together unit had done well to last this long. She worked in the sun because she needed the light. Sunlight to recharge the unit and also to see by. Her only lamp had burned itself out in her second to last all night data run.
Three hours later, she finished and had started to make her way back. As she crested the gravelly hill, the shack could be seen through the wobbling bars of heat that scoured the land. To hell with conserving water, she would sit herself in the bucket and drink what was left.
She stopped and lowered herself to the ground. There was something waiting by the shack, a six wheel drive off-roader. High and mighty with a nasty looking front and UNPS logo across the hood. The windows were dark - almost black - to cut out most of the glare and she could hear the soft whine of its air-con pumps against her own.
Maiken swallowed, her dry tongue gluing itself to the roof of her mouth. She had been so careful! Her eyes became damp with liquid she could ill afford to lose. UNPS, the United Nations Prosecution Service. They were UN through and through, by the book and to the letter. A good bunch to have on your side, but the opposite rang true too. You did not cross the 'you-nips', not twice anyway.
As she hunkered down in the dirt, Maiken realised how exposed she was. Any decent ground-sat would spot her laid out here. Dirty grey clothing against the sandy soil. Hell, you could probably spot her with a decent set of bio-optics. She jumped as there was a clunk and a hiss as the doors opened. Two men got out and shut the vehicle's doors quickly. They had on pressed beige fatigues and dark baggy jackets that covered their faces and arms. As one of them turned to admire the rocky view, she caught sight of a heat exchange pack on the rear of his left hip, a large calibre handgun on the other.
Sweat ran into her eyes and she found herself holding her breath. The men moved around the building inspecting it. One climbed on top of the truck and studied the shack's roof. He held up a black item and pointed at each of the devices strapped or glued on there. It was likely he was taking a picture, you didn't need the hold a scanner up to find out what those systems were doing. She wasn't doing anything illegal - at least, not to her knowledge.
The other man moved around the make-shift building after a pause. As he approached the back door, he stopped to examine the moisture farm before going to knock on the plank-built entrance. What? No HEP round to the hinges and a boot to open it? The man knocked more loudly this time and then tried the handle. It was locked, Maiken had the key around her neck on a piece of string.
The second man joined him. They seemed to be having a conversation, but it was too far to hear what they were saying. No doubt throat mics would be involved, the UNIPs loved their tech. She smiled beneath the sweat soaked mask, perhaps they loved their equipment a little too much: it was their only weakness.
Maiken wiped her gloved hand on her shirt and then wiped her eyes. When she looked back, the men had glued a plastic envelope to the door and where now getting back into the truck. At this range, it was impossible to know what it was. Damn them.
She lay in the baking sun as they drove off. A cloud of dust floated behind them like a brown cloud. They took a long winding route out between the hills and along the floor of the valley. She give it another ten minutes after she lost sight of them and then took a wide route back to the shack.
Her legs ached almost as much as her head did, but she sneaked around to the side of the building and pushed a set of loose boards away from the sand. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a rattler waiting underneath. That would just about top her day off nicely. She took the small fragment of mirror she'd got from the truck stop and tried to look underneath. There were no marks in the sand and she crawled underneath.
After a comfort break and a long drink of water, Maiken slithered out from the trapdoor and used what tech she had to study what was on the door. There were no RF signals, no traces of power and the sniffer she'd knocked together didn't pick anything up other than ink and paper. Annoyed at her paranoia, she put the units away and walked up to the plastic envelope. Inside was a letter, nothing more than that.
Scanning down it, Maiken's face split into a wide smile. She'd been reported dead. Her faked emails from a coroner for a Jane Doe had finally paid off. They wouldn't come looking for her. The letter offered a reward for anyone who could confirm additional information on her. UNPS wanted to tie up any lose ends, that was how they operated. This was a generic letter, a reward that they'd be posting at coffee houses, truck stops and dope holes along the interstate and in the mountain communities.
The smile flatlined and she re-read the notice. "I'm dead," she whispered hoarsely. "They'll issue a termination warrant on the crab. Shit. Shit. Shit!" How could she have miscalculated this? She looked up to the signal blockers. They had done their work, done it in spades. She'd been safe from the Network too long. Not a peep nor a PING had escaped from the demon strapped around her brain. The tech lived on nutrients from her blood stream, when she died, so did the tech. No wonder some runners called them spider-vamps.
Issuing the kill command would be easy, just a quick release into the communications networks and the crab would pick it up. After all, she was dead, what harm could there be in issuing it? Some of the exiled had tried to use chill tanks to escape the exile. Cooling themselves down to suspended animation and lying low for a dozen years. Despite the heat, Maiken shuddered, recalling that when they were revived, they were brain dead. Or at least, they were five minutes after waking up.
Shit squared. What now? She put the letter back in the envelope, went inside and fired up the make-shift terminal. The death-clock ticked loudly in her head.
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