Bottle Born Blues

by Conor H Carton

  “I see that you know me. Fine. Introductions are tedious. Sit and listen very closely. While I may say this more than once, this will be the only time that it will be painless. You’ve been sent by the Standing Committee to spy on us so they might prevent us achieving our deserved win in the election. That’s good, because we need a pipeline to them. You’ll report what you’re told to and that will keep them happy.

  “The trickier problem you have is keeping us happy. In your unalterable history, you’ve chosen to embrace those who’ve enslaved and deformed you. I’d have you flayed and your skin tanned for shoes but, in this exceptional case, you’re marginally more useful alive.”

  She fell silent while she assessed me again. Zusak Sedge never shouted or raged; she had a beautiful voice, clear and pleasant, making everything she said sound calm, rational and trustworthy. A calm manner suited those serene features and sparkling green eyes. Topaz-yellow hair with amber-orange streaks was carefully arranged on her head so that it looked like an explosion of colour. If you looked at her and knew nothing more, you’d feel the warmth of her presence and be willingly bound by the shackles of that subtle charisma.

  This could easily happen even if you knew she was the most dangerous, politically motivated, mass killer in the systems, pursued by multiple organizations that had “mysteriously” never managed to capture her. Someone dead from severely unnatural causes had likened her to Empress Ingea—of the Bottle-Born.

  She claimed to work for the liberation of the Bottle-Born, but the countless wracked corpses in her wake spoke to a very different agenda of power and domination. She was the single biggest cause of fatalities for independent bottle-born lifeforms like myself; we were the rungs on her ladder to success. Zusak was also considered—by those who couldn’t actively prevent the thought from crossing their conscious minds—to be in league with the furthest reaches of the Human Rights fringe.

  “You’re going to complete a task for me. If you fail to do so, I’ll add you to my calculator. Achieve the task and I’ll grant you a swift death, and use you to mulch my flowers. It will make the worms happy. We’ll contact you with task details. You may go now.”

  I understood perfectly. Being part of her calculator meant being physically wired into her personal neural network. I’d become part of her, literally. Diversity was critical to long-term success and Zusak Sedge followed the logic with ruthless efficiency—captured diverse lifeforms were grafted onto an organic matrix that ensured their physical wellbeing. Linked charms ensured they were a mental collective comprised of individual voices. They thought about the best methods for Zusak Sedge to achieve her aims. She’d use me to think of better ways to create fear, hurt, death and chaos. I’d resist as much as I could but, undoubtedly, I’d contribute to the horror.

  The StoneBeater rose and circled the desk. Up close, he was even more imposing than I’d initially thought. He handed me an infogem without a word.

  I stood up and, looking directly at his heavily-veined throat, took it and walked from the room without my bowels betraying me (the muscles of my buttocks were clenched so tightly, they’d have held a planet in check).

  I walked back through the throng of happy-faced naturals, who had no idea what was transpiring. As I left the building, I was thinking all I needed now was a transit breakdown so that I’d have to walk back to my space and an unscheduled storm to soak me to the bone as I did so. Neither happened and I returned to my space safe and dry … where I engaged in a screaming panic fit in the comfort of my bed.

  I’d had to hand over the infogem to the PR agents, who instructed me to concentrate on getting inside the organization. At the UPCR, I frequently saw Dr Clay, but he never spoke to me, so I was still waiting to learn what I was expected to do.

  At work the following day, I was assigned to an emergency team to work on a blood lake predator breakout in an Emergence Corp super-farm disposal system. There was no time to think about anything except avoiding predators chewing up IPS staff and spitting the bones at me. After surviving another day at the blood lake, I headed out of the staff portal to return home for a scrub and a sandwich. I’d invested in a personal protection system, not the most sophisticated, mind you, but functional enough for my purposes. It had assessed movement as not being threatening and allowed it without a primary alert. As such, I wasn’t startled when I felt pressure on my arm.

  I turned and was surprised to see Nanteer, more discreetly dressed this time. She wasn’t smiling and looked a little worried and off balance. Clearly, she was outside her geographical comfort zone. I was very glad to see her, more than I’d have expected, and hoped this would be a chance to reestablish contact with Lincoln. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Lincoln since she’d me slammed at the Loser’s Lounge. I’d been so busy going to UPCR rallies, setting up and running message shots, and generally being the active volunteer I was supposed to be, that I’d no time outside of work to think of anything else.

  All lifeforms, natural or otherwise, were creatures of communication. We craved a chance to jump across the isolation of individual consciousness to share with others. A speakeasy loosened more than your tongue, and speaking the truth was a crucial act of communication; it created a deep bond between speaker and listener. Professional interrogators knew this and used the speakeasy as a lever to open the door to creating a bond, starting with something trivial and unrelated. They’d then use alternative means—exploitation—to get what they wanted. A speakeasy was also a much sought-after love potion, found in so many entertainment stories.

  I had a bond with Lincoln and an aching need for friendship that I’d held at bay for years. Lincoln had breached my defenses at their most vulnerable point and I was feeling the pain. Any hopes I may have had were quickly swept aside when Nanteer spoke.

  “Lincoln doesn’t know I’m talking to you. She’d explode if she knew, and whatever you did to her wasn’t right.” She waved away my attempt to speak. “Her mother is seriously ill and needs medical help. The clinic will only accept a clean card. Lincoln thinks you have one and can’t bear to ask you for help. I, however, can.”

  I removed my card from its holder and handed it over. “Use my name, no restrictions.”

  Nanteer looked more shocked than surprised. Obviously, she’d been expecting a price. This left her dumbfounded. I couldn’t help those I had most desperately wanted to, but I could certainly help someone in need. With a curt nod, I headed to my evening of volunteering and high-wire balancing at the UPCR.

  Lincoln had noted that I was working in the Public Service and not on the scheme. In fact, 99.99% of all non-management staff in the PS were in the scheme—the Public Service Staff Benefits Enhancement and Elaboration Scheme, to be precise. That those 99.99% were also bottle-born free citizens wasn’t coincidental. The Public Service had become the default employer for bottle born free citizens, a solution to a significant problem. Naturals and non-naturals made each other uncomfortable, tolerance was achievable and acceptance and genuine integration were purely aspirational. Mixed workforces were more potential trouble than employers wanted so the solution emerged in silence.

  One of the problems inherent in the Bottle-Born was medical. The process of brewing lifeforms had possible medical repercussions, not for every lifeform and not all the time, but enough to make it a lifelong threat to us. Medical insurers realized there were profits to be made a deal with the Standing Committee to provide medical cost insurance for the bottle-born population. The vast majority of all Bottle-Born were specialized lifeforms with reduced lifespans—disposable labour for extreme conditions, cheaper and more productive than machines. The target group: the free-citizen Bottle-Born. Big enough to be a market, sick enough to want protection while not sick enough to be unprofitable.

  The Standing Committee provided unlimited, universal medical insurance for all bottle-born free citizens. If you asked a Natural, he or she would tell you it was a “Guilt Tax”, a charge for the sin of existence. At least one seat on the Standi
ng Committee went to someone who traded on the injustice of such a tax, and received an angry vote in return. This way, everyone got something, despite the awkward reality of it all.

  Every new PS employee was offered an opportunity to join the scheme—education and housing benefits in addition to priority access via the medical insurance deal. A good deal on the face of it, basic education at all levels was free, enhanced education was expensive. Sometimes you had to wait months for treatment with regular insurance, months that could result in unceasing agony, so most went for it. It was made more attractive by the process I’d endured, where the camouflaged processes increased sign-up rates. The problem was how the premium was paid—not in cash, but in working time. The working time for cash exchange was set by the PS, and was the least transparent process in the whole of the systems.

  The only thing that was absolutely certain: once you were in, you never got out. You were in debt to the scheme until you retired, which you only did when the debt was paid. Death wasn’t the same as retirement, by the by, as many had discovered.

  The reward from the Receivers was automatic immunity to the enhanced sign-up process, which would override charisma and allow me to assert my right to refuse joining. Of course, I also cost that damn plant commission, so I paid a price in different way. The net result: I worked in the PS and still had regular medical insurance, which was an anomaly (and anomalies existed to be exploited). The specific anomaly: the assumption that everyone in my grade was in the scheme. Therefore, to extend the reach of the scheme, any PS employee could share insurance with another individual, but carried the cost burden. This way, the scheme pulled in the entire family, not just the worker, and tied up everyone (tightly).

  A very lucrative, niche industry had developed whereby insured lifeforms—with insurance and not trapped in the scheme—rented out their cards. It was entirely illegal to benefit from another lifeform using a insurance card, if the lifeform made a charitable contribution to registered entity completely unrelated to the use of the card that was entirely legal. The owner of the card could be the patron of the registered entity entirely legally. Nanteer had been expecting me to nominate my favourite charity and the suggested donation.

  Thinking about Lincoln and her mother as I was strolling down an incline to the transit, my security system gave a quick jab. Standing at a food broker in the transit hall was the male PR agent I’d last seen in my space. As my belief in coincidences had suffered a fatal blow long ago, I assumed he was there to talk to me and wandered over to join the queue. By the time I had soup and sandwich in hand, the agent was sitting at a counter facing the window, there was a free seat beside him. I sat and started on my soup, which was surprisingly good. Most food brokers thought tasty food meant lower profits.

  The agent didn’t actually speak, but I heard him clearly enough—undoubtedly achieved via secret PR stuff. “Step up your work at the UPCR. We need a definitive read on the situation within the week. The information so far has been good, but we need more access to the upper rings to be sure. Get into them and get more information. A major rally is being set up tomorrow.”

  I’d already known this, thanks to contact lists I’d been slaving over the last days. My task had been to ensure anyone with the remotest interest would be there, a big push for the UPCR.

  “There’s going to be trouble. A highly motivated opposition group intends to make a statement. This will give you the opportunity to demonstrate your commitment and get on the real inside.”

  Demonstrate my commitment clearly meant getting into the middle of the riot that was going to take place and being seen. Truth be told, I was terrified by violence. Running away had always been part of my agenda and no matter what I was presently being instructed to do, it was still on the agenda.

  Naturally, the PR agent already knew this. “We’ll have additional eyes inside the rally and they’ll specifically observe you … assisting you to get into the action … and ensuring that you’re prominent in the ensuing animated discussion. You’ll be reported on the lines as a prominent UNPRC organizer who was willing to take action when required. We’ll gauge the overall level of support the UNPRC have, and push you into the right position. Your participation is appreciated and I’m confident you’ll rise to the moment, even if you need some help to do so.”

  The PR agent rose and left without waiting for a reply, not that I had one. I was too knotted up. High visibility of any sort was exactly what I’d spent years avoiding. Finding myself the centerpiece of a report on the news lines, one that would carry a lot of momentum to gain maximum exposure, was a death sentence. Killing myself would merely make me more vulnerable; dead I was easy prey. A solution to the problem was what I had to come up with, and fast.

  Necessity never made you cleverer, which seemed unfair; being squeezed should include inspiration. All I had was dull desperation, which had me realize how unsolvable everything was … without the slightest notion how to resolve it.

  I was in a complete slump by the time I strode into the campaign office and fell into my seat. Logging onto the campaign system, I stared at the cascade of news and messages about tomorrow’s rally. Nothing required effort from me, which was nice—much nicer than the message I received telling me to go to Dr Sand’s office. It appeared I’d soon learn my mission.

  This time the StoneBeater was alone, but he didn’t look any less threatening. He peered closely, clearly assessing me. He must have been satisfied, because he didn’t kill me. Instead, he gestured the chair before his desk. The small narrow chair was surprising comfortable … maybe a little too comfortable I thought, aware I was stuck (another word for “trapped”).

  Dr Sand continued to regard me, then finally leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. He had a deep, reassuring voice that surely had to be modulated by a charm. No lifeform had that precise mix of assured warmth and confident authority that garnered trust in a listener. Clearly, it was a trap—and knowing something was a trap was useless, as I was finding through repetition.

  “We’re expecting trouble at the rally tomorrow based on a reliable source. A radical and militant Human Rights group will attempt to start trouble. They’re hoping we’ll respond, so they can gain attention as martyrs and stir up their base.” He waited for acknowledgement.

  I nodded vigorously, then offered a lame shrug. I might as well have jammed a finger in a power outlet and experienced a spasm. I had no idea what to say, but looking blank didn’t seem safe, either.

  “We see this as an opportunity to reach undecided voters, so we’re going to manage the process to demonstrate how peaceful and law-abiding we are and how well we can manage the inevitable friction that our presence on the Standing Committee will create.”

  It sounded almost credible. It was exactly what a sophisticated, self-aware non-natural lifeform political coalition would have chosen to do during a strategically important election.

  “Shakbout Mansard, you’ll take a lead in this process by directing the response to the group.” His gaze was intense and a twitch of a smile—or smirk—pulled at his dry lips. “You’ll spontaneously lead rally attendees in vigorous and vocal opposition to the group. You’ll interact with them physically and engage the leaders in discussion on the merits of our platform. You’ll be a natural UPCR spokesperson … arising in the heat of the moment … providing grassroots energy for the platform.

  “Of course, HR thugs won’t take lightly to your impassioned defense of a diverse and inclusive social community, and they’ll fall back on violence. They’ll beat you, at which point our security group will intercede and escort them from the hall. Your transportation to the medical facility will be in high position, as will bulletins re your recovery. The press conference that will take place on your release from the facility will bring us a 5% increase in approval in the polls and a 7% increase in voter turnout in key targeted locations.”

  Dr Sand stopped speaking and resumed staring. I’d have wriggled if the chair didn’t have a
most effective grip. I opened my mouth, then closed it and concentrated on the happy part—when I’d be in the medical facility, recovering from the vicious beating. Temporarily, thankfully, I’d be beyond reach. Not only would I rest, I’d be on another plateau, thanks to painkillers.

  “We need to capitalize quickly. The medical facility will use accelerated regrowth techniques to recover you within 24 hours, so we can hold the press conference before the HR team has fully regrouped. You’ll have the required responses dialed into you as part of the process, and you’ll appear a little hazy—but very passionate—about returning to the struggle.

  You’ve been sent scripts to prepare you for tomorrow’s event.”

  With that, the chair relaxed its grip and I was free to leave, which I did—swiftly. I went to my campaign desk and did my voter-reach activities like a good campaign worker before heading back to my space to consume those scripts.

  The game kept getting more complicated and the possibilities of my surviving it more remote. They had reasons for pushing me into the public frame—the reasons they’d told me and the real reasons. Sooner, rather than later, those real ones would conflict and I’d be burned by the friction. The last time, running away had appeared successful; I was sorely tempted to do so again. The problem was, to remain successful, I couldn’t risk the attention that running would bring.

  5

  When I got off the transit, I joined a street syndicate and bought a lottery ticket. The natural lifeform organizing the syndicate assured me that, given this was the last draw of the night, it had a higher proportion of clearances than any other. He didn’t mention that it also had a greater number of entries, which pretty much cancelled this. I decided that when my syndicate had failed, I’d take the hint and run, whatever the consequences. I just needed to shift the decision-making process from my shoulders.